Never Somewhere Else lab-1 Page 5

  The cars in front began to move faster and Maggie accelerated to match their speed. Up ahead the familiar junction appeared and she signalled left, relieved to be on the last stretch of her journey home.

  *

  The answering machine was blinking its red button as usual. Maggie kicked off her high heels, throwing her velvet coat onto a nearby chair.

  ‘It’s me. Just to remind you that it’s Crimewatch tonight. I’ll be staying over.’

  There was a pause as Maggie waited for the bleep, but Lorimer’s voice came again, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Love you.’

  And I love you too, you brute, thought Maggie, tears of frustration pricking behind her eyes. How on earth could she have forgotten Crimewatch? Easy, her more cynical self replied, I never talk to him face to face these days so why should I remember? At least I can record the programme, she told herself with a rueful laugh, then I can play my husband’s face over and over again in case I forget what he looks like.

  Maggie massaged the back of her neck, circling her head to rid herself of the ache that was beginning to form already. The tape bleeped a few times then continued.

  ‘Hallo, dear, it’s Mum here. Just thought I’d remind you about Crimewatch. Isn’t it exciting? Mrs MacDonald was asking all sorts of questions, but you know me, I just told her that I couldn’t let her know anything about Bill’s cases.’

  No, thought Maggie, because we never tell you anything, you old gossip.

  ‘Well, dear, must go. We’ll catch up some time soon. Bye, now.’

  This last phrase was spoken with a wistfulness that caught at Maggie’s conscience. Damn! Here she was craving the companionship of her husband when Mum would gladly have filled the gap of lonely hours. Two more bleeps sounded before Maggie switched off the tape. She’d phone her mother after dinner to reassure her that she hadn’t forgotten the TV programme. (A lie, but not one she was about to admit.) Fortified by some food she could endure hearing about what Mrs MacDonald had said at the pensioners’ club — couldn’t she?

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘And now we come to a most disquieting series of murders. These murders have had wide Press coverage in recent months and you may be familiar with some of the details.’

  Nick Ross’s earnest, boyish face gazed towards the camera.

  ‘I refer, of course, to the murders of three young women whose bodies have all been discovered in St Mungo’s Park, Glasgow.’

  Maggie Lorimer watched as the camera retreated from the presenter’s face and moved to include the figure of her husband. There he was, immaculate in his dark suit and crisp white shirt (a shirt she’d ironed only yesterday), his hands clasped before him in a firm, steady manner. His whole demeanour showed that stillness which Maggie knew so well. Ross had now introduced Chief Inspector William Lorimer of Strathclyde Police and Maggie felt a stirring of pride as well as an anxiety that this live broadcast should go well. She pressed the record button on the remote control. There would be a recording taking place at Police Headquarters, she knew, but Lorimer might want to see this more privately.

  And so might I, thought Maggie, so might I.

  ‘We are grateful for the full co-operation of the families of these victims,’ Ross was saying, ‘in making a reconstruction of the movements of Donna Henderson, Lucy Haining and Sharon Millen. If you were in the vicinity of St Mungo’s Park on the nights of Thursday October 21st, Monday, October 25th or the 3rd of November, which was a Wednesday, you may be able to help Chief Inspector Lorimer with his enquiries. Watch now and see if there is anything in these reconstructions which jogs your memory at all.’

  Linda Thomson’s eyes were focused on the TV screen in front of her. She was dimly aware of James sitting slumped in a corner, watching the screen because he had to. They all had to, thought Linda. It was macabre, but it was a part of them now, and there would never be any getting away from it.

  She watched as the actress taking the part of Donna Henderson left a group of friends and plunged into the darkness of the lane. Her high-heeled shoes clicked over the cobbles. The camera showed them in close-up and for a few seconds the room was filled with the menace of the darkness and that hollow, lonesome sound of footsteps.

  Ross’s voice returned, reassuringly normal, talking about the forensic evidence at the actual scene of the killing.

  Linda sat quite still, the cat on her knee asleep, oblivious to her turmoil. She stroked the smooth fur eagerly as if making contact with a living, breathing creature might restore normality, banish this nightmare. The cat purred in its sleep below her active fingers.

  What had possessed the child to take a short cut down that sinister-looking lane? But then don’t we all believe that bad things happen to other people? Linda shivered. They were ‘other people’ too, she thought. And Sharon? That still remained a mystery. Would they ever know what had happened after she had caught that bus?

  The cat jumped off her knee, disturbed by a sudden grip on its fur.

  Linda allowed herself a swift glance in James’s direction. She remembered how she had reacted to the news about Alison Girdley’s attack. Her first thought had been ‘Where was James that night?’ Relief to know that he had been at home with them was tempered by the dreadful guilt that she could even suspect her son of such a crime. He was so quiet, so withdrawn. Yet she knew in her heart of hearts that James was totally innocent. Didn’t she?

