A Small Weeping (24 page)

Father Ambrose was a small rotund gentleman dressed in clerical black. His thinning hair showed a well-scrubbed scalp that shone pinkly through wisps of white curls. A cherubic face smiled up at Lorimer’s.

‘Chief Inspector. I’m so glad to meet you,’ Father Ambrose said in a voice as gentle as a girl’s. But the hand that grasped Lorimer’s was firm and strong.

‘Father Ambrose. You rang last night, I believe?’

The priest ducked his head as they walked towards the stairs. ‘Yes. Though I should have contacted you sooner.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows. Ideas of confessionals sprang to his mind. But weren’t those secrets told during the confessional sacrosanct? As he pulled open his door and ushered the little man inside, his head was buzzing with speculation.

‘Some tea, Father?’

‘No thank you. I will be seeing an old friend later this morning. She will be filling me with pots of the stuff, I assure you,’ he smiled, a dimple appearing on his cheek.

‘Well, what can we do for you, sir?’

‘Ah. Now, it’s what I can do for you, Chief Inspector. What I should have done for you months ago, when that poor young woman was killed.’

‘Deirdre McCann?’

The priest nodded sadly. ‘I read about it in the papers. It troubled me greatly at the time but it was not until this latest death that I made myself face some unpleasant facts.’

‘Oh?’ Lorimer leant back slightly, appraising the man. Father Ambrose had folded his hands in front of him as if to begin a discourse. Lorimer waited to hear what he had to say.

‘There was something that happened several years ago, something that I had wished to forget. It’s no excuse, of course, for procrastinating. Indeed, had I acted sooner perhaps these other women might not have been murdered.’ Father Ambrose’s voice dropped to a whisper. He gave a short, resigned sigh and continued. ‘I became a priest and was trained by the Jesuits. I have probably had one of the finest educations in the land, you know,’ he remarked. ‘Anyway, my work took me into teaching for a time and I was responsible for the young men in a novitiate in the Borders.’

‘A novitiate? Is that like a seminary?’

‘No, Chief Inspector. A seminary exists to educate those who wish to become diocesan priests. Rather like students for the Ministry in other denominations.’

‘So what does a novitiate do, exactly?’

‘Well, we have a year of discernment where men, usually young men, learn about the Order. The novices study but also do many tasks around the Parish House.’
Father Ambrose smiled wryly. ‘We like to give them quite menial jobs as a way of testing their resolve.’

Lorimer nodded, encouraging the priest to continue.

‘This is not something we take lightly, Chief Inspector. It is the highest of callings and any novitiate must be suitable as well as serious in their intentions. About fifteen years ago we had a young man who had come from a farming family in Lanarkshire. He was a huge chap, great shoulders on him, hands like hams. He had the physique of a farmer. But Malcolm wanted to join our Order and I was appointed to be his novice master. He was so eager and willing to help and I admit he was of great use around the Parish House when anything of a practical nature was required. That was how he came to help us with the funerals.’ He paused and stared at Lorimer.

‘We were part of a large Parish at that time and our own church was shared with the local parishioners during massive renovation work. Malcolm began by doing the heavy work, lifting coffins, packing away hurdles, that sort of thing. But then he began to take an interest in the laying out of the deceased.’ Father Ambrose tightened his lips in a moue of disapproval. ‘Normally there would be vigil prayers the evening before a funeral and the coffin would be kept overnight in church. One evening, just before leaving, we caught sight of Malcolm placing a flower in the hands of a young woman who had passed away. It was a red carnation.’

Lorimer sat up smartly.

‘It was a nice idea, we thought, and the relatives rather liked it, so it became a habit of Malcolm’s to select a flower for the coffin thereafter. Of course that stopped when he went away.’

‘He left the Order?’

Father Ambrose sighed once more. ‘Not exactly. He was asked to leave. There was an incident,’ he hesitated, his pearly skin flushing. ‘Malcolm was found interfering with a corpse, Chief Inspector.’

‘What exactly do you mean, Father? Interfering in what way?’

