A small weeping lab-2

by Alex Gray

  He hadn’t been invited to sit in on the interview. In fact, there had been no communication at all from Strathclyde Police. Perhaps he ought to make it his business to be there all the same, Solly thought, watching as a black cab rolled down Byres Road, its orange light glowing. Making a sudden decision, Solly raised a hand and watched as the vehicle drew in to the kerb.

  There was an atmosphere of jubilation at headquarters when Malcolm Docherty arrived. Lorimer felt guilty that he was about to spoil it. The last months had been a slog for all of them and Docherty’s arrest seemed to be the culmination of all that painstaking effort. He’d called the whole team together once Docherty had been safely conducted to the cells for a medical examination.

  Lorimer looked from one smiling face to another. Jo Grant was looking positively smug, as well she might. Even the serious Lewisman had a grin on his pale face, though it wouldn’t be there for long.

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil the party,’ he began, ‘but there is a development that I want you to be aware of.’

  All eyes turned to him and he could see their smiles fading as they heard the gravity in his tone.

  ‘As you know, Dr Brightman has been attempting to profile our killer. I’m pleased to tell you that Malcolm Docherty fits a profile that has been drawn up.’

  There were murmurs of approval but among them Lorimer detected Alistair Wilson, hand on his chin, giving his boss a speculative look. The detective sergeant knew Lorimer well enough to tell when some thing was wrong.

  ‘However, this profile was developed with some difficulty. Dr Brightman did not find it possible to draw his profile until he came to a conclusion about the murders.’ Lorimer paused to see if he had their attention. There was a kind of hush as all eyes were turned his way.

  ‘He believes we have not one, but two killers,’ Lorimer told them.

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ someone exclaimed. ‘What about the flowers?’ another voice demanded.

  ‘I know, I know. I’ve been asking myself exactly the same question. There’s a chance, however, that the murders of Kirsty MacLeod and Brenda Duncan have been carried out by a copycat killer. Until we interview Docherty, we can’t be certain of this, of course. It may well be that he confesses to all four murders. If so, we can open a few bottles and go home. And no one would be happier than me, I can assure you,’ he added. ‘However,’ he raised his hand to quell the murmurs that had broken out, ‘If we have no real evidence to link Docherty with those other two deaths, we may have to consider something else.’ Lorimer took a deep breath before continuing. ‘If Dr Brightman is correct then we have a real problem on our hands. It would mean that information has been leaked from somebody on the team. Now, I don’t have to tell you about security during an investigation. You all know how things operate. But the fact remains that the killer of those two nurses knew exactly how Deirdre McCann’s hands were folded around that flower. The Press got that aspect wrong and we weren’t about to correct them, I can tell you. So. Whoever killed Kirsty and Brenda had to have seen an incident report.’

  ‘Or been the same killer!’ Jo Grant declared, a mutinous look on her face. Lorimer’s heart sank. Jo had been one of Mitchison’s sidekicks in the past. Would she make trouble for him now?

  ‘That’s right,’ he told her. ‘But we have to prove that, ladies and gentlemen. I wanted you to be aware of this before I have Docherty up for questioning. If any of you have been guilty of a breach of security then now’s the time to tell me. Otherwise we may have to turn this place upside down.’

  ‘Superintendent Mitchison does not share Dr Bright man’s theories, I might add,’ he said, looking deliberately at Jo. But the DI showed no triumph at his remark. In fact, she was frowning now and Lorimer wondered just what she was thinking. ‘I’ll have a copy of Docherty’s statement circulated to all of you as soon as it’s available. Let’s just hope he tells us what we want to hear.’

  Lorimer took his detective sergeant aside as the other officers departed. ‘I want you downstairs with me when Docherty’s brought up,’ he told him. ‘We’ll not have his DNA results for a bit and they may prove crucial. Meantime he’s in for a grilling.’

  ‘You really believe Brightman’s theory, don’t you?’ Wilson asked, a rueful smile on his lips.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye, more’s the pity. It just makes so much sense, you know. The logic of it all hangs together apart from anything else.’

