But then, alone with the sound of crackling wood and that moaning voice, it was easy to think I was seeing a living thing in its death throes.
And I liked what I saw.
CHAPTER 2
‘ All for Rosie’s wedding!’ Maggie sang the words out loud as she let herself be twirled about in the ‘Gay Gordons’, the band playing the familiar tune of ‘Mairi’s Wedding’. She felt skittish with the dancing and the champagne; its bubbles had tickled her nose as she raised a glass to the happy couple.
‘What a night!’ she laughed as Lorimer drew her into his embrace. She could feel the rough texture of his kilt against her thighs, the silk dress a mere slither of fabric covering her body, and it made her tremble suddenly, desire for her husband flaring up inside her. His kiss on her earlobe was a promise of things to come, but not yet, not while there were still hours of dancing and celebration for Solly and Rosie.
The band had started up a ‘Pride of Erin’ waltz, but Lorimer was leading her by the hand back to the table, where they’d been joined by friends and colleagues from work. Alistair Wilson dropped them a wink as he escorted his wife, Betty, towards the dance floor, leaving them with Niall Cameron, Lorimer’s other Detective Sergeant from the Division. Doctor Solomon Brightman had a colourful gathering for his wedding to Rosie, Maggie thought, noticing a couple dance past, their dark looks so like the psychologist that they had to be near-relations. The whole Brightman clan seemed to have arrived in Glasgow to see their boy wed to the forensic pathologist.
‘What’ll you have, Niall?’ Lorimer lifted a bottle of white wine, dripping from its ice bucket.
‘Oh, I’m on the orange juice tonight, sir.’ Niall Cameron smiled, his Lewis accent reminding them that the young man was teetotal by choice. Too many folk end up ruining themselves with the drink, he’d once told Lorimer. And he’d been referring to what he’d seen on the islands just as much as some people here in this city whose wasted lives in drunkenness had often led to violence.
‘Cheers! And here’s to our new Detective Superintendent!’ Niall nodded across the table, his eyes soft with the glow from the candlelight between them.
‘Och, it’ll just be acting Super for a while,’ Lorimer laughed, then turned towards his wife, seeing her pleasure at the mention of his temporary role. Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison had been seconded to the Met in London to the Anti-Terrorist Squad, and so Lorimer would take over his duties from January first. Maggie returned the smile and lifted her empty glass, shaking her head at the offer of more wine. They might well be a bit giddy with drink by the time the night was over but the dancing fairly gave her a thirst for the bottles of still water that were arrayed on the white tablecloth.
The tall creamy candles were half-burned down now but the flowers were still as bright as ever, the delicate white petals of stephanotis in deliberate contrast to the scarlet roses. Rosie had chosen red and white as her wedding colours; blood-red roses for her name, she’d laughed, not her profession.
She was coming towards them now across the dance floor, a diminutive blonde, her normally pale skin specially tanned a light golden colour to offset the ivory fairytale dress that twinkled as she walked, its hundreds of tiny seed pearls catching the light. Maggie had gasped when her friend had entered the marriage room at the Registry Office earlier that day. Rosie Fergusson’s appearance was so at odds with the woman who spent half her life in scrubs or white scene-of-crime boiler suits: her hair had been caught up by a slim gem-studded tiara and those small hands with their pearly manicure were surely not the same ones that had delved into so many human cadavers. Even Lorimer had raised one dark eyebrow, his eyes crinkling in a smile of surprise and admiration.
‘Enjoying yourselves?’ Rosie stood beside them, both hands holding the back of one of the gilded chairs as if for support. Her face was flushed and radiant, her small breasts rising and falling under the constraints of her bodice.
‘Best night of the year!’ Lorimer exclaimed.
Maggie reached out and lifted the bride’s left hand. ‘Lovely,’ she said, fingering the wedding band that sat snugly next to the diamond Solly had given her just one year before, on Christmas Day.
‘Yes,’ Rosie replied, ‘who’d have thought…’ She gave an insouciant shrug, leaving the words unsaid. Yes, thought Maggie Lorimer, they were an unlikely pair: the shy Jewish psychologist with his exotic dark beard and huge brown eyes and Rosie, the consultant pathologist whose work demanded a strong stomach and steady hand. But she may have meant more than that, Maggie told herself. The accident that had almost taken her from them… the very idea of Solly and Rosie’s lives being torn apart by that event was more than anyone could bear. So, yes, uttering such words would be wrong on this the happiest of days for them both.
‘Aye,’ Lorimer replied, ‘he’s one lucky man.’
‘And don’t I know it.’ Solly Brightman was suddenly there beside them, his arm encircling Rosie’s tiny waist. ‘Time to cut the cake, I believe, Mrs Brightman.’ His grin was suddenly so boyish that Maggie found herself clapping her hands and laughing aloud for sheer pleasure.
‘Got your scalpel, Rosie?’ someone called out as the bridal couple approached the three tiered wedding cake. A ripple of laughter broke out as Rosie lifted the knife, pretending to examine it from every angle, then Solly’s hand was over hers and they directed the blade through the white icing to another resounding cheer.
Wiping away a stray tear, Maggie felt her husband’s hand on her arm and, looking up, she grinned at his expression. Was he, too, remembering their own wedding day?
‘C’mon, let’s get a wee bit of fresh air,’ Lorimer said, leading Maggie away from the crowded room and into a spacious hallway where huge floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in sage green damasked curtains held back on gilded hooks, the darkened balconies beyond almost invisible in the massed brightness of the crystal chandeliers.
Maggie shivered as her husband opened the French windows, the cool night air chilling her skin.
‘Here,’ he said, taking off his jacket and draping it around her shoulders. ‘I’m fine,’ he added as she looked pointedly at his shirt sleeves stirring in the wind.
Then he was holding her close and Maggie felt herself relax against the warmth of his body.
‘Look at that,’ Lorimer said. ‘All these people. Wonder what they’re doing tonight…’
Below them the city was stirring; sounds of Boxing Night revelry coming from the streets, Christmas snowflake lights swaying as the wind increased. And beyond the shapes of buildings the cityscape twinkled into the distance, reminding them of a great mass of humanity all living out their disparate lives. Some, like themselves, would be celebrating, but for others this would be a bleak and lonesome time of year. Maggie glanced at her husband’s face, half hidden in the shadows, that fine profile she loved so much, his blue eyes seeing something that she could only imagine. His thoughts might not be very far from the troubles that the festive season might produce; and didn’t she know only too well the very different take policemen had on Christmastime? And this coming New Year would bring some changes for him. Was he looking forward to this temporary promotion? Or was he wishing for the days when he had been out on the hunt like his younger officers?