Five ways to kill a man lab-7

by Alex Gray

  ‘A local businessman. Here’s his name and address. He has an account with the taxi firm.’

  ‘Mike Reynolds,’ Lorimer read, once Kate had passed him the piece of paper she’d been carrying.

  ‘Want to follow this up? See if he can remember anything about the cyclist? It’s a long shot, mind you,’ Lorimer told her. ‘The address is Kilmacolm, Lochwinnoch Road; think I might have driven along there one time,’ he mused. Lochwinnoch was home to one of the RSPB’s reserved and Lorimer and Maggie had been out there several times on field trips. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, sort of. It’s one of the roads with these huge big houses. Like a lot of the village up there.’ She grinned. ‘They do say it’s the place with the most expensive real estate in the whole of Scotland.’

  It was a nice change to be out of the office, Kate thought, humming to herself as she drove into the village of Kilmacolm. The road wound up from Port Glasgow, twisting and turning before easing out over an expanse of moorland on either side. Few houses could be seen along this desolate part of the countryside and Kate shivered at the low clouds on the horizon threatening snow, then gave another shudder as she passed the dark gap on her left just before the cemetery gates. She’d seen enough of the scene of crime photographs to imagine what it must have looked like in the aftermath of that fire and was thankful that it was not within her remit to go up the shadowy drive.

  Lochwinnoch Road led Kate through the heart of the village, past rows of shops and over an ancient railway bridge. She had telephoned the Reynolds house, not expecting any reply, and had been surprised to find from his wife that Mr Reynolds would be at home during the afternoon. Yes, she could come up and speak to him, the woman reassured her.

  Later Kate would report back that she had little to tell. But she had stayed long enough to enjoy a good cup of coffee and some homemade lemon drizzle cake that Mrs Reynolds served on pretty Emma Bridgewater plates. Mike Reynolds had been nice, she thought. Frowning hard as if to remember as much as he could, but all he’d said was that he had the impression the cycle had been a silver colour and that the rider had worn black. And maybe a hood. Looked like he was out on a training run, speeding along, bent low over the handlebars. Weird, though, at that time of night, wasn’t it? No lights, he’d added, his brow deeply furrowed. Strange, that, don’t you think? Yes, and Kate put it in her report. Cycling without lights on and not wearing the usual fluorescent gear. It was indeed strange. But not if the cyclist had been deliberately trying to conceal his presence at that particular time and in that particular place.

  The budgetary constraints on Strathclyde police, like every other public body in the country, were such that acting Detective Superintendent Lorimer could no longer justify asking his old friend, Dr Solomon Brightman, to step into a case in an advisory capacity. It would take a series of high-profile murders before that was going to happen. Besides, the role of the psychologist in cases of serious crime was beginning to lose its appeal since what was perceived as a major blunder by a criminal psychologist south of the Border had led to the conviction of an innocent man. Solly had always been ready with his words of wisdom, sometimes taking a while to prepare a profile, but in previous cases it had been well worth an investigating team listening to what he’d had to say. But lack of resources to engage Solly’s services didn’t stop Lorimer from consulting him as a friend.

  It was an interesting scenario for the man from Glasgow University. What made a stalker of old ladies tick? And one that followed them on his bicycle, if that were indeed the case. After visiting his mother-in-law that evening, Lorimer and Maggie were meeting up with Solly and Rosie in one of their favourite West End eateries, the legendary Shish Mahal. It was Friday and Rosie wasn’t officially on call, though a major emergency could drag the pathologist away from her evening out with friends. Perhaps that was why Lorimer had always felt a certain kinship with Rosie; they both understood what it was like to drop everything whenever work demanded it.

  So there was an extra spring to his step when Lorimer finally left the Greenock headquarters and headed for his ancient Lexus. The big car seemed restless and impatient as one set of traffic lights after another made it stop and start, but at last the long stretch of dual carriageway alongside the River Clyde came into view and Lorimer swung into the outside lane, accelerating with a sense of relief. Work was behind him for another day. The chaos left by Colin Ray’s sudden departure was gradually coming under control and each aspect of the case was being dealt with. His final report could make the former SIO look like a total incompetent but Lorimer knew he would temper it with a lot of sympathetic detail about Grace’s demise. For now it was not only his responsibility to sort out what had gone wrong with this case but to try his level best to make new progress. And he felt that he was beginning to do just that.

