Never Somewhere Else (26 page)

It wandered through St Mungo’s Park in the back of an old ambulance. The driver wore gloves, just as Alison Girdley had described. Was there anyone in the passenger seat? Lorimer drank the rest of his glass of Vouvray and tried hard to imagine a female beside the cropped-haired driver. A live female wearing a blonde wig. Kanekelon. Japanese hair fibre.

He looked appraisingly at the women around the table. Mitchison’s companion had swept her platinum locks into a huge wave at the side. More artifice than art, thought Lorimer, comparing the young woman with Rosie’s elegance. Who would ever have imagined that these slim hands with their pearly painted nails could wield such an effective scalpel? Appearance and reality. Belatedly he wondered what DCI Mitchison’s young friend did for a living.

The driver had stopped now and come round to open the rear doors. Lorimer fast-forwarded the scenes in his mind. There would have been the need for a hose, or a scrub-down of some kind. No trace of bloodstains had been found in the burnt-out ambulance. It would have been cleaned up thoroughly. To rid it of evidence and to prepare for his predations on other innocents. Little boys. There was no doubt now that the paedophile who had lured children into his ‘van’ was also an accomplished killer. He’d offered them sweeties. And threats. Wee Kevin Sweeney had painted a picture of a menacing creature who also had the power to beguile. Had he beguiled Lucy? And Janet Yarwood, who had loved the younger artist? At some point Lucy had become involved with this man and his predilection for little boys. That she had known all about it and used her knowledge as blackmail was one theory Lorimer was anxious to prove. The large sums of cash paid into her account had been spent lavishly on gold, silver and precious stones. Lorimer and Solly had built up a picture of the red-haired art student whose determination to succeed in the world of jewellery design had cost her dearly in the end. He cast his mind back to the exotic arm bangles and shining collars that were to be exhibited posthumously at the degree show. The spoils of blackmail.

‘Don’t
you think so, Bill?’

Rosie was smiling at him, quite aware of his discomfiture. She knew fine he’d been away in a dream.

‘Just run that past me again, Rosie?’

Lorimer wasn’t quite as sober as he’d have liked but his wits weren’t totally scattered yet.

‘The double-doctor system. We have twice the work but twice the advantages when it comes into court.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

Lorimer
picked up on the thread of conversation, a perennial topic for Scottish pathologists who, like so many other professionals this side of the border, were convinced of the superiority of their system.

The wine waiter came between them, replenishing glasses, and when he’d gone Lorimer found to his relief that Rosie had renewed her conversation with her other dinner guests. Lorimer laid down his knife and fork. He’d hardly touched the sirloin steak. Perhaps the champagne had spoiled his appetite. And all that wine, a small voice reminded him.

‘Excuse me, is Detective Inspector Lorimer here?’

All eyes at table two turned to the red-coated MC who stood holding a piece of hotel notepaper.

‘I’m Chief Inspector Lorimer.’

‘A phone call for you, sir.’

The paper was delivered and the MC marched away, duty done.

‘Excuse me, won’t be a moment.’

Lorimer got up, smiled reassuringly at Maggie, and threaded his way through the tables to the hotel lobby. There was only a number on the paper. Lorimer recognised a South Side code but beyond that it was unfamiliar. The call was answered by Norman Yarwood. His voice was pitched higher than Lorimer remembered, a sure sign of nerves.

‘There’s something I’ve found.’

‘Oh? What would that be, then?’

Lorimer tried to keep his manner light but already he could feel the tension gripping his chest as Norman
Yarwood revealed his new information. He’d been going through Janet’s things, sorting them out. That’s when he’d found the photograph of Lucy. It had been taken in Janet’s flat. And in the background, he’d noticed, were the missing pictures.

‘I don’t suppose you know who …?’

Lorimer’s face twisted into a grimace as he heard the reply. Once more he imagined the back of the killer’s dark head. For a moment he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the face.

‘Yes. Well, thank you Mr Yarwood. I’m most grateful for this information. Could you bring the photograph down to Headquarters first thing tomorrow?’

