Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘There is one thing that bothers me.’ Solly looked up, the smile nervous now. ‘You won’t like this, Chief Inspector, in view of what I’ve said, but … This man may not have started out as a compulsive killer. His intention might simply have been to cover his tracks.’ Solly’s pause was loaded with significance and he spoke softly, ‘But he may have become a compulsive killer.’

Lorimer could hardly believe his ears.

‘You’re right. I don’t like this. First you say that he’s not then you say that he might be. Dr Brightman, you seem to have a habit of contradicting yourself.’

Solly shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms upward, in an exaggerated gesture.

‘I said once that he was a hunter. It’s as if he has acquired a taste for blood.’

‘You think he’ll kill again, then?’

‘Oh, yes. I don’t think that voice on the tape realises just what he has said. He intended it to mock us, and to make us continue to believe that he would go on killing. What he may not realise is that he has begun to enjoy it.’

Despite the stuffiness of his office, Lorimer shuddered. For a few minutes he had felt a sense of relief with Solomon Brightman’s theory. If the killer was a cold-blooded murderer with one of the more recognisable ‘ordinary’ motives, then the killing might have stopped. But now? There was a chilling truth in what the psychologist said. Lorimer had never experienced a case like this, but he had read about killers who had killed for profit, jealousy, revenge or whatever, then found a perverse delight in blood-letting. Often it was paranoia that set in. But sometimes killing just became easier, the killer drawing a sense of power with each death.

‘Chief Inspector.’ Solly stood up, putting his papers back into the briefcase. ‘May I have a copy of the tape please?’

Lorimer drew out a second tape from the evidence bag and handed it over.

‘Thank you.’ Solly sat down again to fasten the briefcase. ‘Oh, were there any other phone calls of any significance after the programme?’

‘Possibly. We’re working on them, but it will take time to sort out the nonsense from the genuine calls. And even they might be well-intentioned but misleading.’

‘Yes.’ Solly stood up again. ‘Well, thank you, Chief Inspector. I hope this has been helpful.’

Lorimer stood up and walked over to open the door. He paused for a moment, considering. His fingers gripped the door handle.

‘Dr Brightman …’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

The grin returned with its full force and the psychologist put out his hand.

‘Oh, I think it’s my pleasure.’

Maggie heaved the canvas bag off her shoulder and let it drop with a thud to the floor. Secondary five’s ink exercises and the juniors’ tests were a chore she would put off until later.

The hall was dark and quiet. Maggie stretched out her arms to ease the ache then let herself slump. Her body felt very small when end-of-the-day weariness set in. With a sigh she stepped out of the flimsy shoes and shuffled upstairs to the bedroom to find her sheepskin slippers, the first of several little comforts which meant home to Maggie. She would pad slowly back downstairs to the kitchen, turn on the fluorescent light and press the button that brought her Classic FM.

These two brightnesses gave her enough stamina to make some decent coffee. Good coffee was important to Maggie. Snuggled into the kitchen chair, she would clasp her stiff fingers around the mug, letting the fragrance tickle her nostrils before she took that first sip. Sometimes, especially during holidays, she was aware that her body craved a break for coffee at just this time in the afternoon. Would she persist in this pattern of behaviour even when she was an old lady in retirement in some dim and distant future?

For a woman who resented long periods of solitude, this was one time when it was good to be alone.

For twenty minutes or so Maggie let herself drift, hearing the music as a background comfort, sipping the coffee until the cafetiere was almost empty. Only then would it be time to return to a sense of reality, sift through the day’s mail and check the answering machine.

Lorimer hadn’t called. Still, that was hardly surprising. He would have been at the studio until God knows when, then he’d had the early shuttle to catch back to Glasgow. Maggie knew he would be met at the airport and whisked off to Headquarters where he would remain until … Until he decides to come home, she thought gloomily.

Today had been particularly difficult at work. Many of the staff had seen Crimewatch and were naturally curious to sound her out. Behind the coffee cups she could see eyes glancing her way, appraising her. As always, she played down Lorimer’s involvement, but after being the programme’s most horrific focus it was impossible to avoid discussion of the case. Someone said they knew someone who knew the father (or was it the uncle?) of the third victim, Sharon Millen, and then a subtle form of verbal sparring broke out, several voices raised in assertion of who had the nearest link to those directly involved. Maggie felt lost in the myriad of tenuous connections.

They had begun to discuss the possibility of another murder taking place.

‘What does your husband think?’

Maggie, who had lost the thread of the previous conversation, had been startled by the directness of the question. The Head of Modern Languages had fixed her with a steely glare.

‘I don’t know. I hardly ever see him.’

The words were out before Maggie could stop them. The woman’s raised eyebrows and patronising smile were what Maggie had tried for years to avoid. Sure, everyone discussed their home life to an extent, but Maggie had learned to be circumspect about her husband’s work and remained non-committal about her marriage. Now there was an embarrassed silence in which she felt like a fugitive caught in a sudden arc light.

Sandie, her friend in Secretarial Studies, nudged her and laughed. ‘Ah, well, what it is to have a famous hubby! Jack won’t be on the box unless we win the lottery!’

There were a few laughs, which broke the tension, and Maggie shot her friend a look of gratitude. She was spared any further quizzing as the bell signalled the end of morning interval. As she smoothed the biscuit crumbs from her suede skirt, she determined to make herself scarce at lunchtime. There would be no more digging into the case if she could avoid it. Nor into what had started to titillate her curious colleagues — the state of her marriage.

The coffee cup was empty yet there was still some warmth between the porcelain and her fingers. She would sit quite still until the very last strains of the Moonlight Sonata had played across her senses.

With the presenter’s voice came that sense of waking up, coming back to the present and reality. Maggie stood up stiffly, ready to begin again. She would tackle the tests first then prepare some food. That way the fifth-years’ jotters could command her entire attention during the evening.

It was almost ten o’clock and Maggie’s neck was sore from sitting too long in the one position. Her tray of dirty dishes lay to the side of the settee, away from the growing pile of marked exercise books.

The front door closed and she could hear Lorimer turning his key in the lock.

As he came upstairs into the living room Maggie’s dark head rose from her work and turned towards him. The standard lamp behind her threw the angles of her face into sharp relief, but her expression softened as she saw him.

‘Had a good day?’ His smile was rueful, sweeping over the jotters spilled around her feet.

‘The usual,’ Maggie sighed, then stretched out her hands in welcome. Lorimer put his coat over a chair and caught her hand, kissing her upturned mouth.