Never Somewhere Else

by Alex Gray

  The journalist kicked his chair against the desk and loped out of the open-plan office, ignoring the raised eyebrows that glanced his way. He took the lift down to the ground floor and strode out into the street. Automatically he turned left and swung into the Press Bar. He might as well face the jibes sooner than later.

  ‘Hi, man. They let you out then, did they?’

  Davey was leaning back in his chair. It looked as if he had been craning his neck to see the television mounted on the wall. The All Blacks tour was on and Scotland’s players were facing their turn for annihilation.

  ‘Get the man a beer, Eddie,’ Paul from the sports desk was grinning over his shoulder, ‘he’s got a bad taste to wash away.’

  ‘Cheers, Paul.’

  Martin sank down beside the photographer and waited for Eddie the barman to bring his drink. Davey was regarding him quizzically.

  ‘You all right, man?’

  Martin nodded and swallowed. Did he really look as shaken as he felt? A swift glance around reassured him that Diane at least wasn’t there to witness his humiliation.

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  Davey was watching the rugby but threw the question over his shoulder. Martin took the beer from Paul and swigged it down thirstily before he replied.

  ‘Easier to say what they didn’t ask. Wanted to know about my hair, of all things. Christ, what goes on with these guys? Seems they have plenty of traces to test for matches or something. But to think they thought that I had something to do with these girls.’

  He drank again, looking down into the glass to avoid anyone’s eyes.

  ‘What exactly have they got, really? I mean that fire must’ve finished it all off.’ Davey’s voice was scornful. ‘Oh come on boys, that was pathetic,’ he added as yet another scrum collapsed.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t exactly taken into Chief Inspector Lorimer’s confidence,’ Martin began, ‘but it’s obvious they’ve got something.’ Davey nodded, swinging back and forward in his chair. Martin went on, ‘If you ask me, the fact that I live in St Mungo’s Heights was the main reason they had me in. And the fact that I’d been doing a bit of sleuthing on my own.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Sherlock Enderby? Nah. Doesn’t sound right.’

  Davey’s grin suddenly seemed to defuse the whole situation and for the first time that day Martin managed to raise a smile. The photographer finished his beer and slowly whirled round in his chair.

  ‘Tell you what, Marts. How about we go to the Ashoka for a carry out and take it back to your place?’ Martin shrugged as Davey added, ‘Can’t bear to watch the sight of blood any more. You know what a sensitive soul I am.’ A roar of disgust had gone up from the Press men watching the rugby. Scotland were being well and truly trounced.

  ‘Okay. A tandoori might just settle my guts.’

  ‘Right, then.’

  Davey clapped him on the shoulder and they set off for the car park in the next street where Martin had left his car.

  A pungent aroma met them as they pushed open the doors of the Ashoka and headed for the carry out counter. There was already a buzz of voices in the restaurant; Friday-night diners straight from work. Davey and Martin had been in this celebrated curry house plenty of times and knew the menus backwards.

  ‘How’re you doin’, Ali?’ Davey addressed the Indian behind the counter.

  ‘Hallo, there. How are you?’ The man’s Glasgow accent was as thick as Davey’s own, not a trace of the Orient in his voice.

  Eventually, weighed down with two chicken curries, fried rice and naan bread, the two men set off for St Mungo’s Heights. It had started to rain and the rush-hour traffic was becoming heavier. Still, thought Martin, it was the end of a shitty day and he still had Diane to look forward to. The thought of her slim body cheered him up immensely.

  Martin parked in the space by the shrubbery. He had reversed in, ready for the journey across town later on. Davey was already out and heaving his bag of cameras after him.

  ‘C’mon, that smell’s gettin’ round my heart, as my granny would have said.’

  Martin pushed his key into the lock and made for the lifts. Once inside the flat, he ignored the mess on the floor, headed straight for the kitchen and returned with two huge platters and a couple of forks. Davey sank into the sofa, pushing aside the empty McEwans cans with his boot as Martin spilled the curries carefully onto the plates.

