Glasgow Kiss lab-6

by Alex Gray

  Standing outside on the pavement once more, Lorimer looked across to the expanse of Glasgow Green and took a deep breath, glad to be in the open air. Coming out of the mortuary he always had the feeling of being tainted with death, as if the smells of the place still clung to his clothing. It was part of his job to be close to the dead and to see for himself what atrocities had been perpetrated upon their remains; it helped firm his resolve to find their killers. He glanced back at the doorway: the body of Julie Donaldson lay in the chiller room, only one of several corpses stacked neatly away until such times as they could be released for burial. Lorimer nodded to himself. Despite the time between each murder, he wondered whether those two girls could have met their deaths at the hand of one man and one man only. And the thought was hardly in his head when he wondered just what Dr Solomon Brightman might have to say about them.

  ‘I would think so.’ Solly nodded his head. ‘The place where he’s hidden them is probably sufficient in itself to tell us that,’ he added.

  The two men were sitting on a bench in Kelvingrove Park, a short walk away from Solly and Rosie’s flat. The West End shimmered beneath them, the setting sun glimmering off the rows of parked cars along Kelvin Way, the stark outline of Glasgow University’s tower black against the pale evening sky.

  ‘What sort of man would do this, d’you suppose?’ Lorimer asked, adding swiftly, ‘I guess our killer is a male?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Solly returned, abandoning his usual thoughtful pause so swiftly that Lorimer glanced sideways at the psychologist. His face was partly in shadow but there was no mistaking the resolution in those composed features, nor the slight nodding of that head of dark, curly hair. ‘That’s one of the easier things to say about the perpetrator. There is probably some sexual motivation, though that’s not as straightforward as it seems. .’

  This time he did tail off, his gaze somewhere beyond the view below them.

  ‘I shouldn’t really be asking you at all, off the record and all that.’ Lorimer tried to elicit some further speculation from his companion but Solly simply continued to stare ahead of him, his thoughts evidently taking the psychologist back to that densely wooded Glasgow park.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘They’re ah religious nutcases! I’m telling you, sex-mad fiends, that’s whit they are!’ Arthur Pollock laid down his can with a decisive flourish as if to emphasise his point. ‘Your wee lassie wis jist wan o his victims, mark ma words, Frank.’

  Frank Donaldson nodded, his can of lager still clutched firmly in one massive fist, its contents barely touched. Arthur, his brother-in-law, had come to offer condolences on behalf of the family — Jeanette’s family — and Frank hadn’t had the heart or the strength to turn him away. Mary had brought through a bowl of crisps with the cans then disappeared quietly, leaving Arthur to his opinions about Eric Chalmers. Opinions she didn’t seem to be expressing much herself, Frank thought suddenly.

  ‘Any word o the funeral, son?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘No.’ Frank dropped his head, trying to stifle a sigh of resignation. ‘They don’t let us have her back until. .’ He broke off, shaking his head as further words refused to come.

  ‘’S’awright, son, we all understand whit ye’re goin through, Mary and yourself,’ Arthur said, patting Frank’s back, his voice immediately lower and kinder. ‘We cannae believe it either, poor wee Julie. Ah mean, whit sort o animal wid dae that tae a wee lassie?’

  Frank shook his head again, wishing that Arthur would simply finish his drink and leave him in peace. But he couldn’t do that, could he? There were proprieties to follow in death as in life and this seemed to be one of them, putting up with visits from his daughter’s close relatives. After all, the man sitting next to him on the settee was Julie’s uncle. He’d probably see more of the Pollock family in the next few weeks than he’d done since Jeanette’s funeral. The groan that came from Frank Donaldson’s throat expressed this realisation as much as the sheer wall of misery that continued to surround him.

  ‘Och, man, it’s terrible, jist terrible. An the polis huv let him go an all. Can we no dae onything aboot it? Frank? Can we no?’

  ‘What’re ye saying, Arthur?’ Frank raised his head and looked more closely at his brother-in-law. The man next to him might be small in stature with only a ring of hair surrounding his bald pate, but the older man was a wiry wee fellow still and Frank could see his eyes shining with the sort of fervour that he had just been decrying. Then he watched as Arthur Pollock lifted up his can of beer, tipped it back and finished the last dregs before crushing it tightly in his fist.

