Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

They passed through the little village of Strathblane in minutes. The cottages and old coaching inn which boasted such colourful hanging baskets in high summer looked strangely abandoned in this late winter light. Martin slowed down as they breasted the hill, looking for the site of the fire. It wasn’t difficult to spot. A little way off the road a police landrover was parked, a small van beside it. Davey glanced over, raising his eyebrows.

‘We’re not the first, then?’

Martin parked on the grass verge then helped Davey unload his gear. Below them a copse of fir trees screened the sweep of moorland from the road. A sheep track meandered downwards through the heather and round a curving hillock that concealed the site of the fire from the road above. It was a difficult, but not impossible, route for a heavy vehicle to negotiate. The police landrover was not too close to the locus, thought Martin. Perhaps that was deliberate, though.

As they scrunched through the wet heather they could see several figures by the site, some in uniform. A camera tripod was balanced carefully in the tussocky grasses.

‘Damn!’

Davey shrugged. ‘It’s all one. You’ll do a better story.’

Martin laughed ruefully. ‘And you’ll take better pictures.’

‘Of course!’

As they drew nearer Martin could see that three of the figures were police officers. He did not recognise the other two men. The photographer by the tripod was aware of Martin’s approach and waved a warrant card in his direction as if to prevent any distraction. So. A police photographer. Martin felt relief. They were the first from the Press, then.

The second man in civilian clothes was a strange-looking fellow. He was standing staring at the burnt grass as if it had been the site of an alien landing rather than a spot ravished by mere human violence. His arms were folded across his chest and the breeze ruffled his thick black beard. Although Martin’s professional curiosity normally prompted him to speak to any interesting stranger who came into his orbit, there was something about this character’s bearing which he didn’t like to disturb. It would have been like violating the private moment of someone at prayer, he thought.

Davey was circling the burnt grass, his gear weighing him down to a slow walk. At last he stopped by a spot where the sun fell behind him. Martin watched as he fished a band from his pocket and tied his long hair back in a ponytail. No stray hairs were allowed to float across his lenses. Satisfied that his colleague was now at work, Martin sidled over to the figure by the police tripod.

‘Martin Enderby, the Gazette ,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Thought it would be your boys,’ answered the photographer curtly, returning to his work.

Martin waited patiently until the man had clicked off sufficient frames for his purpose. ‘A friend of yours?’ he asked, indicating the dark figure still standing on the fringes of the site.

‘Only just met him today,’ the officer replied. ‘Colleague of DCI Lorimer’s.’

Martin nodded, hoping for more, but the photographer was already packing up his gear. ‘Ready, Dr Brightman?’ he called.

The still figure moved out of its trance. Martin was amazed at the transformation on the man’s face as he grinned boyishly at the photographer.

‘Oh, yes, I do think so. I really do think I am ready.’

Then he rubbed his hands in a gleeful gesture and waved cheerily as they passed Martin on their way to the unmarked van.

Well, thought Martin to himself, he’s an odd one. Dr Brightman? Could he be new to the Forensic Medical Department? Perhaps he would give Glasgow University a little call later on.

Davey was several yards from the site by a group of windswept saplings. He looked down on the area, snapping quickly then moving slightly to catch a different angle. Martin waited impatiently. The photos would be terrific but Davey sometimes became detached from their purpose and looked only for a picture’s compositional value. At last he appeared satisfied and returned to Martin’s side.

‘Find anything out from those two?’ he asked.

Martin shrugged. ‘Not really. Someone new to Forensics, I think. Anyhow, I shouldn’t expect there would be much left to test after a fire like that.’ He indicated the expanse of bald and blackened earth. ‘Seems to have done a thorough job.’

Davey didn’t answer, his eyes on the van now moving off in the direction of Strathblane. Martin followed his gaze. Whatever the prize-wining photographer was seeing, he couldn’t make it out. Ideas for a winter landscape, perhaps?

‘Right, let’s get back and put this lot together,’ he said at last, looking at his watch. Other folk might have time to stand and stare but he had a deadline to meet.

Donna Henderson’s life lay in fragments within a plain buff folder. Despite the ubiquitous computer, hard copy was still the first point of reference for officers, and the lever arch files were stacked high in Lorimer’s Division. He sat with the folder open in front of him, examining statements several months old. Parents, friends, colleagues and neighbours had all contributed to the picture of who Donna had been. An ordinary lassie, Lorimer had decided at the time; one whose ambitions lay no further than the next good night out with her pals and maybe a holiday abroad, if she could save up her tips.

The young hairdresser had left school at sixteen to train in a local salon. She had apparently been happy enough to sweep up the floors, make tea and learn to shampoo clients’ hair. Then the take-over had come. A larger group of salons had bought out the shop and Donna had been given the chance to travel into one of their Glasgow branches. She had been thrilled at the prospect, a friend had said. Despite the cost of travelling into the city every day, Donna had loved her work there and was keen to learn. The senior stylist had been tactful about her progress. Enthusiasm had not been lacking, but she was not a fast learner. Nevertheless her cheery manner had been an asset to the city salon and she was both punctual and conscientious. Ironically it was that very conscientiousness that had been her downfall, Lorimer thought. A more rebellious spirit might have stayed out later with her pals and risked parental wrath; at least she would have travelled in company rather than seeking that solitary taxi home.

A taxi she had never reached.

Lorimer flicked through other statements. No boyfriends of any note. A few dates at the pictures in the company of lads she had known at school. Except one. Darren Hughes had met Donna at The Garage, a well-known city night spot, and had seen her twice thereafter. She wasn’t really his type, he’d said. Too chatty. He’d thought they’d shared the same taste in music, but apparently Donna had favoured a band that Darren considered passé and he’d lost interest quite quickly. Donna hadn’t appeared too bothered by the brief fling. A bit of necking in the back row of the cinema was about as far as the relationship had progressed. He might interview Darren again, but there was no obvious motive for murder.

Why the hair? Again and again Lorimer had tried to make sense of this aspect of the girls’ murders. ‘Can you guess what colour I’m going to have next?’ that voice had asked. There would be a few attempts at a voice match, Darren Hughes amongst them, but Lorimer had the strong impression that the voice on the telephone belonged to someone who had not yet sat across the table from him in the interview room.

Solly Brightman considered the murder to be deliberate and well planned. That was as may be. The psychologist was coming up with more answers now that he had been to Strathblane to see the locus of Valentine Carruthers’s murder. There was more to it than they could possibly guess, he had told Lorimer, driving the Chief Inspector into a barely concealed rage of frustration. He knew that already. Donna might have seen something incriminating, Solly had suggested. She could have been a threat to this man without even knowing it.