Glasgow Kiss lab-6

by Alex Gray

  ‘You have never bothered with my advice before, Eric, so I don’t see why I should waste my time trying to warn you now. But I’ll say this,’ again the pipe was jabbed in his direction, ‘if you’re not careful it’s more than your job you’ll lose once this matter is finished.’

  And turning away towards his desk, the Rev Chalmers began to read over the contents of a paper. It was a gesture meant to convey that he had uttered his final word and Eric was now dismissed.

  Back out in the cool night air, Eric walked slowly past the snug rows of houses along the street, catching glimpses of a well-lit interior or the flicker from a television set. Other people would be going about their ordinary lives, watching the news, having a drink, talking over the day’s events with their families. He swallowed hard, determined not to let any self-pity overwhelm him, but he could not banish a sudden sense of loneliness.

  There was still no sign of his car being returned and he had walked over the hill from Anniesland so now he would return the same way over Switchback Road. As Eric drew close to the brow of the hill, his eyes were drawn to the dark mass of trees flanking the opposite side of the dual carriageway. Dawsholm Park, where he had fed chaffinches as a boy and scattered peanuts for the squirrels, now seemed to Eric Chalmers a place of ineffable sadness. And, like his childhood, it would be forever tainted with memories impossible to forget.

  Lorimer stood looking around the incident room. Blown-up pictures of Julie Donaldson and the skeletons of the other two victims were alongside enlarged passport photographs of the missing girls, their young faces gazing out hopefully at a world that they had expected to enjoy. Now these images were stuck on the board side by side with the men who might be in the frame for their murders. The latest photos had been enlarged and copied so that Adam Russell’s face was now part of this collage. The DCI had dismissed the rest of the team before utter exhaustion set in; he simply couldn’t afford any mistakes being made at this crucial stage. But Lorimer had remained there alone, thinking over what he had read in Russell’s case notes.

  Adam Russell had been on his own ever since the death of both parents, continuing to live in the family home. It was a stone’s throw from the Donaldsons’ house and easy walking distance from Dumbarton Road, from where he could catch a bus or the Underground into the city. After giving up on his film and media course at university, he’d drifted into a series of jobs, none of which had lasted very long. And he’d been treated for depression, several episodes of anxiety following as the years passed and his condition justified the prescribed medication. Lorimer sat down at the nearest desk and turned once more to the thick, well-thumbed document he held in his hands.

  ‘Personable. . charming. . plausible,’ the words seemed to leap off the page at him. Russell had told stories to his doctors about his responsible career as a professional make-up artist, a tale that did, however, hold a grain of truth. The notes showed that he had been employed on a casual basis at the King’s Theatre and also at a funeral parlour, his skills evidently sufficient for someone’s purposes. But most of what he claimed to be was based on a tissue of lies. Make-believe, perhaps. Or would a psychiatrist call it something else? Delusions? Most of the man’s income over the past few years had derived from Social Security benefits; flimsy papers typed up by his visiting officer were stapled to several of the pages, showing dates and figures, his continuing illness regularly assessed to justify his claiming invalidity allowances.

  The DCI was used to reading background reports on criminals whose behaviour suggested a lack of mental capacity and who might not be considered fit to plead, but this file had him puzzled. Russell did not seem to fit neatly into any sort of category. The man appeared to be perfectly capable of looking after himself and leading an apparently normal life. Nowhere was there evidence to suggest a pattern of violent behaviour except for the episode where he had claimed to have self-harmed.

  So why had he run? And why had he stalked Jessica King?

  Lorimer rubbed his eyes; they were gritty and beginning to sting with tiredness. He was certain there must be something within this file, something that would give him an insight into this case.

  It came to him quite suddenly, not so much what was there but what was missing. He’d read them over and over, almost dismissing the thin paper pages as irrelevant. But now he saw it: several dates when Russell should have been in receipt of benefits were blank. He turned over the pages again and again, but there was nothing to show the man had been in paid employment. And it was at the same time for the last three years in early summer. So what had he been doing?