  ‘The polis huv’nae arrested him, right?’ Arthur Pollock shook a commanding finger in the air. ‘And why no? It’s as clear as the nose on yer face that the man’s guilty, d’you no think?’

  Frank Donaldson sat up straight as he saw the gleam of menace in his brother-in-law’s eyes. ‘Go on,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Seems tae me we hiv tae dae somethin aboot it wursels, know whit ah mean, son?’

  ‘DCI Lorimer speaking.’

  The woman’s voice came across the line, hesitantly, stumbling over her words as if she wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  ‘This is Mrs MacIlwraith speaking. It’s my Sally. You know, the wee girl who saw Nancy bein taken. She says. . says she’s seen something, like. . you know the wee round things they pit oan car aerials? Mickey Mouse heids? There wis wan o them oan that car that took Nancy away.’

  ‘Is she sure?’ Lorimer’s eyebrows rose in a mixture of hope and scepticism.

  ‘Aye.’ Mrs MacIlwraith’s voice rose in a note of indignation. ‘Sure she’s sure. She seen wan oan a car roon oor bit.’

  ‘Right, I’ll pass this on to the investigation team. Thanks very much for calling, Mrs MacIlwraith. Tell Sally her information is much appreciated.’

  Lorimer swung on his chair for a moment, considering. So, Sally MacIlwraith had remembered something else, something that might just help to nail whoever had snatched little Nancy Fraser; it wasn’t much, but every last detail counted in this case. He could just imagine the child’s excitement as she pointed out the tiny Mickey Mouse head on the end of the car’s aerial, suddenly telling her mother as the vehicle passed them by. And she was certain the white car had sported one just like it. It would help to date the car, Lorimer thought, since most modern marques had retractable aerials these days.

  Then the DCI was seized by a moment of sheer gloom that this had come too late to be of any use. And the case wasn’t even under his control — he’d delegated it to DI Grant. But could this little bit of information make any difference now? And what were the chances that the person who’d taken the child away still held her somewhere, alive?

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Eric.’ The silence that followed made the young man uneasy. Blaming him for being suspended from school was one thing, but surely-

  The sound of a throat being cleared showed he was still there on the other end of the telephone line at least.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Eric sat down suddenly, the weariness in his father’s voice making him falter in his resolve. What did he want from his dad? Sympathy? Understanding? Or merely an acknowledgement that the bond between father and son was strong enough to withstand this latest horror.

  ‘Have you read today’s paper?’

  The grunt in reply was one of assent.

  ‘Dad,’ Eric began slowly, ‘I had absolutely nothing to do with Julie’s death. You must believe me.’

  Again a silence followed his words, making Eric break out in a sweat of apprehension.

  ‘No son of mine could ever be capable of such an act,’ Paul Chalmers replied at last, but there was such controlled anger in his tone that Eric wondered at whom the minister’s emotion was directed. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Do?’ Eric frowned, then his face cleared as the answer came to him. ‘Well, what I always do in difficult circumstances, Dad. Pray, of course. As I’m sure you’ll be doing as well.
It’s what you always told me when I was little, isn’t it? “Prayer changes things”,’ Eric answered, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Paul Chalmers snapped. ‘I meant how are you going to clear your name?’

  Eric paused, considering not only his father’s words but the peremptory tone of his voice. ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ he said at last. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Maggie sat down behind her desk and put her head into her hands, the words still ringing in her ears. How could they say such things? How could any sane person actually say that Eric Chalmers was capable of taking someone’s life? The voices in the staffroom had been raised to angry shouts between those who were supporting their colleague and those who had him tried and sentenced already. Maggie had snatched up her lunch and run back up the two flights of stairs to the sanctuary of her own classroom, unable to stay a moment longer and listen to their tirades. Teachers — of all people — should know better, she thought angrily, the blood pounding in her ears. In front of Maggie lay the remains of her lunch; a half-eaten sandwich for which she no longer had any appetite. Usually she needed something to sustain her through the afternoon but hunger had been replaced by an acidity of rage gnawing away inside her. How could they? Eric was the gentlest of men, a loving husband and probably the best of fathers, as well as being the sort of teacher who drew kids to him like a magnet.

