by Alex Gray
‘I don’t know. Either there’s a sick-minded bastard out there and he’s somehow been able to access the grounds, or there’s somebody in the club behind all of this,’ Lorimer growled, unconsciously echoing Greer’s own words. The tight security measures already in place would point to the latter. ‘Only someone from the club could get into the boot room.’
‘But do you think it’s necessarily the killer who’s done this?’
Lorimer was silent. That was the real question, wasn’t it? Niall Cameron hadn’t been afraid to ask it, either, he thought, appraising the tall Detective Constable loping along at his side. Cameron had fairly put in the hours on this case. He’d scoured the city for any sighting of Donnie Douglas and had begun to put out feelers further afield in the hope that someone would find the missing player.
‘D’you think we’ll find Donnie Douglas alive?’
‘God, I hope so.’ Lorimer sighed. ‘I’m beginning to believe the newspapers’ insistence that we’ve got some grade-A serial killer out there on the loose.’
‘Is Doctor Brightman …’ Cameron left his sentence unfinished. They both knew what he’d wanted to say. If Solly Brightman had been able to provide some sort of profile then at least that would have given them a direction. But Solly was still at Rosie’s bedside and nothing could prevail on Lorimer to try to prise him away from her.
‘We have to find Douglas.’ Lorimer stopped and turned to Cameron. ‘We should put something out on national television. Maybe that’ll flush him into the open. If he’s still with us,’ he added with a sour twist to his mouth.
News-stands around the city were enjoying a roaring trade, their vendors bawling out the Gazette’s latest lurid headlines. The whole world and his wife seemed caught up in the Kelvin story, this latest bizarre twist serving to shock and amaze. By the time commuters had reached home, the affairs at Kelvin FC were on everybody’s lips. So it was no great surprise when the face of Chief Inspector William Lorimer appeared on their evening television screens.
Maggie Lorimer, hastily forewarned, was sitting staring at her TV, waiting for the news item that would bring her husband into their front room. It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared on television and probably wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes the job demanded a lot of public support and what better way to reach the masses than this.
There was a news item about the latest atrocities in the Middle East, then the newsreader turned towards a screen behind him. There he was. Maggie’s heart gave a little flutter seeing her husband standing at the entrance to Kelvin Park. He was frowning into the camera as the questions began.
‘Chief Inspector, rumours have been flying about, regarding this incident in Kelvin’s boot room. What is the official police opinion on this?’
Lorimer shifted from one foot to the other as he replied, making him seem uneasy. It was simply his restless nature, Maggie knew, but viewers might interpret his manner otherwise. Stay still, will you, she urged his image on the TV screen.
‘Strathclyde Police treats every incident surrounding these recent deaths very seriously indeed. Whether the reconstruction of a player’s murder was a hoax or not, still remains to be seen. Several forensic experts have examined the scene and so far there is nothing to suggest that anyone from outside the club was involved.’
‘This could be someone’s idea of a joke, then?’ The newsreader’s eyebrows went up and his voice sounded sceptical.
‘We can’t say anything for certain at this stage of our investigation, certainly not while we still have a missing person.’
‘Donnie Douglas, the Kelvin mid-fielder. Is he a suspect in these murder cases?’
‘That’s something I’m not at liberty to answer, I’m afraid,’ Lorimer replied, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.
‘Do you think there might be someone stalking the players?’
‘Conjecture isn’t very helpful—’
‘But surely the threats against Chairman Patrick Kennedy must be taken seriously?’ the man interrupted.
Maggie made a face at the screen. The interviewer was making it look as though the police were doing sod all, whereas the opposite was true. Lorimer’s team had been working flat out on this case.
