by Alex Gray
‘Interesting you should use the word grudge. Something may have happened to poison a mind already holding a grudge. Something that triggered off this chain of events.’
Lorimer reached forward to eject the tape. The MS patient had given them both plenty to think about.
Solly would try to develop his profiles while his own team would continue the painstaking work of crosschecking the background of every man connected to the Grange. And now that included every member of the team itself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Father Ambrose let his spectacles fall on top of the evening paper. Four women had been strangled now and still he sat here worrying about them. Praying too, he admitted, but he would have done that anyway. The picture in the evening paper showed a young woman smiling into a camera. The headline had shouted out her crime, and his. Poor child, he thought, to have stooped so low. The journalist had painted a life of drugs and deprivation. Father Ambrose could imagine what that might have been like. One of his parishes had been in the inner city, long ago, before they’d torn down the sagging tenements and given people decent homes. He’d been party to some terrible confessions in those days, he remembered.
It was the flowers that had first bothered the priest. Red carnations slipped between the praying hands of a killer’s victims. There had been a shiver of unease to begin with until memories came flooding back, memories of other hands that had selected the choicest blooms. A vivid picture of a body in a coffin came back to him, the flower like a gash of blood against the whiteness of the shroud. The hands that had placed those flowers had been clasped in prayer each day, right by his side. Until the scandal that had shocked them all.
Father Ambrose picked up the paper with shaking hands. He knew what he must do. All along he had known it, but he’d suppressed that event over the years until it had almost ceased to exist. Now he had to face the truth.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lorimer could have gone home but tonight he just didn’t feel like sitting staring at the television while Maggie was up to her eyes marking these interminable papers. So here he was, waiting to be served in the canteen. The fluorescent bulbs glared overhead, at odds with the spring light that poured into these upstairs windows. Mitchison could make a start by saving dosh here, thought Lorimer moodily. Like the waste of money Maggie was always going on about in her school where the heating was kept turned up all year round, even in the holidays. Maggie again. He must stop thinking about her.
Lorimer looked around the canteen. There weren’t many folk in tonight but he recognised DC Cameron sitting alone, hunched over a plate of spaghetti. Lorimer noted with interest that he wasn’t eating it. He was stirring the strands of pasta round and round his plate with a fork but was making no attempt to put any of it into his mouth. Lorimer’s curiosity made him watch the young officer.
‘Chief Inspector, what’s it to be?’ Sadie, a wee woman with a voice that could have scoured a burnt pot was standing, ladle in one hand, looking at him expectantly. Lorimer turned to give her his full attention. No one messed with Sadie.
‘Just some soup, thanks. Oh, and one of your brilliant Danish pastries, Sadie,’ Lorimer gave her his best smile as usual but this was one woman who was oblivious to the Chief Inspector’s famous blue eyes.
‘Wan soup, Betty!’ she shouted towards the kitchen. ‘Yer Danish is up therr, son,’ she added, jerking her head to the plastic-covered shelves that Lorimer had already passed. Lorimer nodded and turned to fetch his pastry, marvelling as he always did at Sadie Dunlop’s ability to make them all feel like school kids. She was wasted here. She should’ve been Governor of Barlinnie at least.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Lorimer grasped the back of the metal chair next to Cameron’s. The DC sat up with a start as Lorimer spoke.
‘Not fancy Sadie’s pasta special tonight, then?’
Cameron shook his head and attempted a smile.
‘How about a drink? I was going to drop into the Iron Horse. OK?’
Cameron’s pale face flushed slightly as he answered, ‘I don’t usually drink, sir. I’m TT, you know.’
‘Ah, the strict Hebridean upbringing,’ Lorimer teased. Then his face grew more sombre as the germ of an idea began to form in his head. An idea that might take root, depending on what Cameron could tell him.
‘Come on down anyway. The ginger beer’s on me,’ Lorimer’s voice held a note of authority that he knew Cameron recognised. The DC looked up at his boss then pushed the congealing mess of spaghetti away from him.
