Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  It was the end of another working day and there was still some light in the evening sky above the western hills, dark and bright as only crepuscular blue can be. The rush hour traffic played its start-stop game at every set of traffic lights, each outside lane casting off like a row in some Scottish country dance. Lorimer’s Lexus was ready to take off as soon as the green light blinked its signal, the drivers behind him watching the traffic lights just as impatiently. He was a careful driver, though he allowed his big car its head often enough, taking the outside lane as soon as he reached the dual carriageway. As he headed for Langbank he was unaware of a nondescript black Golf GTI that had picked him up somewhere on the road leading out of Greenock, cleverly allowing two other cars between them to mask its presence. And he was easy for the driver in the black Golf to follow: a driver who was equally used to fast cars.

  It simply required patience to keep just that little bit behind, follow his lead as any driver might do, and see where the journey would end. It was almost forty minutes after picking up Lorimer’s tail near the Greenock Police HQ that the Golf finally turned off the motorway and headed into the suburban jungles in Glasgow’s south side. The lack of daylight was helpful, the black car being less easily spotted as it drove sedately in and out of the narrow avenues of houses.

  When the Lexus finally swung into a driveway, it was simple enough for the Golf to keep going along the road, its driver taking a good look at the frontage of the house, noting its distinguishing features and continuing until the end of the street joined another, larger road again. Nobody would notice the sporty little car cruising around for a while before coming back to Lorimer’s street.

  Then, when enough time had passed to allay any suspicion, there would be an opportunity for its driver to make further notes about the residence of Acting Superintendent William Lorimer.

  ‘Did you hear from Flynn yet?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Aye, he’s got an interview for that job. Is he coming up to the hospital tonight?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘I thought we might treat him to some supper here afterwards. I’ve got a pot of lentil soup made. And we haven’t had him over here for ages.’

  ‘Good idea. Well,’ Lorimer stretched his arms, releasing the muscles that had stiffened up during the journey home, ‘it’ll be good to catch up again. See what the wee rascal’s been up to.’ He tossed his white shirt on to the bed and reached for a comfortable sports top. But before he could pick it up and put it on, Maggie was at his side, her arms encircling his bare torso.

  His chest hairs tickled her nose and she turned her head, leaning her cheek against her husband’s warm body. A great sigh seemed to flow all through her, melting her further into their single union. So long as he was there, then life was all right.

  The idea of being alone, bereft, suddenly terrified her and Maggie gave an involuntary shudder.

  ‘What was that for?’ Lorimer asked, setting her away from his side.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook the dark curls out of her eyes. ‘Goose walked over my grave. Come on, time we were off to the Southern General before Flynn eats all of Mum’s grapes.’

  The black Golf drew up slowly once the tail lights of the Lexus had disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. They were both out. That was good. The hooded figure lifted a pair of small but powerful binoculars in order to take in every last detail of the residence of Mr and Mrs William Lorimer. The little star-shaped flowers of Winter Jasmine curled around the doorway, lit by a security lantern. The brass nameplate on the wall beside the front door bore the single name LORIMER. Behind the curtains drawn against the darkness a lamp still shone. There was no sign of any home security system, no single eye opened to watch the watcher.

  The hooded figure nodded. That was even better. The next step would be so much easier to put into action.

  ‘Och, that’s awfie nice. Thanks. Lentil soup? Bet it’s the same Mrs Fin used tae make fur me when ah stayed here.’ Joseph Alexander Flynn grinned up at his hosts.

  Maggie beamed back at him. Visiting hour had been a success. The younger man’s banter had made Mrs Finlay’s face twist into a lop-sided grin and she had even reached out her good hand to grasp his own as the bell rang, signalling that it was time for them all to go. A plate of homemade soup and a pot of spaghetti carbonara was scant reward for the pleasure of seeing her mother so animated tonight. Somehow Flynn’s presence had made all of their own fears about her mother’s discharge from hospital disappear.

