Alex Gray - Pitch Black

The room was suddenly quiet, though he could still hear the crowd’s noise like a susurrating wave in the distance as the Kelvin players surged forward. He looked out of the window, not towards the action on the football pitch but to where, only minutes before, he had been sitting beside Patrick Kennedy. It was a perfect angle, he thought. And only an expert marksman who knew this place inside out would have chosen it.

Lorimer nodded to himself. It had to be him. There was nobody else capable of this. Though what had motivated the killer still remained a mystery.

In front of him the bank of cameras still showed differing angles of the park. In a moment he was in the duty officer’s chair, scanning each screen for any sight of the man he needed to catch. Impatiently his eyes flicked from one to the next, looking for the familiar figure among the crowded stands. Would he try to slip in with the Keelies? Probably not if he was still armed, Lorimer told himself. Though what havoc he might wreak if he was in the crowd, Lorimer shuddered to think.

Then he saw him, walking slowly along the path towards the clubhouse as though nothing had happened. Lorimer panned in on the grey figure and made the image freeze. Yes! The way he carried the sports bag made it appear weighed down by something substantial. The DCI swore under his breath. He was still armed, then. Barking orders into his radio, Lorimer didn’t even give the officer on the floor a glance as he tore out of the room and sped down the stone staircase. Help was on its way, but if he didn’t act soon God alone knew how many more would be dead or injured.

There was a flash then another crash of thunder and he felt the air around him tense as the first drops of warm rain began to fall.

*

He’d been about to pull the trigger when Lorimer had made his move and now it was all about damage limitation. If he could secrete the gun before they found him, there was nothing they could do, was there? Nobody could possibly make out who had been standing, rifle aimed at the directors’ box. Not even Lorimer.

The boot room was pitch black when he unlocked the door and he didn’t bother to put on the light. He could find his way around here any time, day or night. Above him the rain drummed on to the roof, washing away the months of dirt and dust. The sound made him want to give a shout of exultation. For a moment he hesitated, then, giving a swift glance towards the closed door, he reached into the bag at his feet and drew out the components of the rifle. In less than a minute he had transformed them into a lethal weapon. Reaching up, he felt the place in the wooden ceiling. A firm push and the panel gave way beneath his hands. It was his secret place, a place where he had hidden everything. Feeling in the darkness, his hand brushed the can of red paint. He’d have to shove that aside to make room for the gun …

‘Stop right there!’ A voice made Albert Little whirl around. Blocking most of the daylight was the tall figure of DCI Lorimer. Bert grinned. Well, he’d had it coming.

‘Think you can take me down?’ Bert sneered. ‘Nae chance!’

Lorimer froze as he saw the rifle held in the groundsman’s hands, pointing at his chest.

For a moment all he could think about was Maggie and how she would be all alone. He had a sudden image of her laughing, cuddling that wee ginger cat up to her face.

Then he closed his eyes and waited.

The crash of thunder and flash of lightning mingling with a blood-curdling screech made him open them again. And what he saw defied belief. Albert Little had dropped the gun and was on his knees, screaming, hands waving wildly as though someone had him by the throat.

In an instant Lorimer picked up the rifle, but in that moment he felt a wave of cold air pass him by and heard a sigh coming from somewhere deep within the shadows. Or was it the collective intake of breath from a crowd absorbed in the football match that was still going on outside?

Wee Bert was curled up on the ground, hands over his head, whimpering, repeating Ronnie Rankin’s name over and over. With shaking hands, Lorimer reached for his radio and pressed the red button, too stunned to speak. Officers would be here in seconds. Then they would finally be able to make sense of the groundsman’s killing spree.

Light spilled in from outside the door and the sound of rain falling on to the roof had stopped. Looking around him Lorimer could see no trace of the legendary ghost nor could he feel anything that spoke to him of a supernatural presence. He stepped backwards, still clutching the rifle, desperate for some fresh air.

‘All right, sir?’ The first of the armed response unit was at his side, taking the rifle from Lorimer’s unresisting hands, and he could hear the sounds of boots thudding against tarmac as others came to join him. Lorimer nodded and moved out of the doorway.

There was a rainbow arcing above the stadium, bright against the summer skies. Its bow seemed to end somewhere within the green sward below. The storm had passed. Lorimer took a deep breath, thankful for this sweet moment.

But would he ever know exactly what had taken place in Kelvin’s boot room? And had it only been the crazed imagination of a lunatic that had rescued Lorimer from certain death?

Jock MacInally sat grinning at the men by his side. It had been an unbelievable day. First he’d been asked loads of questions, then they’d taken him upstairs where he’d been introduced to some of the club officials. Then, to Jock’s astonishment, they’d plied him with anything he wanted to drink, brought him plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls and treated him as though he were visiting royalty. The fact that Kelvin had held the Pars at bay for the whole ninety minutes to gain a vital three points had been the icing on the cake as far as he was concerned. So he hadn’t seen much of the game, but what did that matter? They’d given him a free season ticket, told him what an asset he was to Kelvin, and how he was their favourite supporter. Tomorrow the Sunday papers would be full of the stories about the capture of the ‘Kelvin Killer’ but Jock didn’t read the papers and would spend the day regaling anyone who cared to listen with his own tale. Aye, unbelievable so it was, but Jock MacInally would milk the events of this day for all they were worth.

The stadium had cleared eventually and if there was a surfeit of yellow-jacketed men helping around the perimeter of the grounds, nobody seemed to notice. The white van with its Kevlar-clad occupants had slipped away quietly long before full-time, along with an unmarked car which had taken Kelvin’s groundsman away. The rain that had fallen steadily throughout the second half of the match was now abating, leaving muddy puddles on the pitch. A small wind had sprung up too, clearing away the thunder clouds and bringing a freshness to the air that had been missing for weeks. Paper bags and sweet wrappers blew along the empty stands, among the rows and rows of numbered seats with, here and there, a broken polystyrene cup, crushed underfoot by the departing fans.

Staring out from the mouth of the tunnel, Ron Clark heaved a sigh. How long would it be till they left this legendary place and headed up to Kennedy’s new dream stadium? The chairman had also disappeared with Lorimer and his team of detectives. Well, Kennedy had some questions to answer too, questions that Ron Clark had been asking ever since his appointment as manager. He looked down as a crisp bag rustled over his feet. Automatically the Kelvin manager bent to pick it up and put it into his pocket. Wee Bert had been a stickler about litter, he thought, a faint smile appearing on his face. It was just a pity his obsessions hadn’t stopped there. Ron Clark’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared and he gave a shudder as he thought about the man who had devoted so much of his life to Kelvin FC. Just what had been going on in his mind? And what had driven him to take such desperate measures?