Never Somewhere Else lab-1 Page 4

  ‘But why would someone want to scalp three young women?’

  ‘Or four. If he’d been successful.’

  ‘Quite.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘Lorimer.’

  He spoke curtly into the mouthpiece. His working day was peppered with telephone calls. It was Alistair Wilson asking for the annual staff profiles.

  ‘I’ve got someone in at the moment. I’ll get back to you later,’ said Lorimer, wishing he could make it sooner. This psychologist dealt with intangibles. Lorimer preferred to deal with facts. He felt that Alison Girdley’s attack was the first real progress he’d made towards apprehending this killer. The ambulance, the description — both were concrete. The photofit face would be shown on TV. This was something real to go on, not like Solly Brightman’s nebulous psychological profile. Still, both paths could lead to the same place in the end, he thought.

  ‘I’d check the local libraries and schools, if I were you,’ Solly said suddenly. ‘Look for something specific. Nonfiction. A history of American Indians, or something like it. Look to see if there’s been a borrower who has repeatedly taken out such an item.’

  ‘What if he’s bought the book?’ Lorimer said unkindly.

  Solly shrugged and spread his hands. Lorimer felt immediately ashamed.

  ‘Okay.’

  Solly looked at his large wristwatch.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to be going now. I have a lecture at three o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘Dreams.’

  Chief Inspector Lorimer give him an obligatory, polite smile. Dreams, indeed!

  The photofit was complete. A man’s thin face glared up from the screen, small eyes, cropped hair and large ears. Lorimer remembered something about large ears, large hands, large feet … he could ask Alison Girdley about the hands. As an identification it was unsatisfactory, though. The features, when put together, made a fairly ordinary face. There was nothing really outstanding. Still, he’d often thought that of other photofits and marvelled at the results they had produced. This one was to be shown on Crimewatch. It would take all his powers of organisation to ensure that the screening was a success. Certain information was to be made known; some facts had already been printed by the tabloids but others were still under wraps. The main thing being withheld was the involvement of the psychologist. He was to remain a secret for now, thank God.

  CHAPTER 7

  The air was still with that clinging dampness which is a depressing feature of the Scottish West Coast. Wet grey streets were an ocean of tarmac reflecting the grey skies. Martin Enderby emerged from the towering edifice of concrete and glass, loosening his collar and pulling down the knot of his tie. The journalist was tired after the long hours at his desk, and he paused for a moment, gazing at the dark sandstone tenements and newer yuppie flats across the street. Should he head for the car park or give in to the thirst that had been building up all afternoon? His very hesitation spelt out a weakness. With a cursory glance at the Press Bar, where he would be sure to find many of his senior colleagues, he turned in the direction of his preferred watering place, already imagining the taste of cool beer.

  Inside, the bar was warm and dark. Later there would be live music from their resident folk group, but for now Martin was content to enjoy the peace and quiet and the familiar, musty smell. The reporter ordered his drink and took it to a corner table, a solid dark oak circle with an ornately carved pedestal. It was the sort of table which usually annoyed him, as there was nowhere to rest his feet, but today he was too tired to care and too intent on washing down the dust and dryness of his office. He closed his eyes for a moment. The sound of taped Scottish fiddle music and the rattle of a fruit machine were noises that scarcely impinged on his senses.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  With a start Martin looked up to see Diane, the slim, hungry-looking brunette whose acerbic articles in the women’s page caused such letter-provoking controversy. Martin liked her. She talked a hell of a lot, but usually to some purpose and with wit.

  ‘Sure. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, I’ve ordered.’ She perched jauntily on the edge of the chair, crossing her legs neatly. ‘How’s the great white hunter, then?’

  ‘Oh, God knows. They’re putting out a story on Crimewatch so until then we have very few crumbs of information. I tell you what, though,’ Martin leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I don’t think even the publicity will run him to earth.’

  ‘Why not? Wouldn’t it make him wary?’

  Martin took a long swig of beer then put down his glass, sucking the foam from his lips.

