Before the Storm

Book 18: DSI William Lorimer

by Alex Gray

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

***Discover your next reading obsession with Alex Gray's Sunday Times bestselling Scottish detective series***

***Don't miss the latest from Alex Gray. Book 20 in the Lorimer series, QUESTIONS FOR A DEAD MAN, is out now and Book 21, OUT OF DARKNESS, is available to pre-order.***

Whether you've read them all or whether this is your first Lorimer novel, Before the Storm is perfect if you love Ian Rankin, Val McDermid and Ann Cleeves

'Before the Storm is classic Alex Gray - warm-hearted, atmospheric . . . with a very interesting twist' ANN CLEEVES
'An exciting procedural' SUNDAY TIMES
'Another brilliant Lorimer adventure' ***** Reader Review
'Exciting and unexpected, I hope it's not too long till the next one' ***** Reader Review
'Lorimer is up there with the best' ***** Reader Review
'Alex Gray returns with another belter' THE HERALD

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Your favourite Scottish detective is back with a brand new case, one that threatens to destroy everything.

Inspector Daniel Kohi of the Zimbabwean police force returns home one night to find his worst nightmare has been realised. His family dead, his house destroyed, and in fear for his life, he is forced to flee the country he loves.

Far away in Glasgow, DSI William Lorimer has his hands full. Christmas is approaching, the city is bustling, and whilst the homicide rate has been relatively low, something much darker is brewing. Counter-Terrorism have got wind of a plot, here in Lorimer's native city, to carry out an unspeakable atrocity on Christmas Eve. They need someone with local knowledge to help them root it out and who better than the head of the Scottish Major Incidents Team.

But the investigation is complicated by a spate of local murders, and by the rumours that someone is passing information to criminal organisations from inside the police force. Soon Lorimer finds himself in desperate need of assistance. Then he meets an extraordinary man - a refugee from Zimbabwe whose investigative skills are a match for Lorimer's own . . .
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PRAISE FOR THE WILLIAM LORIMER SERIES

'Immensely exciting and atmospheric' ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
'Move over Rebus' DAILY MAIL
'Relentless and intriguing' PETER MAY
'Convincing Glaswegian atmosphere and superior writing' THE TIMES

Release date: March 25, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

It was cold. The sort of cold that crept into his bones as if to remind him that this was an alien landscape more suited to the pale-faced people scurrying by. He stood for a few moments, suitcase on the shiny marble floor, blinking as if he had just awoken from a long sleep. Above him the glass roof, criss-crossed by metal beams, exposed the icy skies.

This was it, then. Glasgow. The city notorious for its knife crime in the past, but also boasting its other accolades: City of Culture, host of the Commonwealth Games and where Nelson Mandela Place nestled at its heart. Even these thoughts failed to warm him as he hesitated, looking around the station concourse. Daniel had already zipped up his fleece-lined jacket against the chill but nothing seemed to stop him shivering as he regarded the exit to a grey street with tall stone buildings. It was so different … He bit his lip, trying to stop the perpetual thoughts of what he had left behind. Comparing the past with this present life was a useless exercise, doomed to pull him down once more into the black despair that had almost claimed him.

It will be a good place for you to settle, they’d told him, encouraging smiles meant to raise his spirits as he’d said his goodbyes at that other railway station. Folk are known for being friendly, one had added, and Daniel hoped that this was true. The journey itself had passed without incident, his fellow passengers all absorbed by whatever they were seeing on their phones or tablets, several of them listening to unheard melodies of their choice, none of them even giving Daniel a curious glance. Was that good? He’d thought so at the time, convincing himself that his appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. There was an Asian family along the corridor, the children noisy and clamouring for attention, parents and elderly family members indulging their every whim. Nobody stared at the solitary black man seated by the window, staring out at the landscape as the train sped north, taking him ever further from the place he had once called home.

