Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Solomon raised his thick eyebrows, but said nothing.

‘It’s nonsense. We probably have as many perverts as they do. We just haven’t brought as many of them to justice. That’s the trouble with statistics. Do your job well and the figures seem to soar. The more effective we are, the more the Press report cases and the poor old British public think that paedophilia is running riot.’ He swept his hand upwards, indicating the row of ledger files. ‘See that? Robberies with violence, child abuse, murder … maybe a serial killer … and you have the temerity to suggest that one of my team is bent?’

Lorimer stopped, realising that he was beginning to lose control. Solomon cleared his throat.

‘Lucy Haining spent over three years in Glasgow. I would like to find out how these years were spent, whom she befriended. Little things over and above what you already know.’ He raised a hand. ‘I’m not suggesting that your background information was unsatisfactory. But you must see that things have changed?’

‘Yes.’ Lorimer looked down at the papers on his desk, avoiding Solomon’s eye.

‘She was one of a series before,’ Solomon insisted gently, ‘and now she may be the reason for all the murders.’

‘What do you want?’

‘A free hand. I need to ask questions, be able to talk to her friends, her teachers, anyone who knew her in and out of the Art School.’ Solomon leaned forward. ‘I need a picture. If I can understand Lucy Haining’s world, then the profile of this killer may become much clearer. He knew her and she undoubtedly had dealings with him. She bought the ambulance. Who else knew about that?’

‘We have had officers asking just that question,’ Lorimer replied.

‘And?’

The DCI shrugged. ‘Nothing so far. Nobody else at the Art School knew about it or saw it. However, we’ve made some progress regarding the previous owners.’ When Solomon didn’t reply Lorimer continued, ‘A rock band. Couldn’t track them down immediately. They sold the vehicle to help fund a lengthy trip to the States. They’re on their way back now. In fact’ — he looked at his watch — ‘if I’m quick, I’ll be meeting them at Glasgow Airport within the next half-hour.’

‘Lucy Haining,’ Solomon began again.

‘Do what you want. If you find anything, and I mean anything concrete at all, I want to know. Even,’ he sighed heavily, ‘if I don’t like it.’

Glasgow International Airport was, like airports the world over, a watershed between the mundane and the exotic. Lorimer barely glanced at the acres of car parking, car rental premises and dormitory hotels spread out before the airport buildings. The motorway had arched upwards, sweeping them above the airport and for a few seconds he ignored the familiar spires of Paisley on his left, scanning the tarmac to catch sight of the massive aircraft below. Then the police car dipped down on to the approach road and Lorimer drew his gaze away.

After a word with the uniformed duty officer, Lorimer and his driver made their way to the end of the long glass corridor where travellers departed and arrived hour after hour. The detective joined the small clutch of people waiting for their friends and relatives. A toddler in a red ski suit and bobble hat ran to and from his mother, delight on his face each time he trespassed a foot or two into the forbidden entry zone. Lorimer’s eyes skimmed the group but there was no face familiar to him, just citizens going about their lawful business, it would seem. For a few minutes he would be as anonymous as they were. No, not simply anonymous, but part of them; one of those ordinary folk waiting for those who had flown in from far away places. Travellers always seemed to bring a bit of stardust back with them along with the straw hats and terrible souvenirs. Those, like himself, who were on this side of arrivals instantly felt the difference.

Several businessmen, briefcases in hand, strode briskly past the group. These were men to whom flying was like catching a bus. No stardust clung to their sharp city suits and Burberry raincoats. Suddenly the bobble-hatted child gave a squeal and hurled himself at a tall young man in cords and a lumber jacket. In the noisy embraces that followed more and more passengers filtered through, diminishing the waiting group.

Lorimer looked at his watch again then his eyes bore down the corridor. He had photographs of the members of the rock band and he anticipated no difficulty in identifying The Flesh Eaters.

There they were.

An inappropriate name for these young men, thought Lorimer, eyeing them up. They all looked as though a square meal would do them the world of good. Each band member carried the ubiquitous duty free bag, splashes of yellow and red against their sombre clothing. As they drew closer, Lorimer observed their unhealthy pallor, which might have been the result of jet lag. Fleetingly he wondered if any traces of illegal substances had been found in the wrecked ambulance.

The band members walked two by two, the front pair deep in conversation. The nearest lad was small in stature, his bullet-shaped head grey with stubble. Lorimer noted his cleanly shaven chin with some surprise, however. A plain gold hoop winked from his left ear. The navy duffel coat was so worn that it looked like something recycled from the sixties, and probably was. The lad was gesturing to his much taller companion who nodded down to him. Lorimer was aware of the others, but the animated small fellow drew his attention.

‘DCI Lorimer.’

His voice carried discreetly far enough to alert the four band members. Other passers-by barely gave them a glance.

‘Your agent may have let you know to expect us?’ Lorimer’s voice was polite and slightly apologetic. They stopped immediately and the small fellow put down his duty free bag carefully.

‘No. He didn’t.’

The rejoinder was spoken in a reproving tone, but what interested the detective was the decidedly middle-class accent. The eyes that glanced at the ID card cupped in the officer’s hand were bright and intelligent.

‘What’s all this about?’ he continued.

Behind him the others exchanged bewildered looks, more puzzled than guilty, thought Lorimer, instantly dismissing thoughts of dope in their hand baggage.

‘I’ll explain as we go to collect your luggage,’ Lorimer smiled encouragingly, then gestured towards the BAGGAGE RECLAIM sign. The small band member ran a hand over his cropped head then picked up his carrier bag decisively.

‘Lead on, Macduff!’

There was a snigger behind him which he acknowledged with a grin.

‘Tosh MacLaine.’ The lad stuck out his hand, to Lorimer’s surprise. The brief handshake immediately put things on a more business-like footing and Lorimer took an appraising look at the band. Of the four, MacLaine was probably the oldest. He certainly had an air of self-assurance. The wee ones were often the cockiest, Lorimer reminded himself.

The detective’s explanations were brief. He explained that their former vehicle had been involved in a fire under suspicious circumstances: that the police would be grateful if the band members could assist them in their inquiries. Lorimer explained about eliminating old traces.

‘But if it had been in a fire …’ MacLaine said.

‘It’s amazing what’s left behind.’ Lorimer smiled his best enigmatic smile.

They had arrived at the baggage hall and the conversation was interrupted by the need to locate the carousel carrying their luggage.

‘Hinny, you and Fleck grab a couple of trolleys. I’ll stay with the Inspector here.’

MacLaine took out a packet of chewing gum and offered a piece to Lorimer.

‘No thanks. And it’s Chief Inspector, by the way.’

‘Right. Chief Inspector .’ MacLaine stuffed the gum into his mouth and began to chew. ‘What now?’