Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Then suddenly their moment was over. They continued to sit in silence, Mickey squeezing his wife’s hand by way of congratulation, as the programme continued.

*

‘Now. A bicycle chain. You said earlier, Chief Inspector, that this was in fact the weapon used to strangle Lucy, Donna and Sharon.’

‘Yes. This is being treated as the murder weapon. Marks found on the throats of the three deceased show that this was consistent with a bicycle chain, or something very similar to it.’

‘And you think that Alison Girdley was meant to be another victim?’

‘We do. This was a totally unprovoked attack by the assailant. There is no doubt in our minds that this man intended to assault and to kill Alison Girdley.’

‘And you believe that this was the same man who had killed Donna, Lucy and Sharon?’

Lorimer had been prepared for this. There had been some discussion as to whether Alison’s assailant had been the killer they sought or whether this had been a copy-cat attempt at murder which had gone awry.

‘We believe so, yes. The fact that this assailant was in an old ambulance is a pertinent factor. The police have reason to believe that whoever committed these crimes used an ambulance to transport the bodies to St Mungo’s Park and then dispose of them in the bushes.’

The light from the television screen cast shadows on the walls as Martin Enderby scribbled furiously in his reporter’s notebook. He desperately wanted to glean some new facts from this programme to add to the piece he had been writing. And he wondered what they’d say in the update.

*

The studio lights had become unbearably hot and Lorimer longed to take a sip from the glass of water in front of him.

‘So Alison Girdley may actually have seen the man who murdered Sharon, Donna and Lucy?’

‘We think so. There is a videofit picture which we have prepared on the strength of Alison’s description.’

‘Yes. Here it is now. Take a good look.’ Ross’s voice was compelling as the photofit appeared on the screen. ‘If you think you know this man or have any information about the old ambulance which he was driving then please do not hesitate to telephone the incident room on this number.’

The screen flashed up the number as the presenter’s clear tones repeated it twice.

‘And remember, all calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Now the picture reverted to the two men who regarded each other seriously behind the studio desk.

‘Chief Inspector, have you any message for the public? Any advice which might lead to finding this man?’

The camera zoomed slowly in to show Lorimer’s rugged face in close-up. His blue eyes seemed to pierce right through the air waves.

‘This man is a highly dangerous individual. If you think you know who he is, by no means approach him but please,’ he emphasised the word, ‘please get in touch with us immediately. It is imperative that we catch this man.’ He paused. They had decided against adding ‘before there are any more killings’. It was not a wise tactic to employ scaremongering in this way. That sort of thing was left for the Press to take up. Also, Lorimer felt that any admission that further attacks might take place would reflect on police work in general and on himself in particular. And yet …

‘He is a dangerous and secretive individual. If you think you can help, then ring this number.’

Lorimer’s face was replaced by the telephone numbers once more, then Nick Ross was back smiling his assurance to the viewers that such crimes were really very rare.

‘We will be back with our update at 11.15 tonight. Already we have a flood of calls coming in and we hope to report on some of those later on.’ Now Nick was leaning on the front of the desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking quite relaxed. ‘Don’t have nightmares,’ he smiled. ‘Goodnight.’

Maggie switched off the television and sat back. She suddenly became aware of her clenched fists and the feeling of hot sweat between her breasts.

Lorimer had spoken to her about the urgency of the case, of the unpredictable nature of any savage serial killer. With one part of her mind Maggie had acknowledged all of these things, agreeing that the case was horrid and vile. But another part of her had remained detached until now. Somehow the reconstruction with trained actors had made the crimes seem more real to her. She had thought about the victims’ last moments and visualised that silver chain biting into their throats.

As the scenes unfolded, Maggie had wondered about the parents. Their anguish in going through this all over again must be unbearably painful — if indeed they had been able to face the programme. Somehow Maggie thought that they would. Any link with their dead children would encourage them to watch; to see the possibility of a net being cast to entrap this sadistic killer.

And Lorimer would do it. Maggie willed him to do it. He must catch that man before … But her mind balked at pursuing that thought.

She looked around the room. It was not a masculine room in any way. The sofas were pale apricot and green, matching the leaf green of the curtains. Colours that were impractical for family life. But then there would never be a family now. She had chosen the colour schemes and planned the interiors, despairing of ever dragging her husband around a furniture shop. Lorimer seemed content to leave such decisions to her, although he was terribly fussy when it came to hanging any of his precious pictures. They at least were his; these Glasgow Boys prints, that Rosaleen Orr with its rich colours and hidden depths that took pride of place. Maggie loved her house, and yearned for it to be their home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.

Maggie pulled herself back to the memory of Lorimer’s performance on Crimewatch . She felt her shoulders relax as she thought of Lorimer and his single-minded pursuit of the killer. This was what he was good at. This was what was important. What she wanted from her husband seemed selfish, almost trivial now, by comparison. Perhaps she should resign herself to this way of life instead of trying to fight against it.

Maggie closed her eyes wearily. The tension in her chest had created a real pain. She wanted to weep, but couldn’t.

So that was it, then. The overhead lights dimmed and the studio sounded hollow as lines of cable were trailed across the floor. The cameras retreated silently, mounted by technicians crouching like monstrous insects, huge headphones clamped over their ears. Lorimer’s shoulders were stiff with tension. He filled his lungs deeply, making himself relax.

Nick Ross was saying something to his production assistant so there was a moment’s respite, a gathering together of energies before they headed back into the courtesy suite.

‘Well done, Chief Inspector.’ The blond head turned in Lorimer’s direction, the calm, intelligent face creased in a beam of satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this shambles.’

He indicated the army of technicians and youngsters with clipboards who had descended on the area, and ushered Lorimer out into the corridor. As they made their way to the room where drinks would be waiting, Ross chatted inconsequentially about family, holidays in Scotland; all designed, Lorimer knew, to ease his tension. He had used that gentle ploy himself and appreciated it from another professional. There would be no more said about murder until Lorimer had visibly unwound. And then?

Telephone lines were already jangling. Amongst the genuine calls were cranks and time-wasters, Ross had told him, but sometimes, just sometimes, a call would come through like a seam of gold appearing in a darkened mine.