  Supper over, Lorimer strolled over to the drinks cabinet. ‘A wee tot to finish you off, Flynn?’

  ‘Och, no fur me, Mr Lorimer. Anyhow, I better keep ma head clear fur the morrow. Thon interview, mind?’

  ‘Some of this, then?’ Lorimer held up the orange bottle that was known as Scotland’s Other National Drink.

  ‘Where would you be working if you got the job?’ Maggie asked.

  Flynn turned towards her. ‘Och, all over. It’s a landscape business based in Erskine but they do stuff all down the coast. Contracts fur they new housing developments in Wemyss Bay, contracts fur the horse place out by Bishopton, wan fur that technology place up the back of Greenock-’

  ‘Jackson Tannock?’ Lorimer asked, interrupting Flynn as the young man counted off the businesses on his fingers.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Couldnae mind their name. I knew a lad worked in that place. Daft eejit name of McGroary.’

  ‘David McGroary?’ Lorimer shook his head in disbelief at two coincidences landing on his lap at once.

  ‘Aye. Huv ye come across him?’ Their young friend screwed up his eyes and for a moment Lorimer recalled the scruffy lad that had been hauled off the Glasgow streets. There was still that element of the wee hard man about Flynn that hadn’t been completely softened by the experience of a near-fatal accident. Had McGroary figured in Flynn’s past life?

  ‘He’s been nicked. At Greenock. I’m down there doing a review of a case,’ Lorimer said carefully.

  ‘Ah, Davie’s a bit of a space cadet. Used to be a pure nutter in the old days,’ Flynn said. ‘But I thought he’d got a bird and a hoose,’ he added, regarding the detective thoughtfully.

  ‘How did you come across McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, screwing the top back on to the bottle of Irn Bru.

  ‘Same course. He wis oan the… whatdyou call it… induction course wi me at Bellahouston when I started ma training. He’d been in the nick. Didnae make ony bones aboot it neither. We hung aroon wi some o’ the other lads at weekends. He wis okay maist o’ the time. But when he’d had some skag then he wis mental. Know whit ah mean?’ Flynn pretended to blow smoke from his lips, two pointing fingers describing an arc through the air as if they were holding a joint. He grinned. ‘You know ah’m off the stuff, though, eh?’ He looked up slyly as if expecting to see a pair of disapproving faces looking at him.

  Lorimer nodded, his thoughts racing. This was an unexpected source of information that could serve to enhance any background reports DI Martin might already be requesting. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would talk to her, see if anything else Flynn could tell them tonight would be of value in their respective cases.

  ‘See McGroary,’ he began again. ‘Was he the type to hold a grudge?’

  Later, as he drove home again from dropping Flynn at his flat in Govanhill, Lorimer pondered the lad’s words. David McGroary was a tough nut; that much he had seen for himself, but according to Flynn he’d also been eager to mend his ways. The gardening course had given him lots of big ideas, Flynn had said. McGroary had seen himself as the big businessman. Never mind that no bank in its right mind would lend someone like him the necessary capital, McGroary patently had enough self belief (or sufficient drug money stashed away) to realise his dream of making it on his own. The leaflets dropped through neighbourhood letterboxes had been testament to the man’s desire to better himself. Okay, it was easy enough to label him a bad wee toerag given his past record. And he was obviously still a dealer, despite his attempts to g
o straight. But was he capable of cold-blooded murder? Lorimer shook his head. McGroary was a nasty character but somehow Lorimer had believed him when he had protested his innocence.

  The Jackson fire wasn’t the work of local vandals. Of that Lorimer was almost certain. And even though McGroary had a motive of sorts, it didn’t really seem likely that he would have torched his employer’s home like that. Different from setting fire to rubbish behind empty warehouses when he’d been a laddie. No, the perpetrator of this fire was someone who had wanted to kill those two people. And Lorimer needed to look more closely at their lives in order to find out why.

