by Alex Gray
Then total darkness as his heart burst into shattered pulp.
The nightly garbage collection cleared Glasgow city streets of more than the usual detritus that night. The woman added the clothes she’d worn, rolled tightly in a double layer of supermarket carrier bags, to the pile lying in the doorway of the cobbled lane. Any residue from the gun or contact traces from her victim might have found its way onto her hair and clothing, traces that she was keen to destroy.
It was a place she knew well. And somehow it was fitting to leave the evidence (that would never be found) in the very spot where two women had been brutalised, the place no longer cordoned off by police tape. If she could have taken any of her victims there she would have enjoyed some dramatic irony in the situation. But it was too much of a risk. Thrusting her tart’s clothes deep into the heavy duty bin liner was as near a twisted joke as she could contrive.
Walking slowly uphill to Blythswood Square and the hotel, she was already planning her next outing. Not this week, though, and probably not the next. She would watch the aftermath of the shooting impinge itself on the city’s consciousness. And, above all, she would follow the progress of the senior investigating officer’s investigation. Or rather, she smiled to herself as she asked for her room key, their lack of it.
Killing time, she told herself, liking the phrase so much that she spoke it out loud as she walked up the back stairs:
‘Killing time.’
There was the semblance of a day job, of course, and what it entailed, but she could pretend to herself that there were shift patterns; days off and the need to maintain an appearance of normality. Washing the car, shopping for groceries, doing the laundry; all the things that filled in the space between the day-to-day obligations and what had become more than a duty. This was no mere act of revenge on her part, she told herself. Revenge was mindless and all her actions had been well conceived, purposeful. If he’d been caught, Carol’s killer would be serving some piffling sentence in Barlinnie, Saughton or wherever they could squeeze him in. Then, early release. Always early release. She ground her teeth in silent rage. No. Revenge was far less sweet than what she would ultimately feel when he finally fell into her trap. It would be a vindication, a meting out of justice. She’d be the one to apprehend him, try, sentence and execute all on one starlit night. Meanwhile she killed time, taking pleasure in watching as the media’s interest in the shootings quickened.
CHAPTER 15
He had passed the junction for Erskine hundreds of times in the past, but now Detective Superintendent Lorimer was taking the turning near the Erskine Bridge. The call had come some time after two a.m. with a barked instruction from the chief constable to get his arse over to Renfrewshire asap. Hearing the victim’s name had galvanised him into action and now he was here on this darkened stretch of road, flicking his lights on to full beam.
The presence of a police car let Lorimer know to swing left off the main road and slowly follow the narrow track that led into woodland. The thermometer in his new car registered minus one but there was no wind and the thick pine trees ahead glistened with frost, illumined by his headlights. He stopped the silver Lexus round the next corner behind a line of other cars, the familiar blue and white tape some yards ahead barring further entry, and lifted his kit bag from the passenger seat beside him.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Serious Crimes Squad,’ he told the uniformed officer standing guard at the side of a muddy path. The man looked at him warily so, suppressing a sigh, Lorimer flipped open his warrant card and the officer immediately stepped aside.
‘Just watch your feet, sir, it’s a bit icy further along,’ the man told him, pulling his coat collar up around his ears.
Lorimer edged carefully over the hard ground, almost slipping once or twice as his feet connected with a frozen patch. The scene of crime was a few yards further along the narrow track and Lorimer could make out several white figures moving about in the swirling gloom. As he drew nearer a pale shape flew silently past, a barn owl hunting for its prey. The arcs of torchlight up ahead had done nothing to deter this bird from its usual nocturnal habits, Lorimer thought, his eyes trying to focus on what was happening. He peered into the darkness, looking for the victim’s car. Was that it? A white blur partly obscured by dense foliage?
‘Can you keep back please?’ A thick-set man suddenly stepped towards him out of the darkness, torch in hand. ‘Only official personnel allowed.’
For the second time Lorimer whipped out his warrant card and held it close to the man’s torch beam so that he could read it.
‘Sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you this soon. Scene of crime personnel are still attending the scene and we’re waiting for the pathologist. I’m DS Jolyon, scene of crime manager from K Division.’
‘Good to meet you, Jolyon,’ Lorimer said, giving the man a brief handshake. ‘Just let me get geared up will you?’ Turning aside to a patch of dark grass that looked reasonably flat, Lorimer laid down his kit bag and took out the regulation garments that were essential to protect a crime scene from any contamination. Soon he was clad like the others in a white hooded suit and latex gloves, his shoes encased in bootees to prevent any contamination of the soil around the crime scene.
The slam of a car door made Jolyon and Lorimer turn around and they waited until another figure appeared, similarly geared up and carrying a medical bag, stamping along the path to join them.
‘Doctor White,’ Lorimer nodded at the pathologist who was serving as Rosie’s locum.
‘Lorimer,’ the dark haired woman nodded briefly then strode past them both as if she had no need of torchlight to see the locus of this particular crime.
