The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) by Alex Gray

toxicology results back? There had been something edgy in Lorimer’s voice when he had asked this favour. For some reason he had chosen not to share the story behind the case, but one thing she did know as she lifted the telephone: Charles Gilmartin, deceased, had not died of cardiac arrhythmia.
     
    Lorimer read the email twice, blinking to make sure his eyes did not deceive him, then he swore softly under his breath, the unaccustomed oath repeated as his fist thumped the edge of his desk.
    The tox reports showed a level of poison in Gilmartin’s bloodstream that would have killed him in seconds. And its effects were exactly the same as if he really had died of a heart attack, Rosie had told him, her voice still ringing in his ears.
Just
sent
you
an
attachment
, she’d said. The pathologist had been adamant that the results were correct, and now, seeing them in black and white, Lorimer wondered what sort of conclusions Rosie had come to. She hadn’t asked any probing questions, nor had he given any more information about Gilmartin. Yet his mind had immediately turned to the flat near the Gorbals. Was there anything there that he might have missed?
    Lorimer sat back in his chair, head spinning. What the hell was he going to tell his old friend? Was there a possibility that Gilmartin had taken his own life? Had he been experiencing personal worries that might have tipped him over the edge? Or had he been suffering from depression? The policeman frowned. From what Vivien had told him, he knew that Charles Gilmartin had been full of plans for this forthcoming festival. The Scottish government had backed a number of enterprises to complement Glasgow 2014, many of them in the world of the arts. Maggie had signed up for several festivals, some with her senior pupils, others simply for her own interest.
    Lorimer leaned forward, rereading the words on the screen. The other possibility didn’t make sense either. Who could have entered that flat and administered a toxic substance to Vivien’s husband while she was at the school reunion? The time of death had been calculated as around ten o’clock in the evening, when he and Vivien had been sitting side by side on that playground bench reminiscing about days gone by. She hadn’t got back to the flat till well after one a.m.: those who arranged events were always required to stay till the bitter end.
    A groan escaped from the detective super’s lips at the irony of his thought. A bitter end right enough, both to the evening she had planned for so long and to Gilmartin’s life. Lorimer had pushed for the tox results to come back quickly so that Vivien might have her husband’s body released for his funeral. He had even hinted that he might have good news on that front today. But now… how was he going to tell her that her husband might have deliberately taken his own life?
     
    Maggie Lorimer’s hand shook as she replaced the handset. No, she had insisted, she couldn’t tell Vivien; he would have to come home and break that news to the woman herself. To be fair, he hadn’t asked her to do it. But having this knowledge about the dead man while Vivien was still unaware of it filled Maggie with a kind of horror. He’d be home within the hour, he’d promised. But he couldn’t stay long. There was a new case that was taking up his attention.
    Maggie gritted her teeth. Wasn’t it always the same?
Crime
didn’t
take
a
rest
, one of her husband’s colleagues had remarked ages ago, and it was true. Sometimes they’d had to cut short a holiday so that Lorimer could attend to something vital; other times she’d been left sitting at her own dining table apologising to guests for her husband’s hasty departure. Maybe it was just as well that there had been no family. What would she have said to little children whenever their daddy had to leave them behind? Maggie gave herself a shake. Why on earth was she thinking these maudlin thoughts when that poor woman sitting in the garden