Never Somewhere Else (17 page)

Solomon
gazed up at the clouds scudding across the blue spring sky and had the sudden impression that the chimneys and pillared gables were soaring through space. His gaze drifted back to the house and wandered along the front, searching for the entrance.

Janet Yarwood was waiting for him just inside the café door. She looked much older than he had expected. Her clothes sagged awkwardly on a thin frame and the psychologist was absurdly reminded of a moulting bird with its neck feathers missing. She came towards him, unsmiling, and thrust out a skinny arm.

‘Dr Brightman.’

‘Yes, hello. Miss Yarwood?’

‘Ms.’

She gestured that he should follow her and led the way out of the reception area and through a white door.

Solomon stared about him as he was ushered up to the Postgraduate Centre that was part of the School of Art but located away from the city centre and housed on the upper floor of this building. He noted the familiar Mackintosh features all around him. What would the celebrated architect, who had died in such poverty, have made of all this? Watching Janet Yarwood’s thin ankles disappearing up the stairs ahead brought Solomon back to the matter in hand. At last he was shown into a brightly lit office. Sweeping his glance over the partitioned desks and pinboards that were cluttered with notes and cartoon drawings, he realised it was used by several of the students, not just Ms Yarwood.

‘Please
sit down.’

The woman dragged a chrome and blue swivel chair from under a desk and Solomon sat. She pulled another from the empty desk opposite and perched on it, nervously rubbing her fingers as if they itched. Solomon smiled politely, wondering if he wanted to put her at her ease or not. Her agitation at his visit was understandable yet there was more than normal tension here.

‘It isn’t easy for you to be asked questions again, is it?’

His voice was gentle and reassuring but the restless fingers were scratching her face now and the small bird’s eyes never left his gaze.

‘What do you want to know?’ The words were rapped out harshly.

Solomon wanted to say
Tell me about Lucy
but he held back the question that seemed to shout aloud into the room.

‘Perhaps we could have some tea?’ he suggested gently.

Janet
Yarwood’s mouth fell open in surprise, then, without a word, she slipped off the chair and fetched the kettle that Solly had spotted amongst the discarded mugs beside a filing cabinet. She continued to stare at him with undisguised hostility as he smiled serenely in her direction. At last her head turned away as she prepared the tea, banging the mugs loudly on the metal surface. The psychologist studied the grey hair cropped severely above a scrawny neck. He knew from Lorimer that she was a mature student in her late twenties, but a stranger would have assumed her to be at least forty, he thought. Her blue jeans, which were several sizes too large, were secured by a thick leather belt, and the baggy t-shirt served only to emphasise her lack of chest and stick-like arms.

‘There.’

The mug was put in front of him so violently that the tea slopped onto the varnished desk. Janet Yarwood stared at the pool of liquid helplessly. It was as if the act of bringing the tea had finally used up her reserves of energy and she could do no more. Solomon mopped up the spill with a hanky then took a sip of the sugarless tea.

‘She was very special, wasn’t she?’

The gentle voice and the question were too much for the woman and she began to sob; harsh, racking sobs that made her thin shoulders heave. Solomon watched as she clutched the edge of the chair. He had seen grief like this before in mothers who had lost a child. He waited until the sobs subsided, until Janet Yarwood gave a shuddering sigh and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He sipped the tea again and this time it was a command rather than a question.

‘Tell me about Lucy.’

The night sky was broken with fast-flying clouds and the silhouettes of starkly bare trees whipping this way and that. Against the sodium glow from the city, their curving branches were like dancers’ arms, swaying in some frenzied Highland fling. Solomon rarely closed his curtains in the bay-windowed living room, preferring to look down over the park at the city lights twinkling in the distance. That evening, however, contemplation of the skyline had given way to the mess of notes scattered around his feet. Lucy Haining, Janet Yarwood, the killer seen by Alison Girdley … pieces of an indeterminate jigsaw puzzle were nevertheless beginning to take on some shape and form.

Janet’s
revelations were now committed to paper: both what she had told the psychologist and what she had so patently failed to say. As Solomon was bent over his word processor the door buzzer sounded.

‘Yes?’

‘William Lorimer.’

‘Oh, right, just come up.’

