by Alex Gray
Martin had frowned then, hating to be reminded how he’d wormed his way into the woman’s office on the pretence that the Gazette were setting up a retrospective show for Lucy Haining. How obvious it was that the poor bitch had been grieving for a lost love. Martin had hardened himself at the time but now his sense of shame was compounded by a dread of this man at his side. He remembered the fatal turn of their conversation so well.
‘She did tell me about Lucy. Said she’d got in with a bad crowd. Usual story. She’d been involved in some moneymaking scam to fund her art work.’ Martin had paused and stared at his friend. ‘I forgot to tell you. Janet Yarwood asked if I knew you. Since I was on the Gazette. Said she knew your work or something.’
Davey had laughed at that.
‘What it is to be famous, eh?’
Recalling his reaction, Martin shuddered. These words had a different meaning now. He’d tried so hard to remember the dead woman’s exact words. What had she said? ‘I’ve got a couple of Davey Bairds at home.’ Martin saw again in his mind’s eye the waif-like frame and that face full of misery; but she had brightened up as she’d said that.
He’d wondered why Davey was so interested.
‘So what photos did she have of yours, anyway? Were they from that exhibition at the Collins Gallery?’
‘Yeah, probably. Don’t remember.’
At this, Martin had been puzzled. He’d told the photographer about his visit to the House for an Art Lover. Yet Davey had never made any mention of his photos. Of course, he’d probably sold so many prints, it would be hard to keep track. That had been his conclusion at the time. Then he’d glanced at the insouciant faces of the two boys in his own signed print.
‘Where d’you get the models, Dave?’
The question had been asked casually but the other man’s reaction had been explosive.
‘Where the hell’d you think? I pay for them. OK? You journos are so bloody nosy!’
‘Sorry I spoke.’ Martin had held up his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘I’m going off to get changed. Seeing my lady tonight.’ Then, as Davey had made no move to leave, he’d added, ‘How about sticking the kettle on? I could do with a cup of something after that curry.’
‘Sure thing.’ Davey had smiled a thin-lipped smile. ‘Can you give me a lift there too? I need something I left at Diane’s the other night.’
Martin recalled his curiosity being aroused. What was going on? As far as he knew, Davey Baird had never set foot in Diane’s home. He’d decided to take him along, though, grudgingly. Then they’d arrived and the nightmare had begun.
They’d been driving around for what seemed like hours and he was gritting his teeth thinking of Diane and that gash along her throat. What if she was dead? Martin shuddered. They had driven through St Mungo’s Park, Martin picturing himself as another corpse below the bushes. But he had been told to drive on, through the city, up past the Art School, down a rutted lane, on and on weaving in and out of the dark places of Glasgow. From time to time he’d glanced at the petrol gauge, hoping that they’d run out of fuel somewhere in the city centre and then maybe he could make a break for it. But the needle was steady at a quarter full, only dropping slightly as the journey continued.
Now the road ahead was clear of traffic, the rain on the windscreen only a fine mist.
He should do something heroic, Martin thought, flip the car over, seize that Sabatier kitchen knife that Davey held in his fist. Anything at all to escape. But his stomach churned weakly and he just drove on, concentrating on the lane markings.
They passed under the gantry near Ibrox Park.
‘Left.’
The word snapped out. It didn’t sound like Davey Baird at all. It was a nightmare where everything was distorted. In his dream Davey had turned into the St Mungo’s killer. Surely he’d wake up any moment and see Diane safe and sound by his side.
The traffic lights were green and they sailed through.
‘Right at the gates.’
Martin risked a glance then looked swiftly away. The black-handled knife gleamed under a passing street lamp. He slowed the red car down and read the two signs. The ski slopes, or …
‘Right.’
Martin drove slowly around the curving driveway that took him up that familiar road. Guiltily, he recalled the last time he had been up this trail. His interview with Janet Yarwood.
‘In here.’
Martin brought the Peugeot to a halt and cut the engine. For a moment he thought of leaving the lights on. A signal of some kind for help. But Davey leaned over and snapped them off.
