by Alex Gray
‘Think you can take me down?’ Bert sneered. ‘Nae chance!’
Lorimer froze as he saw the rifle held in the groundsman’s hands, pointing at his chest.
For a moment all he could think about was Maggie and how she would be all alone. He had a sudden image of her laughing, cuddling that wee ginger cat up to her face.
Then he closed his eyes and waited.
The crash of thunder and flash of lightning mingling with a blood-curdling screech made him open them again. And what he saw defied belief. Albert Little had dropped the gun and was on his knees, screaming, hands waving wildly as though someone had him by the throat.
In an instant Lorimer picked up the rifle, but in that moment he felt a wave of cold air pass him by and heard a sigh coming from somewhere deep within the shadows. Or was it the collective intake of breath from a crowd absorbed in the football match that was still going on outside?
Wee Bert was curled up on the ground, hands over his head, whimpering, repeating Ronnie Rankin’s name over and over. With shaking hands, Lorimer reached for his radio and pressed the red button, too stunned to speak. Officers would be here in seconds. Then they would finally be able to make sense of the groundsman’s killing spree.
Light spilled in from outside the door and the sound of rain falling on to the roof had stopped. Looking around him Lorimer could see no trace of the legendary ghost nor could he feel anything that spoke to him of a supernatural presence. He stepped backwards, still clutching the rifle, desperate for some fresh air.
‘All right, sir?’ The first of the armed response unit was at his side, taking the rifle from Lorimer’s unresisting hands, and he could hear the sounds of boots thudding against tarmac as others came to join him. Lorimer nodded and moved out of the doorway.
There was a rainbow arcing above the stadium, bright against the summer skies. Its bow seemed to end somewhere within the green sward below. The storm had passed. Lorimer took a deep breath, thankful for this sweet moment.
But would he ever know exactly what had taken place in Kelvin’s boot room? And had it only been the crazed imagination of a lunatic that had rescued Lorimer from certain death?
CHAPTER 43
Jock MacInally sat grinning at the men by his side. It had been an unbelievable day. First he’d been asked loads of questions, then they’d taken him upstairs where he’d been introduced to some of the club officials. Then, to Jock’s astonishment, they’d plied him with anything he wanted to drink, brought him plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls and treated him as though he were visiting royalty. The fact that Kelvin had held the Pars at bay for the whole ninety minutes to gain a vital three points had been the icing on the cake as far as he was concerned. So he hadn’t seen much of the game, but what did that matter? They’d given him a free season ticket, told him what an asset he was to Kelvin, and how he was their favourite supporter. Tomorrow the Sunday papers would be full of the stories about the capture of the ‘Kelvin Killer’ but Jock didn’t read the papers and would spend the day regaling anyone who cared to listen with his own tale. Aye, unbelievable so it was, but Jock MacInally would milk the events of this day for all they were worth.
The stadium had cleared eventually and if there was a surfeit of yellow-jacketed men helping around the perimeter of the grounds, nobody seemed to notice. The white van with its Kevlar-clad occupants had slipped away quietly long before full-time, along with an unmarked car which had taken Kelvin’s groundsman away. The rain that had fallen steadily throughout the second half of the match was now abating, leaving muddy puddles on the pitch. A small wind had sprung up too, clearing away the thunder clouds and bringing a freshness to the air that had been missing for weeks. Paper bags and sweet wrappers blew along the empty stands, among the rows and rows of numbered seats with, here and there, a broken polystyrene cup, crushed underfoot by the departing fans.
Staring out from the mouth of the tunnel, Ron Clark heaved a sigh. How long would it be till they left this legendary place and headed up to Kennedy’s new dream stadium? The chairman had also disappeared with Lorimer and his team of detectives. Well, Kennedy had some questions to answer too, questions that Ron Clark had been asking ever since his appointment as manager. He looked down as a crisp bag rustled over his feet. Automatically the Kelvin manager bent to pick it up and put it into his pocket. Wee Bert had been a stickler about litter, he thought, a faint smile appearing on his face. It was just a pity his obsessions hadn’t stopped there. Ron Clark’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared and he gave a shudder as he thought about the man who had devoted so much of his life to Kelvin FC. Just what had been going on in his mind? And what had driven him to take such desperate measures?