‘As I’ve already said, we are taking everything seriously. Three people have lost their lives in the last few weeks. There have been extensive procedures undertaken, most of which I cannot discuss lest it jeopardise our investigation. Let me say, however,’ and now Maggie saw her husband turn to face the camera, ‘any person who has information that might help to find the perpetrator of the recent killings or who knows the whereabouts of Donnie Douglas should contact us immediately. No matter how insignificant you might think your information is, we need you to come forward. Anything you tell us will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
The Chief Inspector’s blue eyes glinted with determination, though his voice was quietly persuasive. Even the newsreader seemed impressed as he read out the number to call.
Then suddenly it was over. The screen behind him went blank as the man continued with other news stories. Maggie sank back, wiping her hands on her linen skirt. He’d not shown a bit of nervousness yet here she was, a total wreck just watching him. What would he be doing now? Was his working day over or would she have to console herself with the ginger cat for company once more? As if on cue, Chancer jumped up on to Maggie’s lap, purring, his face rubbing against her cheek. She smiled and cuddled him close, warmed by the animal’s spontaneous affection. It was okay. She’d hear all about it come bedtime.
‘I really don’t know, Chief Inspector,’ Pat Kennedy said slowly. ‘Enemies? That’s a strong word to use, surely? I mean, in the world of football you make friends and you fall out with others. Players have to be disciplined and sometimes dropped but that’s just the way it is. Nobody’s going to make a great scene about it.’
‘What about fans?’
‘Oh.’ For a moment the chairman was silent, tapping his huge fingers against the side of his seat. They had chosen to sit out on the terracing, away from prying eyes and ears. The evening sun was still high in the sky but deep shadows were cast by the overhanging roof on this side, providing a relief from the heat.
‘We have had a few problems,’ Kennedy began. ‘There are always some who take things to extremes. Bad-mouthing opposing fans is the norm, but sometimes there are fans who act … well, violently, I suppose I have to say.’
‘But surely the police officers at matches deal with that?’
Kennedy shrugged. ‘You’ve seen the reports from last year’s matches. Nothing to write home about, maybe. A few yobs who’d been drinking too much before games. No,’ he hesitated then turned to look Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I was thinking about Big Jock.’
‘Who?’
Kennedy looked away again, shaking his head slightly. ‘Och, maybe I’m clutching at straws here. Big Jock’s a nutcase. Appears at home games and makes a bit of a fool of himself. But he’s funny, you know, really a comedian. Not right in the head, though. Says daft things, writes mad letters to the club.’
‘Why haven’t you said anything about him before now?’ Lorimer’s frown was etched on his forehead.
‘He’s a harmless big soul,’ Kennedy protested. ‘At least—’
‘At least you thought he was before all this began.’ Lorimer finished the sentence for him. ‘Better give me any details you have about this character, okay?’
‘You don’t really think anyone’s got it in for me, do you, Chief Inspector?’
Lorimer looked across at the chairman. He was a different man this evening, a troubled man whose arrogance had vanished under the weight of this latest incident. Was he afraid? It was hard to imagine the blustering Kennedy having any fears at all, but perhaps the sight of these blood-red painted words had finally unmanned him.
‘I think,’ Lorimer answered slowly, ‘someone is trying to frighten you. Whether your life is in any danger is another matter. But we’ll set up
a CCTV system at your home if you want it.’
Kennedy gave a huge sigh and then shook his head. ‘No. You’ve done enough.’ He bit his lip as if to stop any more words issuing from his mouth, a gesture that made Lorimer curious. What else had he been about to say?
‘The press are having a field day,’ Lorimer remarked as they stood to go inside. ‘Are you going to restrict entry to the press box for this Saturday’s game?’
‘No. Let them come. We’re going to show them a good football match this week. And I want everyone to see us out there. Ron Clark’s doing a magnificent job bolstering the boys’ morale. We’ve got a great chance against the Pars. Let them see that nothing’s going to stop us playing our best. And winning,’ he added, shooting a defiant look at Lorimer.
