by Alex Gray
The lamps were all lit above the staircase and, as he descended, he caught a glimpse of the woman’s reflection as she passed one of the gilded mirrors, the artificial light turning her dark hair to a halo of gold. The image of the woman in his dreams came back to him then, making Lorimer stop where he was.
‘Claire,’ he said suddenly, the name coming back to him like a dam bursting, bringing with it all those memories of the scandal that had tarnished the good name of Strathclyde Police for a time.
The woman turned and saw him looking at her; red lips parting in horror as she recognised the detective superintendent.
‘Claire,’ he said again, but she had sped down the remaining steps and was gone even before he reached the reception area.
Heart thumping, Lorimer pushed open the doors, anxiously looking up and down the deserted street. He knew now who she was. And in a moment of revelation he understood exactly why she was here.
Claire Johnson had been entangled in one of Helen James’s cases, hadn’t she? As he walked uphill towards Blythswood Square, Lorimer remembered the details of the scandal. How the lesbian officer had sued the force for discrimination and won: receiving substantial damages out of court as well, if the rumours were to be believed. But there had been other rumours too, rumours surrounding the Carol Kilpatrick case. DS Claire Johnson had been Helen James’s right-hand woman, someone the DCI could trust. Yet it had been pictures of Claire weeping at Carol’s funeral, not Helen, he remembered.
Pressing himself against the wall of the office buildings as he rounded the corner, Lorimer looked along the west side of the square. It all made sense now. An intelligent woman, used to firearms. Set on revenge. She couldn’t have known many details of the case, Carol had died during that night. But suppose she knew enough to chase after a man with a certain type of white car, a man who came from outside the city, his accent betraying his origins? And she’d been smart enough to infiltrate that press conference at Pitt Street, seeking out just what was happening in Lorimer’s cases.
Yet how could she have known about tonight? About the surveillance op? And about the full moon? With a groan, Lorimer remembered what Sutherland had told him about the papers they had found in Barbara Knox’s flat. Surely his faithful detective constable hadn’t … but even as the thought came to him, Lorimer knew with a certainty that Claire Johnson had beguiled his young lesbian officer.
He stood stock still, waiting to see where she had gone. The square was quiet on this side though he could see a few late-night revellers in the distance who were staggering up the steps of the Blythswood Square Hotel. Some of the undercover team, perhaps? He had been involved to an extent in the planning but had left some of the finer details to these expert officers themselves.
Suddenly he caught sight of her emerging from the deep recess of an office doorway halfway along the square. And at that same moment the white nose of a car emerged from the shadows coming directly towards her.
‘Claire!’ he shouted, his voice falling like a stone as he began to run.
She did not even turn at the sound of his cry. Instead she teetered in her stiletto heels towards the edge of the kerb, one hand raised towards the approaching car.
Sacha saw the woman standing in the moonlight, her smile as fixed and red as a gash of blood. His pulse quickened as he thought of the wounds he was going to inflict, the red slashes that would criss-cross these pale arms.
‘Get in!’ he commanded and she slipped into the car, still smiling at him. But then, as he prepared to drive off another figure hurled itself at the car, making him skid a little. He heard the thud as the man hit the pavement then he accelerated, his tyres squealing as they sped off into the night.
Sacha bared his teeth in a snarl: the woman was his. Who dared try to steal his prize tonight? The steering wheel slid under his fingers as he took the corners recklessly before descending down that steep hill. Under the lamplight he caught a glimpse of her long legs, their white flesh encased in a diamond pattern, her sex barely hidden by that strip of skirt. He had a sudden longing to grasp the weapon that lay along the length of the rear seats, imagining it glittering in the moonlight as he raised it above his head.
‘I know a place,’ the woman said dreamily and Sacha looked at her in astonishment as she turned the pistol towards him.
Lorimer picked himself up from the ground, oblivious to the tear in his good trousers and the bloodied knee. Limping slightly, he ran after the white Mercedes, cursing as it turned into West George Street. Then he heard its tyres squealing as it took the corner too fast and disappeared over the brow of the hill into Blythswood Street.
His feet thudded as he raced into the middle of the road. They had to slow down on this steep incline … The red tail lights seemed to flicker for a moment as he charged towards them.
Claire saw the man’s mouth open as though to protest, his eyes bulging in sudden fear. She smiled and nodded.
