Never Somewhere Else (7 page)

Would they ever
solve it? Matt wondered, sipping tea and gazing at the familiar stretches of parkland where he’d spent so many tedious hours. There were countless murder cases where complete blanks had been drawn. If you didn’t catch them quickly, the whole thing became more difficult. The scent would grow cold, thought Matt, unconsciously using an image of which Solly Brightman would have approved. But you never know. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Think of Fred and Rosemary West. Matt shuddered. This case had its horrors but at least there were only three dead.

‘So far,’ a voice said in his head.

The presenter had turned to the police officer by his side once more.

‘Chief Inspector, what can you tell us about the progress which is being made in these investigations?’

The question was asked politely, deferentially, yet there was an edge to it, as if progress was not the correct word to use at all. Matt drained his mug and put it down on the floor beside his chair, smiling cynically. Progress? How would the Chief reply to that? Lorimer cleared his throat, then looking steadily at the man on his left, began his carefully prepared response.

‘There are several aspects of this case which can be made public, particularly after the incident involving Alison Girdley.’

‘Yes, tell us about that,’ responded Ross, accepting the deflection from his original question.

‘Miss Girdley was walking home from her sports club on the night of December 7th when she was hailed by the driver of a stationary ambulance.’ Lorimer paused for an instant to let this information be digested. ‘The driver attempted to throw a bicycle chain around Alison Girdley’s neck, but she successfully avoided this attack and ran to a nearby house for help.’

Mickey Taylor took his
wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze. They sat side by side on the settee, watching the screen with some relish. They had been strictly warned by the police not to discuss the events of that evening when Alison had burst hysterically into their living room. Since then they had talked over everything they could find out about the crimes, avid for new developments in a case which had touched on their own unsensational lives. They had watched the TV cameras and all the paraphernalia of the television crew on their street filming Alison herself in a reconstruction of her attack. She’d been a brave lass to go through it all again, they’d agreed.

Then there had been the thrill of being interviewed in their own home. Jess had been in a tizzy about what to wear for the occasion, even contemplating the purchase of a new dress. However, she had settled for having her hair done and had worn an outfit which was smart but not flashy. The neighbours would talk about it in days to come but she wouldn’t let them accuse her of showing off. No. It was too serious a matter for that.

Jess blushed as she heard her own accent from the television. How broad she sounded. And Mickey! She looked at her husband appraisingly. He wasn’t as stout as that. It must be the angle of the camera, surely?

Then suddenly their moment was over. They continued to sit in silence, Mickey squeezing his wife’s hand by way of congratulation, as the programme continued.

*

‘Now. A bicycle
chain. You said earlier, Chief Inspector, that this was in fact the weapon used to strangle Lucy, Donna and Sharon.’

‘Yes. This is being treated as the murder weapon. Marks found on the throats of the three deceased show that this was consistent with a bicycle chain, or something very similar to it.’

‘And you think that Alison Girdley was meant to be another victim?’

‘We do. This was a totally unprovoked attack by the assailant. There is no doubt in our minds that this man intended to assault and to kill Alison Girdley.’

‘And you believe that this was the
same
man who had killed Donna, Lucy and Sharon?’

Lorimer had been prepared for this. There had been some discussion as to whether Alison’s assailant had been the killer they sought or whether this had been a copy-cat attempt at murder which had gone awry.

‘We believe so, yes. The fact that this assailant was in an old ambulance is a pertinent factor. The police have reason to believe that whoever committed these crimes used an ambulance to transport the bodies to St Mungo’s Park and then dispose of them in the bushes.’

The light from the television screen cast shadows on the walls as Martin Enderby scribbled furiously in his reporter’s notebook. He desperately wanted to glean some new facts from this programme to add to the piece he had been writing. And he wondered what they’d say in the update.

*

The studio lights
had become unbearably hot and Lorimer longed to take a sip from the glass of water in front of him.

‘So Alison Girdley may actually have seen the man who murdered Sharon, Donna and Lucy?’

‘We think so. There is a videofit picture which we have prepared on the strength of Alison’s description.’

‘Yes. Here it is now. Take a good look.’ Ross’s voice was compelling as the photofit appeared on the screen. ‘If you think you know this man or have any information about the old ambulance which he was driving then please do not hesitate to telephone the incident room on this number.’

The screen flashed up the number as the presenter’s clear tones repeated it twice.

‘And remember, all calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Now the picture reverted to the two men who regarded each other seriously behind the studio desk.

‘Chief Inspector, have you any message for the public? Any advice which might lead to finding this man?’

The camera zoomed slowly in to show Lorimer’s rugged face in close-up. His blue eyes seemed to pierce right through the air waves.

‘This man is a highly dangerous individual. If you think you know who he is, by no means approach him but please,’ he emphasised the word, ‘please get in touch with us immediately. It is imperative that we catch this man.’ He paused. They had decided against adding ‘before there are any more killings’. It was not a wise tactic to employ scaremongering in this way. That sort of thing was left for the Press to take up. Also, Lorimer felt that any admission that further attacks might take place would reflect on police work in general and on himself in particular. And yet …

‘He is a dangerous
and secretive individual. If you think you can help, then ring this number.’

Lorimer’s face was replaced by the telephone numbers once more, then Nick Ross was back smiling his assurance to the viewers that such crimes were really very rare.

‘We will be back with our update at 11.15 tonight. Already we have a flood of calls coming in and we hope to report on some of those later on.’ Now Nick was leaning on the front of the desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking quite relaxed. ‘Don’t have nightmares,’ he smiled. ‘Goodnight.’

Maggie switched off the television and sat back. She suddenly became aware of her clenched fists and the feeling of hot sweat between her breasts.

