Maggie, practical as ever, had taken out a frozen meal before she left, reminding him there were several more in the freezer. She’d shaken her head and smiled at him ruefully. ‘Bet you dine out on takeaway curries instead,’ she’d murmured as he’d drawn her into his arms for a hug. She knew him so well, this wife of his. Lorimer grinned, as he drove away from their home. He glanced up for a moment, his attention caught as a lone heron slowly flapped its great wings against the pale morning skies. The bird had its destination in mind, just like him, but it was free to go where it pleased and right now, William Lorimer wished he were beside his wife and heading towards the hills.

  Becoming head of the Major Incident Team here in Glasgow had meant time away from home for Lorimer, too, as the unit could be required anywhere, Police Scotland covering every inch of the country. But today he expected to be in the office, with paperwork to prepare for a forthcoming trial. The streets were busy already; even at this early hour Glasgow was wide awake and ready to roll. As he skirted Pollok Park, Lorimer wished once again that he could turn off and spend some time away from the job. The idea made him slip off the main road and take the single track that wound through the park. A short cut, he persuaded himself, though these speed bumps would hardly help him to make better time. The fields and trees on either side were beginning to show signs of spring, a few new leaves tentatively unfurling, though many of the branches remained bare. Further ahead he saw the shapes of shaggy beasts grazing in the long grass: Highland cattle that lived in this oasis of peace in the middle of Scotland’s busiest city. The road forked to the right past the Burrell Collection but Lorimer headed on, past the Police Sports ground then out again towards his destination.

  He sighed as the traffic made him stop and wait. It was a pity that the entire school break was being used for Maggie’s book tour but perhaps they would manage a weekend out of town when it was over. A faint smile worked across Lorimer’s face, crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. She’d been amazing last night, a real star, and the pride he had felt had been tinged with something else. Surprise? Perhaps. After all, Maggie had written the book secretly, waiting until it had been accepted for publication before she had told him about it. And there was something else, a feeling of sadness, regret that her mother had not lived to see this day. She’d have been so proud.

  The familiar sight of Ibrox football stadium, home to the famous Glasgow Rangers, hove into view and minutes later Lorimer was driving towards the red-brick building on the corner of Helen Street, close to Bellahouston Park. The dear, green place was the phrase someone had coined to describe Glasgow and so it was, though several cases that had come Lorimer’s way had involved decidedly unpleasant incidents amongst these quiet, leafy enclaves.

  Lorimer had hardly sat down behind his desk and opened the laptop when there was a knock on his office door.

  The tall, rangy figure of DCI Niall Cameron stood there, papers in one hand and a serious expression on his face.

  ‘Just came in, sir,’ Niall said, and Lorimer motioned him to sit down.

  ‘Female found over there,’ Niall tilted his head in the direction of the far-away wall.

  ‘Bellahouston?’ Lorimer felt a prickle across his scalp. Only minutes ago he had been thinking about the shadowy sides of Glasgow’s parkland and here there was another grim incident to take in. It was as if a sixth sense had been telling him about it already. He shook his head, chasing off any fanciful notions, and skimmed over the details on the pages Cameron had thrust his way.

  White female, possibly in her thirties. Strangled with what appeared to be her own scarf and pushed under a line of shrubbery.

  ‘Uniforms called it in, sir. Less than an hour ago. One of the park keepers discovered the body. Forensics are there now.’

  ‘Major Incident need to be involved?’ Lorimer asked, his eyebrows raised in question. The body of a young woman found in Queen’s Park some months previously had been dealt with by CID as a one-off. The culprit was never located and the case was still live, though it would most likely be downgraded as time wore on and other cases piled up on the investigating officer’s desk. But, if this poor woman’s death had been at the hands of the same killer, then they might well be called upon to reclassify the whole thing. Any danger to the public made a case top priority, but why would a senior investigating officer turn their case over to the crack team at the MIT? As a DCI back in Stewart Street, Lorimer had dealt with cases of multiple murder without resorting to the MIT.

  ‘Why has it come to us? Surely this ought to have been given to DCI Fraser Urie, the SIO in the Queen’s Park case?’ He frowned.

  ‘Urie’s off on long-term leave,’ Cameron explained. ‘He was involved in a bad road accident. But that’s not the only reason this has landed here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lorimer was immediately alert to the expression on his DCI’s face.

  ‘There’s a missing person report too,’ Cameron told him, his face serious as he handed over a second sheet of paper.

  Lorimer read the details and stared at the photograph then immediately rose to his feet. ‘Better get ourselves over there right now. If this turns out to be who we think she is all hell’s going to be let loose.’

  He swept up his coat as they left the room together, his thoughts on what awaited them in the nearby park.

  The grass was still dew-spattered as they made their way across to the white forensic tent and Lorimer could feel the edges of his trousers soaked through already. The earlier brightness had indeed held a suggestion of rain to come and now the sun was blotted out completely. Several white-suited figures loomed out of a mist that had descended across the park, one of them heading their way.