  The Shish Mahal restaurant in Park Road was always full on a Friday night and so booking a table had been essential. Maggie smiled as a waiter took her coat and led them to their table.

  ‘I still think of this as the new place,’ she confided as they sat down opposite one another. ‘How long has it been here now?’

  Her husband shrugged, his mind clearly on other things. He’d not spoken about work today either before the hospital visit or on their way across town, but that didn’t mean that his thoughts weren’t occupied by what was going on down in Greenock.

  Maggie looked around, admiring the decor. Muted beige blinds were rolled down to head-height on the huge expanse of windows to keep out the darkness; the remaining glass was scattered with lozenges of circles and stars. Above them a giant seven-legged brass disc was suspended from the ceiling. Maggie smiled. The chandelier always reminded her of a strange spaceship, something that might have escaped from the War of the Worlds.

  In the old days the Shish had been around the corner in Gibson Street, a haven for students like themselves. Now the building that had housed the former restaurant was demolished and only Maggie’s memories of these times remained. Her reverie was disturbed by Rosie bouncing in beside her, one arm flung around her neck and a kiss firmly planted on her cheek.

  ‘Hi, you two. Sorry we’re late. Met up with a neighbour and his dog as we came over the park. Typical! We live a stone’s throw from the Shish and you’re here before us!’ Rosie leaned across the table and blew a kiss in Lorimer’s direction. ‘How goes it? No, don’t tell me or we’ll be talking shop all night. Anyway, we’ve got some great news!’

  Maggie looked from her friend’s shining face to the bearded man sitting beside her husband. Solly Brightman seemed both shy and embarrassed at once.

  ‘You’re not…?’

  ‘Preggers? No chance!’ Rosie laughed, showing twin dimples in her fair cheeks. ‘No, my clever man here’s got himself a fabulous book deal!’

  ‘Well! Congratulations, Solly. Think this may call for champagne. How about it?’ Maggie suggested.

  Lorimer nodded his agreement and smiled at his companion. Solly had written several books on the subject of behavioural psychology and Lorimer was curious to know why Rosie was making a fuss about another one. ‘Something special?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ Solly began, pausing as though the three pairs of eyes upon him were rendering him speechless. Then he grinned, his expression one of boyish glee. ‘It’s about female serial killers, actually. And a London publisher has offered me rather an attractive advance.’

  ‘Seems the public can’t get enough of real-life crime and Solly’s been doing work on this area for ages now,’ Rosie enthused.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that there were all that many women who committed crimes like that,’ Maggie began. ‘It’s not something you hear about, is it? I mean, there are the women who are in thrall to men who are multiple killers, but I can’t think of any single woman who has been on a killing spree.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why the publisher found it so appealing,’ Lorimer countered. ‘What we don’t know is going to become all that more in
teresting once we read about it. Though I suspect Solly’s case studies won’t be confined to the UK. Right?’

  Solly nodded. ‘There are a few cases in the US that will come into the book. But it isn’t all contemporary crime. I do use some models from the previous two centuries.’

  ‘But be warned,’ Rosie told them, pretending to be stern, ‘every unsolved case you have from now on is potentially by a female warrior!’

  Maggie laughed with the rest of them, knowing that the pathologist’s words were only half-true. Solly might be pretty focussed on this topic right now but in every case where he had collaborated with the police, her husband had respected his judgement concerning a possible profile.

  ‘Have you included Aileen Wuornos in your study?’ Lorimer asked and immediately the conversation turned to a TV programme that they had seen on the subject of the American serial killer.

  Maggie listened for a little, nodding as they spoke. Solly’s book, she realised, would make good reading.