  Maggie shuddered. That trait in his character might well be used against him now. She could imagine the things his detractors might say: how he was over-friendly with the kids, how he was always smiling and joking with them. Overfamiliar, they’d say instead of simply acknowledging that Eric Chalmers was a born teacher who wanted to do his best for every child in his care. What had the police team made of him? she wondered, making a mental note to ask her husband. Surely these men and women with their expertise in reading the human character would have seen him for what he truly was? Yes, that must be the case, Maggie nodded to herself, feeling better; otherwise, why would Eric have been allowed to go free?

  Her hand still shaking with emotion, Maggie reached for a carton of apple juice and drew it towards her. As she sucked from the tiny plastic straw, an image from the Chalmers’ home came back to her — baby Ashleigh at her mother’s breast, a tiny helpless infant nurtured and protected against the storm that was raging around her parents’ world. And maybe the little one would never know about the terrible things now being said about her father; maybe it would all blow over once the real perpetrator of this vicious crime was caught.

  At first she thought it was a car door banging but the second thump was followed by the sound of breaking glass downstairs, making Ruth jump. Instantly the baby began to howl, the source of milk suddenly snatched from her toothless gums.

  ‘Sorry, wee one,’ Ruth whispered, swinging the infant over her shoulder, covering up the naked breast with her free hand. Heart thumping, Ruth crept over to the nursery window just in time to see the figures of three men running away from her front gate. Then there was a raised hand and a missile hurtling towards her. She stepped back as the rock made contact with the window, crashing its way into the room, leaving a gaping hole surrounded by a spider’s web of cracked glass.

  At Ruth’s scream the baby’s howls redoubled, forcing the young mother to retreat into the safety of the upstairs corridor. Cuddling the baby with one arm, Ruth picked up the handset and dialled 999, her mouth open with shock.

  Frank Donaldson slowed down, his chest heaving from the unaccustomed exercise. Ahead of him, Arthur and young Eddie Pollock stood waiting at the end of the lane. The van was across the dual carriageway, parked next to the garage, an easy place for a quick getaway.

  ‘Awright, lad?’ Arthur clapped him on the shoulder as Frank drew alongside the two men. ‘That wis good, eh?’ His brother-in-law’s eyes were alight and even young Eddie was standing grinning like an idiot.

  ‘Aye,’ Frank replied shortly, though what he was feeling was far from good. The sight of that young woman’s face at the window with her wee baby had sickened him. How had he been talked into this mad exploit? As he staggered across the mid-section of Great Western Road, his feet slipping on the wet grass, Frank Donaldson already knew the answer to that one: too much drink and a hasty temper, twin ingredients in a recipe for disaster.

  ‘Think she saw us?’ he panted.

  ‘Naw, nae chance. We wis too damn quick fur her!’ Arthur replied. ‘Lucky the man wisnae in. Eh?’ His brother-in-law gloated as they dodged the traffic and headed for the van.

  Frank Donaldson merely nodded in reply. Lucky? The man he’d come to avenge hadn’t been there and now all he felt was a sense of guilt at his cowardly actions. What if Mary was right after all? He knew she hadn’t believed Julie’s story about the teacher. Her silent and anxious looks had told him as much. Frank bowed his head into his chest as he sat in the back of the van. But someone had killed his little girl and if it wasn’t Eric Chalmers, then who was it?

  ‘We’ve had a call through from Anniesland,’ DC Irvine informed her boss. ‘Mrs Chalmers has reported an attack on her property.’

  ‘Is she all right? Where’s Chalmers himself?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘She’s had a hell of a fright,’ Irvine replied. ‘A couple of uniforms are with her now but they thought we’d better know what was going on,’ she added grimly. Every last person in Glasgow would be aware of the serious case involving the teacher, thanks to the morning papers. ‘We don’t know where Mr Chalmers is,’ she admitted. ‘His wife left a text message for him though.’

