by Alex Gray
The trial had lasted seven weeks so far but today, he’d been advised by Iain MacKenzie, sentencing would certainly take place. It was months since Baird had been taken into custody. He’d been questioned countless times about his part in the paedophile ring. But there had been no more names given.
The killer had spent the whole summer in Barlinnie after his initial appearance before the Court, a summer now long past as the days grew darker once more. Even Lorimer’s Portuguese holiday with his wife was only a warm memory now.
Baird had pleaded not guilty.
His solicitor had evidently spent plenty of time and trouble obtaining evidence to show that David Baird of 3/13 St Mungo’s Heights, Glasgow, had been of unsound mind whilst perpetrating the acts of which he stood accused. Several dates had already been fixed for trial. Postponements had included days when the accused was unfit to appear due to illness, or when the defending advocate had some detail that required more careful scrutiny prior to trial. Lorimer had seen it all before. The time-wasting of the law courts was legendary. That it was the same south of the border, and probably the world over, was little consolation. Days had turned into weeks, Lorimer only attending at specific occasions, as the Fiscal kept him informed of proceedings. There were times when he thought he knew Iain MacKenzie’s voice better than Maggie’s.
Lorimer had not been cited as a witness. There was a morass of statements from his officers who had stood already in the witness box, stony-faced and answering questions in clipped monotones for the most part. He’d been proud of their disciplined manners towards the cross-questioning, especially of DC Cameron who had been rigid with nerves.
Matt Boyd’s commendation had more than made up for his disappointment that the case had not after all been drug-related. In the witness box he’d stood ramrod straight, never once referring to his notebook.
Solomon had surprised him, too. The psychologist had been, if anything, more professional than all the others. It was almost as if he’d been detached from the whole affair. Even when he had described his own attack, there had been the usual considered pauses and an air of seeming indifference to the fate of the accused.
The background reports and the trial itself had thrown up so many aspects of the murderer’s past. Solomon’s profile had been uncanny in its accuracy. And there had been answers to other questions Lorimer had been unable to work out. How had Baird made his way from Strathblane without an accomplice? In the end, as so often, it was a simple explanation. A bicycle. Obvious, really, once he’d pieced it all together.
The murder weapon should have given him a clue, of course. The man rode his bike all over the city, it seemed. It also explained why the ambulance had never been seen in the vicinity of St Mungo’s Heights. It had never been there. Baird had kept his bike in the old ambulance. Kevin Sweeney remembered that later. Other small boys interviewed by Gail Stewart confirmed this.
Norman Yarwood’s visit to HQ on the day following Baird’s arrest had also been most satisfying. Lorimer had shown Solly the file that contained the witness statements taken at St Mungo’s Heights all those months before. Any long-running murder inquiry was logged into their computer system and Lorimer had pointed the cursor at the name, highlighting it. Davey Baird. Thirteenth floor, St Mungo’s Heights. Occupation: photographer. He remembered Solly’s astonished face as he’d told him.
‘Yarwood found a photo of Lucy Haining taken in Janet’s flat. The missing pictures were in the background. They weren’t paintings at all.’ Lorimer had paused to let his words sink in. ‘They were black and white portrait photographs. Of Lucy.’
Solly had nodded sagely. ‘And he’d taken them down after …’
‘Exactly. Janet Yarwood must have become suspicious or he wouldn’t have had to kill her too. Those photographs told too much for his liking; that he’d known Lucy and had met Valentine through her classes.’
‘And his name would be on my list. The one on the disk.’
‘Janet Yarwood must have told him. She never realised that she’d signed her own death warrant. But he knew you’d have his name by that time.’
‘So he paid me a visit.’
Lorimer had nodded. ‘But he didn’t need to do you in. A quick slug and you were out of the way while he found that disk. Anyway, you must be pretty pleased that he fitted your own profile.’
‘Indeed.’ Solomon had agreed. ‘Baird was motivated by the effects of his abuse as a child. The redskin warrior was lurking underneath all the time.’
