by Alex Gray
Lorimer tried to rid his mind of the murdered girl’s face as he walked along the road, taking note of the shops and buildings. Much of the area had changed dramatically since his own student days, but there were still landmark pubs like the Rubaiyat further down where he was to meet Solly, and of course the Curlers next to the Underground. They’d been revamped over the years but they continued to provide that ethos of camaraderie and heavy drinking a student clientele had come to expect.
Outside the station Lorimer sidestepped the flower vendor with his basket of brightly coloured blooms. He paused for a second. He’d never been in the habit of buying flowers for Maggie except on the rare occasions when they’d been supermarket shopping together. The vendor, a slim boy with lank, dark hair, caught his eye even as Lorimer hesitated.
‘Nice roses. Two bunches for a fiver?’ the boy held up several bunches of the long-stemmed blooms for Lorimer to see.
‘No thanks,’ he shook his head briefly, eyeing the single carnations stuck into a green bucket. Inquiries had been made all over the city. This boy had probably been questioned more than once. Should he stop and buy some flowers for Maggie? He had walked away from the stall even as the thought crossed his mind. No, they’d only wither by the time he reached home, he argued with himself. Anyway, she’d maybe think he was trying to apologise for something.
As Lorimer waited for the lights to change on the corner of University Avenue his attention wandered to the shops on the other side of the road. On dayglo orange stickers, Going Places travel agency was proclaiming cut-price fares to Florida. He could always see what flights were available in October, say?
The lights changed to the wee green man and Lorimer strode across, his mind drifting away from fares and flights to Geraldine Lynch. The only place she would be going was into Rosie Fergusson’s post-mortem room.
As he crossed over, his eye was caught by three older men deep in conversation. Two had greying beards compensating for what they lacked on top and the third was a tall, angular fellow whose mane of white hair made him an imposing figure.
Three academics, Lorimer smiled to himself as they swept past. They still seemed to favour baggy linen jackets and distressed leather briefcases, just like his old Prof. He’d felt at home here once, Lorimer realised. What would life have been like if he’d pursued his original studies to their conclusion? Would he have ferreted into all the intricacies of Art History instead of investigating contemporary crimes? Would Maggie have been happier married to an academic?
Walking in the direction of Partick, he caught sight of another familiar landmark. The newsagent was still there. Lorimer saw with a pang that several youngsters were busy taking down details of flats to let from the cards in the window. This unofficial letting agency had been there for as long as he could remember. He had a sudden memory of standing in the pouring rain in his ancient duffel coat scanning the cards for a room to let where he and Maggie could set up home. They’d talked such a lot about moving in together but it had never happened.
Instead Lorimer had left university for his police training while Maggie had finished her degree. They’d done the conventional thing after all, working and saving to buy the house before they’d finally married. His young man’s dream of a love nest had been set aside when he’d left the university world behind for the new experiences of the police force.
The pub on the corner seemed caught in a time warp, Lorimer thought as he pushed open the door. The Rubaiyat might have a name that conjured up a literary world but it wasn’t so far from the traditional spit and sawdust. The same scuffed brass foot rail had been there in his day and although the banquettes were newer, their vivid patterns continued the attempt at evoking the idea of ancient Persia. Lorimer ordered a pint and settled into the curved seat opposite the door.
‘Lorimer. Hallo,’ Solly’s face displayed his usual boyish grin as he caught sight of him. Seemingly oblivious to the warmer weather, he was wearing a long gabardine raincoat over his leather jacket; he unravelled himself from these layers of clothing, discarding them in a heap over his bulging briefcase.
Lorimer smiled. Solly would never change.
‘What are you having?’
‘Ah. Something nice and cold. I don’t mind,’ he answered vaguely.
‘White wine? Beer? Orange juice?’
‘Yes, lovely,’ he replied.
Lorimer raised his eyes to heaven and ordered another pint for himself and a glass of squash for Solly.