He had gazed out of the window as the train slowed down, looking for clues that might inform him a little more about this city. At first it seemed the usual urban mish-mash of old and modern architecture, glass and steel structures jostling for space with towers and spires from the past. On the gable end of one building a giant pink poster proclaimed PEOPLE MAKE GLASGOW, a sign of pride in their city, perhaps, and something that made his lips curve into the ghost of a smile. Perhaps all he’d been told was true after all, he thought, sitting back as the carriage window was battered by a squally burst of hail.

*

The stream of passengers slowed to pass through the ticket barrier then fanned out. He saw a tall man with a shoulder bag stooping down to be met with hugs from family members, little children squealing with excitement to welcome Daddy home. Daniel swallowed down the rising pain and looked away. He stared instead at the shops curving around the station, their lights brightening the grey concourse and the ubiquitous Christmas tree, dressed exactly as the one in the station from which he had departed hours before, its conformity to a pattern of gold and silver baubles doing nothing to raise his flagging spirits.

Chilly air swept into the station as his feet took Daniel closer to the moment when he must step out at last into the city streets. For a moment he lingered, the warm familiar smell of coffee laced with the sweetness of vanilla wafting from a nearby café. But it looked too crowded and he had no wish to push and shove his way amongst strangers, burdened as he was with suitcase and rucksack, gifted by his church friends to hold the possessions he’d accepted from different charities.

Instead he took a deep breath and steeled himself to step out of the relative shelter of Glasgow Central Station into the open air.

The first thing he noticed as he emerged was a beggar sitting on the kerb, streams of people leaving or entering the concourse apparently oblivious to the man’s presence. Poverty and despair existed everywhere, Daniel thought, gazing down at the bundle of rags huddled close to the station wall. Lank, greasy hair, face tilted upwards to catch the eye of anyone passing by who might fling a coin or two into the plastic cup clutched in a pair of bony hands, lips moving in a continuous mantra that always ended in God bless, have a nice day, words that had long since lost any meaning. What story was here? Was this a fellow sufferer escaping from his own past, reduced to becoming such a wretched specimen?

A sudden jolt from behind made Daniel start, fists clenched in automatic response.

‘Awrightbigman?’

Daniel took a step back, feeling the stranger’s grip on his arm. His first thought was for his wallet with all its precious papers tucked carefully inside his jacket, impossible for a random pickpocket to steal. But perhaps that hadn’t stopped this person trying his luck on a traveller burdened with a suitcase and a heavy pack?

It was second nature to stare hard at the man, taking in every detail of his dishevelled appearance. He’d seen that same glazed expression and doped-up smile a thousand times in different streets, different cities. But when this guy held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, his gap-toothed grin almost comical, it was as if he could sense Daniel’s latent authority.

‘Naebotherson,’ the junkie said, shaking his head as Daniel made to pass him by.

The body language told him more than the strange words; there was a sort of obsequious cringing as though this man expected a blow, was used to them, perhaps. But there was also an eagerness to befriend the stranger he’d bumped into by accident. He seemed harmless but whatever he’d uttered was a mystery to the man who had stepped off the train and entered a new country.

Daniel gave him a brief nod and strode out into the street, wind blowing icy arrows onto his skin, turning umbrellas inside out as pedestrians struggled against the slanting rain, scraps of litter playing chase along the gutters.

Hitching his backpack securely, he looked left and right, remembering the directions he’d read and reread. Hope Street, that was the one he must cross then follow, an irony not lost on Daniel whose own hopes had died all those long months ago.

But he would not think about that. Not now. Not when he had a difficult meeting ahead of him. The sigh that escaped him was for the weariness of it all, the perpetual journeys from one place to the next, repeating his tale to some official whose only aim seemed to be to fill in yet more forms and pass him on to another. Once upon a time Daniel had found the choices given by an automated voice so irksome whenever he tried to call someone by telephone. Now he would have gladly spent an hour pressing buttons instead of being sent day after day, week after week to different authorities that might or might not make some decision about his future.

A police car sat on the kerb, yellow, blue and white, bright colours chosen for their visual impact. He looked at the two officers in the front seats then moved on. There was no need to consult the paper he’d been given with its hand-drawn map; he could visualise it in his mind’s eye right now. Out of the station, turn left then cross the road and head uphill.

