by Alex Gray
‘Drinks?’
‘Yes, please.’
Diane answered for both of them, Davey merely nodding his agreement. When Martin came back, a beer in one hand and a long glass of white wine in the other, Diane was curled on his favourite rug with her long dark hair tossed over one shoulder. Davey sat on the couch with a far away smile fixed to his face. Martin joined his friend, wishing it was the gorgeous gossip columnist sitting cosily next to him.
‘Bin talkin to Diane.’ The photographer’s speech was slurred. ‘She’s bin tellin’ us about this Dr Brightman.’
Martin frowned but Diane gave a careless shrug.
‘Everyone knows he must be in cahoots with the cops,’ she said. ‘Especially after this latest murder.’
‘Yeah. Another one bites the dust, hey, hey!’ Davey sang, and Martin rolled his eyes to heaven. Diane caught his glance, mouthing ‘Sorry’.
‘What about something to eat. You hungry, mate?’
Davey was downing his beer steadily in a way that betokened regular practice.
‘’S’all right. Can’t stay. Just came up to say hello.’
Martin grinned, his antagonism vanishing.
‘We were just talking about that last murder. Davey thinks it’s some weirdo,’ Diane said.
‘A bam. A gen-u-ine bampot.’ Davey belched loudly, then put his fingers to his mouth in an expression of mock horror. ‘Oops. Pardonnez-moi!’ He set down his empty glass as Diane giggled, then rose slowly to his feet. ‘Home time, I think.’
‘C’mon then, let’s see you to the lift.’
Martin tucked his hand below his friend’s elbow and steered him towards the door. Was he mistaken as he glanced back, or had Diane dropped a lascivious wink? And if so, for whom was it intended?
‘Safe home.’
Davey raised both hands in farewell, smiling still as the lift door closed. Martin sighed with relief. At least the guy wasn’t going too far.
He turned back from the landing, light from his doorway and the strains of music beckoning. Now the evening could really begin. Diane was still sitting on the rug but Martin was pleased to see that she had taken off the suede boots. With her long legs curled under her, she reminded him of a sleepy cat settled down in front of a fire.
‘More wine?’
‘Mm. Yes please.’
As she held out the thin-stemmed glass, Martin caught the expression in her green eyes. It was more than sauvignon blanc she seemed to be asking for. The neck of the wine bottle was still cold against his hands as he poured.
‘What about joining me up here?’
For answer, the girl uncurled herself from the floor and sank in close beside him. She raised her wine.
‘Cheers!’
Martin chinked his beer mug lightly against the proffered glass.
‘To us,’ he said softly. ‘To better acquaintance.’
Her eyes sparkled with merriment at his deliberate understatement. He watched her face intently as they sipped their drinks. Suddenly a thought came to his mind. Putting down his glass, he reached for her long hair and twisted it gently into a long cord then folded it around her neck. He kissed her startled mouth.
‘Porphyria’s lover,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘“I found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string I wound her little throat about.”’
‘Where on earth’s that from?’
‘Browning’s poem. “Porphyria’s Lover.” Didn’t you do that at school?’
‘No as it happens. What did he do?’
‘Strangled her.’
Diane pushed away from him suddenly.
‘I’m not sure I like that. Besides, my hair’s not yellow.’
Martin stroked the long thick hair back into place and looked at her gravely.
‘You’re beautiful.’
He kissed her again, gently at first; then, as she responded, deeper kisses followed and this time she didn’t pull away. A feeling of triumph came over Martin as he probed her mouth with his tongue. She wanted him. His fingers tip-toed under her skirt and he felt her quiver under his touch. He stroked her belly, naked below the tights, guiding his fingers lower and lower until she gasped with pleasure. There was an urgency in yanking down the tights then pulling her body against his. She pressed her body closer in turn and now her fingers explored his crotch, feeling his hardness.
As he groaned softly, she whispered, ‘Let’s go into your bedroom.’
‘No! Don’t go in there!’
