Never Somewhere Else (24 page)

For someone who had been anxious to speak to Lorimer so recently, Martin Enderby now seemed to be playing hard-to-get. No, he wasn’t at his desk, the young man at the
Gazette
told the Chief Inspector. Sorry, there wasn’t any note in today’s diary to indicate where the reporter had gone. Did the Chief Inspector have his home phone number? Oh. Tried it already. Well, what about the Press Bar? The pleasant young male voice should have been reassuring but Lorimer’s disquiet was intensifying. Okay, so a news reporter wasn’t expected to be chained to his computer screen. Nevertheless, Lorimer had the feeling that Martin Enderby might be deliberately slipping out of his grasp.

A fruitless
series of calls left WPC Annie Irvine scuttling down the corridor, her boss’s wrath plainly heard from his open door.

‘I want him in here
now
! And when he gets here
I
want to speak to him!’

Some time later, warrant tucked safely in his jacket pocket, Alistair Wilson led Solly down the back stairway that led to the yard, Lorimer’s voice still ringing in their ears. As they hurried down, Alistair punched the swing doors aggressively. Solly glanced at the detective but his expression gave nothing away.

In the back of the Vauxhall Solly had the feeling that he was the criminal, seated as he was behind two police officers, Wilson and young Cameron, the new Detective Constable. This uncomfortable feeling was compounded by one of impending disaster. Instinctively he felt that Lorimer was haring off into yet another tangled thicket. And yet … how beguiling that Enderby should actually live in St Mungo’s Heights. Did his flat face the park? Solly wondered.

Red lights stopped them at Charing Cross and the constable revved the engine. Wilson raised his eyes to heaven, turned and winked at Solly, a conspiratorial comment on the impatience of the young man behind the wheel. Solly tried to grin back but only managed a rueful smile. Then they were off again, the tyres squealing as the car shot forward.

Solly looked around him at the familiar landmarks as they passed by. He recognised an Asian restaurant he had visited, housed in what had once been a cinema. There was the Kelvin Hall, the Art Galleries, the Western Infirmary and now the car was swinging round towards the gates of St Mungo’s Park. Solly raised his eyebrows briefly. The driver was clearly going to take a short cut through the park itself, despite the 20 mph limit. At once the tall blocks of St Mungo’s Heights came into view and two pairs of eyes sought to calculate the seventh storey.

When the
car screeched to a halt Solly was thrown forward on to his seat belt.

‘Really, Constable!’ Wilson remarked dryly, causing the youngster to colour up.

The security door only gave numbers and positions of the flats, not names, so Wilson pressed both 7L and 7R but there was no response from either. Systematically he tried the buttons for each level until he met with a response.

‘Police.’

The one word provoked the deep croak of the buzzer releasing the door lock, then the three men pushed their way into the darkened hallway. It smelled of dampness but was free of the graffiti that so often decorated the walls of high-rise lobbies. The grey metal lift door shuddered open and they ascended noiselessly to the seventh floor.

Martin Enderby’s front door was nondescript wood veneer with no glazing. A single Yale lock and a spyhole were the journalist’s only security measures, apparently.

Wilson shook his head as the younger officer turned his shoulder suggestively towards the door.

‘A wee bit of finesse, lad, if you please. It goes with the search warrant.’

The ‘lad’
stepped aside and Wilson drew something from an inside pocket and began to fiddle with the lock. Neither Solly nor the constable saw how it happened but there was a faint click and the door swung gently open.

At first Solly was sharply reminded of his return from hospital to the sight of his own ransacked home. Papers, books and clothes were strewn haphazardly around every room. The bedclothes lay in a heap and there were dirty dishes on any available surface as well as the floor. Cupboard doors hung open, revealing the journalist’s wardrobe, and CD cases seemed to be breeding in every corner.

The lounge was slightly better. At least here most of the books were on shelves or stacked in piles. Solly moved to the window, sure what he would see.

Below him the road wound like a grey worm through the park. Miniature people and dogs were dotted over the grass, along pathways and disappearing behind clumps of laurel bushes and copses of huge dark firs. A flock of seagulls wheeled below his vision, screaming raucously then arcing out of sight. How often had he imagined a killer looking down from just such a vantage point? Again and again he had tried to enter that elusive mind, to sense the triumph of power, of ascendancy over the mere mortals scuttling below. Solly had reconstructed these crimes often within his own mind, seeing a shadowy figure drag the bloodstained corpses into the bushes; understanding the need to look down on the park where the bodies lay hidden. Solly sighed. It would have been so right, so satisfactory.