  Three years ago a girl had arrived in Scotland to stay and Muirpark Secondary School had been her host. Then last year another girl had come. Both were now missing persons. Was it their mortal remains now lying in Glasgow City Mortuary?

  He had worked in a funeral parlour. Was there some link there? Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, hadn’t he been a mortuary attendant? Lorimer’s head buzzed with unanswered questions.

  Then he thought back to what Maggie’s head teacher had told him and his hand stretched out towards the telephone.

  Manson was at home and not best pleased to be disturbed by the sound of the DCI’s voice. But he did provide the name Lorimer was looking for.

  The offices were closed for business, the recorded voice told him, but there was a mobile number he could ring in an emergency.

  ‘Mr Clark? Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, Strathclyde CID,’ he began, wondering just what the man on the other end of the line would make of a call at this late hour. If Derek Clark was surprised he was too polite to show it and within minutes Lorimer was ringing off, thanking the man for his time.

  It was the sort of moment that he relished, the clarity that came when all the pieces finally fell into place.

  The agency had been happy to employ the young man, himself a former pupil from Muirpark, and they had had no hesitation in renewing his services each year as an escort for their overseas students. Mr Russell had been paid in cash, but that was all right, surely? Clark had asked, obviously anxious that his firm had not transgressed any of the legal requirements of employing casual labour. There had been a moment’s silence after Lorimer had mentioned the names of the missing teenagers, though. Not our responsibility, had been Clark’s final response.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked aloud, staring at the picture of Russell standing awkwardly against the black railings, his hand raised in a blur, lips slightly parted as if to protest. The SOCOs had scoured the man’s flat once a warrant had been obtained but no forensic results would be shown until tomorrow at the very earliest.

  Lorimer heaved himself to his feet. There was no way Russell would return to the flat now but he’d posted an unmarked car across the street to keep watch just in case.

  It was time to go home, catch some sleep. Maggie would be waiting as usual and the thought of her welcoming smile when he walked into their home quickened his step as he went out of the incident room, leaving the faces of all those different people staring blankly into the night.

  CHAPTER 40

  T he leaves that had been drifting slowly from the trees in the last lazy days of summer now whirled downwards, scattering across the grass, the frenzied wind whipping at the branches. Autumn was almost here now, this early morning chill edging the breeze with a memory of ice and snow from the high peaks further north. All sounds seemed concentrated within the trees themselves, like a roar of an aircraft repeatedly taking off into the darkness. Wave upon wave of gusts made the ancient oaks sway under the flying scraps of clouds, the moon appearing fitfully like a ghostly face leering out from a veil of grey, torn cobwebs.

  But the noise made him feel strong, excited, as though it were endowing him with special powers. As he sat on the stone by the tunnel’s mouth, Adam felt as if he were the only person alive. And wasn’t he named for the first born man, the special son of God? The wind in his face made him think of the hot blood running through his veins; thoug
h in truth his bare hands were numb from the cold. It was almost time to hide himself away once more, deep within his cave, his kingdom. The all-night grocer’s had provided enough rations to keep him going for days and he had plenty of spare batteries for his torch, should he need to use it.

  A movement to his left made him start but it was only a squirrel scampering down from the foot of a tree trunk. The animal froze suddenly as if aware of the man’s intention. Then, just as Adam stooped down to pick up the stone, it whisked around the bole of the tree and out of sight. He stood up then, angry with himself for letting the beast escape. The moment’s fury made something in his stomach churn and he tasted sour bile in his mouth. Looking over his shoulder, Adam decided to risk one quick dash into the bushes to void his bowels.

  Minutes later he was walking down the old railway tracks, his feet keeping time with the carillon of echoes from the noise of the wind outside.