‘So,’ Solly suddenly put the drink down, giving Lorimer a considered look. ‘We have another young woman who’s been strangled.’
Lorimer sighed. ‘I can’t believe four women have been killed and we’ve no trace of their killer.’
‘No,’ Solly replied. ‘It’s a difficult one.’ There was a pause as he seemed to examine his glass carefully, then he placed it on the table and shifted close towards Lorimer. ‘More difficult than I think you realise.’
‘Oh? How’s that?’ Lorimer looked at Solly. There was something familiar in the sad smile, something that told him Solly was about to be the bearer of bad news, as if he hadn’t enough to contend with.
‘We don’t have one killer. We have two.’
Lorimer nodded slowly. It was something that he’d fleetingly considered himself. ‘That would be a lovely idea, pal, but how do you account for the modus operandi? Besides, the guy places flowers into her praying hands each time. Same signature.’
‘But a different locus. And a different type of victim,’ Solly tapped the edge of the table to underline his point.
‘Granted. But how can you explain the hands? Even the press didn’t get hold of a picture of any of the bodies. Their mock-up shows a different position altogether. It has to be one and the same person who’s carrying out these killings.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Solly told him quietly. He heaved a sigh. ‘The whole picture didn’t make sense from the time of Kirsty MacLeod’s death. I simply couldn’t build a profile. Now I think I know why. There are two people to profile, not one.’
Solly watched as the policeman’s mouth set in a grim line. The murder case sat heavily on his shoulders. Until they could solve it there would be a feeling of inadequacy heightened by something he couldn’t yet put his finger on, an extra weight that he was bearing. His energies were directed at finishing off this job if he could. That was good for the case and good for Strathclyde CID, but was it good for William Lorimer?
Just then a crowd of students piled into the pub, their voices loud with post-exam relief. Soon it would be standing room only in the Rubaiyat.
Lorimer bent forwards, suddenly aware of any ears that might be tuning into their conversation. ‘Look, why not finish off here and we’ll go for a walk? Fancy the Botanics? It’s a nice night.’
Solly nodded and raised his glass. The two men sat back opposite one another, drinking in a silence that was full of questions.
‘We’d have to check all the members of the team, too,’ Lorimer told him. ‘If your theory’s correct, and I’m not saying you’re wrong, then someone inside the investigation has let slip details of the signature.’ Lorimer didn’t dare voice any other thoughts than that. Carelessness, that was the only crime any of his team could be guilty of, wasn’t it?
‘It could have been the railwayman who discovered the first victim,’ Solly reminded him.
Lorimer gnawed a raggle on his fingernail. Nobody had noticed the flower until he’d arrived at the scene. Still, it was worth checking out. ‘If the nurses have been killed by a copycat killer then we’re still left with a helluva lot of questions. Like, why?’
Solly didn’t reply. He was walking slowly along the path, face towards the ground as if he was looking for a lost penny. Lorimer glanced sideways at him.
What was going on in that brain? He’d given the psychologist the benefit of the doubt and, in an uneasy way, he felt he was on to something.
‘What about the prostitutes, then?’
Solly lo
oked up and stopped, smiling sadly. ‘Oh, that’s easy, I’m afraid. The killer is suffering from some kind of delusions. Religious delusions. Fairly common, I have to say. He’s probably hearing voices telling him to take away the bad women of the night.’
‘A religious nut, then? What we thought all along?’
‘Yes. And I think this latest crime shows he’s definitely got a link with Queen Street station.’
‘The staff car park’s close circuit camera is out of order,’ Lorimer told him gloomily.
‘There. Have a closer look at who has access to that area at night. Or even during the day.’
‘Anything else?’
‘If forensics haven’t found any DNA matches between railway personnel then maybe you could dig a little deeper into each member of staff’s background.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘White, single male. Thirty to forty. There’s possibly a history of being in an institution. I suppose he must have a car, too,’ Solly mused, stroking his beard absently as if he were seeing a shadowy figure in the recesses of his mind.
‘And the other murders?’