He turned
back to face the room, swept his gaze over the shambles in the adjoining kitchen and shook his head sadly. What a pity.

‘Right, then. Let’s get started,’ Wilson began.

‘I fear there’s little point.’

Solly’s words stopped Wilson in his tracks.

‘What?’

‘You won’t find anything here to point to a killer,’ Solly went on resignedly.

Wilson gave him a kindly smile, and Solly recognised the man’s sincere efforts to avoid being patronising.

‘I think we’ll just have a look round anyway, Dr Brightman,’ the Detective Sergeant said firmly.

Solly shrugged and raised his eyebrows in acquiescence. Soon opening and shutting noises indicated that the two policemen were searching bedroom and bathroom respectively. The psychologist’s eyes ran over the bookcase, automatically scanning the titles on the spines, divining the owner’s predilections in literature and possibly a lot more besides.

Wilson was calling out advice on where to search but Solly didn’t hear his words as his eyes swept over the books. He recognised several titles, his heart fluttering uncomfortably as he imagined what conclusion the investigating officers might draw. Psychology textbooks, criminology, pathology, they were all there. Solly’s hand drew out one slim green volume and he gazed in dismay as he recognised a textbook on strangulation written by one of Rosie’s colleagues at Glasgow University. The book fell open, an old envelope marking a page that was highlighted in yellow. He swallowed hard as he read the medical details describing how a victim had been strangled with a bicycle chain.

Martin sat
in the interview room opposite the two detectives. The buzz he’d felt earlier that day batting questions from Chief Inspector Lorimer had disappeared. Talking on the telephone was quite a different matter from talking across this chipped Formica table. Briefly he wondered how many criminals had sat sweating it out as they sought to evade justice. His reporter’s nose twitched with the scent of possible stories as he strove to assume a calmness he didn’t feel and he was painfully aware of his dry throat. Why didn’t they bring him some coffee? Didn’t they always do that on TV? Well, they couldn’t keep him in here, he was sure of that. Wasn’t he?

Lorimer had refused to talk to the psychologist on his return to Headquarters, choosing instead to listen to his detective sergeant’s report. Things seemed to be falling into place now. He looked across at Enderby, taking in the pale yellow shirt and brightly patterned tie, seeing the long limbs stretched under the table, arms crossed in defiance of his authority. They often began like that, Lorimer knew.

‘Mr Enderby,’ he began, a politeness in his tone that they both knew was simply a veneer. ‘I believe you visited Miss Janet Yarwood in the last few days?’ Lorimer rustled some papers. ‘February 27th, to be exact.’

Martin Enderby stared mulishly at the Chief Inspector. He might not answer any of his questions, Lorimer knew from bitter experience. Would he demand the presence of a lawyer? Sometimes the interview tape was peppered with
No comment
. Lorimer was relieved when Enderby decided to reply.

‘I
did pay a visit, yes.’

‘Why was that, Mr Enderby?’

‘I’m an investigative journalist. I was investigating the St Mungo’s Murders.’

‘And you interviewed Miss Yarwood?’

‘Yes. She was a friend of Lucy Haining. I thought she might give me some angle on the dead student. We talked about the possibility of an exhibition of Lucy’s jewellery.’

‘I see.’ Lorimer’s voice sounded as though in fact he saw a great deal more. ‘Were you yourself acquainted with Miss Haining at all?’

Martin appeared suddenly disconcerted, not by the implications of the question but by the blue gaze that fixed on him so powerfully.

‘Me? I’d never even heard of her until she was dead.’

‘What did you study at university, sir?’ Wilson was questioning him now, his face a polite mask, the voice almost deferential.

‘Well, journalism, of course.’

‘Not psychology, then?’

‘As a matter of fact I started out with psychology but I switched courses at the end of my first year.’

‘Stood you in good stead, did it?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Yes, it did. It still does. A bit of insight into human behaviour always helps,’ Martin retorted.

