A Small Weeping (21 page)

It was a perfect night. The moon had slid behind the blue-black clouds leaving just the glow from city streetlamps shining on the parked cars. He leant against the wall and waited. There was no hurry and certainly no fear of being seen. Apart from the fact that the CCTV cameras didn’t work in the staff car park, he was simply part of the natural background of the station, a railway worker going about his lawful business.

He shivered, anticipating the real business of the night. It was more lawful than anyone could guess, commanded by the highest authority. The woman had been hanging around for three nights in succession, eyeing up the stragglers from the last Edinburgh train, flashing her bare legs around the taxi rank. She’d disappeared with a man every night and somehow he knew she would keep coming back. A quick glance at his watch told him it was nearly time.

He heard her high heels click-clacking over the pavement before he saw her walking briskly towards the
automatic doors, her short red skirt riding up against those white thighs.

‘Hey!’ he called out softly and grinned as he saw her pause midstride and peer into the darkness.

Moving out of the shadow he waved his hand, gave a flick of the head indicating that she should come over.

As she smoothed down her skirt and sashayed over he could see that she was younger than he’d thought. A momentary qualm was quickly replaced by disgust at how much she’d sullied her youthfulness. The grin on his face was a rictus. It would never do to reveal how he really felt towards her. The woman stopped in front of him, flicking back her white-blonde hair, a black shoulder bag clutched tightly with one hand. He could see beyond the caved-in cheekbones and the dull eyes to the girl she might have been before she’d chosen this way of life. With one crooked finger he beckoned her further into the shadows.

‘Ye wantae do the bis’ness?’ She was chewing gum, her jaw moving in wide circular movements. The sound of saliva slapping against her tongue was like a dog wolfing its meat. Something turned in his stomach.

He swallowed hard, nodded and took the woman’s arm. ‘Over here,’ he said, leading her into the shadows of a small building tacked on to the back of the station. It was where all the green rubbish bins were corralled together behind a mesh fence. A padlock swung loose on its hasp.

‘Ah’m no gonnae go in therr,’ she protested, tugging against his grip.

‘Aw, c’mon,’ he coaxed. ‘Give’s a kiss.’ With one hand he swung open the gate and pushed her inside the compound, his body already hard against hers. There was
no struggle as his mouth enclosed her thin lips, more an acquiescence. He could feel her body relent as he pulled her hands around his waist, walking her slowly over to the nearest bin.

It was when she fumbled for his zip that he uncoiled the scarf from his neck and slipped it around her throat.

The ‘Noooooooo!’ was cut off abruptly as the ligature tightened. He felt her body struggle against his in a passion that had nothing to do with sex any more. Her leg came up in a vain attempt to lash out at his crotch but he sidestepped, hanging on to the scarf, yanking against it with all his strength. Suddenly a gurgling noise issued from her throat and she buckled under his grasp. He let go and she fell to the ground with a soft thump.

He took a step back, looking at her for a moment then knelt beside her. The grin that hadn’t left his face was like a mask now, something he couldn’t remove. Not yet. There was still the ceremony to perform.

He clasped her fingers straight within his own, glad of the leather that separated their flesh. How small they were, the warmth seeping through the gloves. He was aware of these things even as he uttered the prayer. The words that he spoke were of forgiveness for sins. She would not commit any more acts of depravity. Sitting back on his heels, he turned to look for the package that he’d left here earlier that evening. It was still there, hidden under the concrete edge of the shed. He slid it out and unwrapped the carnation from its cellophane wrapper. There were tears in his eyes as he forced the stem between her dead palms. It was such a lovely flower, so fresh and sweet. But it was a mark that she was saved now. They would find her and know she’d been redeemed.

He rubbed his gloved hands against his trousers as he stood up. Finished. He was done. The gate made virtually no sound as he fastened the padlock onto its hasp.

It was only a short walk back to the car and there was nobody about to see him slip into the driver’s seat. He peeled off the heavy gloves, letting them fall to the floor. There would be new ones issued tomorrow, unsullied by her kind of filth.

