Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

Evie Lorimer arrived at Gayfield Square a little after three-thirty. ‘My plane from Alicante arrived early,’ she told Mason after the desk sergeant brought her upstairs to the detective suite.

  Mason shook her hand. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us. I’m Detective Constable Mason and this is Detective Sergeant McCann,’ she added, gesturing to her colleague. ‘We can speak to you now if you’re ready.’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Okay. Oh, I came straight from the airport. I don’t suppose I could have a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll fetch one while DS McCann shows you to the interview room.’

  A few minutes later, Lorimer sat facing Mason and McCann across a Formica-topped table. There were three cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups in front of them, which Mason brought from a vending machine in the corridor.

  Mason took a sip and smiled at Lorimer, who appeared a little intimidated by her surroundings. ‘So, how was Spain?’ she said, making an effort to put her interviewee at ease.

  Lorimer brightened. ‘Absolutely gorgeous,’ she replied. ‘It’s my second time in the Costa Blanca. I was there with two friends. We all work at a boutique in Ocean Terminal.’

  Mason nodded, giving Lorimer a quick appraisal. She looked a little older than her twenty-two years. But she was pretty, with a trim figure and high cheekbones.

  ‘Nice to get away for a wee while, isn’t it?’ McCann said. She took a folder from her lap and placed it on the table, then pointed to a NEAL digital recording machine at her elbow. ‘You don’t mind if we tape the interview? Just for our records?’

  Lorimer appeared more relaxed. She gave a shrug and said, ‘No, not at all.’

  Mason thumbed to the file McCann had in front of her. ‘This is the statement you gave us on 14 July. We’re not sure if all the details are correct, which is why we’d like to go over it again.’

  ‘This is about the woman who was found murdered at Longniddry, isn’t it? I saw it in the Sunday Mail before I left Spain.’

  McCann tapped the file and said, ‘There’s a strong similarity between your assault and the murder of Ms Fairbairn, yes. Anything you can tell us about the attack may prove helpful.’

  Lorimer opened her hands in a gesture of cooperation. ‘I’ll help you any way I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Evie,’ Mason said. ‘In the report you made to the interviewing officer, you said the man forced you out of the passenger seat and into the back of the van. Is that what happened?’

  ‘Not really,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Which is why I wanted to speak to you here in the police station.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Rather than at home. I live with my parents and…’

  ‘We understand,’ McCann said softly.

  ‘I didn’t want them to know about… you know.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mason said.

  The younger woman shook her head. ‘I went to the back of the van voluntarily.’ She took a quick sip of coffee, then added, ‘We’d been necking to begin with.’

  ‘Tell us what happened from the beginning, Evie,’ McCann said. ‘You met him at Doonan’s pub?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘I’d gone for a drink with a friend of mine, Louise Petrie. We arrived in Doonan’s just after eight. Then around nine Louise took a phone call from her mother. Her father suffered a heart attack and had been taken to the Royal Infirmary.

  ‘I offered to go with her, but she thanked me and said no, her brother was picking her up. After she and her brother left, I was preparing to go too when this guy came over. He began chatting, telling me he’d overheard Louise talking about her father. He was very sympathetic. Offered to buy me another drink and I said okay. We hit it off; ended up staying almost till closing time.’

  Lorimer paused. ‘The truth is I quite fancied him. As well as being nice, he was very good looking.’

  ‘And when you left, he offered you a lift?’ Mason said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Around twelve-thirty, I think.’

  McCann glanced at the file. ‘It says here he was driving a white VW Caddy, is that right?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘The van was white. I didn’t know what make it was.’

  ‘The van was parked in Market Street?’ Mason said.

  ‘Yes, a short distance from Doonan’s. He drove via Broughton Street, turned left into Inverleith Place, then right into a cul-de-sac and parked. Then…’ Lorimer suddenly looked ill-at-ease.

  ‘It’s okay, Evie,’ McCann said. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed.’

