by Alex Gray
Kenny looked at her pityingly. ‘Didn’t you know, then? And you’re their Year teacher as well.’ He paused as Maggie looked at him expectantly.
‘Julie was going out with Kyle Kerrigan.’
Maggie watched as the door to her classroom closed behind Kenny. His parting remark was still making her heart thump uncomfortably within her chest. Earlier, her chat with Samantha had meant a lot of listening as the girl spilled out her feelings between bouts of crying. She’d not believed her best pal at first and now she was racked with remorse, for surely Mr Chalmers must have had something to do with Julie’s death? She’d lifted a tear-stained face to Mrs Lorimer, expecting some kind of reassurance on that score, but Maggie had given her none, except to say that Sam would come to terms with things in time and that it was important to let the process of law take its course. She’d been surprised at the venom in the girl’s voice, though, as she’d countered that particular remark.
‘It won’t bring her back though, will it? She’s dead and whoever killed her will rot in jail if they find him, but they won’t take his life away, will they?’
Remembering the girl’s white face and how she’d had to hold on to Maggie’s desk for support as she stood up to go, gave the Detective Chief Inspector’s wife serious misgivings about what she was doing. And what had she found out? Nothing much that she hadn’t known before, except the fact that Julie and Kyle had been an item. How could she have missed that? Sitting back in her chair, Maggie Lorimer wondered if there was something else she ought to know about Julie Donaldson that wasn’t immediately obvious. Both Sam and Kenny had reminded her that the girl was a bit of a fantasist. Well, as her English teacher for the past three years, Maggie Lorimer had come to know that. Julie’s work was full of the kind of daydreaming quality shared by few of the other girls. But had it been more than that? Was there some sort of Walter Mitty aspect to the girl’s actual character? Did she really live in a fantasy world where she believed in her own daydreams? Maggie sat very still for a moment, considering this. If so, then Julie Donaldson had got herself and Eric into some very serious trouble for nothing more than a teenage delusion.
But what sort of daydreams had led the girl to Dawsholm Woods and into the arms of a killer?
DCI Lorimer listened to the voice on the line from Pitt Street. The email report would be coming in as soon as possible, he was being told, but they wanted him to have the forensic results right away.
He let the swivel chair rock him back and forwards for a few seconds as he contemplated this new piece of information. Traces of DNA matching the samples taken from both Kyle Kerrigan and Eric Chalmers had been found on Julie Donaldson’s clothing. But what did that really prove? The CCTV footage showed Kyle grappling with her, clutching the victim’s arm, so of course there would be traces. It had been a hot sunny day and the boy would have been sweating more than usual; his anger might also have increased the amount of perspiration on his own body. But Eric Chalmers? Why would he have left a trace on his pupil? Teachers weren’t supposed to touch their pupils. At all. Even grasping hold of them in anger could have the kids shouting ‘assault’. These days every last one of them seemed to know their human rights and sought to push them into the faces of anyone in authority. As a police officer who was also married to a schoolteacher, Lorimer was well aware of the repercussions of the least action from a teacher against a pupil. But had Chalmers seen Julie after his suspension? And if so, had he somehow left his DNA on her clothing?
Lorimer was left with the feeling that, despite this positive result, he was still unsure whether there was sufficient evidence to charge the RE teacher with murder.
‘Yes!’ John Weir punched the air as Lorimer read out the results of the DNA testing, his young face clearly delighted at the prospect of an immediate arrest.
‘We are still waiting for results from Chalmers’ car,’ Lorimer pointed out. ‘If these should come back negative we may have to rethink the man’s involvement.’
‘But he’s guilty!’ The words were out before the detective constable had time to stop himself.
‘And who decides that?’ Lorimer asked quietly. ‘A room full of tired officers or a jury of fifteen men and women?’ He was gratified to see the DC staring at him open-mouthed, an expression of disbelief in his eyes.