Two black cabs turning into the area made him stop for a moment. Then he released the brake and drove slowly out of the station, up the hill towards Cathedral Street and away, his night’s work complete.

They’d arranged to meet late afternoon. Solly would be free by four o’clock, he’d said, but Lorimer knew from past experience that he was rarely on time. He’d taken the clockwork orange (which was the locals’ name for the Glasgow Underground) as far as Hillhead station, deciding to stroll along Byres road to clear his head.

The woman’s body had been identified as Geraldine Lynch. She was a known prostitute in that area, the railway staff had said. Already there were punters coming forward with information about her. Lorimer’s mouth hardened. She’d been dead for hours before they’d found her, dumped beside the huge industrial rubbish bins at the back of Queen Street station. One of the Transport officers had made the discovery. That, at least, had had the advantage of keeping the area sealed properly for forensics.

There had been an angry scene outside the Gazette’s offices, girls and women who had known Geraldine Lynch and Deirdre McCann making their presence felt. Jimmy
Greer’s piece about Glasgow prostitutes had enraged them. None of them ever denied what they did, but to have the city’s newspaper deriding them the way Greer had done was particularly insensitive. It was the usual ploy, Lorimer guessed, to generate letters to the editor.

The Police liaison team had invited the women into Pitt Street to discuss their security. It was doubtful that many would turn up, though. These Glasgow girls liked to think themselves tough, and some of them were, but others were just wee lassies finding themselves at the bottom of the drugs spiral.

Lorimer tried to rid his mind of the murdered girl’s face as he walked along the road, taking note of the shops and buildings. Much of the area had changed dramatically since his own student days, but there were still landmark pubs like the Rubaiyat further down where he was to meet Solly, and of course the Curlers next to the Underground. They’d been revamped over the years but they continued to provide that ethos of camaraderie and heavy drinking a student clientele had come to expect.

Outside the station Lorimer sidestepped the flower vendor with his basket of brightly coloured blooms. He paused for a second. He’d never been in the habit of buying flowers for Maggie except on the rare occasions when they’d been supermarket shopping together. The vendor, a slim boy with lank, dark hair, caught his eye even as Lorimer hesitated.

‘Nice roses. Two bunches for a fiver?’ the boy held up several bunches of the long-stemmed blooms for Lorimer to see.

‘No thanks,’ he shook his head briefly, eyeing the single carnations stuck into a green bucket. Inquiries
had been made all over the city. This boy had probably been questioned more than once. Should he stop and buy some flowers for Maggie? He had walked away from the stall even as the thought crossed his mind. No, they’d only wither by the time he reached home, he argued with himself. Anyway, she’d maybe think he was trying to apologise for something.

As Lorimer waited for the lights to change on the corner of University Avenue his attention wandered to the shops on the other side of the road. On dayglo orange stickers, Going Places travel agency was proclaiming cut-price fares to Florida. He could always see what flights were available in October, say?

The lights changed to the wee green man and Lorimer strode across, his mind drifting away from fares and flights to Geraldine Lynch. The only place she would be going was into Rosie Fergusson’s post-mortem room.

As he crossed over, his eye was caught by three older men deep in conversation. Two had greying beards compensating for what they lacked on top and the third was a tall, angular fellow whose mane of white hair made him an imposing figure.

Three academics, Lorimer smiled to himself as they swept past. They still seemed to favour baggy linen jackets and distressed leather briefcases, just like his old Prof. He’d felt at home here once, Lorimer realised. What would life have been like if he’d pursued his original studies to their conclusion? Would he have ferreted into all the intricacies of Art History instead of investigating contemporary crimes? Would Maggie have been happier married to an academic?

Walking in the direction of Partick, he caught sight of
another familiar landmark. The newsagent was still there. Lorimer saw with a pang that several youngsters were busy taking down details of flats to let from the cards in the window. This unofficial letting agency had been there for as long as he could remember. He had a sudden memory of standing in the pouring rain in his ancient duffel coat scanning the cards for a room to let where he and Maggie could set up home. They’d talked such a lot about moving in together but it had never happened.