‘Keys.’
Martin handed them over, fingers trembling.
‘Keep that seat belt on till I come round.’
The car door opened and Martin was facing that blade again.
‘Out.’
For one mad moment the journalist feigned a stumble and lunged out at the man with the knife. He screamed as the blade slashed his wrist bone.
‘Get to hell, Marty.’ Davey Baird was a crouching shadow as Martin sank to his knees with the pain. ‘Get up. Walk.’
The blade came close to his throat and Martin eased himself up away from its lethal point. Davey motioned ahead of them into the darkness.
‘Down there, and don’t make a sound or you’ll get more of this.’
The knife jabbed through the wool of his jersey, forcing Martin into a stumbling walk. The curry he’d eaten hours before tasted sour in his mouth.
The path, if there was one, was in total darkness and Martin had the sensation of going deeper and deeper into some valley. The House for an Art Lover lay behind them now, screening them from view. His breath fogged the darkness as he strained to make out the ground which suddenly became stony. Steps. There were steps. He must count them. But there were only four. An archway loomed above him and, as he ducked his head, he felt the knife in his back once more.
The car slewed off onto the expressway and Solomon felt pinned back against his seat as the driver risked his own licence to speed to the park. The helicopter had been scrambled and was on its way. The heat-sensitive device could track their quarry on the ground, Solomon knew. One way or another, this one wouldn’t get away. But would the journalist escape unharmed? The dark shapes of trees and bushes burst into colour against the full beams of the headlights as they turned off into Pollokshields. The car squealed around a bend then slowed down to enter the narrower paths leading up to the Rennie Mackintosh house.
‘It’s a dead end at the car park,’ Solomon advised.
‘Right. Alert all units.’
Lorimer began to speak into the radio again, issuing instructions.
The trees lining the driveway loomed towards them and then the shape of the house came plainly into sight. There were no lights on anywhere but there was a solitary car parked at the far end of the car park.
The Chief Inspector and the uniformed driver opened the doors of the Rover, motioning to Solomon to leave them open. No noise. That was understood. The rain had stopped and only the sound of dripping branches could be heard as they stood peering into the darkness.
‘It’s Enderby’s, all right.’
A torch was swept over the red Peugeot’s registration and briefly into the interior. The three men stood listening. Not a sound.
‘Get onto the radio. Tell air support our exact location,’ Lorimer whispered.
His glance flicked over Solomon, who had leaned against the red car. Where on earth had they gone? With the darkness for cover and hours until dawn the whole park was a threat. He recalled St Mungo’s Park in the wake of the three bloodied corpses and the surveillance exercise there. Would the dogs be circling this perimeter yet? Suddenly a faint noise made him look up. The light from the helicopter was a swiftly moving star in the distance.
Another sound from the driveway alerted them to the approach of other cars. They’d killed their lights and were like grey shadows coming through the trees. Soon the whole area was filled with uniformed offic
ers. Lorimer’s call for mutual aid had alerted numerous other Divisions. Briefly he wondered if any of them had been called away from George’s party. But despite the numbers, there was no immediate move to scour the park.
‘Why aren’t they making a move?’ Solomon was indignant.
‘Air support.’ Lorimer pointed upwards. ‘They’ll use the tracking device to follow anyone moving across the park. The infrared picks them out. We’ll just have to hope that there is still a moving target.’ Solomon glanced at the Chief Inspector, as if sifting his words for meaning.
Catching his look, Lorimer gave a crooked smile. ‘Oh, yes, Dr Brightman. These men are armed.’
They looked up as the twin-engined Eurocopter banked above them, its lights flooding an area as big as the football pitch at nearby Ibrox. Lorimer returned to the car, leaning forward to hear the radio controller’s report. So far there was no movement in the park. The beams from the helicopter swept over the wet grass, illuminating the lawns for a second, then the darkness seemed blacker than ever.
