by Alex Gray
Lorimer sighed. There was nothing to link them in life, and everything to link them in death. As for poor little Sharon Millen, no trace had been found to show where her death had taken place. All they knew was that she had got on that number 7 bus and then her corpse had been found in St Mungo’s Park, hidden in the bushes. Just like the others. Why? Why had he troubled to take them to the park? The initial risk in dumping Donna’s body was bad enough, but the increased risk in taking two further bodies there was crazy. But I am dealing with a crazy person, Lorimer told himself. This person has apparently no motive for the killings, so why expect any logical motive for his disposal of the corpses? That young PC, Matt Boyd, had suggested a link with previous murders in the city which had been at the hands of drug-crazed youths, hallucinating and paranoid. It was Matt’s answer for every crime of violence. Given the statistics, he had a fair chance of being correct some of the time.
But this was different. There was something far more calculating and vindictive about this. No fingerprints had been left and the fibres being tested by the forensic biologists were as yet without any significance. Forensic biology could uncover all sorts of clues from traces left at the scene of a crime, but it had its limitations. Often the data was only one half of an equation, meaningless until the other half could be discovered.
A consultation of HOLMES had proved fruitless. The national computer bank could show patterns of crimes all over the country. But there was none. This spate of crimes in his city had no parallel anywhere else. In one way this was a relief: it narrowed the field. Yet a repeated pattern would have offered help in establishing travel routes and other background which might have helped identify a killer.
It all came back to why. Why had he taken them to the park? Why brutalise them in such a way? Lorimer’s eyes roamed around the walls of his office, seeking inspiration. There were the usual outsize maps, a statement of policing principles, various commendations and two calendars, one ringed in red to show the dates of murders committed in his Division. But it was to none of these that Lorimer turned his attention, and instead he looked to the paintings he had accumulated over the years. Some were prints, of course. A policeman’s salary didn’t always allow for the purchase of originals, and certainly not the famous portrait of Père Tanguy which gazed down at him. The postman looked as if he was restless with sitting and longed to be off and doing something more active. That was what had attracted Lorimer to the Van Gogh print; that feeling of a man’s repressed energy. Lorimer understood that feeling only too well.
But today there was no inspiration to be had from works of art or anything else for that matter. The Fiscal had allowed them weeks to have the corpses studied by forensics, with all the painstaking details which that had entailed. And what had he to show for these weeks of investigation? For the first time in his career Chief Inspector William Lorimer was beginning to feel out of his depth. He’d cracked countless cases of mindless violence, but none had yielded up as little as this one. That none of his colleagues had experienced a case like this was little comfort.
The Press were on his back, demanding results. And so was the Super. It was time to bring in the psychologist. Lorimer frowned. He’d heard of miraculous results from these fellows, but part of him still resisted putting faith in a procedure he didn’t know much about. Well, perhaps he ought to make it his business to find out now.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Sir, Superintendent Phillips says he’s ready to go now.’
WPC Annie Irvine waited anxiously for Lorimer to turn round and acknowledge her words. For a few moments he stood, still staring out of the window. They were all used to his moods, and put up with the long, almost rude, silences because he was such a good DCI and pretty fair-minded if his officers watched their step. At last the shoulders heaved in a resigned sigh.
‘All right, Annie, I’ll be there shortly.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She closed the door and rolled her eyes to heaven.
Superintendent Phillips, the Divisional Commander, didn’t like being kept waiting and she’d be the one to catch the brunt of his short temper if Lorimer didn’t hurry up. The Divcom was already in a foul mood. WPC Irvine crept past George Phillips’s door. Thank goodness she wasn’t the one who was going to that poor girl’s memorial service.
They sat in the car until most of the mourners had passed through the gates and slowly wound their way up to the church. Rain on the windscreen made the shapes of leafless trees blurred and out of focus, like an Impressionist painting.
All the families had wanted cremations but the Fiscal had, of course, refused. The victims’ bodies were still in the mortuary and would be for some time to come. Meanwhile this latest memorial service had to suffice to help the bereaved come to terms with their loss.
Lorimer wondered if wanting cremations was simply the modern trend of funerals, or did they want to obliterate in ashes the remains of these mutilated bodies? An interesting thought. Perhaps he’d put it to the psychologist and see what he made of it.
Beside him the Divcom coughed and looked irritably out of the window. Lorimer tried not to smile. George Phillips had given up smoking again and was hell to live with.
‘All right, Constable,’ Lorimer leaned forward and touched the driver’s shoulder. The car joined the slow line of vehicles winding up to the little building at the top of the hill. Already people were queuing to enter, their black umbrellas held against the streaming rain. Lorimer stared at each one, hunting for a face to jog a memory, to spark off some clue which would set him on the long road to solving this case. Each darkened figure was a stranger. As they took their places near the back, Lorimer was distracted by a group of girls weeping desperately, holding on to each other. They must have been classmates, he thought. What a hellish murder. Lorimer felt a boiling rage inside.
As the minister asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer, Lorimer’s piercing blue stare was directed at the wooden cross on the wall. Give me a clue, he demanded, show me where that bastard is. Oh God of any pity, don’t let him get away.
