Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Lorimer sighed. There was nothing to link them in life, and everything to link them in death. As for poor little Sharon Millen, no trace had been found to show where her death had taken place. All they knew was that she had got on that number 7 bus and then her corpse had been found in St Mungo’s Park, hidden in the bushes. Just like the others. Why? Why had he troubled to take them to the park? The initial risk in dumping Donna’s body was bad enough, but the increased risk in taking two further bodies there was crazy. But I am dealing with a crazy person, Lorimer told himself. This person has apparently no motive for the killings, so why expect any logical motive for his disposal of the corpses? That young PC, Matt Boyd, had suggested a link with previous murders in the city which had been at the hands of drug-crazed youths, hallucinating and paranoid. It was Matt’s answer for every crime of violence. Given the statistics, he had a fair chance of being correct some of the time.

But this was different. There was something far more calculating and vindictive about this. No fingerprints had been left and the fibres being tested by the forensic biologists were as yet without any significance. Forensic biology could uncover all sorts of clues from traces left at the scene of a crime, but it had its limitations. Often the data was only one half of an equation, meaningless until the other half could be discovered.

A consultation of HOLMES had proved fruitless. The national computer bank could show patterns of crimes all over the country. But there was none. This spate of crimes in his city had no parallel anywhere else. In one way this was a relief: it narrowed the field. Yet a repeated pattern would have offered help in establishing travel routes and other background which might have helped identify a killer.

It all came back to why. Why had he taken them to the park? Why brutalise them in such a way? Lorimer’s eyes roamed around the walls of his office, seeking inspiration. There were the usual outsize maps, a statement of policing principles, various commendations and two calendars, one ringed in red to show the dates of murders committed in his Division. But it was to none of these that Lorimer turned his attention, and instead he looked to the paintings he had accumulated over the years. Some were prints, of course. A policeman’s salary didn’t always allow for the purchase of originals, and certainly not the famous portrait of Père Tanguy which gazed down at him. The postman looked as if he was restless with sitting and longed to be off and doing something more active. That was what had attracted Lorimer to the Van Gogh print; that feeling of a man’s repressed energy. Lorimer understood that feeling only too well.

But today there was no inspiration to be had from works of art or anything else for that matter. The Fiscal had allowed them weeks to have the corpses studied by forensics, with all the painstaking details which that had entailed. And what had he to show for these weeks of investigation? For the first time in his career Chief Inspector William Lorimer was beginning to feel out of his depth. He’d cracked countless cases of mindless violence, but none had yielded up as little as this one. That none of his colleagues had experienced a case like this was little comfort.

The Press were on his back, demanding results. And so was the Super. It was time to bring in the psychologist. Lorimer frowned. He’d heard of miraculous results from these fellows, but part of him still resisted putting faith in a procedure he didn’t know much about. Well, perhaps he ought to make it his business to find out now.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Sir, Superintendent Phillips says he’s ready to go now.’

WPC Annie Irvine waited anxiously for Lorimer to turn round and acknowledge her words. For a few moments he stood, still staring out of the window. They were all used to his moods, and put up with the long, almost rude, silences because he was such a good DCI and pretty fair-minded if his officers watched their step. At last the shoulders heaved in a resigned sigh.

‘All right, Annie, I’ll be there shortly.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She closed the door and rolled her eyes to heaven.

Superintendent Phillips, the Divisional Commander, didn’t like being kept waiting and she’d be the one to catch the brunt of his short temper if Lorimer didn’t hurry up. The Divcom was already in a foul mood. WPC Irvine crept past George Phillips’s door. Thank goodness she wasn’t the one who was going to that poor girl’s memorial service.

They sat in the car until most of the mourners had passed through the gates and slowly wound their way up to the church. Rain on the windscreen made the shapes of leafless trees blurred and out of focus, like an Impressionist painting.

All the families had wanted cremations but the Fiscal had, of course, refused. The victims’ bodies were still in the mortuary and would be for some time to come. Meanwhile this latest memorial service had to suffice to help the bereaved come to terms with their loss.

Lorimer wondered if wanting cremations was simply the modern trend of funerals, or did they want to obliterate in ashes the remains of these mutilated bodies? An interesting thought. Perhaps he’d put it to the psychologist and see what he made of it.

Beside him the Divcom coughed and looked irritably out of the window. Lorimer tried not to smile. George Phillips had given up smoking again and was hell to live with.

‘All right, Constable,’ Lorimer leaned forward and touched the driver’s shoulder. The car joined the slow line of vehicles winding up to the little building at the top of the hill. Already people were queuing to enter, their black umbrellas held against the streaming rain. Lorimer stared at each one, hunting for a face to jog a memory, to spark off some clue which would set him on the long road to solving this case. Each darkened figure was a stranger. As they took their places near the back, Lorimer was distracted by a group of girls weeping desperately, holding on to each other. They must have been classmates, he thought. What a hellish murder. Lorimer felt a boiling rage inside.

As the minister asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer, Lorimer’s piercing blue stare was directed at the wooden cross on the wall. Give me a clue, he demanded, show me where that bastard is. Oh God of any pity, don’t let him get away.

Later, sitting in the car, they watched as one by one the mourners left the church. James Thomson was being supported by his father. The boy looked as though he could collapse at any moment. The schoolgirls were quieter now, subdued by the service and by the necessity of encountering Sharon’s parents. Bravely, the Millens had remained to receive the congregation, speechless, but shaking hands. The elderly minister stood by them supportively, speaking an occasional word of thanks. He hadn’t known who we were, Lorimer thought to himself, he’d treated everyone with the same kindly courtesy. What was it about some of these church folk that they could only see good in their fellow men? Lorimer mused on this for a moment, admitting to himself that the seamy side of life had given him quite a different outlook.

What kind of outlook did the killer have? Did he know of Sharon’s memorial service? Or did his involvement with her end when he left her body under those bushes, taking her blonde hair away with him? For what? Why? With Donna Henderson’s murder had come a frantic round of city salons, freelancers, theatrical stylists and wig dressers. The link between the victim’s profession and manner of death had seemed so obvious. Now it seemed only a cruel irony.

The last of the mourners stepped into her car and drove off. A school teacher, thought Lorimer, who was good at guessing professions from appearances.