Then, when enough time had passed to allay any suspicion, there would be an opportunity for its driver to make further notes about the residence of Acting Superintendent William Lorimer.
‘Did you hear from Flynn yet?’ Maggie asked.
‘Aye, he’s got an interview for that job. Is he coming up to the hospital tonight?’
Maggie nodded. ‘I thought we might treat him to some supper here afterwards. I’ve got a pot of lentil soup made. And we haven’t had him over here for ages.’
‘Good idea. Well,’ Lorimer stretched his arms, releasing the muscles that had stiffened up during the journey home, ‘it’ll be good to catch up again. See what the wee rascal’s been up to.’ He tossed his white shirt on to the bed and reached for a comfortable sports top. But before he could pick it up and put it on, Maggie was at his side, her arms encircling his bare torso.
His chest hairs tickled her nose and she turned her head, leaning her cheek against her husband’s warm body. A great sigh seemed to flow all through her, melting her further into their single union. So long as he was there, then life was all right.
The idea of being alone, bereft, suddenly terrified her and Maggie gave an involuntary shudder.
‘What was that for?’ Lorimer asked, setting her away from his side.
‘Nothing.’ She shook the dark curls out of her eyes. ‘Goose walked over my grave. Come on, time we were off to the Southern General before Flynn eats all of Mum’s grapes.’
The black Golf drew up slowly once the tail lights of the Lexus had disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. They were both out. That was good. The hooded figure lifted a pair of small but powerful binoculars in order to take in every last detail of the residence of Mr and Mrs William Lorimer. The little star-shaped flowers of Winter Jasmine curled around the doorway, lit by a security lantern. The brass nameplate on the wall beside the front door bore the single name LORIMER. Behind the curtains drawn against the darkness a lamp still shone. There was no sign of any home security system, no single eye opened to watch the watcher.
The hooded figure nodded. That was even better. The next step would be so much easier to put into action.
‘Och, that’s awfie nice. Thanks. Lentil soup? Bet it’s the same Mrs Fin used tae make fur me when ah stayed here.’ Joseph Alexander Flynn grinned up at his hosts.
Maggie beamed back at him. Visiting hour had been a success. The younger man’s banter had made Mrs Finlay’s face twist into a lop-sided grin and she had even reached out her good hand to grasp his own as the bell rang, signalling that it was time for them all to go. A plate of homemade soup and a pot of spaghetti carbonara was scant reward for the pleasure of seeing her mother so animated tonight. Somehow Flynn’s presence had made all of their own fears about her mother’s discharge from hospital disappear.
Supper over, Lorimer strolled over to the drinks cabinet. ‘A wee tot to finish you off, Flynn?’
‘Och, no fur me, Mr Lorimer. Anyhow, I better keep ma head clear fur the morrow. Thon interview, mind?’
‘Some of this, then?’ Lorimer held up the orange bottle that was known as Scotland’s Other National Drink.
‘Where would you be working if you got the job?’ Maggie asked.
Flynn turned towards her. ‘Och, all over. It’s a landscape business based in Erskine but they do stuff all down the coast. Contracts fur they new housing developments in Wemyss Bay, contracts fur the horse place out by Bishopton, wan fur that technology place up the back of Greenock-’
‘Jackson Tannock?’ Lorimer asked, interrupting Flynn as the young man counted off the businesses on his fingers.
‘Aye, that’s it. Couldnae mind their name. I knew a lad worked in that place. Daft eejit name of McGroary.’
‘David McGroary?’ Lorimer shook his head in disbelief at two coincidences landing on his lap at once.
‘Aye. Huv ye come across him?’ Their young friend screwed up his eyes and for a moment Lorimer recalled the scruffy lad that had been hauled off the Glasgow streets. There was still that element of the wee hard man about Flynn that hadn’t been completely softened by the experience of a near-fatal accident. Had McGroary figured in Flynn’s past life?
‘He’s been nicked. At Greenock. I’m down there doing a review of a case,’ Lorimer said carefully.
‘Ah, Davie’s a bit of a space cadet. Used to be a pure nutter in the old days,’ Flynn said. ‘But I thought he’d got a bird and a hoose,’ he added, regarding the detective thoughtfully.
‘How did you come across McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, screwing the top back on to the bottle of Irn Bru.
‘Same course. He wis oan the… whatdyou call it… induction course wi me at Bellahouston when I started ma training. He’d been in the nick. Didnae make ony bones aboot it neither. We hung aroon wi some o’ the other lads at weekends. He wis okay maist o’ the time. But when he’d had some skag then he wis mental. Know whit ah mean?’ Flynn pretended to blow smoke from his lips, two pointing fingers describing an arc through the air as if they were holding a joint. He grinned. ‘You know ah’m off the stuff, though, eh?’ He looked up slyly as if expecting to see a pair of disapproving faces looking at him.
Lorimer nodded, his thoughts racing. This was an unexpected source of information that could serve to enhance any background reports DI Martin might already be requesting. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would talk to her, see if anything else Flynn could tell them tonight would be of value in their respective cases.
‘See McGroary,’ he began again. ‘Was he the type to hold a grudge?’
Later, as he drove home again from dropping Flynn at his flat in Govanhill, Lorimer pondered the lad’s words. David McGroary was a tough nut; that much he had seen for himself, but according to Flynn he’d also been eager to mend his ways. The gardening course had given him lots of big ideas, Flynn had said. McGroary had seen himself as the big businessman. Never mind that no bank in its right mind would lend someone like him the necessary capital, McGroary patently had enough self belief (or sufficient drug money stashed away) to realise his dream of making it on his own. The leaflets dropped through neighbourhood letterboxes had been testament to the man’s desire to better himself. Okay, it was easy enough to label him a bad wee toerag given his past record. And he was obviously still a dealer, despite his attempts to go straight. But was he capable of cold-blooded murder? Lorimer shook his head. McGroary was a nasty character but somehow Lorimer had believed him when he had protested his innocence.
The Jackson fire wasn’t the work of local vandals. Of that Lorimer was almost certain. And even though McGroary had a motive of sorts, it didn’t really seem likely that he would have torched his employer’s home like that. Different from setting fire to rubbish behind empty warehouses when he’d been a laddie. No, the perpetrator of this fire was someone who had wanted to kill those two people. And Lorimer needed to look more closely at their lives in order to find out why.
CHAPTER 26
Solomon Brightman smiled and sniffed the air. The damp earth bordering the swards of grass smelled rich and pungent. A few saffron-coloured crocuses were growing at the foot of a great chestnut tree, its bare branches waiting for warmer days. A scattering of snowdrops lay against a curve on the grass, a drift of white like the snow so recently melted from the park. It had been a bitter winter, snowfalls throughout the country bringing traffic and commerce to a standstill at times. But now the days were becoming lighter and the spring flowers in the Botanic Gardens would soon brighten the dull greens and browns. Solly watched as one of the gardeners drove an open truck along the pathway; boxes of primulas jigged up and down as the vehicle passed, a dazzle of pink, yellow and purple. By this afternoon the empty beds would be filled with these little plants, another sign that winter was losing its grip.