Five Ways to Kill a Man

by Alex Gray

  There was the customary pause in the conversation that Lorimer was well used to and he had almost forgotten that Solly was on the line when the question was asked.

  ‘Is your DI Martin a cyclist by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, she is. Training for that charity race next weekend. The whole bloody world seems to be on their bikes right now. Hugh Tannock’s a member of a cycle club and so are the Jacksons; Serena and Daniel. Too many of them. It’s muddying the waters, if you want to know the truth.’

  Solly felt a sudden chill that was nothing to do with Lorimer’s obvious anxiety. All his fears seem to have become crystallised into one dreadful pattern.

  Even as he asked Lorimer to keep him informed about Alice Finlay, he was recalling his wife’s descriptions of the two young women, the police officer and the girl whose parents had perished so horribly in that fire.

  And he knew now which one he would identify as a killer.

  Strathclyde traffic police had their work cut out for them this Monday. CCTV footage from the area nearest the Lorimers’ residence showed the times of hundreds of vehicles passing each way along the main road and it was a task that took the utmost concentration to log them all, identify their registration numbers and look up the vehicles’ owners on the computer. Names were now emerging from all of that data, and one in particular made an officer lift the telephone to call his superior.

  ‘Bit odd, don’t you think?’ he asked. ‘Should we make anything of it?’

  There was a short silence before the reply came. ‘Lorimer will want to know. And, yes, check it out. Have a look to see if there was a passenger visible on the footage, will you?’

  The senior officer frowned, puzzled by the message. The black Golf GTI was registered in the name of Rhoda Martin, an officer from K Division who was on Lorimer’s team. But the Detective Superintendent had let it slip that DI Martin hadn’t turned up for duty this morning. Something very odd was going on. And Lorimer ought to be told right away.

  Chancer sprang to the floor and trotted over to Lorimer giving a small miaow of welcome. For once the orange cat was ignored as Maggie hurled herself into her husband’s arms and began to sob.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed, stroking her long dark hair. ‘It’s all right. We’ll find her. I know we will.’

  Behind them the family liaison officer lifted a two-way radio to her lips, affirming the message she had just scribbled down in her notebook.

  ‘Superintendent, that was traffic. They’ve spotted something,’ the woman began.

  ‘Mum? Have they found my mum?’ Maggie broke away from her husband, hope filling her pale face. Flynn emerged from the kitchen, his expression equally anxious.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lorimer. There’s no definite sighting of her yet,’ the woman replied. ‘But there was a vehicle seen in the vicinity that belongs to one of your officers, sir,’ the policewoman continued. ‘At approximately nine-thirty-five a black Golf GTI entered the main road from the junction along from here and headed towards town. It’s registered to . . .’ she squinted at her own handwriting, ‘a Miss Rhoda Jane Martin. One of yours,’ she added.

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Traffic’s still trying to confirm that, sir. The footage might not be adequate to tell us if there was a passenger beside her.’

  Lorimer nodded, his mind in a whirl. The car would have to make a right-hand turn against the flow of traffic at that particular junction and the camera might not see anyone but the driver. But Rhoda Martin? What the hell had she been doing at his house?

  Suddenly all the thoughts about the case down in Inverclyde became sickeningly clear. Colin Ray’s case had been stymied from the outset and he’d always had a feeling that DI Martin had been instrumental in that. Add that to the fact that Rhoda Martin was a cyclist. Who lived near Kilmacolm. And hadn’t she’d been going to and from the police station on those practice runs? Easy enough to take little trips up to Port Glasgow, follow vulnerable old ladies. But this was madness! Why on earth would a police officer turn killer?

  But even as he tried to dismiss the thought, Lorimer felt a cold hand on his heart. Rhoda Martin was a tall, strong young woman but was she capable of such acts of violence? And she had known the Jackson family for years. Was there something in her background that might give a clue to a motive for murder? Or was she one of those women Solly had been describing to them: a person who could change from being a seemingly upright citizen to one who had no qualms about killing in cold blood? Lorimer bit his knuckled fist. Surely the psychologist couldn’t have profiled someone like that?

  Yet, hadn’t he been considering the woman’s strange mood swings only this morning?

  ‘Get on to Greenock,’ he told the woman. ‘Tell them to head for Martin’s home. Now!’

  Maggie looked from the grim-faced policewoman to her husband, her mouth parted in a moment of incomprehension. Something was happening, something only the police could control. Maggie wanted to weep anew; it was her mother who was missing but she felt like an outsider, trapped within a dark and fearful place.

  Lorimer’s BlackBerry gave the tone that told him a message was waiting. He flicked the button to hear it and Serena Jackson’s voice came through. For a moment he wondered what to do, torn between a desire to rush off down to wherever Rhoda Martin lived or to stay here with Maggie and wait. And yet . . . the Jackson woman might be able to tell him where Martin had gone after that party. Pressing the reply button, Lorimer waited until he heard the same recorded message for a second time that day. He cursed under his breath. Still, it wasn’t Serena Jackson’s fault that she was out more than once in a day. She’d have no earthly idea that they were desperately trying to track down her old school friend, after all.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Maggie pleaded, sensing her husband’s sudden restlessness. ‘Please stay with me.’