The victim was lying slumped to one side; the hole in his chest black against his white dress shirt. Headlights from nearby patrol cars had leached all sense of colour from the man’s face. Lorimer looked once, then looked away. It was true, then. Edward Pattison, deputy first minister for Scotland, was dead, shot in this quiet woodland, far from his Edinburgh home. The first officers on the scene had identified him from the bank cards in his wallet, then the call had gone out, wakening even the chief constable who had then instructed Lorimer to attend the scene as SIO.
‘Near contact wound?’ he ventured as the pathologist turned to look at him.
‘Possibly,’ she said and smiled. But there was no warmth in that smile and Lorimer had the feeling that the woman would be happier to talk to him once the body had been examined on her surgical table. The gunshot wound was almost certainly near contact like the others but the pathologist was obviously refusing to commit herself in any way at all right now.
In truth there was little for him to do here. Dr White’s examination would continue later in the mortuary; much later, he thought, since they had decided to leave the scene intact until daylight. Sometimes it paid dividends to work at the scene before shifting the body since a wealth of evidence could be gathered by scene of crime officers and the forensic services. And this was a case that he couldn’t afford to mess up in any way, Lorimer told himself. The terse call from the chief constable had made that much clear.
Daylight would bring more officers to this woodland spot and, he acknowledged, the ever eager press pack. He was already composing a brief statement that would go out to their own press officer; finding the right words was of paramount importance if he was to have the papers and the public on his side. But right now he had to work with the scene of crime manager to ensure that everything was done as efficiently as possible.
Lorimer’s expression was sombre as he thought of the scientists who would be involved; a forensic chemist, biologist, firearms examiner and mark enhancement officer as well as the usual scene of crime officers would be grumbling as they feigned exasperation with his orders to obtain a full forensic. The press would just have to wait their turn.
The Gazette
Saturday 14th January
TOP POLITICIAN SHOT DEAD IN GLASGOW
Deputy First Minister E
dward Pattison was found dead in his car in the early hours of this morning. Pattison, who had been part of a delegation at Glasgow City Chambers yesterday evening, was discovered by a young couple walking through a woodland track near to the Erskine Bridge. Early reports suggest that the politician had been shot at pointblank range and police and forensic experts are currently searching his white Mercedes sports car and the surrounding area for clues.
This is the third shooting of a middle-aged man in a white Mercedes that has taken place on the city’s perimeter in recent months, sparking off two manhunts, and police may be considering the theory that the victims were the target of a serial killer with some peculiar agenda. In September last year Matthew Wardlaw, from Birmingham, was the first victim, followed in January by fellow Englishman, Thomas Littlejohn. Each of the three men was away from home on business but the most notable thing they seem to have had in common was the make and colour of their luxury cars.
The deputy first minister leaves a wife, Catherine, and three children who are at the family home in Edinburgh being comforted by relatives.
A full report on Pattison’s life and career can be found on page 12.
‘Pattison is not to be treated like some ordinary person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!’
The chief constable’s words rang in William Lorimer’s ears even after he had replaced the telephone. A high-profile murder like this one was always going to be a bit of a nightmare and handing it over to Serious Crimes was one way of dealing with it, the detective superintendent supposed, absently chewing his index finger. That he already had intelligence about the first two cases under his jurisdiction was helpful to say the least. It let Mumby and Preston off the hook at any rate and he could almost imagine their sighs of relief that they wouldn’t have to deal directly with the press pack right now, something that had fallen to him as SIO. The Gazette and other papers had the bones of the story but Lorimer knew he would have to keep them updated on a daily basis.
The entire day was going to be taken up with Edward Pattison’s death. Just as the early evening news would devote extra space to the dramatic developments surrounding the deputy first minister’s killing, so Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s officers had all weekend leave cancelled and were now being expected to drop everything else to concentrate on this highprofile murder. Lorimer ground his teeth in hopeless rage. The fact that he had already diverted so much of Serious Crime’s resources into the prostitute murders had been brushed aside by the chief. These young women who had been so horribly brutalised were to be of lesser importance now that this public figure had been found dead. He remembered the smirk of satisfaction that DI Sutherland had given when he had broken the news to them. The street girls’ investigation was to be scaled back for now, though he had allowed Professor Brightman to continue his inquiries. Maybe they’d find Pattison’s killer pretty quickly, Lorimer told himself. After all, he had been promised all the resources he wanted.
From just after two a.m. when his car had been found out in that lonely Renfrewshire wood, the police hunt had spread across Glasgow and was now making its way to the capital where Pattison had lived. By midday Lorimer was heading along the M8, the motorway that cut Scotland in two with Glasgow and Edinburgh at either end. Throughout the journey he had kept in touch with what was happening back in the woods near Erskine bridge and the beach, a popular spot for courting couples. The scene of crime lads and lasses had been and gone but there was still a strong police presence there, the usual blue and white tape keeping dog walkers and nosey parkers from contaminating the site.
Now, as the police car swung around the roundabout that led to the city’s perimeter, Lorimer wondered just what he was going to say to Catherine Pattison. More to the point, he wanted to know what she would say to him. Rumours had already reached his ears via the chief constable’s office that the Pattisons’ marriage had been a stormy one, to say the least.
