his request.
There was a glimmer of sunshine as Lorimer was driven away from the Scottish parliament building and, as he looked up at Arthur’s Seat, the hill behind him, misty clouds above its rounded top parted to reveal patches of blue sky. Enough to mend a sailor’s trousers, his mum had been fond of saying. That thought brought him back to his next visit. Edward Pattison had been a husband and a father. His loss was going to be something quite different for his wife and kids. There would be none of Felicity Stewart’s straight talking; that was for sure.
What had he made of the woman? Lorimer wasn’t a particularly political animal, police politics having been enough to stomach in his career, but he did have a fondness for the history surrounding the ideals of Scottish independence. Ms Stewart was one hard woman, that was evident, but perhaps having a steely core was a primary requirement for trying to run the country whilst fending off an opposition party like Labour, who were traditionally at odds with the SNP. That she had been honest was admirable, but Lorimer felt she had lacked something. The milk of human kindness, he thought, remembering Lady Macbeth. Surely it wouldn’t have hurt the first minister to utter one kind word about Pattison? Still, she had given the detective some names, in complete confidence, of course. Lorimer frowned, wondering if the men whose names he had written into his BlackBerry had really been the dead man’s bitter enemies. Or was Felicity Stewart using him to undermine the credibility of these politicians for her own ends? He had a duty to investigate them now, of course, but why did he feel that he had just escaped from a sticky web of intrigue?
The house where the Pattisons lived was not too far away, probably a ten-minute journey at rush hour. Murrayfield was an upmarket area, not only because of its proximity to the famous rugby grounds, but also due to the large and solid properties marching in rows away from the main road. It was easy to spot the Pattison home. Across from the grey stone detached house a knot of reporters were stood, and they began to rush the police car as soon as it turned into the avenue.
The uniformed driver and his escort stood their ground, however, ushering them back to the opposite pavement, despite their shouts for information. Lorimer heard cameras clicking and he had no doubt that his profile would be gracing the Edinburgh Evening News later in the day. A tall young copper from Lothian and Borders standing outside the garden gate of the house sketched a salute as the detective superintendent passed him. Lorimer gave him a nod in reply. It was to be expected that a police guard would be put upon this place given Pattison’s public persona. He only hoped it would keep the worst of the press at bay for the family’s sake. It was a short walk to the front door, past well-tended lawns and a row of blue ceramic containers filled with rich dark soil. In a few weeks the first bulbs might help to cheer this entrance, but for now this garden was still in the grip of winter.
His office had made the call for him, letting Mrs Pattison know that Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police would arrive some time in the early afternoon. Now, as he stood in the porch, one hand ready to ring the doorbell, Lorimer wondered how that news had been received. Bad enough to have to deal with a sudden death, but murder and the intrusion of the police must surely compound the grief and confusion of any newly bereaved woman. Lorimer waited, watching for shadows behind the glass door with its etchings of a Greek-style vase and plaited laurel wreaths. He had brought bad news to people’s doors plenty of times in the past and was able to empathise with them, understand their shock and horror. It wasn’t the first time he had been involved in the murder of a man with such a high public profile but death had no consideration of class or status and Lorimer expected this widow’s reaction to be similar to those he had seen so often before.
A figure approached the glass door and it opened with a click and a rattle, the tell-tale sign that a security chain had been unfastened.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer?’ An older lady stood by the half-opened door, looking at