Solomon activated the button releasing the main door of the close then went across to the window, looking down to the street below. There was nobody there. Evidently Lorimer was already on his way up the three flights of stone stairs. Solomon padded barefoot through to his front door, his dressing gown flapping against his legs. He unlocked the door, letting it swing open, then turned back to the kitchen, ready to play host to his unexpected visitor. He had filled the kettle jug and switched it on when he heard the footsteps in the landing.

‘I’m here,’ he called out, opening a wall cupboard and rummaging for some chocolate biscuits that he kept for such occasions.

Afterwards, talking to Lorimer, Solomon could not recall exactly what had happened. He had had the impression of a shadow rising on the wall to his left and, as he turned to greet his visitor, the shadow had engulfed him.

His
neighbour across the landing, seeing the open door later that evening, had called out then come in anxiously, finding poor Dr Brightman sprawled on his kitchen floor. Ambulance and police car had arrived in rapid succession and, in the dark hours long before dawn, Lorimer had been alerted to the incident.

‘It’s Solly. He’s been attacked,’ he told Maggie briefly, already reaching for his clothes.

For several hours Lorimer sat looking grimly at the pale face of his fellow-investigator. A blow to the head had caused concussion but the medical staff assured him that there was no serious damage. The constable who had taken a statement from Solly’s neighbour had called in to brief the Chief Inspector on the incident. The psychologist’s home had been ransacked but until he regained consciousness no one could tell if anything of value had been taken. Certainly the usual hardware prey to the average burglar was still in place.

At last the thick dark eyelashes fluttered and Solly stared at the figure seated beside him.

‘What happened?’

His voice came out in a whisper, the glazed look in his brown eyes showing that he was still some distance away from reality.

‘Some bugger whacked you over the head.’

Solly stared blankly, the words apparently not registering, then he turned his head slightly and groaned as the pain thudded through his skull.

‘But it was you!’

Lorimer
smiled indulgently, shaking his head. The poor fellow was still confused.

‘I’ll fetch the nurse.’

Lorimer rose to go but Solomon tried to raise his head from the banks of pillows.

‘No. Wait.’ His voice, though weak, held a note of urgency. ‘You came to my flat tonight. You spoke on the intercom.’

Lorimer stiffened. This was not the rambling of concussion. The psychologist’s eyes were fixed on him now, waiting for an answer. Lorimer sat down again.

‘I’ve been at home, my friend. A rare occurrence, my long-suffering wife would tell you.’ He paused. ‘Whoever came to visit you tonight, it wasn’t me.’

‘But he said …’ Solomon trailed off, trying to clear the fog in his brain. ‘He said William Lorimer.’

‘Then it certainly wasn’t me. I only use my Sunday name in court.’

A light dawned in Solly’s eyes and Lorimer noted the sudden tension in his face muscles.

‘Then who?’

‘I hate to think,’ replied Lorimer. ‘But once you’re fit to go home you can go through your things and see if there’s anything missing.’

‘Did he make much mess?’

‘Afraid so. Oh, nothing disgusting, thank God. Just pulled stuff out of drawers and dumped it. Seems he was looking for something.’ Lorimer looked at the white-faced figure under the covers and his eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘What can you remember about your own movements during the evening?’

‘I had
supper, soaked in a hot bath, then sat down to type up my notes.’

‘Did you have handwritten notes, then?’

‘Some. The rest are in here, I’m afraid.’ His grin was weak as he indicated his sore head.

‘Did you have any phone calls, or any other visitors?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘Sorry. Yes, there was one call but it rang off when I answered.’ He looked up at Lorimer as they both drew the same conclusion. ‘Not a wrong number?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘I doubt it. How long after that call did it take for the doorbell to ring?’

Solly shut his eyes as if the effort of thinking hurt his head.

‘Sorry. I don’t have a clue.’

‘Okay. We’ll just assume for the present that you had a visit from an intruder. It may have nothing at all to do with the case. On the other hand,’ his blue eyes blazed with a light that made Solomon shiver, ‘it could be that we’re closer than we know to some guy who prefers female scalps.’

‘If it was … Why didn’t he kill me?’

‘Perhaps he thinks he has.’

Solly settled back on his pillows, exhausted.

‘I think I really will fetch that nurse now,’ Lorimer said softly and slipped quietly from the darkened room.

