Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘No, definitely not,’ Bert told them firmly.

Lorimer and Alistair Wilson had been with the groundsman now for almost an hour during which time he had been answering questions that related to the shooting of Norman Cartwright, Jason White and Jimmy Greer. Like a good wee boy, Bert had put up his hand for all three of them. But when Lorimer had broached the subject of Nicko Faulkner, the erst-while groundsman’s attitude had changed.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he continued with such an expression of effrontery on his face that it made Lorimer want to laugh. ‘That slag of a wife did it!’ he insisted. ‘We’d have had a great season if Nicko had been in the team,’ he grumbled.

Lorimer and Wilson exchanged glances. It was as if the man had been discussing the weather, not the killing of three innocent men. This was disquieting territory for the two detectives. In no time at all they would be handing him over to the medics and the last they’d hear of Albert Little would be when he was taken to Carstairs Mental Hospital.

‘Tell me again why you killed Norman Cartwright,’ Lorimer said.

Bert looked at him sharply. ‘Because he was on the fiddle. No self-respecting referee would take bribes like that!’ The man’s indignation was almost comical.

‘And who do you think was behind the bribes?’

Bert grinned and wagged a finger at Lorimer. ‘Ah, you don’t catch me out like that, Chief Inspector.’

‘Let’s put it another way, Bert, shall we? You wanted to kill Pat Kennedy today. Can you tell us just why that was?’ Lorimer adopted a conversational tone to match that of the groundsman who, as Wilson had suggested to his boss, appeared to be what the boys upstairs referred to as a ‘grade-A fruitcake’.

‘Mr Kennedy didn’t have the club’s best interests at heart,’ Bert said pompously.

‘And you did?’ suggested Lorimer.

Bert’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. ‘Of course! The whole club was going downhill. First he made sure that we were out of the Premier League, then he was going to sell my ground and have a supermarket built on it! He was going to make millions out of that deal. Going to build a pitch of …’ his voice choked with emotion. ‘AstroTurf!’ he spat out at last.

Lorimer looked at Wilson, who shook his head and frowned.

‘Ach, you don’t see it, do you?’ Bert continued, glaring at them from across the table. ‘He had to come down to Division One, didn’t he?’

‘But why?’ Lorimer asked. ‘What was the point of deliberately trying to have his team relegated?’

‘The SPL don’t allow AstroTurf in their league. So he was going to sell off my ground.’ The groundsman’s face grew dark with anger. ‘My ground!’ he cried, thumping a fist on the table between them.

‘But it’s not your ground, Bert, is it?’ Lorimer said gently.

Albert Little stared at him for a moment then his face crumpled and he began to cry like a child, noisy sobs that ended with a wail of despair.

Lorimer looked down at his notes. There was not much scribbled down as everything was recorded on tape, but he had a few memos. Jason White had been gunned down simply for being disloyal to the club and bringing it into disrepute. That was the word Bert had used. Disrepute. And Lorimer had written it down with a large question mark beside it. As if he could scarcely bring himself to believe that a man’s life had been blown away for such a slight motive. Jimmy Greer had been involved with the bogus dead body in the boot room. That had been harder to winkle out of the man sitting opposite them. At each mention of the boot room he had clammed up, as if unwilling to relive any aspect of that strange place. But gradually it had all come out: how Greer had suggested the scenario with the dummy and how Bert had later written that threat on the wall with red paint. They had found the paint, of course, along with a cache of firearms that had made Lorimer’s eyes widen. Greer had become too close to it all in the end and Bert’s only solution was his standard practice: shooting him. He’d even told them in detail how he had fired the first shot to attract the journalist’s attention, held up an old hubcap to flash the sun’s rays in the man’s eyes, then had taken aim and shot him dead. Lorimer had seen the killer’s eyes light up then, remembering how clever he’d been.

Lorimer considered his report; there was no doubt the man was psychologically disturbed and he emphasised his opinion that many more deaths would have occurred if Albert Little had not been stopped today. Looking at the man, sobbing into his hands, he wondered what Dr Brightman might have made of him. But Solly was back at the Royal Infirmary at Rosie’s side. He’d put in his bit, helped them all to focus on a particular sort of killer and he would no doubt gain satisfaction from seeing his theories justified.

‘DCI Lorimer terminating the interview at 6.45 p.m.,’ he said aloud. And as he watched the uniformed officers lead Bert Little away to the cells, Lorimer gave a moment’s thought to another prisoner. It would not be long until someone informed Janis Faulkner of today’s events. And he wondered just how she would react.

It was a typically dreich, wet Glasgow day. All morning the rain clouds had hung over the city, washing the streets into slicks of grey. Yet, to Solly, grinning out of the taxi window, it had never looked more beautiful. Behind them the gloomy chimney that towered over Glasgow Royal Infirmary had disappeared and now they could see the spires of Trinity and the University. They would soon be home. Solly turned his gaze back to Rosie; she was still pale and there were scars that needed more time to heal, but her eyes were bright and she smiled her familiar smile as she took his hand and squeezed it.

‘Okay?’ she asked him and Solly nodded, too full to speak. Yes, he was okay. He smiled at her word, it was a typical Scottish understatement. He was okay, fine, whatever she wanted him to be. But inside, Solomon Brightman felt like a king.

Maggie Lorimer pulled off her raincoat and rushed to the telephone before it could stop ringing. Maybe it was Solly to tell her that Rosie was safely back home. But it was an unfamiliar voice that met her ears, a stranger who was suddenly asking questions about a little ginger cat.

As she slumped down on to a kitchen chair, Chancer came and rubbed himself against her leg. A lump formed in Maggie’s throat as she scooped him up and held him to her cheek. Hearing him purr like that was so hard to bear. A few more hours and the house would be silent again, bereft of this little animal that had come into her life and wound his way around her heart. The man on the phone had sounded a decent sort. Well spoken and matter-of-fact about it all. He’d explained how he and his wife had been caring for the cat — whose real name was Monty — while his elderly mother had taken an extended holiday to New Zealand. They’d only had her pet for two days when he had disappeared. Maggie looked at the address the man had given. It was a fair distance away but not too far for a cat who might be trying to find its way home. Could it be that Chancer was really Monty?

With trembling hands, Maggie laid down her notepad. Was it a coincidence that this call had come on the very day that Rosie was released from hospital? She looked out of the window at the rain lashing down from a leaden sky. Had God heard her plea, and was she being asked to sacrifice something dear to her because of the pact that she had made? It wasn’t something she did often, and she was assailed by a pang of guilt as she dialled his mobile number, but at that moment Maggie had an overwhelming need for her husband.

Lorimer sat staring out at the rain-washed car park below his office. On his desk there were matters pertaining to serious crimes and he had several important reports to finish before he could head for home. But he needed a moment to think about Maggie and how she must be feeling. Her voice had sounded so desperately unhappy even though she was trying to be brave. Funny how a wee thing like a stray cat could turn your world upside down. If Chancer was gone then he’d find her a wee kitten that needed a good home, he decided. It was the least he could do. His hand reached for the documents in front of him. Matters of life and death were what he dealt with every day but he could empathise with Maggie’s loss just as much as he could with the terrible, wrenching grief of the men and women whose loved ones had been torn away by one man’s madness.