Glasgow Kiss lab-6

by Alex Gray

  Solly Brightman stood a little apart from the three other people: the pathologist, the mortuary supervisor and the young lad who was doing his best to take in all that Rosie was telling him. It hadn’t been strange at all, Solly had told Rosie when she’d mentioned Maggie Lorimer’s request. The boy’s science grades were excellent and he obviously had an enquiring sort of mind, perfect for a career in forensic medicine. Yet Solly had been astute enough to lag behind them, observing the young man’s behaviour, for the psychologist was interested in a boy who wanted to see where post-mortems took place in the aftermath of his girlfriend’s murder. Was he using this visit as a way of dealing with her death? Or did death itself hold an unhealthy sort of fascination for him?

  Just as he ruminated upon these thoughts, Rosie came to a halt beside the wall of refrigerated containers.

  ‘This is where we keep the cadavers before their post-mortem examinations.’

  ‘And afterwards?’ Kyle asked.

  ‘Perhaps. It depends on whether the Fiscal releases them for burial or cremation,’ Rosie countered, shooting the boy a look. They’d already shown him the post-mortem room, the viewing room and the areas where staff worked on computers or drank scalding cups of tea. ‘To warm you up after dealing with stiffs,’ the supervisor had joked.

  ‘Is Julie still in there?’

  The sudden silence that followed made the boy’s question seem all the more macabre.

  ‘Yes, yes she is.’ Rosie was staring at Kyle, and Solly took in the lad’s quiet, almost impassive demeanour. It hadn’t bothered him to ask and there was nothing callous about his tone.

  ‘Can I see her, please?’

  The psychologist caught the enquiring glance that Rosie threw at the mortuary supervisor and the slight shrug of the shoulders that was an eloquent reply of assent.

  Solly watched as the boy stepped back a pace, as though to show a modicum of respect for the dead. Kyle’s back had straightened and he was clasping and unclasping his hands to keep them still, a possible sign of suppressed excitement. And those eyes; how they stared as the corpse was uncovered. Was that brightness to do with unshed tears? Or did it emanate from quite a different sort of passion?

  As Kyle stepped forward, Rosie lifted a warning hand. ‘Don’t touch her, please. We can’t have any contamination.’ Then, as if she too had seen something in his expression and decided she didn’t like what she saw, the pathologist slid the body back into its slot in the wall. But, as she did so, a back draught caused another corpse to slide slowly out of its place in the wall.

  ‘Woooo!’ the supervisor said and they all laughed, the moment’s tension suddenly broken.

  Solly heard the boy thank Rosie politely and now he saw just a young man who was trying to come to terms with a difficult situation, not the boy who had devoured the dead girl with his eyes, making the psychologist wonder.

  ‘What do you think, Kyle?’ he asked, making the boy start at the sound of his voice. ‘Is it Julie in there or is she somewhere else, out in a place full of spirits?’

  A frown crossed the boy’s face as he considered the unexpected question. ‘I don’t know really. Does anyone? I can’t imagine Julie anywhere else, though. Not now I’ve seen her here.’

  ‘And how should we live our lives if we think there’s nothing after death? Hm?’

  The boy turned towards him. Solly could see that he was half-embarrassed by the question but curious too.

  ‘Don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Do our best I s’pose. Try to find out answers to the questions that keep us awake at night.’

  The psychologist nodded, his dark beard dipping sagely, and he then he saw the boy give an inward sigh as though relieved that his answer had met with approval. So, had Kyle given a reply that he really believed or had he simply gauged what was an acceptable response? The answer to that, Solly told himself, might well hold the key to the real reason for this young man’s visit to Glasgow City Mortuary. And was the curiosity that had been aroused a sign of some flaw in his personality? As Kyle Kerrigan made his farewells, Solly Brightman realised that for him at least the last hour and a half had thrown up far more questions about the boy than answers.

  ‘Coming home?’ he asked and was rewarded by a grateful nod as Rosie sank against his shoulder, her hands clasped around his arm for support.