A black figure loomed out of the gloom, making Daniel stop and stare. The breathing apparatus on its face reminded him of pictures from the history books, gas masks protecting humans from those poisonous onslaughts. Someone else’s war, he reminded himself. Someone else’s suffering. However, this was no old soldier, but the representation of a fire fighter, the statue rather squat as though the sculptor had imagined the inhabitants of this city as small men. He shuddered, pushing down the memory of fire. What this strange black memorial was doing there was one of the mysteries that Daniel might solve in the coming weeks, but for now the traffic lights had changed to green and he crossed, dodging the stream of fast-flowing water sluicing the roads.

As Daniel climbed the sloping street he remembered someone telling him that Glasgow was built on several hills and in his mind he had created a vision of tawny slopes rising above a scattering of houses. Looking ahead, all he could see was a patch of bruised sky obliterated on each side by tall office buildings, no curve of green in sight. Beneath his feet some of the paving stones were crumbling and broken, the persistent rain no doubt a contributing factor. Under the swirling streams he noticed spots of white, discarded gum that had speckled the pavement. Fluorescent orange and yellow graffiti streaked metal bins next to the stone walls of buildings he passed by, words or parts of words that made no sense to Daniel.

A brightly lit window caught his eye with a word that was only too familiar, and Daniel backtracked, staring at the line of travel brochures displayed: AFRICA. He breathed in sharply. There it was, the dusty background in shades of ochre, a leopard superimposed by some graphic artist. He’d never seen a leopard in the bush, though once he had heard a clawing noise from a compound out in Hwange and the ranger had confirmed that yes, a leopard had visited during the night. No wildlife in this city, at least none that crept on large, silent paws.

Between the buildings ran narrow cobbled lanes, mossy green in the shadows where sunlight could never penetrate, man-made yellow lines flowing from one end to the other. These lanes dissected the main streets and he caught glimpses of slow-moving traffic running downhill to his right. It was a grid system, he knew, and now he had an inkling of how this city centre might operate. In his past life Daniel had learned all about streets and alleyways, how to navigate them by car or on foot, and he was confident that it would not take long to learn the geography of this place.

It was as he paused to shift the weight of his suitcase from one hand to the other that he saw it.

There was no sound, just a movement caught in his peripheral vision, one man stepping out from behind an open door. Nothing unusual about that, except for the large knife clutched in his right fist, a wet stain at its tip that was almost certainly blood.

For a moment Daniel froze, every instinct urging him to drop his bags and rush along the lane. In another place, another time, he would never have hesitated.

Then the door swung shut with an audible clang, leaving him to stare at the empty lane, trying to make some sort of sense of what he had just seen. And, because such matters had concerned him in his past life, Daniel Kohi found himself asking the question of what to do about it.

Detective Superintendent William Lorimer smiled to himself as he regarded the calendar fixed to his office wall. Not a single date was circled in red, a satisfying thing to note as it meant a month without a homicide in the whole of Scotland. Deaths had occurred, to be sure, accidents on the roads and in the mountains where there would be that extra frisson of danger for climbers now that the first snows had fallen. However, the statistics were on the side of law and order, it seemed, Police Scotland managing to shut down several organised criminal enterprises, preventing any outbreak of violence. Perhaps the bad old days were almost over at last, he pondered. The times of gang warfare suppressed by the ever-growing sophistication of technology that aided officers around the country.

He had seen so many changes in his career and, with only one more year until his thirty years’ service, it was not surprising that Lorimer was feeling a tad nostalgic. The biggest change, of course, was in the creation of Police Scotland after decades of separate constabularies throughout the country. That had been to his advantage as the head of the Major Incident Team here in Govan, free to investigate serious crimes anywhere without the worry of upsetting the local cops. Nowadays some of them were only too delighted to have the team on their patch taking over some higher profile cases. Yet there were other changes, too. Gartcosh, the Scottish Crime Campus, had been of enormous benefit with its various departments including the very best in forensics. He recalled one member of the public telling him in awestruck tones how much safer she had felt after being escorted around the Counter Terrorism unit. So many men and women worked hard to ensure the peace and stability of the populace, most of whom were blissfully unaware of those guarding them against some very real dangers. Hopefully he would be of help to prevent yet another such coming into his city, he thought, with a quiet sigh.