  CHAPTER 26

  Solomon Brightman smiled and sniffed the air. The damp earth bordering the swards of grass smelled rich and pungent. A few saffron-coloured crocuses were growing at the foot of a great chestnut tree, its bare branches waiting for warmer days. A scattering of snowdrops lay against a curve on the grass, a drift of white like the snow so recently melted from the park. It had been a bitter winter, snowfalls throughout the country bringing traffic and commerce to a standstill at times. But now the days were becoming lighter and the spring flowers in the Botanic Gardens would soon brighten the dull greens and browns. Solly watched as one of the gardeners drove an open truck along the pathway; boxes of primulas jigged up and down as the vehicle passed, a dazzle of pink, yellow and purple. By this afternoon the empty beds would be filled with these little plants, another sign that winter was losing its grip.

  Solly thought of his conversation with Lorimer. He’d thought of apologising and saying (truthfully) that he was too busy with work to manage any extra commitments. But, listening to the man he knew so well, the psychologist had made his decision. Lorimer needed help and he could tell from the inflection in his voice that the detective was under considerable strain. Maggie’s mum was never mentioned but she was there all the same, an anxiety hovering in the background.

  The frown furrowing his brow made the psychologist suddenly sombre. Three elderly ladies had come to grief on their own back doorsteps. Doorsteps that began at the top of a steep flight of stairs above a concrete patio. Pushed to their death. By whom? He would visit the scenes of the crimes with a uniformed officer from Greenock, he had told Lorimer. Then he’d just have to see what came of it after that. It wasn’t that he was being deliberately vague, Solly told himself, remembering the acerbic tone in his friend’s voice after a lengthy pause in their conversation. But he had to have ideas of the locations in his head before he could begin to see the picture of the crimes as a whole.

  There were no lectures this afternoon so he would take a train from Central Station down to Greenock, a journey he had rarely made since his arrival in Glasgow so many years before. It was a terminal for ocean-going liners and car ferries, Rosie had told him; one of the older towns strung like beads along the Clyde coast.

  Terminal. It was a word that meant the end of things, wasn’t it? But, perhaps in this case, it might also signify a beginning.

  After the train had pulled out of Saint James’s station, the urban landscape began to give way to green fields and the hint of a countryside that was emerging from its long winter’s sleep. As Solly let his gaze sweep across the view from the window he saw flocks of wood pigeons, a few ducks in a stream and even caught a glimpse of a pair of hinds feeding quietly. Bishopton was the first rural village on the line, then Langbank where the view suddenly changed and the Clyde was there and Dumbarton Castle on the far side, its massive rock towering above. He could see the hills and mountains but what their names were he didn’t know. Was that Ben Lomond with snow still on its peak? Solly wasn’t certain about the geography of this area and resolved to look up a map on his return home.

  Maps meant a great deal to the psychologist and it was one of the integral parts of his job as occasional criminal profiler. Mapping murder had been seen as a vital part of the search for serial killers by Professor David Canter from the University of Liverpool and now every behavioural psychologist worth their salt took a serious look at the pathways and routes surrounding crime scenes. The three deaths in Port Glasgow were fairly close together but that didn’t mean he would ignore the way they were grouped on a map of the area. On the contrary, Solly expected their location to give him some insight into the mindset of the killer.

  If Dr Solomon Brightman was surprised to be met by a uniformed officer instead of DI Martin he didn’t show it.

  ‘PC Reid.’ The man nodded towards the psychologist and led the way to a waiting police car. ‘I’ve to take you to the houses, sir,’ the officer added, opening the back door for Solly as though he were a passenger in a taxi or, worse, a felon being taken into custody.

  ‘I’ll sit up front, if that’s all right, officer,’ Solly murmured, wishing for a moment that he had not agreed so readily to Lorimer’s request.

  At last the car left the main thoroughfare and headed uphill away from the coast.