  ‘And has he come up with a profile for killer number two yet?’

  ‘I think he’s still working on that. But I’ll let you know. If Mitchison lets him carry on, of course.’

  ‘Any chance that the Super will halt the investigation?’

  ‘Don’t even ask me that yet. Wait till we’ve heard what Docherty has to say.’

  It was a different figure from the man they’d seen escorted between two burly police officers. Malcolm Docherty’s shoulders were slumped and his head hung down as if a weight drew it earthwards. The police doctor handed Lorimer a file, nodding towards the prisoner seated at the table.

  ‘No problems, Chief Inspector. We’ll let you know the results ASAP OK?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied and walked around the table to face Malcolm Docherty. The man did not look up as Lorimer stood at the table, nor did he flinch when the DCI scraped a metal chair across the floor, its grating squeal setting everyone’s teeth on edge. At first Lorimer simply stood there appraising the prisoner. His mind flicked back to the January night when this case had begun. The swirling fog had cleared away now and he felt a weird sense of peace in the interview room. Euphoria had given way to calmness now that the man was finally here in front of him.

  One glance at his feet made the line on Lorimer’s mouth tighten. This man’s shoes were size twelve, at the very least.

  Alistair Wilson waited patiently out of Docherty’s line of vision. His boss would begin whenever he was good and ready. At last Docherty looked up as if some magnetism stronger than his own will was forcing him to acknowledge Lorimer’s presence. Lorimer sat down, Wilson beside him.

  ‘Interview with Malcolm James Docherty beginning at 15.00 hours. June sixth. Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer and Detective Sergeant Wilson in attendance,’ Lorimer began in a voice that sounded utterly bored by what he had to do. It was a useful ploy. It made a suspect feel both inferior and at ease, often resulting in a sense of outrage. How dare this cop treat me as if I were some unimportant part of his daily grind?

  Docherty’s eyes gave a glitter that told the two policemen that the ruse had worked.

  ‘You are Malcolm James Docherty of 19 Peninsula Crescent, Springburn?’

  Docherty glared at Lorimer then shifted his eyes to take in Wilson who nodded encouragingly. ‘Aye,’ he said at last.

  ‘Where were you on the night of January 12th this year?’

  Docherty licked his lips nervously, eyes shifting from Lorimer to Wilson and back again. His silence was not unusual. Many suspects were at a loss how to begin answering questions in an interview room, especially those who had no previous experience of the situation. Lorimer waited as if he had all day. If Docherty stalled too long, he’d simply pick up the Gazette and begin to read bits out to Alistair Wilson about last night’s football results. That was another ploy that got under their skin, he knew.

  But he hadn’t long to wait. Docherty sat up a bit straighter and looked at Lorimer.

  ‘It’s my work,’ he began.

  Lorimer nodded encouragingly, but not too eagerly. He’d make Docherty do the talking if he could.

  ‘You see, I clean up the railways.’ He paused, uncertain of how to continue. ‘There’s a lot of rubbish everywhere. Everywhere,’ he added, a dreamy look appearing in his eye.

  Lorimer tried hard to sit still although his impulse was to lean forward to catch any nuance of speech.

  ‘I was asked to do these other jobs,’ he told Lorimer, a note of querulousness creeping into his tone.

  ‘What other jobs?’ Lor
imer asked.

  Docherty looked surprised. ‘Clearing up the station. Those women can’t come in and do things there,’ he protested, sitting up in his chair with an air of righteous indignation.

  ‘What women?’

  Docherty bent across the desk and glared at Lorimer as if he were stupid. ‘Prostitutes,’ he hissed, his teeth showing in a grimace of hatred.

  ‘What method did you use to clear these women from your station, Malcolm?’

  ‘I put them down.’

  ‘Could you describe exactly what you did, Malcolm?’

  Docherty hesitated as if he were trying to find the correct answer then he moved his hands up and clasped them together as if they were round an invisible throat.

