Never Somewhere Else

by Alex Gray

  ‘No. He’s clever. He’s well read.’ Solly’s grin returned. ‘He may even have been a student of psychology.’

  Lorimer returned the smile.

  ‘God help us.’

  The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Solly continued to smile and then nodded, acknowledging the new sense of co-operation between them.

  ‘Well,’ Lorimer’s tone became brisk again, ‘We’ll have to go back over the Donna Henderson case with a fine-tooth comb. If what you believe is true, there are going to be some disgruntled police officers raking over the same facts and figures.’ Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘How would you profile him?’

  ‘The tape helps, of course, but I would say he is white, single, in his early thirties. He may suffer from some sort of personality disorder.’

  ‘Schizophrenia?’

  ‘Possibly. He may well be as outraged as the next man when he reads about the murders, if he does have such an illness. But it’s early days to speculate on his mental health. He’s probably a professional who works and lives on his own. He’s not taking the scalps home to mother. Usually multiple killers have backgrounds of deprivation in their childhood: a lack of moral guidance. So he may have been orphaned or illegitimate.’

  ‘I’m still concerned about that ambulance. How does it figure in your profile?’

  ‘Yes. That’s interesting. I wonder if he uses it for transporting equipment of some kind. A pity the Girdley girl didn’t see inside.’

  ‘She won’t think so!’

  ‘There is one thing that bothers me.’ Solly looked up, the smile nervous now. ‘You won’t like this, Chief Inspector, in view of what I’ve said, but … This man may not have started out as a compulsive killer. His intention might simply have been to cover his tracks.’ Solly’s pause was loaded with significance and he spoke softly, ‘But he may have become a compulsive killer.’

  Lorimer could hardly believe his ears.

  ‘You’re right. I don’t like this. First you say that he’s not then you say that he might be. Dr Brightman, you seem to have a habit of contradicting yourself.’

  Solly shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms upward, in an exaggerated gesture.

  ‘I said once that he was a hunter. It’s as if he has acquired a taste for blood.’

  ‘You think he’ll kill again, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I don’t think that voice on the tape realises just what he has said. He intended it to mock us, and to make us continue to believe that he would go on killing. What he may not realise is that he has begun to enjoy it.’

  Despite the stuffiness of his office, Lorimer shuddered. For a few minutes he had felt a sense of relief with Solomon Brightman’s theory. If the killer was a cold-blooded murderer with one of the more recognisable ‘ordinary’ motives, then the killing might have stopped. But now? There was a chilling truth in what the psychologist said. Lorimer had never experienced a case like this, but he had read about killers who had killed for profit, jealousy, revenge or whatever, then found a perverse delight in blood-letting. Often it was paranoia that set in. But sometimes killing just became easier, the killer drawing a sense of power with each death.

  ‘Chief Inspector.’ Solly stood up, putting his papers back into the briefcase. ‘May I have a copy of the tape please?’

  Lorimer drew out a second tape from the evidence bag and handed it over.

  ‘Thank you.’ Solly sat down again to fasten the briefcase. ‘Oh, were there any other phone calls of any significance after the programme?’

  ‘Possibly. We’re working on them, but it will take time to sort out the nonsense from the genuine calls. And even they might be well-intentioned but misleading.’

  ‘Yes.’ Solly stood up again. ‘Well, thank you, Chief Inspector. I hope this has been helpful.’

  Lorimer stood up and walked over to open the door. He paused for a moment, considering. His fingers gripped the door handle.

  ‘Dr Brightman …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The grin returned with its full force and the psychologist put out his hand.

  ‘Oh, I think it’s my pleasure.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Maggie heaved the canvas bag off her shoulder and let it drop with a thud to the floor. Secondary five’s ink exercises and the juniors’ tests were a chore she would put off until later.

  The hall was dark and quiet. Maggie stretched out her arms to ease the ache then let herself slump. Her body felt very small when end-of-the-day weariness set in. With a sigh she stepped out of the flimsy shoes and shuffled upstairs to the bedroom to find her sheepskin slippers, the first of several little comforts which meant home to Maggie. She would pad slowly back downstairs to the kitchen, turn on the fluorescent light and press the button that brought her Classic FM.

  These two brightnesses gave her enough stamina to make some decent coffee. Good coffee was important to Maggie. Snuggled into the kitchen chair, she would clasp her stiff fingers around the mug, letting the fragrance tickle her nostrils before she took that first sip. Sometimes, especially during holidays, she was aware that her body craved a break for coffee at just this time in the afternoon. Would she persist in this pattern of behaviour even when she was an old lady in retirement in some dim and distant future?

  For a woman who resented long periods of solitude, this was one time when it was good to be alone.

  For twenty minutes or so Maggie let herself drift, hearing the music as a background comfort, sipping the coffee until the cafetiere was almost empty. Only then would it be time to return to a sense of reality, sift through the day’s mail and check the answering machine.

  Lorimer hadn’t called. Still, that was hardly surprising. He would have been at the studio until God knows when, then he’d had the early shuttle to catch back to Glasgow. Maggie knew he would be met at the airport and whisked off to Headquarters where he would remain until … Until he decides to come home, she thought gloomily.

