Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

What had possessed the child to take a short cut down that sinister-looking lane? But then don’t we all believe that bad things happen to other people? Linda shivered. They were ‘other people’ too, she thought. And Sharon? That still remained a mystery. Would they ever know what had happened after she had caught that bus?

The cat jumped off her knee, disturbed by a sudden grip on its fur.

Linda allowed herself a swift glance in James’s direction. She remembered how she had reacted to the news about Alison Girdley’s attack. Her first thought had been ‘Where was James that night?’ Relief to know that he had been at home with them was tempered by the dreadful guilt that she could even suspect her son of such a crime. He was so quiet, so withdrawn. Yet she knew in her heart of hearts that James was totally innocent. Didn’t she?

Now the screen showed the Glasgow area on a map of Scotland. What had once been Strathclyde Region was coloured in green with a red dot indicating the city. The scene moved to a helicopter shot of the River Clyde and the bridges which ran north to south. Then the camera panned out over the city and Nick Ross used the phrase ‘dear green place’ as the scenes showed the city’s familiar skyline then the stretches of parkland: Bellahouston, famous for its Papal visit, Queen’s Park, Kelvingrove near the university and, finally, St Mungo’s Park.

Solly was acutely aware of the killer. He would be crouched over his own television set, gloating. Solly felt that he was beginning to know this man now. He would have had a nasty shock when his attack on Alison Girdley failed. His ego would have been badly bruised and he would have retreated in fear and anger, like an animal snarling over lost prey.

As the helicopter circled St Mungo’s Park, Solly gazed at the peripheral buildings; a church spire, old sandstone tenements and then the grey blocks of high-rise flats, bleak and impersonal like tombstones stretching to the sky. Solly had made red circles around these flats on his Glasgow street plan. Even though house-to-house enquiries had been made, he still came back to the flats. The killer was a loner. And what better place for a solitary, anonymous person than these flats which reared their pre-stressed concrete heads out of the surrounding greenery?

There were certain aspects of this man that defied profiling, but others were beginning to form a pattern to Solly. Would this programme make the killer react? The Chief Inspector certainly thought so. Solly and he had discussed the fact that the man would believe himself to be inviolable. They all had that streak of megalomania, that utter belief that their actions were those of a superior being. Often, as both Solly and Lorimer knew from their different experiences, that was the point from which their downfall began. Solly thought of the hunter in his lair. Yes. He’d pad up and down with restless uncertainty, but sooner or later he’d come out again to kill.

Lucy Haining’s last known movements were being shown now, and the presenter took pains to point out that this young art student had shown so much promise. A photograph came up on the screen of Lucy receiving her award. Her young face was flushed with pleasure.

Lorimer’s voice was telling the millions of viewers about the attack. The word ‘mutilation’ was used, no doubt producing ripples of disgust in homes all over the country. Lorimer was tight-lipped about the gory details, however. This was not an exposé to titillate or fascinate the nation. That was understood.

Now Sharon Millen’s bus journey home was depicted. Nick Ross’s voice became urgent.

‘Did you see this girl on the night of Wednesday the third of November? Were you a passenger on that bus? If so, the police urge you to come forward. Any information you may give might be helpful in apprehending this dangerous killer.’

The television screen showed the laurel bushes in St Mungo’s Park where the scene-of-crime plastic flags still fluttered in the cold breeze. The Chief Inspector was explaining how the bodies had been dumped and found by unsuspecting passers-by. Hilary Fleming, holding Toby firmly on his lead, told of her discovery. She was composed now, speaking readily, buoyed up by the medication she had required since the day she and her dog had found that second corpse.

Police Constable Matt Boyd took a gulp of tea from the mug he had cupped in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the telly in the duty room. Lorimer was doing well so far, he conceded. There was no trace of anger in the man. He’d kept his emotions totally under control, giving nothing away that he didn’t intend to. Matt had seen him angry and they all knew that his temper had been the product of a deep frustration over this case.

Would they ever solve it? Matt wondered, sipping tea and gazing at the familiar stretches of parkland where he’d spent so many tedious hours. There were countless murder cases where complete blanks had been drawn. If you didn’t catch them quickly, the whole thing became more difficult. The scent would grow cold, thought Matt, unconsciously using an image of which Solly Brightman would have approved. But you never know. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Think of Fred and Rosemary West. Matt shuddered. This case had its horrors but at least there were only three dead.

‘So far,’ a voice said in his head.

The presenter had turned to the police officer by his side once more.

‘Chief Inspector, what can you tell us about the progress which is being made in these investigations?’

The question was asked politely, deferentially, yet there was an edge to it, as if progress was not the correct word to use at all. Matt drained his mug and put it down on the floor beside his chair, smiling cynically. Progress? How would the Chief reply to that? Lorimer cleared his throat, then looking steadily at the man on his left, began his carefully prepared response.

‘There are several aspects of this case which can be made public, particularly after the incident involving Alison Girdley.’

‘Yes, tell us about that,’ responded Ross, accepting the deflection from his original question.

‘Miss Girdley was walking home from her sports club on the night of December 7th when she was hailed by the driver of a stationary ambulance.’ Lorimer paused for an instant to let this information be digested. ‘The driver attempted to throw a bicycle chain around Alison Girdley’s neck, but she successfully avoided this attack and ran to a nearby house for help.’

Mickey Taylor took his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze. They sat side by side on the settee, watching the screen with some relish. They had been strictly warned by the police not to discuss the events of that evening when Alison had burst hysterically into their living room. Since then they had talked over everything they could find out about the crimes, avid for new developments in a case which had touched on their own unsensational lives. They had watched the TV cameras and all the paraphernalia of the television crew on their street filming Alison herself in a reconstruction of her attack. She’d been a brave lass to go through it all again, they’d agreed.

Then there had been the thrill of being interviewed in their own home. Jess had been in a tizzy about what to wear for the occasion, even contemplating the purchase of a new dress. However, she had settled for having her hair done and had worn an outfit which was smart but not flashy. The neighbours would talk about it in days to come but she wouldn’t let them accuse her of showing off. No. It was too serious a matter for that.

Jess blushed as she heard her own accent from the television. How broad she sounded. And Mickey! She looked at her husband appraisingly. He wasn’t as stout as that. It must be the angle of the camera, surely?