‘No, definitely not,’ Bert told them firmly.
Lorimer and Alistair Wilson had been with the groundsman now for almost an hour during which time he had been answering questions that related to the shooting of Norman Cartwright, Jason White and Jimmy Greer. Like a good wee boy, Bert had put up his hand for all three of them. But when Lorimer had broached the subject of Nicko Faulkner, the erst-while groundsman’s attitude had changed.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he continued with such an expression of effrontery on his face that it made Lorimer want to laugh. ‘That slag of a wife did it!’ he insisted. ‘We’d have had a great season if Nicko had been in the team,’ he grumbled.
Lorimer and Wilson exchanged glances. It was as if the man had been discussing the weather, not the killing of three innocent men. This was disquieting territory for the two detectives. In no time at all they would be handing him over to the medics and the last they’d hear of Albert Little would be when he was taken to Carstairs Mental Hospital.
‘Tell me again why you killed Norman Cartwright,’ Lorimer said.
Bert looked at him sharply. ‘Because he was on the fiddle. No self-respecting referee would take bribes like that!’ The man’s indignation was almost comical.
‘And who do you think was behind the bribes?’
Bert grinned and wagged a finger at Lorimer. ‘Ah, you don’t catch me out like that, Chief Inspector.’
‘Let’s put it another way, Bert, shall we? You wanted to kill Pat Kennedy today. Can you tell us just why that was?’ Lorimer adopted a conversational tone to match that of the groundsman who, as Wilson had suggested to his boss, appeared to be what the boys upstairs referred to as a ‘grade-A fruitcake’.
‘Mr Kennedy didn’t have the club’s best interests at heart,’ Bert said pompously.
‘And you did?’ suggested Lorimer.
Bert’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. ‘Of course! The whole club was going downhill. First he made sure that we were out of the Premier League, then he was going to sell my ground and have a supermarket built on it! He was going to make millions out of that deal. Going to build a pitch of …’ his voice choked with emotion. ‘AstroTurf!’ he spat out at last.
Lorimer looked at Wilson, who shook his head and frowned.
‘Ach, you don’t see it, do you?’ Bert continued, glaring at them from across the table. ‘He had to come down to Division One, didn’t he?’
‘But why?’ Lorimer asked. ‘What was the point of deliberately trying to have his team relegated?’
‘The SPL don’t allow AstroTurf in their league. So he was going to sell off my ground.’ The groundsman’s face grew dark with anger. ‘My ground!’ he cried, thumping a fist on the table between them.
‘But it’s not your ground, Bert, is it?’ Lorimer said gently.
Albert Little stared at him for a moment then his face crumpled and he began to cry like a child, noisy sobs that ended with a wail of despair.
Lorimer looked down at his notes. There was not much scribbled down as everything was recorded on tape, but he had a few memos. Jason White had been gunned down simply for being disloyal to the club and bringing it into disrepute. That was the word Bert had used. Disrepute. And Lorimer had written it down with a large question mark beside it. As if he could s
carcely bring himself to believe that a man’s life had been blown away for such a slight motive. Jimmy Greer had been involved with the bogus dead body in the boot room. That had been harder to winkle out of the man sitting opposite them. At each mention of the boot room he had clammed up, as if unwilling to relive any aspect of that strange place. But gradually it had all come out: how Greer had suggested the scenario with the dummy and how Bert had later written that threat on the wall with red paint. They had found the paint, of course, along with a cache of firearms that had made Lorimer’s eyes widen. Greer had become too close to it all in the end and Bert’s only solution was his standard practice: shooting him. He’d even told them in detail how he had fired the first shot to attract the journalist’s attention, held up an old hubcap to flash the sun’s rays in the man’s eyes, then had taken aim and shot him dead. Lorimer had seen the killer’s eyes light up then, remembering how clever he’d been.