  Today had been particularly difficult at work. Many of the staff had seen Crimewatch and were naturally curious to sound her out. Behind the coffee cups she could see eyes glancing her way, appraising her. As always, she played down Lorimer’s involvement, but after being the programme’s most horrific focus it was impossible to avoid discussion of the case. Someone said they knew someone who knew the father (or was it the uncle?) of the third victim, Sharon Millen, and then a subtle form of verbal sparring broke out, several voices raised in assertion of who had the nearest link to those directly involved. Maggie felt lost in the myriad of tenuous connections.

  They had begun to discuss the possibility of another murder taking place.

  ‘What does your husband think?’

  Maggie, who had lost the thread of the previous conversation, had been startled by the directness of the question. The Head of Modern Languages had fixed her with a steely glare.

  ‘I don’t know. I hardly ever see him.’

  The words were out before Maggie could stop them. The woman’s raised eyebrows and patronising smile were what Maggie had tried for years to avoid. Sure, everyone discussed their home life to an extent, but Maggie had learned to be circumspect about her husband’s work and remained non-committal about her marriage. Now there was an embarrassed silence in which she felt like a fugitive caught in a sudden arc light.

  Sandie, her friend in Secretarial Studies, nudged her and laughed. ‘Ah, well, what it is to have a famous hubby! Jack won’t be on the box unless we win the lottery!’

  There were a few laughs, which broke the tension, and Maggie shot her friend a look of gratitude. She was spared any further quizzing as the bell signalled the end of morning interval. As she smoothed the biscuit crumbs from her suede skirt, she determined to make herself scarce at lunchtime. There would be no more digging into the case if she could avoid it. Nor into what had started to titillate her curious colleagues – the state of her marriage.

  The coffee cup was empty yet ther
e was still some warmth between the porcelain and her fingers. She would sit quite still until the very last strains of the Moonlight Sonata had played across her senses.

  With the presenter’s voice came that sense of waking up, coming back to the present and reality. Maggie stood up stiffly, ready to begin again. She would tackle the tests first then prepare some food. That way the fifth-years’ jotters could command her entire attention during the evening.

  It was almost ten o’clock and Maggie’s neck was sore from sitting too long in the one position. Her tray of dirty dishes lay to the side of the settee, away from the growing pile of marked exercise books.

  The front door closed and she could hear Lorimer turning his key in the lock.

  As he came upstairs into the living room Maggie’s dark head rose from her work and turned towards him. The standard lamp behind her threw the angles of her face into sharp relief, but her expression softened as she saw him.

  ‘Had a good day?’ His smile was rueful, sweeping over the jotters spilled around her feet.

  ‘The usual,’ Maggie sighed, then stretched out her hands in welcome. Lorimer put his coat over a chair and caught her hand, kissing her upturned mouth.

  ‘Glad you’re home,’ she murmured.

  ‘Like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get it.’

  ‘No. Stay where you are. You look bushed.’

  Lorimer disappeared and eventually Maggie could hear the distant sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing downstairs. She closed her eyes, unable to concentrate any longer on the jotter on her lap.

  ‘There you are.’

  Maggie looked up at her husband and took the tea. He seemed quite relaxed for a man who had been on live television less than twenty-four hours ago.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Oh, you know. How did it go?’

  Lorimer moved to sit beside her and Maggie slid the rest of the jotters over the edge of the settee. Their mugs of tea sat side by side on the low table as Lorimer slung his arm around his wife’s shoulders, drawing her against him.

  ‘It wasn’t what I expected. I suppose it never is. Everything was much smaller. The studio, the rooms. And there were so many people. God, no wonder it costs so much to make television programmes. The wages bill must be astronomic.’

  ‘What about Nick Ross? What’s he like?’

  ‘Exactly as he seems. A nice, sharp bloke. Very aware. Very professional.’ Lorimer paused, glancing briefly at Maggie’s profile. ‘Did you see the programme?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her tone was full of injured protestation, covering up the guilt that she felt. No one would ever know that she’d almost forgotten her husband’s appearance on TV.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You were great.’

  Lorimer grinned and Maggie knew he’d wanted to hear these words from his wife, biased or not.

  ‘Did you get lots of telephone calls?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  Lorimer shifted away from her and took a long drink of tea. Maggie waited. She wouldn’t push. If he wanted to talk about it he would.

  ‘We think there have been several sightings of the vehicle – the ambulance – but that’s not certain yet.’ He paused again, and Maggie reckoned he was debating whether she should know about the developments that had already taken place.

  ‘Why was there no mention of the murders in the update? Were there no responses by then?’

  ‘I asked them to leave the case out,’ Lorimer frowned. ‘It was a strategy to see if we would get a call from the killer.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lorimer was looking away from her now, and Maggie could see the tension in her husband’s neck. She longed to ask ‘Will you find him?’ but dreaded that her question might sound like a criticism.

  ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘It can only move things forward. You looked really good on television. Everyone said so.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  Maggie giggled. ‘Well, Mum. And Mrs MacDonald.’ Her thoughts flicked to her colleagues in the staff room, then shut them out again. ‘The reconstructions looked quite scary. Were they accurate?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’d done their homework, all right.’ Lorimer’s arm came round her shoulders again and then he was holding her tightly. ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  They rose from the settee, still holding on to one another, then Lorimer reached out and switched off the lamp. The room plunged into semi-darkness, making vague shapes of the discarded objects on the floor.

  CHAPTER 13

  The yellow flames are seeping out beneath the tyres, catching on the dried heather and old winter grass. One flame shoots up over the radiator grille and, as if at a signal, others leap up to join it, hissing against the wet bodywork. The vehicle rocks slightly. Perhaps the force of this combustion has made it shudder.

  The watcher by the trees listens to the roar as the fuel tank ignites. A splash of colour floods the ambulance, shrivelling the paintwork. Sparks fly up into the night sky and he is reminded of that magical feeling on bonfire night. The crackling grows louder, but not loud enough to muffle the thuds within the vehicle. He listens. Soon there is only the roar and crackle of flame to be heard. He watches. The fire has done its worst and now the pale shape of the van has gone, leaving behind a blackened outline.

  He laughs softly. No one will find you now. Cinders and ashes will leave no secrets behind.

  When the report came through, Lorimer was almost expecting it.

  ‘Totally burned out?’

  ‘It’s a complete wreck, sir,’ the officer remarked, ‘but there’s no doubt it’s the one we’re after.’

  Since Crimewatch there had been some useful information about the ambulance; enough to identify it as the one seen by Alison Girdley. Lorimer had a hunch that it would be trashed. He and Solly had no false ideas about their quarry: he was no fool. Given the interest in the programme, he was bound to get rid of the incriminating vehicle.

  ‘That’s not all we found, sir.’

  The voice on the line cut into Lorimer’s thoughts.

  ‘Oh?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation which Lorimer recognised as the forerunner of bad news.

  ‘No, sir. There is … there was a body inside the van.’

  Had he? Would he have? Lorimer felt cheated for a moment. A cowardly suicide may have robbed him of bringing this criminal to justice. A wave of shame swept over him. He should be glad the bastard was dead and gone. No more young women would be picked off in such a gruesome manner.

  Lorimer listened to the officer’s voice giving details of the locus. It was a good forty minutes’ drive from the city.

  He put the phone down. Well, that was that. Another case over, and no thanks to him. Circumstances had overtaken him and the end had come so abruptly. The only satisfaction, he thought wryly, was that he was not the only one who would feel cheated. Solly Brightman’s theories could never be proved now. But whatever elation he may have expected did not manifest itself. Instead, Lorimer felt flat and tired, as if he had succumbed to a bad cold. Would they ever identify the killer now? It was possible, but unlikely. There would be the usual scientific formalities, of course, but a charred corpse hardly made for the best of identifications.

  Suddenly Lorimer felt an unreasonable surge of anger. How dare he cheat his way out of capture like this! That didn’t fit at all. Lorimer shivered. He was beginning to follow unfamiliar patterns of thinking.

  Lorimer felt the familiar buzz which occurred whenever he set foot on the locus of a murder. It was certainly not suicide. The first indications were that the body had been bound and left to die in the ensuing blaze. Very likely this was a fourth murder to add to the tally. But would they be able to identify the victim? And why had he been in the ambulance?

  The Fiscal was already there watching the pathologist’s examinatio
n as Lorimer stepped over the plastic cordon. He smiled briefly, acknowledging Lorimer’s presence, then looked back at the young woman who knelt by the charred body on the ground. Lorimer scanned the scene with growing eagerness. The ambulance was a blackened shell now, with the rear doors twisted off at an angle. The dried winter grass was scorched for yards around, an acrid smell still lingering in the air. Uniformed policemen, their acid yellow jackets bright against the muted foliage, searched painstakingly around the area, eyes trained for anything which might raise a question in the long search for an answer.

  Overhead a skylark poured out its notes, piercing the damp, grey air, oblivious to the little drama far below.

  The moorland was mostly scrubby heather and curled dead bracken the colour of a pheasant’s wing, except where an occasional hazel or rowan struggled for survival. Following the line of the road, a row of poplars reared their empty heads like scraggy, upended broomsticks. It was a bleak yet commanding landscape, thought Lorimer, his eyes finally coming back to the locus.

  The Procurator Fiscal stood, hands thrust into his Burberry pockets, watching the proceedings with interest. Lorimer had a lot of time for Iain MacKenzie. He might be only in his early thirties, but he had already gained a reputation for being a tough customer who did not suffer fools gladly. The pathologist rose to her feet and stripped off a pair of thin surgical gloves. An earlier drizzle had soaked her blonde hair, plastering tendrils of fringe to a tanned forehead.

  Lorimer grinned at her.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while, Rosie.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been away in Rwanda.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What a rotten job to come back to!’ she exclaimed, looking up at the drizzly clouds.

  Lorimer chuckled. Rosie Fergusson loved her work, but wasn’t crazy about the great Scottish outdoors.

  ‘Working for Her Majesty, I presume?’ Lorimer asked.

  The Sunday supplements had run various articles about the aftermath of the Rwandan massacres. Rosie’s name had been mentioned more than once.