They were practically out of the canteen when a familiar voice stopped them in their tracks.
‘Haw, ye’s’ve left yer dinners. Ah thought ye wanted that Danish? Right waste of good food that is, ‘n’all!’
Lorimer glanced at Cameron who was dithering in the doorway. ‘Come on, before we get arrested for dinner neglect!’ Lorimer grinned conspiratorially and gave the DC a friendly wink.
It was quiet in the pub. Seven o’clock was a watershed between the quick after-office pint and quiz night. Seeing the bar staff polishing glasses and catching up with the day’s paperwork, Lorimer knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He had chosen a booth at the rear of the bar. On the table sat a pint mug of orange squash and Lorimer’s two preferred drinks, a pint of draught McEwan’s and a half of Bunnahabhain. Lorimer stretched his long legs under the table, feeling the heels of his shoes dig against the ancient wooden floor. The Iron Horse had made few concessions to modernity, which, for Lorimer, was part of its charm. He sank against the burgundy-coloured padded seat, feeling something close to relaxed. Pity he’d have to spoil the moment.
‘How are you settling in to the job, now? Glad to be out of uniform?’
Cameron shot Lorimer a wary look before giving a shrug.
‘You could tell me to get lost, but I think it might do you good to have a wee talk if there’s anything on your mind.’
‘There’s nothing, really,’ Cameron began in a tone that told Lorimer just the opposite.
‘Is it the case that’s bothering you? Still feeling bad about Kirsty MacLeod?’
Lorimer looked intently at Cameron. The lad’s mouth was tightly shut and he could see his jaw stiffen. If it had been anyone but Lorimer asking such questions he’d probably have been told to mind his own damned business. Except that Cameron didn’t even swear. The young detective constable had been looking past him as if intent on the framed engraving of James Stewart on the wall above their booth, but then he turned suddenly, meeting his superior’s gaze.
‘Yes, I feel bad. I thought I could handle it, but maybe I was mistaken.’
‘You handled yourself well enough at the mortuary. Dr Fergusson even commented on that.’
‘Well, that was different. It wasn’t so personal.’ Lorimer took a mouthful of beer and licked his lips. Just what did the lad mean by personal, he wondered.
‘Did you ever meet Kirsty down here in Glasgow?’
‘No.’ The answer came just a shade too quickly.
‘Sure about that?’
‘Of course. Why would I lie?’ the flush had crept back over Cameron’s neck.
‘You tell me.’
‘Look, Chief Inspector, Kirsty was a girl from home. She was a friend of my wee sister’s. I hadn’t seen her for years, OK?’
‘OK, calm down. How about that place Failte, then? Did you know anybody there?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘Before my time. It was a holiday place for as long as I can remember. There are plenty of houses empty most of the year just waiting for incomers. It’s only been a respite centre, or whatever, for the last two years or so.’
Lorimer nodded. That had been his information too. Phyllis Logan’s family had kept the house as a summer residence then it had lain empty for years before becoming a part of the Grange.
‘D’you remember that first murder back in January?’
‘Of course. I’m not likely to forget it.’
‘The woman who was ki
lled had a flower between her hands. Did you actually see it that night?’
Cameron stared at him, surprised by this sudden change of tack. He frowned as if trying to recall the images of that freezing January night.
‘I remember seeing her lying there and DS Wilson calling her Ophelia. That was after we saw the flower, wasn’t it?’
‘Can you remember how her hands were held?’
‘Well, I know how they were held, it’s in all the reports, isn’t it?’
‘But do you remember it?’
‘I think so. Why?’
‘You didn’t by any chance describe it anybody out side the case, did you? Anyone from home, for instance?’
Cameron looked at him curiously then shook his head. ‘I don’t talk about my work to the folks,’ he said. ‘They don’t even know I’m involved with Kirsty’s murder.’
