Lorimer looked around the canteen. There weren’t many folk in tonight but he recognised DC Cameron sitting alone, hunched over a plate of spaghetti. Lorimer noted with interest that he wasn’t eating it. He was stirring the strands of pasta round and round his plate with a fork but was making no attempt to put any of it into his mouth. Lorimer’s curiosity made him watch the young officer.
‘Chief Inspector, what’s it to be?’ Sadie, a wee woman with a voice that could have scoured a burnt pot was standing, ladle in one hand, looking at him expectantly. Lorimer turned to give her his full attention. No one messed with Sadie.
‘Just some soup, thanks. Oh, and one of your brilliant Danish pastries, Sadie,’ Lorimer gave her his best smile as usual but this was one woman who was oblivious to the Chief Inspector’s famous blue eyes.
‘Wan soup, Betty!’ she shouted towards the kitchen. ‘Yer Danish is up therr, son,’ she added, jerking her head to the plastic-covered shelves that Lorimer had already passed. Lorimer nodded and turned to fetch his pastry, marvelling as he always did at Sadie Dunlop’s ability to make them all feel like school kids. She was wasted here. She should’ve been Governor of Barlinnie at least.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Lorimer grasped the back of the metal chair next to Cameron’s. The DC sat up with a start as Lorimer spoke.
‘Not fancy Sadie’s pasta special tonight, then?’
Cameron shook his head and attempted a smile.
‘How about a drink? I was going to drop into the Iron Horse. OK?’
Cameron’s pale face flushed slightly as he answered, ‘I don’t usually drink, sir. I’m TT, you know.’
‘Ah, the strict Hebridean upbringing,’ Lorimer teased. Then his face grew more sombre as the germ of an idea began to form in his head. An idea that might take root, depending on what Cameron could tell him.
‘Come on down anyway. The ginger beer’s on me,’ Lorimer’s voice held a note of authority that he knew Cameron recognised. The DC looked up at his boss then pushed the congealing mess of spaghetti away from him.
They were practically out of the canteen when a familiar voice stopped them in their tracks.
‘Haw, ye’s’ve left yer dinners. Ah thought ye wanted that Danish? Right waste of good food that is, ‘n’all!’
Lorimer glanced at Cameron who was dithering in the doorway. ‘Come on, before we get arrested for dinner neglect!’ Lorimer grinned conspiratorially and gave the DC a friendly wink.
It was quiet in the pub. Seven o’clock was a watershed between the quick after-office pint and quiz night. Seeing the bar staff polishing glasses and catching up with the day’s paperwork, Lorimer knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He had chosen a booth at the rear of the bar. On the table sat a pint mug of orange squash and Lorimer’s two preferred drinks, a pint of draught McEwan’s and a half of Bunnahabhain. Lorimer stretched his long legs under the table, feeling the heels of his shoes dig against the ancient wooden floor. The Iron Horse had made few concessions to modernity, which, for Lorimer, was part of its charm. He sank against the burgundy-coloured padded seat, feeling something close to relaxed. Pity he’d have to spoil the moment.
‘How are you settling in to the job, now? Glad to be out of uniform?’
Cameron shot Lorimer a wary look before giving a shrug.
‘You could tell me to get lost, but I think it might do you good to have a wee talk if there’s anything on your mind.’
‘There’s nothing, really,’ Cameron began in a tone that told Lorimer just the opposite.
‘Is it the case that’s bothering you? Still feeling bad about Kirsty MacLeod?’
Lorimer looked intently at Cameron. The lad’s mouth was tightly shut and he could see his jaw stiffen. If it had been anyone but Lorimer asking such questions he’d probably have been told to mind his own damned business. Except that Cameron didn’t even swear. The young detective constable had been looking past him as if intent on the framed engraving of James Stewart on the wall above their booth, but then he turned suddenly, meeting his superior’s gaze.
‘Yes, I feel bad. I thought I could handle it, but maybe I was mistaken.’
‘You handled yourself well enough at the mortuary. Dr Fergusson even commented on that.’
‘Well, that was different. It wasn’t so personal.’ Lorimer took a mouthful of beer and licked his lips. Just what did the lad mean by personal, he wondered.
‘Did you ever meet Kirsty down here in Glasgow?’
‘No.’ The answer came just a shade too quickly.
‘Sure about that?’
‘Of course. Why would I lie?’ the flush had crept back over Cameron’s neck.
‘You tell me.’
‘Look, Chief Inspector, Kirsty was a girl from home. She was a friend of my wee sister’s. I hadn’t seen her for years, OK?’
‘OK, calm down. How about that place Failte, then? Did you know anybody there?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘Before my time. It was a holiday place for as long as I can remember. There are plenty of houses empty most of the year just waiting for incomers. It’s only been a respite centre, or whatever, for the last two years or so.’
Lorimer nodded. That had been his information too. Phyllis Logan’s family had kept the house as a summer residence then it had lain empty for years before becoming a part of the Grange.
‘D’you remember that first murder back in January?’
‘Of course. I’m not likely to forget it.’
‘The woman who was killed had a flower between her hands. Did you actually see it that night?’
Cameron stared at him, surprised by this sudden change of tack. He frowned as if trying to recall the images of that freezing January night.
‘I remember seeing her lying there and DS Wilson calling her Ophelia. That was after we saw the flower, wasn’t it?’
‘Can you remember how her hands were held?’
‘Well, I know how they were held, it’s in all the reports, isn’t it?’
‘But do you remember it?’
‘I think so. Why?’
‘You didn’t by any chance describe it anybody out side the case, did you? Anyone from home, for instance?’
Cameron looked at him curiously then shook his head. ‘I don’t talk about my work to the folks,’ he said. ‘They don’t even know I’m involved with Kirsty’s murder.’
Lorimer was looking at him keenly as if to weigh each of the DC’s words carefully. Niall Cameron returned his gaze with apparent coolness. There was no longer any telltale flush warming that Celtic pallor.
He wanted to believe the younger man. Experience told him he was hearing the truth, but there was someone who had inside knowledge of the first case, someone who had used it to copy the killer’s signature. And Niall Cameron had known the girl from Lewis. It had been his call, too, that had alerted Lorimer that night, he remembered. He picked up the whisky and drained the glass in one grateful swallow, suddenly needing the burning liquor to take away a taste he didn’t like.
The vibration from his mobile made him put down the glass with a bang. ‘Lorimer?’
Cameron’s eyes were on him as he listened to the voice on the other end. He was vaguely aware of the younger man picking up his jacket and giving him a wave. He nodded in return, watching the Lewisman walk out of the pub and into the Glasgow night.
‘Who is this Father Ambrose?’ Lorimer asked, listening as the duty sergeant told him of the priest’s telephone call.
‘And he’s coming up to see us?’ Lorimer bit his lip. This was news indeed. A priest from the Borders who had information about Deirdre McCann’s murder, or so he claimed. As he pressed the cancel button, his thoughts drifted back to Lewis and to the house called Failte where he’d met the nun. Where was she, now? And had she anything to do with this sudden need for an elderly priest to speak to Strathclyde
CID?