The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) Read Free

‘This morning around five a.m. there was a large explosion in a wood close to the village of Drymen. Firefighters were immediately called to the scene and have extinguished the ensuing blaze.’ He looked up, scanning the upturned faces, wondering at the thoughts buzzing inside their heads. ‘We are grateful that, despite the proximity to the West Highland Way, there was no loss of life, but it is with regret that I have to announce that this section of the famous walk has been closed until the damage to the woodland has been cleared. There is an ongoing inquiry into the exact nature of the explosion, but at present we are working on the assumption that it was caused by some sort of home-made device.’
    He stopped for a moment to let the murmuring break out
.
Plant
the
idea
of
daft
wee
laddies
messing
about
in
the
woods
, Pinder had suggested
.
A
prank
that
went
wrong.
Lorimer had raised his eyebrows at that, but so far it seemed to be working.
    ‘The main road should be accessible later today and diversion signs have been put in place until then. If you have been listening, you will know that the radio stations are issuing regular bulletins to that effect,’ Lorimer told them, managing a smile.
    He folded his hands and nodded, the signal for a forest of hands to be raised.
    ‘Any sign that it’s terrorist activity?’
    Right off, the question he had expected.
    Lorimer’s smile broadened. ‘It has all the hallmarks of a home-made bomb,’ he reiterated. ‘Something that anyone could get off the internet.’
    ‘You think it was done by kids?’ someone else demanded.
    ‘There were no witnesses to whoever planted the explosive device,’ Lorimer said, adopting a bored tone, as though he had explained this several times already. ‘So we cannot rule out any particular age group.’
    ‘But it might have been?’ the same voice persisted.
    ‘It would be entirely wrong for me to point a finger at the young people in the community,’ Lorimer said blandly, knowing full well that they were scribbling down that very thing as he uttered the words, and mentally apologising to any computer-geeky schoolboys in Drymen.
    ‘How much damage has been done?’ one female reporter wanted to know. Lorimer told them, giving as many statistics as would satisfy a readership hungry for facts.
    What he did not tell them was the way the clouds of ash had settled on his hair, the whiff of burning birds and animals discernible through the acrid smell carried on the morning breeze. Nor did he describe the scar on the hillside, a mass of blackened tree trunks instead of the once graceful outline of pines fringing pale skies to the west. And there was certainly no mention of any further threat to the good citizens of Stirlingshire or their near neighbours in the city of Glasgow.

CHAPTER THREE
    T he letter, when it came, had the typewritten address of the Stewart Street police office rather than his home on the south side of Glasgow. Lorimer picked up the long, bulky envelope, curious about the handwritten word
Personal
on the top left-hand corner. He tore it open with the sharp metal letter-opener given to him by an ex-SAS soldier turned crime writer, its twisted shaft crafted in the man’s own workshop. Lorimer’s face expressed resignation at what was probably just another missive full of political invective against the police in general: it was one of the several things that a detective superintendent with his public profile had to endure. But the envelope’s thickness both intrigued him and made him cautious as he felt along its length for any device that it might contain.
    The letterhead bore a familiar crest and Lorimer smiled to himself as he skimmed the covering letter, immediately banishing any suspicious thoughts. There were several pages, not clipped together, giving details of the other invitees, the hotel and a route map to get there, probably shoved into every invitation regardless of the recipient’s proximity to the