His hand shot out from the folds of her clothing as he sat up suddenly. In reply to her look of surprise, he grinned sheepishly.
‘It’s a tip. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.’ Diane put his hand back deliberately on her thigh. ‘What sort of impression do you want me to have?’
Her throaty voice was full of invitation.
For answer, Martin unzipped and shoved off his jeans in one swift movement then pulled her under him. As the jeans landed on the floor Martin ignored the sound of a falling wineglass. In the half-light he saw the swathe of Diane’s dark hair tumbling back against the couch and her eyes looked black with desire. Her knees were bent and he was aware of the sudden thought that here was no virgin for deflowering. His face contorted for a split second then he was pushing into her sweet softness, hearing himself cry out. The torrent inside him suddenly released and the cry torn from him turned to a groan.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wanted you too much.’
She was making hushing noises now and, taking his face in her hands, she kissed him as if he were a child.
‘It’ll be better next time.’
Her hands were still clasping his back, fixing him against her young slim body. Martin kissed her again, slowly, savouring the moment.
Next time. There was going to be a next time.
CHAPTER 27
‘Come in.’ Lorimer heard the knock and was aware of Annie Irvine hovering in his line of vision. He would finish his conversation first, though.
‘Yes, sir. Certainly. Thank you. I will.’
Lorimer put down the phone as if it was a delicate piece of porcelain. He’d hoped for such a call but it was still a surprise when it finally came. So. He was to be in the running for George Phillips’s job, was he? He mused for a brief moment then looked up as Annie cleared her throat.
‘Right, let’s be having it.’
‘Sir, it’s the boyfriend. I mean Sharon Millen’s boyfriend. He’s in the Royal Infirmary. Attempted suicide.’
Lorimer was already rising to his feet, all thoughts of promotion forgotten.
‘When?’
‘There’s just been a call from the officer there. His mother found him in bed. Couldn’t wake him up. An overdose, it looks like.’
‘Tell the team I want them all in the incident room pronto.’ Lorimer whirled past her and slammed out of the room.
*
‘Right.’ Lorimer faced the officers assembled around him. ‘We have already eliminated James Thomson from our inquiries. However, we cannot ignore the obvious here. You know what I’m talking about. Remorse. We’ve seen it lots of times before. The murder preys on their mind. They can’t face what they’ve done and so they try to top themselves.’
There were nods all round. The officers knew the score, all right.
‘But,’ Lorimer continued, ‘I don’t want anybody jumping to conclusions. Is that clear? There may be other explanations for this incident. Until we know the facts, I want this boy and his family treated with kid gloves.’
There were glances exchanged between a few of the officers, then Alistair Wilson spoke up.
‘Sir, if it was Thomson who did in his girlfriend, then what about the MO?’
‘I’m there already, Alistair. Was the lad capable of cutting her up like that? We’ll need to talk to him again. If he’s in a fit state to be questioned,’ he added.
Lorimer ran a hand through his hair. The team were as anxious as he was to ma
ke an arrest. But there was always the danger of an over-enthusiastic officer mucking things up. He swept his eye over the individuals he knew so well. Wilson he’d trust under any circumstances. Young Cameron had a lot to learn but Lorimer would temper his keen-asmustard approach with plenty of basic plodding.
‘We still don’t know the whereabouts of Sharon Millen’s murder. But let’s assume for now that it took place somewhere similar to West George Lane.’ He turned to Cameron. ‘Anything on the buses yet?’
The DC straightened up under Lorimer’s direct gaze.
‘Not a thing, sir. There were several passengers who came forward but they all say the same thing. Nobody remembers the girl that night.’
‘Right. Keep circulating her photo meantime. Someone’s memory just might be jogged.’
‘We’ll go up to the Royal,’ he nodded to Wilson, who merely raised his eyebrows in acquiescence. ‘I want to see the boy if he’s awake.’
As they dispersed to go about their various duties, the others exchanged surprised glances. But nobody voiced the opinion that they all shared. If Lorimer was going up there himself, did that mean he suspected James Thomson of his girlfriend’s murder?
