Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  For a moment Tommy’s mind refused to recognise what his eyes were telling him.

  Then he heard a thin cry coming from his own throat as the bundle of rags was transformed into the shape of a woman’s body.

  ‘Three? That’s not a coincidence then, is it?’ Detective Sergeant Wainwright asked, his eyes gleaming with expectation. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on our patch,’ he added, folding his arms and glaring around as if daring to any of his fellow officers to defy him. ‘Someone’s bumping off poor old ladies. And with the SOCOs having found the tyre tracks, we’ll have to look again at Gary Wilson’s statement, won’t we?’

  Rhoda Martin had the grace to keep quiet and Kate Clark noticed that the DI was deliberately avoiding her eye. It was typical, though, that all this had blown up on a day when Lorimer wasn’t around. A meeting with the Chief Constable took precedence over the day-to-day business of policing, she told herself huffily, then immediately felt cross at herself for such cynicism. Most of that morning and early afternoon, officers had been busy at the locus; now that the body had been taken away to the mortuary they were back at HQ for the initial meeting with the scene of crime manager and DI Martin who had been appointed SIO.

  ‘Ma’am, the doctor who issued the death certificate for Mrs Wilson and Mrs MacKintyre wants to come in and make a statement, ’ PC Dodgson piped up. ‘It’s a Doctor Bennie. He attended the latest death. Seems all three of them were his patients.’

  ‘Okay.’ DI Martin sighed and looked at the papers attached to her clipboard. ‘That’s something to go on for the time being. Right, what else have we got? Last night’s workload includes the fracas down at the harbour. A couple of local gangs knocking bits out of one another.’ She looked up to the area beyond the incident room as though she could envisage the prisoners. ‘So that’s most of the cells full. And we’ve already had one report of a mugging and another incident that might end up being an attempted rape.’

  ‘Can they not at least have the decency to wait till it’s dark?’ Wainwright asked, receiving a few guffaws in reply.

  But DI Martin refused to rise to the bait as she continued, ‘So with what remains of this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, just for some extra light entertainment,’ she said, sweeping a green glare over DS Wainwright, ‘we appear to have a serial killer out there. It’s what you’ve all been hoping for, after all, isn’t it?’

  Kate Clark winced. Rhoda Martin was one hard bitch, but she’d never heard such a tone of bitterness in her voice before. Even Wainwright looked surprised, and he’d been around long enough to take sarcasm in his stride. Something was biting the DI today and Kate was curious to know just what that was. Could it be the menace from an unknown killer who was systematically murdering old ladies? She shivered suddenly. None of them had encountered anything like this before and perhaps DI Martin’s words were simply covering up her own fear of tackling a case this big.

  As DI Martin was issuing the various actions to her colleagues, the man who occupied her thoughts was driving back down the M8 from Glasgow.

  Lorimer wondered if his words to Isherwood at Pitt Street today had found their target. He thought so, remembering the man’s turkey-red jowls and his explosive reaction. Whatever the final outcome, he knew his card was marked now and it would be highly unlikely that there would be any promotion to Superintendent in the near future for DCI William Lorimer if the Chief Constable had anything to say about it.

  His hands grasped the steering wheel tightly. There were other things that might count against him as well: being out of his own office meant that he was well behind with all the staff appraisals waiting for him back in Glasgow. Their annual MOTs had to be done and he had to find time to do them but, what with the hospital visits and this review case, he felt as though things were slipping away from him. With these thoughts in mind Lorimer had taken the opportunity of being back in Glasgow to call in at his own HQ and pick up some of the paperwork, hoping he might have a chance to see to some of it over the weekend. If he could just tie up this case in Greenock then perhaps he’d be able to return to a semblance of normality.

  As he turned off the dual carriageway and headed towards Port Glasgow, Lorimer smiled a bitter little smile to himself. When had his life last been normal? Surely the life of a police officer was by definition anything but normal. And that was the choice he had made for himself, a long time ago. He recalled the day that he had been summoned from his vacation job in the bank. A simple request to take part in a line up following a series of bank robberies had resulted in the young William Lorimer asking questions about the work of a police officer. And what he had learned had intrigued him enough to drop out of his course at university and join the Force.