  ‘Take a wee look down there, sir. Grand view, eh?’ the officer said and Solly could hear the hint of pride in his voice.

  It was indeed a grand view, the hilltop affording a vista of the widening river below and the hills beyond. He would return here one day with Rosie, once she had bought another car. In summer, perhaps, when that expanse of blue might be dotted with small boats seeking a wind to fill their sails.

  Then it was gone, the road turning away from the view and curving into a street that led to a mass of houses clinging to the hillside. Upper Port Glasgow was a twentieth-century attempt to create a dormitory town in the windy spaces above the conglomerations of Gourock, Greenock and Port Glasgow, towns running together along the coastline. It seemed, to Solly, as if some giant hand had plucked the estates straight from one of the Glasgow housing schemes and thrust it down here. It was like a last urban outpost before the wilderness of field and moor staked its claim on the land.

  ‘Here we are, sir. DI Martin asked me to take you to each of the locations in order,’ Reid told him, drawing the car up in a small parking bay in a cul de sac surrounded by modest rows of terraced houses. Solly nodded, his mind already on the residents of this place. These women had lived here for decades, raising families, making lives for themselves. According to his notes, they had all lived in substantial houses, big enough for the average family. Old age and the strictures of living on pensions hadn’t deterred them from wanting to keep their homes. So there was something about the area that made them want to remain. Good neighbours, perhaps? A settled feeling with all the attendant memories that meant home to them, maybe? Or had this become a little village on its own over the years? Those, and other questions, were to the forefront of Solly’s mind as the police officer led him to the first house.

  It was a plain pebble-dashed grey, fairly featureless to Solly’s eye, with the look of a property that had been abandoned.

  ‘She died on Boxing Day,’ Reid informed him.

  Solly’s lips parted but no words came. How could he begin to tell this policeman that he had spent the happiest hours of his entire life on the selfsame day that an old lady had been murdered? Clenching then unclenching his fists, the psychologist followed the officer towards the high fence surrounding the terraced houses.

  Solly stopped just outside the back gate. It was the end of a row of four identical homes, though he supposed that the small patches of garden and different curtains at the windows did disturb the dreary uniformity. He turned to look at the path around the house. Easy access from the main road to this end terrace and a blank gable wall from the house opposite made the psychologist nod his head as if to agree with some earlier supposition. If he was correct, then the killer had chosen the location as much as the victim herself.

  Standing on the paving stones below the back door, Solly could all too easily imagine the body that had plummeted to the ground. The stairs were set at an angle to the rear entrance so that someone coming out of the house would have had to take a couple of paces forwards on to the large top step and turn around before making t
heir descent. The metal handrail followed the line of the stairs, Solly noticed, and there was a white grab rail outside the door. A faltering pensioner might well be unsteady on their legs for a moment or two until their hand reached out, clutching. And the stairs were certainly wide enough for more than one person. Had she known her assailant, then? Whoever had pushed the old woman down that flight of stairs must have come right up to the top; and used considerable force to shake the poor old soul’s hand away from her rail. Solly shook his head, wondering. The viciousness of that act alarmed him. A woman might have done something like that, he’d told Rosie, but standing here, the wind blowing scraps of dead leaves around his feet, Solly was no longer certain of the theory he had so glibly suggested.

  By the time they had reached Freda Gilmour’s home, Solly had formed a few ideas about the person who had carried out these acts. All three of the houses were situated at the end of a row of terraces. The houses ran in blocks of four, separated by small lanes running between them. But the homes of the victims had not simply been on one of these corners, but at the very end of the rows. There was no street lighting right outside the main doors or back doors, nor did any of the neighbouring houses look directly into the gardens. It had been, Solly realised, the subject of careful planning on the part of someone who either knew the area very well indeed (and possibly lived in the estate) or who had carried out a detailed reconnaissance whilst under the guise of someone who would not be noticed, like a regular delivery man.