‘Don’t forget the other motive, though,’ Lorimer had warned him. ‘It was being blackmailed by Lucy that drove him to want to kill her in the first place.’ He’d shaken his head wearily, thinking of the meaningless sacrifice of those other young lives.
‘It seems we were both right,’ he’d added. But looking back at them now he knew neither he nor Solomon had taken any satisfaction from his words.
Since then all the missing pieces had been put into place.
Now the summing up was to begin and the jury would have to decide on a verdict. Lorimer had no doubt what they would choose. He listened as the prosecuting counsel began his address to the jury. It was a harrowing litany of evil; murder, mutilation and child abuse. Lorimer noticed with approval how the advocate paused to let his words sink in as he outlined each item in the catalogue of crimes. He wasn’t ramming it down their throats. He didn’t have to.
Forensic evidence had shown clearly that Baird had indeed killed and mutilated the four young women. The pathologist’s testimony showed that the traces of blood from their scalps matched those found among the photographer’s camera equipment. The traces of DNA had also conclusively linked Baird with the deaths of all four women and Valentine Carruthers.
Now the defence would begin its summation. Lorimer uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. These seats were not designed for the comfort of a long-legged policeman. Lorimer’s lip curled in distaste for what he was about to hear.
The advocate chosen to defend Davey Baird was an older man, much experienced in the ways of murder trials. Lorimer had encountered him before. He began slowly and gravely. But Lorimer noticed that he avoided looking at the defendant. There was the usual stuff about an unfortunate background. Baird’s mother had been a convicted drug user. There was no mention of a father. The child had drifted in and out of care but not before the mother had taken a knife to the boy. It had happened while she’d been under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. The pictures held up earlier had been close-ups of Baird’s damaged scalp.
The advocate was banging on about the psychological damage done by a mother. But into Lorimer’s mind came the image of another mother, stiff and unbending, standing beside that bleak cottage door. Now the man was relating background reports that had shown how Baird had been subjected to sexual abuse at the hands of his carers. He clearly wanted the jury to take account of all this when they made their decision.
There was a clearing of throats and a rustling of papers as the Court prepared to hear His Lordship’s charging of the jury.
The judge reiterated the gravity of the case, not dwelling on the horrors but nonetheless spelling out the catalogue of crimes.
Not a snowball’s, thought Lorimer, glancing at the jury. He noted the faces pale with stress and fatigue after all these weeks. One man put his hand under an older woman’s arm as they rose to consider their verdict. All eyes in the Court were on them as they made their way to the jury room.
Lorimer looked at the red digital clock on the side of the bench. There was plenty of time before lunch. It would all be over soon.
As they filed back into the Court, not one of them looked at Davey Baird, flanked by the two police officers in the dock.
‘Guilty, my lord.’
The words rang out in Court.
Lorimer stared at Baird’s back. He had reeled as if he’d been struck a blow. He made to sit down but the two officers had him on his feet again and then there was silence as the Court waited for His Lo
rdship to speak. There was no kindliness about the judge’s demeanour now.
Lorimer could see the back of Baird’s head, the scars more evident now because he knew they were there. The killer’s eyes would be fixed on His Lordship’s, needing to know his fate.
‘David Baird, you have been found guilty of the following crimes …’
Lorimer listened to the familiar litany of the man’s atrocities. One after another of his crimes was awarded custodial sentences and Lorimer counted them up rapidly. The man would never see the light of day again, if the sums really added up. But things could change, as Chief Inspector Lorimer knew. With the overcrowding in prisons reaching crisis point, there was a tendency towards early release. There could be remission then rehabilitation followed by community involvement and even a spell in the open prison system, all laudable things in themselves but not for the likes of the St Mungo’s murderer. At least he hoped not.
The last Lorimer saw of Davey Baird was his descent from the dock. His head hung down as he looked towards his feet. Again Lorimer was struck by his slight frame. Who would have thought, looking at such a poor creature, that he’d be capable of all that bloodshed?