‘Retribution,’ she whispered then laughed aloud at his expression of disbelief.
He knew he was about to die. And she wanted him to die in a moment of sudden understanding. She had made no mistake this time. The accent as he had spoken, the glint of metal she had spied behind them … everything was clear to her now. Her mouth closed in a grim line as she pressed the trigger.
Then the world tilted sideways as the street seemed to close in and swallow her in its hard embrace.
When the shot rang out it was as if the car had backfired. Lorimer ran on then stopped, watching helplessly as the car jerked against the kerb. For a moment it seemed to take flight, a white bird soaring up through the darkness.
Then an agonising crash as metal hit stone. Followed only by silence.
He ran on, mouth falling open in dismay at the scene. The car had ploughed into the side of a building, its bonnet open and bent. Then the whole place seemed to come alive as police officers appeared from the darkened lanes of the drag, one car sounding its siren.
The driver of the car was slumped sideways, a neat bullet hole in his chest. But the woman had fallen forwards against the windscreen, face smashed against the glass.
Even as he looked at those wide eyes and open mouth, Lorimer could tell that she was dead.
‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’ DI Armstrong was suddenly at his side. ‘Thought it was your birthday party tonight … ’ His voice trailed off as the DI followed Lorimer’s horrified gaze.
‘Christ! Looks like we’ve got her, then, sir,’ Armstrong said, putting his radio to his lips.
‘We’ve got them both,’ Lorimer said, stepping forwards and pointing at the shining blade that had fallen between the two bodies. ‘You’ll find that the woman’s name is Claire Johnson,’ he said, reeling back slightly from the carnage inside the vehicle.
‘You okay, sir? Sir?’ Armstrong had caught his sleeve before Lorimer stumbled back onto the road. ‘And how do you know the woman’s name?’
‘That’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘But then, I expect this is going to be a long night.’
CHAPTER 42
Maggie listened as the dawn chorus began. A memorable night, he had said. Well nobody in Strathclyde Police would easily forget the night of Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s fortieth, would they? He had called her, of course, let her know why he had failed to return from that trip upstairs. The dancing had continued till well after midnight, Maggie watching the door to see if he would return before the last guests departed. She had made her lonely way to the empty room, taken off her pretty clothes and slipped ruefully into the new nightdress bought specially for the occasion. He had come back when the first stirrings of life had begun in the hotel, taking off his clothes quietly so as not to disturb her. But Maggie had been awake, full of questions, and so he had talked and she had listened, hearing the parts of the story he wanted to share. Tomorrow would bring more answers, he’d promised.
Till then Maggie lay listening to her husband breathing. Two more lives had been snuffed out tonight, one a man
whose intentions appeared to be as vicious as the weapon taken from the wrecked car; the other a woman who had hidden her identity behind a façade, seeking to avenge the woman she had loved.
She looked at the sky that was visible above the buildings outside the hotel window. Then, as Maggie watched, the skies began to lighten, the moon unseen now behind a bank of clouds.
EPILOGUE
Detective Superintendent William Lorimer closed the file on his desk and nodded quietly, though the bearded man gazing out of the window appeared to be unaware of his approval. Solly’s profiling of the killers had been frighteningly accurate. The one person who could have committed the crimes against those men had indeed been a person who was forensically aware, experienced in handling firearms and had been passionately motivated, just as the psychologist had suggested. Claire had not been a street woman tarted up to pull in the punters for money but rather she had hidden behind her disguise with murderous intent. It had been a double blow for Helen James. Not only had she been unable to protect all of the girls out on the street but her former colleague, her favoured officer, had become a ruthless killer, lurking in the shadowy world of the Glasgow prostitutes.
He placed the file on top of the one marked BADICA, ALEXANDER and gave a sigh. There would be no trial, no opportunity for a judge to mete out a sentence against the Romanian. Yet, he frowned, would that have actually happened? Would a man like Badica have been fit to plead?
‘He’d have gone to Carstairs Mental Hospital, wouldn’t he?’ he mused aloud, causing Solly to turn from the window.
‘I expect so,’ the psychologist nodded. ‘I imagine she knew there was a strong possibility that a violent killer like the man who had murdered Carol Kilpatrick and the other girls would never stand trial.’
