Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

Martin smiled sardonically. It was the sort of juxtaposition he’d often seen at the hands of the Gazette ’s sub-editors: the one story seeming to give the lie to the other. Martin listened long enough to hear that a cold front was moving eastwards then switched off. The murderer had dropped out of sight since scaring Alison Girdley.

Now, Martin thought, let’s make my readership speculate about the mental make-up of this serial killer. He had begun to feel enthusiastic about this angle. Talking to Diane had helped him think through a possible argument. Now there were textbooks to consult and other people’s hypotheses to mull over in the search for a different sort of story.

Maggie Lorimer watched the windscreen wipers swish back and forth against the pattering raindrops. The car moved slowly through late afternoon traffic, necessitating constant use of brake and clutch. Maggie wasn’t in any hurry, however. There would be the usual emptiness in the house, the unlit hallway, gloomy and unwelcoming. Once home she would turn up the central heating, switch on the lamps and tune into Classic FM. This last action was a necessity to Maggie, whose natural gregariousness demanded other voices around her. Even now a voice from the car radio was warning of the hazards of road works and delays from the city.

Tell me about it, thought Maggie, gazing at the rows of cars tortoising along their motorway lanes.

The voice changed and began to give the day’s news in clear, precise tones.

‘A body has been found …’

No, she thought, no, I can’t stand it any more. But the voice was describing Hertfordshire and the corpse appeared to be an old man, someone who had come to grief by accident. Maggie’s stomach felt weak. She had been so sure that the killer had found another victim.

Her finger flew to the button and the voice ended in mid-sentence. What if he was never found? Lorimer had spoken briefly but grimly about the difficulties in tracking down serial killers such as this one. Would he ever give up the search?

Maggie caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Dark curls tumbled around her pale face, greying around the hairline. Her eyes showed signs of strain and fatigue, exaggerated by the mascara she had absently rubbed into dark smudges. Lines which had once told of laughter would soon be described as crows’ feet, she told herself, miserably.

Maggie sighed and pulled her gaze back to the traffic ahead. Once home she would prepare a meal for two but expect to dine alone. Despite the fact that Lorimer had always worked dreadful hours in their twelve years of marriage, Maggie had never come to terms with the disappointment of a husband who rarely appeared at dinner time. Instead of becoming accustomed to their long spells apart — for sometimes they did not see each other for days at a time — Maggie increasingly resented this lack of a pattern to their lives. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps her own day as a school teacher was so regulated by the electronic bell that she craved a similar order and structure in her home life.

The cars in front began to move faster and Maggie accelerated to match their speed. Up ahead the familiar junction appeared and she signalled left, relieved to be on the last stretch of her journey home.

*

The answering machine was blinking its red button as usual. Maggie kicked off her high heels, throwing her velvet coat onto a nearby chair.

‘It’s me. Just to remind you that it’s Crimewatch tonight. I’ll be staying over.’

There was a pause as Maggie waited for the bleep, but Lorimer’s voice came again, almost as an afterthought.

‘Love you.’

And I love you too, you brute, thought Maggie, tears of frustration pricking behind her eyes. How on earth could she have forgotten Crimewatch ? Easy, her more cynical self replied, I never talk to him face to face these days so why should I remember? At least I can record the programme, she told herself with a rueful laugh, then I can play my husband’s face over and over again in case I forget what he looks like.

Maggie massaged the back of her neck, circling her head to rid herself of the ache that was beginning to form already. The tape bleeped a few times then continued.

‘Hallo, dear, it’s Mum here. Just thought I’d remind you about Crimewatch. Isn’t it exciting? Mrs MacDonald was asking all sorts of questions, but you know me, I just told her that I couldn’t let her know anything about Bill’s cases.’

No, thought Maggie, because we never tell you anything, you old gossip.

‘Well, dear, must go. We’ll catch up some time soon. Bye, now.’

This last phrase was spoken with a wistfulness that caught at Maggie’s conscience. Damn! Here she was craving the companionship of her husband when Mum would gladly have filled the gap of lonely hours. Two more bleeps sounded before Maggie switched off the tape. She’d phone her mother after dinner to reassure her that she hadn’t forgotten the TV programme. (A lie, but not one she was about to admit.) Fortified by some food she could endure hearing about what Mrs MacDonald had said at the pensioners’ club — couldn’t she?

‘And now we come to a most disquieting series of murders. These murders have had wide Press coverage in recent months and you may be familiar with some of the details.’

Nick Ross’s earnest, boyish face gazed towards the camera.

‘I refer, of course, to the murders of three young women whose bodies have all been discovered in St Mungo’s Park, Glasgow.’

Maggie Lorimer watched as the camera retreated from the presenter’s face and moved to include the figure of her husband. There he was, immaculate in his dark suit and crisp white shirt (a shirt she’d ironed only yesterday), his hands clasped before him in a firm, steady manner. His whole demeanour showed that stillness which Maggie knew so well. Ross had now introduced Chief Inspector William Lorimer of Strathclyde Police and Maggie felt a stirring of pride as well as an anxiety that this live broadcast should go well. She pressed the record button on the remote control. There would be a recording taking place at Police Headquarters, she knew, but Lorimer might want to see this more privately.

And so might I, thought Maggie, so might I.

‘We are grateful for the full co-operation of the families of these victims,’ Ross was saying, ‘in making a reconstruction of the movements of Donna Henderson, Lucy Haining and Sharon Millen. If you were in the vicinity of St Mungo’s Park on the nights of Thursday October 21st, Monday, October 25th or the 3rd of November, which was a Wednesday, you may be able to help Chief Inspector Lorimer with his enquiries. Watch now and see if there is anything in these reconstructions which jogs your memory at all.’

Linda Thomson’s eyes were focused on the TV screen in front of her. She was dimly aware of James sitting slumped in a corner, watching the screen because he had to. They all had to, thought Linda. It was macabre, but it was a part of them now, and there would never be any getting away from it.

She watched as the actress taking the part of Donna Henderson left a group of friends and plunged into the darkness of the lane. Her high-heeled shoes clicked over the cobbles. The camera showed them in close-up and for a few seconds the room was filled with the menace of the darkness and that hollow, lonesome sound of footsteps.

Ross’s voice returned, reassuringly normal, talking about the forensic evidence at the actual scene of the killing.

Linda sat quite still, the cat on her knee asleep, oblivious to her turmoil. She stroked the smooth fur eagerly as if making contact with a living, breathing creature might restore normality, banish this nightmare. The cat purred in its sleep below her active fingers.