  ‘Things got a bit, you know, passionate.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Mason said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He suggested we get in the back of the van to have sex. I took off my briefs, then when he pulled down his trousers, I saw he hadn’t, he couldn’t…’ She looked disconcerted, and her voice trailed off again.

  ‘He couldn’t get an erection?’ McCann said.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ she said. ‘My first thought was not to cause offence. So, I tried to make a joke of it, saying maybe he’d drank too much beer.’ Lorimer shook her head. ‘That was a mistake – something really weird happened. He gave me a zombie-like stare and totally lost it. He grabbed my throat and began tightening his grip – I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘I realised if I didn’t stop him quick, he was going to kill me. I kicked out to throw him off, but his hands were like a vice. I threw a punch then, which caught the side of his mouth. He slackened his grip, and I cried out. I was lucky – a man walking his dog heard my scream and shouted something. That was when I managed to escape.’

  Mason nodded. ‘When he offered you a lift,’ she said, ‘did he explain why he was driving a van?’

  Lorimer shrugged. ‘He told me it had something to do with his business.’

  ‘Did he say what kind of business?’

  ‘Said he did contract work for various companies. He didn’t go into detail.’

  ‘Did anything in the van give you a clue?’

  ‘I did see something while the interior light was on. A cardboard box marked “Returns”. Inside were a few labelled packages.’

  ‘Parcels?’ McCann asked.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Lorimer replied.

  ‘Thanks, Evie, that’s helpful. A couple of other things.’ McCann tapped the folder. ‘In your statement you said you weren’t sure if his name was Jack. Have you given it any thought since?’

  ‘I have,’ Lorimer replied. ‘At first he told me his name was John, but said he preferred Jack.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think he mentioned his last name, though, and to be honest I never asked.’

  ‘Could it have been Masters?’ Mason said.

  Lorimer gave Mason a searching look. ‘That’s the name of the man who murdered the girl at Longniddry, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry, Evie,’ Mason replied. ‘I can’t confirm that. Why, does it ring a bell?’

  Lorimer gazed at the ceiling. ‘I’ve a feeling it does,’ she said. ‘He might’ve mentioned it at some point.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’m not sure.’

  McCann glanced at the file again. ‘Okay, the general description you gave of him: five-eight, dark-haired, clean shaven, wearing a suit. That’s all correct?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’

  McCann closed the folder. ‘Thanks, Evie, you’ve been very helpful. Just one thing before you go. We’d like you to talk to one of my colleagues, Detective Sergeant Lightfoot, he’s a facial composite specialist. He’d like you to help him put together an image of the man who assaulted you.’

  ‘A sort of photofit picture, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m willing to do that.’ After a short pause, she continued, ‘You do think it’s the same man, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t confirm that, Evie,’ McCann said.

  She held McCann’s gaze. ‘But you do,’ she said. ‘I know you do.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s the same man?’ Knox said. He and Fulton had arrived back
from their interview at Merchiston and were discussing Lorimer’s interview with Mason and McCann.

  Mason nodded. ‘Arlene and I think so,’ she said. ‘Evie was unable to confirm the surname, which tallies with what she said in her original statement. At one point, he did tell her his name was John. Everything else in the description checks out. His height is the only discrepancy between her account and Shona’s.’

  ‘The parcel returns box Lorimer saw, though,’ Fulton said. ‘Interesting. Points to it being a courier van.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Knox said. He looked at Mason and McCann. ‘Thanks, both of you. You’ve done a good job.’

  The women went back to their desks and a few minutes later Hathaway and Herkiss entered the office. They spotted Knox and Fulton standing by the whiteboard and walked over. ‘Nothing promising from either interview, Jack,’ Herkiss said. ‘Lee Spence is a woman. Middle-aged, mother of two. She’s actually the breadwinner, her husband’s disabled.’

  ‘And Coates?’ Knox said.

  Hathaway pulled a face. ‘Not much better I’m afraid. He’s sixty-four and on the point of retiring.’

  ‘Hmm. Which leaves us with Russell’s list.’