He swung the chair slightly to one side and gazed out of the window where the dark streets were slick with rain on this late November afternoon, traffic slowly making its way towards the M8. His vision shifted a little to see his own reflection in the glass. He blinked as if surprised to see the man staring back at him. One hand swept over his head. There was no sign of losing his hair yet, unlike several of his colleagues, not even a receding hairline, though touches of grey were frosting the dark brown hair beside his ears. If he were to compare the photograph of his twenty-year-old self in uniform with what he could see now then, yes, the years had taken their toll. Deeper lines were etched between his eyes and around his mouth, testament to the dreadful sights that he had seen, things that no single person could have endured but for the strength of will to do his duty and see justice carried out.

What would he do next? There was no need to retire if he felt capable of carrying on, although so many fellow officers quit the force, as if afraid that the extra years of service might take their toll. And yet he’d seen a few men retire only to drop dead of heart failure a couple of years later, and others take on less onerous work simply to fill their days. What did he want to do? Carry on with this job or look further afield for a new adventure? His reflection smiled back at him, shaking its head as if to mock the very idea of putting his energies into anything else as demanding as the job he had carried out for nearly three decades.

A knock at his door broke the reverie and Lorimer swung back to face the person entering his office.

One look at DCI Niall Cameron’s face told him all that he needed to know.

‘Body found, boss. Looks like a nasty one,’ Cameron told him.

Lorimer’s eyes flicked towards the wall calendar. One of these numbers would be ringed in red before the week was out, he thought, giving a sigh of regret.

The man was lying on his back, head to one side, arms raised in a pugilistic stance as though he had tried to fight off the encroaching flames. Any clothing had been burned away, his leather shoes practically welded to the blackened flesh.

‘Going to be a difficult one,’ DS Judith Morris, the crime scene manager, said, turning to the tall detective. ‘Hard to identify him after what’s been done.’

‘Multiple stab wounds?’

‘Yes, we can see that at least,’ Morris confirmed, hunkering down beside Lorimer and pointing at several gashes on the burned corpse with her gloved hand. ‘Someone’s been busy trying to destroy their handiwork.’

‘We should get something from the tissues, though. DNA to compare with our databases.’

‘If he’s on any of them,’ Morris grumbled. ‘Whoever did away with him made a right job of it.’

The scene of crime manager had opened her mouth on seeing Lorimer as if to ask what on earth the head of the MIT was doing there but had evidently thought better of it and closed it again in a firm, if discontented, line.

Lorimer looked down at the charred and blackened remains of what had once been a living, breathing human. Someone with hopes and dreams of his own, expectations that had not included a grisly end like this. He had seen dead bodies before where the corpse had been burned and he imagined the horror of being trapped behind a sheet of flame, knowing there was no escape. It would take a postmortem examination to determine whether the fellow had died before the fire had consumed his flesh but looking at the lacerations across his chest and neck, Lorimer hoped that, despite the raised arms, it was a dead man that had been set on fire. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

‘Who found him?’

‘Wee boys bunking off school. It might be St Andrew’s Day, but that’s not a school holiday locally. They’re with the family liaison officer right now back at the station.’ Morris pointed across the field. ‘One of them was sick over there.’ She shook her head. ‘God knows how long this poor soul’s been lying here. But the smell’s pretty bad, eh?’

The woman risked a smile in Lorimer’s direction but the detective superintendent merely nodded his agreement.

‘At least they had the sense to dial 999,’ Morris admitted. ‘And they swear blind that none of them touched the body.’