  Lorimer woke early and, despite so little sleep, he felt more awake than he had for days. All night the wind had howled around the house, the straggling fronds of climbing rose beating against their bedroom window, making him feel as though he had been just on the edge of wakefulness. As if recalling a vivid dream, Lorimer remembered the events of last night and a quickening sense of purpose made him slip away from Maggie’s warm body.

  It had to be Adam Russell.

  All the bits fitted together, even to the profile that Solly had at last produced. A white male in his twenties to forties, was the first line on the psychologist’s report, the description applying to a vast sector of society but in particular to every profile Lorimer had ever read of a serial killer. Dressing quickly, Lorimer made up his mind.

  ‘Ye-es?’ Doctor Solomon Brightman reached for the handset, his head still muzzy with sleep.

  ‘It’s me. Can I come up?’

  ‘Lorimer?’ There was barely a pause as the psychologist registered the note of excitement in the detective’s voice. Something must have happened if the DCI was at his door at this hour.

  Ten minutes later the two men were sitting opposite one another, a steaming pot of one of Solly’s herbal brews on the table between them.

  ‘Russell was diagnosed with some depressive type of illness, okay?’ Lorimer began. ‘Nothing so specific that he presented himself as a danger to the public. On the contrary, according to these case notes,’ he tapped the file he was holding, ‘the man was an exemplary patient, completing all the necessary programmes so that he could cope on his own, taking all the relevant medication.’

  ‘Right, I read all of that,’ Solly said, his brow creasing in an uncharacteristic frown of annoyance.

  ‘The focus of the notes was always on Russell’s well-being,’ Lorimer said grimly, lifting up his cup and taking a sip, then grimacing at the taste. ‘How can you drink this stuff, Solly?’ he asked, setting the cup back down. The psychologist smiled briefly and shrugged.

  ‘Anyway, all these notes tell us is how he responded to such-and-such a diagnostic test; how well he did jumping through their various hoops. There’s nothing to suggest that he might be a stalker, or anything more sinister.’

  ‘Well, why would his case workers look for things that weren’t there?’ Solly replied mildly.

  Lorimer looked at him sharply. ‘Listen to what I found out last night. Every summer this man’s been employed by an agency to help with the overseas students who went to various schools, including Muirpark Secondary. Acting as chauffeur, taking them around the city to familiarise them with the place and seeing that they were conversant with things like automated cashpoints and transport facilities,’ Lorimer told him, watching as Solly’s eyes grew wide with understanding. ‘Then, as the summer came to an end, Russell’s health always seemed to take a turn for the worse and he was back on some form of medication.’

  ‘Right,’ Solly agreed, nodding his dark head sagely, ‘that’s interesting. And this agency. . they didn’t check up on his background?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘They spoke about him like he was their favourite employee; Russell seems to have been a plausible sort of character, right enough.’

  ‘Hm. Plausible and someone who liked to play the system. There have been cases where-’ He broke off as he caught Lorimer’s exasperated sigh.

  ‘Listen. Each summer there was a different group of students to show around. And I’m certain that two of them were murdered.’ This time it was Lorimer who paused to let his words sink in.

  ‘If it is Anna and Jarmila whose remains are lying down in the City Mortuary, then are you trying to say this establishes a pattern? What about the missing summer?’ Solly asked doubtfully.

  Lorimer fixed his blue gaze on the psychologist. ‘Maybe we simply haven’t found a fourth body yet,’ he said.

  ‘Right, you know what you’ve to do,’ Lorimer told them. ‘We’ve got less than a day before a review team takes this away from us so get cracking. I want Russell found and I want him brought in.’

  There was a murmuring of approval as they all left the incident room. Something was happening at last and the collective adrenalin rush was almost tangible.

  He’d handed the team a variety of actions: to find out what else Russell’s neighbours knew about the man, to make a search among his GP’s records and more detailed enquiries about his parents, as well as looking for clues about where he might have gone. The car Jessica King had photographed was also missing and if they could trace that it would give them something else to examine. Not for the first time Lorimer breathed a prayer of thanks to whatever authority had decided to create such a plethora of CCTV cameras in and around the city. And, he thought, if he could swing it, a TV bulletin would also be going out at lunchtime today with a picture of Russell and a plea to the public to come forward if they had any sightings of the man.

