Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Wonder what sort of kids they’ll have?’ she addressed the cat. Chancer ignored her, head down in his bowl.

Dr Solomon Brightman gazed out across the Glasgow rooftops. The skyline was hazy today, the view on the other side of the river Clyde blurred by the heat that shimmered over the city. He stared at the familiar dark spire with its distinctive spikes that so reminded him of a knight’s mace. Glasgow University’s tower was a landmark that could be seen from many points in the city and Solly was fiercely proud to be part of it. The new university term was still weeks away and he had plenty of time to think about next year’s intake of students but he continued to look at the buildings on Gilmorehill as if seeking inspiration.

These murders were far from simple. Despite what DCI Lorimer wanted to think, there was more than one hand at work. It had happened to them before: jumping to the conclusion that a serial killer was on the loose when in fact that had not been the case at all. Solly had considered the locations of each crime and thought long and hard about the modus operandi: two different sorts of guns had killed the referee and Jason White, a kitchen knife had fatally wounded Faulkner. There were so many possible permutations for motive. But it was all conjecture. What if someone had a grudge against players from south of the border? That ruled out the referee, of course. Or what if someone from inside the club was trying to prevent any new signings taking over from existing ones? Again, that precluded Norman Cartwright. Or, to look at it another way, what if Janis Faulkner had killed her husband in a fit of passion? Was it a mere coincidence that another team player had been subsequently gunned down and that this other player had also been a new signing from England? Solly absent-mindedly ran a finger through his beard. He’d never felt any hostility from a single soul in this city, only kindness and helpfulness. Even late-night drunks had been generous in their garrulity, plying him with their life stories as if he were one of their mates, not a man whose accent still betrayed his London origins. No, he would confidently rule out any racial motive.

What he had to do was to put himself inside the skin of these killers. Why had someone mercilessly shot the referee? Spectators shot their mouths off about what they saw as a bad decision, they didn’t stalk the man in black to his own home and then shoot him dead in cold blood. It was more than that, Solly decided. There was a calculation about this killing, and of Jason White’s, that spoke to him of an agenda. This man (and he was certain that it was a male killer) had a reason for killing these two sportsmen. Perhaps a person of normal mentality might not see whatever had driven him as a valid reason for killing, but Solly knew that the mind behind these killings saw things in quite different terms. The deaths had been necessary to him, a logical conclusion to whatever mental pathways he had taken.

And Solly was beginning to feel that the man who had pulled those two triggers had also watched Kelvin football team from somewhere other than the comfort of his own armchair.

‘We need an update,’ Lorimer said. ‘The press are snapping at our heels and Mitchison’s on my back demanding public reassurance before Kelvin’s next game.’

The DCI was walking towards the nightclub where Jason White had last been seen before his death, DC Niall Cameron loping along by his side. Lorimer’s brow was furrowed in a permanent crease these days, the Lewisman observed, glancing at his boss. He’d hit the ground running after his holiday and, as usual, was breaking all the rules about working-time procedures. Cameron had been happy to do overtime, his daily cycle through the city becoming earlier with each passing day, a fact that had so far gone unnoticed by Superintendent Mark Mitchison.

They reached the black door of Jojo’s, one of the city’s classier nightclubs, with its familiar bright pink logo. Lorimer rang the buzzer and waited. Niall Cameron noticed his boss shifting from one foot to the other, his impatience barely concealed. The Detective Constable knew how he felt; they all wanted something, anything that could provide a clue to untangling this triple killing.

A muffled voice sounded from the intercom.

‘Strathclyde Police,’ Lorimer announced to the grey metal box, then an unseen lock shifted and the door clicked open.

Pushing the black door open, they entered an unlit reception area with a door marked ‘cloakroom’ to their left. Footsteps coming from a basement room below made them step further into the darkness.

Lorimer looked around him, trying to see each shape in this claustrophobic place, aware of the breath tightening within his chest. It was a weakness he had struggled to overcome in his job, but sometimes it still caught him unawares. It was a relief when a figure loomed towards them and snapped on a light switch on the corridor wall.

‘Sorry about that,’ the man said. ‘Forgot you were coming in. Tam Baillie,’ he announced, offering his hand to each of the officers in turn. ‘Assistant manager,’ he grinned. ‘Jist — just promoted,’ he corrected himself, as if the job description had included the need for brushing up his spoken English. Or was it the presence of two of Strathclyde’s finest?

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer. Detective Constable Cameron.’

Lorimer felt the strong grip that matched the assistant manager’s physique; those broad shoulders and athletic frame told him that Baillie was a force to be reckoned with. But the man’s grey eyes were smiling at him.

‘Hell of a business, isn’t it?’ Baillie began, motioning them to follow him to where the light now showed a spiral stair descending downwards. All three men had to bend to avoid the low ceiling slanting across the turn of the stair.

‘In here, if you don’t mind. It’s a bit cramped but at least we can sit down,’ Baillie grumbled, adding, ‘If we can find some chairs.’ In one easy movement he heaved three plastic chairs from a stack in the corner resting against a towering pile of empty drinks crates. ‘There we are, sit yourselves down.’

Lorimer resisted the temptation to dust down the seat. Baillie’s attempts at friendliness might just as easily turn to pique if he showed any sort of criticism of the place. Truthfully, it was a shambles. The walls were dingy with age and grime, dotted here and there with bits of Blu-Tack where posters had been. Behind Baillie a flyer had been pinned, showing forthcoming events. Lorimer recognised one of them, a local indie band called Micronesia. Tam Baillie sat down in front of the poster, obscuring the date of the band’s next gig.

‘Right: Jason White. Your lads came down already to ask us what happened that night,’ the recently promoted bouncer began, his eyebrows raised. ‘Some-thing come up, then?’

Lorimer bent his head in a neutral gesture. ‘We’re still looking into the events of that night,’ he began. ‘What I’d like is for you to cast your mind back to the other incident,’ he said, ‘the one where White ended up in custody.’

Tam Baillie slouched back in his chair, the friendly expression vanishing in a sudden scowl.

‘Know what, Chief Inspector?’ he said. ‘That wee guy was an accident waiting to happen, if you want my opinion.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Och, he had attitude, know whit I mean? He was full of himself. Had money to burn, paraded it all the time. Pulled the birds like it was a game to him. Him and these two mates of his. Right wankers, they all were.’

‘And on the night White was arrested …?’ Lorimer pulled Baillie back to the matter in hand.

The man rolled his shoulders as if sitting still for any length of time would make him seize up. He didn’t look as if he’d had much experience of a desk job. Lorimer wondered briefly about his change in status. Was the promotion a way of rewarding faithful service or shutting him up?