the colour schemes and planned the interiors, despairing of ever dragging her husband around a furniture shop. Lorimer seemed content to leave such decisions to her, although he was terribly fussy when it came to hanging any of his precious pictures. They at least were his; these Glasgow Boys prints, that Rosaleen Orr with its rich colours and hidden depths that took pride of place. Maggie loved her house, and yearned for it to be
their
home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.
Maggie pulled herself back to the memory of Lorimer’s performance on
Crimewatch
. She felt her shoulders relax as she thought of Lorimer and his single-minded pursuit of the killer. This was what he was good at. This was what was important. What she wanted from her husband seemed selfish, almost trivial now, by comparison. Perhaps she should resign herself to this way of life instead of trying to fight against it.
Maggie closed hereyes wearily. The tension in her chest had created a real pain. She wanted to weep, but couldn’t.
C HAPTER 10
S o that was it, then.The overhead lights dimmed and the studio sounded hollow as lines of cable were trailed across the floor. The cameras retreated silently, mounted by technicians crouching like monstrous insects, huge headphones clamped over their ears. Lorimer’s shoulders were stiff with tension. He filled his lungs deeply, making himself relax.
Nick Ross was saying something to his production assistant so there was a moment’s respite, a gathering together of energies before they headed back into the courtesy suite.
‘Well done, Chief Inspector.’ The blond head turned in Lorimer’s direction, the calm, intelligent face creased in a beam of satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this shambles.’
He indicated the army of technicians and youngsters with clipboards who had descended on the area, and ushered Lorimer out into the corridor. As they made their way to the room where drinks would be waiting, Ross chatted inconsequentially about family, holidays in Scotland; all designed, Lorimer knew, to ease his tension. He had used that gentle ploy himself and appreciated it from another professional. There would be no more said about murder until Lorimer had visibly unwound. And then?
Telephone lines werealready jangling. Amongst the genuine calls were cranks and time-wasters, Ross had told him, but sometimes, just sometimes, a call would come through like a seam of gold appearing in a darkened mine.
The update to the main programme would be made by Ross himself, letting viewers know if there were any immediate results to be had from their various appeals. Lorimer would remain behind the scenes listening as information came filtering through.
Lorimer found himself in a small, windowless room which had the heavy smell of new carpeting. Some of those who worked on the programme were talking loudly and pouring themselves drinks. The producer handed Lorimer a square-cut glass containing malt whisky. It was a presumption, Lorimer thought, that was actually justified. Not only did he indulge in his national drink, he was in real need of one at that moment.
‘Water?’
A small brown jug was proffered.
‘Just a splash.’
There was no more he could do now but wait. It was irksome to have matters whisked away from him like this, and Lorimer realised that he felt exactly the same about Solomon Brightman. There were always training courses that stressed the need for teamwork and co-operation in police work. To fly solo was not only foolish and egotistical but dangerous. It showed a craving for power. Lorimer knew that his need to be in control fought battles with the common sense which delegated authority. But common sense usually won. Indeed, it had been his ability to work in a team that had impressed his superiors all the way up through the ranks.
The whisky slippedover his throat and burned a yellow warmth inside. By going to the
their
home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.
Maggie pulled herself back to the memory of Lorimer’s performance on
Crimewatch
. She felt her shoulders relax as she thought of Lorimer and his single-minded pursuit of the killer. This was what he was good at. This was what was important. What she wanted from her husband seemed selfish, almost trivial now, by comparison. Perhaps she should resign herself to this way of life instead of trying to fight against it.
Maggie closed hereyes wearily. The tension in her chest had created a real pain. She wanted to weep, but couldn’t.
C HAPTER 10
S o that was it, then.The overhead lights dimmed and the studio sounded hollow as lines of cable were trailed across the floor. The cameras retreated silently, mounted by technicians crouching like monstrous insects, huge headphones clamped over their ears. Lorimer’s shoulders were stiff with tension. He filled his lungs deeply, making himself relax.
Nick Ross was saying something to his production assistant so there was a moment’s respite, a gathering together of energies before they headed back into the courtesy suite.
‘Well done, Chief Inspector.’ The blond head turned in Lorimer’s direction, the calm, intelligent face creased in a beam of satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this shambles.’
He indicated the army of technicians and youngsters with clipboards who had descended on the area, and ushered Lorimer out into the corridor. As they made their way to the room where drinks would be waiting, Ross chatted inconsequentially about family, holidays in Scotland; all designed, Lorimer knew, to ease his tension. He had used that gentle ploy himself and appreciated it from another professional. There would be no more said about murder until Lorimer had visibly unwound. And then?
Telephone lines werealready jangling. Amongst the genuine calls were cranks and time-wasters, Ross had told him, but sometimes, just sometimes, a call would come through like a seam of gold appearing in a darkened mine.
The update to the main programme would be made by Ross himself, letting viewers know if there were any immediate results to be had from their various appeals. Lorimer would remain behind the scenes listening as information came filtering through.
Lorimer found himself in a small, windowless room which had the heavy smell of new carpeting. Some of those who worked on the programme were talking loudly and pouring themselves drinks. The producer handed Lorimer a square-cut glass containing malt whisky. It was a presumption, Lorimer thought, that was actually justified. Not only did he indulge in his national drink, he was in real need of one at that moment.
‘Water?’
A small brown jug was proffered.
‘Just a splash.’
There was no more he could do now but wait. It was irksome to have matters whisked away from him like this, and Lorimer realised that he felt exactly the same about Solomon Brightman. There were always training courses that stressed the need for teamwork and co-operation in police work. To fly solo was not only foolish and egotistical but dangerous. It showed a craving for power. Lorimer knew that his need to be in control fought battles with the common sense which delegated authority. But common sense usually won. Indeed, it had been his ability to work in a team that had impressed his superiors all the way up through the ranks.
The whisky slippedover his throat and burned a yellow warmth inside. By going to the
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