Lorimer stood as the judge left the Court then gathered up his raincoat. There were other crimes waiting to be solved, other prisoners awaiting trial, but he would be unlikely to see anything like this one again in his career. Still, you never knew. And the shades of fate cast long shadows.
EPILOGUE
RETROSPECTIVE DRAWS IN THE CROWDS
The opening of TIMES PAST at Glasgow School of Art is by any standards a huge success. This retrospective exhibition of the work of two talented young artists seeks to show the world the unfulfilled promise of each before their untimely deaths. Janet Yarwood’s sensitive paintings of children were hailed by many as a new dimension in portraiture. Her protégée, Lucy Haining, demonstrated Yarwood’s influence in her own child drawings, the striking luminosity of the eyes being a particular feature. Haining’s jewellery was also on show, including her final-year portfolio, which, of course, she never had the opportunity to present. The exhibition was officially opened by Mr Norman Yarwood, who expressed his delight at the recognition given to his daughter and her pupil. Glasgow School of Art will host the exhibition until the end of this month, when it will be taken on tour to art colleges throughout Scotland and England.
Review by Jayne Morganti
BOOKS
Offender profiling is not by any means a new topic written about by our eminent psychologists. Nevertheless, a recent publication by Glasgow University Press has taken the scientific world by storm. Dr Solomon Brightman, whose expertise was used in the investigation into the notorious St Mungo’s Murders, has revealed some astonishing new techniques in what is still a fairly young branch of psychology. Using the case as a model, Dr Brightman puts forward theories about criminal behaviour that seek to promote a holistic approach to criminal investigation. Alternative Methods uses statistical studies of over three hundred urban murders in recent times and deals with the patterns of criminal behaviour that reveal deep-seated psychophysical motives. The book has already met with some controversy from the establishment, notably from Dr Gifford Gillespie, who accused the author of ‘Seeking sensationalism at the expense of scientific rationale’. Channel 4’s Science Now will feature the two psychologists in a debate that promises to be lively. See Reviewer’s Choice page 22 for details.
NEW FACES
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Mitchison has been promoted to Superintendent following the retirement last year of Divisional Commander, Superintendent George Phillips. Superintendent Mitchison has declared his intention to pull all senior officers into a new management strategy in the light of the latest round of Home Office budget cuts.
KILLER WINS MAJOR AWARD
Exclusive by Jack Pettigrew, Home Affairs Correspondent
The Special Unit, HM Prison, Shotts, has been the focus recently for a series of artistic and literary works by its inmates. The latest of these to gain public renown is David Baird, the St Mungo’s murderer. Baird’s photography was already well established in the Glasgow art world but won increased notoriety during and after his trial.
Since his imprisonment, Baird has been encouraged by the regime at Shotts to continue his creative work. Sales of his existing work have risen dramatically, and now the one-time freelance photographer for the Gazette has added considerably to his prestige by winning The Times’ annual award for best photographer of the year. Prison officers are reported as saying that they are impressed by the prisoner’s behaviour in the year he has spent in Shotts, one officer even going as far to claim that Baird is a model prisoner. This can only augur well for Baird’s solicitor who has now lodged the appeal against his sentence. If Baird were to serve the full sentence, he would never be eligible for release. It would then be at the discretion of the Home Secretary to offer any hope of eventual change in his sentence. With the Government’s current white paper on rehabilitation of offenders under discussion by Parliament, the timing of Baird’s award may prove to be fortuitous for the man who claimed insanity as a defence for multiple killing and mutilation of young girls.
Leader Comment page 12.
Light was flooding down from the stained glass above him as Lorimer approached the familiar sweep of stone steps. He’d been coming to Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum since boyhood when he’d first revelled in the dinosaur skeletons and cases full of stuffed animals. Eventually that same small boy had found the paintings and he’d been looking at them ever since.
