Never Somewhere Else (27 page)

Diane McArthur was being helped into an ambulance as Lorimer and the psychologist approached her West End maisonette. Her head and shoulders were covered by a blanket and a WPC had her arms round her.

‘Chief Inspector,’ the WPC began.

Lorimer stepped up into the ambulance with the two women.

‘Just a couple of minutes.’

He sat opposite Diane while Solomon stood outside. Diane McArthur raised her white face and slowly pulled off the blanket. Her long dark hair had been hacked off leaving a jagged, spiky mess and there was a deep wound running down one side of her neck.

‘Martin Enderby?’ Lorimer enquired.

Diane’s eyes widened in horror and she jerked her head up painfully.

‘No! Martin tried to stop him. He just went berserk.’

‘Then who?’

‘Davey.’

‘Where are they now?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know. They went in Martin’s car. He had that knife.’ Her voice tailed off into gasping sobs.

‘When was this?’

‘About half an hour before you phoned, I think.’

Lorimer
made a swift calculation. That call had been made nearly an hour ago. They could be anywhere in the city by now. Or out of it.

‘Where have they gone, Diane? Think. Where could they be?’

Her sobs were apparently ignored by Lorimer who leaned over the girl, persistent in obtaining this information from her. She swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know. I told your policewoman. He, he told Martin to put his bag in the car.’

‘What bag?’

‘His cameras and stuff.’ She paused tearfully. ‘He never went anywhere without them.’

‘Then what? Try to remember exactly what he said.’

The girl’s face worked for a few moments then she shook her head.

‘All I can remember is Martin telling him to leave me alone, then he was being forced out of the house. I don’t remember. Honestly. I think I must have passed out.’

Lorimer nodded. It made sense. The girl had sounded ghastly when he had made that call. She’d surely have made it to a phone sooner if she’d been able to.

In a flash he was out of the ambulance and motioning to the attendant that he was free to go to the hospital. Solomon followed him back to the Rover where orders were given over the radio.

Lorimer looked around him into the darkness. It was now well after three in the morning, that barren time when the soul is at its lowest ebb, the streets deserted save for the police presence. It was a respectable neighbourhood, this. The row of yuppie maisonettes faced a red sandstone church built in the Victorian tradition of mock Gothic vaults and slender spires. Beside him, Solomon shivered. They hadn’t stopped to take their coats from George Phillips’s party. The warmth and fun of the Superintendent’s big night seemed days rather than hours ago.

‘Are
you going in?’ Solomon indicated Diane’s house.

‘No. Let the boys do it. No need for me there. Besides, looks like we’ll have other fish to fry.’ He frowned, seeing Solly shiver again. ‘You want to go on home? I could get you a squad car.’

Solomon shook his head. Lorimer knew that many of his questions and theories had been answered but the psychologist might still feel an overwhelming need to confront the man whose shadow had fallen over so many lives.

He had a warrant in his pocket. A warrant he’d been going to use to search Enderby’s flat once more. He’d just have to bend the rules a little.

The car swept up to the black tower that was St Mungo’s Heights. Lorimer was suddenly aware of his incongruous evening clothes as uniformed officers swarmed over the place.

Davey Baird’s room was exactly as Solomon had said it would be. To the casual, untrained eye, it was the epitome of minimalist chic. The floor was a bare sweep of pale, polished beech, the only warm colour in the room. Metal lamps hung in rows from the grey ceiling. A steel music system dominated one corner. The sofa was black leather with a silken throw the colour of pewter draped over the back, the shades of white and grey echoing the black and white photographs on the wall in their clip frames. He caught Solomon looking at the pictures, then at Lorimer. They were studies of redskin warriors.

Lorimer’s
eyes widened and saw the psychologist give a fleeting smile of satisfaction. He continued his examination. The room appeared to be waiting for a long-absent presence to return. There were no signs of the usual clutter of everyday living: no papers lying on the dark ash table, only a lump of porous rock and a white porcelain bowl that gleamed like a ghost in the subdued lamplight.