Instead Lorimer had left university for his police training while Maggie had finished her degree. They’d done the conventional thing after all, working and saving to buy the house before they’d finally married. His young man’s dream of a love nest had been set aside when he’d left the university world behind for the new experiences of the police force.

The pub on the corner seemed caught in a time warp, Lorimer thought as he pushed open the door. The Rubaiyat might have a name that conjured up a literary world but it wasn’t so far from the traditional spit and sawdust. The same scuffed brass foot rail had been there in his day and although the banquettes were newer, their vivid patterns continued the attempt at evoking the idea of ancient Persia. Lorimer ordered a pint and settled into the curved seat opposite the door.

‘Lorimer. Hallo,’ Solly’s face displayed his usual boyish grin as he caught sight of him. Seemingly oblivious to the warmer weather, he was wearing a long gabardine raincoat over his leather jacket; he unravelled himself from these layers of clothing, discarding them in a heap over his bulging briefcase.

Lorimer smiled. Solly would never change.

‘What are you having?’

‘Ah. Something nice and cold. I don’t mind,’ he answered vaguely.

‘White wine? Beer? Orange juice?’

‘Yes, lovely,’ he replied.

Lorimer raised his eyes to heaven and ordered another pint for himself and a glass of squash for Solly.

‘So,’ Solly suddenly put the drink down, giving Lorimer a considered look. ‘We have another young woman who’s been strangled.’

Lorimer sighed. ‘I can’t believe four women have been killed and we’ve no trace of their killer.’

‘No,’ Solly replied. ‘It’s a difficult one.’ There was a pause as he seemed to examine his glass carefully, then he placed it on the table and shifted close towards Lorimer. ‘More difficult than I think you realise.’

‘Oh? How’s that?’ Lorimer looked at Solly. There was something familiar in the sad smile, something that told him Solly was about to be the bearer of bad news, as if he hadn’t enough to contend with.

‘We don’t have one killer. We have two.’

Lorimer nodded slowly. It was something that he’d fleetingly considered himself. ‘That would be a lovely idea, pal, but how do you account for the modus operandi? Besides, the guy places flowers into her praying hands each time. Same signature.’

‘But a different locus. And a different type of victim,’ Solly tapped the edge of the table to underline his point.

‘Granted. But how can you explain the hands? Even the press didn’t get hold of a picture of any of the bodies. Their mock-up shows a different position altogether. It
has to be one and the same person who’s carrying out these killings.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Solly told him quietly. He heaved a sigh. ‘The whole picture didn’t make sense from the time of Kirsty MacLeod’s death. I simply couldn’t build a profile. Now I think I know why. There are two people to profile, not one.’

Solly watched as the policeman’s mouth set in a grim line. The murder case sat heavily on his shoulders. Until they could solve it there would be a feeling of inadequacy heightened by something he couldn’t yet put his finger on, an extra weight that he was bearing. His energies were directed at finishing off this job if he could. That was good for the case and good for Strathclyde CID, but was it good for William Lorimer?

Just then a crowd of students piled into the pub, their voices loud with post-exam relief. Soon it would be standing room only in the Rubaiyat.

Lorimer bent forwards, suddenly aware of any ears that might be tuning into their conversation. ‘Look, why not finish off here and we’ll go for a walk? Fancy the Botanics? It’s a nice night.’

Solly nodded and raised his glass. The two men sat back opposite one another, drinking in a silence that was full of questions.

‘We’d have to check all the members of the team, too,’ Lorimer told him. ‘If your theory’s correct, and I’m not saying you’re wrong, then someone inside the investigation has let slip details of the signature.’ Lorimer didn’t dare voice any other thoughts than that. Carelessness, that was the only crime any of his team could be guilty of, wasn’t it?

‘It could have been the railwayman who discovered the first victim,’ Solly reminded him.

Lorimer gnawed a raggle on his fingernail. Nobody had noticed the flower until he’d arrived at the scene. Still, it was worth checking out. ‘If the nurses have been killed by a copycat killer then we’re still left with a helluva lot of questions. Like, why?’