‘Normally the coffins were screwed down after vigil prayers and somehow that job always fell to Malcolm.’ The old man wiped a hand across his eyes as if trying to erase a memory. ‘One of the other novices had left something in church and went back for it. That’s when he saw Malcolm.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘He was trying to make love to the corpse.’ The priest’s voice had sunk to a whisper again as if the memory of that shame was too much to bear. ‘We realised then what we had suspected for some time, that he was not quite right. Academically Malcolm was fairly poor and his progress towards the priesthood would always have been in question, but there was more to it than that. I think there may have been some problem. There was talk of behavioural difficulties when he was little. Perhaps I’m trying to find an excuse for what happened, I don’t really know. Anyway, it was a terrible time. We managed to keep it out of the papers but it rocked the whole novitiate. Malcolm was sent home and I left shortly afterwards.’

‘But it wasn’t your fault, surely?’

‘I was responsible for the boys and their welfare, Chief Inspector. My integrity was in question. There was no way I could continue as a novice master,’ the priest replied firmly.

‘So,’ Lorimer began, ‘you think this Malcolm may have had something to do with the murder of Deirdre McCann and the other women?’

‘I do. Although,’ the man hesitated again, ‘I worried about the nurses. I couldn’t see him murdering good people like that. Still, the mind does odd things, isn’t that so? No, it was the killing of the two prostitutes that concerned me.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Malcolm was adopted, Chief Inspector. His parents were farming folk who had no children of their own and they took him in and gave him a good home and a loving upbringing. Perhaps that love was just too giving, in the end. You see, they told Malcolm about his real mother. She had been a prostitute in Glasgow and had given up her baby for adoption. That was the reason Malcolm gave for wanting to enter the priesthood. He had a vocation, he said, to rid the world of that kind of sinfulness. Of course, we took that to mean that he wanted to save their souls.’

‘And now you think he may have been on an entirely different crusade?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me a bit more about this man. Malcolm…?’

‘Malcolm Docherty. There’s not a lot I can tell you. He must be in his late thirties by now. I can give you the address he had in Dumfries,’ he said, handing Lorimer a piece of paper. ‘But I don’t know what became of him after he left us.’

‘And there’s nothing else?’

‘No. Just my feeling, I suppose. Well, more a certainty, really.’ Father Ambrose looked Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I just know that Malcolm is the man you’re looking for.’

It didn’t take long after the priest had left for Lorimer to run a computer check on their existing data. The names and details of all who had been interviewed were listed in a file. Running his eye down the names, Lorimer wondered if Malcolm Docherty, disgraced novice priest, had even kept his own name.

He had. There, amongst the list of railway employees, was one Malcolm Docherty, aged thirty-nine. Lorimer sat back, stunned. They had him! After all his team’s intensive investigating it had been the conscience of one elderly priest that had cracked it for them. Taking a deep breath, Lorimer lifted the phone.

‘Alistair, get the team together. Now. There’s been a development.’

Malcolm was picking up an empty lager can when he saw them approach. His stick froze in his hand as he watched the figures draw closer. There were about five of them, all in uniform, and they were coming down the side of the railway line. His first instinct was to warn them off, they were too close to the rails. But these were no wee school kids shouting names at him as he chased them away from his line. These men walked towards him with a purpose. Malcolm dropped his plastic sack and turned to run. But just as he began the ascent of the embankment he saw two more uniformed figures sliding down the grassy slope towards him.

He raised his stick and charged, yelling at the top of his voice. Suddenly his legs were swept away from him and he felt a sickening thud as his mouth connected with the hard turf. As he stared at the ground and listened to the harsh voice telling him that he was under arrest, all Malcolm
could see were the pale blue speedwells shivering on the grass. He put out his hands and grabbed the tiny flowers, squeezing them tightly in his huge fists, then felt them being wrenched away and cuffed tightly behind his back.

All eyes were on the man as he was led away through the station to the waiting police van. The platforms that had been cleared for this operation were now full of commuters alighting from their trains. Even a press bulb flashed, prompting an officer to throw up an arm as if to protect his prisoner. But there would be plenty of stories told by the passengers held back by the police cordon. Once the news broke, they’d be able to tell how they’d actually witnessed the arrest of the man who’d become known as the Station Strangler.