  ‘Right. Doon heid, up paws, thank God we’ve jaws,’ the journalist intoned the old Scots Grace with relish.

  This would wipe the taste of that interview room well and truly from his mouth.

  CHAPTER 32

  ‘Have you seen my cufflinks?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘The silver ones. You know. The square Rennie Mackintosh ones you gave me.’

  ‘Oh, those. In your top drawer.’

  Maggie paused, the eyeliner brush held in midair, as she regarded her husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was a good-looking man, she thought to herself. Lorimer’s dress shirt was open, revealing a lean and desirable body. His thick hair, still damp from the shower, fell boyishly to one side. Maggie suppressed a sigh. It was so unfair that some men improved with age whereas almost every woman struggled in vain to keep some vestige of her youthful looks.

  With renewed determination and a steady hand she outlined her eyes. The magazines all urged you to keep looking good for your man, she thought, with the veiled threat that he’d trade you in for a younger model if you didn’t keep up to date. Maggie normally dismissed this as a cynical marketing ploy on the part of the cosmetics companies but tonight, as she glanced at Lorimer who was concentrating on putting his cuffinks in the right way round, Maggie wondered if she would still be around on his sixtieth.

  Her new black spangled jacket lay on the bed. It had cost a packet but she wouldn’t let her conscience spoil the evening. Shaking her curls as if to dismiss the thoughts that irritated her like so many bad imps, she then sprayed herself liberally in a mist of Chanel No. 5. She would enjoy this party tonight.

  ‘Ready?’

  Lorimer stood behind her, checking his bow tie in the dressing table mirror.

  ‘And waiting,’ she replied then stood up and extended her arm towards him.

  Lorimer met her eyes, smiled then took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

  ‘Your carriage awaits, ma’am.’

  Maggie scooped up the glittering jacket and smiled back, warmed by the approval in his blue gaze. A whole night together! This was going to be fun.

  The hotel was crowded when they arrived. Maggie slipped off to the ladies room to renew her lipstick and Lorimer stood gazing into the groups of black-suited policemen, finally locating the huge figure of George himself. The Superintendent was laughing uproariously at something as Lorimer approached.

  ‘Ah, Bill, come and have a drink.’

  They pushed their way through to the bar without difficulty. The guest of honour parted the waves of dinner jackets like Moses, thought Lorimer, and grinned at the big man towering over the bar. George Phillips might have his faults but he certainly made his presence felt.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lorimer, raising his glass. ‘Good health.’ And as an afterthought: ‘Happy birthday.’

  George chuckled. ‘Happy retirement, you mean!’

  The Detective Superintendent swallowed his malt thoughtfully then looked over Lorimer’s shoulder, gazing into the middle distance.

  ‘Where do they go? Sixty years!’ His eyes returned to his DCI and crinkled into a smile. ‘Still there’s life in the old dog yet. And,’ he added, ‘I won’t be out of your hair entirely.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Wait and see. Got a few surprises up my sleeve.’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows as though this were news to him but rumours had filtered down that George was likely to chair a new advisory panel into Drug Related Crime, the Chief Constable’s pet that gobbled up so much of their budget. That was fair enough but he just hoped that George would reme
mber their stretched resources when it came down to murder inquiries.

  ‘Happy birthday, George!’

  There was Maggie shimmering in that new evening outfit, kissing the big man on both cheeks.

  ‘Maggie! Ah, the sight of you does an old man’s heart good!’

  Maggie giggled while Lorimer scrutinised her. She did look good, he thought, eyeing the black silk hugging his wife’s curves. There was a sparkle about her that wasn’t just an illusion created by the spangly blazer. It made Lorimer feel suddenly reckless.

  ‘How about a bottle of champagne?’

  Maggie looked momentarily surprised then nodded. ‘Great idea. After all, you’ve got plenty to celebrate.’ She turned to George and twinkled mischievously at him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Freedom. Slippers by the fire. I’ll think of you all when I’m hacking my way around the golf course.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ Lorimer heard Maggie declare as he turned back to the bar to order a bottle of Moet.