Lorimer was looking at him keenly as if to weigh each of the DC’s words carefully. Niall Cameron returned his gaze with apparent coolness. There was no longer any telltale flush warming that Celtic pallor.
He wanted to believe the younger man. Experience told him he was hearing the truth, but there was someone who had inside knowledge of the first case, someone who had used it to copy the killer’s signature. And Niall Cameron had known the girl from Lewis. It had been his call, too, that had alerted Lorimer that night, he remembered. He picked up the whisky and drained the glass in one grateful swallow, suddenly needing the burning liquor to take away a taste he didn’t like.
The vibration from his mobile made him put down the glass with a bang. ‘Lorimer?’
Cameron’s eyes were on him as he listened to the voice on the other end. He was vaguely aware of the younger man picking up his jacket and giving him a wave. He nodded in return, watching the Lewisman walk out of the pub and into the Glasgow night.
‘Who is this Father Ambrose?’ Lorimer asked, listening as the duty sergeant told him of the priest’s telephone call.
‘And he’s coming up to see us?’ Lorimer bit his lip. This was news indeed. A priest from the Borders who had information about Deirdre McCann’s murder, or so he claimed. As he pressed the cancel button, his thoughts drifted back to Lewis and to the house called Failte where he’d met the nun. Where was she, now? And had she anything to do with this sudden need for an elderly priest to speak to Strathclyde CID?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Father Ambrose was a small rotund gentleman dressed in clerical black. His thinning hair showed a well-scrubbed scalp that shone pinkly through wisps of white curls. A cherubic face smiled up at Lorimer’s.
‘Chief Inspector. I’m so glad to meet you,’ Father Ambrose said in a voice as gentle as a girl’s. But the hand that grasped Lorimer’s was firm and strong.
‘Father Ambrose. You rang last night, I believe?’
The priest ducked his head as they walked towards the stairs. ‘Yes. Though I should have contacted you sooner.’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows. Ideas of confessionals sprang to his mind. But weren’t those secrets told during the confessional sacrosanct? As he pulled open his door and ushered the little man inside, his head was buzzing with speculation.
‘Some tea, Father?’
‘No thank you. I will be seeing an old friend later this morning. She will be filling me with pots of the stuff, I assure you,’ he smiled, a dimple appearing on his cheek.
‘Well, what can we do for you, sir?’
‘Ah. Now, it’s what I can do for you, Chief Inspector. What I should have done for you months ago, when that poor young woman was killed.’
‘Deirdre McCann?’
The priest nodded sadly. ‘I read about it in the papers. It troubled me greatly at the time but it was not until this latest death that I made myself face some unpleasant facts.’
‘Oh?’ Lorimer leant back slightly, appraising the man. Father Ambrose had folded his hands in front of him as if to begin a discourse. Lorimer waited to hear what he had to say.
‘There was something that happened several years ago, something that I had wished to forget. It’s no excuse, of course, for procrastinating. Indeed, had I acted sooner perhaps these other women might not have been murdered.’ Father Ambrose’s voice dropped to a whisper. He gave a short, resigned sigh and continued. ‘I became a priest and was trained by the Jesuits. I have probably had one of the finest educations in the land, you know,’ he remarked. ‘Anyway, my work took me into teaching for a time and I was responsible for the young men in a novitiate in the Borders.’
‘A novitiate? Is that like a seminary?’
‘No, Chief Inspector. A seminary exists to educate those who wish to become diocesan priests. Rather like students for the Ministry in other denominations.’
‘So what does a novitiate do, exactly?’
‘Well, we have a year of discernment where men, usually young men, learn about the Order. The novices study but also do many tasks around the Parish House.’ Father Ambrose smiled wryly. ‘We like to give them quite menial jobs as a way of testing their resolve.’
Lorimer nodded, encouraging the priest to continue.
