Five Ways to Kill a Man

by Alex Gray

  Life was funny, wasn’t it? Here they were, a childless couple with plenty of room for a few kids to run around, yet it was an elderly parent who would be taking up some of that space instead. For a moment she wondered what sort of lives these three old ladies from Port Glasgow had lived. Had their days been like Mum’s before her stroke? And were their children stunned into disbelief by the idea that somebody had deliberately taken their lives away? Lorimer had talked to her about the case last night as they had lain together here, side by side, his hand clasping her own. Perhaps he had needed to expunge the thoughts of these old people from his mind before Mum came home to them? Somehow, Maggie thought, bringing Mum out of hospital today only served to underline the horror of these murders.

  Alice Finlay was already dressed, her breakfast tray to one side waiting for the ward maid to reappear and take it away. It had not been so difficult yesterday getting her clothes on but today her fingers had seemed to be devoid of the strength she had built up again and she looked down at her cardigan, dismayed to see its buttons all awry. That was what old folk looked like, she thought, undoing the buttons slowly, her knuckle joints protesting at the effort. But I am an old person, she reminded herself; nearly at my three score years and ten.

  It was odd how she had dreams of her younger self. And how on awakening she sometimes had to struggle to remember her real age. Twenty-six was the most common one. She was waiting at a bus stop, going somewhere or other, her clothes fitting neatly around the slim body she could still remember. And then she would remember Maggie, her baby, and suddenly time seemed to fast forward and Maggie was a school teacher married to that tall, dark policeman. And she was in hospital, waiting for the light to come in at those windows, grateful for another day.

  Today she was going home. Not back to where she had fallen, no, not there. But to Maggie and Bill’s lovely house with the ginger cat and the open plan kitchen with its aromas of coffee and home-made soup. Alice felt her shoulders relax as she contemplated the move to her daughter’s home. It would be a sort of holiday: convalescence, they used to call it, after an illness that had left you so debilitated that you had to go to a rest home to build up your strength. Her great aunt had gone to one in Largs, she remembered, making the journey to Ayrshire an annual treat for years thereafter. Perhaps Maggie might take her down to the seaside one day once the weather improved. Pushing her in a wheelchair, maybe?

  Alice smiled ruefully to herself. Maggie pushing her around! What a reversal of roles! It seemed only the other day that she was tucking her little girl into the navy blue Silver Cross pram and taking her for walks through the park.

  ‘Mrs Finlay?’ It was Sister Kilbryde. Alice looked up, her hands still clutching the edge of her unbuttoned cardigan.

  ‘You look wonderful this morning! All ready to leave us?’ she teased.

  ‘Well,’ Alice began, remembering to speak slowly and breathe carefully between her words, ‘it’s been an ex-per-i-ence,’ she said, smiling as the syllables came together. ‘You’ve been so good to me,’ she added fondly. And it was true. The nursing staff had been wonderful: never too busy to help her to the toilet or give her a hand with washing and dressing herself. For a moment Alice’s shoulders stiffened as she wondered what she would do without all of these health care professionals around her night and day.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Sister Kilbryde told her, the shrewd look assessing the old woman’s body language accurately. ‘There will be plenty of helpers to see that everything continues just as usual. The physios and occupational health people will be in to see you on Monday. And I’m sure your daughter and son-in-law will want to have you to themselves over the next couple of days.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps it’s no bad thing that there are no grandchildren running around, you know. What you need right now is a time of peace and quiet.’

  Alice nodded, agreeing. She remembered those wee ones shouting and making a racket at visiting time last night, the parents doing absolutely nothing to quieten them down. That sort of thing would drive her mad.

  ‘But remember, Mrs Finlay,’ Sister Kilbryde added, patting Alice’s hand, ‘anything you feel anxious about, just give the ward a ring. There will always be someone to talk to and answer your questions. Okay?’

  Alice gave a brief nod, smiling to cover the uncertainty she still felt.

  ‘Doctor will be in later this morning to see you then we can sort out all your paperwork for going home,’ the sister told her and, giving Alice another reassuring smile, the woman stepped away, nodding at the patient in the next bed as she went.

  Alice breathed a long sigh. It would be all right. Of course it would. She was just being silly, her heart fluttering with the excitement of what lay ahead of her.

  Rhoda Martin free-wheeled down the tree-lined drive, glad that the journey was almost over. Her cycle training hadn’t been as extensive as she would have liked and the run up here had taken a bit longer than she’d expected. Still, it was a lovely spring morning now and she could smell the fresh woody smell coming from the pines to her left. As she cycled more slowly along the narrow road, a couple of rabbits stopped their nibbling to look up at her, frozen like small brown stones against the green verges. Rhoda grinned, her feet pushing against the pedals. Hopefully she’d have a different effect on Daniel Jackson tonight. But by then, she told herself, she’d have been primped and pampered, hair washed and smelling sweet, not all sweaty under her Endura jacket. She gave an involuntary shrug. Serena might sport her Assos gear when they were out for a run but it was the best she could afford right now on a police officer’s salary. The Spa was in sight now, a low white building against the backdrop of the River Clyde and the Kilpatrick Hills beyond.

