The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) (10 page)

R
osie Fergusson often thought that Glasgow City Mortuary sat at the juxtaposition of life, death, the universe and everything. The High Court was only a few paces from their back door, very useful whenever she had to hurry out after a PM to attend a case as an expert witness. And stretching out beyond a busy road that led into the heart of the city lay Glasgow Green, its swathes of grass a welcome respite from the bustle of city life. Often at twilight the pathologist had seen a fox trotting along the pavement then heading home across the parkland, unconcerned by the traffic rushing past.

The girl’s corpse was still in its refrigerated cabinet but soon it would be time for the post-mortem to begin and the tray where she lay would be thrust into the room and placed on one of the surgical steel tables. It had been an odd thing to see the naked body out there in the open, and so many questions had coursed through the pathologist’s mind even as she had examined the girl. Perhaps when the Fiscal arrived with Lorimer, the post-mortem would answer at least some of them.

Iain MacIntosh was a man with a reputation for fair-handedness, yet, as Fiscal, his were often hard decisions to make when dealing with matters of life and death. And much as Lorimer wished to talk to him about the fate of Charles Gilmartin, he knew that this was secondary to the reason they were standing together at the viewing window in Glasgow City Mortuary.

The girl’s naked body was being examined closely by the pathologist, the scars and activities from small pond animals pointed out one by one under her careful scrutiny.

‘Something that looks like a partial tattoo,’ she had said, glancing up towards the viewing platform. ‘Skin’s been nibbled away from most of it. Fish predations,’ she added. ‘See these small oval and circular bite marks?’

The two men peered closer, trying to follow where the pathologist’s scalpel was pointing.

‘And here. You can see the traces of ink. And there is a raised piece of skin suggesting that an infection had set in. African skin is more prone to a keloid scar. A scar that continues to grow,’ she explained, looking at the mark more closely. The blunt edge of a scalpel blade traced the mark, a small curve that had been tattooed on to her inner right thigh.

Lorimer strained his eyes but it was impossible to see more than a suggestion of a mark. Photographs would have to be taken then enhanced before they would know what they were looking at.

‘She’d been there for more than three days,’ Rosie told them. ‘We will give you a more exact time once the insect infestation has been examined, but I think you can say that this girl was killed some time during last Friday night or the early hours of Saturday morning.’

Lorimer swallowed, a sudden bad taste in his mouth that was nothing to do with watching the post-mortem. On Friday night Charles Gilmartin had died. By his own hand? a little voice asked. Or that of another? And he himself had been laughing and joking with people he hadn’t seen in over twenty years, making small talk for the most part. The sudden memory of sitting next to Foxy out in the playground rushed back vividly and he shivered. The wire around the unknown black girl’s throat might have been twisted cruelly even as he had been enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.

‘Any missing persons fitting her description?’ MacIntosh asked.

Lorimer shook his head, eyes still on Rosie bent over the cadaver on the steel table. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But that tattoo might help to identify her,’ he added.

‘And there was nothing in the vicinity of the pond to give any clues as to who she was or where she came from. Stark naked and dumped,’ MacIntosh added in a tone of disgust. ‘As if she was a bit of rubbish to be fly-tipped.’

Both men were accustomed to the cruelties that human beings could and did perpetrate on one another, but sometimes, as now, one of those atrocities gave each of them pause for thought.

‘You think she was on the game?’ Lorimer asked, raising his voice so that Rosie might hear his question through the intercom.

‘The vaginal area is torn in several places. Tears are fairly new, I’d say, and there is a fair amount of scar tissue as well, so yes, I would guess that this girl has been used as a prostitute.’

Lorimer and MacIntosh exchanged glances.

‘But that’s not the only thing,’ Rosie added, sliding a gloved hand across the abdominal area. ‘If my guess is correct, she was in the early stages of pregnancy. A bit more work down here and we’ll know for certain.’

‘You say
girl
. How old do you think she was?’ the Fiscal asked.

‘Oh, less than eighteen,’ Rosie replied. ‘My estimate would be around fifteen or sixteen, no more.’

Lorimer and MacIntosh exchanged glances. She was a child, then, under their system of law.