‘This is not something we take lightly, Chief Inspector. It is the highest of callings and any novitiate must be suitable as well as serious in their intentions. About fifteen years ago we had a young man who had come from a farming family in Lanarkshire. He was a huge chap, great shoulders on him, hands like hams. He had the physique of a farmer. But Malcolm wanted to join our Order and I was appointed to be his novice master. He was so eager and willing to help and I admit he was of great use around the Parish House when anything of a practical nature was required. That was how he came to help us with the funerals.’ He paused and stared at Lorimer.
‘We were part of a large Parish at that time and our own church was shared with the local parishioners during massive renovation work. Malcolm began by doing the heavy work, lifting coffins, packing away hurdles, that sort of thing. But then he began to take an interest in the laying out of the deceased.’ Father Ambrose tightened his lips in a moue of disapproval. ‘Normally there would be vigil prayers the evening before a funeral and the coffin would be kept overnight in church. One evening, just before leaving, we caught sight of Malcolm placing a flower in the hands of a young woman who had passed away. It was a red carnation.’
Lorimer sat up smartly.
‘It was a nice idea, we thought, and the relatives rather liked it, so it became a habit of Malcolm’s to select a flower for the coffin thereafter. Of course that stopped when he went away.’
‘He left the Order?’
Father Ambrose sighed once more. ‘Not exactly. He was asked to leave. There was an incident,’ he hesitated, his pearly skin flushing. ‘Malcolm was found interfering with a corpse, Chief Inspector.’
‘What exactly do you mean, Father? Interfering in what way?’
‘Normally the coffins were screwed down after vigil prayers and somehow that job always fell to Malcolm.’ The old man wiped a hand across his eyes as if trying to erase a memory. ‘One of the other novices had left something in church and went back for it. That’s when he saw Malcolm.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was trying to make love to the corpse.’ The priest’s voice had sunk to a whisper again as if the memory of that shame was too much to bear. ‘We realised then what we had suspected for some time, that he was not quite right. Academically Malcolm was fairly poor and his progress towards the priesthood would always have been in question, but there was more to it than that. I think there may have been some problem. There was talk of behavioural difficulties when he was little. Perhaps I’m trying to find an excuse for what happened, I don’t really know. Anyway, it was a terrible time. We managed to keep it out of the papers but it rocked the whole novitiate. Malcolm was sent home and I left shortly afterwards.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault, surely?’
‘I was responsible for the boys and their welfare, Chief Inspector. My integrity was in question.
There was no way I could continue as a novice master,’ the priest replied firmly.
‘So,’ Lorimer began, ‘you think this Malcolm may have had something to do with the murder of Deirdre McCann and the other women?’
‘I do. Although,’ the man hesitated again, ‘I worried about the nurses. I couldn’t see him murdering good people like that. Still, the mind does odd things, isn’t that so? No, it was the killing of the two prostitutes that concerned me.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Malcolm was adopted, Chief Inspector. His parents were farming folk who had no children of their own and they took him in and gave him a good home and a loving upbringing. Perhaps that love was just too giving, in the end. You see, they told Malcolm about his real mother. She had been a prostitute in Glasgow and had given up her baby for adoption. That was the reason Malcolm gave for wanting to enter the priesthood. He had a vocation, he said, to rid the world of that kind of sinfulness. Of course, we took that to mean that he wanted to save their souls.’
‘And now you think he may have been on an entirely different crusade?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me a bit more about this man. Malcolm…?’
‘Malcolm Docherty. There’s not a lot I can tell you. He must be in his late thirties by now. I can give you the address he had in Dumfries,’ he said, handing Lorimer a piece of paper. ‘But I don’t know what became of him after he left us.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No. Just my feeling, I suppose. Well, more a certainty, really.’ Father Ambrose looked Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I just know that Malcolm is the man you’re looking for.’
It didn’t take long after the priest had left for Lorimer to run a computer check on their existing data. The names and details of all who had been interviewed were listed in a file. Running his eye down the names, Lorimer wondered if Malcolm Docherty, disgraced novice priest, had even kept his own name.