  Knox reached over to a table beside the whiteboard and held up the two A4 sheets. ‘I’ll go over this and plan interviews for tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, it’s almost six. I think we’re pretty much done. You lads can knock off for the night.’

  As Hathaway and Herkiss turned to leave, Knox motioned to the women detectives and Reilly, who were still at their desks. ‘Bill, before you go, will you tell the others they can call it a day? I’ll catch up with you all in the morning.’

  Knox’s phone rang at that moment. He saw it was DI Murray and tapped accept. ‘Hi, Ed. Something for me?’

  ‘The touch-DNA results have come in,’ Murray said. ‘Gartcosh still haven’t completed tests on the clothing, though.’

  ‘But you got a result?’

  ‘Uh-huh. DS Beattie and I did some swabs at the murder scene. Although Alex Turley didn’t find any signs of sexual activity, we followed up with some specimens as a matter of routine.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Touch-DNA from her throat yielded a result, as did those from her pubic area and breasts. All match – the same individual.’

  ‘Sorry, Ed. Not sure I follow.’

  Knox heard Murray clear his throat, then the forensics officer said, ‘The killer touched her vagina and breasts before he strangled her.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Knox said. ‘So, some sexual foreplay, but no actual intercourse?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Why?’ Knox thought for a moment, then recalled the details of Lorimer’s interview. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘He’s impotent.’

  ‘Your interview with the girl who was assaulted, there’s a similar MO?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Knox replied. ‘The woman – Ms Evie Lorimer – told us he took her to the back of his van, but couldn’t perform. Your touch-DNA tests prove that the killer explored Connie intimately, but didn’t have intercourse.’

  ‘Ah,’ Murray said. ‘I see.’

  ‘But it’s more than that, Ed. I think his impotence is linked to the killing. Could be the sexual appetite is there, but when it comes to the crunch…’

  ‘The frustration makes him angry enough to kill?’

  ‘Yes. Lorimer told us when the man realised he couldn’t get an erection, his expression changed. His face took on some kind of manic look.’

  ‘One of the markers for a psychotic personality.’ Murray said nothing for a long moment, then added, ‘Any luck with the tread prints?’

  ‘Only one supplier in Scotland, Jackson’s Garage in Glenmore Terrace. We’ve narrowed it down to six couriers working for a company in Merchiston. We’ll take swabs when we see the drivers tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine, Jack. I’ll get back onto forensics at Gartcosh. See if I can hurry them along with the clothing.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Ed. Thanks.’

  * * *

  The women detectives sat together at McCann’s desk shortly after their interview with Lorimer. Reilly sat a short distance away, ruminating on the day’s events.

  He’d alerted Knox to the likelihood of the killer’s van being picked up by CCTV, a fact which had eluded the hot-shot DI. Yet, what had happened? He’d been indifferent, delegating him to phone around as if it were of no importance.

  But it was important. In a murder investigation nothing could be overlooked. He’d learned that on more than one occasion. Sometimes it had been the very factor that led to a case being solved.

  Then there was Jackson’s list. Herkiss and Hathaway had been despatched on some wild goose chase – while Knox kept the more promising lead for himself.

  Why wasn’t Naismith aware he’d chosen the wrong man? If he’d given me the job, Reilly thought, there would be no time for petty acts of self-aggrandisement.

  And what about Mason, the DC he was screwing? Furtively driving off to keep their assignation. Did anyone else at the station know of the affair? Fulton gave every indication he did, so he supposed Hathaway must, too. Were such clandestine capers good for morale? He knew he wouldn’t tolerate it with any officer under him.

  He heard a clink of glass at McCann’s desk then and glanced over. He saw Mason lean towards the DS and nod to a bag at her feet. The younger detective took a bottle of Absolut by the neck and pulled it out just far enough to show her colleague. After putting it back, she partly extracted a second bottle, which looked like malt whisky. She replaced it, then Reilly heard her say, ‘Got them at Oddbins at Elm Row earlier. We’re having a wee drink later to celebrate his birthday. He’s forty-seven tomorrow.’

  Mason said something else which Reilly didn’t catch, then both women laughed.