The Royal Infirmary sat on the Glasgow skyline overlooking the drearier part of the main Glasgow to Edinburgh motorway. Its dark spires and filthy chimneys were a reminder of earlier days when the city revelled in its industrial glory. Despite its grim exterior, however, the hospital had been thoroughly modernised and the ground-floor reception area was more like that of an airport lounge than a medical centre.
‘Which ward?’ Lorimer asked.
Alistair Wilson told him and they made their way towards the bank of lifts that would take them to the boy’s bedside.
‘He’s been in theatre to have his stomach pumped,’ the PC outside the room informed Lorimer. ‘His mum and dad are in there with him just now.’
Lorimer waited at the door while Wilson spoke to the sister on duty. She glanced up at the Chief Inspector warily.
‘The doctor says he’s not to be disturbed,’ she said, her lips firmly pressed together.
‘Oh, we’ll be very discreet, sister,’ Wilson assured her, turning on his most charming smile. The nurse failed to return it.
‘You’d better be,’ she retorted, clearly unimpressed by any authority outside the medical world.
At a nod from his Detective Sergeant, Lorimer slipped inside the private ward. Both parents looked up as he entered. Linda Thomson had been crying. Her eyes were dark smudges where she’d rubbed away her mascara. Beside her, James’s father sat holding her hand. There was a depth of pain that Lorimer could only guess at behind those expressionless eyes. He’d never known the agonies of parenthood. Or the joys, whatever they might be.
‘Mr Lorimer.’
Joe Thomson started to rise but Lorimer motioned him to stay where he was.
‘How is he?’
‘We think he’ll be all right. It wasn’t paracetamol, thank God. Just aspirin.’
Lorimer nodded, taking in the boy’s waxy face.
‘He’ll feel like he’s got one hell of a hangover when he comes round,’ he joked.
Linda Thomson managed a watery smile.
‘Can you talk about it?’ he asked gently.
Linda gave a huge sigh and nodded.
‘Not in here, Mr Lorimer. Can we go outside?’ Joe Thomson whispered.
‘I’d rather stay,’ Linda pleaded. ‘In case he wakes up.’
‘All right, love. We won’t be long.’
He gave his wife a tremulous smile and slipped out behind Lorimer. Hospital corridors figured prominently in police investigations. Glasgow, like any other large city, had its share of violent crimes. Assault to Severe Injury often necessitated these impromptu interviews. Or, as in this case, attempted suicides.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ Joe asked.
‘Nothing to do with me but the duty sister looks like she eats razors for breakfast,’ Lorimer remarked, indicating the NO SMOKING sign. ‘We could go outside, if you like?’
‘Better not. Don’t want to be too far away. Just in case.’
‘Well, let’s sit over here.’
Lorimer indicated an empty row of respectable padded chairs. Joe Thomson sat down heavily and leaned forward, head in hands for a few moments. When he sat up again, Lorimer could see that he was trembling. Also, he avoided the Chief Inspector’s eye.
‘You’d better tell me all about it, Mr Thomson.’
‘What is there to tell? The boy was okay one day and the next he’s trying to do himself in.’
‘When you say he was okay, do you mean he had been behaving normally since Sharon’s death?’
‘What’s normal? Oh, I don’t know. He was very quiet. But then he’s always been a quiet lad. Never any trouble at school or that. It fair broke his heart, that lassie’s …’ He hesitated then whispered the word. ‘Murder.’
‘And more recently?’
‘Well, the wife said he’d never get over it. But he was back at school. Doing his Advanced Highers no problem.’
‘Did he talk much to either of you?’
‘Not really. Not what you’d call a real talk, you know. But he was studying in his room. Or listening to music most of the time. What they call music. We had no idea.’
‘No idea about what, Mr Thomson?’
‘Well, you know …’ The man’s eyes widened as if Lorimer had missed the point somewhere along the line. ‘About blaming himself.’
‘For Sharon’s death?’
‘Of course.’