Martin was on his knees under some sort of wall. His hands had been forced behind him and tied with a chain that cut into the flesh. He wanted to cry out but his throat was dry and, anyway, who would hear him? Davey Baird sat above him on the steps, still clutching the Sabatier. For a while he had simply stared at him. What the hell was going through his mind?
‘Want to know why I did it, Marty?’
The voice didn’t sound familiar in the dark. It was the sneer of a badly acted villain in some cheap drama. Somehow that gave Martin a glimmer of hope. It would come to an end. It wasn’t real.
‘No?’ the voice continued. ‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Remember the wee hairdresser? That first one? I didn’t know her from Adam. She just turned up when I needed her. And the third one? The schoolgirl? All that rubbish about a number seven bus. She never even caught one. Had a spat with the boyfriend and hitched a lift home in an off-duty ambulance. Only the nice ambulance driver turned out to be me.’ He laughed softly. ‘I had them hopping all right. Thought they’d got another Yorkshire Ripper. St Mungo’s murderer. Oh, Marty, what a help you were in keeping that jackanory going. And all along the only one who needed to be done in was that bitch, Lucy.’
Martin cringed at the venom in the voice.
‘Got so bloody greedy. Was going to spill a whole can of worms if I didn’t keep her in funds. Then that stupid old fool. Knew about the ambulance, of course. Had his own kicks in there often enough.’
Martin moved his hands in their metal bond, feeling the blood from his wrist slippery on the chain links. The photographer’s blonde hair fell over his face as he jerked him up.
‘Oh, no you don’t, Marty. I haven’t finished with you yet.’
The boot went into his stomach and Martin buckled in a deep groan.
‘Shit! Bloody helicopters.’
Davey pulled away, letting the journalist fall back onto stony grass. Bright, searching beams picked out the sunken hollow and Martin was suddenly on his own. Davey had vanished into the darkness.
Once the moving target had been sighted, the police spread out in all directions, leaving Lorimer and Solomon with just three officers by the cars. The helicopter pilot kept up a running commentary.
‘Out by the walled garden. No, he’s turned back. Must be locked. No sign of another person.’
Solomon and Lorimer exchanged looks. Was Martin Enderby already another victim?
Lorimer knew the team of men would be tracking the killer now, following the voice above on their radios. The sound of the chopper drowned his thoughts as it wheeled overhead once more, circling an area not too far from the main building. Was he heading their way?
*
This is a Celtic place, full of sacrifice. Full of blood. The stones form his cross. The sacrifice has to be made.
The figure in the dark seizes his victim and raises the knife high.
A burst of sound resonates into the air and a beam floods the place with light.
He drops the victim and the dark returns.
He has the knife. He is on another level, up and away from this sunken garden and its Celtic knot. Away.
His feet are drumming on the wet turf. The light above points its long finger towards him and he cries out in a whimper as if it pains his eyes.
Keep running. No one can get to you now. The darkness will cover you. Keep to the darkness. The knife feels strong and powerful. A weapon of destruction. Like the chain.
Lorimer was aware of a movement to his left. Turning, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure whose pale hair gleamed in the light from the chopper. Then he was gone. Lorimer was after him like a shot, feet thudding over the wet grass, slipping and sliding until they found the path below. There he was, heading for the nearest patch of trees. With his breath coming in short bursts, Lorimer hammered after him.
The man looked round once and suddenly Lorimer was flinging himself at the running feet in an old-fashioned rugby tackle. Lorimer grabbed the hand brandishing the knife. The killer struggled under his grip then cried out in pain as Lorimer jerked his arm backwards, squeezing tighter and tighter, until the weapon fell dully to the ground.
Other footsteps thumped over the path and Lorimer glanced up, relieved to see PC Matt Boyd.
‘Right, you!’
Boyd dropped quickly to his knees by Lorimer’s side, handcuffs out and ready. With a click they were on and the constable yanked the killer to his feet. Lorimer straightened himself up, wiping mud from his dress trousers. Under the helicopter’s dazzling lights the Sabatier glinted on the wet grass. Lorimer bent to pick it up gingerly, folding it inside a handkerchief.