Lorimer nodded into the receiver as the man gave him his assurance, apologising yet again for any inconvenience. As Lorimer rang off he thought about the big red-haired man in his Pollokshaws bedsit sifting through the few reminders of his talented daughter. His anger at the delay in finding this nugget of gold suddenly evaporated. How would he feel if it had been his own daughter?

Lorimer stood quite still for a moment. There was no flash of light or sense of euphoria. Just the terrible clarity that comes to a mind sharpened by excessive alcohol. He knew with an unshakeable certainty that the killer of this man’s child was very close to being brought to justice.

‘Bill?’

Maggie was by his side, looking anxious.

‘It’s okay. Just some information. Let’s go and see if there’s any pudding left.’

He laced Maggie’s fingers through his and stumbled slightly as they moved towards the doorway, smiling an apology. She shook her head despairingly. Whatever had called her husband away was not as trivial as he was making out, not from the deep furrows etched around his brow.

The
pudding had indeed been served, a pink mousse topped with a single out-of-season raspberry. Lorimer wolfed down the mousse, his appetite suddenly restored, and began to chat to his fellow dinner guests.

Solly wondered why Lorimer had suddenly become the life and soul of their table. Obviously it had something to do with that phone call. But what? Lorimer gave no sign that he intended taking the psychologist into his confidence and seemed content instead to push the party along.

The meal long past, the speeches thankfully over, Lorimer watched the Superintendent rip paper off a stack of gifts and hold each item aloft amid much clapping and a few ribald comments. There were the usual ‘proper’ retirement presents, including several boxes of Edinburgh crystal, but other less conventional tokens had also crept in. China mugs with lewd comments, potions promising to improve everything from George’s golf swing to his sex life and, last of all, wrapped in shiny silver paper, a ‘Seeyou-Jimmy’ hat.

There were cries of ‘Put it on, George!’ and the Superintendent made a great play of smoothing down the false red wig topped with its tartan tammy. Roars of laughter rang out as George gave a wiggle and sketched a pas de bas. Then the hat was tossed around the crowd. Lorimer pulled it on and gave a bow, then it was snatched off and passed to the desk sergeant who swept it on over his military crew cut.

‘Suits
you!’

‘Better’n that suede head!’

Jeers rang out as the sergeant capered around. Lorimer was watching the antics with everyone else when for some strange reason the whole tableau seemed to freeze. The red wig blurred in front of his eyes and for a moment there was ringing in his ears. Then the vision cleared and Lorimer searched around for the dark-bearded face of Solomon. The psychologist was watching him intently. Lorimer jerked his head in the direction of the hotel lounge and the two men withdrew unnoticed from the fun and games.

‘Your phone call?’ Solly’s query was eager but polite.

Lorimer shook his head, still dazed by the revelation.

‘It’s not that. Though I’ve got some crucial new information. I’ve just seen our killer.’

‘Through there?’

Solly’s jaw dropped in astonishment as he pointed back towards the reception hall.

‘In here,’ Lorimer tapped his head. ‘Christ! I’ve been looking down the wrong end of the bloody telescope! All this time we’ve assumed that our man answers to the description the Girdley girl gave us. But it’s the wrong way round!’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.’

‘Kanekelon!’

‘What?’

‘Japanese hair fibre. A wig. A bloody See-you-Jimmy!’

Solly shook his head. It sounded like the ravings of a drunk man. But there was a chilling sanity in the policeman’s expression.

‘Don’t you see?’ Lorimer’s excitement was mounting. ‘The short cropped hair. That was how he appeared to his victims. And in the dark. It’s not a disguise.’

‘I
still don’t see …’

‘He wears a wig! I mean
all the time
. That’s the disguise … his normal everyday appearance. Not the other way around. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s – what’s that disease called? The one that the princess in Monaco had?’

‘Alopecia,’ Solly answered automatically, then added, ‘How can you be sure?’ One look at Lorimer’s face was all the answer he needed. ‘Oh, dear God,’ Solly breathed at last.

It was as if the profile that had been theory for so long had become embodied and sat there between them. Solly felt weak. There always had to have been a reason for the savagery behind the killings. Even the most calculating of murderers would never have committed such butchery unless a deep force had driven him on. The lack of hair. The scalpings. Some strange vengeance.

‘Come on.’

Lorimer was standing up now, smoothing down his dinner jacket.