The next stage in the post-mortem was to remove the girl’s vital organs; they would be weighed on scales nearby, her fellow pathologist taking notes as Rosie talked them through every part of the procedure. The girl’s body was soon open for all to see, the thoracic area having been cut through by Rosie’s expert scalpel blade to reveal what lay within, and somehow this part of the examination depersonalised the victim, making her more of a case study than what had once been a living breathing human being.

The foetus, when it was removed later from the womb, could not have been more than fourteen weeks, but already it was a tiny human form curled in a bud of pale flesh, eyes forever closed against a forbidding world. Rosie handled it tenderly before replacing it in the mother’s uterus.

Someone wanted this poor creature dead, she thought. Or did they? The girl was slender and the slight swelling on her abdomen could have been easily overlooked at this stage. Was the pathologist, after all, the first to know about the fleeting existence of these three inches of premature life? Rosie sighed, glancing at the men who stood above her. These were questions that they must ask themselves. Her role was merely to search for what could be seen and suggest possibilities; theirs was to find the truth.

‘You can’t do that!’ The words were out of Martin Goodfellow’s mouth before he could stop them.
It
isn’t
what
Charlie
would
have
wanted,
he longed to add, but now his teeth had sunk into his bottom lip, forcing himself to keep calm, be more restrained. After all, wasn’t Vivi in terrible shock?

‘I can and I will.’ The red-haired woman’s voice was cold on the other end of the telephone. ‘There is no way on earth that the project is going to take place now, Martin. I want you to begin dismantling it right away. Cancel everything,’ she added, letting a tremor enter her words. ‘
Everything
. And that’s an order.’

Martin Goodfellow heard the click and looked at the handset with a sense of disbelief. Only days ago he had been chatting happily to Charlie, discussing the various hotels that he had booked in Edinburgh. Gilmartin had sounded pleased with his suggestions. ‘Money no object now, my boy,’ he’d told Martin, and the assistant producer recalled that throaty chuckle.

He replaced the telephone, letting his hand drop limply to his side. It had all changed now, Vivi had told him. It wasn’t just a case of a sudden heart attack after all. Charles had taken his own life.

Martin Goodfellow sank into the nearest chair by the desk where he had sat so often with the great man. The still air seemed redolent with their voices, the eager planning of this theatrical venture that had spun magical webs in this very room.

‘Why?’ he whispered aloud, looking towards the other side of the desk as though in expectation of an answer. ‘What made you do it, Charlie?’

‘May I have a cup of tea, please, Maggie?’

Vivien Gilmartin stumbled into the kitchen, grasping hold of the back of the rocking chair with both hands.

‘Oh Vivien!’ Maggie saw the white face, the woman’s legs buckling beneath her, and rushed to her side, easing Vivien into the chair. ‘Put your head down. Like this.’ She motioned with both arms held forwards. ‘That’s right,’ she added as Vivien dropped her head between her knees.

‘I’ll fetch you some water,’ Maggie murmured, shaken by the other woman’s sudden faint.

It had been too much for her to call that man in London, she thought angrily. Couldn’t the police have done it instead? Surely voicing the news that your husband had killed himself would tip anyone over the edge?

‘Here,’ she said, hunkering down beside Vivien and handing her a glass of cold water. ‘Take a few sips. It’ll make you feel better.’

Maggie Lorimer was no stranger to young girls fainting at school, and although it was not always within her remit, she had sometimes taken the trouble to give them the immediate care that was required. A glass of water usually revived them long enough for someone to escort them to the school nurse.

A long exhalation of breath came from beneath that mass of red hair, then, slowly, the woman sat up again, sinking back against the cushions, still clutching the glass.

‘Okay?’

Vivien nodded.

‘Right.’ Maggie rose to her feet, patting the other woman’s arm. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’
And
something
to
eat,
she told herself. Vivien had refused breakfast and her blood sugar was probably far too low. One of Maggie’s home-made scones with butter and last year’s plum jam should sort her out.

Soon they were sitting together, Maggie perched on the settee at right angles to her guest. The scones had disappeared, Vivien agreeing that she ought to eat something, and Maggie had poured them each a second cup of tea.

‘Maggie,’ Vivien began. ‘What would you think if it was Bill?’

Maggie leaned back, surprised at the question. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied slowly. ‘I can’t imagine that he would ever do anything like that.’

