Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Solomon gazed up at the clouds scudding across the blue spring sky and had the sudden impression that the chimneys and pillared gables were soaring through space. His gaze drifted back to the house and wandered along the front, searching for the entrance.

Janet Yarwood was waiting for him just inside the café door. She looked much older than he had expected. Her clothes sagged awkwardly on a thin frame and the psychologist was absurdly reminded of a moulting bird with its neck feathers missing. She came towards him, unsmiling, and thrust out a skinny arm.

‘Dr Brightman.’

‘Yes, hello. Miss Yarwood?’

‘Ms.’

She gestured that he should follow her and led the way out of the reception area and through a white door.

Solomon stared about him as he was ushered up to the Postgraduate Centre that was part of the School of Art but located away from the city centre and housed on the upper floor of this building. He noted the familiar Mackintosh features all around him. What would the celebrated architect, who had died in such poverty, have made of all this? Watching Janet Yarwood’s thin ankles disappearing up the stairs ahead brought Solomon back to the matter in hand. At last he was shown into a brightly lit office. Sweeping his glance over the partitioned desks and pinboards that were cluttered with notes and cartoon drawings, he realised it was used by several of the students, not just Ms Yarwood.

‘Please sit down.’

The woman dragged a chrome and blue swivel chair from under a desk and Solomon sat. She pulled another from the empty desk opposite and perched on it, nervously rubbing her fingers as if they itched. Solomon smiled politely, wondering if he wanted to put her at her ease or not. Her agitation at his visit was understandable yet there was more than normal tension here.

‘It isn’t easy for you to be asked questions again, is it?’

His voice was gentle and reassuring but the restless fingers were scratching her face now and the small bird’s eyes never left his gaze.

‘What do you want to know?’ The words were rapped out harshly.

Solomon wanted to say Tell me about Lucy but he held back the question that seemed to shout aloud into the room.

‘Perhaps we could have some tea?’ he suggested gently.

Janet Yarwood’s mouth fell open in surprise, then, without a word, she slipped off the chair and fetched the kettle that Solly had spotted amongst the discarded mugs beside a filing cabinet. She continued to stare at him with undisguised hostility as he smiled serenely in her direction. At last her head turned away as she prepared the tea, banging the mugs loudly on the metal surface. The psychologist studied the grey hair cropped severely above a scrawny neck. He knew from Lorimer that she was a mature student in her late twenties, but a stranger would have assumed her to be at least forty, he thought. Her blue jeans, which were several sizes too large, were secured by a thick leather belt, and the baggy t-shirt served only to emphasise her lack of chest and stick-like arms.

‘There.’

The mug was put in front of him so violently that the tea slopped onto the varnished desk. Janet Yarwood stared at the pool of liquid helplessly. It was as if the act of bringing the tea had finally used up her reserves of energy and she could do no more. Solomon mopped up the spill with a hanky then took a sip of the sugarless tea.

‘She was very special, wasn’t she?’

The gentle voice and the question were too much for the woman and she began to sob; harsh, racking sobs that made her thin shoulders heave. Solomon watched as she clutched the edge of the chair. He had seen grief like this before in mothers who had lost a child. He waited until the sobs subsided, until Janet Yarwood gave a shuddering sigh and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He sipped the tea again and this time it was a command rather than a question.

‘Tell me about Lucy.’

The night sky was broken with fast-flying clouds and the silhouettes of starkly bare trees whipping this way and that. Against the sodium glow from the city, their curving branches were like dancers’ arms, swaying in some frenzied Highland fling. Solomon rarely closed his curtains in the bay-windowed living room, preferring to look down over the park at the city lights twinkling in the distance. That evening, however, contemplation of the skyline had given way to the mess of notes scattered around his feet. Lucy Haining, Janet Yarwood, the killer seen by Alison Girdley … pieces of an indeterminate jigsaw puzzle were nevertheless beginning to take on some shape and form.

Janet’s revelations were now committed to paper: both what she had told the psychologist and what she had so patently failed to say. As Solomon was bent over his word processor the door buzzer sounded.

‘Yes?’

‘William Lorimer.’

‘Oh, right, just come up.’

Solomon activated the button releasing the main door of the close then went across to the window, looking down to the street below. There was nobody there. Evidently Lorimer was already on his way up the three flights of stone stairs. Solomon padded barefoot through to his front door, his dressing gown flapping against his legs. He unlocked the door, letting it swing open, then turned back to the kitchen, ready to play host to his unexpected visitor. He had filled the kettle jug and switched it on when he heard the footsteps in the landing.

‘I’m here,’ he called out, opening a wall cupboard and rummaging for some chocolate biscuits that he kept for such occasions.

Afterwards, talking to Lorimer, Solomon could not recall exactly what had happened. He had had the impression of a shadow rising on the wall to his left and, as he turned to greet his visitor, the shadow had engulfed him.

His neighbour across the landing, seeing the open door later that evening, had called out then come in anxiously, finding poor Dr Brightman sprawled on his kitchen floor. Ambulance and police car had arrived in rapid succession and, in the dark hours long before dawn, Lorimer had been alerted to the incident.

‘It’s Solly. He’s been attacked,’ he told Maggie briefly, already reaching for his clothes.

For several hours Lorimer sat looking grimly at the pale face of his fellow-investigator. A blow to the head had caused concussion but the medical staff assured him that there was no serious damage. The constable who had taken a statement from Solly’s neighbour had called in to brief the Chief Inspector on the incident. The psychologist’s home had been ransacked but until he regained consciousness no one could tell if anything of value had been taken. Certainly the usual hardware prey to the average burglar was still in place.

At last the thick dark eyelashes fluttered and Solly stared at the figure seated beside him.

‘What happened?’

His voice came out in a whisper, the glazed look in his brown eyes showing that he was still some distance away from reality.

‘Some bugger whacked you over the head.’

Solly stared blankly, the words apparently not registering, then he turned his head slightly and groaned as the pain thudded through his skull.

‘But it was you!’

Lorimer smiled indulgently, shaking his head. The poor fellow was still confused.

‘I’ll fetch the nurse.’

Lorimer rose to go but Solomon tried to raise his head from the banks of pillows.

‘No. Wait.’ His voice, though weak, held a note of urgency. ‘You came to my flat tonight. You spoke on the intercom.’

Lorimer stiffened. This was not the rambling of concussion. The psychologist’s eyes were fixed on him now, waiting for an answer. Lorimer sat down again.

‘I’ve been at home, my friend. A rare occurrence, my long-suffering wife would tell you.’ He paused. ‘Whoever came to visit you tonight, it wasn’t me.’