  A pretty Polish waitress glided up to their table, asking for drinks orders, and Maggie let her eyes wander across the room to where other diners were already busy over their plates of food. A dark-suited actor whose name she couldn’t recall was regaling his young female companion with a story that involved a lot of hand waving and facial grimaces. Maggie took a surreptitious look at the girl to see how she was responding but saw only a fixed, polite smile on her face. Every table was full. A quick glance towards the door let her see a foursome of hopefuls enter only to be told with dignified courtesy that there would be no place for them that evening. The disappointment on their faces told its own story.

  Then a smiling waiter was at her side, blocking any further chance she might have of people-watching, and Maggie joined the others in ordering their favourite dishes. To her relief, Solly’s book was still being discussed and nobody seemed to mind that she did not contribute to the conversation. It was enough for Maggie that nobody had asked the all-encompassing question of her mother’s welfare: for once she wanted to forget the daily visit and the problems that might lie ahead. As if something of this thought had been uttered aloud, Solly caught Maggie’s eye and for a long moment he smiled at her. There was more than sympathy in the psychologist’s expression: it was as if he could read her very thoughts, see into the depths of her soul. Instead of being disturbed by this sudden insight, Maggie Lorimer found it oddly comforting and she reached across the table, giving Solly a light pat on the back of his hand.

  The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough and only towards the end of the meal did Lorimer mention the subject that had been concerning him.

  ‘A stalking cyclist?’ Solly murmured. ‘That sounds a little bit complicated. I don’t think I’ve come across an example of that, but do let me check up, will you? The old ladies sound as though they have little else in common, however. One very frail and practically housebound, the other out and about on a daily basis.’ He smiled his slow smile at the tall policeman sitting next to him. ‘If their deaths hadn’t been so similar nobody would have bothered, would they? But,’ he added with a twinkle, ‘you don’t believe in coincidences, do you?’

  It was a frosty night, the air clear and sharp, promising a day of bright skies to come. Every star and planet that had fizzled into the Universe seemed to be demanding attention — especially the moon, its one baleful eye bearing down on me. The ticking sound of the bicycle pedals ceased as soon as I stopped walking and I held my breath, waiting for the right moment to continue my preliminary study of the street. It was several blocks away from the ones that I already knew but this particular row of homes looked promising.

  The back of the houses faced a sloping hillside that had once been divided into allotments but was now overgrown with winter grass and banks of bramble bushes. A path ran all the way along, behind the high fences, leading away from the estate and petering out at the entrance to an electricity substation. The edges on each side were littered with empty bottles and polystyrene containers, the detritus from the take-aways a short walk across the fields. I thought about the people who had been there, smoking dope perhaps, seeking a bit of seclusion away from prying eyes. There was a track of sorts trodden into the winter earth, showing a short cut from the houses to the back of the local shops.

  As I looked across the darkened patch of grass I realised that it could provide me with an escape route.

  All I needed now was another victim.

  CHAPTER 19

  There was no pain. And she supposed that she ought to feel grateful for that. But it was hard to reconcile herself to the absence of any feeling down one whole side of her body. Today the physiotherapist was coming to take her out of bed. To try to make her walk again, she’d told her cheerfully.

  ‘We’ll have you up and about in no time at all, Mrs Finlay,’ the girl had said. Alice had attempted a lopsided smile, glad that someone was addressing her by her full title and not in that patronising tone she’d come to hate when they called her Alice dear. Oh, dear God, she thought, eyes welling with sudden tears. What was she thinking? Shouldn’t she be grateful for what kindness they were showing her instead of worrying about wee things like that? But this ward was so full of old geriatric women, so different from any of her own lady friends back at the Seniors club. A sudden rush of self pity filled her and Alice gripped the bedclothes in both fists, momentarily overwhelmed by feelings of fear and loneliness.

