Alex Gray - Pitch Black

The motion stopped and Rosie opened her eyes to see stars wheeling above her in a night sky; not twinkling sparks of diamond light but blood-red like carrion waiting for the ripeness of her flesh.

‘She’s here,’ a voice said and Rosie tried moving her head to see who had spoken.

Then Solly was there by her side, his face wet with tears. Rosie wanted to reach out her hand, to touch him. But at that very moment the pain intensified, filling her body, and she felt herself being lifted away into the blackness even as she tried to say his name.

Solly was sitting outside Rosie’s room, head bowed into his arms, when Lorimer came around the corner of the hospital corridor. The tall policeman paused, uncertain. Had the worst really happened?

He sat down next to the psychologist and placed an arm around his shoulders. For a while they said nothing then Solly looked up, his face blotched with recent weeping. Lorimer swallowed hard, not trusting himself to ask the question, fearful of its response.

Then Solly shook his head and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘They think she’s going to be all right. There were a few bad hours early on this morning, when they thought her lungs were filling up, but she’s over that now. Sleeping peacefully.’ Dr Solomon Brightman lifted his haggard face and the policeman saw fresh tears coursing down his cheeks. But they were tears of relief and in one swift movement Lorimer had him in his arms, holding him as he sobbed like a child.

A decent meal and a couple of glasses of milk had worked wonders for him, thought Lorimer, looking at his friend across the table. When had he last eaten? Days spent moving between Rosie’s room and the coffee machine had taken their toll on the psychologist. His usually benign face had lost its rounded contours, the cheekbones showing sharply beneath the pallid flesh.

‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ Lorimer began.

‘No! I couldn’t possibly leave now.’

Lorimer made a face. ‘Think you could do with a shower and a fresh change of clothes, pal. Surely you don’t want Rosie to wake up seeing you like this?’

As Solly looked down at his sweat-soaked T-shirt, Lorimer hid a smile. The psychologist was the least vain man he knew, totally unaware of his appearance, but his expression of amazement at his unkempt state was almost comical.

Leaving the hospital canteen, they strolled out into the morning sunshine towards the car park.

Solly lifted his face to the warmth of the sun and spread out his hands. ‘What a beautiful day,’ he said simply.

*

‘Any chance you might want to come into the station later on? We could do with your help,’ Lorimer suggested lightly as the Lexus drew up outside the West End flat.

Solomon Brightman looked serious for a moment. ‘I’ve let you down, haven’t I?’

‘No. There was no way on God’s earth you could have done anything else.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘We’ve just had to manage without you for a bit. Besides, it would’ve been a hassle to get anyone else of your calibre during the holiday period.’

‘Can you give me an outline of what’s been happening since …’ Solly broke off, unable to refer to Rosie’s accident.

‘Funny you should ask.’ Lorimer pulled a file from the back seat of the Lexus. ‘See what you make of that and we’ll see you around five-thirty. Okay?’

Solly raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You were quite sure I’d come back to the case, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lorimer smiled.

The first things she saw when she opened her eyes were the yellow roses. There were masses of them crammed into cut-glass and crystal vases, the refracted sunbeams filling the room with shards of rainbow-coloured light. Rosie blinked to see if this was another dream or if she was indeed awake. A slight breeze came from her side and Rosie glanced at the fan whirring around on her bedside cabinet. That, more than anything, told her she was in a hospital bed. Gradually she became aware of the tubes taped to the back of her wrist and the drip that was positioned slightly behind the bank of pillows so that she caught only a glimpse of chrome. There was no pain so she must be receiving a fair quantity of morphine, Rosie thought. For a time she took in her position dispassionately as only a trained doctor can do. Of the accident she remembered nothing at all, but there could be no doubt that something frightful had happened to make her land in hospital. Trying to recall the events met with a blank and she feebly raised her eyebrows in a gesture of capitulation. Someone would tell her about it. Closing her eyes again, Rosie felt a peace that was borne of the simple knowledge of being alive.

‘She’s okay!’ Lorimer shouted down the phone. ‘Rosie’s going to be okay!’

Maggie sank down on to the floor by the telephone, her throat constricted by an overwhelming need to weep.

‘Can you hear me, Maggie? She’s going to be fine.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘I hear you. Oh, thank God!’

Replacing the handset, Maggie Lorimer leaned back against the wall and shivered. The days spent waiting for these words had been so long, so drawn out, that she felt totally spent of all emotion. As if from nowhere, a warm ginger head ducked under her hand, demanding a caress, and she buried her face into Chancer’s soft fur, her heart suddenly gladdened by his insistent purr. But in that moment it occurred to her that her pact with God might really come about and that she might have to relinquish the comfort of this little creature.

‘I love you, little one,’ she told the cat, ‘but Solly loves her more.’

That afternoon’s meeting in divisional headquarters had a light-heartedness about it that belied the discussion of a triple murder case: the news about Dr Rosie Fergusson had spread around. Even Lorimer couldn’t keep a grin off his face as he reintroduced Dr Brightman to their team. A spontaneous round of applause broke out that made the psychologist blush to the roots of his beard.

‘I’m so sorry to have abandoned you all,’ he began but his words were drowned out by exclamations of support from various members of the team who knew and respected the forensic pathologist.

‘I did have the beginnings of a profile before Rosie’s car crash,’ he told them, ‘and in the light of subsequent events I think I can give some indication of the man we are looking for.’

The atmosphere changed abruptly at his words and all eyes turned to see the psychologist’s solemn face regarding them.

‘The murders of Mr White and Mr Cartwright have several similarities and show that an organised mind is behind them. These killings were not random. We are not, I suggest, looking for someone who acts on impulse but for a man who is quite in control of his own mind and who has an agenda.’

‘So you think Pat Kennedy could be a target?’ DI Grant piped up.

‘Indeed I do. There seems to be just a little too much focus on Mr Kennedy for this to be all bluff. From the bogus email and the website threat, to the painted words daubed on the wall of Kelvin’s boot room, it seems to me as if our man is taking more risks as he becomes secure in the knowledge that he has already got away with a double murder.’ Solly paused to look around the room, wishing to see the effect of his words. As his glance fell on the SIO he could see that Lorimer had one hand upon his chin, considering what had been said. That was something of a relief. His insistence that the same person had taken the lives of White and Cartwright was not being disputed. Of Nicko Faulkner’s murder he made no mention; a deliberate omission to emphasise his point.

‘So,’ Jo Grant came back again, ‘you think it’s someone inside the club?’

‘Indubitably, DI Grant,’ Solly replied, inclining his head towards her. ‘Which should make your lives a lot easier,’ he added with a sudden grin.