  Across the room, Lorimer caught Flynn’s eye; the young man’s eyebrows were raised in a question. If he did have to go, then the lad would stay on here, his expression seemed to be saying. Lorimer nodded at him briefly before gathering Maggie into his arms once more.

  CHAPTER 35

  Rhoda Martin lived in a maisonette on the outskirts of Kilmacolm not far from Port Glasgow Road. It had been built in the nineties on farmland sold for development and now the entire area had pockets of residential housing. These were far from the elegant mansions within the nearby village; the housing estate contained the sorts of properties more suited to the average family whose aspirations had taken them to a home in the countryside within a desirable school catchment area.

  Number Twelve, The Steadings, backed on to a row of lock ups, their metal doors painted in a bright shade of turquoise blue, a colour, DS Wainwright thought, more suited to a continental residence than to this wee estate in Scotland’s west coast.

  He’d taken young Dodgson with him; more because he wanted to show the lad just how things should be done than from any desire to curry favour with Lorimer. The Super had shown a distinct favouritism towards the police constable that rankled with the older detective.

  ‘Ach, this is a’ a waste of time,’ he said, heaving his massive frame out of the patrol car. ‘Rhoda’ll go ballistic when she sees us here. If she’s even at home.’

  It seemed the DS was spot on. ‘Naebody at home,’ he concluded once they had stood at the door, his fat finger pressed on the bell for more than a minute.

  PC Dodgson lifted the letterbox and peered inside.

  ‘Nothin doin, laddie. Just whit ah said. Waste o’ bloody time,’ Wainwright snorted, taking his finger off the bell.

  ‘Wait a minute, Sir,’ Dodgson replied. ‘Shush,’ he said, lifting a finger as Wainwright began to protest. ‘I think I can hear something inside. Listen!’

  Sure enough a muffled sort of cry could be heard by both men; a cry that was certainly human.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Wainwright looked at his colleague in amazement. Then, taking a few paces back, the detective sergeant hurled him
self at the door. It took only two more heaves till the wood splintered with a deafening crack, leaving the door sagging off its hinges.

  The sound was coming from a room at the back of the house. Two pairs of boots thundered up the stairs, the detective sergeant puffing heavily as he followed the younger man.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Dodgson threw open the door of the room then reeled backwards, one arm protecting his face. Wainwright thrust past him. There on a single bed was a woman, her semi-naked body displayed in a red-and-black tart’s outfit, blonde head lolling to one side. Vomit had dried into her hair and streaks of putrid yellow had run down arms that were pinioned by the handcuffs. Her bare legs were criss-crossed in purple welts from some sort of sado-masochistic whipping.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ Wainwright stepped forward and knelt by the woman’s side, feeling for a pulse.

  Then her eyes flickered and she groaned as she saw the policeman’s face.

  ‘Don’t worry, hen. We’ll get you out of here,’ the big man whispered. ‘Dodgson. Ambulance. Quick as you can, lad.’

  ‘There’s no sign of Rhoda Martin’s car. No. The lock up at the back was empty. What? A bike? Aye, there is. A silver colour. No, nothing else that we could see,’ Wainwright told Lorimer.

  The Detective Superintendent stood in the middle of his kitchen, thinking hard. Wainwright and Dodgson had done well to find the poor girl. The DS had not spared him any details about her predicament, even managing to make some lewd suggestions as to what had taken place over the weekend.

  Who had taken Rhoda Martin’s car? And who had abused the detective inspector leaving her imprisoned by police issue handcuffs?

  The DI had seemed so full of vitality on Friday, anticipating a good time at the Jackson woman’s party. Was there some man behind this? Someone she had wanted to play games with? Games that had led to sexual abuse, it seemed. Lorimer ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It was more important than ever that he speak to Serena Jackson and find out exactly who had been at her party. Was the same man who had assaulted Rhoda the person who had taken his mother-in-law from the safety of their home?

  Just as he was about to try her number again, the front doorbell rang.

  ‘Mum!’ Maggie leapt to her feet and was yanking open the door in feverish expectation.

  But it was no old lady who stood there, but a bearded man, a long striped scarf wound several times around his neck.

  ‘Oh, Solly, it’s you.’ Maggie stood back, allowing him to enter the hallway, disappointment clearly etched on her face.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Maggie,’ the psychologist had taken her hands in his own and was gazing into her eyes with concern. ‘You must be feeling dreadful. The waiting . . .’ he tailed off, nodding as she began to weep again.

