They would have to try to spend some time with Mum in the evenings, though it would be nice to have their own space upstairs at the end of a day. The TV would have to be kept low, so as not to disturb her. And maybe she could find a wee hand bell to let her Mum ring should she need either of them in a hurry. But it should all work out fine, Maggie’s sensible self told her firmly. So why was she experiencing these little pangs of guilt? Or were they feelings of inadequacy? After all, nothing prepared you for the daunting task of caring for your own parent, did it?
‘How’s your mother-in-law, Sir?’
Lorimer tried to keep his expression neutral but knew from DI Martin’s face that he had singularly failed to hide his surprise. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, your friend, Dr Fergusson, told me about her,’ Rhoda replied, her head to one side as if she were considering her superior’s situation.
‘She’s much better, actually,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Coming home at the weekend.’
‘To stay with you?’
‘Yes. My wife and I are having her until she’s well enough to return to her own home.’
‘Nice of you to do that, Sir.’ Rhoda nodded approvingly. ‘Thousands wouldn’t bother.’ And, giving him a condescending sort of smile, she walked away, leaving Lorimer feeling that she had somehow wrong-footed him.
He hadn’t wanted this to be public knowledge, but then it was no use blaming Rosie since he hadn’t exactly hidden his private life away. But it made him simmer inside to think that DI Rhoda Martin would now be making comparisons between his own situation and that of Colin Ray. He had to crack this case now, or be made to look totally incompetent.
It had been an idea gnawing away at him based on a case from way back where a man facing financial ruin had taken his own life and those of his family. The fire and the reason behind it: both had provoked this notion. Had it been the murder of two people, after all? A call to the local doctor had given Lorimer enough reason to drive back up the country road to Kilmacolm. It was a fresh day, a brisk westerly wind blowing away the last vestiges of rain clouds over the river towards Dunoon and the Cowal Hills. Inland there were signs of spring; wild primroses appearing in sheltered banks by the roadside, a lark rising from its thicket of nest to soar into the blue. Lorimer longed to pull over and watch its flight, but there were too many matters ahead of him today.
The doctors’ surgery was on the main road running through the village from Port Glasgow to Bridge of Weir. Lorimer found a space in the car park and walked round the corner to the grey stone building.
‘Superintendent Lorimer to see Doctor Hamilton,’ he informed the receptionist in a tone that he hoped was quiet enough not to attract the attention of the other patients who were waiting behind their magazines.
‘Please go right through. Doctor Hamilton is expecting you,’ the woman told him, indicating the door to her left.
A quick knock was all it took, then Lorimer was in the consulting room. A pretty woman in her mid-thirties stood up immediately, came around her desk and shook his hand.
‘Take a seat, Superintendent. And thanks for coming,’ she added. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do after Sir Ian’s death. It wasn’t something I was prepared for, I suppose.’
‘Doctor Hamilton, I told you on the telephone that I am investigating the deaths of Sir Ian and Lady Pauline.’ Lorimer hesitated, then looked straight at the woman, his blue eyes holding her as he spoke again. ‘Do you have any reason to think that this fire might have been started by Sir Ian himself?’
‘Oh, dear.’ Dr Hamilton dropped her gaze and clasped her hands together tightly. ‘I should have said something at the time, shouldn’t I? It was just that…’
‘Sir Ian wanted you to keep it from his family?’ Lorimer supplied.
‘You guessed, then?’
‘It was something to support a theory I’ve had,’ Lorimer said.
‘He had a form of prostate cancer that isn’t easily treated,’ the doctor told him. ‘It would have killed him eventually. He knew that. But he didn’t want anyone to make a fuss. No therapies, nothing. If he was going to die, then it had to be on his own terms. He was that sort of man, Superintendent,’ Dr Hamilton said, shaking her head as if in despair at the vagaries of human nature. ‘But do you really think he would have let his wife die in the fire? Surely that was an accident? And that beautiful house?’ She shook her head again sadly.
‘It’s hard to surmise what was on his mind at the time, doctor. And that was one reason why I wanted to see you. As his GP you were better placed than most to know that sort of thing.’
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she began. ‘He was a private sort of person. A bit fierce, if you want to know the truth, but that may have been because of the pain and the fact that his sex life had been on hold for so long. Ian Jackson came to me for medical help, yes, but he was not the sort of man to ask for anything else. No hand to hold, I’m afraid.’ She smiled tremulously as if she had been saddened by her patient’s reticence as much as the nature of his death.
‘And you would be prepared to say as much in a court of law?’
‘Of course.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘If it should come to that.’
Lorimer had not been surprised to find that Hugh Tannock also lived in Kilmacolm. The village was home to many captains of industry and weel kent names, as Betty MacPherson would have put it. Just a forty-minute drive from Glasgow by fast car, and half that time from the international airport, the village was perfectly situated for anyone who wanted easy access to Scotland’s largest city while enjoying a rural existence.
Tannock’s house was set high above Gryffe Road, minutes away from the surgery, its facade facing down the valley towards the road that led to Quarriers Village. It seemed to the detective that the windows glinting in the morning sunshine were disdainful eyes surveying the scene below. The green sward of lawns swept around the white house ending in masses of thick rhododendrons that screened the place from passing traffic. He was expected and so the tall black metal twin gates were open but, after he drove the Lexus up towards the front entrance, he saw them close silently behind him. Tannock lived alone, Lorimer reasoned, so it was sensible to have such security measures, but still he felt an uneasy sense of having been taken hostage by the man he was about to visit.
Lorimer had expected to meet at the factory but Tannock had invited him here instead. To see how the other half lived? Maggie had joked when he’d told her. But whatever the man’s reason, Lorimer was curious. Psychologically Tannock would have the advantage of being on his home turf, playing the host. Did that mean he had some inkling about why the detective had requested another meeting? That, and many other questions, would shortly be answered.
The driveway was mossy underfoot, not through neglect but rather as if the owner preferred a rustic type of pathway. Close up he saw that the lawn was in perfect condition, more like the greens at Kilmacolm golf club, and Lorimer wondered if the same groundsman cared for it. He pressed a bell set into the side of the porch and waited.
Looking around, the detective could see the distant hills, patches of sunlight making their flanks an emerald green. That was Misty Law, surely? He’d climbed it with Maggie once after they had been to Muirshiel Country Park to see the hen harriers. For a moment Lorimer wondered what it must be like to be Hugh Tannock, living here with this fabulous view that all his millions had bought him. Then he thought of Pauline Jackson and remembered just what the man had actually lost.