The Stalker Read online

  Alex Gray was born and educated in Glasgow and is the author of the bestselling William Lorimer series. After studying English and Philosophy at the University of Strathclyde, she worked as a visiting officer for the DHSS, a time she looks upon as postgraduate education since it proved a rich source of character studies. She then trained as a secondary school teacher of English. Alex began writing professionally in 1993 and had immediate success with short stories, articles and commissions for BBC radio programmes. A regular on Scottish bestseller lists, she has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing. She is also the co-founder of the international Scottish crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland, which had its inaugural year in 2012.

  ALSO BY ALEX GRAY

  Never Somewhere Else

  A Small Weeping

  Shadows of Sounds

  The Riverman

  Pitch Black

  Glasgow Kiss

  Five Ways to Kill a Man

  Sleep Like the Dead

  A Pound of Flesh

  The Swedish Girl

  The Bird That Did Not Sing

  Keep the Midnight Out

  The Darkest Goodbye

  Still Dark

  Only the Dead Can Tell

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-7515-7227-8

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Alex Gray 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Lyrics to ‘Every Breath You Take’ on p 52 written by Gordon Sumner,

  © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Gray

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  To Suzy.

  Follow your dreams,

  for dreams do come true.

  That night, a child might understand,

  The deil had business in his hand.

  From ‘Tam o’ Shanter’

  by Robert Burns

  PROLOGUE

  Darkness, be my friend, he whispered, though he doubted any noise escaped his lips, the words mere thoughts, lost in the gathering gloom. She had left the window open again, a clear invitation to let him climb up on top of the water butt and pull himself inside the room where only a flickering candle gave any light.

  He could smell it from where he stood, the rose and bergamot drifting like invisible smoke into the night air. And he could have sung the words, too, had he wished, the rhythmic beat from her music drowning out anything else. She would be sitting cross-legged on the floor, dark hair twisted in a knot at the nape of that slender neck, earphones discarded by her side, eyes closed as she attempted the relaxation exercise she performed every evening around this time.

  A passing crow flapped silently by, its wingbeats a mere shadow, a black glove flung upwards on a current of warm air. But there was no wind tonight; all was still, the very air close and waiting as though holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

  There was only the slightest sound as his feet met the wooden rim of the water butt, the blood singing in his ears drowning out any peripheral noises.

  It was time, he told himself over and over; time to test her will, time to offer what he had to give. Time to take what she owed him. He stepped back down and crossed to his waiting car. It had taken a lot of planning but soon she would leave that room and come outside, then he would open the door and invite her in. Her regular taxi had been dispatched long since and she would never know the difference. Later he would be waiting once again and this time he would ask her the question that would make him complete.

  And, should she refuse?

  Then darkness would cover her completely and for ever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was like being at her own funeral.

  Maggie Lorimer shuddered. Where on earth had that thought come from? She glanced back at the audience in front of her, men and women who had come out of friendship or a sense of loyalty. Even, perhaps, out of curiosity. Similar to the sort of attendance you’d see outside a crematorium …

  Stop it, an inner voice scolded. Maggie swallowed hard. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. No, it was one of the happiest days. She smoothed down her velvet skirt, the dark green chosen in a moment of caprice to match the book jacket. Nerves, she told herself; just nerves, that’s all. Yet the sudden morbid thought had taken the edge off the excitement she had felt all day.

  Looking out at the crowd of people waiting for them to begin, she gave a deep sigh to calm herself then smiled as she experienced an unfamiliar tug of pride. Every seat had been taken.

  The shop window downstairs had posters proclaiming that tonight was the launch of Margaret Lorimer’s debut children’s book, Gibby the Ghost of Glen Darnel. ‘Free but ticketed’, the chalk board at the door had told any passers-by. Only half an hour ago she had stopped and gasped at the display of brand-new books piled right in the middle of the aisle. Her books! Holding the first printed copy in her hands had been special, but this made her want to laugh out loud. Wicked, her kids at Muirpark Secondary might have said. Her book was there, in a real bookshop, alongside the work of hundreds of other authors, as if she actually belonged.

  The bar staff had been giving out drinks to the stragglers as Lucy, her agent, and Ivy, her publicist, escorted her along to the theatre area and Maggie had given a small wave, recognising Sadie Dunlop, the canteen lady from Police Scotland, all dolled up for this special occasion.

  Heads turned and people grinned when she passed down between the two aisles of seats. They had all come to cheer her on; and now that she looked out from
the stage, Maggie spotted several colleagues from school (and quite a few of the kids), friends and neighbours, even Audrey Ellis, from along the street, though Maggie suspected that was out of sheer nosiness. There was a cousin she hadn’t seen since Mum’s funeral … perhaps that was where the strange thought had come from. All these people from different parts of her life. There were women she hadn’t seen for ages, and some men, too, though several faces were unfamiliar to her.

  And then she spotted the one person she most wanted to see.

