Only the Dead Can Tell

by Alex Gray

  The fact that the gangmaster had subjected women to such terrors gave the psychologist an insight into his personality. The pictures he had seen on file showed scenes of torture and Solly wondered how anyone could have had the stomach to record them. But someone had and he suspected that it had been the gangmaster himself, relishing those women’s screams. The accident aside, there were other things to ponder. Had his own mother been a cruel, unfeeling sort? Was he seeking revenge for a disturbed childhood? Solly had seen this pattern of behaviour in violent men before. Or, had he been abandoned as a child, lacking maternal nurturing in any form that would result in sensitivity towards womankind? Or, as he was beginning to think, was there some sort of hideous anger under that featureless face that wanted to punish or destroy the sort of young women who might have rejected or even mocked him?

  An out-and-out psychopath of course had no empathy for his fellow man or woman and so this type of personality could never be ruled out either, which brought Solly back to wondering if Max’s genetic make-up had been flawed from the start. La mauvaise graine, the pragmatic French called it; bad seed, as if somehow a child was fated to become a monster even before its birth.

  The psychologist sighed. Needing to recapture the Ferenc girl gave him a small inkling of what Max was about, of course. He wanted to regain control of the youngster and, perhaps, to satisfy his own sexual needs before subjecting her once more to a life of prostitution. Besides that, there was the practical aspect of keeping her out of the clutches of the authorities in case she could tell them things that had to be kept under wraps. He shuddered, wondering what Juliana Ferenc’s fate would be.

  The CCTV images that he had been sent showed a glimpse of her terrified face as she was dragged out of sight along that shadowy lane. Did she know her abductor? Solly doubted that. She was young and fit, could easily have run along the busy street screaming for help. No, this Max had sent someone else to do his bidding, someone who had lured her away. The burly figure with the sunglasses and baseball cap pulled down was hard to identify. But it was not impossible for the experts at the Scottish Crime Campus at Gartcosh to create some alternative images in an effort to show what this man really looked like. Already there were images from Glasgow Central Station and, piecing them together, who knew what these clever men and women might discover?

  His mind wandered to his own dear wife. Rosie was a loving mother as well as a dedicated professional and she would soon be here at home, nurturing her own newborn, settled happily in a calm environment away from the strains of her job. Their children would be given every chance to become decent citizens, the notion of caring for others instilled from an early age. For a fleeting moment he thought of the man he wanted to profile and felt a pang of sorrow. Had he been given such love and support? It was hardly likely, though those serial killers he had studied for years could sometimes seem to be quite normal, ordinary folk from outside appearances, family life behind closed doors telling a different sort of story.

  Then there was Dorothy Guilford, Rosie’s putative suicide victim, if that is what she really was. So many people with reasons to want her dead . . .

  Her family situation had been a bit odd, too, according to Kirsty who had been updating them on her own private investigation. He sighed again, knowing that his brain was teeming with ideas and that it was probably time to wander into the kitchen and drink a restorative cup of camomile tea.

  The door closed with a bang and Shirley heard the footsteps thumping along the uncarpeted hallway.

  ‘You’re here, then,’ she remarked, not bothering to rise from her armchair as the man entered her living room. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting some tea?’

  There was no answer and Shirley smiled, pointing to the kitchen doorway. ‘You know where the kettle is. Make some for yourself. Did you remember the biscuits?’

  The man loomed over her, fists clenched by his sides, the expression on his face difficult to read. ‘Yes,’ he replied, though from the way his jaw worked it was obvious he wanted to say more. Then, turning on his heel he marched through to the kitchen as the woman’s eyes followed him. She heard the gush of tap water, the clink of pottery mugs as he drew them from their old wooden pegs.

  ‘Got what you want?’ she called out but only a grunt of assent met her ears.

  At last the tea was brewed and brought to her side, the man setting down a tray on the scratched table between them.

  Shirley grabbed a handful of biscuits and set them on the arm of her chair, dunking them one by one and swallowing greedily as she looked over her mug of tea.

