The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) by Alex Gray Read Free Book Online

better get inside. It’s too cold out here for you.’
    His eyes were on the corridor ahead, wondering which of the doors led to the body of Charles Gilmartin. Vivien snuffled into a handkerchief.
    ‘You didn’t expect this? I mean, he hasn’t been ill or anything, has he?’ Lorimer asked as Vivien led him into a square lounge with windows overlooking the Clyde and the glittering city lights beyond.
    She shook her head, the lamplight catching her hair, making it a halo of fire.
    ‘No. No, Charles was never ill.’
    She put both hands over her mouth and he could see her throat move, swallowing her tears.
    ‘I can’t go back in there, Bill. I just can’t bear to see him,’ she whispered, her eyes large with fear as she looked up into his face. She pulled her coat tight around her, arms hugging her body, making Lorimer want to reach out and hold her again, take the horror away.
    ‘Is that the kitchen?’ he asked, pointing towards a door on the far side of the room.
    She nodded.
    ‘Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You go and make us both a cup of tea, while I take a look at your husband. Right?’
    She nodded again, a quick, shivery response.
    ‘Then I’ll call for some help,’ he told her. ‘There will be a few people here quite soon, I’m afraid, and you might find things a bit confusing. But I’ll be here,’ he said quietly, taking a step towards her and patting her shoulder. ‘Which room…?’
    ‘The one across the corridor. Next to the bathroom.’ Vivien blinked rapidly as though to prevent tears falling, and a tremulous smile crossed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, reaching up as though she were about to touch his arm. But then her hand fell to her side and she turned obediently towards the kitchen, head bowed.
     
    You could be forgiven for imagining that the man was simply asleep. In death, Charles Gilmartin was still a big man, his grey hair flecked with white around the temples, mouth slightly open as though he was breathing deeply. But no breath would ever issue from those lips again, Lorimer knew as his gloved fingers felt for a pulse. The eyes were closed, so he must have been asleep at the moment of his death. Heart attack? Perhaps, Lorimer thought, studying the man’s profile, the hawk-like nose and the dark stubble shadowing his chin. A sudden death at any rate, something that would have to be reported to the Procurator Fiscal.
    Poor Vivien, he thought. A post-mortem would be inevitable unless the man’s medical history pointed to the likelihood of a sudden demise. But he was never ill, she’d said.
    Lorimer walked slowly around the bed, looking for signs that might tell him something, knowing that a doctor was needed to determine just what had happened to cause the man’s death. With a sigh he drew out his mobile phone and pressed a button, one small action that would set several necessary wheels in motion.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    F urther down the river, a large lorry was trundling across the Kingston Bridge, its cargo quiet now on this chilly April night.
    Asa had never felt such cold before, a cold that had crept into her very bones. They had given her a thick grey coat and some woolly socks but the cold had seeped through the fibres long since, like an insidious creature invading every cell of her body. Sometimes during the long darkness she had tried to pray, but there had been no answer to her cries. Her head bowed, Asa began to wonder what she had done wrong to be so cast out from all that was dear to her. Eyes shut tight, she conjured up memories of morning sun across the veldt.
    The weaver birds would be twittering above her little house, the long shadows of the acacia tree slanting across the hard cracked ground. She imagined the tethered goat flicking flies with its tail, and she wanted to draw a hand across her face almost as if she expected to brush them off herself. But there were no irritating insects here in this cold, cold place that shook and vibrated as the