  ‘Sir.’ The face beneath the forensic hood was one of the Fiscal’s young assistants, a woman whose name Lorimer could not remember. They took the suits from her outstretched arms and in moments he and Cameron were fit to enter the crime scene, their wet shoes covered in bootees.

  Lorimer could hear people talking inside the tent and as he approached he recognised the voice of the woman who was leaning over the victim, her accent unmistakable. Dr Daisy Abercromby, the Aussie pathologist, turned as he entered the tent.

  She gave him a brief nod then returned to speaking details into her recording device.

  ‘… time of death to be established,’ she said, then switched off the tiny machine and stood up. ‘Poor woman’s been here for at least two nights, I reckon,’ Daisy murmured before turning to see the men from the MIT.

  ‘Big guns out this morning, eh?’ she remarked, eyes meeting Lorimer’s own. ‘Something special bring you across the road, Superintendent?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘I’ll tell you more once I’ve seen the victim.’

  Daisy Abercromby frowned. ‘You know who she is?’

  In answer, Lorimer stepped forward and the pathologist made room for him to examine the victim.

  The woman was lying on her back, arms by her sides. Her attacker had been kneeling on the victim’s body, Lorimer thought, seeing the bruised flesh on the gap between her leggings and the cropped sports top. The cause of death was easy enough to see, the ligature around her neck a twisted silk scarf. Long dark hair had drifted across the victim’s face and with one gloved hand, Lorimer gently swept it aside.

  He had never seen a picture of this person until Cameron had handed him that second piece of paper. But now, here in this damp little space, looking down on her pale complexion, eyes wide and glassy, Lorimer knew without any doubt that this was the woman who had been reported missing.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know who she is.’

  Lorimer had craved a trip into the countryside but as the Lexus took each bend of the Stockiemuir Road he wished that he were not travelling to break the news of the woman’s death to her father. In contrast to his sombre mood, the rain clouds had lifted and every hill and mountain was clearly etched against the morning sky, their shadowy blues and greens a harbinger of better days to come. Even the hillsides of tawny bracken had glints of fresh green fronds peeping through with here and there a clump of wild primroses, pale yellow faces shivering in the still cold breeze. Up and down they went, each rise revealing more and more of the hidden secrets beyond the valleys: a glimpse of Loch Lomond, then, higher still, the Cobbler peeping out between twin peaks, its anvil mountain tip clear to see. Then they were driving down again, through little villages where life was being played out as normal: children running in their playground, a tractor in the fields, several hikers ready to tackle the West Highland Way, backpacks shouldered as they took the route from Drymen.

  His eyes turned briefly to scan the forest that had been the target of a terrorist gang several years before when Lorimer had been called to investigate a serious plot. It had been re-planted after the explosion that had rocked the quiet hillside and already the young trees were showing a dark line against the horizon. Life went on, Lorimer told himself. Nature was a force that would always come back despite the depredations of humankind. But nothing would bring back the girl whose father he was about to visit and the thought made his lips draw together in a thin, hard line.

  Lord Donovan, celebrated high court judge and friend of several members of the royal family, sat beside Lorimer and wept. Lorimer had last seen him in court, the long wig and formal robes giving him a gravitas that had frequently terrified guilty men and women. But this man bore little resemblance to the authoritative figure that Lorimer remembered and the sounds of his anguish tore at the detective’s heart. It was a moment that no father wanted to experience: the facts that he’d dreaded coming to reality.

  Lorimer waited, his hands ready to offer more tissues from the big box on the table in front of them. He and Hilary Johnston, the family liaison officer, had driven out immediately to the small village in Stirlingshire. They would try to keep the press at bay but it was only a matter of time before this news hit the headlines. Patricia Donovan had been a favourite of the tabloids, a party girl whose lifestyle was at odds with her upbringing. Boarding school then a year away in Switzerland, Hilary had read the brief notes aloud as Lorimer had driven them out of the city and through the winding country lanes. Then rumours of drugs and rehabilitation centres; a sad story that was all too familiar. Patricia had dabbled with fashion modelling after an acting course and had even enjoyed a bit part on a TV drama, but she had seemed happier being in the sunshine, aboard the yacht of some oil tycoon or on the arm of a perma-tanned actor. More trouble with drugs had brought her back to Scotland and lately she had been a patient at the Priory Hospital in Glasgow. Was that the link, perhaps? Had Patricia Donovan flirted with low life in her attempt to buy drugs? Had she become a victim because of the company she’d kept?

  Arthur, Lord Donovan, would likely ask these kinds of questions and Lorimer had to be ready with his answers.

  The judge raised his head, eyes red with weeping and caught Lorimer’s blue gaze.

  ‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why?’

  Lorimer reached out and placed his hand across the other man’s arm.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But I promise we will do our best to find out.’