  There he was at the end of a row, preferring to take a seat at the back, his long legs stretched out. Bill. She had surprised him with this book, she remembered with a smile, the news of its publication coming right at the end of one of his successful cases. Next to her husband were a few other police officers of their acquaintance: Niall Cameron and his nice wife, Eilidh; Betty and Alastair Wilson; and several other men and women from Stewart Street Police Office as well as the Major Incident Team in Govan. Solly Brightman and his wife, Dr Rosie Fergusson, were right at the front, however, faces wreathed in smiles. The book was dedicated to Abigail and baby Ben, though Maggie and Bill’s godchildren were both at home. It was a school night for Abby and in any case she was still too little to read about Gibby, the little ghost boy who had taken the children’s publishing world by storm.

  Maybe that was why there were so many strangers here? Ivy, her publicist, had sent out a press release insisting that there was a lot of interest in this Glasgow teacher turned author. Only last weekend Maggie had gazed in astonishment at the double-page spread in the Gazette’s Saturday supplement, her picture staring out at her, the delighted expression unmistakable.

  ‘Ready?’ Lucy asked quietly, a slight nod to catch Maggie’s eye.

  Another deep breath and a proper smile, just as Ivy had told her, then she watched as Lucy rose to her feet, the murmurs from the audience immediately dying down, the spotlight now focused on the stage.

  ‘Good evening and thank you all for coming. My name is Lucy Jukes and I have the pleasure of being Maggie’s agent. When I first read the manuscript of Gibby the Ghost of Glen Darnel I knew at once that here was a writer with a great imagination and an ability to make her words conjure up pictures in the mind of a child. I have to tell you,’ she turned and looked at Maggie with a brief smile, ‘I was quite blown away by the story and I am sure that anyone reading it for the first time will agree that a superb new talent is born!’

  The sudden applause that followed made Maggie’s cheeks burn. It was something she had not prepared herself for, despite all of Ivy’s pre-publication hype, this sensation of being the centre of attention and actually not quite deserving it at all. For a moment Maggie wished she were anywhere else but here, the object of so many eyes watching her, faces looking at her as though she were now someone special just by having a book published.

  It’s nerves, she repeated to herself, simply nerves and excitement now that this moment has arrived.

  ‘Thank you,’ Maggie murmured, taking her place behind the lectern. She swallowed and then caught sight of Bill at the back of the room. He nodded, just once, and she took another deep breath. You can do this, his eyes seemed to tell her.

  ‘Thanks, all of you, for coming tonight. It’s really rather overwhelming!’ She shook her head so that a ripple of sympathetic laughter rang out.

  ‘I’d like to read a little from the book and I hope you like it,’ she added, smiling more confidently as she opened the book at the page she’d marked with one of her own new bookmarks.

  Then, as she began to read, it was more like being back in the classroom, the words measured carefully, the different voices bringing the characters to life, and Maggie Lorimer knew that everything was going to be just fine.

  The small stage was little more than a raised dais, the two figures seated side by side. Once the reading was over the lights went up and members of the audience were invited by the agent to ask all sorts of questions.

  Oh, there were plenty of questions he wanted to ask, heart thudding with excitement, but for now it was better to listen, to remain another anonymous punter sitting in a darkened corner of this room where all eyes were on the slim, dark-haired woman sitting on the stage. She had neat ankles, he noticed, and shapely legs, though that skirt just below knee length suggested a sort of modesty. The lacy top glimpsed beneath her jacket was more promising, however, like a camisole that could be ripped off easily, revealing a warm body beneath. A schoolteacher. A woman who ordered kids about. He drew his legs together, feeling the warmth beginning. This time, surely this time … ?

  She was exactly what he wanted. And he would not rest until he made her submit to his will.

  The table where Lucy directed her had a large vase of white lilies, making Maggie think again for a moment about death and funerals.

  ‘Glass of wine?’ Lucy asked. ‘White or red?’

  Why not? Maggie thought suddenly. It was her night. She deserved it, surely?

  ‘White, please,’ she agreed, then looked up as Ivy came to hover over her, ready to hand her each book, turned carefully to the page with the publisher’s logo at its foot. There was so much to learn about this publishing business, Maggie had sighed earlier that day to Bill, but right now, with Ivy by her side, she was happy to greet every person in this long queue that had her book in their hand.

  ‘Gosh,’ she exclaimed, looking up at Betty Wilson, ‘three books!’

  ‘One for us, one for Kirsty and James and just sign the third one. It’s a present for a friend,’ Betty explained.

  ‘How are they getting on in Chicago?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Loving it,’ Betty replied. ‘We miss seeing them, mind you, but Kirsty wants us over again next month.’

  ‘Privilege of being retired,’ Maggie murmured.

  ‘Aye, well, we worked hard for that and Alastair’s got a decent pension.’