  Now the screen showed the Glasgow area on a map of Scotland. What had once been Strathclyde Region was coloured in green with a red dot indicating the city. The scene moved to a helicopter shot of the River Clyde and the bridges which ran north to south. Then the camera panned out over the city and Nick Ross used the phrase ‘dear green place’ as the scenes showed the city’s familiar skyline then the stretches of parkland: Bellahouston, famous for its Papal visit, Queen’s Park, Kelvingrove near the university and, finally, St Mungo’s Park.

  Solly was acutely aware of the killer. He would be crouched over his own television set, gloating. Solly felt that he was beginning to know this man now. He would have had a nasty shock when his attack on Alison Girdley failed. His ego would have been badly bruised and he would have retreated in fear and anger, like an animal snarling over lost prey.

  As the helicopter circled St Mungo’s Park, Solly gazed at the peripheral buildings; a church spire, old sandstone tenements and then the grey blocks of high-rise flats, bleak and impersonal like tombstones stretching to the sky. Solly had made red circles around these flats on his Glasgow street plan. Even though house-to-house enquiries had been made, he still came back to the flats. The killer was a loner. And what better place for a solitary, anonymous person than these flats which reared their pre-stressed concrete heads out of the surrounding greenery?

  There were certain aspects of this man that defied profiling, but others were beginning to form a pattern to Solly. Would this programme make the killer react? The Chief Inspector certainly thought so. Solly and he had discussed the fact that the man would believe himself to be inviolable. They all had that streak of megalomania, that utter belief that their actions were those of a superior being. Often, as both Solly and Lorimer knew from their different experiences, that was the point from which their downfall began. Solly thought of the hunter in his lair. Yes. He’d pad up and down with restless uncertainty, but sooner or later he’d come out again to kill.

  Lucy Haining’s last known movements were being shown now, and the presenter took pains to point out that this young art student had shown so much promise. A photograph came up on the screen of Lucy receiving her award. Her young face was flushed with pleasure.

  Lorimer’s voice was telling the millions of viewers about the attack. The word ‘mutilation’ was used, no doubt producing ripples of disgust in homes all over the country. Lorimer was tight-lipped about the gory details, however. This was not an exposé to titillate or fascinate the nation. That was understood.

  Now Sharon Millen’s bus journey home was depicted.
Nick Ross’s voice became urgent.

  ‘Did you see this girl on the night of Wednesday the third of November? Were you a passenger on that bus? If so, the police urge you to come forward. Any information you may give might be helpful in apprehending this dangerous killer.’

  The television screen showed the laurel bushes in St Mungo’s Park where the scene-of-crime plastic flags still fluttered in the cold breeze. The Chief Inspector was explaining how the bodies had been dumped and found by unsuspecting passers-by. Hilary Fleming, holding Toby firmly on his lead, told of her discovery. She was composed now, speaking readily, buoyed up by the medication she had required since the day she and her dog had found that second corpse.

  Police Constable Matt Boyd took a gulp of tea from the mug he had cupped in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the telly in the duty room. Lorimer was doing well so far, he conceded. There was no trace of anger in the man. He’d kept his emotions totally under control, giving nothing away that he didn’t intend to. Matt had seen him angry and they all knew that his temper had been the product of a deep frustration over this case.

  Would they ever solve it? Matt wondered, sipping tea and gazing at the familiar stretches of parkland where he’d spent so many tedious hours. There were countless murder cases where complete blanks had been drawn. If you didn’t catch them quickly, the whole thing became more difficult. The scent would grow cold, thought Matt, unconsciously using an image of which Solly Brightman would have approved. But you never know. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Think of Fred and Rosemary West. Matt shuddered. This case had its horrors but at least there were only three dead.

  ‘So far,’ a voice said in his head.

  The presenter had turned to the police officer by his side once more.

  ‘Chief Inspector, what can you tell us about the progress which is being made in these investigations?’

  The question was asked politely, deferentially, yet there was an edge to it, as if progress was not the correct word to use at all. Matt drained his mug and put it down on the floor beside his chair, smiling cynically. Progress? How would the Chief reply to that? Lorimer cleared his throat, then looking steadily at the man on his left, began his carefully prepared response.

  ‘There are several aspects of this case which can be made public, particularly after the incident involving Alison Girdley.’

  ‘Yes, tell us about that,’ responded Ross, accepting the deflection from his original question.

  ‘Miss Girdley was walking home from her sports club on the night of December 7th when she was hailed by the driver of a stationary ambulance.’ Lorimer paused for an instant to let this information be digested. ‘The driver attempted to throw a bicycle chain around Alison Girdley’s neck, but she successfully avoided this attack and ran to a nearby house for help.’

  Mickey Taylor took his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze. They sat side by side on the settee, watching the screen with some relish. They had been strictly warned by the police not to discuss the events of that evening when Alison had burst hysterically into their living room. Since then they had talked over everything they could find out about the crimes, avid for new developments in a case which had touched on their own unsensational lives. They had watched the TV cameras and all the paraphernalia of the television crew on their street filming Alison herself in a reconstruction of her attack. She’d been a brave lass to go through it all again, they’d agreed.

