Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘We’ll go next week,’ Solly promised. ‘And maybe we can have a meal out tonight instead? Shish Mahal suit you?’

  ‘Aye, well, let’s see how long this takes me. I’ll give you a ring when I’m through. Love you,’ she added, dropping a kiss on Solly’s dark curls before heading out of the flat. He watched at the window, giving her a final wave as she emerged from the front door. Rosie looked up at him grinning in girlish glee as she brandished her car keys. There her new car waited, its pale blue paintwork still gleaming in showroom condition. The pathologist had finally chosen a Saab to replace her written-off BMW, a sporty convertible with a dark navy soft top. Solly smiled indulgently, still watching from the window as his wife drove off. Despite her almost-fatal accident she was still a keen driver; it hadn’t put her off wanting to buy another car.

  The psychologist stood gazing over the park and the familiar Glasgow skyline. He had a day to himself now, something he hadn’t planned. He could always work on the book, of course, delving deeper into the psyches of female serial killers. There were some interesting theories he wanted to propound, but they were still at the thinking stage, gestating in his brain. Perhaps he’d take a look at Lorimer’s case instead.

  The detective had kept him abreast of events as they had unfolded down in K Division. It seemed as though there might be a little more evidence forthcoming from overseas regarding the victim’s financial affairs. Solly shook his head. It was a lot closer to home than that, he told himself. Someone who had easy access to the house and who knew the layout intimately had taken the trouble to shift that key in the lock. But who? And why? Those were questions that Solly considered even as he contemplated the nature of a fire-raiser. Careful planning had been carried out and the crime was therefore premeditated. Somebody had intended both of these victims to die. And their killer had wanted it to look like an accident. Fires often destroyed evidence that forensic scientists might otherwise find useful. And those who began a blaze would bank on that. He cast his mind back a few years to the case when he had first assisted Strathclyde Police. That was when he had met DCI William Lorimer. A fire had taken place then, too, the perpetrator hoping to destroy every trace of his crime. But even that extensive conflagration had left some traces to tell a story and now that killer was under lock and key.

  Solly sat before his laptop and opened up the file on the Jackson case. He had no official remit here, he knew, but even an academic exercise might throw a little light on his friend’s case. Besides, it was a case that had begun to intrigue him and Solly had asked himself whether or not it might be linked to the murder of these elderly women. A cyclist had been seen haring away from the fire at Kilmacolm and a cyclist had stalked one of the Port Glasgow victims, leaving a tyre track at the third locus. Tenuous it might be, but the psychologist had a feeling that this was a line of thought worth pursuing.

  The cycle race for charity was to take place next weekend and there would be hundreds of cyclists from all over the country descending on the city. It was one of the most popular sports in Scotland and, from his place in the passenger seat of other people’s cars, Solly regularly saw hordes of cyclists racing along country roads. They always looked so fit and lean, these nylon leggings and sleek, body-hugging tops making their bodies seem so androgynous. Curved backs and helmets that looked like the beak of a strange bird gave the men and women the appearance of a slightly different species altogether. He scrolled up, seeing Kate Clark’s report from the gentleman in Kilmacolm. The cyclist who had sped past them from the drive of the Jackson’s home had been dressed in black, possibly wearing a hood. The cycle had not been lit and there had been no reflective strips on the person’s clothing. Another sign of careful preparation, Solly thought to himself. But if that taxi had struck the cyclist, then all his planning would have been for nought. It had been a moment in the darkness, a fleeting sight of a cyclist racing away from the scene, but perhaps sufficient to give him an idea of the person in black.

  This was a person who liked to take risks. A person who desperately wanted to rid himself of Pauline and Ian Jackson. And, if it was the same person who had killed these elderly women, he realised that it must be a person who had very little remorse of conscience. A psychopathic personality, in fact, Solly told himself. A killer with an endless capacity for killing. Someone, he reminded himself grimly, who had to be stopped at any cost before they were allowed to strike once more.

  ‘Let’s look at it all over again,’ he murmured aloud. ‘See if we can find out what makes you tick.’

