by Alex Gray
Diane’s voice was a mixture of innocence and guile. Martin recognised the ‘you can tell me all about it’ quality she so often employed. And exploited. Another silence followed. Martin was trying to picture the bearded psychologist, hand on chin, perhaps, considering. He wondered how much of Diane’s tactics he could see through. All of them, probably. He was a psychologist after all. Perhaps his answers were like police statements to the Press, carefully calculated to serve their own ends.
‘The St Mungo’s Murders should never have happened,’ Solomon said at last. ‘There is so much still to understand …’ There was another pause. Go on, urged Martin, listening to the tape whirring in the silence of the room. ‘I do hope to see a satisfactory end to it all. Sometimes I feel quite close to him, then it’s as if I never knew him at all.’
Martin held his breath. Was the psychologist thinking aloud, forgetting Diane’s presence?
‘And Lucy Haining?’ Diane’s question fell like a drop of water into a still pool.
‘They knew each other, of course. To know one may be the key to knowing the other …’ Martin imagined Diane scarcely daring to breathe, fearful of disturbing Brightman’s train of thought. But then the psychologist cleared his throat. ‘The book won’t be published for some time, of course. There are several cases to be examined as well as techniques to be explained.’
Was the change of tack deliberate? wondered Martin. Had he sensed that he was venturing into the heart of his case whence he would not let this young woman journalist follow?
‘Now I’d love to hear about the techniques of criminal profiling,’ she exclaimed, as if that was her sole reason for interviewing Dr Solomon Brightman in his West End home. There was a short laugh from the psychologist before he continued.
‘Ah, the secret formula! I’m afraid you will be disappointed in me. The techniques are really no more nor less than studying the behaviour of individuals. It’s what psychologists do all the time.’
His voice sounded kindly.
‘But I thought…’
‘You thought we clever people had devised a bag of tools to unlock the brain of a killer? It’s just the tools of our trade put to a particular use.’ There was a pause during which Martin tried hard to picture Diane’s perplexity. Or was she merely stifling a yawn in the silence? Somehow he didn’t think so. He felt she must be drawn to Brightman, just as he himself was now drawn, fascinated by what would come next.
‘Did you enjoy your years at school, Miss McArthur?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Diane sounded puzzled by this seeming digression.
‘Were you interested in history, geography and statistics?’
‘Well, yes …’
‘These are the subjects we use in our investigations. With the police,’ he added as an afterthought. This time Diane seemed lost for words. Brightman continued. ‘The history is the history of the criminal, his background and so forth. The way he executes his crime and what the patterns of crimes – if they are numerous – tell us about him. For instance, the difference between an organised and disorganised murder reveals a certain divide in behaviour that lets us begin to figure out a criminal.’
‘And geography?’ Diane broke in.
‘Well, the locus of a crime is often revealing. Many criminals commit their crimes near to their own homes. At least to begin with. The pattern of crimes then helps to show us where home might be. We would look very carefully at maps, access to transport then, perhaps, clusters of crimes. Statistics are used all the time, you know. The computer cuts down a lot of cross-checking of data. But it needs to be done.’
Martin switched off the tape and swore softly. Brightman had led Diane into a morass of generalities. He had been in control all along, taking Diane deeper and deeper into the trees; deliberately blinding her to the wood. Martin gritted his teeth in frustration. He had hoped that there would be some nuggets of information about Lucy Haining, but so far there was only one tantalising suggestion that she had known her killer. Martin rewound the tape, clicking off and on until he came to the part he wanted to hear again.
‘They knew each other, of course. To know one may be the key to knowing the other…’
Martin wrote this down in his spiral-bound notebook. He would have to listen to the rest of Diane’s interview, but he doubted it would yield up any more than these two sentences. Just how much did this fellow really know?
*
Later Martin regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. The firm jawline was raised at an angle as he automatically changed direction with the blade, keeping his neck skin taut. Diane had done well to continue with Dr Solomon Brightman for another twenty minutes while he had expounded theories but had given nothing else away.
‘To know one may be the key …’
Martin had made a rapid decision. He had to find out much more about Lucy Haining than he had initially dug up all those weeks ago. And he knew the very person who might help him in his search.
Flinging down the damp towel, Martin began to whistle to himself.
CHAPTER 19
Lorimer didn’t like it at all.
‘Do you realise exactly what you are inferring? That one of my men …’ He broke off, glaring at Solomon, the words sticking in his throat, then turned wearily and shook his head. ‘I just don’t buy that. Granted, he’s clever. Devious. He plans. The organised mind you talk so much about. But that’s it.’
Lorimer looked over his shoulder to where the psychologist still stood, the ends of a woollen scarf wound about his gloved hands. For a moment the other man’s face was impossible to read and Lorimer wondered if he would simply walk out of his office and never come back. But then the door swung open and George Phillips strode heavily in.
‘Ah, Bill … Oh, Dr Brightman, how are you?’
Lorimer caught the imperceptible shake of Solomon’s head as George Phillips launched himself towards the desk, thrusting a sheaf of papers at his DCI.