‘Ah. Now that’s more difficult. We’re dealing with somebody very clever indeed.’
‘Someone inside the Grange?’
Solly frowned before answering. ‘I’m not sure. It’s possible, but then again…’ he trailed off.
‘Look, why don’t we go for a curry? See if we can get into the Ashoka?’ Perhaps with some food inside him Solly would become more expansive, he thought. Besides, Lorimer wasn’t in the mood to go home just yet.
It was dark by the time the taxi drew up outside the house. Maggie stumbled a little in her high heels as she tried to tiptoe to the door. She failed to see the swish of curtains from upstairs as her key turned in the lock.
Her husband appeared to be asleep when she crept into the bedroom.
Maggie slipped easily out of her skirt and top, let ting them fall onto the carpet. She was unfastening her suspenders when Lorimer spoke suddenly, making her jump.
‘Been out on the town?’
‘Good God! You gave me a fright. I thought you were asleep.’ Lorimer half sat up, regarding his wife in the darkness. She saw him shake his head.
There was a silence as she finished drawing off the stockings and underwear, a silence that was charged with embarrassment as if he had no right to be watching her. She fished out a nightdress from under the pillow and slipped it hastily over her head. His eyes were still on her as she climbed into bed beside him. There was a continued silence that was full of unspoken questions about where she’d been, who she’d been with.
Heaving a sigh, Maggie gave in.
‘I was out at the Rogano having a drink with Sheilagh. OK?’
There was no reply. She turned her head towards him and in the darkness she could make out the smell of onions on his breath.
‘Been out for a curry?’
Lorimer gave a laugh. ‘Want to join my team, Sherlock? Or is it that obvious?’
Maggie giggled, the tension suddenly evaporating. ‘You stink! You always eat far too many spiced onions,’ she complained.
‘I was seeing Solly,’ Lorimer said, as if that was an explanation for the state of his breath.
‘And?’
‘He’s got this idea that we’re dealing with two separate killers.’
Maggie twisted towards him, interested in spite of herself. ‘And is he right?’
Lorimer lay back on the pillows, one hand behind his head. ‘I don’t know. If he is, though, I may have to start looking a lot closer to home.’
‘You mean someone in the force?’
Maggie could hear her husband sigh in the darkness. It was a sigh that went all the way through him. She snuggled up closer, her cold skin touching Lorimer’s warm body. He didn’t answer her question but wrapped an arm round her shoulders, pulling the duvet in tighter to keep her cosy.
There was nothing sexual in his action, it was a gesture of pure affection, the kind of thing she’d been missing for so long. After only a few minutes Lorimer’s breathing became heavier and Maggie knew he was asleep. Still he held her close, folded into his arm. So why did she feel that overwhelming sense of loneliness?
As Maggie laid her head against his chest she felt the tears hot against her lashes.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was already daylight and he’d only slept for about three hours but Lorimer felt wide awake as he lay on his back staring at the bright gap in the curtains. He’d been dreaming about the St Mungo’s case. In his dream he was being chased by a figure in the park that had somehow turned into to Maggie. He’d woken with a start, relieved to see her sleeping soundly by his side. But it had got him thinking.
He remembered the moment in that other case when he’d suddenly realised he’d been looking at things all the wrong way round. Maybe he was doing it again. Lateral thinking, he told himself. Open up your mind.
The image of the rusted railing leading to the basement of the Grange came back to him. If the killer had come in that way then how had he crept up on Kirsty? Lorimer traced the whole route in his mind from the stairs leading into the corridor and through the double doors leading to the main building. No. Wait a minute. There was something missing. The room where Phyllis Logan lay, her body full of tubes. Lorimer recalled those bright eyes. She couldn’t talk, he’d been told. But nobody had said she couldn’t hear, had they?
For a moment he lay quite still. They’d interviewed the other residents, but not her. Was it worth a try? If the woman had heard something maybe there could be a way of finding out what it was?