Lorimer considered his report; there was no doubt the man was psychologically disturbed and he emphasised his opinion that many more deaths would have occurred if Albert Little had not been stopped today. Looking at the man, sobbing into his hands, he wondered what Dr Brightman might have made of him. But Solly was back at the Royal Infirmary at Rosie’s side. He’d put in his bit, helped them all to focus on a particular sort of killer and he would no doubt gain satisfaction from seeing his theories justified.
‘DCI Lorimer terminating the interview at 6.45 p.m.,’ he said aloud. And as he watched the uniformed officers lead Bert Little away to the cells, Lorimer gave a moment’s thought to another prisoner. It would not be long until someone informed Janis Faulkner of today’s events. And he wondered just how she would react.
CHAPTER 44
It was a typically dreich, wet Glasgow day. All morning the rain clouds had hung over the city, washing the streets into slicks of grey. Yet, to Solly, grinning out of the taxi window, it had never looked more beautiful. Behind them the gloomy chimney that towered over Glasgow Royal Infirmary had disappeared and now they could see the spires of Trinity and the University. They would soon be home. Solly turned his gaze back to Rosie; she was still pale and there were scars that needed more time to heal, but her eyes were bright and she smiled her familiar smile as she took his hand and squeezed it.
‘Okay?’ she asked him and Solly nodded, too full to speak. Yes, he was okay. He smiled at her word, it was a typical Scottish understatement. He was okay, fine, whatever she wanted him to be. But inside, Solomon Brightman felt like a king.
Maggie Lorimer pulled off her raincoat and rushed to the telephone before it could stop ringing. Maybe it was Solly to tell her that Rosie was safely back home. But it was an unfamiliar voice that met her ears, a stranger who was suddenly asking questions about a little ginger cat.
As she slumped down on to a kitchen chair, Chancer came and rubbed himself against her leg. A lump formed in Maggie’s throat as she scooped him up and held him to her cheek. Hearing him purr like that was so hard to bear. A few more hours and the house would be silent again, bereft of this little animal that had come into her life and wound his way around her heart. The man on the phone had sounded a decent sort. Well spoken and matter-of-fact about it all. He’d explained how he and his wife had been caring for the cat — whose real name was Monty — while his elderly mother had taken an extended holiday to New Zealand. They’d only had her pet for two days when he had disappeared. Maggie looked at the address the man had given. It was a fair distance away but not too far for a cat who might be trying to find its way home. Could it be that Chancer was really Monty?
With trembling hands, Maggie laid down her notepad. Was it a coincidence that this call had come on the very day that Rosie was released from hospital? She looked out of the window at the rain lashing down from a leaden sky. Had God heard her plea, and was she being asked to sacrifice something dear to her because of the pact that she had made? It wasn’t something she did often, and she was assailed by a pang of guilt as she dialled his mobile number, but at that moment Maggie had an overwhelming need for her husband.
Lorimer sat staring out at the rain-washed car park below his office. On his desk there were matters pertaining to serious crimes and he had several important reports to finish before he could head for home. But he needed a moment to think about Maggie and how she must be feeling. Her voice had sounded so desperately unhappy even though she was trying to be brave. Funny how a wee thing like a stray cat could turn your world upside down. If Chancer was gone then he’d find her a wee kitten that needed a good home, he decided. It was the least he could do. His hand reached for the documents in front of him. Matters of life and death were what he dealt with every day but he could empathise with Maggie’s loss just as much as he could with the terrible, wrenching grief of the men and women whose loved ones had been torn away by one man’s madness.