‘
That
will be why you have so many books on the subject.’ Lorimer spoke lightly, as if he’d suddenly solved a problem, but the tone wasn’t lost on any of them. Martin didn’t reply, so Lorimer continued, ‘Pathology too. You take a special interest in how to strangle people?’

They
saw a pulse in the journalist’s throat begin to throb with anger.

‘Now, look here –’

‘No,’ the voice cut in, ‘
you
look here, Mr Enderby. Investigative journalism is one thing but it seems to me that you had a great deal of knowledge about the St Mungo’s Murders that didn’t come from the police Press Officer.’

‘Of course I had!’ Martin thumped his fists on the table as he leaned forward. ‘I read up every bloody thing I could find on the subject. Good journalists do, you know!’

‘Really.’

Lorimer’s tone indicated that he was unconvinced.

‘Yes, really!’ Martin ran his hand through his fair hair. ‘You don’t think
I
had anything to do with the murders?’

His exclamation was met with silence. Lorimer was writing something down and the detective sergeant looked across at Martin, his bland gaze never wavering. The enormity of the situation seemed to be settling on the journalist and he looked around him in panic. Now both men sat staring intently at him. Martin took a deep breath.

‘Are there any traces?’ he asked.

‘Sir?’ the detective sergeant feigned puzzlement.

‘Traces. You know. To test for DNA.’

‘Why do you ask?’

The Chief Inspector had his fingertips together under his chin but his stare never faltered.

‘Because if you have, then you can do tests on me right now! I have done nothing wrong whatsoever and you have an obligation to eliminate me from your, your,
enquiries
.’

Enderby
loaded the word with meaning. Lorimer wondered if he’d make anything of it. The Press Association might have them up for harassment.

‘I take it you had a warrant to search my flat?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Wilson replied, smiling a thin-lipped smile. ‘I see housework’s not your strong point.’

‘That’s hardly a chargeable offence!’

‘No, Sir, it’s not.’

‘You gave a brief statement during our house-to-house enquiry, did you not?’ asked Lorimer.

‘Yes. There wasn’t anything to say. I saw nothing until your guys had the scene of crime cordoned off.’

‘Good view from your window?’

‘Yes, actually. Though I don’t spend a lot of time standing looking out. I’ve usually got better things to do.’

‘Where were you on the nights of October 21st, 25th and November 3rd, Mr Enderby?’

The man’s face became quite blank for a moment. Was he considering what he had said in his statement to the police that winter night on his doorstep? Everyone in the flats would have talked about it when they’d met up in the lift, Lorimer was willing to bet. They’d maybe even have compared the questions asked, wondered if the police thought the murderer was being harboured by a neighbour. Speculation always ran rife. And sometimes to the advantage of the police.

Lorimer’s blue eyes were still turned on him.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember off-hand. I’d need to check last year’s diary. No. Wait a minute. The third girl. I was at a club with friends the night before … well, the night it happened. We got the news first thing and my piece was in the earliest edition.’

Lorimer
folded his arms and regarded the journalist speculatively. He’d rattled his cage all right. But he didn’t need Solomon Brightman to tell him he wasn’t sitting across the table from a multiple killer. Certain things had fitted nicely but Enderby seemed to be speaking the truth. Lorimer was pretty experienced at hearing the truth. Also, he doubted whether that fair hair flopping over his forehead could have grown from a cropped cut in a mere four months. Perhaps he’d send him to the doc for testing all the same. See if any fibres or traces matched.

‘Excuse us a moment.’

Lorimer motioned Wilson to follow him and they left the journalist alone except for the uniformed officer standing sentinel at the doorway.

‘I can’t hold him, he’s not being cautioned,’ Lorimer said. ‘But at least he’s co-operative about the forensics. I’d like to have a mouth swab and a blood test done. Bastard knows too damned much for my liking. Nosied into something he should have left alone.’

‘Dr Brightman said right off we hadn’t found the killer,’ remarked Wilson casually.

‘Oh? Did he give a reason?’

‘Said Enderby was totally disorganised. We’re looking for Mr Neat-and-Tidy, according to Brightman.’ Wilson paused then asked, ‘So, what’s to do? Tell him to clear off or give him the kind of fright that’ll make him want to cover the ladies’ page in future?’