  As he waited for the line to connect him to the Chief Superintendent, Lorimer drummed his fingers on the desk, thoughts racing about his new suspect. If he had his way, the lunchtime news would have an exclusive feature, something that would piss off the press, though it might just make their evening editions. Eric Chalmers had suffered trial by media for so long now that his was a household name and letters to the Gazette had poured in, showing a marked division of opinion. At Muirpark the teaching staff seemed to be at one another’s throats arguing about his involvement in this murder case, Maggie had told Lorimer sadly, her voice tight with emotion. So she would be jubilant if he could finally prove that her friend was innocent.

  Suhayl scratched his head, wondering. Had that been the same man he’d served during the wee small hours: the one with the big black coat and the unsmiling eyes? Suhayl, who was a poet by choice and a greengrocer by necessity, regarded the television screen closely then scribbled down the telephone number on the brown paper bag he’d snatched from the end of the counter. It was him, he was sure of that: same height, same face, same pale washed-out complexion. Nodding to himself, Suhayl picked up his mobile from its place by the till and began to punch out the number.

  ‘Where did you say you are, Mr Kamar?’ Lorimer swung his chair around, studying the map of Glasgow on his wall as he listened to the Asian grocer’s words. ‘And you saw him crossing over. .?’ Lorimer’s eyes took in the area around Great Western Road where the Botanic Gardens met the junction of Byres Road and Queen Margaret Drive.

  Suhayl Kamar stood in the doorway of his shop, one hand holding his mobile against his ear, the other describing patterns in the air as though he were explaining things to a visible companion. ‘Yes, he went up to the side of the gate and disappeared just like that. One moment he was in the street under the lamp post, the next he had vanished. So he must have gone into the gardens, sir. There is no other explanation.’

  Lorimer put down the telephone. They were having a fair number of calls but this was the first that had merited being put through to him personally.

  It only took a few minutes to establish the grocer’s claim. CCTV footage had three sightings of Russell — one
near to the grocer’s shop, one within the park itself and the third way over near the disused railway track. Grabbing his jacket, Lorimer swung himself out of his chair and headed for the car park.

  He knew that area, he thought, heart pounding. He’d spent time there as a youngster, snooping around the old tunnel with his pals. But he’d always been too afraid to enter the claustrophobic darkness after that first time.

  Now was it some strange quirk of fate drawing William Lorimer back to a place that had haunted his dreams ever since?

  CHAPTER 41

  Kyle sat down heavily on the bed. Packing all his belongings into that battered case had taken longer than he’d thought. Twice he’d yanked the whole lot out again and twice he’d repacked it more carefully, folding things smooth so they would fit. He hadn’t realised just how much stuff he actually owned. But now it was done and the case was on its side next to a bulging duffle bag and his school satchel. It only remained to do one last thing.

  He’d imagined this moment over and over again, remembered Jamesey’s words. Pit the heid in him, he’d told his wee brother, grinning. Wee half-brother, Kyle reminded himself. Not a full-blood relation. And he knew he could do it. Knew he could take the man on, hold him back and smash his own head against that girning face. In his mind he could hear the crunch of bone as Tam Kerrigan’s nose met the impact of his head: a real Glasgow Kiss. He could almost smell the blood, see the look of surprised anguish in those piggy little eyes as he stood back, triumphant over the man at last. He knew he could do it.

  ‘Whit’s goin on?’

  Kyle looked up, his reverie vanished in an instant. Da stood there, hands by his side, a belligerent expression on his unshaven face.

  ‘Whit’s a this?’ Kerrigan pointed at the luggage on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to live at Gran’s,’ Kyle told him, standing up, surprised at how calm he felt now that this moment of confrontation had actually arrived.