  Betty smiled and gathered up her books then leaned forward, tapping Maggie on the shoulder. ‘You look lovely tonight, lass,’ she told her. ‘Well done. So proud of you.’ Then she was gone, another taking her place.

  Sandie, her best pal at school, thumped several copies of the book on to the table.

  ‘All for the school library,’ she said with a grin. ‘Manson reckons the juniors will enjoy it,’ she added. Keith Manson, head teacher of Muirpark Secondary School had sent his apologies earlier in the day and Maggie had felt a certain relief. She got on well enough with the man but he was a real authoritarian and her nerves had been stretched enough.

  Who would you like me to dedicate it to? became like a mantra, the question posed to each new person who came to the signing table.

  Sometimes she was told to ‘just sign your name’, like the chap in the raincoat who stared at her for a moment then scurried off as soon as she had written in his book. He was a stranger, but one of several who may have come at another’s behest or simply out of curiosity. Seamus from the bookstore had reminded her about the different book groups that met here in Waterstones, so really it should be no surprise to meet new people.

  ‘So many folk I don’t know,’ she whispered to Ivy.

  ‘Well, remember, these are first editions,’ Ivy retorted. ‘Could be worth a mint some day.’

  Maggie shook her head and smiled. No, she was not one to crave fame or fortune, despite Ivy’s best intentions. If you believed your hype you could be coming down to earth with a crash, she had told herself. Yet, in an idle moment, Maggie wondered if J. K. Rowling had felt like this on the evening of her first Harry Potter launch.

  She had looked forward to it for weeks and yet now, lying here in bed, Maggie was glad that it was all over. The applause, the kind words, the dinner afterwards in Rogano with Bill and her publishers … it had all been magical, creating memories she would treasure. Tomorrow she would begin the tour of bookshops all across the country, leaving Bill behind. She snuggled in to his side, feeling his arm encircle her waist in response.

  ‘I’ll mi
ss you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Bill replied. ‘Just go out there and enjoy yourself. You were fabulous tonight and you’ll wow audiences everywhere, just wait and see.’

  Maggie sighed, half in pleasure and half because what she had said was true. The fortnight’s Easter break would be swallowed up by Ivy Thornton’s plans for this tour and she knew a moment’s regret that they would be apart for so long.

  Price I have to pay, she thought. For what? Success? She blinked in the darkness. Was that something driving her on? Tonight it sometimes felt as though she had changed into a different person. Being on stage and behind that signing table, she had drifted into another world. Since Maggie had become an author she had the feeling that everyone was looking at her with new eyes, as though she were suddenly deserving of respect. Well, inside she felt just the same.

  A movement by the bed and a familiar sound made Maggie reach out her hand to feel the soft fur of Chancer, their old ginger cat. With a purr he responded to her petting then silently leapt up on to the bed and began to circle himself carefully before settling down by her feet.

  I’ll miss you, too, she thought, closing her eyes.

  Their bedroom curtains were open. If he had a ladder he could climb up and peer in. What would he see? Two people in bed together? The thought made him clench his teeth.

  The figure beneath the street lamp raised a hand in silent salutation then slipped quietly away, shadows taking him into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was one of those mornings made for climbing a hill, binoculars slung around his neck. The April skies were devoid of any trace of cloud, a shimmering brightness against the horizon where the sun had risen, the air warm and fragrant with the scent of hyacinths in a tub beside him. Bulbs that Maggie had planted in the late autumn. Lorimer sighed as he closed the front door behind him. Too bright, too early, he could almost hear his late mother speaking the words. Well, this was the west of Scotland and the weather was capricious to say the least. If he had set off for the hills there was no doubt he’d have packed waterproofs. Yet Lorimer’s thoughts were still on the journey his wife was making at that moment. The publicity woman had picked Maggie up half an hour earlier, the birds still in chorus, and by now they would be out of Glasgow and heading north while he made his short journey to the MIT office in Govan. In his mind’s eye he followed their route through Dumbarton, along the dual carriageway to the Stoneymollan roundabout with its sculpture of white flying gulls. Maggie always gave such a sigh of pleasure as they drove around that particular landmark, towns left behind, the hills ahead beckoning. They had travelled that road many a time together but now she was with Ivy Thornton. Lorimer pressed his lips tightly together thinking of the PR and how Maggie had allowed her to take the lead the previous evening. The publishing world was new to them both and he supposed the Thornton woman was just doing her best to promote Maggie’s book, but something in her manner had jarred with the detective superintendent. Was it her tendency to cut in whenever Maggie began to show signs of modesty? She had been pleasant enough towards him, but he’d felt the scarlet-lipped smile had been a little forced when Ivy had looked at him and her eyes had dropped under his questioning gaze as if there was something she did not wish to share. Still, perhaps he ought to give her the benefit of the doubt, despite his natural inclination to analyse another person’s behaviour. His wife was more than capable of looking after herself, he told himself, a faint smile hovering across his mouth as he remembered their earlier conversation.