  What had made Rhoda Martin become a police officer? Lorimer wondered. She was a fast-track graduate who was obviously intent on becoming more than a mere detective inspector, he reckoned — even if she had to sleep her way into promotion, a bad little voice whispered in his ear. In the course of the review, the first thing Lorimer had done was look at all of the information about the individuals in DCI Ray’s team. He’d seen DI Martin’s personnel file as a matter of course, noted the private education, the glowing commendations from past teachers and tutors at university and the terse comment ‘ this one will go far ’ from Tulliallan Police College. But, having seen her at work, he felt that there was something that didn’t fit about the woman. Perhaps it was that upper-class voice or the way she moved around her female colleagues as if she believed they were her inferiors. Lorimer shook his head, irritably. He shouldn’t even be thinking of the dratted woman when there were other more important matters on his mind.

  He turned into the filter lane leading to the stark grey building, with its chequered stripe that proclaimed to the world that this was Greenock Police Headquarters. Maggie had stared at it when they’d passed by in the car before last Christmas, musing in that whimsical way she had. What was it she’d said? ‘If that building could talk, it would say “Nae messin”.’ He’d laughed, then, completely unaware that in a matter of weeks he would be coming up and down from Glasgow to Greenock HQ on a daily basis.

  As he pointed the key to lock the car, Lorimer’s thoughts were already considering the next step in his review of the Jackson case. He wanted to talk to the sort of people who would welcome a chat about their departed friends, Ian and Pauline Jackson: people who had known them outside of Jackson Tannock.

  And he thought he knew just where he might obtain such information.

  The HOLMES room had been set up as an incident room, given that Lorimer had appropriated the only other available space. He stood at the doorway, arms folded, listening to the DI as she directed questions from her colleagues. Something was up, that was clear, and it didn’t sound as if it had anything whatsoever to do with the Jackson case.

  ‘Right, I want everyone back for a meeting at eighteen hundred hours. DS Wainwright’s your crime scene manager so if I’m not here for any reason you make sure your reports are with him. Understood?’

  Lorimer listened to the woman’s voice. It was hard and clear, like brittle glass, but the way she stood there, tall and commanding, looked anything but fragile. And he could see that every eye was upon her. Not one of them had noticed his presence, lurking in the shadows. She was good; Lorimer had to grant her that. And with her sort of authoritative manner, yes, she would go far.

  Before the meeting broke up, Lorimer came further into the room and stood to one side, waiting for the opportunity to speak with the DI. One or two of the officers gave him a half-smile as they passed him but there was a sense of urgency in the way they hurried out that made his eyebrows rise in curiosity.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, stepping forward as soon as the DI had finished speaking to Robert Wainwright.

  Rhoda Martin turned and for a moment her mouth fell open in surprise at seeing him there. Then the green glint was back in her eyes, the blonde head raised in a defiant manner.

  ‘Another kil
ling,’ she began shortly. ‘A third old lady. Same MO. Same district.’

  ‘Upper Port Glasgow?’

  She gave a bitter smile. ‘Yes. Not down in the main drag where you might expect a few CCTVs to help us. A housing estate. There are a lot of old folk living in that part of the area now.’

  ‘Dying too, by the looks of it,’ Wainwright put in, his grin cut short by the glacial look Martin shot at him.

  ‘Anything to go on?’

  Martin seemed distracted, avoiding his eye as if she wanted to look around the room for something she had forgotten. ‘Cycle tracks, if you must know. Forensics are on to it and the elderly neighbour next door claims to have seen kids hanging around on their bikes a couple of nights ago.’ She shrugged then turned back to face him. ‘So if you don’t mind I’ve got a lot to do. I’m the SIO on this one. All right, sir?’