Lorimer thought about the former police officer who had taken the law into her own hands. Once a cynical cop, always a cynical cop, Helen James had told him sourly. But this had not been about cynicism, he mused. This had been about love.
And what had Barbara Knox felt for the woman she had known as Diana? Had that been love? Or had she simply been beguiled by Claire at a time when she had desperately needed to prove herself to her superiors? He had written an extensive report stressing the young officer’s previous exemplary record, hoping that it might help to offset the damage she had done. There was no date fixed yet for her disciplinary hearing and Lorimer had no way of knowing whether the career of DC Barbara Knox had any chance of survival.
‘Sometimes fate takes a hand in the affairs of men,’ Solly said quietly, interrupting Lorimer’s reverie. ‘Though perhaps Claire was careless of her own fate. Finding Badica and ending his life was all she really wanted.’
‘You really think she had no plans for her own future?’
Solly shook his head. ‘I think the day that Carol Kilpatrick died was the day that Claire’s dreams for the future ended. And perhaps there was something fitting about being killed after she shot the man who had robbed her of that.’
He looked into the distance thoughtfully ‘What was it that Shakespeare said? This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice to our own lips,’ he quoted.
Lorimer looked at his friend. Perhaps there was some higher authority that decided our fate. Perhaps not. He was just a copper, someone whose job it was to bring criminals to justice. But, God help him, it was a job that he loved.
Barbara Knox laid her small posy on the grave and stood back. There was nobody there to see her action, nobody to condemn. The policewoman had heard all the evidence against Diana, or Claire as the name on her headstone proclaimed. Yet, despite the suspension and the aftermath that had followed her stay in hospital there was still something that she did not regret. Those few happy hours when she had been made to feel special might still come again, if only she had met the right person this time. Something in her was glad that her friend had fulfilled her quest to kill Alexander Badica, but Barbara could never bring herself to condone the waste of those three innocent lives.
The Romanian had been wanted for the murder of street women back in his own country and there were still questions being asked of Vladimir concerning just how much he had known and attempted to cover up. The two saunas had been his nephew’s initial source of women, but that had apparently failed to satisfy the man with a penchant for cruelty. Whether they could ever lay all the unsolved murders at Alexander Badica’s door remained to be seen, but DNA had confirmed his involvement in some of them at least.
A bitter wind sprang up from the east and Barbara wrapped her coat more closely around her, wondering if she would ever be warm again. April is the cruellest month, Eliot had written, and so it seemed, with the squad now disbanded and Mumby making noises about not wanting her back in his division.
‘Are you okay?’ Monica Proctor was waiting for her at the cemetery gates, an anxious expression on her face. Barbara nodded then let herself be led away, her hands empty now but her heart a little lighter as the spring skies opened above her and the sun came out at last.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without help from many sources. First to former DCI, Nanette Pollock, my heartfelt thanks for being my main source of information about the world of prostitutes in Glasgow, especially given her role as Senior Investigating Officer in so many high-profile murders of street women during her career; to Katy for sharing her stories with me; to Annabel Goldie for a great day at the Scottish parliament and a lovely lunch; to Alistair Paton for his continuing help with guns; to David Robertson for a good chat about forensic chemistry; to DC Mairi Milne and DI Bob Frew for keeping me right with the details; to Detective Superintendent Derek Robertson for ideas gained during a great lecture at the Scottish Medical Legal Society; to Dr Marjorie Turner for being such an ally to both me and to Rosie; to Ian Dutfield at Mercedes-Benz of Glasgow for sending me all the brochures and not minding that I didn’t want to buy a new car; to the staff of the Malmaison Hotel for being so helpful and for the great gingerbread men; to the staff at the Blythswood Square Hotel for allowing me to poke around; to John (the one and only bird man) for the photos of the Monte Carlo Rally and for alerting me to the waxwings in Blythswood Square; to Philip and Elena for letting me use her maiden name; to Caroline for being such an enthusiastic editor; to Jenny Brown for always being there to support and encourage me; to Moira who makes my life so much easier; to Kirsteen, Sally, Vanessa, Thalia, Madeleine and all the staff at Little Brown who conspire to make it all happen, especially to David Shelley who believed in me from the beginning; to Sophie Neal for forensic advice. To my family for not minding having a mad writer amongst them, especially to Donnie who loves me even when the red mist descends…