Solly shook his head as he read the evening headlines,
Killer
of Four Women Caught.
They were wrong of course, just as Superintendent Mark Mitchison was wrong. Malcolm Docherty had not murdered Kirsty MacLeod or Brenda Duncan. Solly’s mouth twisted at the irony of it all. The signature that had identified the man was being used as evidence that he had murdered all four women. And so far Lorimer had not intervened. Mitchison had insisted that he be charged with all four killings. Was Lorimer really doing nothing to prevent this? Somehow he couldn’t imagine the DCI condoning a miscarriage of justice, not to mention the fact that Solly was convinced that a killer was still at large. And Lorimer knew that.

He hadn’t been invited to sit in on the interview. In fact, there had been no communication at all from Strathclyde Police. Perhaps he ought to make it his business to be there all the same, Solly thought, watching as a black cab rolled down Byres Road, its orange light glowing. Making a sudden decision, Solly raised a hand and watched as the
vehicle drew in to the kerb.

There was an atmosphere of jubilation at headquarters when Malcolm Docherty arrived. Lorimer felt guilty that he was about to spoil it. The last months had been a slog for all of them and Docherty’s arrest seemed to be the culmination of all that painstaking effort. He’d called the whole team together once Docherty had been safely conducted to the cells for a medical examination.

Lorimer looked from one smiling face to another. Jo Grant was looking positively smug, as well she might. Even the serious Lewisman had a grin on his pale face, though it wouldn’t be there for long.

‘I’m sorry to spoil the party,’ he began, ‘but there is a development that I want you to be aware of.’

All eyes turned to him and he could see their smiles fading as they heard the gravity in his tone.

‘As you know, Dr Brightman has been attempting to profile our killer. I’m pleased to tell you that Malcolm Docherty fits a profile that has been drawn up.’

There were murmurs of approval but among them Lorimer detected Alistair Wilson, hand on his chin, giving his boss a speculative look. The detective sergeant knew Lorimer well enough to tell when some thing was wrong.

‘However, this profile was developed with some difficulty. Dr Brightman did not find it possible to draw his profile until he came to a conclusion about the murders.’ Lorimer paused to see if he had their attention. There was a kind of hush as all eyes were turned his way.

‘He believes we have not one, but two killers,’ Lorimer told them.

‘But that’s impossible!’ someone exclaimed. ‘What
about the flowers?’ another voice demanded.

‘I know, I know. I’ve been asking myself exactly the same question. There’s a chance, however, that the murders of Kirsty MacLeod and Brenda Duncan have been carried out by a copycat killer. Until we interview Docherty, we can’t be certain of this, of course. It may well be that he confesses to all four murders. If so, we can open a few bottles and go home. And no one would be happier than me, I can assure you,’ he added. ‘However,’ he raised his hand to quell the murmurs that had broken out, ‘If we have no real evidence to link Docherty with those other two deaths, we may have to consider something else.’ Lorimer took a deep breath before continuing. ‘If Dr Brightman is correct then we have a real problem on our hands. It would mean that information has been leaked from somebody on the team. Now, I don’t have to tell you about security during an investigation. You all know how things operate. But the fact remains that the killer of those two nurses knew exactly how Deirdre McCann’s hands were folded around that flower. The Press got that aspect wrong and we weren’t about to correct them, I can tell you. So. Whoever killed Kirsty and Brenda had to have seen an incident report.’

‘Or been the same killer!’ Jo Grant declared, a mutinous look on her face. Lorimer’s heart sank. Jo had been one of Mitchison’s sidekicks in the past. Would she make trouble for him now?

‘That’s right,’ he told her. ‘But we have to prove that, ladies and gentlemen. I wanted you to be aware of this before I have Docherty up for questioning. If any of you have been guilty of a breach of security then now’s the time to tell me. Otherwise we may have to turn this place
upside down.’

‘Superintendent Mitchison does not share Dr Bright man’s theories, I might add,’ he said, looking deliberately at Jo. But the DI showed no triumph at his remark. In fact, she was frowning now and Lorimer wondered just what she was thinking. ‘I’ll have a copy of Docherty’s statement circulated to all of you as soon as it’s available. Let’s just hope he tells us what we want to hear.’