‘Hmm. We need to take their prints just to be on the safe side,’ Lorimer said. He could imagine the lads daring each other to reach out and feel the stinking corpse. Something to boast about later to their pals.

‘Scene of crime officers need to do their stuff before we can move him,’ Morris said. ‘Ah, here’s what I’ve been waiting for.’ She nodded, standing up and turning as two officers arrived carrying the tent between them. Soon they had it erected over the body, protecting it from the elements as much as from further prying eyes. Though who, thought Lorimer, would be out in this lonesome part of the country apart from lads skiving off school?

There was a road about a hundred yards away where a line of official vehicles now stood, but this edge of the field was hidden from view. Anyone approaching had to climb the hilly slope then descend once more towards the line of bushes, the dried-out gully making it a perfect hiding place. Someone knew this area, Lorimer thought, someone who was familiar with the terrain in this part of the world. And that, he decided, was going to be one of the starting points of this new investigation. All sorts of actions would need to begin, his officers busy tracking down the identity of this man. Missing persons, house-to-house enquiries, sourcing whatever accelerant had been used to destroy the remains … The minutiae of a serious criminal investigation mattered so much, especially at the start, every tiny piece of evidence gathered with the greatest care in the search for whoever had carried out this hideous crime.

He looked up towards the grassy slope. It would have taken more than one man to carry a corpse that far, he decided. Yet there had been no attempt to bury him. And he wondered why.

DS Mairi Falconer stood up as the man opened the door. In all her years as a family liaison officer the woman had never personally encountered the tall detective who was head of the Major Investigation Team in Glasgow, though she had heard plenty of stories about him. It was said that he had an uncanny gift for making people open up to him and Mairi guessed that was the reason why he was here right now. DI Brownlee was senior investigating officer in this case and the FLO was curious to know what her boss made of this detective superintendent. Word had it that Lorimer was turning up uninvited to different crime scenes across the region but exactly why was not yet known. Was he trying to recruit new personnel to the MIT? That was one theory, certainly. Perhaps he was just pining for his former days as a DCI when he’d headed up different investigations, not just ones that were categorised as class As? He’d put a few DIs’ noses out of joint last summer, taking an undue interest in different cases of homicide, though in the end he seemed to have made more friends than foes amongst his more junior officers. Whatever the reason, Mairi found that she was intrigued to meet the legend that was William Lorimer to see if the man measured up to his reputation.

‘Boys, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ she said, smiling at the three young lads who were sitting in the family liaison officer’s room. ‘He’ll want to ask you lots of questions so mind what I told you, eh?’

There were glances between the boys and the FLO and a few nervous looks at the man who stood towering over them all. Lorimer was sure that Falconer was more than capable of handling the lads but sometimes it paid dividends to attend an interview like this. And it would not be the first time that he had pulled rank and sat across a table in an interview room, his years of experience and particular manner giving him an edge over many of his colleagues.

Lorimer gave the DS a smile and sat down next to the boys.

‘Right, who do we have here?’ he asked in a cheerful tone intended to put the youngsters at their ease.

Again, all three pairs of eyes turned expectantly to DS Falconer but she shook her head and grinned at them in mock despair. ‘Go on, introduce yourselves.’

Lorimer waited patiently, knowing that this was all part of the adventure for these lads, something else to tell their friends at a later date.

‘Jayce Barnes,’ one boy said, holding the detective’s gaze for a fearless moment.

‘Jason?’

‘Naw, Jayce. Spelled J.A.Y.C.E,’ he replied, a tinge of pride in his voice as though he’d put one over already on this big guy. Then he shrugged as if he was trying to appear nonchalant, though his rapidly tapping foot gave away his inner excitement.

‘Okay.’ Lorimer’s eyes flicked to the boy sitting next to Jayce, a thin wee lad with scuffed trainers and holes in his jeans that were not a designer statement but more likely the result of wear and tear. Seeing the detective’s glance shift, Jayce elbowed the boy in his side.

‘Gary Kane,’ he mumbled, ducking his head and squirming awkwardly in his seat. The lad was pale, Lorimer noticed, and wondered if this was the one that had been sick.