Alone with his whirling thoughts, Solly tried to remember. But all he could see was a giant shadow on the wall: a shadow with no substance.

Twenty-four hours later Lorimer, accompanied by his wife and Solomon, drew up outside the psychologist’s flat. Maggie had insisted on coming with him to the hospital.

‘He’s
on his own, poor soul, and someone has to give him a hand.’

She had warmed to the younger man from the first, her woman’s sympathy bridging the gap of any possible strangeness. Solomon, a lifetime of Jewish mothering behind him, accepted Maggie taking charge without demur.

They had driven in silence, apart from asking the necessary directions to Solomon’s house in Park Circus, out of respect for his still throbbing head. Lorimer looked up at the graceful Victorian buildings then at the vista beyond and gave a low whistle.

‘Some view you’ve got here!’

Even from street level the panorama of the city was exceptional. Solly managed a weak grin.

‘Even better from upstairs.’

‘Top floor?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Maggie broke in. ‘I need the exercise. Been sitting all day.’

Eventually they stood at Solly’s front door. Maggie and Lorimer exchanged glances as they noticed how the psychologist’s hand shook as he turned the key. Lorimer hadn’t exaggerated about the mess. A snowstorm of papers littered the living room carpet; desk drawers lay upturned on the floor. Even the bookshelves had been emptied, their contents now a jumbled heap.

Maggie’s face fell at the shambles but ‘Tea?’ she asked aloud, with a brightness in her voice that Lorimer was sure she did not feel. Solly responded with a grateful smile.

‘Camomile, perhaps?’

‘Just ordinary tea for me,’ Lorimer butted in.

‘You’ll
find everything in the kitchen.’

‘Right-o.’

Left to themselves, the two men surveyed the room, wondering where to begin.

‘Is there any reason for this other than the Lucy Haining case?’

Lorimer clasped his hands and leaned forward, trying to read Solomon’s expression. The younger man sat staring impassively at the swirl of papers on the carpet. Lorimer waited. He had realised during his visits to the hospital just how little he knew about the young Jewish psychologist. His home and family background had been of no interest whatsoever until Maggie, with her woman’s instinct, had asked all the pertinent questions. He hadn’t even known if the fellow was married or not, for heaven’s sake. Now a dozen thoughts whirled around the policeman’s head.

Solomon sat back in the sagging armchair and sighed a small sigh.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said at last. ‘I rather wish there were.’

‘No jealous lovers or belligerent students with a grudge?’

Lorimer’s tone was deliberately light and the young man smiled as he shook his head.

‘The students like me, it seems and, alas, there are no beautiful women in my life to be fought over.’

‘Well, there should be! I can’t imagine why they’re not queuing up at your door!’

Maggie set down a tray on the desk.

‘Thank you for these kind words, Mrs Lorimer.’

Solomon’s tone was self-deprecating though he smiled his sweet, boyish smile and Lorimer saw for the first time what his wife had seen immediately. Solomon Brightman was indeed a striking man, his pale face, dark beard and bushy hair at once exotic and intriguing.

Lorimer
took the mug of tea from his wife and sipped before continuing with his questions.

‘Can you think of anything you had in here last night that someone might have wanted?’

‘Someone who knew we were working together. And someone who wanted me to think they were you,’ added Solomon, thoughtfully.

‘Right.’

‘I visited Lucy Haining’s tutor at the Postgraduate Centre,’ Solomon began slowly, his hands warming around the ceramic mug. ‘She gave me certain information that I was going to pass on to you today. Or was it yesterday? I’m afraid I’m rather losing track of time.’

He paused. Maggie was trying to catch her husband’s eye but failed, her gaze wandering back instead to the young man whose brown eyes still seemed fixed on a pattern on the carpet.

‘Janet Yarwood is not quite what she seems. Her statement described her as a fellow student of the victim but she’s a postgrad Art student, in fact. Specialises in life drawing and portraiture. She was’ – he paused once more then continued as if deliberately choosing his words – ‘a friend of Lucy’s. One of her tutors in her final year. It seems that Lucy had been helped to set up a children’s life-drawing class by this woman in order to make a bit of extra cash. Ms Yarwood apparently took a special interest in her.’