‘We mustn’t make any mistakes here,’ he added. ‘There’s a huge possibility that these killings have been done by the same person. And if that’s Eric Chalmers, I want evidence to link him to all three of them. Understood? We do a complete search of his house, interview his friends, his family and, yes, his church. I want everything to do with the man turned inside out and I won’t be satisfied with anything less than concrete evidence to show that he’s a killer. Recently, too many of our prime suspects have got away on a technicality involving DNA profiling, remember,’ he growled. ‘I don’t want that happening in this case.’
‘What about your profile, Dr Brightman?’ a voice asked. ‘Any joy there yet?’
Lorimer frowned. Solly was sitting in on this now, as part of the team, but the casual way this question had been asked annoyed the SIO. Some of them still felt that the psychologist’s presence was superfluous to their handling of the murder case, a belief Lorimer himself had once shared. But that was before he had come to value Dr Solomon Brightman’s insight into the minds of brutal killers.
‘If you are asking me whether I think Mr Chalmers fits the profile, then all I can say at this stage is that there are some inconsistencies with his personality and that of a murderer who has carefully thought out his method of killing and disposing of his victims. Not that Mr Chalmers lacks an organised mind,’ he continued, nodding his head so that his dark beard wagged sagely. ‘There may very well be a case for thinking that this man, whoever he is, has acted upon a trigger that sets off his actions. And since we do not yet have enough information about the schoolteacher’s mental state, it’s a bit difficult to completely rule him out.’
Lorimer clenched his teeth. He’d have been happier for Solly to have said nothing at all at this stage than to waffle on in his ‘it might be but on the other hand it might not’ manner. He was used to this but there were some in the room who were not, and the DCI could sense their scepticism. It was with some relief that the meeting ended and Solly left, pleading another appointment.
Back in his room, Lorimer paced around, his mind considering all the possibilities that he had laid before the team. At last he sat down heavily in his chair, rubbing his hands across his eyes as the beginnings of a tension headache manifested itself. God, he was tired! There were days like this when he almost prayed for a breakthrough, the stultifying impasses in each case causing a build-up of frustration and wasted energy.
He could do with a drink, something to deaden the awareness that they weren’t making headway with either of the investigations. But ‘that way madness lies’, he quoted softly to himself. No officer had ever really found what they were looking for in the bottom of a whisky bottle.
He’d buy a whole damn crate of the stuff to celebrate, though, if they found little Nancy Fraser alive, he thought suddenly. And as Lorimer recalled the earnest expression of that young mother as she’d placed her last hope upon his shoulders, something inside banished the fatigue that had threatened to overwhelm him. While he had breath in his body he’d make sure his officers put in every hour that God gave them to find that child.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said, ‘and may I ask who’s calling?’
There was a short silence then a name was mumbled. ‘This is confidential, right? It won’t get back to me, will it?’
Barbara Cassidy arched one well-plucked eyebrow as she replied then asked for details of the caller’s address. After all, she told him, they had to know where to send his fee.
When she put the phone down at last, Barbara Cassidy was intrigued; this one was surely at odds with their Senior Investigating Officer. Nobody would give a journalist that kind of juicy titbit off the record with
out there being some sort of grudge involved. Still, it wasn’t her lot to reason why, just to type up some good copy and hope that her editor would see fit to place it on the front page. They’d already run a few column inches on the DNA subject in the past; a couple of high profile cases had been turfed out of court on the strength (or lack) of this new sort of testing. If this Jesus-loving Chalmers were to be let off because of concerns about the validity of forensic evidence before the case even came to court, there would be a public outcry against Strathclyde Police. And against DCI Lorimer, she thought grimly, remembering the way the tall policeman had looked at her as though she were dirt on his shoes. Sort him out good and proper, she would, and have a blinder of a story to tell into the bargain. It didn’t take much to whip up resentment against the Christians these days, given all their sins against wee altar boys and shenanigans among Kirk elders and their ministers. Some salient reminders of these in a well worded feature could begin a stream of invective in the letters page. And keep her editor happy.