  Maggie switched on the kettle, turning with a smile as she heard her mother’s exclamation of delight. The ‘bedroom’ had been made up in the dining area and she’d added a bowl of fruit and put vases of flowers where her mother could enjoy them. Bill was still taking the luggage from the car after helping Mum into their comfy recliner, showing her the lever to raise the foot rest.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll want to go home,’ Alice exclaimed then, as Maggie caught her mother’s eye, she saw the glint of mischief and knew that she was being teased. ‘Och, you know you can stay here as long as you want to, Mum,’ she replied. ‘Earl Grey or ordinary? ’ she added.

  ‘Earl Grey please, dear,’ Alice said. ‘And I’ll not put you and Bill out a mo-ment more than I need to. I prom-ise,’ she said, her words coming out slowly but with a firmness that Maggie recognised as belonging to the Mum she had known before that awful stroke.

  ‘Hey, Chancer, looks who’s here,’ Maggie told the cat as he flopped through the cat flap on the back door and strolled through the kitchen.

  ‘Here, puss,’ Alice told him, patting the rug across her lap. The ginger cat eyed her for a moment then sat back on his haunches and began to wash a front paw assiduously. He’d come when he was ready, the gesture seemed to say. Alice smiled indulgently at the cat and waited. Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he leapt, purring, on to her knees, a grin appearing below his whiskers as he felt the fur on his head being caressed.

  Maggie felt her whole body relax as she watched the pair of them. How easily Mum had settled in and how right it felt having her here. As Lorimer entered the room with Alice’s bags she met his eyes, gave a nod and smiled. She saw his blue gaze taking in the woman and the cat and he returned her grin. It was going to be all right, after all. Everything would work out just fine.

  CHAPTER 30

  The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door. She must have thrown up after I’d left her on that narrow bed, and the stink of vomit mingling with urine pervaded the room. I’d made sure all the windows were tightly shut, of course, just in case she had done a Houdini and managed to escape from her bonds. Trying not to gag, I slid against the wall, feeling the embossed paper under my gloved hands. Even with that noxious smell filling my nostrils I found myself wrinkling my nose at the touch of that wallpaper: horrid cheap stuff. I passed by the sleeping figure, turned the blind rod a fraction and looked out of the window.

  The room was at the back of the house, facing a row of lock-ups. Even in the dark I could make out the shapes of their metal doors side by side, glinting under an adjacent street lamp.

  A groan from the bed made me freeze. If I stood very still, the woman on the bed might not realise that I was there. I waited, holding my breath, until I saw her head slump sideways again. She looked so vulnerable lying there, hair spread out on that white pillow. My fingers twitched as a thought prompted desire. It would take only a few seconds for me to put a second pillow over her face and cut off that foul-smelling breath forever.

  I would give her a chance of life, though, not just because her situation amused me.

  She was still under the influence of the drug. Despite the vomiting she hadn’t managed to combat its effects and it would be some time before she would awake to find what I had done to her.

  And wonder how the hell it had happened.

  I suppressed a snigger. I wouldn’t be here when she woke up, of course, though it would be nice to see her
face when she did. What would she think, seeing her wrists stretched out, fastened to the brass bed head by these handcuffs, her ankles tied with twists of red cord? Just for fun, I’d dressed her in a red basque, an Ann Summers outfit purchased especially for the occasion. No knickers, though. That was the nice touch, that and the Vaseline I’d smeared between her legs. The riding crop lay on the floor as if carelessly discarded.

  Her imagination would leap to the obvious, I hoped.

  When they found her (if they found her) it would look like she’d had a steamy night in. I resisted a laugh and felt my way back to the door, taking one last look at the woman splayed on the bed. Blowing her a silent kiss, I closed the door behind me.

  CHAPTER 31

  Kate felt the pain first before the waters gushed out, soaking her legs and flooding the bed.

  ‘Towels,’ she moaned, digging her elbow into Dougie’s side. ‘Get me some towels. My waters. They’ve broken.’ She wanted to rise from the wetness but something held her back. Was it an irrational fear or the memory of the midwife’s injunction to keep everything as sterile as possible?