  Solomon Brightman was staring out of the window, his eyes not seeing the spectacular view across Kelvingrove Park and beyond the towers of Glasgow University but somewhere further away to the west. Dawsholm Woods were easily accessed from both the Maryhill entrance and the gateway from Switchback Road that linked Anniesland and Milngavie. Eric Chalmers lived so close to this place that it was almost too easy to put him into the frame for the three murders. He’d lived in that area for years, first in the Manse down in the more affluent suburbs of Bearsden then in his own home at Queen’s Court right at Anniesland Cross. Solly sighed into his beard. There had to be a reason for everything, even the most aberrant behaviour. And what reason did a happily married man who enjoyed his life and his work have for killing three young women? Okay, there were the Peter Sutcliffes of this world who were also married and had committed terrible murders on a massive scale. But what he knew about Eric Chalmers didn’t seem to match the same profile as these types of killers.

  Solly tried to put himself inside the wood, late on a summer’s night, hand-in-hand with a pretty girl.

  Had the spade been there already, propped up against a tree? Or did the man holding the girl’s hand always keep a spade in the boot of his car, handy for the burial of another victim? It didn’t make sense to think of a schoolteacher carrying on like that. Some evidence of psychopathic behaviour would have made itself known in the man’s everyday world, surely? He’d even checked the date of Julie’s death to see if it had been a full moon that night. Other scientists might scoff but there was plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest that there was a basis for believing that a full moon affected some people’s behaviour. But when he’d checked, the psychologist found the moon had been on the wane that night.

  And there was the post-mortem evidence to take into account. Julie hadn’t been a virgin but the examination of her body had shown no signs of recent sexual activity. Just because no sexual assault had taken place didn’t mean the killer hadn’t wanted to perform such an act with her. Whoever he was, perhaps rape hadn’t been part of his intention, unlike so many killers of young girls. Had the killer been unable to have sex with Julie? Was that it?

  Eric Chalmers was a married man who’d recently fathered a little girl of his own, not a man whose impotence might have enraged him into murder. But a younger, less experienced man might have wanted to perform a sexual act and been frustrated by his own inability. And there were plenty of young men who had been in Julie Donaldson’s orbit at Muirpark Secondary School, Kyle Kerrigan among them.

  Solly thought back to the boy’s reaction when he’d seen Julie’s corpse. His thrill of excitement had been almost tangible, palpably embarrassing for the other people there. But sex and death were closely related, the psychologist had wanted to remind them. If the sight of Julie’s dead body had indeed caused sexual arousal in that boy, there was a certain amount of logical explanation for it. But he’d specifically asked to see her corpse, Solly reminded himself. Was the boy haunted by her ghost, perhaps? Had he something on his conscience? And was that his way of laying it to rest? Something was troubling the boy, of that he was sure, but the very idea that a lad of fifteen could have committed murders on young women over a period of three years was absurd. Wasn’t it?

  Unless — and here Solly’s imagination took him deeper into the woods where not two but three figures walked slowly towards the place where one of them would be buried. Was it possible? Had there been another person there to help bury the victim, an older man, manipulative and beguiling? It wouldn’t be the first time that young folk had been lured to their death by a pair of evil schemers, Solly thought. Who could ever forget the deeds o
f Ian Brady and Myra Hindley? It was a possibility he couldn’t rule out, not until there was evidence to the contrary.

  There was something about this scenario that he didn’t like. This killer was far more likely to have been on his own, possibly stalking each of these young women, maybe even selecting them for something they had in common, some quality that he found attractive. Was that what he was missing? A trigger of some sort?

  Profiling meant careful consideration of what you knew of the perpetrator and the victims as well as the entire plethora of information that an investigation threw up. But it also meant being aware of possibilities. This killer was a dangerous person: unstable in some way but calculating and clever. And Solly was beginning to think that this killer had never been within the orbit of Lorimer’s investigation. For, the more he considered each of the people who had known Julie Donaldson, the more inclined the psychologist was to dismiss every last one of them as her killer.