The DCI simply nodded as they walked back down the steps. This was more like the Kennedy he’d come to know: a strong, determined bear of a man. He glanced behind him as if the other Kennedy, the one he’d glimpsed back there on the shadowy terracing, might still be sitting, head in hands, fearful of what lay ahead.
‘So? What happened after that?’ Maggie snuggled closer to her husband’s shoulder, luxuriating in the feel of his skin against her breasts.
‘It was a bit shambolic, really. Trying to round up everyone for fingerprinting. Can you imagine it? There are loads of staff employed in that place. Anyway, we got it over with and telephoned the players who weren’t at the club.’
‘Oh? Anyone suspicious?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice. There are a few lads who live way out of the area. They’d already gone home.’
‘When will you get a result on the prints?’
‘When the Scottish Criminal Record Office boys and girls see fit to tell us. That’s a huge assignment for them.’ Lorimer rolled over and sighed. ‘Just one print that’s different from all of the ones we’ve done today. That’s all it takes. And the rest can be eliminated. At least that’s what we’re telling them.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, I thought my work was done for the day, woman.’
Maggie giggled as his hand slid under her thigh, touching a ticklish spot. Then the laughter turned to an indrawn breath as he began to kiss her neck. A shiver ran through her and she drew the sheet over them, clutching it tightly in one damp fist. Thoughts of footballers and fingerprints dissolved into nothingness as she closed her eyes, letting her other senses take control.
It was that time between light and darkness when the sky becomes a deep shade of electric blue, the invisible sun sending vivid echoes of colour above the earth’s black rim. A few stars winked blearily from their long daylight sleep, waiting for the dark to uncover their naked brightness. Sitting alone on the topmost row of the East stand a figure sat, staring at the horizon, breathing in the cool air like draughts of wine. The sight of every spire and rooftop was comforting in its familiarity, like coming home after an enforced exile.
That’s what it had been like, he thought. Those years away had been an exile from his true love, this football club. No woman would ever understand just what that meant to him. He belonged here and the place belonged to him. It was as simple as that. Nobody was going to take that away. He stroked the bulge under the thin material of his jacket, feeling the solid shape of the gun. A small sigh escaped him. But it was a sigh of pleasure and a smile creased his face. Everything would be all right now.
CHAPTER 32
‘There’s one thing that makes it different,’ Lorimer told the assembled team. ‘Faulkner was stabbed in the chest, and here,’ he pointed to the image on the screen, ‘is a faked dead body with a knife stuck into its back. Okay, maybe the idea was to highlight the number eight, Donnie Douglas’s number, but that difference in the MO tells me this was not done by the same hand that killed Faulkner.’
‘I thought the wife was pretty well in the frame for that,’ a voice commented from the back of the room.
Lorimer looked up. DI Jo Grant was looking at him quizzically, her arms folded across her chest. Jo was a tough cookie and Lorimer had a lot of respect for an officer whose CV included undercover work. He nodded slowly as he replied. ‘It all points to her, certainly. If we had a wee bit of forensic evidence then we could wrap that up happily enough. Changing her story has probably weakened her defence.’
‘Why doesn’t she confess, then? Her sentence would be all the shorter for a guilty plea,’ Jo grumbled. A small murmur of agreement rippled among the team.
‘And a confession would make all our lives easier, right?’ Lorimer replied, but his tone had that edge of quiet anger that they all knew so well and Jo Grant simply shrugged and kept silent. ‘I’ve seen her,’ Lorimer continued, ‘I’ve tried to persuade her to come clean but she persists in maintaining her innocence. But so have hundreds of guilty killers before her. We must remember that. And, besides, her defence lawyer will insist on the burden of proof being demonstrated by the prosecution.’
‘But someone knew about the weapon,’ Niall Cameron piped up. ‘That’s not coincidence, surely?’
Lorimer gritted his teeth. This was a factor that had kept him awake long after Maggie’s breathing had become heavy and shallow, her head nestled against his chest. ‘Janis Faulkner may have told somebody. She says she didn’t. But she denied being in the house with her husband’s dead body and then changed that story. So why should we believe her over this?’