  So that was it. She was seeing Knox again tonight. Where was his flat? Somewhere on the Southside.

  An idea came into his head. If it succeeded, it might take Knox down a peg or two. If it didn’t – well, it was likely to throw a cat among the pigeons anyway.

  * * *

  He sniggered when Central Lowland Television broadcast the photofit image on their late afternoon news bulletin. Good God, was that supposed to be him? For one thing, they’d got the nose wrong; it had a cleft at the tip and the nostrils were too wide. The image also gave his ears more prominence and made his chin wider.

  The only thing right had been his eyes, or at least their colour. And maybe the hair: thick and dark, just edging over his ears. Except he’d had it restyled last week; it was completely different now.

  He pondered the situation, examining every possibility. The photofit was something he didn’t have to worry about. No one was going to point the finger at him on the strength of that image.

  But they knew now that he’d been driving a VW Caddy. It hadn’t been mentioned on the news broadcast, but the guy at Inverleith would have told them.

  Yet it had been traded in a month ago. And they were unlikely to discover his present vehicle, the one he’d used to take the girl to Longniddry.

  Think again. What was really the weakest link?

  He mulled it over for a few minutes, then it came to him: Willie McGeevor – what if the cops got to him?

  When he’d handed over the logbook and £1,500 in cash, McGeevor guaranteed he wouldn’t make a paper record of the transaction. His old mate told him he had a trade buyer in Newcastle waiting to take the VW off his hands, no questions asked. Willie had given him the keys and papers for the new van and assured him no record would be made of that, either. The DVLA document listed McGeevor as the previous owner, but gave his home address, not his business.

  Scott Reynolds, McGeevor’s partner, hadn’t been present and Willie promised he’d never find out. But if police started questioning him about the Caddy and its links to the Lorimer assault, the purchase of his current van might come to light. There was a chance McGeevor would spill the beans… wouldn’t he? Yes, of course
he would – paper records or not.

  And that was his weakest link.

  McGeevor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reilly checked his watch: 8.05am. He reckoned Mason would be leaving Knox’s flat any time now. He’d checked the sat nav to see which route she’d be most likely to take. He guessed it would be via Holyrood Park Road, which girdled the lee of Salisbury Crags; a crescent-shaped formation of cliffs adjacent to Arthur’s Seat, the 251-metre extinct volcano at the heart of the city.

  The sat nav showed an exit near Abbeyhill, and from there it was only a short drive to Gayfield Square. She would probably choose this in preference to the two other options – a right turn into St Leonard’s and the Old Town, or via East Preston Street over the South and North Bridges. Both were guaranteed to have long tailbacks, as the rush hour was now underway.

  As Reilly waited, he cast his mind back to the previous night. He had followed Mason out of the building and watched her get into to her Mini. He’d slipped unnoticed into the car park and pursued her via Leith Street. The Sunday evening traffic was light, so he held back, making sure there was a couple of vehicles between his car and hers.

  He tailed her over the North and South Bridges, then at Clerk Street she turned left. She steered right at the next set of traffic lights, then left again into Holyrood Park Road. He slowed to a crawl, then watched her make a final turn into East Parkside.

  He pulled into the kerb, waited several minutes, then carried on into the street and spotted the Mini. It was parked in a residential bay outside number 139.

  Knox had still been in the middle of a call when he left, which meant she must have a key. He shook his head in a gesture of disapproval, then headed back to his hotel and arranged for an early alarm call.

  Reilly checked his watch again: 8.10am. The traffic was beginning to build and a steady stream of cars were heading into the park. His BMW was stationary a short distance from the junction of East Parkside, facing Arthur’s Seat.

  At 8.11am his guess was confirmed when Mason’s Mini nosed up to the give-way lines and turned left.

  Reilly reached over and opened the glovebox, then took out a pay-as-you-go mobile he’d confiscated in a drugs raid six months earlier. He hadn’t reported its acquisition and since its owner was serving a ten-year sentence, there was little chance of its provenance coming to light.