The red-haired woman nodded. ‘That’s exactly how I feel. There’s no reason… there
was
no reason… for Charles to do it.’ She placed her mug carefully on a coaster. ‘He had everything to live for,’ she said quietly. ‘No worries of any kind. Not that
I
know of anyway.’

Maggie Lorimer heard the tinge of bitterness in Vivien’s voice. Had there been some distance between the couple, then? A lack of sharing?

As if reading her mind, Vivien went on. ‘Here I was, too wrapped up in that blasted school reunion to notice if anything was wrong!’

‘But you were together every day. And you had taken all that trouble to rent the apartment. You mustn’t blame yourself, Vivien,’ Maggie said, trying to find words of consolation.

The red hair was tossed back in a gesture of defiance. ‘I must have missed something,’ she growled in a throaty voice. ‘Mustn’t I?’

Maggie tried to catch her eye, but the woman was staring into the distance, her cheeks flushed faintly now. Even stricken with the worst kind of sorrow, Vivien Gilmartin was still quite lovely, Maggie thought, looking at her. And she could so easily understand the deep attraction that her husband had once felt.

The flats by the riverside were accessed by a wide gateway allowing traffic to enter at the stated speed of no more than twenty miles per hour. In addition there were speed bumps to slow down any vehicle attempting to rush into the complex. It was odd, Lorimer thought, that he had not remembered any of this during the dark hours when he had been hastened to the place by Vivien’s hysterical phone call. Now, in daylight, he could see that the buildings that had seemed mere uniform blocks of pale brick were actually quite attractive, their bases softened by borders of shrubbery and clumps of yellow daffodils nodding in the afternoon breeze. It was largely privately owned, the factor had told him when he had called to enquire, but there were several landlords who had bought to let and the Gilmartins’ flat was one of them.

He parked the Lexus in an empty bay and strode towards the main door. A memory of ushering Vivien out, his arm supporting her, flashed through his brain. She had been distraught to the point of collapse, thinking that her husband had suffered a sudden heart attack in his sleep. There had surely been a crumb of comfort thinking that Gilmartin had died quietly, peacefully. Now even that possibility had been torn away from her and he tried not to imagine what must be going through his friend’s mind.

The hallway was cast in shadow, the sun favouring the far side of the building, as Lorimer waited for the lift. Looking around, he could see signs of care: potted geraniums, pink and scarlet, thrived at the doorways of the ground-floor flats, and there was a table where a pile of circulars had been neatly stacked. It was a decent-looking place, not one where he would expect to see murder rear its ugly head.

Soon he was rising upwards, his thoughts already on what he might find. The detective took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, drawing them on before venturing into the flat, ever careful not to contaminate a crime scene, if indeed that was what it proved to be.

It felt cold as he entered the apartment, the heating probably on a timer. Vivien had told him that she and Charles had spent most of their waking hours away from the place, arranging the theatre project and the reunion, only using the flat as somewhere to sleep and eat breakfast. Still, it was a sharp contrast to the warm sunshine outside his own home where Lorimer had left his wife and former girlfriend.

He chose to go into Gilmartin’s bedroom first, his eyes seeking out the bedside table next to where the man’s body had lain. He stared at the plain, unvarnished cabinet for a moment, then peered closely to see if there were any marks on its surface, rings from a coffee mug, anything that might show what had been laid there. But there was nothing, only the thinnest layer of dust. He straightened up, pondering the facts before him, trying to recall what else that female officer might have done when she had elected to strip the bed. Had there really been no glass or cup lying by the dead man’s bed?

As if retracing the other officer’s steps, Lorimer walked through the lounge, where three half-empty mugs still sat on a tray, and into a galley kitchen. The bed linen was still inside the washer dryer and Lorimer left it there, his eyes turning to the cabinets fixed to the wall. His gloved hands opened them one after the other until he came to shelves containing glasses and crockery. With one finger he counted each stack of dishes and plates. As he’d expected, there was six of everything, plain white stuff that could easily be replaced if broken; three clean mugs plus the ones they had used for tea after Vivien’s call. It was the same with the glasses; six of every size sat neatly side by side. Turning to look at the sink and the drainer beside it, Lorimer saw a plastic bowl on its side, a folded dishcloth laid on top, now dried by the sun shining through the window. There was nothing on the draining board, no single cup or mug from the last evening of Gilmartin’s life. And this fact alone was creating a sense of disquiet in the detective’s mind.