  ‘Dougie!’ she cried, ‘Get up! The baby’s coming!’

  In the hours that followed Kate couldn’t remember everything, just certain events, like an edited holiday video where the highlights are preserved. She never remembered her husband’s calmness as he made a pad of her best bath sheets, only her irritation that he had failed to use the old ones she’d put aside just for this eventuality. The ride to the hospital was a blur of early-morning traffic, lights twinkling in the darkness before a dawn that was still hours away. And Dougie: she’d never seen him so serious yet so exhilarated. As the pains kept coming she blew her breath out, exhaling noisily as she had been shown at the antenatal classes.

  Afterwards she would say that Dougie had been wonderful, letting her crush his hand as the contractions kicked in. And the midwives. They’d been brilliant, she told her friends. So unruffled, so controlled. Even when she’d begun to swear like a trooper they’d never batted an eyelid. Gentle words had continued to soothe until the pain had overwhelmed her and the world threatened to tilt off its axis in one enormous rush.

  Then the cry. That wonderful sound that had brought tears streaming down her flushed cheeks; their little son come safely into the world. Kate would never forget that sound, not if she lived to be a hundred.

  It was the other silly things that stuck in her mind: throwing up her breakfast of toast and tea into the cardboard sick bowl; the bunch of anemones Dougie had brought in for her; her awe at seeing Gregor’s little fingernails — perfect pink ovals curling into a tiny fist that struggled towards his bow-shaped mouth.

  All thoughts that this was a Monday morning when she ought to be at work vanished as Kate cradled her son, Dougie’s arm around them both, cocooned in the filmy wonder of new motherhood.

  ‘Where the hell is everybody?’ Detective Sergeant Wainwright banged a fist down on his desk, making the pile of papers jump sideways.

  Dodgson winced. The DS was in a foul mood and the non-appearance of both female CID officers this morning was threatening to make this a bad start to the week.

  ‘Have you tried her mobile, Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I have!’ Wainwright stormed. ‘Not answering her landline and her mobile seems to be switched off.’

  ‘She was supposed to be going to some party at the weekend,’ Dodgson offered.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Dodgson shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But she could hardly wait to get out of here on Friday. So maybe it was out of town somewhere. ’

  ‘God almighty, this is all we need. Our SIO’s gone AWOL, Kate’s not come in and Lorimer’s breathing down our neck,’ Wainwright growled.

  ‘Like dragon fire, perhaps?’ a voice behind them asked.

  Dodgson and Wainwright turned around as one, the DS blushing furiously as he realised he had been overheard.

  At that moment the telephone rang, sparing the man any need to apologise.

  ‘Ah, hello Mr… oh. Oh!’ Wainwright’s face broke into a broad grin as he spun round in his chair, pointing towards his belly with one hand and making a thumbs-up sign. ‘Brilliant news!’ he continued. ‘Aye, tell her we’re all chuffed to bits. Thanks for calling us.’

  ‘Kate?’ Lorimer queried, leaning against the filing cabinet in the officers’ room.

  ‘Aye, the wee fella was born this morning,’ Wainwright told them. ‘That was Dougie’s faither on to let us know. Whew!’ He took out a large handkerchief and mopped the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow. ‘At least we know where our Kate is, then. Och, that’s nice for them,’ he added, ‘but a bit of a surprise being so early, eh?’

  ‘My sister’s first baby was three weeks early and she was fine. A good weight as well.’ Dodgson nodded, his face split in a smile. The hostile atmosphere had evaporated like a passing rain cloud with the news of Kate’s new baby.

  ‘We’ll have tae have a whip round,’ Wainwright told them. ‘One of the women can choose a wee thing for the wean.’ He rose from his desk as if to go out into the other rooms and spread the news.

  ‘I was looking for DI Martin,’ Lorimer said, before Wainwright could leave. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, Sir. I’ve been trying to get a hold of her all morning.’ Wainwright made a face. ‘She’s maybe been held up at some fancy house party. Too hung over to let us mere mortals know when she’ll grace us with her presence,’ he said with a twist to his mouth.

