Never Somewhere Else (22 page)

George Phillips gave a brief nod and, as Lorimer shot out of his office, added, ‘And I suppose you want it done by yesterday.’ But he was already speaking to a closed door.

Back in his own room, Lorimer stared at the aerial photograph on his wall. The trees and shrubs of St Mungo’s Park looked so tranquil from that angle. Even the surrounding high-rise flats didn’t seem such an eyesore. The red circles disturbed the picture, however. Lorimer saw beyond them to other scenes; the carnage in Janet Yarwood’s home and the smell of burnt grass out at Strathblane where Valentine Carruthers had been so cruelly torched. A paedophile? Did the gross brutality of the killer fit in with this sort of crime? Lorimer thought of Solomon and picked up the phone.

To Solomon, Lorimer’s news wasn’t entirely unexpected. His own profile of the killer was not so much altered as more clearly in focus. That the man was a loner, he had never had any doubts. Loneliness often led to some striving for love and affection.

The less well-adapted members of society didn’t cope with normal relationships. Paedophiles were usually, though not always, people seeking a mixture of power and affection. Some of them delighted in bizarre acts of violence. No, Solomon wasn’t surprised at all.

A
white man in his early thirties, reasonably articulate, almost certainly employed in a profession, maybe self-employed. A man who would appear decent and normal to his work colleagues, no doubt. Someone who even convinced himself in one half of his sick mind that he was an upright citizen. The phonetic analysis of the accent pointed to a local person. Someone on his home territory. And the mutilation? Even here the deliberate signature gave something away, like a footprint on the path as the hunter knelt to leave his false spoor. Solomon believed that there had been some trauma in his past to do with a woman. His taking of the scalps was not such an unusual way for killers to behave if they were subconsciously destroying someone. Perhaps a mother who had damaged them in some way? In fact, there was a possibility that the man they sought had a physical as well as an emotional scar. Solomon could read and understand the pattern of behaviour without in any way condoning it.

Now, as he typed in a few more details to the profile, he had a sudden thought. The missing back-up disk included this file. He sat back, colour draining from his face. If his intruder was indeed the killer, was he now in a position to double-bluff them? Or would the fact that so much of his personality was revealed tip him over the edge? Solomon switched on the printer, his fingers shaking. He realised for the first time why he had not been killed that night. The hunter wanted him alive. He needed Solomon to be there, to have someone skilled in appreciating this game of … what was it? Hide and seek?

But
what if he tired of the game and was never caught? Solomon had a fleeting vision of Rosie Fergusson, her bright hair tied back from her laughing face.

It might indeed have been his corpse on her slab.

L
orimer
had asked Solomon to come with them. Normally two of his experienced officers would have made the visit but Lorimer wanted to see Solomon’s reaction to the Yarwood family.

A lot hinged on this visit. So far they had drawn a blank about the missing pictures in the dead woman’s flat. He’d been a fool to think it would be so easy. Questioning her colleagues at the Postgraduate Centre had only revealed what a recluse the woman had been. Not exactly friendless but nobody had ever been in her flat. Lorimer was sure that that had not applied to Lucy Haining. But Lucy was dead. The neighbours had seen Janet coming and going but that was all. There had been no socialising there, either, and certainly no visits to the flat.

The School of Art’s director had been marvellous, putting up with the disruption of officers questioning so many students. It had to be done, he realised, but the man’s calm acceptance of the situation had impressed Lorimer. Nobody had recognised the person behind the photofit, though.

These thoughts flitted through Lorimer’s mind as his blue eyes stared over the hedgerows skimming past them. Annie Irvine was driving to the house that Mrs Yarwood shared with her daughter. Her only daughter, now.

The
car had swept into the countryside leaving the Glasgow suburbs behind and now they were slowing down through the conservation village of Eaglesham.

Lorimer craned his neck to see if they were still there. Yes. The playing fields where he’d played the occasional game of football stretched to his left. It had been a terrible pitch, all lumps and tussocks, even for a rugby player like himself.

They were through the village now. Lorimer glanced behind at their passenger. The psychologist’s eyes seemed glued to the passing countryside, his customary smile playing around his lips. What is he really seeing, though? the Chief Inspector wondered.

‘That’s it up there, sir.’

