Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Now other questions must be asked of the people within this dossier. People who would show a greater reluctance to face the nightmare all over again and whose memories might be less reliable. The shock and aftermath of murder sometimes wiped out whole areas of memory for those close to the victim and they would cling to older memories of a younger, safer Donna. Lorimer had toyed with the idea of a client being involved. The trouble was that the city salon enjoyed a lot of passing trade and so not all their clients would be listed in the appointment book. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But someone would have to make the effort to sift through that appointment book and to question the other employees at the salon yet again. Lorimer rolled his eyes to heaven. The Super had brought Solly Brightman into the investigation, but he would not necessarily provide the extra manpower to enable Solly’s theories to be tested. It’s always the same, Lorimer had fumed to his wife. The lack of manpower was the bugbear of every Division in the country. In a case like this, the bottom line was a longer day for the more senior detectives. Unpaid overtime, just part of the job. No wonder Maggie was cheesed off most of the time.

He closed Donna’s file and picked up the one marked ‘Carruthers V’. The full post-mortem report would take three weeks to prepare. Rosie had given him a start, though, by answering at least one question: who? His mind flashed back to the old derelict he had interviewed. He recalled the hacking cough, his cunning eyes and the wheedling tone of voice. Yet, despite his past he had felt sorry for the man, down and out as he was with no protection from the elements. And, he thought grimly, no protection from whoever had ended his unfortunate life.

But what was the connection between a young hairdresser and an old tramp? Had Donna been involved with charity work which might have brought her into contact with Valentine Carruthers? He doubted it, but it might be worth contacting Glasgow City Mission and checking out that line of enquiry. They might throw some light, too, on Valentine’s nocturnal movements.

Someone, somewhere, badly wanted rid of a young girl and an old man. The other two victims were camouflage, so the psychologist would have him believe. There is something wrong here, thought Lorimer, but until he could put his finger on it he would not dismiss Dr Brightman’s line of thought. Solly certainly would not wear the suggestion a young DC had made that Valentine had simply strayed into the abandoned ambulance and been the victim of hideous circumstances.

The old ambulance, he had noted, had run through the park. For the hundredth time Lorimer cursed himself for failing to follow up the old man’s comment. Perhaps he had been trying to hint at something he knew? Solomon believed now that Valentine Carruthers had known a great deal. The disposal of the old man by fire had taken some forethought and planning. So a thorough investigation into the tramp’s background was essential. Who were his cronies? What might they know of the old man’s involvement in the park?

‘Get yourself down to Kingston Bridge,’ Lorimer had instructed his youngest DC. ‘See if he took our advice and found a hostel. Ask around. Get to know his haunts.’

Lorimer hoped that gossip from amongst the street people would be forthcoming. It would certainly be welcome.

‘He thinks it’s finished,’ Solly had remarked at their last meeting. ‘He will believe that he has burned every shred of evidence to link him to the murders, including his association with Valentine.’

‘But is it finished?’ Lorimer had asked and Solly had shaken his head slowly.

‘Not at all. The paranoia he has displayed will only escalate, and his behaviour become equally unstable as a result.’

‘He could kill again?’

Solly stared the Chief Inspector straight in the eye.

‘Perhaps he already has.’

The ambulance had been sighted all over the United Kingdom, apparently. The process of elimination was tedious, given that every call to the Crimewatch programme had to be treated as potentially helpful. Now, however, there were several possible leads. One in particular interested DS Alistair Wilson, and it was this one that he needed to discuss with Lorimer.

‘Chap over on the South Side. An Asian bloke who deals in second-hand cars and scrap metal. A bit on the shady side, if you’ll forgive the pun, but no form as such.’

Lorimer was scanning the report rapidly.

‘Says the vehicle went missing last October.’

‘Yes, sir. Can’t think why he didn’t bother to report it.’

DS Wilson’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. They both had a fair idea why the garage owner had not felt it necessary to involve the police in his business. Dodgy vehicles which should have ended up in the scrapyard were all too often sold on for a better profit to unscrupulous characters willing to risk driving about minus a tax disc and MOT certificate.

‘What made him report it now?’

‘Says he saw Crimewatch and felt it was his duty as a respectable citizen. He was all too anxious to know if someone had spotted it in his premises, is my guess.’

‘He’s probably hurt the VAT man over the years, but he’s not going to be had up for murder. Sangha. Ravit Sangha,’ read Lorimer. ‘He and his brother run the business, you say, and the brother does the scrap metal side of things.’

‘Sangha says that he has no record of who brought the vehicle to him,’ continued Wilson, ‘but he remembers it had been previously used by some type of rock band. He’d paid cash, of course.’

Lorimer read through Sangha’s statement once more while Wilson waited expectantly. It was up to his DCI to take the next initiative. In bringing the statement to his boss, he was already hinting that more could be done without actually asking for extra manpower.

‘What do you think?’

‘I could always go and see him again, lean a bit harder,’ Wilson smiled.

Sometimes his pleasant gentlemanly manner in dealing with the public was a blind for the hard steel beneath.

‘Do that. A second visit might shake him up sufficiently to jolt his memory. I want to know who owned that vehicle and where it went after it left Sangha’s yard. There’s a surprising amount of forensic evidence sitting in the file doing nothing. If we know the previous owner we can eliminate at least some of it.’

Ravit Sangha’s garage was situated on the corner of a busy dual carriageway and the main road leading to a sprawling housing estate on the South Side of Glasgow. The blue hoarding proclaiming USED CARS in white painted capitals overlooked a shabby yard with grimy whitewashed walls. There were cars lined up somewhat haphazardly, only a few displaying a price sticker on the front windscreen. Dark stains on the forecourt told of old oil spillages and there were empty plastic drums heaped into a far corner. The office was a jerry-built affair resembling the huts in school playgrounds: the sort that linger on far beyond their shelf life as ‘temporary accommodation’. Ravit Sangha may well have expected to progress to something bigger and better over the years, but the whole place had an air of defeat as if the receivers were not far off.

And now trouble had come in the shape of one old used ambulance. Why had he bothered to telephone? DS Wilson had asked himself. Sangha had been highly agitated at that first interview, protesting his good citizenship far too much for the Detective Sergeant’s liking. Lorimer was right. There had to be something more. Like where had the vehicle really come from and whether it had really ‘gone missing’ from Sangha’s yard. Answers to these questions would direct this inquiry forward for a change. Trawling through Donna Henderson’s case was becoming a wearisome exercise.