Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

The update to the main programme would be made by Ross himself, letting viewers know if there were any immediate results to be had from their various appeals. Lorimer would remain behind the scenes listening as information came filtering through.

Lorimer found himself in a small, windowless room which had the heavy smell of new carpeting. Some of those who worked on the programme were talking loudly and pouring themselves drinks. The producer handed Lorimer a square-cut glass containing malt whisky. It was a presumption, Lorimer thought, that was actually justified. Not only did he indulge in his national drink, he was in real need of one at that moment.

‘Water?’

A small brown jug was proffered.

‘Just a splash.’

There was no more he could do now but wait. It was irksome to have matters whisked away from him like this, and Lorimer realised that he felt exactly the same about Solomon Brightman. There were always training courses that stressed the need for teamwork and co-operation in police work. To fly solo was not only foolish and egotistical but dangerous. It showed a craving for power. Lorimer knew that his need to be in control fought battles with the common sense which delegated authority. But common sense usually won. Indeed, it had been his ability to work in a team that had impressed his superiors all the way up through the ranks.

The whisky slipped over his throat and burned a yellow warmth inside. By going to the psychologist, by involving this television programme, he was not admitting any inability on his own part or that of his department. It was necessary to cast a wider net than he alone could wield in order to catch this killer, and Solomon had told him that it was highly likely the man they were after would watch the programme.

‘He won’t know beforehand that there will be any reference to his killings, but he will expect some sort of recognition. The obsession with self will make him glory in his deeds and want to see them displayed,’ the psychologist had said.

Lorimer knew a lot about killers and their utter conviction that they were invulnerable. They all believed that they could never be caught. Some of them had appeared shrunken and bewildered when the law had finally put a stop to their evil progress. Others continued to display an arrogant bravado until the day a judge sentenced them to a suitable term of imprisonment. What about this man? A vision of his photofit face came to Lorimer’s mind. Unsmiling, clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, he could be a soldier, a policeman even, or any ordinary respectable citizen. It was frightening how normal-looking appearances hid such evil within. With a shudder Lorimer remembered the benign, smiling face of Thomas Hamilton, the warped murderer of that class of infants and their teacher in Dunblane.

‘Chief Inspector?’

A small woman with dyed red hair and round black spectacles stood in front of him.

‘A telephone call for you.’

Still cradling his glass, Lorimer followed the woman out into the corridor. They walked along until she stopped by the door of a well-lit office.

‘You can take it in there. That’s a separate line.’

Lorimer nodded and the woman closed the door softly behind her.

‘Hello. Chief Inspector Lorimer speaking.’

‘It’s Solomon.’

Lorimer’s heart sank. Somehow he had hoped for a respite from cowboys and indians.

‘I want you to do something for me.’ Lorimer waited, curious despite himself. ‘Can you ask the presenter not to mention the case in his update?’

‘ Not to mention?’ Lorimer’s voice was incredulous.

‘Yes.’ There was the usual pause that Lorimer had come to expect between Solomon’s statement and elucidation. ‘He’ll be expecting to hear more about himself. I want you to provoke his vanity by keeping him guessing. If he hears nothing it will seem to him that his case is not important any more, despite the earlier programme.’

‘But if there is real information coming through …’ Lorimer hesitated. He felt, like Solomon, the delicate control that this television show was exercising over their unknown killer.

‘You don’t want him to go to ground?’

‘I don’t want any more dead bodies either!’ Lorimer snapped back.

There was another pause in which Solomon’s sigh was just audible.

‘If no one appears to have telephoned it’s just possible that he will dial that number himself.’

Yes, thought Lorimer, from a call box. The bastard isn’t a fool.

‘Chief Inspector,’ Solomon’s voice sounded almost wistful, ‘I really would like to hear his voice.’ He paused again and when Lorimer did not reply he continued, this time adopting the manner of a teacher speaking to a stubborn child. ‘There are certain aspects of this case I’d like to discuss with you. May I see you about four o’clock tomorrow?’

Lorimer was suddenly torn between annoyance at the man’s presumption and a desire to laugh at the absurdity of taking orders from him.

‘Chief Inspector?’

‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow at four then.’

As he put down the phone he could just imagine Solomon’s wide smile.

Nick Ross was not smiling when Lorimer suggested that the update should make no mention of the St Mungo’s murders.

‘But we have all these calls giving possible names!’

‘And we both know that it’s going to take days to corroborate them. By that time he could be anywhere.’ Lorimer’s mouth hardened. ‘Our psychologist working on the case believes we may provoke our man into making a call himself, if there is no mention of him during the update.’

Nick Ross’s eyebrows rose. A psychologist had not been mentioned by this Chief Inspector from north of the border. That would have given extra spice to the programme. A frown of irritation passed over the presenter’s face, the only sign Lorimer had of his displeasure. Somehow it made him feel guilty, as if he had no right to conceal any aspect of this case.

Solomon was right. At twenty past midnight the switchboard registered the call.

Solomon was late. One of his third-year students, an earnest Scandinavian who towered over him, had sought his approval about the research techniques needed for his dissertation. Calmly, Solly had reassured the young man, pointing out the best ways to obtain the data he required. As a result it was twenty-five past four before he emerged from the building into University Avenue and looked up and down for a taxi.

Beneath his placid appearance he was experiencing some excitement. Chief Inspector Lorimer would be waiting, probably with justified impatience, for this meeting. Solly knew that his credibility was on the ascendant since the murderer’s phone call. Now he had to capitalise on that.

At last a taxi appeared over the brow of the hill, its FOR HIRE sign blazing orange. Solly gave his destination and settled back to think.

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. Dr Brightman appears to have left. Can I take a message?’

Lorimer resisted the temptation to be rude. The secretary at the Department of Psychology was undeserving of the brunt of his temper. He’d save it for Dr Brightman.

‘No, thank you. I expect he’s on his way.’

Lorimer put down the receiver. Since yesterday everything seemed to have changed. It was like looking through field glasses and adjusting the focus. Certain areas now came sharply into view, others remained hazily in the background. One thing was certain, and that was the way that the killer had played into their hands. Well, to be fair, into the hands of Solomon Brightman. Lorimer had spent quite a lot of the night reconsidering the psychologist’s ability to make an impact on this case. Even now a copy of Canter’s treatise lay in his desk drawer. He had been impressed in spite of himself, even from the little he had begun to read.