Annie Irvine nodded in the direction of a cottage set against the hillside, then turned the car into a narrow track.

‘The Yarwoods?’ Solomon leaned forward as far as his seat belt would allow.

‘Believe in keeping themselves to themselves.’ Lorimer remarked as the car came to a halt.

The cottage was old. Deep-set windows told of thick walls built more than a century before. The dull grey roughcast was made even gloomier by the deep overhang of the slate roof. There was no garden to speak of, just a flat area of rough grass on two sides and a few gnarled oaks behind the house.

‘Well, there’s a washing out, anyway,’ said Annie Irvine, pointing to a row of sheets billowing on the line to the side of the cottage.

‘They’ll be in all right. They know to expect us.’

Lorimer
knocked on the cottage door, noting that it was painted in the same drab grey as the walls. The door opened a fraction and Lorimer could see the security chain in place.

‘DCI Lorimer. Mrs Yarwood?’

He was aware of a thin face and a pair of gimlet eyes staring hard at them.

‘Show me your identification.’

Lorimer had in fact held out his warrant card but now he and Annie passed them to the woman. Her out-stretched claw drew them in and he could see her bent head in the shadows scrutinising them. They were thrust back suddenly and the chain fell with a dull clunk. As the door opened wider, Lorimer raised his hand to indicate his bearded companion.

‘Dr Brightman from Glasgow University. He is working with us.’

As the woman stared at him the psychologist was sharply reminded of Janet Yarwood. It was the same face, grim and unsmiling.

They were ushered into a dingy room which, from the look of it, was seldom used. Lorimer wondered if young Annie had come across the old-fashioned habit of keeping a ‘front room’ for visitors. He doubted it.

‘Take a seat.’

Mrs Yarwood motioned Lorimer towards a dark mauve armchair. A thin layer of dust arose as he sat on the moquette. The whole place smelled of dust and damp. Even the creamy anti-macassars were spotted with rust marks. Solomon seated himself on an upright chair by the window, facing the parlour door. Annie stood beside him, glancing at Lorimer.

‘She’ll
be down in a minute.’

The woman sat upright on the edge of the settee, hands clasped in her lap. Her wispy white hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, accentuating the thin, sharp features. The door opened and both men rose to their feet as Janet Yarwood’s sister strode in. Solomon tried not to reveal his astonishment as he quickly glanced from the young woman to the detective. Lorimer’s face gave nothing away.

‘Miss Yarwood? DCI Lorimer.’

The hand was taken and pumped up and down vigorously. It was hard to assess her age, thought Lorimer. She was a thick-set female with bright red hair tied back in a single plait. Her black dress covered a bulky figure that was utterly lacking in femininity.

As she grinned at them all, her expression was that of a greedy child rather than a grown woman. The detective caught himself wondering about her provenance. Was Mr Yarwood a large red-haired man?

‘I understand Mr Yarwood is not at home?’ Lorimer asked.

‘No.
Mister
Yarwood doesn’t live here any longer!’

Mrs Yarwood spat the words out as if the mention of her husband’s name caused a bad taste. Janet’s sister had sat next to her mother, a crafty smile on her childish face.

‘Daddy was bad. He went away!’

‘That’s enough, Norma.’

Mrs Yarwood’s rebuke failed to change her daughter’s expression.

‘I can give you his address,’ the woman offered reluctantly.

‘Yes. Thank
you. We will need to talk to him.’

‘Did he do her in?’

The girl bounced up and down eagerly.

‘Norma, be quiet, or you’ll go to your room.’ Mrs Yarwood turned to Lorimer. ‘I’m sorry. Norma’s not quite herself these days.’

‘Do you mind answering some questions about Janet?’ the detective asked.

‘Not at all.’

The woman’s indifference struck them all. She might have been discussing the weather.

‘When did you last visit your daughter?’

The ramrod back didn’t budge although Lorimer noticed a tightening of her jaw.

‘We were only there twice. Once when she had just moved away.’

‘And the other?’

‘She was ill.’ Mrs Yarwood’s stiff lips began to tremble. ‘I made her some soup.’ Her mouth closed in a tight line and Lorimer could see the struggle to suppress any emotion.

‘Didn’t you want to see your daughter more often?’