Lorimer had spoken to her about the urgency of the case, of the unpredictable nature of any savage serial killer. With one part of her mind Maggie had acknowledged all of these things, agreeing that the case was horrid and vile. But another part of her had remained detached until now. Somehow the reconstruction with trained actors had made the crimes seem more real to her. She had thought about the victims’ last moments and visualised that silver chain biting into their throats.

As the scenes unfolded, Maggie had wondered about the parents. Their anguish in going through this all over again must be unbearably painful – if indeed they had been able to face the programme. Somehow Maggie thought that they would. Any link with their dead children would encourage them to watch; to see the possibility of a net being cast to entrap this sadistic killer.

And Lorimer would do
it. Maggie willed him to do it. He must catch that man before … But her mind balked at pursuing that thought.

She looked around the room. It was not a masculine room in any way. The sofas were pale apricot and green, matching the leaf green of the curtains. Colours that were impractical for family life. But then there would never be a family now. She had chosen the colour schemes and planned the interiors, despairing of ever dragging her husband around a furniture shop. Lorimer seemed content to leave such decisions to her, although he was terribly fussy when it came to hanging any of his precious pictures. They at least were his; these Glasgow Boys prints, that Rosaleen Orr with its rich colours and hidden depths that took pride of place. Maggie loved her house, and yearned for it to be
their
home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.

Maggie pulled herself back to the memory of Lorimer’s performance on
Crimewatch
. She felt her shoulders relax as she thought of Lorimer and his single-minded pursuit of the killer. This was what he was good at. This was what was important. What she wanted from her husband seemed selfish, almost trivial now, by comparison. Perhaps she should resign herself to this way of life instead of trying to fight against it.

Maggie closed her
eyes wearily. The tension in her chest had created a real pain. She wanted to weep, but couldn’t.

S
o that was it, then.
The overhead lights dimmed and the studio sounded hollow as lines of cable were trailed across the floor. The cameras retreated silently, mounted by technicians crouching like monstrous insects, huge headphones clamped over their ears. Lorimer’s shoulders were stiff with tension. He filled his lungs deeply, making himself relax.

Nick Ross was saying something to his production assistant so there was a moment’s respite, a gathering together of energies before they headed back into the courtesy suite.

‘Well done, Chief Inspector.’ The blond head turned in Lorimer’s direction, the calm, intelligent face creased in a beam of satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this shambles.’

He indicated the army of technicians and youngsters with clipboards who had descended on the area, and ushered Lorimer out into the corridor. As they made their way to the room where drinks would be waiting, Ross chatted inconsequentially about family, holidays in Scotland; all designed, Lorimer knew, to ease his tension. He had used that gentle ploy himself and appreciated it from another professional. There would be no more said about murder until Lorimer had visibly unwound. And then?

Telephone lines were
already jangling. Amongst the genuine calls were cranks and time-wasters, Ross had told him, but sometimes, just sometimes, a call would come through like a seam of gold appearing in a darkened mine.

The update to the main programme would be made by Ross himself, letting viewers know if there were any immediate results to be had from their various appeals. Lorimer would remain behind the scenes listening as information came filtering through.

Lorimer found himself in a small, windowless room which had the heavy smell of new carpeting. Some of those who worked on the programme were talking loudly and pouring themselves drinks. The producer handed Lorimer a square-cut glass containing malt whisky. It was a presumption, Lorimer thought, that was actually justified. Not only did he indulge in his national drink, he was in real need of one at that moment.

‘Water?’

A small brown jug was proffered.

‘Just a splash.’

There was no more he could do now but wait. It was irksome to have matters whisked away from him like this, and Lorimer realised that he felt exactly the same about Solomon Brightman. There were always training courses that stressed the need for teamwork and co-operation in police work. To fly solo was not only foolish and egotistical but dangerous. It showed a craving for power. Lorimer knew that his need to be in control fought battles with the common sense which delegated authority. But common sense usually won. Indeed, it had been his ability to work in a team that had impressed his superiors all the way up through the ranks.

The whisky slipped
over his throat and burned a yellow warmth inside. By going to the psychologist, by involving this television programme, he was not admitting any inability on his own part or that of his department. It was necessary to cast a wider net than he alone could wield in order to catch this killer, and Solomon had told him that it was highly likely the man they were after would watch the programme.

‘He won’t know beforehand that there will be any reference to his killings, but he will
expect
some sort of recognition. The obsession with self will make him glory in his deeds and want to see them displayed,’ the psychologist had said.

Lorimer knew a lot about killers and their utter conviction that they were invulnerable. They all believed that they could never be caught. Some of them had appeared shrunken and bewildered when the law had finally put a stop to their evil progress. Others continued to display an arrogant bravado until the day a judge sentenced them to a suitable term of imprisonment. What about this man? A vision of his photofit face came to Lorimer’s mind. Unsmiling, clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, he could be a soldier, a policeman even, or any ordinary respectable citizen. It was frightening how normal-looking appearances hid such evil within. With a shudder Lorimer remembered the benign, smiling face of Thomas Hamilton, the warped murderer of that class of infants and their teacher in Dunblane.

‘Chief Inspector?’

A small woman with
dyed red hair and round black spectacles stood in front of him.

‘A telephone call for you.’

Still cradling his glass, Lorimer followed the woman out into the corridor. They walked along until she stopped by the door of a well-lit office.

‘You can take it in there. That’s a separate line.’

Lorimer nodded and the woman closed the door softly behind her.

‘Hello. Chief Inspector Lorimer speaking.’

‘It’s Solomon.’

Lorimer’s heart sank. Somehow he had hoped for a respite from cowboys and indians.

‘I want you to do something for me.’ Lorimer waited, curious despite himself. ‘Can you ask the presenter not to mention the case in his update?’