‘Jimmy Greer.’ DS Wilson nodded his head as he uttered the name. ‘That’s who she’s told. Bet you any money you like that wee toerag’s got a hold of her story. We know he telephoned her several times at Cornton Vale, thanks to our ever-efficient prison officers. Who’s to say he didn’t weasel that little titbit out of her?’
Lorimer was silent for a moment. The image of Janis Faulkner came to him: her fair hair over that child-like face, her vulnerability almost tangible. For a hardened hack such as Greer to have succeeded where he himself had failed left a sour taste in his mouth. But then, he reasoned, Greer represented the media and all its power to sway public opinion; DCI Lorimer and all those officers standing before him represented the forces of the law. And if the footballer’s wife had really crossed that deadly line then maybe she had found it easier to throw in her lot with a sleazy journalist who promised her some form of redemption.
‘Aye, you could be spot on, Wilson. Want to see what Greer’s been up to lately?’
When the doorbell rang, Jimmy Greer rolled over on to his side with a groan. His eyes opened to the sight of an empty bottle of whisky on the table. Hell, surely he hadn’t fallen asleep? The bell persisted in drilling a hole into his skull and he tried to sit upright on the settee. If he ignored it they’d go away. But the sound continued as if the person behind the door had put his finger on the bell push and wasn’t going to let up.
‘Aw, shut yer face!’ Greer called as he shambled down the hallway. He yanked the door open, a belligerent scowl pasted on his thin features, ready to blast whoever had woken him up. But his expression changed in an instant when he saw the policemen standing on his doormat.
‘DS Wilson, DC Cameron,’ they told him, waving their warrant cards at his bloodshot eyes. Greer stood aside automatically, letting the CID officers into his flat.
The journalist followed them into the wreck of his living room. The smell of whisky mingled with the remains of a curry that lay in a foil container on the floor beside the television. Greer looked at it stupidly. Had he eaten that last night? He couldn’t even remember going into his local Asian takeaway.
‘Mind if I get a drink?’ he asked, heading towards the kitchen. A tumbler of water would help him to see straight, to think fast.
‘Looks like you had a skinful already. Good party, was it?’ Wilson asked.
Greer made a noise that was midway between a grunt and a mutter as he left the room.
‘Mind if we open a window?’ Wilson called out as loudly as he could. He grinned to himself, imagining the pain throbbing in the man’s skull.
‘He’s in a bad way,’ Cameron remarked.
‘Ach, don’t waste any sympathy on that one. Besides, it’s self-inflicted. Wonder what he was celebrating?’ he added.
Greer came back into the room, a half-empty tumbler of water clutched in one hand. ‘Right, what do you want at this time in the morning?’
‘My goodness, Jimmy.’ Wilson folded his arms and grinned. ‘Do you not see it’s nearly eleven o’clock? Must be nearly time for your midday snifter, eh?’
‘What?’ The journalist’s jaw dropped and he pulled up a shirt cuff to peer at his watch. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.
‘Should have been somewhere by now, maybe?’ Wilson suggested. The Detective Sergeant was clearly enjoying Greer’s discomfiture.
‘Aye, well, you’re here now, so I suppose I can say I was on official business,’ the journalist replied, his usual cockiness reasserting itself.
‘Can we sit down?’
‘Go ahead,’ Greer said, plonking himself into the nearest seat, an ancient leather armchair that did not match any other furniture in the room. ‘What’s all this about?’
Wilson nodded briefly at Niall Cameron who sat forward, fixing Greer with what he hoped was his best imitation of DCI Lorimer’s famous stare.
‘We’re investigating certain matters surrounding the Nicko Faulkner murder,’ Cameron began. ‘We believe you have been in communication with Janis Faulkner.’
‘No me, son,’ Greer blustered.
