Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘Glad you’re home,’ she murmured.

‘Like a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, I’ll get it.’

‘No. Stay where you are. You look bushed.’

Lorimer disappeared and eventually Maggie could hear the distant sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing downstairs. She closed her eyes, unable to concentrate any longer on the jotter on her lap.

‘There you are.’

Maggie looked up at her husband and took the tea. He seemed quite relaxed for a man who had been on live television less than twenty-four hours ago.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Well, what?’

‘Oh, you know. How did it go?’

Lorimer moved to sit beside her and Maggie slid the rest of the jotters over the edge of the settee. Their mugs of tea sat side by side on the low table as Lorimer slung his arm around his wife’s shoulders, drawing her against him.

‘It wasn’t what I expected. I suppose it never is. Everything was much smaller. The studio, the rooms. And there were so many people. God, no wonder it costs so much to make television programmes. The wages bill must be astronomic.’

‘What about Nick Ross? What’s he like?’

‘Exactly as he seems. A nice, sharp bloke. Very aware. Very professional.’ Lorimer paused, glancing briefly at Maggie’s profile. ‘Did you see the programme?’

‘Of course.’ Her tone was full of injured protestation, covering up the guilt that she felt. No one would ever know that she’d almost forgotten her husband’s appearance on TV.

‘And?’

‘You were great.’

Lorimer grinned and Maggie knew he’d wanted to hear these words from his wife, biased or not.

‘Did you get lots of telephone calls?’

‘Yes, we did.’

Lorimer shifted away from her and took a long drink of tea. Maggie waited. She wouldn’t push. If he wanted to talk about it he would.

‘We think there have been several sightings of the vehicle — the ambulance — but that’s not certain yet.’ He paused again, and Maggie reckoned he was debating whether she should know about the developments that had already taken place.

‘Why was there no mention of the murders in the update? Were there no responses by then?’

‘I asked them to leave the case out,’ Lorimer frowned. ‘It was a strategy to see if we would get a call from the killer.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes.’

Lorimer was looking away from her now, and Maggie could see the tension in her husband’s neck. She longed to ask ‘Will you find him?’ but dreaded that her question might sound like a criticism.

‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘It can only move things forward. You looked really good on television. Everyone said so.’

‘Everyone?’

Maggie giggled. ‘Well, Mum. And Mrs MacDonald.’ Her thoughts flicked to her colleagues in the staff room, then shut them out again. ‘The reconstructions looked quite scary. Were they accurate?’

‘Oh, yes. They’d done their homework, all right.’ Lorimer’s arm came round her shoulders again and then he was holding her tightly. ‘Maggie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Let’s go to bed.’

They rose from the settee, still holding on to one another, then Lorimer reached out and switched off the lamp. The room plunged into semi-darkness, making vague shapes of the discarded objects on the floor.

The yellow flames are seeping out beneath the tyres, catching on the dried heather and old winter grass. One flame shoots up over the radiator grille and, as if at a signal, others leap up to join it, hissing against the wet bodywork. The vehicle rocks slightly. Perhaps the force of this combustion has made it shudder.

The watcher by the trees listens to the roar as the fuel tank ignites. A splash of colour floods the ambulance, shrivelling the paintwork. Sparks fly up into the night sky and he is reminded of that magical feeling on bonfire night. The crackling grows louder, but not loud enough to muffle the thuds within the vehicle. He listens. Soon there is only the roar and crackle of flame to be heard. He watches. The fire has done its worst and now the pale shape of the van has gone, leaving behind a blackened outline.

He laughs softly. No one will find you now. Cinders and ashes will leave no secrets behind.

When the report came through, Lorimer was almost expecting it.

‘Totally burned out?’

‘It’s a complete wreck, sir,’ the officer remarked, ‘but there’s no doubt it’s the one we’re after.’

Since Crimewatch there had been some useful information about the ambulance; enough to identify it as the one seen by Alison Girdley. Lorimer had a hunch that it would be trashed. He and Solly had no false ideas about their quarry: he was no fool. Given the interest in the programme, he was bound to get rid of the incriminating vehicle.

‘That’s not all we found, sir.’

The voice on the line cut into Lorimer’s thoughts.

‘Oh?’

There was a moment’s hesitation which Lorimer recognised as the forerunner of bad news.

‘No, sir. There is … there was a body inside the van.’

Had he? Would he have? Lorimer felt cheated for a moment. A cowardly suicide may have robbed him of bringing this criminal to justice. A wave of shame swept over him. He should be glad the bastard was dead and gone. No more young women would be picked off in such a gruesome manner.

Lorimer listened to the officer’s voice giving details of the locus. It was a good forty minutes’ drive from the city.

He put the phone down. Well, that was that. Another case over, and no thanks to him. Circumstances had overtaken him and the end had come so abruptly. The only satisfaction, he thought wryly, was that he was not the only one who would feel cheated. Solly Brightman’s theories could never be proved now. But whatever elation he may have expected did not manifest itself. Instead, Lorimer felt flat and tired, as if he had succumbed to a bad cold. Would they ever identify the killer now? It was possible, but unlikely. There would be the usual scientific formalities, of course, but a charred corpse hardly made for the best of identifications.

Suddenly Lorimer felt an unreasonable surge of anger. How dare he cheat his way out of capture like this! That didn’t fit at all. Lorimer shivered. He was beginning to follow unfamiliar patterns of thinking.

Lorimer felt the familiar buzz which occurred whenever he set foot on the locus of a murder. It was certainly not suicide. The first indications were that the body had been bound and left to die in the ensuing blaze. Very likely this was a fourth murder to add to the tally. But would they be able to identify the victim? And why had he been in the ambulance?

The Fiscal was already there watching the pathologist’s examination as Lorimer stepped over the plastic cordon. He smiled briefly, acknowledging Lorimer’s presence, then looked back at the young woman who knelt by the charred body on the ground. Lorimer scanned the scene with growing eagerness. The ambulance was a blackened shell now, with the rear doors twisted off at an angle. The dried winter grass was scorched for yards around, an acrid smell still lingering in the air. Uniformed policemen, their acid yellow jackets bright against the muted foliage, searched painstakingly around the area, eyes trained for anything which might raise a question in the long search for an answer.

Overhead a skylark poured out its notes, piercing the damp, grey air, oblivious to the little drama far below.

The moorland was mostly scrubby heather and curled dead bracken the colour of a pheasant’s wing, except where an occasional hazel or rowan struggled for survival. Following the line of the road, a row of poplars reared their empty heads like scraggy, upended broomsticks. It was a bleak yet commanding landscape, thought Lorimer, his eyes finally coming back to the locus.