  ‘Like this,’ he said.

  ‘You strangled them?’

  Docherty nodded.

  Lorimer swallowed hard. His next question was crucial. Trying to sound as if this was a normal conversation he asked, ‘How many women have you strangled, Malcolm?’

  The sound of Docherty’s feet shuffling under the table could be heard as Lorimer waited for the answer.

  ‘Just two,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lorimer took a deep breath, suddenly understanding what the man was apologising for. It was not contrition about taking lives. It was that he’d only taken two of them.

  ‘Are you sure it was only two?’

  Docherty nodded sadly. ‘Aye. Two prostitutes, they were.’

  ‘Tell me what you did after you’d strangled them, Malcolm.’

  The man seemed to brighten up a little at the question. ‘Oh, I sent them on their way. I gave them a flower and let their hands do a prayer. I said a prayer too. They’re quite safe now, you see. They’ll not harm anything ever again.’

  Beside him Lorimer could feel Wilson shift uneasily in his seat. They had a right one here and no mistake.

  ‘Did you give a flower to any other young women recently, Malcolm?’

  ‘No. Just those two. It’s not my fault,’ he told them, round-eyed. ‘I didn’t get any other orders.’

  ‘You said earlier that you were told to do these clearing up jobs, as you put it. Who exactly was it who told you to kill these women, Malcolm?’

  Docherty gave a smile. ‘God.’

  Lorimer nodded as if this was something he heard every day in the course of his investigations.

  ‘And how did God make his instructions clear, Malcolm?’

  ‘He talked to me. He showed me the flowers. His flowers. They’re perfect, you know. All His creation is perfect. But they weren’t perfect. They had to be cleared away. Like the rubbish.’

  A nutter, Lorimer thought. A twelve carat nutter. Voices in the head from God. Sometimes they actually heard them from the television. That kind of mental illness wasn’t really so uncommon. But had he had anything to do with the killing of the two nurses? Lorimer had to ask.

  ‘Where were you on the nights of May 7th and May 14th?’

  Docherty shook his head. ‘I don’t know. What days were they? I work during the day. But I don’t go out much at night.’

  Lorimer told him.

  ‘No, I’d be at home. I watch TV at night then go to my bed. Sometimes I go out for a fish supper. Can’t remember, really.’ He shrugged as if the dates were of no importance to him.

  ‘Two nurses were killed on those dates. They were strangled and somebody left a flower in their praying hands, Malcolm. Just like you did.’

  ‘What?’ Docherty suddenly sat up, a horrified look on his face. ‘But that’s terrible! Who’d do a thing like that?’ The man’s expression was almost comical, thought Lorimer, one serial strangler condemning another. But then his expression changed as the awfulness of the news sank in.

  ‘You don’t think…? No. Oh, just a minute, hold on now,’ Docherty rose from his seat, fists clenched, his face a mask of fear.

  ‘Mr Docherty has got up from his seat,’ Wilson intoned into the listening tape.

  His words seemed to calm the man for he sank back down, a look of horror still on his face.

  ‘Do you deny strangling Kirsty MacLeod and Brenda Duncan?’

  ‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘I never killed them!’

  Lorimer believed him. But would Mitchison expect him to grind the man down in order to elicit a confession from him? If so, he’d be sadly disappointed. That wasn’t Lorimer’s way. The DNA results might confirm what they were hearing and what Solly had suggested. For a moment Lorimer wished that he could have the psychologist here with them. He might know how to tune in to Malcolm Docherty in a way that would prove his innocence as well as his guilt.

  A tap on the door made all three men and the uniformed officer turn round. DC Cameron’s face appeared, signalling for Lorimer to join him outside.

  ‘DCI Lorimer leaving the interview room.’

  Lorimer stopped in his tracks. Beside Cameron was the familiar figure of the psychologist. It was as if his wish had suddenly spirited Solly there. Was the man psychic as well as everything else?

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wasn’t asked to come in, if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to be here,’ he explained with his usual little smile.