  Donovan grasped Lorimer’s outstretched hand. ‘Was it because of me? Does someone want revenge? We’ve had plenty of hate mail over the years, of course.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Goes with the territory. Lock up a bad bastard and they’ll try to blame you for their own misdeeds.’

  ‘Have there been any particular instances … ’ Lorimer began.

  ‘You mean miscarriages of justice?’ Arthur Donovan sat back against the leather sofa with a sigh. ‘One or two in my whole career, but none that laid the blame at my own feet.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve handed out heavier sentences after appeals, of course; lighter ones, too, whenever that was justified. But this … ’ He slipped his hands away, covering his face again and groaning. ‘Dear God, why take away my girl? Why Tricia?’

  Lorimer swallowed hard then licked his dry lips before continuing. ‘The first victim,’ he began.

  Donovan raised his tear-stained face to the detective superintendent.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Same age as your daughter, same long, dark hair … ’ He let the words hang in the air for a moment as Donovan’s mouth hung open, the man’s eyes wide with shocked disbelief.

  ‘You mean … ?’

  ‘It’s possible that Patricia was deliberately targeted, not for who she was but for what she looked like,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘We’ll need to ask you a lot more about your daughter, however. I’m so, so sorry,’ he said, echoing the words he had uttered earlier to this father whose dead child Lorimer had seen lying on the cold, wet ground.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Perth was such a lovely city, Maggie thought as they crossed the bridge over its fast-flowing river. The hotel Ivy had chosen had been a treat, too, Maggie’s top-floor room a penthouse suite where she might have held a small party had there been anyone to invite.

  She pursed her lips, scolding herself for that moment of ingratitude. Ivy was striding ahead, mobile phone to her ear as Maggie followed. The woman was all efficiency, there was no doubt about that, and she had tried hard to make Maggie feel as though she was an important person to the publisher. Yet there was still that feeling of being an imposter. It’s not happening to me, she’d thought again the previous evening when she had stood up to address that crowded theatre. I don’t deserve it, she’d told herself when the bellboy had set down her case and she’d stared wide-eyed at the massive suite. The view from her window looked over the river and in the darkness the water had twinkled under the street lamps, the city’s wet streets gleaming with the rain. After the initial thrill had come a stab of loneliness, particularly when Bill’s voicemail had kicked in and he had not returned her call, even though Maggie had lain awake for what seemed hours.

  It was the lot of a police officer’s wife, she knew. Waiting patiently for him to come home and now fretting about why he wasn’t able to answer her calls.

  She almost bumped into the publicist as Ivy turned around, waving her phone in the air.

  ‘See this!’ she exclaimed, handing it to Maggie. ‘Your husband’s been busy.’

  Maggie took the phone from Ivy’s heavily be-ringed fingers and looked at the screen.

  ‘A murder,’ she murmured.

  ‘Not just any murder,’ Ivy’s voice rose in excitement. ‘Daughter of a high court judge, no less! Boy, can we make something of this!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maggie frowned. ‘What’s it got to do with—’ She broke off, her confusion clearing as she read the meaning in the woman’s words.

  ‘Oh, no, don’t get me involved in this, please,’ she said.

  ‘If we don’t someone else will,’ Ivy assured her firmly. ‘Famous debut author’s husband heading up a major crime investigation? The papers will be all over it.’

  Maggie squirmed uncomfortably at being described as famous. She wasn’t and probably never would be. But the publicist seemed determined to have her own way. And surely Ivy, with all her years of experience, knew what she was doing?

  ‘So … what … ?’

  ‘We send out a press release as soon as we can. Terribly sad to hear of tragic death of such a young woman. Every confidence in your husband to find the killer, yadda yadda … ’

  Ivy took back her phone and gave Maggie a quizzical look. ‘Can’t put the genie back in the bottle, honey. It’s happened and we just have to go with it, make the best of what’s there.’

  Maggie bit her lip and nodded. What had she expected? To continue in her little bubble of self-confidence, swanning from bookstore to bookstore, stepping on to different platforms just talking about her little ghost boy? Well, yes, she thought. That was exactly what she’d had in mind. Two weeks of this then back to school to resume her role as Mrs Lorimer, English teacher at Muirpark Secondary. Carry on writing the next story when she had the time and perhaps do this trip all over again the following year.

  ‘Come on, coffee while we decide what to send out,’ Ivy said firmly, taking Maggie’s elbow and steering her across the street towards the big shopping centre and another Waterstones bookshop.

  Lorimer sighed as the telephone message repeated that the person called was unavailable. Only to be expected, he thought. She was so busy travelling here and there. Last thing she would want was her phone buzzing in the middle of a talk. He glanced at his watch. Two more minutes and he would have to head along the corridor to the boardroom and face the barrage of the press. Next on his list, though, was a visit to DCI Urie. He was anxious to hear what the man would make of this latest murder, although he already anticipated a bit of flak over the MIT’s involvement. No officer liked their cases being taken over, no matter the circumstances. However, given DCI Urie’s current leave of absence, the man might just welcome Lorimer’s input.