They knew without looking that the uncurtained window gave a panoramic view of St Mungo’s Park. They had already been so close. Lorimer moved into the hall and Solomon followed him through to where they knew the bedroom would be. This, unlike Martin Enderby’s bedroom six floors below, was split into two rooms. The tiny bedroom held little other than a cabin bed and a set of drawers with a sliding wardrobe against one wall. It was predictably neat. Lorimer pushed open the connecting door. The other room was totally dark. There was the click of a light switch then the room was swathed in eerie red light.

‘His darkroom,’ Lorimer nodded, and both men slowly entered the photographer’s inner sanctum. Several large machines dominated the floor space.

‘Oh, my God!’

Solomon’s hand flew to his mouth in horror as the sight met their eyes. On a glass shelf above a sink were small heaps of hair. The congealed blood had left brown stains that looked like varnish carelessly spilled on the glass.

For a few moments they stood transfixed by what they saw. Lorimer’s gorge rose as he looked from left to right. Black, auburn, blonde and grey. Four bloodied scalps. A mental image of the wreck of humanity he had seen fixed itself in his brain and he struggled to remember the thin, gaunt face of Janet Yarwood.

Lorimer
broke the silence with a long sigh.

‘In here, boys.’

He spoke softly as if they were in the presence of unhappy spirits that might somehow be frightened away. The scene-of-crime officer hovered outside in the hall and Lorimer nodded towards the darkroom. The painstaking work of gathering evidence would now begin.

Lorimer stood at the window gazing out over the city lights that twinkled so innocently in the distance.

‘They’ll find it all here,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Even traces of kanekelon.’

Solomon looked at the detective. Standing there in his evening clothes Lorimer seemed in no hurry now to be off and apprehend the killer. Instead a quiet calm had taken over.

‘Shouldn’t we be doing something?’ he asked.

Lorimer turned with a weary smile. ‘Oh, I think we’ll be doing plenty before long. Once we know where they’ve gone.’

Solomon didn’t speak but he chewed his lips anxiously. Then Lorimer’s radio crackled into life and suddenly the Chief Inspector was alert. The tinny voice on the radio came through clearly.

‘Got him, sir. The car’s been spotted in Paisley Road, turning up towards Bellahouston Park.’

‘The House for an Art Lover?’ Solomon interrupted.

Lorimer
and he exchanged glances briefly.

‘Scramble air support. We need them to home in on the park. We have reason to believe he may have gone in there.’

‘The road by the ski slopes,’ added Solomon.

‘Hear that? Good. We’re going that way now. Should be there within ten minutes.’

M
artin Enderby
felt the pain in his right knee as he tried to keep the Peugeot at a steady speed. That stab had come as he’d tried to wrest the knife from Davey’s hands. The knife from Diane’s kitchen. Then, as he’d fallen to the floor yelling, he’d seen that awful slashing and hacking. Diane’s screams still echoed in his brain.

Events had happened so quickly that he’d had no time to think. Sweat had made his jersey damp under the armpits and he was desperate to urinate. He tried not to look at the man on his left. The man he’d once thought of as a talented, funny guy. The man he’d assumed was his friend.

His thoughts went back to their meal together, how Davey had leaned his long body back in his armchair. The yellow stains of curry were all that had been left in the foil containers.

‘See that inspector,’ Davey had begun, ‘did he say if he’d found anything in here?’

Martin had opened his eyes in surprise then. ‘Jesus Christ, how could he find anything here? I’ve got nothing to do with that girl.’

‘Which girl?’ Davey had taunted.

‘What
do you mean “which girl”? I only wrote about the other poor cows. Janet Yarwood was the only one I ever set eyes on alive.’

‘Oh, yeah. The postgrad student.’ Davey had lit up a cigarette, inhaling sharply. ‘She give you much info, did she?’

Martin had frowned then, hating to be reminded how he’d wormed his way into the woman’s office on the pretence that the
Gazette
were setting up a retrospective show for Lucy Haining. How obvious it was that the poor bitch had been grieving for a lost love. Martin had hardened himself at the time but now his sense of shame was compounded by a dread of this man at his side. He remembered the fatal turn of their conversation so well.

‘She did tell me about Lucy. Said she’d got in with a bad crowd. Usual story. She’d been involved in some moneymaking scam to fund her art work.’ Martin had paused and stared at his friend. ‘I forgot to tell you. Janet Yarwood asked if I knew you. Since I was on the
Gazette
. Said she knew your work or something.’