  So now it was all a question of waiting. Alice Finlay was becoming quite good at waiting. Waiting for a bedpan to arrive when she thought that her bladder would burst and flood the sheets beneath her; waiting for the doctor on his rounds; and waiting for visiting time to see Maggie’s face again. Oh, such heaven to see Maggie! Though once, when she’d been asleep, the bell for visiting had rung and she’d only had a few minutes with her precious daughter. Haltingly, she’d made Maggie promise to wake her up if such a thing ever happened again. After that visit she’d wept tears of frustration and disappointment into her pillow.

  Alice Finlay looked up at the ceiling, noting the patches of flaking paint and a dull grey corner that might have been spiders’ webs. It wasn’t much to look at. But the alternative was to ask to be heaved up on a bank of pillows and then risk being engaged in conversation with one of the other patients. And that was something Alice dreaded. One old dear, her white hair fluffed round a thin, slack-jowled face, had stared at her for a long minute yesterday before shuffling up the ward to wherever she was going: the day room, perhaps? Alice had been slightly unnerved by the woman. She’d seemed to look at her with a vacancy in her expression that made Alice shiver. It was as if a dead person had been looking out of those pale blue eyes.

  She closed her own eyes and began to drift away in her mind, conjuring up memories. There was something Maggie had always been fond of quoting from Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’; something about being on a bed and using your imagination to remember times past. That was what she would do now. Maybe her body was beginning to let her down, but there was nothing wrong with her mind.

  She conjured up the cold spring day long ago when Mother had taken her to Pettigrew and Stephens. That was the preferred department store for ladies who had wanted quality in those days and little Alice had trotted along by her mother’s side as they’d made their way up Glasgow’s Sauchiehall Street. They may have taken a tram, but that was one memory that eluded her for the moment. She could remember the rumble of trams on their shiny metal rails. And hadn’t they all had fun a few years back at the Glasgow Garden Festival? Alice yawned, suddenly aware of the frozen side of her face. Not the Garden Festival. Think about Pettigrew’s. Why had they gone there? Alice squeezed her eyes tight as if that would bring back the images she sought.

  It must have been for some treat, surely. Why else had she been taken to Pettigrew’s? A sudden memory came back to her. She could see a little green boat with the Owl and the Pussycat painted near the bow. The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.
Had she been inside it? She thought so, remembering the sensation of motion, rocking back and forward, back and forward. Had there been other children? That was something she couldn’t visualise. But Mother had been there and Alice could see her now, wearing her brown full-skirted coat with the fur collar that made her look so glamorous. And the hat: a small felt hat with feathers on the side, blue and bronze feathers from some exotic bird that Alice had never seen. She rocked in the little wooden boat, feeling her soft ringlets brush against her cheeks.

  Alice froze. Her hair! She’d gone there to have her lovely hair cut off! Suddenly a feeling of panic arose in the old woman’s chest as the memory became more vivid. The play toys in that small ante room had been no more than a ruse to lull her into a false sense of security and once she had known what lay beyond the frosted glass doors, Alice had felt the same stomach churning sensation that had seized her whenever she’d been taken to the dentist’s.

  One hand crept up to her head and Alice Finlay felt the wisps of hair and the skull beneath. She was an old woman now, sick in this hospital bed. Her four-year-old self vanished into the distant past, gone forever.

  ‘Mrs Finlay?’ A voice made Alice open her eyes. A young woman in a white tunic stood by her bedside, a kindly smile on her face. ‘It’s Hazel, your physiotherapist,’ the girl told her, smoothing her pillow gently. ‘I’m going to see if you can get out of bed this morning. Make a wee bit of progress, eh?’ The smile reached the girl’s eyes and Alice felt her own face respond. The girl seemed a friendly sort, not intimidating like the doctors could be. She was dressed quite casually as well, a short-sleeved tunic over navy slacks and big trainers. Hazel had a soft voice, not a Glasgow accent, more as if she were from one of the Gaelic-speaking islands, like that nice young man who worked in the police with her son-in-law.

  ‘Do-do-do…’ Alice wanted to ask her if she came from Stornoway, but the words stuck at the front of her mouth and she closed her lips in a thin line, terrified at the sound. It was like hearing some imbecile. Oh, God! What if she was like that other old woman? The one with the weak, staring eyes.