by Alex Gray
Maggie felt something soft against her leg. Chancer looked up, his eyes wide with expectation. She patted her lap and the cat jumped up lightly, butting her hand with his head until she began to stroke his fur.
‘Ah, if only you could talk, Chancer,’ she told the cat. ‘Maybe you could tell us where Mum has gone.’ As if in answer the orange cat gave a loud purr then sat absolutely still, staring ahead as if he was looking at something none of them could see.
CHAPTER 32
Alice was tired. The journey through the city was taking such a long time. Surely they should be on the motorway and heading towards the airport and Greenock by now? She’d been in such a hurry to leave that her spectacles were still on the side table where she had left them, so each road sign was a mere blur of letters and symbols. She hadn’t even thought to lift her handbag. Or tell anyone. Biting her lip anxiously, she thought of Flynn out the back, cutting the grass. This woman officer hadn’t known about him, had she? What would the poor lad think when he found she had gone?
‘There’s a young man . . . in the gar-den,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He’ll . . . be worried about me.’
Was it her imagination, or had the policewoman touched the brake, slowing the car down as she gave Alice a sharp look?
‘It’s all right. My colleague will deal with him,’ she told Alice, turning her gaze back to the road.
Alice sighed and tried to relax, remembering the exercises the speech therapist had taught her. Shoulders down, clench and unclench fists, same with the teeth, loosen the jaw. As she forced herself to go through these little motions, Alice tried not to think about Bill. But it had to be pretty bad. After all, why wasn’t the tall young woman telling her any details? She thought of Maggie, imagining her daughter’s reaction to the worst sort of news. Being a policeman was a hazardous profession. And hadn’t Bill been in situations of extreme danger before now?
Alice watched as the streets became less and less familiar, dark tenements looming on either side as the car left the main road and headed uphill, away from the city centre. They passed a couple of rough-looking men with a long-haired Alsatian dog loping beside them and Alice stared at them from the passenger window as the car swept past.
‘We’re not going down to Greenock?’ she asked at last, bewildered by this unknown area.
The woman beside her shook her head, her expression unfathomable as she drove the car in and out of a series of narrow streets, flinging the vehicle around corners.
Alice clutched the edge of the car seat, a sensation of dread sweeping over her. Something bad was happening, all right. But suddenly it felt as though it were happening to her.
‘There’s no sign of her,’ the police officer at the other end of the line told Lorimer. ‘The nearest CCTV cameras haven’t picked up anyone answering to her description, I’m afraid.’
‘Then, if she hasn’t wandered off anywhere in the immediate vicinity of our house she must have gone off in a car,’ Lorimer said. ‘There really isn’t any other explanation.’
‘Does she have any other friends or family who might have taken her out for a jaunt?’ It was a reasonable sort of question for the officer to ask. Yet Lorimer could detect a hint of scepticism in his tone. The choice of the word jaunt seemed to suggest that this whole exercise was risible. Eyebrows were obviously being raised about the haste with which Alice Finlay had been posted as a missing person. By a senior officer who was pulling rank. Was he making a nuisance of himself? Had Alice simply wandered off?
‘No,’ he replied at last. ‘We’re all the family she has. And she would have let us know if anyone had wanted to take her out. Besides,’ he added sternly, ‘she was expecting the health visitor this morning. She wouldn’t go off when someone was due to see her. That’s just not possible.’
‘The stroke you mentioned,’ the officer coughed delicately, ‘it hasn’t left her . . . you know . . . impaired in any way?’
‘No,’ Lorimer told him firmly. ‘She’s as sane as you or I. Maybe not quite as articulate as she used to be but there’s nothing wrong with her mind.’
There was a silence at the other end of the line as the Glasgow officer thought about this.
‘So, no admissions to any of the local hospitals and no trace of her on the CCTV cameras.’ He paused again before continuing and this time his tone was brisk. ‘It’s a little bit of a mystery, Superintendent, but I’m sure our officers will find her before much longer. Don’t worry.’
Lorimer replaced the phone, resisting the urge to slam it back on to its cradle. The infuriating thing was that he’d have dealt with someone else exactly as that officer had dealt with him. They were doing everything just as they should. But it was frustrating not to be a part of it.
There was a knock at his door and he whirled around, a deep frown furrowing his brow.
‘Superintendent.’ It was PC Dodgson edging around the doorway, an expression of anxiety on his young face. ‘D’you think I should go round to DI Martin’s place? Just to see if she’s all right?’
Lorimer’s answering scowl did not deter the officer who came further into the room.
‘We’ve been calling her house all morning but there’s still no answer.’
Lorimer gave a sigh that seemed to come from his boots. A missing mother-in-law was much higher up in his scale of concern right now; Dodgson was surely over-reacting.