Thomson stared at Lorimer.
‘Just let me get this straight, Mr Thomson. Did James actually say he’d killed his girlfriend?’
‘For Christ’s sake, man, what do you think he is?’ Joe Thomson exploded. ‘He never saw her on any bus that night. He’s been too bloody terrified to tell anybody. Him and Sharon had an argument and she stormed off in the huff …’ The man’s voice rose in indignation, then broke off. ‘My God, that poor wee lassie.’ His head sunk into his hands once more and Lorimer waited for the storm of emotion to pass.
‘It’s a hellish situation, so it is, Mr Lorimer.’
Lorimer caught the other man’s eye at last.
‘How do you know about this quarrel, Joe?’
‘He left his mum a note. It was on her bedside cabinet. We found it when Linda called the doctor.’
‘And did you give it to the officer here?’
Joe Thomson shook his head wearily. ‘What was the point. We never knew if the boy was going to die or what. It didn’t matter at the time.’
Lorimer gripped the man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. But he’ll be fine. He’s young and he’ll heal. Even emotional scars can be treated these days.’
‘Aye.’
‘We’d like to speak to James, though,’ Lorimer added gently.
‘Oh, I was expecting you to say that, Mr Lorimer. I was expecting that the minute we found him in his bed.’
‘Come on, let’s get back. Your wife’ll wonder what’s been going on.’
Linda Thomson looked up anxiously as they came in.
‘It’s okay. I told him. He’ll speak to James when he’s better.’
Lorimer hadn’t agreed to these terms but he let it pass. This was simply another near-tragedy sparked off by a monster with a taste for blood. A monster in their city whose acts of brutality had been like hurling rocks into a calm pool. And the ripples were still trembling shorewards.
CHAPTER 28
If there was one crime that Lorimer found distasteful above all others, it was the sort that offended against children. Child murder was the worst, of course. Within Glasgow’s City Mortuary the usual light repartee would be silenced and even the burly technicians could be moved to tears. Identification was the worst part. Lorimer had stood behind parents at that viewing window. Screams of hysteria were less common than the profound silence of disbelief. Afterwards he’d be hard put not to show his own emotion: to b
e strong for those poor bereft souls who unwittingly leaned on him just because he was a policeman. Just because he was there.
Such crimes were rare, thankfully. But not so rare, these days, were cases of child molestation. With the advent of child helplines more and more cases were coming to the attention of the police. The public thought it was all new, of course, though such crimes were as old as the hills. Lorimer had been on a course south of the border in the wake of the Jamie Bulger tragedy. There he’d learned rather a lot about the history of child abuse, way back into the Dark Ages. It had gone on seemingly unchecked for centuries. Only in the nineteenth century had children begun to receive special attention, helped by enlightened reformers and indignant citizens like the great Charles Dickens. They’d come a long way since then. The European Court of Human Rights now gave definition to what a child’s life should be like. Great in theory, thought Lorimer, but in practice there was still plenty of scope for improvement.
Right now he was sitting on an uncomfortable bentwood chair that creaked every time he moved. Mrs McFadden had been most solicitous when they had arrived to interview her foster son, Kevin Sweeney. Tea and fancy biscuits had been provided as she fussed about anxiously. Lorimer had chosen the bentwood to keep out of her way but also because it helped him observe the boy from an angle where he wouldn’t make eye contact. That was Gail Stewart’s job.
Gail had phoned from the Female and Child Unit the day before. Could he sit in on their third interview with Kevin? She had been reluctant to divulge too much, only saying that there was more to this case of abuse than met the eye.
Kevin’s natural father was inside for armed robbery and his mother had done a bunk. It was thought she might be in Canada. For more than two years Kevin had drifted from one set of foster parents to another, a vulnerable and rather unstable little boy. Careful examination of his case had shown that although his current foster parents were not the most ideal of primary carers, they were apparently blameless of any acts of abuse. Kevin himself had said so, and the general belief was that the nine-year-old was telling the truth, not merely protesting his innocence under pressure.