CHAPTER 31
Eric turned on his side, feeling the edge of the sheet cold against his flesh. Ruth was sleeping now, her head burrowed into the pillow next to his, and the monitor opposite their bed sounded only the rhythmic breathing of the little child next door. It should have been a relief, this respite from the baby’s girning and Ruth’s exhausted sighs, but somehow the silence in the house only enlarged Eric’s awareness of his wife and child, his two responsibilities. It scarcely seemed possible that in the space of two years he had become a married man and a father. Before, he had been able to choose his own destiny, or at least to follow the calling he felt had been mapped out for him. But he’d still had choices to make then, choices to heed his father’s urgings and study for the ministry or to take flight to a distant land and join a mission team.
Now, as he lay watching the shadows flicking past the gap in the curtains, Eric Chalmers felt as though his life had narrowed into this small house and his little family. His job, that had once meant a real joy and an opportunity for witness, was now an essential factor in his life. It kept the mortgage paid and put food on their table, didn’t it? And without that, what would happen to them all? Biting his lip, Eric knew such thoughts were born of self-pity and depression. God would provide, he knew that; he’d told Ruth as much whenever things looked difficult.
‘Take no thought of the things of the morrow,’ he quoted softly to himself.
And he believed these words. Didn’t he? A sort of dark mist came over his mind and with it the pain of doubt. If it was all a delusion . . .
Suddenly he wanted to turn towards Ruth, to hold her tightly, to kiss her lips then bury himself deep inside her warm, unyielding body. No, it was too soon since Ashleigh’s birth for that and, besides, Ruth was sleeping so peacefully that it would be cruel to disturb her.
As he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to quieten his mind and release the tension in his body, another image came unbidden: Julie’s young face looking up at him, her eyes sweet with expectation.
But Julie was dead and never again would he see her smile as she turned into his classroom, even though that memory lingered in his brain.
‘Today would be fine. Not much happening down here. Aye, bring him in whenever you like,’ the mortuary superintendent said.
‘Thanks, it’ll probably be after school hours. Say around four-thirty? Okay, I’ll call if there’s any change.’ Rosie put down the telephone and smiled. Right, that was one matter out of the way. She’d call Maggie at morning interval time and let her know what was arranged. Young Kyle Kerrigan was welcome to make this visit if he wanted to come into town. For some reason Solly had expressed an interest in the boy’s visit to Glasgow City Mortuary and so they’d take a taxi there together. Or was he wanting to nosey around the mortuary for reasons of his own? Once into a case, her fiancé was fairly inscrutable, his thoughts centred on things like routes and possibilities as he sought to create the killer’s profile.
Rosie pulled absently on the waistband of her linen skirt. She’d lost weight during her time in hospital and hadn’t put it back on again yet. The pathologist pulled a face; it would be the law of natural cussedness if she were to gain a few pounds before the wedding and have to have the dress altered. Catching sight of herself in the mirror above the fireplace, Rosie considered what she saw: a slightly built woman with a halo of blonde hair above a heart-shaped face that looked paler than usual. She stuck out her tongue at the reflection, mentally telling herself that she’d need to spend time putting on some make-up before allowing that pinched-looking wee face out of doors.
It would be good to see the mortuary again, even just to say hello to all the technicians. Everyone had been lovely – sending cards and flowers – so she’d be able to thank them in person and assure them that she’d be back among them as soon as she was permitted. And there was that matter of this murder case, she told herself. If she could just have a wee squint at the body . . . It wasn’t mere curiosity on her part, Rosie told herself, simply a professional interest. Wasn’t it?
‘I’m going to my mother’s,’ Ruth told him as she folded the muslins into small squares and packed them into Ashleigh’s bag. ‘She said she’d come over and take us in the car.’
Eric let his hands drop to his sides. It was sensible, given all that was happening; the smashed glass would be repaired today and that meant an upheaval in the baby’s room, and then the police were going to arrive with their search warrant.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Ruth turned to face him, her eyes wary.