‘That’s the latest from Europe. At least their figures make us look like a slightly more moral neighbour.’ Three strides took him across the room then he turned, his massive frame filling the doorway. ‘Or do they just catch more of ’em?’
His smile was sardonic as he left. The room was suddenly silent and Lorimer was uncomfortably aware of Solly standing there, waiting patiently.
‘Oh, sit down.’ Lorimer gestured to the only easy chair by the window and slumped into his own swivel chair behind the desk. ‘See these,’ he waved the documents in the air. ‘Statistics. Someone over in Brussels is probably paid a fortune to produce these. And what do they tell us? That there are more cases of paedophilia on the other side of the Channel.’
Solomon raised his thick eyebrows, but said nothing.
‘It’s nonsense. We probably have as many perverts as they do. We just haven’t brought as many of them to justice. That’s the trouble with statistics. Do your job well and the figures seem to soar. The more effective we are, the more the Press report cases and the poor old British public think that paedophilia is running riot.’ He swept his hand upwards, indicating the row of ledger files. ‘See that? Robberies with violence, child abuse, murder … maybe a serial killer … and you have the temerity to suggest that one of my team is bent?’
Lorimer stopped, realising that he was beginning to lose control. Solomon cleared his throat.
‘Lucy Haining spent over three years in Glasgow. I would like to find out how these years were spent, whom she befriended. Little things over and above what you already know.’ He raised a hand. ‘I’m not suggesting that your background information was unsatisfactory. But you must see that things have changed?’
‘Yes.’ Lorimer looked down at the papers on his desk, avoiding Solomon’s eye.
‘She was one of a series before,’ Solomon insisted gently, ‘and now she may be the reason for all the murders.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A free hand. I need to ask questions, be able to t
alk to her friends, her teachers, anyone who knew her in and out of the Art School.’ Solomon leaned forward. ‘I need a picture. If I can understand Lucy Haining’s world, then the profile of this killer may become much clearer. He knew her and she undoubtedly had dealings with him. She bought the ambulance. Who else knew about that?’
‘We have had officers asking just that question,’ Lorimer replied.
‘And?’
The DCI shrugged. ‘Nothing so far. Nobody else at the Art School knew about it or saw it. However, we’ve made some progress regarding the previous owners.’ When Solomon didn’t reply Lorimer continued, ‘A rock band. Couldn’t track them down immediately. They sold the vehicle to help fund a lengthy trip to the States. They’re on their way back now. In fact’ – he looked at his watch – ‘if I’m quick, I’ll be meeting them at Glasgow Airport within the next half-hour.’
‘Lucy Haining,’ Solomon began again.
‘Do what you want. If you find anything, and I mean anything concrete at all, I want to know. Even,’ he sighed heavily, ‘if I don’t like it.’
Glasgow International Airport was, like airports the world over, a watershed between the mundane and the exotic. Lorimer barely glanced at the acres of car parking, car rental premises and dormitory hotels spread out before the airport buildings. The motorway had arched upwards, sweeping them above the airport and for a few seconds he ignored the familiar spires of Paisley on his left, scanning the tarmac to catch sight of the massive aircraft below. Then the police car dipped down on to the approach road and Lorimer drew his gaze away.
After a word with the uniformed duty officer, Lorimer and his driver made their way to the end of the long glass corridor where travellers departed and arrived hour after hour. The detective joined the small clutch of people waiting for their friends and relatives. A toddler in a red ski suit and bobble hat ran to and from his mother, delight on his face each time he trespassed a foot or two into the forbidden entry zone. Lorimer’s eyes skimmed the group but there was no face familiar to him, just citizens going about their lawful business, it would seem. For a few minutes he would be as anonymous as they were. No, not simply anonymous, but part of them; one of those ordinary folk waiting for those who had flown in from far away places. Travellers always seemed to bring a bit of stardust back with them along with the straw hats and terrible souvenirs. Those, like himself, who were on this side of arrivals instantly felt the difference.
Several businessmen, briefcases in hand, strode briskly past the group. These were men to whom flying was like catching a bus. No stardust clung to their sharp city suits and Burberry raincoats. Suddenly the bobble-hatted child gave a squeal and hurled himself at a tall young man in cords and a lumber jacket. In the noisy embraces that followed more and more passengers filtered through, diminishing the waiting group.
Lorimer looked at his watch again then his eyes bore down the corridor. He had photographs of the members of the rock band and he anticipated no difficulty in identifying The Flesh Eaters.
There they were.
An inappropriate name for these young men, thought Lorimer, eyeing them up. They all looked as though a square meal would do them the world of good. Each band member carried the ubiquitous duty free bag, splashes of yellow and red against their sombre clothing. As they drew closer, Lorimer observed their unhealthy pallor, which might have been the result of jet lag. Fleetingly he wondered if any traces of illegal substances had been found in the wrecked ambulance.
The band members walked two by two, the front pair deep in conversation. The nearest lad was small in stature, his bullet-shaped head grey with stubble. Lorimer noted his cleanly shaven chin with some surprise, however. A plain gold hoop winked from his left ear. The navy duffel coat was so worn that it looked like something recycled from the sixties, and probably was. The lad was gesturing to his much taller companion who nodded down to him. Lorimer was aware of the others, but the animated small fellow drew his attention.