Light illuminated the face between them. Lorimer saw the dirty yellow hair and the wild staring eyes. Then the head was drooping and sullen, all fight gone out of him. Lorimer became aware of other uniformed figures closing in on them. He nodded to Matt Boyd then watched as his men marched back towards the car park, Baird a dark shadow in their midst. The noise of the chopper’s blades receded into the night. Taking a deep breath of fresh night air, Lorimer began the climb back up to the waiting cars.
Very little was said as the officers put the man into the back of the waiting car. Lorimer stared at the man in shocked disbelief. How the hell could such a slight figure have wreaked such havoc? Still, there was one more thing left to do.
‘Give me a moment, please,’ Lorimer said.
The uniformed officer beside Davey Baird slid off his seat to make way for the Chief Inspector. Baird was hand-cuffed, so it was not too difficult to take hold of the blond wig and pull it from the scalp of the photographer. The resin gave way to reveal the skinhead below. Lorimer nodded to himself as he saw the scars lacing the man’s scalp. Old scars. Solomon would find the last pieces of his own missing jigsaw there, he was certain. He tossed the wig onto the man’s lap but as he turned to go Davey snarled at him suddenly and spat. The gob of spittle ran down Lorimer’s dinner jacket like a slowly moving slug. The two men locked eyes for an instant.
Then the door was slammed and Solomon was standing by his side, watching the car take the road to Headquarters.
‘Sir, we’ve found him!’
Lorimer turned to see two officers with a tall man limping between them. An ambulance had already been called. Martin looked up as he saw the Chief Inspector. All traces of his earlier humiliation were gone.
‘Diane, is she …?’
‘She’s all right, son. She’s all right.’
Then, as the journalist broke down and wept, Lorimer patted him on the back and let him be led away to a waiting squad car.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Lorimer breathed deeply, feeling the night air cold and fresh in his lungs.
Solomon watched as the officers gathered again in the car park. ‘Now, what?’ he asked.
Lorimer heaved a deep sigh.
‘The interview room. See what this bastard has to say. Get it done. Then, home. Bed. For an hour or two at least.’ He smil
ed at the psychologist who shuddered. Every nerve in Solomon’s body was trembling but Lorimer stood, hands clasped in front of him, calm and unruffled. For once, Solomon tried to make sense of the man’s body language but failed.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked outright.
‘Feel? Bloody glad that it’s over. Relief, frankly. That’s it, barring the paperwork. All over. All that investigating. We’ll have the reports to conclude. Then it’s up to the courts.’
‘What do you think he’ll get?’ Solomon queried as they walked together towards the Rover.
‘Forever, if justice is done. Lock him up and throw away the key.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘Maybe he’ll plead insanity. Fancy yourself as an expert witness?’
His eyes gleamed in the Rover’s headlamps, and Solomon looked to see if Chief Inspector Lorimer was really as unaffected by this result as he made out. But the blue eyes were unfathomable, following the progress of a certain police vehicle as it disappeared between the trees.
CHAPTER 35
The High Court of Justiciary in Glasgow stood in an area of the city poised between life and death. On one side the City Mortuary hugged the new Court buildings while on the other, Paddy’s Market displayed its wares as people drifted in and out, picking over the discards of other people’s lives. Looking across at this, as if from an aloof distance, stood a Spiritualist Church housed in a plain shop-front.
Within the precincts of the Court, life and death were very much to the fore. Lorimer was sitting towards the rear of the court. He’d arrived early. Gazing around at the now familiar modern courtroom he took in the details of the place. The room was brightly lit from a multitude of concealed ceiling lights. Wooden wall panels were punctuated by three columns either side with circles of greenish frosted glass that glowed from the picture lights behind them. They reminded Lorimer of the works of Rennie Mackintosh. There was a frieze of Celtic inlay, dark olive in colour, at picture-rail height. The whole effect was pleasing to the eye, so long as the Court remained empty. The moment the black-gowned figures entered, however, Lorimer’s attention was immediately transferred.