  ‘No email then?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Naw.’ Wainwright hesitated. ‘D’you want to have a look at her inbox, though, Sir? See if there’s anything urgent that needs doing? That’s her code up there.’ The DS nodded, pointing to a list of figures pinned above the DI’s desk.

  Lorimer stared at the detective sergeant’s back. Wainwright was involved in a case with three murdered old ladies and yet was behaving as if he didn’t give a toss. Would the DS have been so cavalier if it had been three younger women? Lorimer asked himself, cynically. Maybe the man was just an example of a police officer who was inured against any sort of tragedy, he thought, giving the man the benefit of the doubt.

  At least Dodgson had slipped back to his own desk at the other side of the room, intent on some work, leaving the Superintendent to boot up DI Martin’s computer.

  It didn’t take Lorimer long to scroll down the messages in Martin’s inbox and find the email from Callum Uprichard. All thoughts of why the officer might not have made it into work disappeared as he printed off the report. This was more like it! he thought. A bit of superior forensic work might indeed help to nail the bastard who had murdered these three old women.

  ‘Want to read this, young Dodgson?’

  The lad was out of his chair and beside Lorimer’s outstretched hand in a shot.

  ‘Good grief, Sir!’ he said at last. ‘This could…’

  ‘Bring us a lot closer to finding out who killed them,’ Lorimer finished for him. ‘How far have you got with the investigation into local cycle clubs?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been concentrating on the two main ones, Inverclyde Velo and Johnstone Wheelers. The Wheelers tend to go out for practice rides with other club members and so although it’s got a huge membership, they all seem to know one another quite well. Davie McGroary didn’t belong to either club,’ he added.

  ‘Didn’t think he would. Not the type,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘But we do have some familiar names, sir. Mr Tannock is a member and so are the two Jackson children.’

  ‘Anybody else from the Kilmacolm area?’

  ‘Aye, quite a few. But most of the members are from the Paisley, Johnstone and Elderslie areas.’

  ‘Names? Addresses?’

  ‘We’ve got a whole list of them compiled, sir, but there hasn’t been any authorisation of a home visit to them. We just haven’t the time to do that sort of thing — unless it’s justified,’ he added, glancing at the paper in
his hand.

  ‘We want to know the whereabouts of all these cyclists on the nights the three women died. And,’ he added with a sudden stern look that made Dodgson take a step back, ‘I want the date of the Jackson fire included as well.’

  The young officer stood speechless for a moment, taking in the enormity of Lorimer’s words.

  ‘You don’t think it was the same person, sir?’ he asked at last. ‘I mean, oh, dear Lord…’ Dodgson’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  Lorimer did not answer but his mouth became a hard, thin line.

  Dr Solomon Brightman had suggested this to him only yesterday. And, although the theory had chimed with Lorimer’s own thoughts, the psychologist’s words had had a converse effect on him, making him question it all the more.

  The police constable nodded as their eyes met. It was a long shot. A hunch, maybe. He’d heard of senior officers acting on such things before. Police lore was full of stories like that. Up until now the young man had only experienced the hard graft that police work demanded and he felt a sudden thrill as he stood beside this tall man whose very presence spelled out authority.

  ‘I’ll have a word with DS Wainwright,’ Lorimer murmured, ‘but expect me to take over as SIO on this one. At least until DI Martin turns up,’ he added with a twinkle in those piercing blue eyes.

  As the morning wore on, it became evident that Rhoda Martin was not going to come in to Greenock for work on time. Wainwright had chuckled that she’d be roasted for her absence when she finally did appear. It was clear from his attitude, thought Lorimer, that there was no love lost between the older man and his senior officer. For the hundredth time he found himself wishing to be back in his own division in Glasgow where the officers around him were more than mere colleagues. With Kate now out of the team Lorimer felt that sense of loneliness he had experienced on his arrival in Greenock. Or was it simply a Monday-morning feeling after an enjoyable weekend with his wife and mother-in-law at home?