stage. The murmurs of talk from the assembled journalists ceased immediately as all eyes turned towards the tall figure spreading his notes upon the lectern.
To someone who had never seen him before, Detective Superintendent Lorimer was an imposing man. He might have been a sportsman, had in fact played rugby rather well as a young man, but the strength of his physique was more than matched by a different sort of power; those unsmiling eyes and that granite jaw came from a man whose experience of life had hardened him into a formidable opponent of the worst sort of criminal. When he began to speak it came as no surprise to hear a clear, deep voice in an accent that was securely rooted in his native Glasgow. And, as he spoke about Edward Pattison, the ongoing investigation and the need for journalism to help and not impede the case, his eyes were roving over each and every member of the pack. Yet some of the seated figures had deliberately chosen corners that were in shadow, watching while not being watched in turn.
When the question and answer session began it surprised the woman sitting at the back to hear how polite most of the journalists were to this man who was now gripping the lectern and leaning forward slightly as though to catch every word that was being said. There were none of the recriminations that might have been expected in a case that had not seen much progress. That, she thought, was some relief. Having Barbara as her deepthroat was one thing, but she was never completely sure if she was being fed useless titbits by the detective constable or not. Glancing round the room, the dark-haired woman knew that was an added risk of coming here. Okay, Barbara believed her story about being a freelance journo, but she still didn’t want to run into the girl.
As she listened it was all about the deputy first minister. Pattison, Pattison, Pattison. She could have told them all they ever wanted to know, couldn’t she? But why was there never a mention of Tracey-Anne? And what about these other victims? The sensation in her chest that she had thought to be nerves deepened into a pain as she fought the desire to stand up and demand that the officers in this place get off their backsides and find these women’s killer. The rage inside her screamed so hard to be released that she turned her head a fraction, wondering if the man next to her had sensed it.
Then suddenly the meeting was over and Lorimer was striding off the stage, as if to demonstrate that he was eager to be off to some other area of the investigation. The babble of talk resumed as they filed out, lining up at the front desk to leave their security passes.
Once outside she walked smartly away from the building, not even turning to look behind her, and headed up towards the Malmaison. The hotel was becoming something of a refuge, she thought, as the twin bay trees flanking the main door came into sight. It was not until she was settled in the brasserie with a coffee that the woman who called herself Diana took out her reporter’s notebook and flipped it open.
What had she written on that lined page? One short sentence that, reading it now, made her mouth turn up into a secret smile: He doesn’t know.
Lorimer closed the door behind him, glad that the daily task of facing the press pack was over. It had been a much more subdued meeting than usual, perhaps the intense cold had made them want to scurry back quickly to the warmth of their offices. And there had been a new one in their midst, that dark-haired woman sitting silently at the back, listening but not asking any questions. That in itself had drawn him to regard her with a flicker of interest. Perhaps she’d been sent by her editor as a substitute for the regular news reporter; this weather was playing havoc with everybody’s travel arrangements, after all.
Then, as the telephone rang, commanding the detective superintendent’s attention, all thoughts of the strange woman disappeared.
Maggie Lorimer listened as the rain pattered onto the skylight window. It was well after two in the morning and the thaw that the weather forecasters had promised seemed to have arrived. If only it didn’t turn to ice afterwards, she thought, shivering as she closed the bathroom door behind her. At