‘Where?’

‘HQ. Get another warrant. Those traces won’t have been analysed yet. It’ll take at least another couple of days. But I can’t wait that long. I want him in custody now.’

‘Enderby?’

Lorimer nodded, recalling Enderby’s fair hair flopping over his forehead. His heart began to pound. They’d interviewed him and let him go. Where was Enderby now?

T
here was
barely time for a garbled explanation to Rosie before the two men left the hotel in the first available taxi. The street gleamed wet under the sodium lights as the black cab curved effortlessly around in the direction of police headquarters. Maggie Lorimer was left gaping in disbelief as the blonde pathologist took her arm and led her back to the party.

If the desk sergeant was surprised to see Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer in full evening clothes, accompanied by Solomon Brightman, he didn’t show it. Expecting the unexpected had long since become part of the job.

Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, Solomon almost running in his wake to keep up.

‘What do you propose?’

Solly looked uncertain.

‘Get another warrant. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours even at this time. The Deputy Fiscal will be glad to have his night brightened up, I’m sure,’ Lorimer grinned.

Solly nodded, remembering the last time Lorimer had waited for a warrant to search that flat in Garnethill. There was always a Fiscal and a Sheriff on duty through the night. Crime didn’t keep office hours.

There’s
not much point going back to George’s bash, now. Anyway,’ he added, ‘Maggie’d kill me. She was really looking forward to an uninterrupted night out.’

Solly thought of the woman’s face as they had hustled off from the hotel. Sheer disbelief might well turn to disappointed anger. Would Rosie be like that? he wondered. Rosie Fergusson, who spent her working life, scalpel in hand, out in the wilds of Rwanda or Glasgow parks. What might it be like being married to her? Solly’s mind wandered over the prospect. Her laughing smile and that deliciously short white dress chased his thoughts from the squeamish side of her profession to how he might have spent the rest of the night. His sympathies went out to Maggie Lorimer.

The phone never seemed to be out of Lorimer’s hand for the next hour as the team was rallied yet again for the search to come. St Mungo’s Heights had, of course, been tried. There was nobody at the other end of the phones. That disembodied voice on the tape was not going to make itself heard again.

‘Pity,’ Lorimer remarked. ‘The voice match would have made helpful evidence. Mind you, it took fifteen months of painstaking work to analyse the voice of the Yorkshire Ripper tape. And at the end of the day it wasn’t him at all.’

The
Gazette
security man was sorry, he couldn’t help. Nobody was left in the building. Where was Enderby?

‘Diane McArthur?’

‘Could be. Have we got a number?’

Solomon blushed and produced her card from his wallet.

‘Of course, your book interview.’

Lorimer didn’t
glance at the psychologist but the sarcasm cut like a knife.

The phone rang on and on. Just as Lorimer was about to hang up, the ringing tone stopped and he waited for the ubiquitous answering machine to roll out its message. He was wrong.

‘Please, who is it?’ A girl’s voice whispered. Lorimer stiffened. This wasn’t a woman disturbed from slumber. She sounded ill.

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer. Miss McArthur?’

‘Oh, please help me. Please, somebody help me.’

‘Is Martin Enderby …?’

‘He’s gone.’

There was a pause and Lorimer heard the weak sobs as the girl tried to control herself.

‘What happened?’

‘He … I think he’s hurt … the knife …’ There was another pause and Lorimer could hear a choked sob. ‘Please, could somebody help me?’

‘Miss McArthur, I’m sending officers over right away. Just stay there. Can you open the door when they arrive?’ Lorimer’s voice was gentle and reassuring.

‘I think so. I don’t know.’

The voice faltered again and Lorimer immediately imagined blood loss of some kind weakening the girl.

‘Help’s on its way. Won’t be long. I’m going to ring off now but if you need to talk to me ring this number.’

There was a lengthy interval during which Lorimer gave Diane his number and she, in her weakened state, found pen and paper and took it down. He then took only a split second to kill the phone and redial. Solly listened as
Lorimer barked orders. Diane McArthur wouldn’t be alone for long.

At last the warrant arrived at HQ and the two men bundled out to the waiting Rover. The radio would keep them in contact with the woman DC who had been mustered to assist the young journalist.