  ‘Great,’ replied Lorimer grimly, ‘just what we don’t need: some vigilantes taking the law into their own hands. Does she know who it was?’ And when Irvine shook her head he made a face and turned back to the mass of paperwork on his desk. This was the sort of mindless reaction that a less than scrupulous newspaper could provoke. He’d been through several battles with the gentlemen of the press before now, coming away each time with a harder attitude towards the fourth estate. Just putting Eric Chalmers into the same paragraph as the death of Julie Donaldson was tantamount to suggesting he was responsible for the girl’s murder. As yet, there was no sign of a forensic report but perhaps they’d know later today if Barbara Cassidy’s article had any shred of credibility. Lorimer found himself hoping that Chalmers’ DNA swab proved negative — that would wipe the smile off the journalist’s face. But, he asked himself, would it also mean that blame might fall on the boy, Kerrigan?

  Her First Years could be pretty demanding, but Maggie had already found a rapport with them and, as they filed into the classroom, she was met with an occasional friendly grin. Kids that age didn’t dwell too much on the bad things in life, maybe, and as she counted heads sitting at desks Maggie Lorimer could see that there was nobody missing from class. That was good. Her Fourth Year class was decimated, many pupils having opted for the advice given by the counsellors; Take time off to nurse your wounds, as Sandie had put it sarcastically. No teacher enjoyed disruption to their routine, but this was different and Maggie had drawn her friend a dark look of disapproval.

  ‘Right,’ Maggie began, ‘who can tell me the name of the pirate cat?’

  Several hands shot up and there were audible murmurs of ‘Growltiger’.

  The dark-haired woman facing twenty eleven-year-olds smiled at them. This was what she needed, what they needed: to slip into a writer’s make-believe world and escape for a while from their own. Mentally she blessed her favourite poet and his quirky collection; Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats had served her well over the years.

  As the afternoon wore on, the smile on Maggie Lorimer’s face gradually disappeared. The First Years had been a tonic after that desperate scene in the staffroom but subsequent classes were less inclined to knuckle down to work, and it was with some relief that she welcomed the bell at the end of a weary afternoon. Maggie rubbed her eyes, not caring if the last traces of mascara were being smudged into dark circles. God, s
he was tired! The tension in that last class had worn her out. The kids had regarded her warily, no doubt wanting to ask the forbidden question about Eric: ‘D’you think Mr Chalmers-’ But Maggie’s insistence on normality being restored in every lesson precluded such gossip coming from them. Sometimes it was hard being so firm, especially as she was the sort of approachable teacher the kids could talk to whenever a problem arose: Mrs Lorimer was famous for the ever-ready box of Kleenex tissues inside her desk drawer. But this was different. Even if Manson hadn’t insisted on it, Maggie would have gone down this road of concentrating on classwork as a diversion from the horrors of recent days. She’d doled out plenty of homework too, giving herself extra loads of marking into the bargain. Ah well, she thought resignedly, it was for their own good, and it would give them all a head start with this year’s folio work.

  Maggie’s gaze drifted out of her classroom window. The trees were beginning to turn already, no doubt helped by the dry summer, and hints of red and yellow told of the changing season. It would soon be time to roll out that wonderful poem of Keats’, ‘Ode to Autumn’. It had been one of the best teaching poems she’d ever used. ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. .’ Maggie quoted softly to herself, then grinned as the next line came to her, bringing with it a memory from her own school days. Miss Livingstone, her English teacher, had been off for a few days one October for a wedding and Maggie never forgot the teacher’s clever remark: ‘I’m a close bosom friend of the maturing son.’

  Miss Livingstone had also taken Scripture Union, Maggie remembered. A tall woman with prematurely grey hair and a kindly smile on her long face, she’d played choruses on the piano and encouraged them to study their bibles. Eric had told her that a lot had changed in SU since then but the choruses seemed to be the same anyway.

  As Maggie’s eyes fell on the rows of empty desks in front of her, she could clearly recall Julie sitting whispering to her friend, Sam Wetherby. If she’d only known what was going to happen, she’d not have felt so annoyed at the girl. That was her last memory of Julie — leaving the classroom and being comforted by her pal. Maggie blinked away tears of remorse as she thought of the young girl. Oh, if only she could turn back time she would have said something kind to Julie. But it was too late for regrets now.