‘You all right, son?’ he asked kindly.

Gary nodded, one swift glance towards the detective then back at his feet.

‘Spewed his load when we found it,’ Jayce commented, ‘didn’t you, Gary?’

Again, just a nod, but there was a flush to his cheeks now that spoke of sheer embarrassment. Or perhaps anger at the other boy’s words. Would there be a stramash after this was all over? Lorimer wondered. Gary lashing out at his pal for being put down like this. Or was Jayce Barnes the leader of these lads and keeping them in some sort of check?

‘And who are you, young man?’ Lorimer asked, deflecting attention from Gary and turning to the third boy who was seated on the other side of DS Falconer.

‘That’s Ryan the bairn,’ Jayce blurted out with a mocking laugh.

‘Jayce, Ryan can introduce himself,’ Mairi told him, her warning tone making Lorimer realise that the FLO had had her work cut out already with this trio.

‘I’m Ryan Hastie,’ the wee lad said, his piping tone giving credence to Jayce’s sarcasm.

‘How old are you, Ryan?’ Lorimer looked at the boy, wondering why on earth he was part of this group of school dodgers. His white shirt was reasonably clean and the red jersey had the school crest emblazoned on it. Unlike the other boys clad in jeans, Ryan wore a pair of grey trousers, admittedly muddied at the knees, and a pair of black leather shoes with Velcro straps.

‘Eight,’ the small voice replied and Lorimer saw a wobbling lip as the boy looked up at him.

‘Your mum’s on her way, Ryan. Detective Superintendent Lorimer can’t ask you any questions till she gets here. He’s just getting to know you, that’s all,’ Mairi Falconer soothed.

It was clear to Lorimer that the FLO had placed this youngster apart from the others, not just for his own protection but also to offer her support as a kindly adult. He was certain the moment that Ryan’s mother walked through the door there would be a flood of tears.

‘I’ve got their names and addresses here,’ Mairi whispered, handing Lorimer a sheet of paper.

The boys all lived within a few streets of one another in Ferguslie Park, an area of Paisley that Lorimer visited occasionally when his favourite team was playing away to St Mirren FC. The reputation of Feegie Park, as locals termed it, was one of long-term deprivation though there had been stalwart efforts in recent years to put some heart back into the community along with a programme of refurbishing the houses. It was a long walk for the boys to have sauntered through the town and up the Braes where they had found the burned corpse but, looking at Jayce, with his defiant chin in the air, Lorimer doubted whether the boys worried much about that. He could imagine the thrill they’d enjoyed under Jayce’s leadership: skipping school, walking past shops and giggling at their own bravado before setting out to climb the hills on the outskirts of Paisley.

‘Ma’am, this is Ms Barnes … ’ A young uniformed constable had the door open but was swept aside as a large blowsy woman wearing a too-tight red dress and black leather jacket barged past him straight up to her son.

‘Right, youse!’ she declared, ignoring the two detectives. ‘Whit’ve ye bad wee toerags bin up tae noo? Jist you wait till we’re home, boy!’ she added, glaring at Jayce whose grin simply widened, apparently impassive to her tirade.

Lorimer stood up and took a step forward, extending his hand courteously.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer. And this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Falconer. Do take a seat,’ he said pleasantly, waving a hand towards one of the spare chairs beside Ryan Hastie.

‘Ah … ’ The woman’s mouth fell open as she looked up at the tall detective and his smiling companion.

‘The boys have been very helpful and we are grateful you have spared the time to come in and be here so we can ask them some questions.’

‘Well … ’ She shook her head slightly as if unsure what to say then meekly walked to the chair along by Ryan, giving the wee boy a beaming grin.

‘Ye awright, wee man?’ she asked, nudging the youngster. Ryan merely nodded, a quick glance towards Jayce as if to see the other boy’s reaction. It was clear that Jayce’s mother was familiar with his pals and that Ryan was a favourite, despite her outburst. Lorimer suspected that she had her hands full with her own boy an. . .