‘Why should I? It’s the best thing for you and Ash. And your mum will enjoy having you both.’
Ruth hesitated for a moment. ‘She said we could stay for a few days. What d’you think?’
Eric pasted a smile on his face and gave his wife a reassuring hug. ‘Great idea. Give you both a good rest away from all of this nonsense.’
But if he held Ruth close to him for a bit longer than she had expected, she made no comment, simply laying her head on her husband’s shoulder and patting his back as though he were a child in need of comforting.
When the car drove off, Eric stood in the doorway watching till they were out of sight then turned into the house, biting back the emotion he’d hidden so well. The silence made the place seem bleak, so he switched on the radio, letting his favourite station blast out a current number-one hit. There was plenty to do, Eric told himself, picking up a discarded bib from the arm of a chair and adding it to the pile of laundry that lay in front of the washing machine.
It was while he was sorting through the coloureds and whites that the doorbell rang.
‘Mr Chalmers?’
The woman smiling at him seemed a friendly sort and for a moment Eric wondered if she or the chap just behind her would produce a warrant card and ask to be admitted.
But the sudden flash from a camera told him these were not police officers.
As he tried to shut the door he could hear the woman’s voice demanding, ‘Tell us what you know about Julie Donaldson’s murder!’
Then she was shouting, ‘What d’you think, Mr Chalmers? Was it an act of God?’
Just as Eric’s fingers touched the handle, he felt as if an invisible hand had clasped itself over his own, drawing him back from the impulse to throw open the door and angrily protest his innocence to this woman and to the world at large. And a small voice in his head reminded Eric that she was simply trying to provoke him into a response that she could publish, that was all.
He was still standing there minutes later when a second knock came and one of the voices outside called, ‘Strathclyde Police.’
‘Want to come back with me after school?’ Jessica King asked casually, flicking her dark tresses over one shoulder. She and Manda were sitting in the library, side by side in the same study carrel, an open laptop showing diagrams of the human body in front of them.
‘Sure. Parents still away?’
Jessica nodded, focusing her a
ttention on the arrangement of glands within the endocrine system that they were supposed to be learning for a biology test. Manda’s presence at home would help to banish whatever ghosts were lingering there, she thought. Her best friend had a knack of making everything seem fun, even their homework.
‘Stay for tea if you like,’ Jessica offered with a shrug that said she didn’t mind whether Manda took up her offer, though her careless gesture concealed the unspoken hope that she would have company at least into the hours of darkness.
‘Sh!’ Manda hissed suddenly, nudging Jessica’s elbow. ‘Don’t look now but guess who’s just walked in?’
It took several seconds of self-control before the dark-haired girl glanced up from the computer screen to see Kenny Turner passing by. For a moment their eyes met and the boy grinned then dropped a wink before settling himself at a vacant laptop.
‘What did I say? He fancies you!’ Manda breathed into her friend’s ear, stifling a giggle.
But instead of smiling or acknowledging the possibility, Jessica felt something inside her freeze: what if it were true? What if Kenny did fancy her? Could this Sixth Year boy have been the silent shadow dogging her footsteps the other night? And was it Kenny Turner, the school joker always doing mad things to make people laugh at him, who’d breathed into her ear as she’d listened for a voice on the other end of a telephone line?
Or was she now so paranoid that every attention paid to her came tagged with some sinister overtone?
Kyle crossed the road, the river Clyde behind him and the city centre ahead. This wasn’t a part of town that he knew well and the sweep of tenement buildings, with their small shops hugging the pavements, came as a surprise. Saltmarket and High Street had only been names before. Glasgow University had been in this area long before the buildings in Gilmour Hill had made their presence felt and wasn’t this just along the road from the place where folk had been hanged in years gone by? In a different century that could have been his father . . . Kyle shivered slightly as his imagination took him back across the historical divide. But now he was standing outside the building where more of life and death took place in reality than he could ever imagine. Mrs Lorimer had instructed him to go all the way round to the rear door.