  ‘Nope. My guess is that he’s acting from compulsion. Nothing and no one will stop him unless he makes a real mistake, or he’s caught by sheer chance.’

  ‘You mean he hears voices in his head, that sort of thing?’

  Diane’s voice was teasing, and Martin wondered if she was genuinely interested. Just then, the barman stepped up, smiled at Diane and with a certain flourish placed her glass of wine on the table. She returned the smile with one of her own dazzling looks. But then she was gazing back at Martin, all attention.

  ‘There’s no reason for these killings. I mean, no motive. The killer is unknown to his victims, let’s assume. His “reason” is possibly unclear even to him. Something makes him kill, something else makes him take the scalps.’ He paused, glancing at his companion seriously. ‘You might not be far off the mark when you say he hears voices. Think of the case of David Koresh. He claimed that God was telling him to kill anyone who opposed his cult. Quite a lot of criminals have made such claims. There’s even been a TV programme about it. Seemingly perfectly sane people can hear voices.’

  ‘Like Joan of Arc?’

  Martin frowned.

  ‘That’s so long ago. I’m inclined to believe that she did hear God’s voice anyway. No. It’s the ones who behave in certain ways, as if a trigger — not necessarily a voice — had set something off.’ Diane made a face. Martin could see she was becoming rather bored with voices other than her own. ‘Well, then, what’s new in your neck of the woods?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Lots of hot gossip.’

  Diane gave him a wicked grin. Her column might give the impression that she was a regular tattle-tale, but she gave little away until it was committed to print. Her head turned slightly towards the bar, and she raised her eyebrows as the tape changed to an old Pretenders number.

  ‘Thank God I’m off for some culture tonight.’

  ‘Oh? Theatre?’

  ‘Nope. Jayne’s doing a review of Davey’s exhibition. So I’m toddling off to see our ace photographer’s latest offerings.’

  ‘It’s the private viewing, then?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she nodded, sipping her wine.

  ‘He’s done well, has our Davey. Commendation in the Nationals, and now this. His own exhibition. Not just one of many.’

  ‘What sort of pictures are they?’

  ‘Mostly black-and-white, I expect. None of your sensational scene-of-crime stuff. That’s strictly for the paper. Mind you, they’re good, too.’

  Martin remembered one of his friend’s pictures. It was the spot where Donna Henderson had been murdered. What had struck him most about the picture was the beautiful art nouveau lamp curled against the white sky. It seemed to throw up the real contrast of Glasgow: City of Culture and city of crime.

  ‘Kids, I think.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Davey’s photos. In this exhibition. I think Jayne said it was mainly studies of children. Like Oscar Marzaroli did in the Gorbals. You know.’ She gave a little cat-like smile. ‘Come with me, if you like.’

  Martin grinned suddenly. Why not?

  The gallery was part of a university building that had been thoroughly renovated in recent years. Glasgow’s profile as a city of culture had spawned many similar establishments, usually small and well-lit with Renaissance music playing discreetly in the background. Here the music was drowned out by the babble of voices and
laughter. The opening had attracted other photographers and artists and, Martin was pleased to note, a fair sprinkling of art critics from papers other than their own.

  ‘Diane.’

  Jayne Morganti breezed up to them, her red chiffon scarf trailing like two streamers in her wake. She was a diminutive yet striking woman of around sixty, whose black hair and animated elfin face made her seem much younger.

  ‘And Martin.’

  She kissed the air beside his chin, standing on patent-leather tiptoe to reach even that height.

  ‘Do come and have some bubbly.’

  They allowed themselves to be towed off by Jayne, giving a wave or smile to others in the Press fraternity.

  ‘Here darlings.’ Jayne handed them both long glasses of sparkling wine. ‘You will just love Davey’s piccies. I can’t wait to tell the world about this little show.’

  Diane laughed. Jayne’s over-the-top style often included the phrase ‘tell the world’, her approach to art criticism having the zeal of a white-hot evangelist.