Davey had laughed at that.

‘What it is to be famous, eh?’

Recalling his reaction, Martin shuddered. These words had a different meaning now. He’d tried so hard to remember the dead woman’s exact words. What had she said? ‘I’ve got a couple of Davey Bairds at home.’ Martin saw again in his mind’s eye the waif-like frame and that face full of misery; but she had brightened up as she’d said that.

He’d wondered why Davey was so interested.

‘So what photos did she have of yours, anyway? Were they from that exhibition at the Collins Gallery?’

‘Yeah,
probably. Don’t remember.’

At this, Martin had been puzzled. He’d told the photographer about his visit to the House for an Art Lover. Yet Davey had never made any mention of his photos. Of course, he’d probably sold so many prints, it would be hard to keep track. That had been his conclusion at the time. Then he’d glanced at the insouciant faces of the two boys in his own signed print.

‘Where d’you get the models, Dave?’

The question had been asked casually but the other man’s reaction had been explosive.

‘Where the hell’d you think? I
pay
for them. OK? You journos are so bloody nosy!’

‘Sorry I spoke.’ Martin had held up his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘I’m going off to get changed. Seeing my lady tonight.’ Then, as Davey had made no move to leave, he’d added, ‘How about sticking the kettle on? I could do with a cup of something after that curry.’

‘Sure thing.’ Davey had smiled a thin-lipped smile. ‘Can you give me a lift there too? I need something I left at Diane’s the other night.’

Martin recalled his curiosity being aroused. What was going on? As far as he knew, Davey Baird had never set foot in Diane’s home. He’d decided to take him along, though, grudgingly. Then they’d arrived and the nightmare had begun.

They’d been driving around for what seemed like hours and he was gritting his teeth thinking of Diane and that gash along her throat. What if she was dead? Martin shuddered. They had driven through St Mungo’s Park, Martin picturing himself as another corpse below the bushes. But he had been told to drive on, through the city, up past the Art School, down a rutted lane, on and on weaving in and out of the dark places of Glasgow. From time to time he’d glanced at the petrol gauge, hoping that they’d run out of fuel somewhere in the city centre and then maybe he could make a break for it. But the needle was steady at a quarter full, only dropping slightly as the journey continued.

Now the
road ahead was clear of traffic, the rain on the windscreen only a fine mist.

He should do something heroic, Martin thought, flip the car over, seize that Sabatier kitchen knife that Davey held in his fist. Anything at all to escape. But his stomach churned weakly and he just drove on, concentrating on the lane markings.

They passed under the gantry near Ibrox Park.

‘Left.’

The word snapped out. It didn’t sound like Davey Baird at all. It was a nightmare where everything was distorted. In his dream Davey had turned into the St Mungo’s killer. Surely he’d wake up any moment and see Diane safe and sound by his side.

The traffic lights were green and they sailed through.

‘Right at the gates.’

Martin risked a glance then looked swiftly away. The black-handled knife gleamed under a passing street lamp. He slowed the red car down and read the two signs. The ski slopes, or …

‘Right.’

Martin drove slowly around the curving driveway that took him up that familiar road. Guiltily, he recalled the last time he had been up this trail. His interview with Janet Yarwood.

‘In
here.’

Martin brought the Peugeot to a halt and cut the engine. For a moment he thought of leaving the lights on. A signal of some kind for help. But Davey leaned over and snapped them off.

‘Keys.’

Martin handed them over, fingers trembling.

‘Keep that seat belt on till I come round.’

The car door opened and Martin was facing that blade again.

‘Out.’

For one mad moment the journalist feigned a stumble and lunged out at the man with the knife. He screamed as the blade slashed his wrist bone.

‘Get to hell, Marty.’ Davey Baird was a crouching shadow as Martin sank to his knees with the pain. ‘Get up. Walk.’

The blade came close to his throat and Martin eased himself up away from its lethal point. Davey motioned ahead of them into the darkness.

‘Down there, and don’t make a sound or you’ll get more of this.’

The knife jabbed through the wool of his jersey, forcing Martin into a stumbling walk. The curry he’d eaten hours before tasted sour in his mouth.