  ‘Well. I’m not sorry you did,’ Lorimer told him. ‘We’re in the middle of interviewing the suspect. He’s already confessed to the two station murders but says he knows nothing about the other two.’

  ‘And you believe him,’ Solly said. It wasn’t a question. He could see his answer in Lorimer’s face.

  ‘Will you come and sit in?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Lorimer re-entering the interview room accompanied by Dr Brightman,’ Alistair Wilson told the tape recorder.

  ‘Malcolm, this is Dr Brightman from Glasgow University.’

  Docherty stood up and took Solly’s outstretched hand in his large fist. ‘But I’ve seen the doctor already,’ he muttered, giving Solly a dubious look. ‘Why do I have to see another one?’

  ‘Dr Brightman is here to keep us company, Malcolm,’ Lorimer reassured him. It was like talking to a wee boy, he thought, except that most wee boys of his acquaintance were a dash sight more streetwise than Malcolm Docherty appeared to be.

  There was something otherworldly about this man that had nothing to do with his experience as a failed novitiate. Lorimer had seen so many criminals whose lives were lived in a world so different from his own, yet all worlds impinged on each other, he thought. There was never really a place to hide from the evils that existed. Not even in the Jesuit Order.

  Solly had listened as Lorimer and Wilson took turns to ask the man questions. His behaviour intrigued the psychologist. It was as if he were a perfectly normal citizen in his own eyes, assisting the police with their enquiries. Any minute now, he thought, and he’ll get up and ask if he can go home. There was no remorse, no worry at all about the crimes he had committed, nor any awareness of the boundaries that he had trespassed. That was the real difference between the criminally sane and those criminals who were mentally ill. Culpability was indeed a state of mind.

  As he heard the questions and answers about Docherty’s methods of strangling the two prostitutes, Solly’s stomach turned. To dispatch these poor women as if they were so much dross! Lorimer and Wilson kept their feelings well under check, he noticed, though he knew well what they thought. Any murder is an affront to humanity, he remembered Lorimer insisting. And he agreed. But this man, this huge man who looked like a farmer with his weather-beaten skin and massive shoulders, he had no sense of humanity at all. Only a warped brain that took twisted messages from a false god.

  Malcolm Docherty was well capable of murder. The man’s physique was such that it was no longer difficult to imagine a swift strangulation at these hands. Rosie had worried about that, he knew. How could someone kill these women with no sound of a struggle?

  The same applied to Kirsty MacLeod’s death, though, a little voice reminded him. She’d been dealt with swiftly, t
oo. But there was no way on earth that Solly could believe the man in front of Lorimer was responsible for that death. Nor for Brenda Duncan’s. Solly was still a way from completing his profile but he knew the mind that he sought was altogether sharper and clearer than Docherty’s. That was a calculating, reasoning person who was not quite in focus, yet. And it was not Malcolm Docherty.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Rowena sighed as the pickup gathered speed. She could see the new man’s hair curling sweetly around the curve of his ear and over the brown cord collar of his waxed jacket. Dad was wittering on about the flight and telling the man how much he was going to enjoy Failte. Give Dad his due, it sounded so sincere and welcoming, but Rowena had heard the same spiel each time a new one arrived at the airport.

  She was glad that last one had gone. Sam Fulton had given her the creeps. Dad had kept a real good eye on him, though. Mum had insisted on that. After Sister Angelica’s abrupt departure, the Glasgow man had sought out Rowena’s company just a bit too often. She’d been pretty uncomfortable with him, not liking the way he joked about women as if they were all an inferior species. it was all a bit of fun, he’d told her. No harm meant. But Rowena had kept her distance from him all the same. Dad never told any of them what a patient’s background was. She understood how it was important to maintain their privacy. She wouldn’t like any of them to know all of her secrets either, Dad had once pointed out. Still, she had the feeling that Mum knew more about Sam Fulton than she was letting on. And this fact alone had increased her uneasiness. Still, he was gone now, back to Glasgow, supposedly over the worst of his depression.