  She marched past him without waiting for an answer and he caught a whiff of her expensive perfume. It was one that he recognised; Maggie wore it whenever they were going out somewhere. DS Wainwright gave him a nod as he followed the woman out of the incident room. Lorimer stood back, letting them past.

  Being the Detective Superintendent on hand did not mean that by rights this case should have come to him, he reminded himself. He was only here on sufferance: just a review officer seeing to a case that had been botched. That was all. And if things carried on the way they had been, he might end up back in Glasgow as a DCI quicker than he would like. Okay, he decided. They were all intent on this new case and it was imperative that they found out as much as possible as quickly as they could to maximise their chances of apprehending this killer. He looked at the spot where Rhoda Martin had stood moments ago. He had a lot of experience in dealing with murder cases and she knew it. So why not ask him for help? Because she wants to prove she can do this one herself, a little voice told him. And if the Detective Inspector did manage to catch this killer then she’d see it as a chance for promotion, satisfying that ambitious streak he’d seen in her.

  Meantime he would take a trip up the country to Kilmacolm. That trail might be colder now, but perhaps he could rake around and see what he could find. There was something missing. Many things had been lost in that fire but memories of the dead might still be fresh in people’s minds. And it might help the case to bring those memories alive once more.

  CHAPTER 22

  Rosie Fergusson stood back from the stainless steel table, scrutinising the body. She had to admit that the perpetrator of these attacks had left no visible clues as to their identity. There were no ligature marks, no defence wounds; nothing that might help the police find whoever it was that had shoved the old woman down the flight of stairs. Had it not been for the other deaths this would have passed her by and been filed as a tragic accident. And the fact that this old lady was under her care showed that she was being considered as something special. Freda Gilmour was to have the dubious distinction of being kept in cold storage whereas the other old dears were now either in a family urn or scattered to the four winds of heaven. A report was always sent to the Procurator Fiscal following any sudden death and it had been an easy decision for someone at the Crown Office to find that Mary MacKintyre and Jean Wilson had each died from a simple accident. They all had the same GP, though, Rosie had noticed. Wonder what he had made of the second death? Had Dr Bennie put it down to a macabre sort of coincidence? This third death wouldn’t allow that sort of conclusion, though, would it?

  The pathologist’s report would of necessity be brief and to the point. The injuries were consistent with a fall from a height on to concrete paving stones: the skull fracture and damage to the arm and both legs showed signs of very recent injuries. The poor old thing hadn’t had much luck, Rosie thought, stepping forward and feeling the left leg. She could see another break that had been sustained not all that long ago. The pathologist shook her head, wondering. It might have looked just like bad luck: an elderly lady who had a history of falling, crashing to her death outside her own back door. One thing she wasn’t looking forward to was the part of her report that dealt with the time of death. For Freda Gilmour had not been killed on impact. Her injuries had gone unseen throughout the night as she lay alone. Rosie would write down that the victim might have been unconscious after the fall, hoping that, mercifully, that had been true. Death, she reminded herself, was a process. But few people ever wanted to think of that.

  Glancing up at the viewing window a few feet away, Rosie could see the face of that tall Detective Inspector from Greenock. She was gazing intently at the corpse, interested no doubt to see what Dr Fergusson was going to do. She didn’t look the squeamish type, Rosie thought. And the pathologist was experienced enough to know.

  For a moment her thoughts turned to Lorimer. The DI up there above the post-mortem room had not mentioned Lorimer’s name at all. Would he be in touch? Was this case to come under his jurisdiction now that he had been seconded to the divisional headquarters down the river? It was a fleeting thought. Right now she had to concentrate on performing a post-mortem examination on this latest statistic of violence.

  With a straightening of her shoulders, Rosie motioned to her assistant and then reached forward to pick up a scalpel.

  ‘Davie! Well, well, what do you know!’ DS Wainwright rubbed his hands together as a uniformed officer handed him a clipboard with the names of residents living close to the late Freda Gilmour.

