‘Were these taken in your old home?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Mum and Dad were just off to a wedding and one of the cousins took it, I think. It was on the upstairs landing, just outside their rooms. That’s their bedroom to the left of the pictures.’
Lorimer nodded, seeing the dark varnished wooden door, its brass doorknob above a keyhole, the key protruding from the lock. A vision of flames licking at the edges of the solid door came to him then, and of two people overcome by smoke inhalation, unable to rise from their bed. At least that was the conclusion he’d read in one of the forensic reports.
‘Your sister didn’t appear to have any photographs that I could see,’ Lorimer remarked, recalling the stark emptiness of Serena Jackson’s new flat, so at odds with her brother’s comfortable home.
‘No,’ Daniel told him. ‘All of Serena’s personal things were at home. Destroyed by the fire; sports trophies… everything. It wasn’t just her parents she lost, you know. It was her home, too, until very recently. And now all of her childhood memories have gone as well. Can you begin to imagine what that does to a person like Serena?’ Daniel was still standing, looking down now at Lorimer, shaking his head as if bewildered that the policeman should lack an understanding of what had happened to his sister. ‘Perhaps you can see now why I’m not so happy that she had to see you on her own this morning.’
‘You would have preferred if I’d had her friend DI Martin with me, perhaps?’
Daniel Jackson frowned. ‘Who? Sorry, should I know that name?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ But that throwaway remark was interesting. Perhaps Rhoda Martin wasn’t quite as close to this family as she would have him believe.
‘We do offer counselling, though. In fact, I’m sure the family liaison officer will have brought that subject up with your sister,’ he continued smoothly.
Daniel Jackson shook his head. ‘It’s probably exactly what she needed then and still needs now, but d’you know what, Superintendent? These are the only people who might have persuaded her to go down that route.’ He tapped the silver-framed photograph. ‘And they’re not here to take charge of anything in her life any more.’
He had stayed for more than half an hour after that, seeking gently to prise more information about the Jackson parents from a son who had so obviously cared about them. But despite listening to childhood reminiscences and the success of Jackson Tannock, Lorimer found out little more than the dark hints he’d been given about the men from Ian Jackson’s past. If the daughter was stricken with grief and still suffering from shock, then her brother had dealt with his loss in a more controlled and pragmatic way but, oddly enough, Daniel had been the one to display more emotion.
Lady Jackson had not excited anyone’s imagination regarding the fire, he thought. Her high-profile husband was the more likely target of any vicious attack. Yet, why should she be so discounted? After all, crimes had been committed for reasons of passion and she had been a highly attractive woman. Lorimer shook his head. Not a single part of Colin Ray’s investigation had focused on the background of the woman other than as the corporate wife. And in Lorimer’s book making such basic assumptions was always a mistake.
CHAPTER 18
Lorimer was just about to turn the car from the cobbled lane into the yard when he braked hard to stop for a cyclist emerging from the police car park. It was a woman, but she wasn’t wearing the familiar sulphur-yellow protective waterproofs that all officers wore on cycle duty. Instead she sported a tightly fitting red jacket over black cycle leggings. He looked up for a second as she passed him, then looked again just to be certain. Yes, right enough, it was DI Rhoda Martin pedalling away from the building. A quick glance at his digital clock showed it was in fact lunchtime and he wondered whether the DI was off on some personal business.
‘That’s DI Martin?’ Lorimer smiled at the duty officer as he passed through the public office.
‘Aye, she’s off for a wee run. Has to get in practice for the race, y’know,’ the burly sergeant replied, indicating the ‘On Yer Bike’ poster on the wall.
‘Ah.’ Lorimer nodded, understanding suddenly. ‘Are there many officers from this division taking part?’
‘Aye, a few: the ones that are usually out on duty on their bikes and some from the local cycle club. DI Martin’s a member there.’
Lorimer digested this information as he mounted the stairs that would take him to his temporary office. Perhaps he should mention this to Kate Clark, if she was still keen to hunt up the cyclist that had been stalking that old lady.
As if his thought had taken substance, DC Clark emerged from her room at the very moment Lorimer turned the stairs.
‘Kate, a wee word,’ he said, motioning for the woman to follow him into his room.
He switched on the light against the sudden squall that had darkened this side of the building, which overlooked the river. ‘Sit yourself down. Now, I just saw DI Martin riding her bike. Did you know she was a cyclist?’ Lorimer began.
‘Well, yes. In fact I thought she’d be able to nose around a bit if we took the stalker thing seriously. But maybe we won’t have to!’ There was a triumphant gleam in the DC’s eye as she settled her bulk more comfortably into the chair next to Lorimer’s desk.
‘See, I’ve a nice little association with this taxi driver who keeps tabs on things for me. And I asked him to put the word out about the cyclist in case anyone had seen him following the old lady.’
‘And?’ Lorimer could feel a palpable excitement emanating from the woman.
‘And he told me something very interesting.’ Kate grinned, obviously relishing her tale.
‘Aye, come on, then.’
‘Well,’ she leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I was just coming to let you know this minute as it happens.’ She edged her chair towards him. ‘The night of the Jacksons’ fire one of the local taxi drivers was taking a fare back to Kilmacolm when they nearly collided with a cyclist fleeing down Port Glasgow Road. As if all the bats of hell were after him, was what he said, apparently. And guess what?’
Lorimer smiled, infected by her enthusiasm.
‘The cyclist looked as if he’d just come out of the drive at the foot of the Jacksons’ house.’
Lorimer’s smile faded. ‘Time?’
Kate nodded. ‘Just a wee while before the alarm went up.’
‘So this cyclist…?’
‘Could have been leaving the scene of the crime!’ Kate finished for him, her eyes shining.
Lorimer shook his head slowly, not in disbelief but at the way this had come to light. It wouldn’t be his first experience of finding a piece of evidence during the investigation of a different case in the same district. It happened all the time. That was one of the advantages of having a good relationship with local informants.
‘Don’t suppose there was a decent description of the cyclist?’
‘No chance. It was too dark to see much. The taxi driver was just glad he hadn’t hit the guy.’
‘And the passenger?’
‘A local businessman. Here’s his name and address. He has an account with the taxi firm.’
‘Mike Reynolds,’ Lorimer read, once Kate had passed him the piece of paper she’d been carrying.
‘Want to follow this up? See if he can remember anything about the cyclist? It’s a long shot, mind you,’ Lorimer told her. ‘The address is Kilmacolm, Lochwinnoch Road; think I might have driven along there one time,’ he mused. Lochwinnoch was home to one of the RSPB’s reserved and Lorimer and Maggie had been out there several times on field trips. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.