Later, sitting in the car, they watched as one by one the mourners left the church. James Thomson was being supported by his father. The boy looked as though he could collapse at any moment. The schoolgirls were quieter now, subdued by the service and by the necessity of encountering Sharon’s parents. Bravely, the Millens had remained to receive the congregation, speechless, but shaking hands. The elderly minister stood by them supportively, speaking an occasional word of thanks. He hadn’t known who we were, Lorimer thought to himself, he’d treated everyone with the same kindly courtesy. What was it about some of these church folk that they could only see good in their fellow men? Lorimer mused on this for a moment, admitting to himself that the seamy side of life had given him quite a different outlook.
What kind of outlook did the killer have? Did he know of Sharon’s memorial service? Or did his involvement with her end when he left her body under those bushes, taking her blonde hair away with him? For what? Why? With Donna Henderson’s murder had come a frantic round of city salons, freelancers, theatrical stylists and wig dressers. The link between the victim’s profession and manner of death had seemed so obvious. Now it seemed only a cruel irony.
The last of the mourners stepped into her car and drove off. A school teacher, thought Lorimer, who was good at guessing professions from appearances.
‘Nothing doing, Bill.’
George Phillips’s tone was resigned. Lorimer declined to answer. Rain-soaked trees lined the road to the gateway and their car swished out into the main road leading back to town.
At the first set of red lights George Phillips turned to Lorimer.
‘We’ll be sending that psychologist fellow up to see you later today. Can’t do any harm, and could do some good. Question is, do we let the Press in on it at this stage or not? Could make it look as though we’re up to something.’
On the other hand it might be seen as clutching at straws.
Lorimer stared straight ahead. He was not opposed to this development, just resentful that it had come to this in a case where he had failed to find anything significant himself.
‘Fellow by the name of Solomon Brightman,’ continued the Divcom. ‘Funny names most of these psychologist types have. Ah well, perhaps he’ll cast a little light on the case.’
Lorimer refused to acknowledge Phillips’s feeble attempt at a joke. Within himself he hoped fervently that the psychologist would do just that. And it was no laughing matter.
The main building of the university was old and chilly. Stone steps and balustrades, marble-tiled floors and old creaking wooden doors gave the place a Gothic atmosphere. Lecture theatres and labs gave off from one side of a wide corridor whilst offices lay on the other. ‘Doctor S. Brightman’ proclaimed a small plastic plaque. Underneath, picked out in gold, was the word ‘Psychology’.
On the other side of the door was a surprisingly modern office with the normal accoutrements of grey steel filing cabinets, pale pine desk and chair and several shelves of books. Solly Brightman sat behind the desk, a large ordnance survey map before him. He was a young man of thirty-two, rather foreign in appearance, due to his thick black beard, black-rimmed spectacles and handsome Semitic features. His large brown eyes were fringed with the sort of luxuriant lashes most women would have given a month’s salary for. These eyes were pondering an area on the map. A green circle showed St Mungo’s Park and its immediate residential environs. Solly had ideas about these environs.
The telephone rang. He picked it up casually, without taking his eyes off the map for one moment.
‘Yes, Chief Inspector. Certainly. Yes, I will. No. That’s all right. I’ll see you then. Goodbye.’
Solly spoke smoothly, as if the words had been rehearsed for a part he was playing, then put down the telephone. His preoccupation with the map before him made the conversation with Chief Inspector Lorimer seem quite incidental, almost irrelevant, instead of the one for which he had been waiting most of the day. Solly could see more in the map before him than simple areas of green parkland and networks of suburban streets. He saw opportunity. He saw escape routes. And he saw the emergence of a possible personality.
CHAPTER 3
Outside the closed gates of St Mungo’s Park, PC Matt Boyd stood waiting for his neighbour. He shivered beneath the police-issue raincoat. What a foul night to be on duty. Guard duty.
His shiver had expressed a disgust for the murders perpetrated within the darkened park as well as a thrill of fear that the murderer could return to the scene of the crime. His hands felt the radio in his top pocket then went to his baton concealed below the coat. Heavy footsteps told him that Henry was coming back from the chippy. Sure enough, the younger constable strode smartly around the curve of the park’s railings, his breath clouding the cold night air.
‘Lord, this is a miserable duty,’ he spat out, turning on his heel to face the road, his back, like Matt’s, to the gates behind him. He passed over the newspaper-wrapped packet.
‘Ta, mate,’ Matt said, unwrapping the vinegary chips and beginning to devour them greedily.
‘Keep one for Rover,’ laughed Henry.
Rover was the nickname for the dog-handler rather than the dog, whose name was Ajax. Handler and Alsatian were patrolling the perimeter of the park constantly that night, passing Matt and Henry at the main gates about every forty-five minutes. They were due to make an appearance in less than ten minutes if their tour of the park had proved uneventful. Matt chuckled again. Rover would be lucky to see any of his chips. Still, he might give one to the dog.