Albert Little had been committed to an asylum for the mentally insane. Background reports suggested that he might have been suffering from Gulf War syndrome but this had not tallied with his years of capable — nay, outstanding — service to Kelvin FC, Solly had insisted when they’d discussed the man’s behaviour. Even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was out of the question in someone who had been capable of holding down a demanding full-time job, the psychologist had told Lorimer. If Solly had been able to follow through with this case could he have given them the clues that would have led to apprehending their killer sooner? The question was academic now, but Lorimer found himself wondering at the quirks of fate that had dogged this case, and realised just how much he had missed the psychologist’s profiling techniques. This had become another tool for Lorimer over the years, one that he had learned to value.
The veritable arsenal of weapons hidden inside the boot room ceiling — hand guns and rifles, even a Kalashnikov — must have been picked up by Bert during the Bosnian conflict. The ex-army man had left a trail of devastation behind him. Not only were there entire families left bewildered by the man’s killing spree, but the football club that he had lived for was now in serious trouble.
Just this week, the administrators had been called in following Barbara Kennedy’s decision to sell her shares in the club. She’d make a pretty profit, contrary to the plan that her husband had envisaged. Kennedy had wanted to bring down the club and sell off the place, then buy back the shares for a rock-bottom price. He’d thought everything had been within his control, quite unaware that Wee Bert had discovered some of his schemes. Now the chairman was on bail pending a date on which he would be called for trial. Albert Little’s statement had opened up a whole can of worms that included bribery and fraud on a massive scale. Norman Cartwright was not the only person who had been caught up in Kennedy’s wheeling and dealing. Baz Thomson’s bank accounts also showed discrepancies that had made the striker an integral part of this inquiry. He’d led Weir a merry dance, feigning ignorance of his finances and lying about his accountant being away on holiday. Lorimer had sympathised with their new DC; Weir had taken the matter personally, feeling he should have sussed out the Kelvin player. Only Ron Clark appeared untouched by the scandal. The manager had appeared on television several times stating his belief that Kelvin could again rise from the ashes of its present disgrace. The boys were all behind him, he had claimed, and they were hopeful of fulfilling all of the remaining fixtures of the season, though that was still a decision in the hands of their administrator. Lorimer had watched every news item that related to the football club. A special fund-raising drive had begun, led by Big Jock MacInally, and banners proclaiming ‘Save the Keelies’ were being unfurled at every match. Whether the club had a future in Scottish football remained to be seen.
A sudden draught blew across his desk, rustling the papers. For a moment Lorimer remembered that small, cold wind that had passed him by as he’d lifted the rifle away from the hands of the man who had tried to kill him. Could a hardened cop like himself ever believe that the spirit of a long-dead footballer had really intervened that day?
He shook his head. But maybe the legend of Ronnie Rankin would be powerful enough to save his beloved club from a different sort of destruction.
It was late when Lorimer reached home. The rain had stopped and the grey clouds were scudding across the horizon, bringing a freshening wind whistling through the treetops. Summer was almost over and soon the trees would be turning yellow. But there would be no wee ginger cat to play among the fallen leaves.
‘Hi,’ he called out, ready to have Maggie throw herself into his arms in a storm of weeping. But when he walked into the kitchen Lorimer was met by the last thing he expected to see.
‘He’s still here?’ he asked, looking down at Chancer, who was busy washing his paws, then at Maggie who was looking smug.
‘Yes, and he’s ours!’ And now she really was in his arms and he was kissing her face, her lips and she was laughing and crying at once.
‘His owner’s going into a retirement home. Can’t take pets,’ she burbled between happy kisses. ‘And we were asked if we wanted to keep him!’
Lorimer held her tightly, feeling her warmth, sharing in her sheer joy. Then he felt a familiar tap against his trouser leg and he looked down and laughed.
It was Chancer. And their little ginger cat was looking up at them both with an expression on his face that could only be described as a grin.
EPILOGUE
When she opened her eyes it was pitch black. Tonight there would be no moonlight to shine through the thin curtains of her cell. After all these weeks of light-blue skies and rosy sunsets, the nights had become dark and full of shadows. Outside she could hear the wind as it blew a scattering of leaves across the courtyard. Tomorrow might bring more rain and she’d have to wear a warmer jacket.