Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘We have cars waiting to take you all to Headquarters. We need to ask you some questions, then, if you are agreeable, we would like you to give the police doctor some samples, like hair, to match what we already have in the labs.’ There was not even the flicker of a smile on Lorimer’s face as he took in the young man’s skinhead cut. ‘The sooner we can do this the better.’

MacLaine looked thoughtful for a moment then shrugged.

‘S’all right by me. The boys are pretty bushed. Won’t take too long, will it?’

‘No. We’ll have a car to drop you all off home later and you can make some phone calls to let your family know, if you like.’

MacLaine shrugged again. ‘Hinny’ll want to phone his bird.’ He broke off. ‘Uh huh, looks like we’re in business.’

He raised a finger, circling it in the aira, then headed towards the carousel where the others were lifting off the baggage. Lorimer remained where he was, giving MacLaine the opportunity to pass on the arrangements to his band. The detective’s own practised manner had disarmed them and they seemed grudgingly co-operative. Or were they so tired that there was no reason to protest? Lorimer regarded them shrewdly. There was no questioning by these lads, yet, of why they’d been picked up from the airport. It had been Lorimer’s own idea to have them all in together like this. Once they’d dispersed there might be difficulty in locating them again. Rock bands were always on the move. Lorimer was glad to have some positive action anyway. There’d been such a huge amount of work on this case for such little return.

As they piled into the two waiting police cars, Lorimer looked back at the airport building. The automatic doors would open and close all day and night as travellers came and went. Suddenly it came into his mind that Donna Henderson had been saving up for a holiday abroad.

Lorimer turned his face away from Glasgow International Airport and nodded to his driver.

‘The rock band? Tell me about them.’

Maggie Lorimer put down her red marking pen and gazed attentively at her husband.

‘Well, they looked a right scruffy bunch but there was more to them than met the eye. Two of them were graduates. Psychology.’ He said the word with such distaste that Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Anyway, they were all co-operative enough lads. Forensics have some samples to match up now, we hope.’

‘But what about their tour? I mean, are they going to be a success story?’

‘Couldn’t tell you. They have an agent in London, if that means anything, and they’ve made an album, but you’d need to be up to date in your New Musical Express to know if they’re rated at all.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Ask your kids at school.’

‘Oh aye, sure. As if teachers are supposed to have any opinion about rock bands. Our Head of History probably thinks Iron Maiden was a young Margaret Thatcher,’ she giggled.

Lorimer looked over at his wife. She had more in common with her pupils than they might ever guess, he thought. Maggie Lorimer had never been much on the side of the Establishment, a real little banner carrier in her student days, according to her friends. It was ironic that she’d become a policeman’s wife.

‘What else happened today?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ Lorimer began in his noncommittal way. Then he sat up suddenly. ‘Actually there is something. Hang on a sec.’ He disappeared into the study then came back waving an invitation. ‘Something for you.’

‘For me? What is it?’ Maggie put out her hand for the card.

‘A party. George Phillips’s sixtieth.’

‘Well,’ Maggie said, scanning the invitation, ‘the Crowne Plaza! Very posh. I’ll …’

‘… need something to wear?’ Lorimer mimicked her.

‘Oh, you!’ She lobbed a scatter cushion which he caught expertly. ‘You won’t be working?’ she asked, an edge to her voice.

‘Not if I can help it. All work and no play makes Bill a dull boy.

‘Good. Good.’

Maggie Lorimer nodded to herself, a wide smile on her face as she turned back to the pile of marking. Lorimer picked up the invitation and tucked it behind the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Solomon Brightman will be there.’

‘Oh, the great Dr Brightman?’ Maggie looked up again. ‘Will I like him, do you think?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘I’ll be interested to see what you make of him.’

‘Hm.’ She grinned impishly at her husband. ‘I wonder what he makes of Chief Inspector Lorimer?’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows in mock horror but privately his wife’s words struck home. Just what did the psychologist make of him? Had he been less than co-operative, perhaps? Did Solomon Brightman see him as a mere pen-pusher, a manager delegating authority to officers like Wilson who did so much of the legwork? That was what a DCI’s job was all about. The management of murders.

With a touch of impatience Lorimer brushed aside this piece of introspection and turned his attention to the document he had left by his chair. The ongoing detection into a paedophile ring had taken some priority over the St Mungo’s Murders for the Divcom. European feelings were running high over certain of their nastier cases and there were possible links to incidents on his own Division that made interesting reading. He had a meeting with other senior officers from all around the region. Information had been trickling in for a good while now. From what Lorimer could see, there was a fair bet that children were being abused in the backs of cars, rather than in specific locations like homes or the usual seedy rented rooms. It made the case all the more difficult to pin down and meant a pulling together of many of the Divisions.

Lorimer poured himself a whisky, his mind already on the patterns of crime he might find in these documents.

Solomon Brightman poured boiling water into a generous measure of Ribena, his eyes gleaming in anticipation as the steam rose above the earthenware mug. It was one of those damp misty nights when winter refuses to concede to any notion of spring and Solomon felt that the cold had seeped into his bones. Still, it had been a useful evening and he still had the portfolio to examine. As he sipped the hot blackcurrant, he pondered on his next move.

Lorimer’s face came vividly to mind, the deep furrows between those glacier blue eyes, the down-turned mouth showing signs of stress. What had prompted him to become a detective? Solomon wondered. The life was one of constant pressure, he knew. Budgets were notoriously tight but the flow of crime took no account of police resources. The man was driven, though. It wasn’t just a matter of fulfilling his own ambition or even of pleasing his superiors. Lorimer wasn’t that type. He really cared, mused Solomon. The murders of those young girls were like a personal affront. Maybe because he had no family of his own? I care, too, Solomon thought to himself, but I know how to stand back from it. Lorimer becomes involved in these people’s lives. The psychologist took another sip of Ribena, imagining the Chief Inspector on stress management courses. He probably ignored every word the lecturer spoke, engrossed in whatever case he was involved in at the time. Solomon smiled at his suppositions. Lorimer would be an interesting man to profile but he really must concentrate on the matter in hand. Lucy Haining’s personality might well begin to emerge from the contents of her portfolio.

Solomon had been surprised to find that the dead girl’s work was still at the Art School.

‘But I thought that her parents …’

‘Well, they didn’t want any of Lucy’s things,’ the Principal’s secretary had explained, a note of apology in her voice.

‘Didn’t they come up to Glasgow, then?’