  ‘That’s not very helpful,’ Lorimer said at last.

  They were sitting in his room, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the vertical blinds, Solly slightly turned away from the window, seated by the DCI’s desk where Lorimer was perched, a cup of coffee in one hand.

  ‘It’s what I see in the paperwork that’s available to us at present,’ Solly replied primly. ‘If I knew more about the first two victims. .’ he paused, ‘it would certainly give me far more to go on.’

  ‘Right, let me get this absolutely straight.’ Lorimer sighed heavily. ‘You think the women have been targeted by the same man and that he is some loner who is looking for. . what did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t actually give it a name. I don’t really know what he is looking for. We know he didn’t have sex with the Donaldson girl but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. He may be trying to find fulfilment-’

  ‘That was the word you used!’ Lorimer pounced on it. ‘Fulfilment. Isn’t that the same as sexual satisfaction?’

  ‘It might mean the same to him, but he may not necessarily have to resort to rape or assault to achieve his aims.’

  ‘That’s fairly unusual in multiple killings, isn’t it?’

  ‘Highly unusual,’ the psychologist replied. ‘There are scores of textbooks written about sexual motivation — rape escalating to murder — but I think this is different.’

  ‘And you’re trying to tell me that we’re barking up the wrong tree with Chalmers?’

  ‘I think,’ Solly replied slowly, ‘that whoever carried out these killings may be someone who displays psychopathic traits. And he might even be in our medical system already. That doesn’t fit what I’ve been told of Eric Chalmers,’ he said, looking gravely at Lorimer.

  The Detective Chief Inspector slid off the desk and began to pace back and forwards, in and out of the pool of sunlight. Watching him, the psychologist could see the deepening lines around Lorimer’s eyes and the way he bit the waxy skin around his index finger: sure signs of the man’s growing anxiety. There was pressure on him to come up with answers, and soon, or a review team would be put in place, taking over the whole investigation. Solly could only sympathise with the man whose tall, spare frame seemed confined within these four walls. Curiously, Lorimer’s behaviour reminded him of Rosie. Hadn’t she been restless recently? But was she really ready for the demands that her full-time job as a consultant pathologist demanded? Perhaps some involvement on the fringes of this case might ease her in gently, he thought.

  ‘Are there any more forensic reports yet?’ Solly asked.

  Lorimer was standing over him now and Solly could see the grim expression on his face.

  ‘So far we’ve not achieved very much from forensics to definitely link all three victims. The killer may have taken them to a place where there’s been a lot of gorse, before their trip to the woods. Where? Why? And what’s he doing with them?’ Lorimer had resumed his pacing back and forwards. ‘If you’re right, we have to get our skates on. Look in all the records of mental hospitals — though we’re probably going to be scuppered by patient confidentiality — for a man who has some predilection for gorse bushes and young women. That’s going to be a breeze, right?’ His sarcasm was so palpable that the psychologist winced.

  The DCI stopped suddenly. ‘Do you know how many officers we have deployed on this case right now? And how many others are trying to find a missing child? And I’ve got the press on my back too.’

  He sat down heavily in the chair beside Solly. ‘We are on the point of arresting Eric Chalmers. I just have to have one more piece of evidence to present a case against him. And if we find it in his house, well, what do I do with your emerging profile?’

  ‘Do you think Chalmers guilty of the girl’s murder?’ Solly asked quietly.

  Lorimer ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. The last thing I want is an unsafe conviction. You know that. And, if I’m honest, Maggie’s opinion has coloured my view of him. She can’t see past all his decent qualities.’

  ‘But you’re worried she might be wrong about him,’ Solly added.

  ‘Worried? More like bloody terrified.’ Lorimer gave a short laugh. ‘How would you like to be in my shoes, arresting one of my wife’s friends for murder?’