‘What do you want me to do? Suggest that you take one of the duty constables along with you?’ He shook his head, exasperated by the very idea. ‘Don’t be so daft, lad. She’ll kill you if she’s in bed with the ’flu and doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
Dodgson bit his lip and a wash of red coloured his cheeks. Lorimer immediately wished he’d been a bit more tactful. After all, this officer had been spurned once too often by his superiors and what little confidence he’d shown recently had come from Lorimer’s own support. He gave a weak grin, holding one hand to his mouth. ‘DS Wainwright thinks it might be more than the ’flu she’s in bed with,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Shaking his head, Lorimer gave a derisory laugh. ‘And she’ll welcome you even less if that’s the case.’
He was rewarded by an embarrassed giggle from Dodgson who backed out of the door and closed it gently behind him.
The woman on the bed struggled against the metal biting into her wrists. It was no use. They were designed to confine and control after all, weren’t they? If it had been under any other circumstances she might even have found that amusing. But the smell of her own vomit and the wetness below her made the woman weep with frustration.
What on earth had happened? Why was she here? And when had she dressed in this ridiculous, skimpy outfit?
She didn’t need her hands to feel down there. That greasy dampness between her legs could only mean one thing: she’d had sex with somebody. But, try as she might, no vision of a man came into her mind, just a blur of loud music and that kaleidoscope of coloured lights before she awoke to this cold room and the awful realisation of her predicament.
She shivered, wondering how she was ever going to escape. And, worse, who would come to free her from these bonds.
It was the stairs that had done it, Alice knew, feeling that constriction in her chest. She just wasn’t able to climb up one flight, never mind however many it had taken to reach the top floor. The woman had half-pushed, half-heaved her upwards, muttering imprecations at her back, cursing her whenever Alice had protested that she couldn’t go on any more.
It should have been a relief to sink into a chair, but Alice Finlay only felt fear. The young woman had bundled her into this room, making her sit down before fastening her hands behind her back. Even now the tightness in her chest was worse than the feeling of that twine biting into her thin wrists. She’d tried to speak, to plead with her, but the woman had refused to meet her eyes and without a single word had left her there, closing the door behind her.
It was useless to scream, Alice knew. The flats on each lev
el up this dingy, sour-smelling place had all looked abandoned so nobody would be nearby to hear her, even if she could utter a cry. She looked around the empty room, wondering how she might find a means of escape. The bay window was boarded up with brown plywood, one sheet covering each of the four long panes. Fragments of glass around the skirting told of vandals having thrown stones up high, wrecking the place just because they could.
Alice thought of the two men with their Alsatian dog and trembled. This was a part of the city she’d never been in before. She’d seen Glasgow Cathedral as they’d driven past and guessed that she was now in a derelict area in the East End that was probably due to be demolished before all that regeneration that was being talked about.
But why she was here and what was going to become of her was something she simply couldn’t fathom.
It had to be something to do with Bill. That policewoman (if she was a policewoman) knew his name, knew whereabouts he lived. She had known the connection between them.
Alice continued to study the room. The floor was only bare boards, and some crumpled newspapers lay in a corner - abandoned by workmen, perhaps? She glanced upwards. The electric cable suspended from the ceiling held no bulb; the ends of the wire were frayed. No light, then, Alice thought, shivering. And no warmth.
Something scurried over her feet and Alice gave a scream, raising her shoes from the floor. If it was a rat, her panicked cry must have frightened it away for she saw nothing and heard no tiny scuffling noises. But perhaps it would return when darkness fell?
Alice gave a shudder, suddenly wishing she had put on a coat before leaving Maggie’s. Her lamb’s wool cardigan was unfastened and the thin polyester blouse that she’d chosen specially for the nurse’s visit had come untucked from the waistband of her slacks.
She wanted so much to go to the toilet, but that was out of the question. She’d just have to hold on until someone came. Alice gave a moan of anguish, putting her feet close together. She wouldn’t wet herself, wouldn’t give in to that final indignity.
Her mouth closed in a firm line of resolve.
Bill would come and find her. She was sure of that. This was all a terrible mistake, surely. And Bill would sort it out.
Alice yawned suddenly, unable to resist the terrible lethargy that was overcoming her limbs.
Closing her eyes, she tried to blot out her surroundings. Sleep, she told herself. Sleep and perhaps when you wake this nightmare might be over.
CHAPTER 33
I wouldn’t see her die, but that didn’t matter now. The cold would probably finish her off tomorrow: if she survived the night. Nobody could possibly find her and in several months these buildings would be reduced by the wrecking ball to a heap of rubble and dust. Any human remains would be impossible to find and the mystery of where Lorimer’s relation had gone would never be solved.
It gave me no little satisfaction to imagine the rest of his life spent wondering about that. Blaming himself, perhaps, and having to answer the inevitable questions his wife would ask.
It was another sort of death, wasn’t it? A different way to kill a man. This might even finish his police career. Or destroy his marriage.
Smiling to myself, I stripped off the leather gloves then the layer of latex below, feeling the sweat lingering on my fingers. It didn’t pay to be careless, even though nobody would ever suspect someone like me.
