you would have made a smooth politician, Lorimer,’ she chortled. ‘Telling me off but still polite with it. I could always do with a man who isn’t afraid to treat me like that,’ she added with a grin. This time her smile was genuine and she regarded the detective superintendent with an expression that made him feel both flattered and uncomfortable.
The first minister’s laughter had alerted the occupant of the office where they stood; the open-plan offices were like a visual metaphor for political transparency, Lorimer thought. Nobody in this place apart from the first minister had the luxury of a wooden door that was closed to prying eyes. Every one of the small offices was identical; a minuscule glass fronted area where the secretarial staff worked leading to a narrow room ending in the famous pod by the window. The detective superintendent saw a short, stout man approaching and as he drew closer Lorimer noticed that he was wearing a tartan bow tie and a mustard-coloured checked suit. The effect of his choice of garments could have made the man appear clownish, but there was nothing in the least comical in his grave expression as he regarded the man and woman outside his office.
‘Jimmy, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police,’ Ms Stewart said. ‘I’ll be in my office should you need me, Lorimer,’ she added then, giving them both a perfunctory wave of her hand, she turned on her heel and left the two men together.
‘Amazed you made it across here today,’ Raeburn began, then stepped aside and ushered Lorimer into his office. ‘Come in, come in. It’s not very big in here, more of a den, really, but at least it’s warm.’
Lorimer walked into the room, surprised by how tiny it was, but then perhaps the clutter of books and files spread across the strip of mottled carpet made the place appear smaller than it really was. As Raeburn bustled about, attempting to tidy things away, Lorimer had time to absorb the man who had been, if one believed the media reports, Edward Pattison’s closest friend and political ally. Raeburn was a man in his late fifties, his soft white curls around a balding pate giving him a scholarly look. Lorimer had seen the politician on television but here, in the flesh, he was different somehow. It was odd, almost ironic, Lorimer told himself with a puzzled frown, that here in real life Raeburn seemed more like someone acting the part than the man he recalled from several late night TV programmes.
At last the politician appeared to have cleared away sufficient documents to create a space on two modern-looking chairs around a small wooden table. For a moment Lorimer was nonplussed. Had James Raeburn really been so busy all morning, sorting out paperwork? He had been expected, after all, Lorimer reasoned, telephoning to alert the people he had arranged to meet that he might be a little late, that was all. Perhaps Raeburn lived in a perpetual state of chaos? Or had he been looking for something in particular, Lorimer wondered: something to do with the death of his friend?
‘Sorry about that, Lorimer,’ Raeburn said, pulling one softlooking earlobe as though it were an unconscious habit. ‘Now,’ he said, pulling his chair sideways so that he was facing the policeman. ‘What can I do for you?’
Lorimer crossed then uncrossed his legs, feeling the dampness from the melted snow that had seeped onto the edges of his trousers. ‘I’m here about Edward Pattison, of course,’ he began.
‘In any murder inquiry there is a need to clarify much about a victim’s personality and social habits,’ he said carefully. ‘So I may have to ask you some rather personal questions. He was your best friend, was he not?’ He paused, seeing the nod of agreement and that unwavering stare in the other man’s eyes. Whatever he suspected about Pattison, Raeburn’s body language was not giving much away.
‘You were with Mr Pattison in Glasgow at the delegation on the night he died, I believe?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Raeburn. ‘But I left to catch the late train back to Edinburgh. It’ll be in the diary if you need to verify that,’ he commented dryly, indicating the lady sitting with her back to them, her tiny workspace practically out in the corridor. He shrugged and smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t help you very much. You see,’ he added, ‘as far as I knew Ed was going back to his hotel for the night.’ The smile