As he turned an angle of the staircase, Lorimer gave a cursory glance towards the people’s choice of paintings ranked row upon row against the varnished panelling. It was a place full of contrasts, he mused, considering the brightness of the modern glass work followed by these dark corridors: just like the Rembrandt he had come to visit.
Lorimer slowed down as he entered the room. The natural light gave warmth to these walls and each painting glowed within its heavily gilded frame.
This was the one.
He sat down on the bench, sensing a stillness within himself as he looked at the painting. Everything else was forgotten as he took in the rich browns and reds, the elegant brushwork, that quality of light on helmet and eye; the chiaroscuro that was the artist’s trademark. He knew it so well and yet it never failed to amaze him. How many people had sat, as he did now, seeing Rembrandt’s Man in Armour? How many more would marvel at the artist’s genius in years – no, centuries – to come?
As Lorimer continued to gaze he felt almost invisible before the work of the great master. It was as if his own life suddenly lacked any significance. Perhaps he’d make superintendent some day, perhaps not. Did it matter very much? One day he’d be gone. Other feet would always find their way to this bench; other eyes drink in this masterpiece. Lorimer’s gaze took in the face in the painting. Was it only great art that endured or was there something in the human spirit that survived this frantic tilt at life?
His thoughts were broken as he felt a thump on the bench beside him. From the corner of his eye Lorimer could see a child of about seven perched on the bench, swinging his legs. Noticing the boy’s sticky hands clutching the edge of the seat and his sweetie-reddened mouth, he moved instinctively aside. The boy didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in his own study of the Rembrandt.
‘Hey, mister,’ the child asked, turning to Lorimer. ‘Is he a sojer?’
Hiding a smile, Lorimer replied, ‘That’s right, son. He’s called Man in Armour.’
The wee boy looked back at the picture, considering.
‘And did he kill anyone, like?’
Lorimer’s eyebrows shot up, then he followed the child’s gaze to the grave face of the knight. What was the boy seeing? The shield? The knight staring towards a shadowy sword clutched in one gauntlet-clad hand? He was only an artist’s model, Lorimer knew; some fellow got up in cloak and armour for Rembrandt’s studio. He could tell the child all this and
more besides. Yet no one knew who the man in the armour really was.
‘Here, Billy. What have I told you about talking to strangers? No offence, pal.’
A young woman in jeans and cropped top was pulling the child off the bench and making an apologetic face at Lorimer. He watched them as they made their way towards the door, the child protesting as he was escorted firmly from the room. As Billy turned for one last wistful look at the famous painting, Lorimer was painfully reminded of another small boy who had talked to a stranger and another man who had dressed up to play a part.
Lorimer stood up to leave but turned back to look at the helmeted figure, feeling suddenly cheered by the wee boy’s fleeting interest in his favourite painting.
Billy, he felt sure, would be back.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the following for their time and help in researching this novel: Strathclyde Police, particularly Superintendent Ronnie Beattie and former Superintendent Val Grysbek, PC Kirsty McCartney and PC Mairi McMillan of the Female and Child Unit, Greenock, and the Street Liaison Group, Cranhill; Professor Peter Vanezis and the staff at the University of Glasgow Department of Forensic Medicine, particularly Dr Black and Dr Cassidy; the late Mr Fenton Maxwell, Supervisor, and the staff at Glasgow City Mortuary; Dr W. Rodgers, former head of Forensic Science, Pitt Street, Glasgow; the staff of the High Court of Judiciary, Glasgow; James Freeman, Iain Wilson and Ian Hossack of the Herald newspaper, Glasgow; Ian Johnston, Director of Postgraduate Studies, Glasgow School of Art; Eric Thorburn, photographer; Sturrocks Wigs, Glasgow; James Margey, hair stylist.
Also available as a Sphere paperback
THE RIVERMAN
Alex Gray
The riverman’s job is to navigate the swirling currents of the Clyde, pulling rubbish from Glasgow’s great river. But occasionally he is required to do something more shocking – such as lifting out corpses.
