Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

There was another silence. Hello, thought Martin, anybody there?

‘I did not say that the Scottish police used my methods,’ the psychologist began slowly.

‘But they do?’

‘Yes.’

The admission seemed reluctantly drawn from him.

‘Will you use any of the cases in Scotland in your book, Dr Brightman?’

Clever girl, thought Martin, take him round the houses.

‘Ah, that depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Well. I think a certain case might generate much interest to readers. But then again I could not use it until there is a satisfactory outcome.’

‘You mean until a particular murderer is caught?’

‘That might not always be the same as a satisfactory outcome.’

‘But surely that’s what you are aiming for?’

‘Usually, yes.’

‘Tell me, Dr Brightman, this particular case — has it anything to do with the St Mungo’s Murders?’

Diane’s voice was a mixture of innocence and guile. Martin recognised the ‘you can tell me all about it’ quality she so often employed. And exploited. Another silence followed. Martin was trying to picture the bearded psychologist, hand on chin, perhaps, considering. He wondered how much of Diane’s tactics he could see through. All of them, probably. He was a psychologist after all. Perhaps his answers were like police statements to the Press, carefully calculated to serve their own ends.

‘The St Mungo’s Murders should never have happened,’ Solomon said at last. ‘There is so much still to understand …’ There was another pause. Go on, urged Martin, listening to the tape whirring in the silence of the room. ‘I do hope to see a satisfactory end to it all. Sometimes I feel quite close to him, then it’s as if I never knew him at all.’

Martin held his breath. Was the psychologist thinking aloud, forgetting Diane’s presence?

‘And Lucy Haining?’ Diane’s question fell like a drop of water into a still pool.

‘They knew each other, of course. To know one may be the key to knowing the other …’ Martin imagined Diane scarcely daring to breathe, fearful of disturbing Brightman’s train of thought. But then the psychologist cleared his throat. ‘The book won’t be published for some time, of course. There are several cases to be examined as well as techniques to be explained.’

Was the change of tack deliberate? wondered Martin. Had he sensed that he was venturing into the heart of his case whence he would not let this young woman journalist follow?

‘Now I’d love to hear about the techniques of criminal profiling,’ she exclaimed, as if that was her sole reason for interviewing Dr Solomon Brightman in his West End home. There was a short laugh from the psychologist before he continued.

‘Ah, the secret formula! I’m afraid you will be disappointed in me. The techniques are really no more nor less than studying the behaviour of individuals. It’s what psychologists do all the time.’

His voice sounded kindly.

‘But I thought…’

‘You thought we clever people had devised a bag of tools to unlock the brain of a killer? It’s just the tools of our trade put to a particular use.’ There was a pause during which Martin tried hard to picture Diane’s perplexity. Or was she merely stifling a yawn in the silence? Somehow he didn’t think so. He felt she must be drawn to Brightman, just as he himself was now drawn, fascinated by what would come next.

‘Did you enjoy your years at school, Miss McArthur?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Diane sounded puzzled by this seeming digression.

‘Were you interested in history, geography and statistics?’

‘Well, yes …’

‘These are the subjects we use in our investigations. With the police,’ he added as an afterthought. This time Diane seemed lost for words. Brightman continued. ‘The history is the history of the criminal, his background and so forth. The way he executes his crime and what the patterns of crimes — if they are numerous — tell us about him. For instance, the difference between an organised and disorganised murder reveals a certain divide in behaviour that lets us begin to figure out a criminal.’

‘And geography?’ Diane broke in.

‘Well, the locus of a crime is often revealing. Many criminals commit their crimes near to their own homes. At least to begin with. The pattern of crimes then helps to show us where home might be. We would look very carefully at maps, access to transport then, perhaps, clusters of crimes. Statistics are used all the time, you know. The computer cuts down a lot of cross-checking of data. But it needs to be done.’

Martin switched off the tape and swore softly. Brightman had led Diane into a morass of generalities. He had been in control all along, taking Diane deeper and deeper into the trees; deliberately blinding her to the wood. Martin gritted his teeth in frustration. He had hoped that there would be some nuggets of information about Lucy Haining, but so far there was only one tantalising suggestion that she had known her killer. Martin rewound the tape, clicking off and on until he came to the part he wanted to hear again.

‘They knew each other, of course. To know one may be the key to knowing the other…’

Martin wrote this down in his spiral-bound notebook. He would have to listen to the rest of Diane’s interview, but he doubted it would yield up any more than these two sentences. Just how much did this fellow really know?

*

Later Martin regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. The firm jawline was raised at an angle as he automatically changed direction with the blade, keeping his neck skin taut. Diane had done well to continue with Dr Solomon Brightman for another twenty minutes while he had expounded theories but had given nothing else away.

‘To know one may be the key …’

Martin had made a rapid decision. He had to find out much more about Lucy Haining than he had initially dug up all those weeks ago. And he knew the very person who might help him in his search.

Flinging down the damp towel, Martin began to whistle to himself.

Lorimer didn’t like it at all.

‘Do you realise exactly what you are inferring? That one of my men …’ He broke off, glaring at Solomon, the words sticking in his throat, then turned wearily and shook his head. ‘I just don’t buy that. Granted, he’s clever. Devious. He plans. The organised mind you talk so much about. But that’s it.’

Lorimer looked over his shoulder to where the psychologist still stood, the ends of a woollen scarf wound about his gloved hands. For a moment the other man’s face was impossible to read and Lorimer wondered if he would simply walk out of his office and never come back. But then the door swung open and George Phillips strode heavily in.

‘Ah, Bill … Oh, Dr Brightman, how are you?’

Lorimer caught the imperceptible shake of Solomon’s head as George Phillips launched himself towards the desk, thrusting a sheaf of papers at his DCI.

‘That’s the latest from Europe. At least their figures make us look like a slightly more moral neighbour.’ Three strides took him across the room then he turned, his massive frame filling the doorway. ‘Or do they just catch more of ’em?’

His smile was sardonic as he left. The room was suddenly silent and Lorimer was uncomfortably aware of Solly standing there, waiting patiently.

‘Oh, sit down.’ Lorimer gestured to the only easy chair by the window and slumped into his own swivel chair behind the desk. ‘See these,’ he waved the documents in the air. ‘Statistics. Someone over in Brussels is probably paid a fortune to produce these. And what do they tell us? That there are more cases of paedophilia on the other side of the Channel.’