  ‘Well, cat got your tongue?’ she sneered. ‘What happened?’

  The man avoided her stare, stirring spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. Then, with a sigh, he nodded. ‘I got it,’ he told her. ‘Lawyer wasn’t happy about releasing it at first but when he saw who was asking I guess he had no choice.’ A glimmer of a smile appeared on his face but disappeared again swiftly as Shirley rapped hard on the table.

  ‘Did she sign it or didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Looks like she did.’

  ‘And did you get to read it all? What did it say?’

  The man shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. ‘Look, you don’t need to know it all chapter and verse. “Assign, dispone and convey . . . ” Lots of legal words you wouldn’t understand. I sat there and read it all, though,’ he told her. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it as far as I can see.’

  ‘But who was the beneficiary?’

  The man paused to drink his tea, ignoring her for a moment, as if he was deliberately making her wait.

  ‘Who gets it all?’ Shirley demanded impatiently. She sighed and shook her head. It was hard going at times dealing with someone who considered himself her superior. He liked to torment her in little ways, she knew. So it took her a deal of patience to make him go out and do her bidding. And he would, knowing that in the end there was a great deal of money coming their way.

  ‘We do,’ he said at last, avoiding her eager gaze, the fat fingers grasping the edge of her grubby blouse.

  Shirley blew out a sigh of relief. ‘Well why not say so, then?’

  ‘Got to go,’ he said suddenly, draining his mug then picking up the biscuit crumbs with a damp finger.

  ‘You’ll call me if you need anything else, won’t you?’ Shirley asked.

  ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘Just need to go and change now, okay?’

  She heard the bedroom door opening and closing, the faint sounds of his feet as the man changed out of the well-polished shoes and smart suit he’d worn to visit the solicitor’s office. He’d not uttered one word to reassure her, Shirley thought bitterly. It had always been the same, of course. Dorothy had been the favourite even with this particular man. But Dorothy was gone now and could no longer take his affection away from her.

  ‘I’m off.’ His face appeared at the doorway, glancing her way for a moment.

  Shirley smiled up at him then opened her arms.

  ‘C’mere, you big lump,’ she said.

  ‘It will take a while,’ the woman at the Crown Office told Lorimer. ‘We can’t simply issue warrants for that. Not unless you have a bit more to substantiate your request. Are any of these men likely to present a danger to the public?’

  The detective superintendent hoped that she could not hear his exasperated sigh. ‘We don’t know yet but one of them may well be guilty of the attempted murder of Peter Guilford,’ he replied, knowing that this was something he had already explained and that his patience was running thin.

  ‘Yes, well . . . ’ She left her sentence unfinished and he could only imagine what she might have said.

  Lorimer put down the phone after mumbling ‘Thanks anyway’, and drew the sheet of faces towards him.

  If only he had been able to present them one by one then Guilford’s reaction would have narrowed down these options. Lorimer cursed himself, knowing that it had been down to him to make that call. It just hadn’t occurre
d to him that Guilford would refuse to identify his attacker. Still, there was the possibility of eliminating at least two of the men. McTaggart had been off duty at the time of the assault and Fairley off sick, so he was left with four prison officers whose shifts had coincided with the near fatal incident. It irked him that McSherry hadn’t bothered to sift through these images and check who had been on a shift at the time of the attack. Still, he had to see the ones he was left with.

  Raynor had been the officer first on the scene. He had taken charge of the prisoner and called for help. Would his assailant have done that? Endangered his own position? Perhaps he needed to talk again to the two prisoners who had found Guilford lying in that shower cubicle, see if they had noticed anything odd about Raynor’s manner. Two of the other officers had also been quick on the scene: Whitehead and Grimshaw. That left Thomson unaccounted for. McSherry needed to let him know exactly where his officers had been at the time of the attack, something the prison governor had so far been reluctant to disclose.

  He picked up the telephone again and dialled the number for HMP Barlinnie. This time he was coming in with his temper simmering under the surface and woe betide anyone who stood in his way!