Lorimer took his detective sergeant aside as the other officers departed. ‘I want you downstairs with me when Docherty’s brought up,’ he told him. ‘We’ll not have his DNA results for a bit and they may prove crucial. Meantime he’s in for a grilling.’

‘You really believe Brightman’s theory, don’t you?’ Wilson asked, a rueful smile on his lips.

Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye, more’s the pity. It just makes so much sense, you know. The logic of it all hangs together apart from anything else.’

‘And has he come up with a profile for killer number two yet?’

‘I think he’s still working on that. But I’ll let you know.
If
Mitchison lets him carry on, of course.’

‘Any chance that the Super will halt the investigation?’

‘Don’t even ask me that yet. Wait till we’ve heard what Docherty has to say.’

It was a different figure from the man they’d seen escorted between two burly police officers. Malcolm Docherty’s shoulders were slumped and his head hung down as if a weight drew it earthwards. The police doctor handed
Lorimer a file, nodding towards the prisoner seated at the table.

‘No problems, Chief Inspector. We’ll let you know the results ASAP OK?’

‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied and walked around the table to face Malcolm Docherty. The man did not look up as Lorimer stood at the table, nor did he flinch when the DCI scraped a metal chair across the floor, its grating squeal setting everyone’s teeth on edge. At first Lorimer simply stood there appraising the prisoner. His mind flicked back to the January night when this case had begun. The swirling fog had cleared away now and he felt a weird sense of peace in the interview room. Euphoria had given way to calmness now that the man was finally here in front of him.

One glance at his feet made the line on Lorimer’s mouth tighten. This man’s shoes were size twelve, at the very least.

Alistair Wilson waited patiently out of Docherty’s line of vision. His boss would begin whenever he was good and ready. At last Docherty looked up as if some magnetism stronger than his own will was forcing him to acknowledge Lorimer’s presence. Lorimer sat down, Wilson beside him.

‘Interview with Malcolm James Docherty beginning at 15.00 hours. June sixth. Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer and Detective Sergeant Wilson in attendance,’ Lorimer began in a voice that sounded utterly bored by what he had to do. It was a useful ploy. It made a suspect feel both inferior and at ease, often resulting in a sense of outrage.
How dare this cop treat me as if I were some unimportant
part of his daily grind?

Docherty’s eyes gave a glitter that told the two policemen that the ruse had worked.

‘You are Malcolm James Docherty of 19 Peninsula Crescent, Springburn?’

Docherty glared at Lorimer then shifted his eyes to take in Wilson who nodded encouragingly. ‘Aye,’ he said at last.

‘Where were you on the night of January 12th this year?’

Docherty licked his lips nervously, eyes shifting from Lorimer to Wilson and back again. His silence was not unusual. Many suspects were at a loss how to begin answering questions in an interview room, especially those who had no previous experience of the situation. Lorimer waited as if he had all day. If Docherty stalled too long, he’d simply pick up the Gazette and begin to read bits out to Alistair Wilson about last night’s football results. That was another ploy that got under their skin, he knew.

But he hadn’t long to wait. Docherty sat up a bit straighter and looked at Lorimer.

‘It’s my work,’ he began.

Lorimer nodded encouragingly, but not too eagerly. He’d make Docherty do the talking if he could.

‘You see, I clean up the railways.’ He paused, uncertain of how to continue. ‘There’s a lot of rubbish everywhere. Everywhere,’ he added, a dreamy look appearing in his eye.

Lorimer tried hard to sit still although his impulse was to lean forward to catch any nuance of speech.

‘I was
asked
to do these other jobs,’ he told Lorimer, a note of querulousness creeping into his tone.

‘What other jobs?’ Lorimer asked.

Docherty looked surprised. ‘Clearing up the station. Those women can’t come in and do things there,’ he protested, sitting up in his chair with an air of righteous indignation.

‘What women?’

Docherty bent across the desk and glared at Lorimer as if he were stupid. ‘Prostitutes,’ he hissed, his teeth showing in a grimace of hatred.

‘What method did you use to clear these women from your station, Malcolm?’

‘I put them down.’

‘Could you describe exactly what you did, Malcolm?’

Docherty hesitated as if he were trying to find the correct answer then he moved his hands up and clasped them together as if they were round an invisible throat.