  Martin strolled over to a glass table and picked up a couple of catalogues. He passed one to Diane and quietly took himself off to see Davey Baird’s collection of pictures.

  They were, as she had told him, mostly of children. There were faces that grinned out at him with more than childish mischief. Davey had succeeded in capturing their air of adult insouciance. Martin stopped before number nineteen. The picture showed two boys here in a back court, both street urchins in bomber jackets and garishly illustrated t-shirts. One was looking straight at the camera chin up, teeth showing in his grin. His cropped hair glistened in the sunlight. Behind him, the other had turned slightly from the camera’s gaze. His smile had drooped a little and his eyes were cold and unfathomable. Martin’s eyes followed the boy’s to see what he saw, but it was out of the photographer’s range, whatever it was, somewhere beyond the old-fashioned ‘midden’ where dustbins were shoved in out of the rain. Martin nodded his approval. Davey certainly had a composition that told a story with characters and setting. The plot was entirely up to the spectator, of course. There were several red dots in the corner, indicating that prints had been sold. Giving in to a moment of impulse, Martin decided that he would add one for himself.

  There was only one other purchaser at the desk where a young girl sat taking orders from the catalogue. Martin had half-turned around to see where Diane was when the words, ‘Number nineteen’ made him swing back. Curious to see who else had fancied his print, he stared at the man in front of him. He looked like an art student with his tawny hair pulled back into a rubber band and his black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but when Martin caught sight of his face, he wasn’t so sure. The guy must be his age, at least, he thought, watching as he wrote a cheque, noting the signature’s artistic flourish.

  ‘Thanks, Chris. You can collect your copy at the end of this week. It’ll take a few days to have them all framed. Everybody seems to like that one,’ the girl gushed.

  Martin caught her eye and smiled.

  ‘Me too. Number nineteen, I mean,’ he said, turning towards the man she’d called Chris.

  The guy looked at him for a moment as if Martin was daft then his expression cleared.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ he answered. ‘The print. Aye, that’s another one to add to my collection. I’ve got quite a few of his,’ he nodded back in the direction of the main gallery where the photographer was still surrounded by a clutch of admirers. The man smiled briefly at Martin then headed for the main door calling back to the girl. ‘See you, Daisy.’

  Martin rolled some notes out of his pocket and paid for his copy of the picture, giving the girl his name and address then strolled back to examine the rest of the exhibition. From number twenty onwards the pictures were mostly taken in sunshine, the quality of light contrasting vividly with the bleak tenement surroundings. One showed puddles gleaming in the foreground, dazzling the eye against the rows of grey houses and uneven chimney pots on the skyline. Another, taken in a rural setting, was a study of a hare on the skyline of a field, its head upwards as if gazing at the moon.

  ‘Real talent, eh?’ Diane said as she rejoined him.

  ‘Mm. He’s really hit it off this time.’

  ‘You never know, maybe he’ll do this sort of thing full-time.’

  ‘I hope not. His shots usually tell a better story than I do.’

  Martin’s voice betrayed a certain jealousy.

  Diane laughed and shook her head.

  ‘Oho! Fishing for compliments, are we?’

  Martin gave a lop-sided smile. He’d been short-listed for one award himself and was desperate for the sort of recognition that Davey Baird enjoyed.

  ‘Who’s giving out compliments?’ a voice asked.

  They swung round to see the photographer himself standing behind them.

  ‘We were just saying how you could do this as a full-time job,’ Diane told him.

  Davey ran a hand over his fine blond hair and gave a hoot of laughter. ‘That’ll be shining bright. This is just a sideline. I still need all the work the Gazette can give me.’ He patted Martin’s shoulder adding, ‘Catch up with you later. There’s a guy over there I want to see.’

  They watched him weave his way through the crowd, stopping now and then to shake a hand and exchange a word with someone. Martin gazed after him, imagining how it must feel to be the centre of such attention. A movement by his side made him look down.