  ‘No, sir, I was in the library accompanying a visiting author,’ Thomson told him.

  Lorimer gritted his teeth, fuming inwardly. How hard would it have been for McSherry to tell him that?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said instead. ‘Did you have much to do with Peter Guilford at all?’

  The young prison officer thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘Not particularly,’ he said at last. ‘In fact I probably couldn’t have told you what he looked like. I tend to concentrate more on the newbies. Poor wee souls who are a bit lost when they come in at first.’

  Lorimer smiled, believing the man. He seemed an open and honest type. Brian Thomson’s background prior to becoming a prison officer had included some farm work and labouring jobs, though he had obtained a clutch of mediocre grades from high school that had given him the chance for further education at his local college.

  Michael Raynor was next, the man that had been first on the scene. Lorimer stood up as he entered the room. He was a big man, almost his own height of six four, but much broader across the shoulders, more like a rugby prop forward. He had examined all of these prison officers’ CVs, something that a reluctant McSherry had handed over and, true enough, Raynor had played rugby during his spell with the army.

  The man sat rigid, back ramrod straight, his eyes fixed unflinchingly to Lorimer’s.

  ‘You’ve been with the service for just a few months, Mr Raynor,’ Lorimer began. ‘What brought you to this particular profession?’

  ‘Seemed a suitable thing to do, sir,’ Raynor replied smartly.

  He was from down south, Midlands, maybe, Lorimer guessed from the man’s accent.

  ‘Public service. Duty. All things we had to undergo as soldiers,’ Raynor added. There was no trace of a smile, unlike the previous officer who had been quite affable. Had word spread about why the detective superintendent was here? Had any resentment at the suspicion one of them had attacked a prisoner filtered through to these other men? He hoped not.

  ‘You were first to help the prisoner that was attacked,’ Lorimer noted.

  ‘Sir,’ Raynor replied, nodding his affirmative.

  ‘What did you think had happened?’

  ‘Some toerags had a go,’ Raynor said immediately. ‘First thought that crossed my mind. Sir.’

  Lorimer stifled a sigh. This one was hard going. If they had been standing then he’d almost have expected a click of heels at every salutation.

  ‘You felt for a pulse?’

  ‘Standard procedure, sir. All trained in first aid,’ he said, his face perfectly immobile.

  Perhaps inside this man was experiencing some turmoil of emotions Lorimer told himself, but outwardly his expression was completely impassive. Had he learned restraint under fire? It was possible. And a well-trained soldier could easily stand a barrage of questions without flinching.

  ‘Did you think he was dead?’

  Raynor’s mouth worked for a moment then he shook his head. ‘That’s something I can’t recall, sir,’ he said at last. ‘Everything happened so fast. Had to get help.’ He shrugged then and Lorimer felt a modicum of sympathy for the man. If this was not Guilford’s attacker but the man who had initiated his safe passage to hospital then he ought to be thanked. Still, there was no obvious way of knowing which scenario was real and he felt irritated that he had been given so little when the former soldier at last left the room.

  Hugh Grimshaw was sweating as he entered the room, a hasty handkerchief stuffed into his trouser pocket. It was another hot day but the interior of the prison was cool enough and Lorimer reckoned that this prison officer was troubled by sweat of a different sort. He, too, was a big fellow, as broad as Raynor and undoubtedly fit enough to have manhandled a prisoner. Of course they all had to be strong, fit men to cope with the job. It was part of the reason that this was going to be a difficult process.

  ‘They’re saying you think one of us had a go at Guilford. Is that true?’

  ‘I’m here to eliminate you from our enquiries, Mr Grimshaw.’ Lorimer smiled, knowing as the man looked across that the prison officer was instantly reassured by his disarming expression.

  ‘Also, I’d like your help.’ He leaned forward as though to include the man in a little conspiracy.

  The body language worked as he saw Grimshaw’s shoulders relaxing right away and his breath exhaling in a sigh that might just be relief.