  As he raised the fluted glass to his lips, Lorimer couldn’t help wishing that they were celebrating more than George Phillips’s retirement. He’d have bought a crate of the stuff to toast their success in finding the St Mungo’s killer. He was never very far away from Lorimer’s thoughts. Somewhere on the edge of his mind hovered a shadowy figure with cropped dark hair swinging a silver bicycle chain. The voice on the Crimewatch tape played over and over in his mind. ‘Can you guess …’

  ‘Can you guess where George is going on holiday?’ Maggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Algarve, of course. All those golf courses.’ She put her head to one side. ‘We’ve never been there.’

  ‘Would you want to go?’

  ‘Not to play golf, but …’

  Her voice drifted off and her eyes grew dreamy, no doubt picturing white Moorish houses smothered with purple bougainvillaea, thought Lorimer.

  ‘Just to have a holiday,’ she finished lamely.

  Lorimer poured more champagne into their glasses then grinned wickedly.

  ‘On one condition,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you pack this into your suitcase.’

  He gave a gentle tug on the strap of her dress, feeling the weight of her breasts underneath. Maggie raised her glass in a salute.

  Just at that moment there came a series of thumps and the Master of Ceremonies bawled out the command for dinner. Lorimer was glad that he and Maggie were not at the top table with George, who had included the Chief Constable and the Lady Provost among his guests. The Lorimers were at table two, he knew, with four other couples. He saw Alistair Wilson and his wife Betty, a professional cook who was as plump and cheery as he was slim and debonair. Also at the table was DCI Mitchison, an officer from George’s previous Division. Lorimer had come across Mitchison a couple of times at police seminars. He was one of these men who always did things by the book, Lorimer remembered. He didn’t drink and could be relied upon to bang on about delegating authority. Lorimer had taken an instant dislike to the man, who also had a much younger blonde in tow. They were already standing behind their seats as Lorimer ushered Maggie forward, squinting at the place cards and hoping he wouldn’t be next to the unknown blonde. He noticed, however, with surprise and not a little pleasure, that Ms Rosaleen Fergusson’s name was to his right. Good old Rosie! So long as she didn’t put the diners off with any professional anecdotes! Lorimer grinned then wondered who would be partnering the lovely pathologist this evening.

  He didn’t have long to find out. He heard the wolf whistles first. Then Rosie appeared dressed in an outrageously short, white, strapless number, her hair caught up in a Grecian knot. With her was Dr Solomon Brightman. Introductions were made, ladies ushered into their seats, and Lorimer heard himself make polite small talk with Betty Wilson on his left, who was already enthusing over the menu.

  All conversations were hushed as the Selkirk Grace was given by the Chief Constable and Lorimer had a moment to reflect. Solly and Rosie. Well, well. He caught the pathologist’s eye and made a discreet thumbs-up sign.

  The meal passed in a pleasant haze of passable wine, good food and better company than a Detective Chief Inspector usually enjoys. On the opposite side of the table his wife and Solly were in animated conversation; meanwhile Rosie was telling Alistair Wilson about her visits to Rwanda. Betty was explaining the use of herbs in cookery to the couple on her left, leaving Lorimer’s mind free to wander.

  It wandered through St Mungo’s Park in the back of an old ambulance. The driver wore gloves, just as Alison Girdley had described. Was there anyone in the passenger seat? Lorimer drank the rest of his glass of Vouvray and tried hard to imagine a female beside the cropped-haired driver. A live female wearing a blonde wig. Kanekelon. Japanese hair fibre.

  He looked appraisingly at the women around the table. Mitchison’s companion had swept her platinum locks into a huge wave at the side. More artifice than art, thought Lorimer, comparing the young woman with Rosie’s elegance. Who would ever have imagined that these slim hands with their pearly painted nails could wield such an effective scalpel? Appearance and reality. Belatedly he wondered what DCI Mitchison’s young friend did for a living.