  ‘Just the sort of wee toerag we’ve been looking for. Pity you couldn’t have found him a bit sooner.’ He looked at the young police constable as if it were somehow Dodgson’s fault that the old ladies had died.

  The youngster flinched but said nothing in reply. From the time he had given Lorimer the bijoux bottle, Wainwright had taken to shaking his head and looking at him as if he were some sort of traitor. It wasn’t fair. He’d tried his utmost to go by the book, making every effort to do exactly what he had been trained to do, but in the face of the older officer’s obvious disdain, PC Dodgson had begun to wonder if he should apply for a transfer out of this division. And it wasn’t only Wainwright. DI Martin had barely spoken to him since he had accompanied Lorimer to the locus in Kilmacolm. And any day now his one ally, DC Clark, would be off to have her baby. Why were they treating him like some pariah? Turning on his heel, the police constable vowed to keep his head down in future.

  ‘David Jonathan McGroary. Previous convictions for assault to severe injury. One of them against an elderly man who needed hospitalisation!’ DI Martin said, reading from the notes that the crime scene manager had given her.

  There was a murmur of satisfaction from the officers assembled in the incident room.

  ‘Does he own a bike?’ Kate Clark piped up.

  DI Martin looked hard at the woman, then raised her eyebrows. ‘Anybody? DC Clark wants to know.’

  ‘There was a cycle outside in the garden,’ Dodgson offered.

  ‘And we have to obtain a warrant to remove it from his premises, don’t we?’ Martin smiled, her eyes glinting with malice. ‘Suppose you do just that, constable. Eh?’

  Dodgson shuffled his feet and said nothing.

  ‘Well, go on, get out of here and get one and don’t come back without that bike!’ she commanded. ‘And if we find that McGroary was anywhere near Mrs Gilmour’s house on the night in question, I want him in here so fast his mucky little feet won’t touch the ground, understood?’

  Kate noticed DS Wainwright smirking at the constable’s retreating back, then catching Rhoda Martin’s glance. The chemistry between that pair was interesting. With DCI Ray retired, it was plain that the tall blonde officer was making a bid to step into her former boss’s shoes. And Wainwright didn’t seem too bothered by that. But he wasn’t ever going to make more than a detective sergeant, was he? So long as he had lads like Dodgson to bully, Robert Wainwright was happy enough. And being crime scene manager gave him as much kudos as he seemed to desire.

  Kate Clark watched as the DI consulted the notes again. It was clear
to them all that she hadn’t had time to read them over prior to the six p.m. meeting. And Kate knew that she hadn’t yet spoken to Wainwright for a rundown on the afternoon’s actions. Somehow the DC couldn’t imagine Lorimer coming into a meeting so ill prepared. It was a disquieting little thought that was soon banished by the DI’s next words.

  ‘The CCTV at the local shops isn’t working. Surprise, surprise. So no images of bikers anywhere near the scene,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to rely on witness statements to tell us what was going on the night of Mrs Gilmour’s death and they seem to be pretty thin on the ground,’ she continued, flicking over the pages on her clipboard.

  ‘What about the next-door-neighbour?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Didn’t find the body till this morning, remember,’ Wainwright offered. ‘And he seems to be pretty shocked by the whole thing.’

  ‘And there’s no neighbourhood watch scheme, I suppose?’

  DS Wainwright snorted. ‘They don’t subscribe to things like that up there,’ he said. ‘They all just watch their own backs, depending on whatever gang’s on the rampage.’

  Kate Clark nodded as she listened to the crime scene manager. It was true enough. The area was riddled with factions from different parts of the town that regularly broke out in fits of violence. Knife crime had been especially bad in the last few years despite initiatives that they had tried to implement within the community. Maybe that was why this part of the country was known as the Wild West.

  ‘We’ll have the pathologist’s report coming in tomorrow, hopefully, ’ DI Martin told them. ‘There were no defence wounds, nothing under the old lady’s fingernails that might have given us some DNA material. But if anything forensic does come to light, we’ll be looking to make a match with someone like McGroary.’