  ‘Here.’ Lorimer took her shoulders and turned her round, sheltering her within the protection of his arms. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, darling,’ he soothed as though calming a distraught child. ‘We’ll find her, I promise.’

  Solly caught his friend’s eyes and motioned with a finger towards the garden. ‘We need to talk,’ he whispered.

  Lorimer shook his head but the expression on the psychologist’s face made him pause.

  ‘Is there something we really need to know?’

  Solly nodded.

  ‘Right now?’

  The psychologist gave another nod and headed towards the back door.

  ‘Darling, why don’t you make Solly a cup of tea? Something herbal,’ Lorimer suggested, steering his wife away from the room with its sofa bed and all her mother’s bits and pieces that were such a constant reminder of the older lady’s absence.

  Maggie let herself be guided to the kitchen where she lifted the kettle jug to fill it again. Glancing at her as he followed Solly into the garden, Lorimer saw her going through the motions, exhausted but still trying to hold it all together.

  ‘This better be quick,’ he said. ‘Maggie’s in a terrible state. As you can imagine.’

  ‘Have you found Serena Jackson yet?’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘What do you mean, found? She’s not gone AWOL. I’ve had a couple of missed calls from her already today.’

  Solly shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant to say. We need to see her. Speak to her. She’ll know where Alice is.’

  Lorimer stared at the psychologist for a long moment.

  ‘Drive me down to her home, will you? I have a lot of questions I would like to ask Serena Jackson,’ Solly told him. ‘And I think you will have, too.’

  The trip back down the coast took less time than Lorimer had anticipated. It was well after the rush hour and the light was beginning to fade. Solomon had not spoken since giving Lorimer that brief outline of his thoughts. The Detective Superintendent had not responded then and now he was silently wondering just what sort of welcome they might receive on arrival at Greenock. If Solly was right . . . he gave a huge sigh. The traffic round by the Oak Mall held them up for a few moments as a large articulated delivery truck backed into the small car park to one side of the shopping centre, making Lorimer seethe with impatience, then they were off again. But every set of traffic lights seemed to turn red on their approach and Solly noted the detective’s increased frustration as he glanced at his glowering profile.

  ‘Not far now,’ he muttered.

  ‘I just hope she’ll be in,’ Lorimer snapped in response. ‘Surely we should have checked?’

  ‘No!’ Solly shook his head firmly. ‘We need to have the element of surprise if I’m going to assess her correctly.’

  At last the Lexus was turning into Campbell Street and the block of luxury flats that overlooked the river.

  ‘Park where she can’t see us,’ Solomon whispered. ‘And buzz someone else’s number to let us in,’ he suggested eagerly.

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows: Solly almost sounded as though he were enjoying this moment of high drama.

  ‘Hello,’ Serena Jackson’s expression was one of curiosity as she opened the door to the two men. ‘Mr Lorimer. This is an unexpected pleasure. Do come in.’ She held open the door, a half-smile upon her face.

  ‘Doctor Brightman,’ Lorimer indicated his companion as they entered the flat. ‘We wanted to ask you some things, Miss Jackson.’

  Serena gave another smile over her shoulder as she regarded the men following her through to the main room. And once more Lorimer was struck by the woman’s ethereal beauty. Taller and thinner than most women he knew, she moved with a sort of cat-like grace. Today her hair was falling smooth, sleek and glossy as though it had just been given a salon treatment. Was that where she had been when he had called: somewhere as ordinary as a hairdresser’s? And she was dressed as though she had recently been out, a neat black skirt showing off those long legs, a matching cashmere jersey slung artfully across a white silk shirt.

  ‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ she offered, her upper-class drawl the epitome of elegance and good breeding. It was a voice devoid of any sort of anxiety, Lorimer noticed. If she were agitated by their sudden arrival then Serena Jackson was hiding it well. Choosing to take her place in the middle of one of the sofas and casually curling her legs beneath her, she looked more like some contented, aristocratic feline than the suspect for a series of murders.

  Lorimer took a deep breath.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about the party you had here on Saturday evening,’ he began.

  Serena Jackson gave a frown. ‘What do you mean? What party?’

  Lorimer looked at Solly for support but the psychologist seemed to be fascinated by the woman before him, staring at her intently.

  ‘Detective Inspector Martin told me that you were having a house-warming party at the weekend,’ Lorimer explained.

  Serena raised one shapely eyebrow. ‘Did she, now? How strange. There was no party here, Superintendent. Why on earth would Rhoda tell you that?’ She looked around the room as though bemused by the notion and Lorimer followed her gaze. The lounge was in the same pristine condition t
hat he had seen on his first visit here. There was absolutely no trace of anything that looked like the aftermath of a wild rave-up.

  ‘Are you telling me that Rhoda Martin wasn’t at a party here, then?’

  Serena nodded. Then she looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm, wonder if she’s up to her old tricks again,’ she mused. ‘Oh, dear, what’s she done this time?’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘Could you explain what you mean, please?’