‘Like this,’ he said.

‘You strangled them?’

Docherty nodded.

Lorimer swallowed hard. His next question was crucial. Trying to sound as if this was a normal conversation he asked, ‘How many women have you strangled, Malcolm?’

The sound of Docherty’s feet shuffling under the table could be heard as Lorimer waited for the answer.

‘Just two,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lorimer took a deep breath, suddenly understanding what the man was apologising for. It was not contrition about taking lives. It was that he’d only taken two of them.

‘Are you sure it was only two?’

Docherty nodded sadly. ‘Aye. Two prostitutes, they were.’

‘Tell me what you did after you’d strangled them, Malcolm.’

The man seemed to brighten up a little at the question. ‘Oh, I sent them on their way. I gave them a flower and let their hands do a prayer. I said a prayer too. They’re quite safe now, you see. They’ll not harm anything ever again.’

Beside him Lorimer could feel Wilson shift uneasily in his seat. They had a right one here and no mistake.

‘Did you give a flower to any other young women recently, Malcolm?’

‘No. Just those two. It’s not my fault,’ he told them, round-eyed. ‘I didn’t get any other orders.’

‘You said earlier that you were told to do these clearing up jobs, as you put it. Who exactly was it who told you to kill these women, Malcolm?’

Docherty gave a smile. ‘God.’

Lorimer nodded as if this was something he heard every day in the course of his investigations.

‘And how did God make his instructions clear, Malcolm?’

‘He talked to me. He showed me the flowers.
His
flowers. They’re perfect, you know. All His creation is perfect. But
they
weren’t perfect. They had to be cleared away. Like the rubbish.’

A nutter, Lorimer thought. A twelve carat nutter. Voices in the head from God. Sometimes they actually heard them from the television. That kind of mental illness wasn’t really so uncommon. But had he had anything to do with the killing of the two nurses? Lorimer had to ask.

‘Where were you on the nights of May 7th and May 14th?’

Docherty shook his head. ‘I don’t know. What days
were they? I work during the day. But I don’t go out much at night.’

Lorimer told him.

‘No, I’d be at home. I watch TV at night then go to my bed. Sometimes I go out for a fish supper. Can’t remember, really.’ He shrugged as if the dates were of no importance to him.

‘Two nurses were killed on those dates. They were strangled and somebody left a flower in their praying hands, Malcolm. Just like you did.’

‘What?’ Docherty suddenly sat up, a horrified look on his face. ‘But that’s terrible! Who’d do a thing like that?’ The man’s expression was almost comical, thought Lorimer, one serial strangler condemning another. But then his expression changed as the awfulness of the news sank in.

‘You don’t think…? No. Oh, just a minute, hold on now,’ Docherty rose from his seat, fists clenched, his face a mask of fear.

‘Mr Docherty has got up from his seat,’ Wilson intoned into the listening tape.

His words seemed to calm the man for he sank back down, a look of horror still on his face.

‘Do you deny strangling Kirsty MacLeod and Brenda Duncan?’

‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘I never killed them!’

Lorimer believed him. But would Mitchison expect him to grind the man down in order to elicit a confession from him? If so, he’d be sadly disappointed. That wasn’t Lorimer’s way. The DNA results might confirm what they were hearing and what Solly had suggested. For a moment Lorimer wished that he could have the psychologist here
with them. He might know how to tune in to Malcolm Docherty in a way that would prove his innocence as well as his guilt.

A tap on the door made all three men and the uniformed officer turn round. DC Cameron’s face appeared, signalling for Lorimer to join him outside.

‘DCI Lorimer leaving the interview room.’

Lorimer stopped in his tracks. Beside Cameron was the familiar figure of the psychologist. It was as if his wish had suddenly spirited Solly there. Was the man psychic as well as everything else?

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wasn’t asked to come in, if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to be here,’ he explained with his usual little smile.

‘Well. I’m not sorry you did,’ Lorimer told him. ‘We’re in the middle of interviewing the suspect. He’s already confessed to the two station murders but says he knows nothing about the other two.’

‘And you believe him,’ Solly said. It wasn’t a question. He could see his answer in Lorimer’s face.