As I opened the car door I felt a rush of cool air. I would have to leave the Golf parked down in this concrete basement at least until nightfall. Then what? A sudden memory came to me of laughter and faces illuminated by firelight, the rush of excitement as the petrol tank had roared and the flames had soared into the darkened sky. Yes, I decided. That’s how I would do it; only I would be by myself this time.
With nobody to see me.
CHAPTER 34
‘Hello? Mr Lorimer? It’s Serena Jackson here. You asked me to call you.’
Lorimer’s voicemail recorded the woman’s husky tones then there was a pause before a click sounded, cutting the connection to the line in the detective’s empty room.
Lorimer was on his way home. Greenock could bloody well wait for his services for the rest of today. Being with Maggie was far more important than tyre treads or exploring some tenuous links between two different murder cases. The Lexus sped along the outside lane, the river to the left sparkling in the midday sunlight. But for once the detective was oblivious to the landscape around him, focusing only on the road ahead and what was waiting for him at home. There was only so much he could achieve from a distance. The south side force had put everything they could into motion and he’d been relieved to hear the report of what was happening. He glanced at his mobile phone slotted into its cradle. At the first ring he’d be able to click it into life and listen. Okay, so he could have done just that from K Division but right now he needed to be with Maggie.
DS Wainwright was officially in charge of things down in Greenock today. At least until Martin deigned to turn up for duty. He’d not shown much sympathy when Lorimer had decided to cut and run. Wish I could make my mother-in-law disappear , he’d said. But the joke had fallen flat and he didn’t want to think about what the officer had made of his responding scowl. He thought instead of the blonde woman, her moods vaccilating between over-friendliness and cool disdain. She was an odd one, right enough. With her privileged background and expensive education, she was not the average sort of entrant to the police force. But, he reasoned, such a person was surely all the more welcome into the Force. They needed a police service that reflected a good social mix. His thoughts drifted to the Chief Constable. He’d become a resident of Kilmacolm, too. And was highly regarded amongst his very wealthy neighbours. Isherwood had been quite defensive about his home village, hadn’t he? Warning off DCI Ray in the way he had and giving Lorimer that flea in his ear as well.
As the road took him towards Glasgow, Lorimer realised that he had absolutely no qualms about walking out on the situation in Greenock. They could demote him for all he cared. Everything else about this peculiar Monday was put to the back of his mind as he concentrated on what was happening in his own house in that quiet little residential street.
‘Solly? Have you time to talk right now?’
The psychologist heard the catch in Maggie Lorimer’s voice and listened as his friend poured out her story. She could not see the grave expression on his face or the way he nodded as she related the events of the morning.
‘Solly, I think someone’s taken her,’ Maggie was sobbing now and he felt an overwhelming pity for the woman. ‘I think she’s been abducted.’
Even as he tried to calm her down with soothing platitudes, Solly’s thoughts were racing.
Was this related to Lorimer’s involvement in one of those cases down in Inverclyde? As he took in all that Maggie was telling him about Mrs Finlay’s disappearance and what the police had already carried out in the hours since she had left the house, Solly began to wonder. Was this directed at William Lorimer, the senior investigating officer? Could it be a diversionary tactic to keep him from penetrating deeper into the murders? Or was it something more personal?
There was something wrong here, he told himself, something very wrong. And with a deep sense of foreboding, Dr Brightman realised that if Maggie’s mother had indeed been abducted then it was very much in keeping with the sort of person whose profile was emerging in his own mind.
As he put down the phone, the psychologist stroked his beard thoughtfully. Should he doubt his instincts? Or was he so currently obsessed by his research into female serial killers that his feelings were being warped? Poison was a woman’s weapon of choice, so said the old adage, but that was simply a way of expressing a deeper truth. Women were less inclined to be hands-on killers, preferring their victims to die off-scene, as it were. Like burning people to death in a fire. Or pushing old women down a flight of stone stairs.
Try as he might, Solly Brightman was more than ever convinced that there was a woman beh
ind those killings in Kilmacolm and Port Glasgow. And that this same person might have inveigled their way into the Lorimers’ home. After all, Mrs Finlay might be far less suspicious of a woman coming to the door. Hadn’t she been expecting a health professional, most probably a female? It would be too easy, Solly thought to himself. Too easy by far.
Lifting the telephone again, he dialled Lorimer’s mobile number.
He was almost at Eastwood roundabout when the phone rang.
‘Lorimer.’ Surely it would be news of Alice?
But it was Solly’s English tones that came over the airwaves, not an officer from Glasgow, not Maggie with the words he was longing to hear.
‘I heard about your mother-in-law,’ Solly told him. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened.’
‘Christ knows what’s going on,’ Lorimer told him. ‘It’s been a hell of a morning as well. My DC gave birth this morning, earlier than she expected, poor girl. And DI Martin’s not turned up for her shift. Nobody seems to know where the hell she is,’ he added, venting his pent-up anger at the psychologist. ‘Goes out to a posh party at the Jackson woman’s house and then doesn’t show her face come Monday morning.’