  ‘Let’s look at the timescale,’ Solly began. ‘The first killing takes place during the school holidays, three years ago, then nothing — so far as we know — until last year and then this latest victim. What was he doing in between these times? And why is it only in the summertime that he carries out his activities?’

  ‘What are you trying to suggest?’

  ‘If I were you,’ Solly said slowly, ‘I’d begin to look at anyone who had been around Dawsholm Park at that time: temporary rangers, students on a summer job at the Vet School. Anyone,’ he paused, ‘with a history of mental illness or behavioural problems.’

  ‘Well, if you’re right, it’s going to be a race against time before we’re landed with a review team from outside,’ Lorimer told him. ‘And if that looks like happening, Mitchison may well put pressure on us to arrest Eric Chalmers.’

  Jessica closed the door and slipped on the chain. It was better to be safe than sorry, she told herself. Now that Manda was gone the house seemed too quiet. It would be dark soon and she could close the curtains against the night, light the lamps and put on the telly, cosy down for the remainder of the evening. Mum and Dad had texted her earlier. Their plane would be arriving in Heathrow the day after tomorrow but there was someone they had to see in London so they’d be staying over. That meant three more nights all on her own, Jessica told herself. Three nights of waiting for the phone to ring and listening to that empty space where an unknown caller breathed into her ear.

  As she pulled the curtain cord beside the downstairs window, the girl tried not to look at the trees across the road and the shadows under the street lamps, yet her eyes were drawn towards the spot where she had been sure a man had stood looking back at her. But there was nothing there, not even a movement in the empty pavement.

  As Jessica cleared the remains of the pizza she’d shared with Manda the doorbell rang, a single shrill sound as if someone was putting their finger on the buzzer and leaving it there.

  Jessica froze where she stood in the hallway. She was just feet away from the front door, the empty cardboard carton gripped in one hand. The girl’s other hand was pressed against terrified lips as if to stifle the scream that was rising up in her throat.

  The ringing sound seemed to last for ages. Then it stopped and she listened intently. At last she heard it; the sound of footsteps walking away from the door.

  But, instead of a sense of relief, the girl felt only a rising panic and, trembling, she sank on to the floor, tears streaming down her face.

  When the car door slammed she rose to her feet, dropping the pizza box, and sped up the flight of stairs that would lead to the landing window. All she saw was a pale grey vehicle, its red tail lights disappearing down the cul de sac. It was too dark to
make out much but Jessica thought she could see the shape of a man in the driver’s seat.

  It was the same shadowy figure, she told herself. She knew it was. Heart pounding, Jessica ran further up the stairs to her bedroom and grabbed her digital camera. He’d have to turn and come back to reach the main road, she told herself.

  By the time she’d returned to the landing window, the car was parallel with their house and just as she raised the camera, it slowed down.

  The face that looked out at her from the driver’s window gave a knowing smile that changed to one of anger as he saw her intention. Then he raised a hand against the flash and the car accelerated into the night as she tried to take further shots.

  She looked down at the final photograph: all that was visible on the tiny screen was a blur of grey and a streak of red wavy lines.

  But Jessica King didn’t need a camera to remember the man’s face; it was something that was indelibly etched on her memory and would stay with her all through the long hours ahead.

  He wanted to take a shower, to cleanse himself from all that had happened today, as if the police had been burglars, violating his home, intruding on his privacy. It made Eric yearn to leave it all behind, go somewhere else entirely. Make a fresh start.

  The telephone rang and he grabbed it, the desire to hear Ruth’s voice making his eager hands clumsy. ‘Hello,’ he began, a smile ready on his face. But it wasn’t Ruth. The voice on the other end of the line had a harsh, nasal quality that set his teeth on edge.

  ‘Barbara Cassidy, the Gazette. I was hoping to set up an interview with you, Mr Chalmers,’ the woman began.

  Eric let the silence between them linger. Was it the same voice that had screamed out at him from the other side of his door? He couldn’t be sure. And what would he say to her, anyway?