  ‘Tell me, is there any way that your uniforms could get into the wrong hands?’

  Grimshaw looked puzzled. ‘Naw, cannae see it myself.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve all got oor ain locker keys, like.’

  ‘Nobody ever borrowed items of clothing? Boots?’

  Grimshaw shook his head.

  It was a useful tactic to make the prison officer think that they might be looking for someone outwith their own group. It set the man thinking away from the possibility that he was a suspect.

  ‘What was Guilford like as a prisoner?’

  ‘All right. Never gave any bother. Quiet type. Didn’t have that much to do with him after the first day.’

  ‘You were responsible for his orientation?’

  ‘Aye.’ Grimshaw shifted a little in his seat, a frown appearing on his brow.

  ‘Was he upset at all?’

  The man nodded. ‘Aye, but that’s common enough. Even with returning offenders.’

  ‘You knew he had been in prison before?’

  Grimshaw’s face coloured a little. ‘Word gets around, ken?’

  Lorimer nodded, letting that remark pass. It was probably true enough. And perhaps it was wise to know who were repeat offenders, clued up to the prison system, unlike first-timers who might present the prison staff with other problems.

  ‘No trouble between Guilford and any other inmates, then? His co-pilot?’ he asked, using the term that was given by the officers for cellmate.

  ‘Nope.’ Grimshaw was leaning back, confidence in his manner now that the conversation had turned to the prison population. ‘Nothing at all.’

  The man had met Lorimer’s gaze with a steady one of his own that made the detective believe him.

  ‘Do you happen to know any of Guilford’s family, Mr Grimshaw?’

  The man sat up straight, alarm on his pudgy features.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you happen to know any of Guilford’s family? Friends, maybe, or relatives?’

  ‘No. What are you asking that for?’ Grimshaw shook his head, frowning.

  ‘You never saw any visitors for him?’

  ‘Don’t think he had any. But Raynor would know better than me. He . . . ’ The man stopped abruptly, mouth shut in a sudden line.

  You’ve said more than you want to, Lorimer thought, trying not to show the glint of excitement in his own demeanour.

  �
�Oh? Raynor?’ He let the question hang there for a moment, inviting a fuller response.

  Grimshaw looked down at his hands, avoiding Lorimer’s stare.

  ‘Raynor would know better because . . . ?’ Lorimer coaxed.

  ‘He’d known about him before he came inside this time,’ Grimshaw mumbled. ‘Said he’d met the wife. The one he was inside for attempting to kill. You won’t tell him I said this, will you?’ He looked up, his eyes filled with trepidation. ‘We all thought it was a load of pish, really. Didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Grimshaw shrugged. ‘He’s always saying stuff. Like how he won the lottery. Why would he still be working in a job like this if he’d hit the jackpot? Naw, he’s wan o’ thae fantasists.’ He made a sign by his head, twirling a finger.

  ‘So, let me get this right. You didn’t believe him when he told you that,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘How about after Guilford was attacked? Did you wonder if it was true?’

  Grimshaw’s chewed his lower lip. ‘Cannae say that I thought anything about it,’ he answered. ‘He raised the alarm, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s all, Mr Grimshaw. You really have been very helpful and if there is anything more that you think we can do to apprehend Guilford’s attacker you just have to call me,’ he said with a smile, sliding his card across the table.

  ‘You’ll not tell . . . ?’

  ‘Everything we have discussed is completely in confidence, Mr Grimshaw. You have my word.’ Lorimer nodded, rising to shake the man’s damp and sweaty hand.

  ‘Can I talk to Raynor again?’ Lorimer asked the prison officer who was standing outside the small interview room normally used for solicitors’ visits.

  ‘Gone off shift, sir. Soon as you’d finished with him he went home,’ the officer told him.

  Lorimer hesitated. To chase after Raynor and face him with further questions or remain here and interview the final prison officer whose face was on that sheet of six? He could surely find Raynor at home later on?