  The driver had stopped now and come round to open the rear doors. Lorimer fast-forwarded the scenes in his mind. There would have been the need for a hose, or a scrub-down of some kind. No trace of bloodstains had been found in the burnt-out ambulance. It would have been cleaned up thoroughly. To rid it of evidence and to prepare for his predations on other innocents. Little boys. There was no doubt now that the paedophile who had lured children into his ‘van’ was also an accomplished killer. He’d offered them sweeties. And threats. Wee Kevin Sweeney had painted a picture of a menacing creature who also had the power to beguile. Had he beguiled Lucy? And Janet Yarwood, who had loved the younger artist? At some point Lucy had become involved with this man and his predilection for little boys. That she had known all about it and used her knowledge as blackmail was one theory Lorimer was anxious to prove. The large sums of cash paid into her account had been spent lavishly on gold, silver and precious stones. Lorimer and Solly had built up a picture of the red-haired art student whose determination to succeed in the world of jewellery design had cost her dearly in the end. He cast his mind back to the exotic arm bangles and shining collars that were to be exhibited posthumously at the degree show. The spoils of blackmail.

  ‘Don’t you think so, Bill?’

  Rosie was smiling at him, quite aware of his discomfiture. She knew fine he’d been away in a dream.

  ‘Just run that past me again, Rosie?’

  Lorimer wasn’t quite as sober as he’d have liked but his wits weren’t totally scattered yet.

  ‘The double-doctor system. We have twice the work but twice the advantages when it comes into court.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  Lorimer picked up on the thread of conversation, a perennial topic for Scottish pathologists who, like so many other professionals this side of the border, were convinced of the superiority of their system.

  The wine waiter came between them, replenishing glasses, and when he’d gone Lorimer found to his relief that Rosie had renewed her conversation with her other dinner guests. Lorimer laid down his knife and fork. He’d hardly touched the sirloin steak. Perhaps the champagne had spoiled his appetite. And all that wine, a small voice reminded him.

  ‘Excuse me, is Detective Inspector Lorimer here?’

  All eyes at table two turned to the red-coated MC who stood holding a piece of hotel notepaper.

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Lorimer.’

  ‘A phone call for you, sir.’

  The paper was delivered and the MC marched away, duty done.

  ‘Excuse me, won’t be a moment.’

  Lorimer got up, smiled reassuringly at Maggie, and threaded his way through the tables to the hotel lobby. There was only a number on the paper. Lorimer recognised a South S
ide code but beyond that it was unfamiliar. The call was answered by Norman Yarwood. His voice was pitched higher than Lorimer remembered, a sure sign of nerves.

  ‘There’s something I’ve found.’

  ‘Oh? What would that be, then?’

  Lorimer tried to keep his manner light but already he could feel the tension gripping his chest as Norman Yarwood revealed his new information. He’d been going through Janet’s things, sorting them out. That’s when he’d found the photograph of Lucy. It had been taken in Janet’s flat. And in the background, he’d noticed, were the missing pictures.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know who …?’

  Lorimer’s face twisted into a grimace as he heard the reply. Once more he imagined the back of the killer’s dark head. For a moment he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the face.

  ‘Yes. Well, thank you Mr Yarwood. I’m most grateful for this information. Could you bring the photograph down to Headquarters first thing tomorrow?’

  Lorimer nodded into the receiver as the man gave him his assurance, apologising yet again for any inconvenience. As Lorimer rang off he thought about the big red-haired man in his Pollokshaws bedsit sifting through the few reminders of his talented daughter. His anger at the delay in finding this nugget of gold suddenly evaporated. How would he feel if it had been his own daughter?

  Lorimer stood quite still for a moment. There was no flash of light or sense of euphoria. Just the terrible clarity that comes to a mind sharpened by excessive alcohol. He knew with an unshakeable certainty that the killer of this man’s child was very close to being brought to justice.