  Then there had been the thrill of being interviewed in their own home. Jess had been in a tizzy about what to wear for the occasion, even contemplating the purchase of a new dress. However, she had settled for having her hair done and had worn an outfit which was smart but not flashy. The neighbours would talk about it in days to come but she wouldn’t let them accuse her of showing off. No. It was too serious a matter for that.

  Jess blushed as she heard her own accent from the television. How broad she sounded. And Mickey! She looked at her husband appraisingly. He wasn’t as stout as that. It must be the angle of the camera, surely?

  Then suddenly their moment was over. They continued to sit in silence, Mickey squeezing his wife’s hand by way of congratulation, as the programme continued.

  *

  ‘Now. A bicycle chain. You said earlier, Chief Inspector, that this was in fact the weapon used to strangle Lucy, Donna and Sharon.’

  ‘Yes. This is being treated as the murder weapon. Marks found on the throats of the three deceased show that this was consistent with a bicycle chain, or something very similar to it.’

  ‘And you think that Alison Girdley was meant to be another victim?’

  ‘We do. This was a totally unprovoked attack by the assailant. There is no doubt in our minds that this man intended to assault and to kill Alison Girdley.’

  ‘And you believe that this was the same man who had killed Donna, Lucy and Sharon?’

  Lorimer had been prepared for this. There had been some discussion as to whether Alison’s assailant had been the killer they sought or whether this had been a copy-cat attempt at murder which had gone awry.

  ‘We believe so, yes. The fact that this assailant was in an old ambulance is a pertinent factor. The police have reason to believe that whoever committed these crimes used an ambulance to transport the bodies to St Mungo’s Park and then dispose of them in the bushes.’

  The light from the television screen cast shadows on the walls as Martin Enderby scribbled furiously in his reporter’s notebook. He desperately wanted to glean some new facts from this programme to add to the piece he had been writing. And he wondered what they’d say in the update.

  *

  The studio lights had become unbearably hot and Lorimer longed to take a sip from the glass of water in front of him.

  ‘So Alison Girdley may actually have seen the man who murdered Sharon, Donna and Lucy?’

  ‘We think so. There is a videofit picture which we have prepared on the strength of Alison’s description.’

  ‘Yes. Here it is now. Take a good look.’ Ross’s voice was compelling as the photofit appeared on the screen. ‘If you think you know this man or have any information about the old ambulance which he was driving then please do not hesitate to telephone the incident room on this number.’

  The screen flashed up the number as the presenter’s clear tones repeated it twice.

  ‘And remember, all calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

  Now the picture reverted to the two men who regarded each other seriously behind the studio desk.

  ‘Chief Inspector, have you any message for the public? Any advice which might lead to finding this man?’

  The camera zoomed slowly in to show Lorimer’s rugged face in close-up. His blue eyes seemed to pierce right through the air waves.

  ‘This man is a highly dangerous individual. If you think you know who he is, by no means approach him but please,’ he emphasised the word, ‘please get in touch with us immediately. It is imperative that we catch this man.’ He paused. They had decided against adding ‘before there are any more killings’. It was not a wise tactic to employ scaremongering in this way. That sort of thing was left for the Press to take up. Also, Lorimer felt that any admission that further attacks might take place would reflect on police work in general and on himself in particular. And yet …

  ‘He is a dangerous and secretive individual. If you think you can help, then ring this number.’

  Lorimer’s face was replaced by the telephone numbers once more, then Nick Ross was back smiling his assurance to the viewers that such crimes were really very rare.

  ‘We will be back with our update at 11.15 tonight. Already we have a flood of calls coming in and we hope to report on some of those later on.’ Now Nick was leaning on the front of the desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking quite relaxed. ‘Don’t have nightmares,’ he smiled. ‘Goodnight.’

  Maggie switched off the television and sat back. She suddenly became aware of her clenched fists and the feeling of hot sweat
between her breasts.

  Lorimer had spoken to her about the urgency of the case, of the unpredictable nature of any savage serial killer. With one part of her mind Maggie had acknowledged all of these things, agreeing that the case was horrid and vile. But another part of her had remained detached until now. Somehow the reconstruction with trained actors had made the crimes seem more real to her. She had thought about the victims’ last moments and visualised that silver chain biting into their throats.

  As the scenes unfolded, Maggie had wondered about the parents. Their anguish in going through this all over again must be unbearably painful — if indeed they had been able to face the programme. Somehow Maggie thought that they would. Any link with their dead children would encourage them to watch; to see the possibility of a net being cast to entrap this sadistic killer.

  And Lorimer would do it. Maggie willed him to do it. He must catch that man before … But her mind balked at pursuing that thought.

  She looked around the room. It was not a masculine room in any way. The sofas were pale apricot and green, matching the leaf green of the curtains. Colours that were impractical for family life. But then there would never be a family now. She had chosen the colour schemes and planned the interiors, despairing of ever dragging her husband around a furniture shop. Lorimer seemed content to leave such decisions to her, although he was terribly fussy when it came to hanging any of his precious pictures. They at least were his; these Glasgow Boys prints, that Rosaleen Orr with its rich colours and hidden depths that took pride of place. Maggie loved her house, and yearned for it to be their home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.