‘Good-lookin’ fella,’ the chief constable had commented. ‘Bags of charm. But tended to play away from home, if you get my drift.’
Lorimer wondered if that throwaway remark had been intended to give him some insight into the victim’s character. It wasn’t really helpful, he thought. If every guy who strayed from the marriage bed was shot in his car, the population would be severely depleted.
His head lifted for a moment as a familiar malty smell wafted into the car. Lorimer inhaled deeply, enjoying the old-fashioned scent of a brewery that was now no more. Only the smell lingered in this particular spot. Then the moment passed and his driver was turning into the heart of the city. Lorimer glimpsed the castle on its plug of volcanic rock, an austere and forbidding pile of grey stones built into grey slabs of hillside. Before Christmas he and Maggie had enjoyed an evening in Edinburgh at the German markets, the lights from trees glittering all around, the big wheel turning and the carousel music melding with voices full of Yuletide cheer. Today, under grey skies and a thin, bitter wind that came directly from the River Forth, Edinburgh seemed far less welcoming.
Their first stop was at the Scottish parliament at the foot of the Royal Mile and as the driver slowed to a halt, Lorimer couldn’t help but stare at the modern building. It had been designed by an inspired Catalan for Scotland’s people, but the building had divided the opinion of its citizens, not least for the cost that had escalated almost out of control. It was a place that Lorimer loved although he couldn’t quite say why it moved him. Maggie liked the lines of poetry etched into the wall round from the Canongate, of course, but what was it that lifted his own spirits every time he entered the doors of this place? Was it the feeling that it belonged to the people of Scotland? And that for once they deserved something so spectacular? Or had he been beguiled by the clever use of stone and wood, reminding him in some subliminal way of ancient castles screened by the old Caledonian forests?
In minutes he was taken through security by a nice young woman who introduced herself as Grace, whisked upstairs in a private lift then taken into the room that was reserved for the first minister, Felicity Stewart.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ the woman in the purple tweed suit said, as she rose from her desk.
‘Ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, taking her hand and noting the firm handshake as well as the fact that in real life Felicity Stewart looked smaller and more careworn than she did on the television screen or in press photographs. Her steel grey hair was smooth and sleek and her make-up had been applied carefully to conceal her naturally ruddy complexion, but nothing had been done to take away the frown lines from around these penetrating grey eyes or the wrinkled flesh on her ageing hands. She had twisted a green and blue silk scarf around her neck, and, apart from her trademark pearl earrings, there was little other concession to fashion or femininity.
‘Sit down, Lorimer,’ she said, ushering him towards a chair. ‘Now, I don’t know what you expect me to say, but I’m not going to utter meaningless platitudes about Edward’s death. I’ll save those for the press.’
Lorimer’s raised eyebrows elicited a small smile from the first minister.
‘You said on the telephone that you wanted to let me know more about Mr Pattison, ma’am,’ Lorimer began. ‘And I’ll certainly welcome any background information you can give me.’ He looked at her, wondering just what was going on inside the first minister’s mind.
‘You’re shocked that I don’t put on a long Presbyterian face and say how awful Edward’s death is for us all, admit it.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Why do I say that? Well, I’ll tell you because you will want to know the truth about this man.’ She leaned forward, one finger shaking at the policeman as though he were being given a lecture. ‘Edward Pattison was a conniving bastard who would gladly have seen me sacked from this office.’
‘The press always described him as an ambitious man,’ Lorimer said tactfully.
‘Ho! Ambitious doesn’t cover it, Superintendent. Edward was totally ruthless and would have stopped at nothing
to realise his plan to run the country.’ She smiled again, sitting back and folding her arms. ‘Suppose that gives me a motive for wanting to see him dead,’ she chuckled. ‘Lucky for me that I have an alibi for all of last night.’
‘Are you trying to suggest that there may have been a political motive behind Mr Pattison’s killing, ma’am?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, Lorimer. All I want to do is to give you the facts. I knew Edward Pattison as a colleague and, yes, as a rival. I cannot tell you everything about his personal life, of course. What Edward did in his own time was none of my business. What he did in parliamentary time certainly was and I want you to be clear about the sort of man he was, not what the papers will have you believe.’ She snorted. ‘I expect they’re already making him out to be some sort of Braveheart who would have led the country to independence. He wanted to project that image when it suited him, of course.’ She stopped, her eyes sliding away from his, her expression thoughtful. ‘It was something we all wanted at one time,’ Felicity Stewart remarked. Then she sighed and shook her head. ‘Edward was good at rallying the people. That was why I didn’t make any attempt to block his political career. But I want you to know, Lorimer, there are several people within this building who would happily have seen Edward come to grief. Now whether any one of them would have stooped so low as to take his life is something you have to find out. But he certainly had plenty of enemies, both within the present government and in the Labour Party.’
‘You think there might have been someone bitter enough about his defection to have had him killed?’ Lorimer’s tone held a note of scepticism.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ Felicity Stewart replied. ‘Though I admit it is more likely that someone would have brought him down by rumour and innuendo.’ She grinned, showing a set of perfect teeth. ‘After all, that’s exactly what he was trying to do to me.’