  Diane’s wine was finished. She swirled the stem of her glass between her fingers thoughtfully. She’s wondering if I’ll fetch her another, thought Martin, who was only too aware of Diane’s signals. Half of him wanted to capitulate, but his own weariness had been shrugged off by discussing the case and now he wanted to be home, doing some more research, deciding on his next line of enquiry. He had to keep the story hot for the paper, and, as he had told Diane, there was very little new information to be had. He drained his own glass and gave her a grin.

  ‘Right, lass, I’m off!’

  The exaggerated Glasgow accent was designed to make a pretence of being oblivious to Diane’s come-on approach. Martin hoped he’d be allowed to succumb to it another time. As he stood up, he rumpled her dark hair just for luck.

  ‘Oh, you … leave off!’ she laughed, a little ruefully, he thought. Martin bent his hand twice in a mock farewell wave then slouched out of the gallery into the street.

  For weeks the Gazette had been following the story of the St Mungo’s Murders with Martin reaping the benefits. His stories had been good: just the right mixture of sensationalism and fact, not too grisly, but enough to hook his readers. These murders could really make his name as a reporter. It had taken an effort to concentrate on the outrage, the victims’ friends and family and, above all, the menace which had to be wiped off the streets, but wasn’t he using the printed word as another weapon in combating this evil hidden somewhere in the city?

  As he drove to his quiet bachelor flat, Martin turned on the radio for news. There was an item about a politician and his mistress. More kiss-and-tell. It was becoming old hat. The latest royal visit overseas had created a stir. Employment figures were up. Another factory had closed down.

  Martin smiled sardonically. It was the sort of juxtaposition he’d often seen at the hands of the Gazette’s sub-editors: the one story seeming to give the lie to the other. Martin listened long enough to hear that a cold front was moving eastwards then switched off. The murderer had dropped out of sight since scaring Alison Girdley.

  Now, Martin thought, let’s make my readership speculate about the mental make-up of this serial killer. He had begun to feel enthusiastic about this angle. Talking to Diane had helped him think through a possible argument. Now there were textbooks to consult and other people’s hypotheses to mull over in the search for a different sort of story.

  CHAPTER 8

  Maggie Lorimer watched the windscreen wipers swish back and forth against the pattering raindrops. The car moved slowly through late
afternoon traffic, necessitating constant use of brake and clutch. Maggie wasn’t in any hurry, however. There would be the usual emptiness in the house, the unlit hallway, gloomy and unwelcoming. Once home she would turn up the central heating, switch on the lamps and tune into Classic FM. This last action was a necessity to Maggie, whose natural gregariousness demanded other voices around her. Even now a voice from the car radio was warning of the hazards of road works and delays from the city.

  Tell me about it, thought Maggie, gazing at the rows of cars tortoising along their motorway lanes.

  The voice changed and began to give the day’s news in clear, precise tones.

  ‘A body has been found …’

  No, she thought, no, I can’t stand it any more. But the voice was describing Hertfordshire and the corpse appeared to be an old man, someone who had come to grief by accident. Maggie’s stomach felt weak. She had been so sure that the killer had found another victim.

  Her finger flew to the button and the voice ended in mid-sentence. What if he was never found? Lorimer had spoken briefly but grimly about the difficulties in tracking down serial killers such as this one. Would he ever give up the search?

  Maggie caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Dark curls tumbled around her pale face, greying around the hairline. Her eyes showed signs of strain and fatigue, exaggerated by the mascara she had absently rubbed into dark smudges. Lines which had once told of laughter would soon be described as crows’ feet, she told herself, miserably.

  Maggie sighed and pulled her gaze back to the traffic ahead. Once home she would prepare a meal for two but expect to dine alone. Despite the fact that Lorimer had always worked dreadful hours in their twelve years of marriage, Maggie had never come to terms with the disappointment of a husband who rarely appeared at dinner time. Instead of becoming accustomed to their long spells apart — for sometimes they did not see each other for days at a time — Maggie increasingly resented this lack of a pattern to their lives. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps her own day as a school teacher was so regulated by the electronic bell that she craved a similar order and structure in her home life.