The sound of the rain was a soft drilling on the pavement and a gurgle of water trickling down the drains. His footsteps were muffled by the wetness, each print illumined for an instant in the streetlight, then gone, melting into shadows. His head turned slowly from street to park, past trees and open grassland, past swishing cars and buildings shuttered against the night.
Ajax’s breath came out in a faint misty cloud as he loped along, mouth slightly open showing strong white teeth. The railings took on a long curve, foliage thick and high above them as the hill banked steeply. Suddenly the dog stopped, stiff and alert. His head strained and his nose probed the air. The handler made a movement to unleash him if need be, while above them the rhododendron bushes swayed madly. Then a splintering crash revealed a white face glaring through the leaves. The handler slipped the leash and reached for his two-way radio.
In a moment there was a flurry of leaping dog and a cry as the face disappeared, falling backwards through the bushes.
Henry’s radio crackled into life.
‘Tango Two, this is control. Ajax has a prowler inside the park. Assistance requested. Car on its way. Over.’
‘Roger, Control. Wilco.’
Henry’s eyes were shining, all boredom gone. He and Matt broke into a jog along the wet pavements, ears straining for Ajax’s growls. Matt paused briefly by a bin to toss away their scrunched up chip packets. A different kind of hunger was taking over.
They came around the corner to see Ajax crouching by his handler. A man leaned flat against the inside of the park railings, obviously terrified of the dog. As Matt began to climb the railings he could hear him yabbering, ‘Get ’im off. Don’t let ’im touch me!’
Ajax was trained to look as though he would spring at a suspect. He had full control over the man.
‘Car’s coming,’ Henry quietly told the handler.
Matt was now standing alongside the dog, shining his torch on the man against the railings. The torchlight gave his eyes a sunken, staring look. He was a small man, probably in his sixties, thin on top with wrinkled cadaverous flesh which hung in slack, unshaven jowls. His threadbare grey coat was tied round the waist with rope. Matt felt a sinking disappointment. He was only a derelict. Still, he would be taken in for questioning. The park was out of bounds after all, and notices had been put up to that effect. Closed circuit television cameras with infrared devices were secreted in and around the park, mainly panning the area where the bodies had been found. Yet all this technology had failed to detect what one well-trained dog had found.
Matt was annoyed. For a few minutes the activity had given the impression of a breakthrough. He had been rehearsing what he would say if Chief Inspector Lorimer were to ask for a résumé of their night’s duty. In his imagination he had anticipated the Chief’s nod of approval and his own resulting glow.
A white escort pulled up and the tramp was hoisted clumsily over the railings and handed into the back of the car. Ajax and his handler watched them drive off round the curve of the park.
‘Ah, well, back to the gate,’ grumbled Matt. He set off, slightly ahead of Henry and the handler. Ajax walked obediently by their side, alert yet calm as ever, pleased by the recent excitement.
CHAPTER 4
Solly sat in a corner of the interview room. He had not demurred when Chief Inspector Lorimer invited him to sit in as an observer.
It was highly unusual for a Chief Inspector to conduct interviews. The old man had been cautioned and a preliminary taped interview had already taken place. They could hold him for six hours and in that time it would normally be Alistair Wilson, Lorimer’s smoothly urbane Detective Sergeant, who dealt with the suspect. He especially wanted Lorimer to see this fellow for himself, however, and the Detective Chief Inspector in turn wanted to see what the psychologist made of it all.
The interview room was small and square, with a window set up high; a lozenge of daylight filtered into the harsher brightness from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling. Solly sat very still, one leg crossed, attending to the conversation before him. Rather more than the man’s identity had been established by the computer at the charge bar. Other computerised information told a story about this man’s past. It was an unpleasant story, in which small boys had figured.
Lorimer consulted the preliminary report sheet in front of him.
‘You are Valentine Carruthers. Is that co
rrect?’ Lorimer had asked. The reply had been mumbled and Lorimer had repeated his demand in a tone which made even Solly uncross his legs and sit up straighter.
‘Yes. Valentine Carruthers.’
The old man’s reply was spat out in defiance. It was obvious that he resented having to admit to his identity. Lorimer’s response had been a surprised lift of the eyebrows. If ever a name failed to match its owner’s appearance, this was one. Lorimer’s eyes flicked over towards the psychologist. Was he wondering about the fellow’s background? Questioning how life had let him down to the level of sleeping rough in parks?
‘Right, Mr Carruthers. You were apprehended last night in St Mungo’s Park.’ Lorimer paused, his blue glare pinning Valentine Carruthers into helpless submission. ‘You did know that the park was closed to the public?’ The man nodded his response. ‘And you know why, I take it?’ Lorimer’s unbroken gaze forced a response.
‘Those murders.’
Valentine’s eyes dropped unhappily down to focus somewhere below the table which separated him from Lorimer.
‘Are you in the habit of spending the night in that particular park?’
Valentine considered the question. He shifted in his chair.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘It depends.’
‘Could you tell me where you spent the night over the last four weeks?’
Valentine had not looked back at his interrogator whose voice, though demanding, was still reasonable in its tone. Solly wondered if the tramp was capable of remembering where he had slept every night for an entire month.