‘DCI Lorimer.’
His voice carried discreetly far enough to alert the four band members. Other passers-by barely gave them a glance.
‘Your agent may have let you know to expect us?’ Lorimer’s voice was polite and slightly apologetic. They stopped immediately and the small fellow put down his duty free bag carefully.
‘No. He didn’t.’
The rejoinder was spoken in a reproving tone, but what interested the detective was the decidedly middle-class accent. The eyes that glanced at the ID card cupped in the officer’s hand were bright and intelligent.
‘What’s all this about?’ he continued.
Behind him the others exchanged bewildered looks, more puzzled than guilty, thought Lorimer, instantly dismissing thoughts of dope in their hand baggage.
‘I’ll explain as we go to collect your luggage,’ Lorimer smiled encouragingly, then gestured towards the BAGGAGE RECLAIM sign. The small band member ran a hand over his cropped head then picked up his carrier bag decisively.
‘Lead on, Macduff!’
There was a snigger behind him which he acknowledged with a grin.
‘Tosh MacLaine.’ The lad stuck out his hand, to Lorimer’s surprise. The brief handshake immediately put things on a more business-like footing and Lorimer took an appraising look at the band. Of the four, MacLaine was probably the oldest. He certainly had an air of self-assurance. The wee ones were often the cockiest, Lorimer reminded himself.
The detective’s explanations were brief. He explained that their former vehicle had been involved in a fire under suspicious circumstances: that the police would be grateful if the band members could assist them in their inquiries. Lorimer explained about eliminating old traces.
‘But if it had been in a fire …’ MacLaine said.
‘It’s amazing what’s left behind.’ Lorimer smiled his best enigmatic smile.
They had arrived at the baggage hall and the conversation was interrupted by the need to locate the carousel carrying their luggage.
‘Hinny, you and Fleck grab a couple of trolleys. I’ll stay with the Inspector here.’
MacLaine took out a packet of chewing gum and offered a piece to Lorimer.
‘No thanks. And it’s Chief Inspector, by the way.’
‘Right. Chief Inspector.’ MacLaine stuffed the gum into his mouth and began to chew. ‘What now?’
‘We have cars waiting to take you all to Headquarters. We need to ask you some questions, then, if you are agreeable, we would like you to give the police doctor some samples, like hair, to match what we already have in the labs.’ There was not even the flicker of a smile on Lorimer’s face as he took in the young man’s skinhead cut. ‘The sooner we can do this the better.’
MacLaine looked thoughtful for a moment then shrugged.
‘S’all right by me. The boys are pretty bushed. Won’t take too long, will it?’
‘No. We’ll have a car to drop you all off home later and you can make some phone calls to let your family know, if you like.’
MacLaine shrugged again. ‘Hinny’ll want to phone his bird.’ He broke off. ‘Uh huh, looks like we’re in business.’
He raised a finger, circling it in the aira, then headed towards the carousel where the others were lifting off the baggage. Lorimer remained where he was, giving MacLaine the opportunity to pass on the arrangements to his band. The detective’s own practised manner had disarmed them and they seemed grudgingly co-operative. Or were they so tired that there was no reason to protest? Lorimer regarded them shrewdly. There was no questioning by these lads, yet, of why they’d been picked up from the airport. It had been Lorimer’s own idea to have them all in together like this. Once they’d dispersed there might be difficulty in locating them again. Rock bands were always on the move. Lorimer was glad to have some positive action anyway. There’d been such a huge amount of work on this case for such little return.
As they piled into the two waiting police cars, Lorimer looked back at the airport building. The automatic door
s would open and close all day and night as travellers came and went. Suddenly it came into his mind that Donna Henderson had been saving up for a holiday abroad.
Lorimer turned his face away from Glasgow International Airport and nodded to his driver.
CHAPTER 20
‘The rock band? Tell me about them.’
Maggie Lorimer put down her red marking pen and gazed attentively at her husband.
‘Well, they looked a right scruffy bunch but there was more to them than met the eye. Two of them were graduates. Psychology.’ He said the word with such distaste that Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Anyway, they were all co-operative enough lads. Forensics have some samples to match up now, we hope.’
‘But what about their tour? I mean, are they going to be a success story?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. They have an agent in London, if that means anything, and they’ve made an album, but you’d need to be up to date in your New Musical Express to know if they’re rated at all.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Ask your kids at school.’
‘Oh aye, sure. As if teachers are supposed to have any opinion about rock bands. Our Head of History probably thinks Iron Maiden was a young Margaret Thatcher,’ she giggled.
Lorimer looked over at his wife. She had more in common with her pupils than they might ever guess, he thought. Maggie Lorimer had never been much on the side of the Establishment, a real little banner carrier in her student days, according to her friends. It was ironic that she’d become a policeman’s wife.
‘What else happened today?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ Lorimer began in his noncommittal way. Then he sat up suddenly. ‘Actually there is something. Hang on a sec.’ He disappeared into the study then came back waving an invitation. ‘Something for you.’
‘For me? What is it?’ Maggie put out her hand for the card.
‘A party. George Phillips’s sixtieth.’