Solly didn’t reply. He was walking slowly along the path, face towards the ground as if he was looking for a lost penny. Lorimer glanced sideways at him.

What was going on in that brain? He’d given the psychologist the benefit of the doubt and, in an uneasy way, he felt he was on to something.

‘What about the prostitutes, then?’

Solly looked up and stopped, smiling sadly. ‘Oh, that’s easy, I’m afraid. The killer is suffering from some kind of delusions. Religious delusions. Fairly common, I have to say. He’s probably hearing voices telling him to take away the bad women of the night.’

‘A religious nut, then? What we thought all along?’

‘Yes. And I think this latest crime shows he’s definitely got a link with Queen Street station.’

‘The staff car park’s close circuit camera is out of order,’ Lorimer told him gloomily.

‘There. Have a closer look at who has access to that area at night. Or even during the day.’

‘Anything else?’

‘If forensics haven’t found any DNA matches between railway personnel then maybe you could dig a little deeper into each member of staff’s background.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘White, single male. Thirty to forty. There’s possibly a
history of being in an institution. I suppose he must have a car, too,’ Solly mused, stroking his beard absently as if he were seeing a shadowy figure in the recesses of his mind.

‘And the other murders?’

‘Ah. Now that’s more difficult. We’re dealing with somebody very clever indeed.’

‘Someone inside the Grange?’

Solly frowned before answering. ‘I’m not sure. It’s possible, but then again…’ he trailed off.

‘Look, why don’t we go for a curry? See if we can get into the Ashoka?’ Perhaps with some food inside him Solly would become more expansive, he thought. Besides, Lorimer wasn’t in the mood to go home just yet.

It was dark by the time the taxi drew up outside the house. Maggie stumbled a little in her high heels as she tried to tiptoe to the door. She failed to see the swish of curtains from upstairs as her key turned in the lock.

Her husband appeared to be asleep when she crept into the bedroom.

Maggie slipped easily out of her skirt and top, let ting them fall onto the carpet. She was unfastening her suspenders when Lorimer spoke suddenly, making her jump.

‘Been out on the town?’

‘Good God! You gave me a fright. I thought you were asleep.’ Lorimer half sat up, regarding his wife in the darkness. She saw him shake his head.

There was a silence as she finished drawing off the stockings and underwear, a silence that was charged with embarrassment as if he had no right to be watching her. She fished out a nightdress from under the pillow and
slipped it hastily over her head. His eyes were still on her as she climbed into bed beside him. There was a continued silence that was full of unspoken questions about where she’d been, who she’d been with.

Heaving a sigh, Maggie gave in.

‘I was out at the Rogano having a drink with Sheilagh. OK?’

There was no reply. She turned her head towards him and in the darkness she could make out the smell of onions on his breath.

‘Been out for a curry?’

Lorimer gave a laugh. ‘Want to join my team, Sherlock? Or is it that obvious?’

Maggie giggled, the tension suddenly evaporating. ‘You stink! You always eat far too many spiced onions,’ she complained.

‘I was seeing Solly,’ Lorimer said, as if that was an explanation for the state of his breath.

‘And?’

‘He’s got this idea that we’re dealing with two separate killers.’

Maggie twisted towards him, interested in spite of herself. ‘And is he right?’

Lorimer lay back on the pillows, one hand behind his head. ‘I don’t know. If he is, though, I may have to start looking a lot closer to home.’

‘You mean someone in the force?’

Maggie could hear her husband sigh in the darkness. It was a sigh that went all the way through him. She snuggled up closer, her cold skin touching Lorimer’s warm body. He didn’t answer her question but wrapped an arm round her shoulders, pulling the duvet in tighter to keep her cosy.

There was nothing sexual in his action, it was a gesture of pure affection, the kind of thing she’d been missing for so long. After only a few minutes Lorimer’s breathing became heavier and Maggie knew he was asleep. Still he held her close, folded into his arm. So why did she feel that overwhelming sense of loneliness?

As Maggie laid her head against his chest she felt the tears hot against her lashes.