  Rhoda slid to a stop then hefted the lightweight cycle towards the double doors of the Spa. It was only her second visit here. As a member, Serena had taken her the first time. She was never away from this place, Rhoda thought with a sudden pang of irritation. What money could buy for some folk! Still, it was her turn today and she was going to make the most of it. Then she’d be heading back down the road, ready to put things into action. As she entered the reception area she caught the pungent scents of Aveda candles mingling with some herbal tisane. Rhoda took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the tension across her shoulders that needed to be massaged away.

  It would be fine, she told herself. Everything was going according to plan. What could possibly go wrong?

  ‘It’s always the same,’ Rosie grumbled. ‘Just when you’re looking forward to a quiet weekend, a nutter has to end someone’s life with a blade!’

  ‘Well, you are on call,’ Solly reasoned, raising his eyebrows at her.

  ‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I know but I really wanted to come with you on that RSPB walk along from the art galleries and museum today.’ Rosie made a face even as she gathered up her kit ready to head off to Glasgow’s east end where a body awaited her ministrations.

  ‘We’ll go next week,’ Solly promised. ‘And maybe we can have a meal out tonight instead? Shish Mahal suit you?’

  ‘Aye, well, let’s see how long this takes me. I’ll give you a ring when I’m through. Love you,’ she added, dropping a kiss on Solly’s dark curls before heading out of the flat. He watched at the window, giving her a final wave as she emerged from the front door. Rosie looked up at him grinning in girlish glee as she brandished her car keys. There her new car waited, its pale blue paintwork still gleaming in showroom condition. The pathologist had finally chosen a Saab to replace her written-off BMW, a sporty convertible with a dark navy soft top. Solly smiled indulgently, still watching from the window as his wife drove off. Despite her almost-fatal accident she was still a keen driver; it hadn’t put her off wanting to buy another car.

  The psychologist stood gazing over the park and the familiar Glasgow skyline. He had a day to himself now, something he hadn’t planned. He could always work on the book, of course, delving deeper into the psyches of female serial killers. There were some interesting t
heories he wanted to propound, but they were still at the thinking stage, gestating in his brain. Perhaps he’d take a look at Lorimer’s case instead.

  The detective had kept him abreast of events as they had unfolded down in K Division. It seemed as though there might be a little more evidence forthcoming from overseas regarding the victim’s financial affairs. Solly shook his head. It was a lot closer to home than that, he told himself. Someone who had easy access to the house and who knew the layout intimately had taken the trouble to shift that key in the lock. But who? And why? Those were questions that Solly considered even as he contemplated the nature of a fire-raiser. Careful planning had been carried out and the crime was therefore premeditated. Somebody had intended both of these victims to die. And their killer had wanted it to look like an accident. Fires often destroyed evidence that forensic scientists might otherwise find useful. And those who began a blaze would bank on that. He cast his mind back a few years to the case when he had first assisted Strathclyde Police. That was when he had met DCI William Lorimer. A fire had taken place then, too, the perpetrator hoping to destroy every trace of his crime. But even that extensive conflagration had left some traces to tell a story and now that killer was under lock and key.

  Solly sat before his laptop and opened up the file on the Jackson case. He had no official remit here, he knew, but even an academic exercise might throw a little light on his friend’s case. Besides, it was a case that had begun to intrigue him and Solly had asked himself whether or not it might be linked to the murder of these elderly women. A cyclist had been seen haring away from the fire at Kilmacolm and a cyclist had stalked one of the Port Glasgow victims, leaving a tyre track at the third locus. Tenuous it might be, but the psychologist had a feeling that this was a line of thought worth pursuing.

  The cycle race for charity was to take place next weekend and there would be hundreds of cyclists from all over the country descending on the city. It was one of the most popular sports in Scotland and, from his place in the passenger seat of other people’s cars, Solly regularly saw hordes of cyclists racing along country roads. They always looked so fit and lean, these nylon leggings and sleek, body-hugging tops making their bodies seem so androgynous. Curved backs and helmets that looked like the beak of a strange bird gave the men and women the appearance of a slightly different species altogether. He scrolled up, seeing Kate Clark’s report from the gentleman in Kilmacolm. The cyclist who had sped past them from the drive of the Jackson’s home had been dressed in black, possibly wearing a hood. The cycle had not been lit and there had been no reflective strips on the person’s clothing. Another sign of careful preparation, Solly thought to himself. But if that taxi had struck the cyclist, then all his planning would have been for nought. It had been a moment in the darkness, a fleeting sight of a cyclist racing away from the scene, but perhaps sufficient to give him an idea of the person in black.

  This was a person who liked to take risks. A person who desperately wanted to rid himself of Pauline and Ian Jackson. And, if it was the same person who had killed these elderly women, he realised that it must be a person who had very little remorse of conscience. A psychopathic personality, in fact, Solly told himself. A killer with an endless capacity for killing. Someone, he reminded himself grimly, who had to be stopped at any cost before they were allowed to strike once more.