‘This is a Godly house, Chief Inspector. I wasn’t going to take Norma into a place like that!’

‘A place like what, Mrs Yarwood?’ Lorimer’s question was smooth as steel.

‘A den of iniquity! All these terrible pictures everywhere! All the terrible goings on in that – Art School! And see where it all led to? I told her. I told her she’d come to a bad end!’

‘Bad end,’ echoed Norma, a silly smile still fixed on her face.

‘Perhaps
you remember the pictures?’

‘Why should I remember them? A product of Satan, that’s what they were. No graven images were ever allowed in this house. She never got those ideas from me. She had a good and Godly upbringing here.’

‘Did you ever meet any of Janet’s friends?’

‘No.’ The word was spoken quietly now, her outburst suddenly over.

‘Did Janet often come back here?’

The woman shook her head silently, a look of hatred in her eyes. Was her wrath directed against her dead daughter? Lorimer wondered.

‘May I ask a question, Mrs Yarwood?’ Solomon cocked his head to the side in a gesture of deference. ‘Did you get on well with Janet?’ For a moment the woman looked as though she didn’t understand the question so Solomon continued, ‘Were you friends?’

‘I was her
mother
.’

Solomon nodded as if she had told him a great deal in that one answer. Lorimer rose to his feet.

‘I’m sorry to take up your time, ladies. Perhaps if I could have Mr Yarwood’s address?’

Lorimer ignored Annie’s puzzled look. He had that information already but he wanted to see the woman’s reaction to the question. Mrs Yarwood stood up, hesitated for a moment, then walked out without a word. Norma sat on, her chubby hands plucking at the voluminous folds of her skirt.

‘What about you, Norma?’ Lorimer whispered conspiratorially, once her mother was out of earshot. ‘Was Janet your friend?’

Norma
nodded solemnly, the pigtail jerking up and down behind her.

‘Janet’s gone to the bad fire,’ she whispered back, one hand cupped against her mouth.

At that moment Mrs Yarwood returned and handed Lorimer a piece of paper.

‘Thank you. I may have to contact you again, I’m afraid.’

The woman shrugged slightly then led the way to the front door.

As they filed out, Lorimer looked around the room, mentally contrasting it to the city flat Janet Yarwood had chosen for her home. There were no pictures here, no photographs anywhere at all. There was just one decoration on the wall: a text with the words ‘God is Love’ embroidered in painstaking detail. Lorimer gave an involuntary shudder and quickened his steps to join the others out in the fresh air.

Nobody spoke until the car drew away from the cottage.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘You wouldn’t need a psychology degree to work out why Janet Yarwood left home!’ Then, realising her gaffe, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Oops! Sorry. No offence, Dr Brightman.’

Lorimer looked away, trying to hide his smile. ‘None taken. And you’re right. I only wonder what took her so long to make the break.’

‘And I don’t blame the husband either,’ Annie went on, warming to her theme. ‘She’s not exactly a barrel of laughs to come home to, is she?’

Lorimer didn’t answer, keeping his face turned towards the fields all around them as the car turned onto the main road and headed back to Glasgow. Things weren’t always as simple as his young WPC made out. He was interested now to meet Janet Yarwood’s father. Would he have been closer to his elder daughter?

Norman Yarwood
was a stocky man in his early sixties. The red hair that Lorimer had expected was peppered with grey and thinning on top. His florid complexion was either high blood pressure or too much booze, thought Lorimer. His black suit had seen better days and was shiny along the sleeves. Despite the chilly day, the man was perspiring freely and had already taken out a white handkerchief to mop his brow.

Lorimer and Solomon had arrived at Yarwood’s address shortly after their visit to his former home. Now the man was reduced to a rented room in one of the old Pollokshaws tenements. His landlady, Mrs Singh, had been none too pleased to see Lorimer’s warrant card, pursing her lips in disapproval as she showed the two men to her lodger’s room.

‘I couldn’t believe it when they told me,’ Norman Yarwood began. ‘I still can’t.’

He sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, twisting the handkerchief between his large red fists.

‘I mean, who’d want to do something like that to Jan?’

Lorimer was seated on the only chair and Solomon stood motionless by the end of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him. Lorimer was reminded of a Rabbi come to pay his respects.