Phyllis felt the sun warming her hands. She observed them on the white cuff of the sheet, drained of colour in the brightness, thin membranes stretched over knobs of bone. Her nails grew hard and gnarled, pale ochre, the colour of an animal’s hoof. It was an irony (one of many she’d noted with a bitter smile) that she’d suffered split and brittle nails in her younger days when such small vanities had mattered, and now her fingernails grew strong and hard when nothing like that was of any importance. It was simply a result of the drugs she had to take. That’s what young Kirsty had told her.
Phyllis remembered her lilting voice and the way she’d made conversation as if Phyllis could actually answer her back. She’d felt easy and comfortable with that young girl. She’d longed to be able to talk to her, to share some of her own past, the way Kirsty had shared hers. She knew all about the drowned father, the loss of her mum, the growing up years she’d spent on the croft with her old auntie. They’d been kindred spirits in some ways, though she’d never been able to tell Kirsty that of course. Phyllis, too, had been a solitary child. No brothers or sisters. She wondered what life would have been like having siblings. Would they have cared for her at home? Or would she have ended up staying here, no matter what? The ideas she pushed around her head were totally objective. Phyllis was long past the stage of self-pity. Yet it was pity she felt for Kirsty. Pity and grief that her young life had been so cruelly cut short.
A spasm passed through her hand, making it flicker with a sudden illusion of life. It was a nervous shudder, no more. The sun must have passed behind a cloud for the warmth had gone out of the room and now her hands were like two dead fish, pale and untwitching.
Phyllis turned her eyes at the noise of swing doors opening and shutting a small distance away. She could hear voices. There were people coming along her corridor, a man and Maureen Baillie. She couldn’t mistake her voice. She was in and out of Phyllis’s room quite often these days, making sure everything was in order.
Mrs Baillie didn’t knock.
She watched the woman stride into the room, hands bunched into fists at her side. There was a determined set to her jaw as she spoke.
‘This is Chief Inspector Lorimer, Phyllis. He’s investigating the events that happened here. He’d like to talk to you. Is that all right?’
Phyllis’s eyes travelled over the man as he came into vi
ew. She saw a tall figure whose dark hair straggled over his collar. She focused on the face. There was a certain weariness etched into the lines around his mouth but the eyes that regarded her were a bright, unforgettable blue. It was him. The one who’d come before. That night. So he was a policeman, was he? That pleased her. She liked to know who was on her side.
Lorimer had noticed that the Director had failed to knock but simply swept into the room and now stood with her back to the window. He looked from her face, which was in shadow, to the immobile figure in the bed. The eyes looked back at him, unflickering. Lorimer saw a keen intelligence there.
Mrs Baillie folded her arms, looking as if she were waiting for Lorimer to begin. Just then there was a light tap on the door. PC Annie Irvine stepped into the room, a large square bag slung over her shoulder. The policewoman smiled then gave a nod to the Director. Lorimer stood aside to let her move into a position where Phyllis could see her.
‘You can go now, Mrs Baillie. My officer will let you know if there’s anything we need. Thank you.’ Lorimer held the door open as if to emphasise the point. She wasn’t wanted. Police interviews were conducted in private, no matter what the circumstances.
Mrs Baillie looked as if she might argue the toss but a glance at Lorimer’s face showed she’d decided against it. They heard the sound of her feet quietly padding down the corridor as Lorimer closed the door.
‘Here’s a couple of chairs, sir,’ Annie had spotted the grey stacking chairs and was lifting them over the side of Phyllis’s bed. ‘Is it OK, ma’am?’ she added, looking directly at Phyllis.
The woman in the bed gave a tiny nod and Lorimer saw a faint smile play about her lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be so impossible after all. He positioned his chair close to the bed so that the woman and he were facing one another.
‘Hallo again,’ he began. ‘You do remember me, don’t you?’ His tone was gentle but firm. He didn’t intend to insult her by being condescending. There was nothing worse for disabled folk than being talked down to like children. She gave that slight nod again and her smile deepened.