  ‘Let’s look at it all over again,’ he murmured aloud. ‘See if we can find out what makes you tick.’

  Maggie switched on the kettle, turning with a smile as she heard her mother’s exclamation of delight. The ‘bedroom’ had been made up in the dining area and she’d added a bowl of fruit and put vases of flowers where her mother could enjoy them. Bill was still taking the luggage from the car after helping Mum into their comfy recliner, showing her the lever to raise the foot rest.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll want to go home,’ Alice exclaimed then, as Maggie caught her mother’s eye, she saw the glint of mischief and knew that she was being teased. ‘Och, you know you can stay here as long as you want to, Mum,’ she replied. ‘Earl Grey or ordinary? ’ she added.

  ‘Earl Grey please, dear,’ Alice said. ‘And I’ll not put you and Bill out a mo-ment more than I need to. I prom-ise,’ she said, her words coming out slowly but with a firmness that Maggie recognised as belonging to the Mum she had known before that awful stroke.

  ‘Hey, Chancer, looks who’s here,’ Maggie told the cat as he flopped through the cat flap on the back door and strolled through the kitchen.

  ‘Here, puss,’ Alice told him, patting the rug across her lap. The ginger cat eyed her for a moment then sat back on his haunches and began to wash a front paw assiduously. He’d come when he was ready, the gesture seemed to say. Alice smiled indulgently at the cat and waited. Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he leapt, purring, on to her knees, a grin appearing below his whiskers as he felt the fur on his head being caressed.

  Maggie felt her whole body relax as she watched the pair of them. How easily Mum had settled in and how right it felt having her here. As Lorimer entered the room with Alice’s bags she met his eyes, gave a nod and smiled. She saw his blue gaze taking in the woman and the cat and he returned her grin. It was going to be all right, after all. Everything would work out just fine.

  CHAPTER 30

  The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door. She must have thrown up after I’d left her on that narrow bed, and the stink of vomit mingling with urine pervaded the room. I’d made sure all the windows were tightly shut, of course, just in case she had done a Houdini and managed to escape from her bonds. Trying not to gag, I slid against the wall, feeling the embossed paper under my gloved hands. Even with that noxious smell filling my nostrils I found myself wrinkling my nose at the touch of that wallpaper: horrid cheap stuff. I passed by the sleeping figure, turned the blind rod a fraction and looked out of the window.

  The room was at the back of the house, facing a row of lock-ups. Even in the dark I could make out the shapes of their metal doors side by side, glinting under an adjacent street lamp.

  A groan from the bed made me freeze. If I stood very still, the woman on the bed might not realise that I was there. I waited, holding my breath, until I saw her head slump sideways again. She looked so vulnerable lying there, hair spread out on that white pillow. My fingers twitched as a thought prompted desire. It would take only a few seconds for me to put a second pillow over her face and cut off that foul-smelling breath forever.

  I would give her a chance of life, though, not just because her situation amused me.

  She was still under the influence of the drug. Despite the vomiting she hadn’t managed to combat its effects and it would be some time before she would awake to find what I had done to her.

  And wonder how the hell it had happened.

  I suppressed a snigger. I wouldn’t be here when she woke up, of course, though it would be nice to see her face when she did. What would she think, seeing her wrists stretched out, fastened to the brass bed head by these handcuffs, her ankles tied with twists of red cord? Just for fun, I’d dressed her in a red basque, an Ann Summers outfit purchased especially for the occasion. No knickers, though. That was the nice touch, that and the Vaseline I’d smeared between her legs. The riding crop lay on the floor as if carelessly discarded.

  Her imagination would leap to the obvious, I hoped.

  When they found her (if they found her) it would look like she’d had a steamy night in. I resisted a laugh and felt my way back to the door, taking one last look at the woman splayed on the bed. Blowing her a silent kiss, I closed the door behind me.

  CHAPTER 31

  Kate felt the pain first before the waters gushed out, soaking her legs and flooding the bed.

  ‘Towels,’ she moaned, digging her elbow into Dougie’s side. ‘Get me some towels. My waters. They’ve broken.’ She wanted to rise from the wetness but something held her back. Was it an irrational fear or the memory of the midwife’s injunction to keep ever
ything as sterile as possible?

  ‘Dougie!’ she cried, ‘Get up! The baby’s coming!’

  In the hours that followed Kate couldn’t remember everything, just certain events, like an edited holiday video where the highlights are preserved. She never remembered her husband’s calmness as he made a pad of her best bath sheets, only her irritation that he had failed to use the old ones she’d put aside just for this eventuality. The ride to the hospital was a blur of early-morning traffic, lights twinkling in the darkness before a dawn that was still hours away. And Dougie: she’d never seen him so serious yet so exhilarated. As the pains kept coming she blew her breath out, exhaling noisily as she had been shown at the antenatal classes.