Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Lorimer nodded, his face grim. It was all adding up to give credence to Solomon’s profile. The too-deliberate signature of strangulation and mutilation. The killer had had a reason for doing away with Janet Yarwood, just as he must have had for the murder of Lucy Haining. Yet he was cocking a snook at them with the bicycle chain and the taking of another scalp. Had the old ambulance not been a burned-out wreck, doubtless the body would have ended up in St Mungo’s Park, he thought bitterly.

Leaving the pathologist to her task, Lorimer made for the victim’s bedroom. It was small and tidy, the bed made and a pair of felt slippers neatly placed beside the bedside cabinet. The sight of the slippers gave Lorimer his usual qualm. A living, breathing human had been taken away and that horror outside left in her place. His lips tightened in determination as he continued his search of the room. A jewellery box lay on the dressing table with various ceramic pots and tiny vases placed strategically around. He looked at the walls and again his glance fell on the bedside tabletop. There were no photographs. Perhaps a portrait painter had no need of them?

Lorimer turned to the dressing-table drawers and began to rummage. Underclothes, jerseys, socks … nothing much here, he thought. The bedside cabinet was more revealing. Notebooks and papers had been shoved higgledy-piggledy in the two sections of the cupboard. His hands searched delicately through the contents. Bank statements, insurance policies, all the usual paraphernalia of adulthood. There were several letters which Lorimer scanned. He made a note of two names and addresses for next of kin then, realising that he would have to process many of the documents for further information, he took the pile out with him into the hallway. Leaning against the lounge door, one eye on Solomon’s back, he tapped out a number on his mobile.

‘Lorimer. Get me DS Wilson.’

There was a pause during which Lorimer glanced down the hallway. The pathologist, the scene-of-crime officer whose name was Fred, and the forensic biologist were working away methodically in the midst of all that carnage. This was just a beginning for them. Tomorrow they’d be back to find further samples.

‘Alistair? I want you to run a check on Lucy Haining’s bank accounts. Find out all you can as far back as, oh, let’s say the last year. OK? Right. I’ll be over shortly.’

He put the mobile back into his overcoat pocket then returned to the lounge where Solomon was still sitting.

‘Solly.’ The dark head turned in Lorimer’s direction. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

Solly rose to his feet as Rosie walked in briskly behind the DCI, stripping off the surgical gloves with a loud snap.

‘Ah, the famous Dr Brightman!’ Rosie exclaimed, extending her hand. ‘How do you do?’

Lorimer watched, amused to see Solomon’s first reaction to the petite blonde. Expert on human behaviour he might be but Lorimer enjoyed observing how swiftly the young psychologist had found his most charming smile. An eyeful of Rosie was a fairly good antidote to the horrors that Solly had seen elsewhere in the flat.

‘I’ve heard about you before,’ Rosie said mischievously.

Solomon stared blankly at the woman for a moment then his face cleared in understanding.

‘Of course. Glasgow University.’

She smiled, nodding. ‘I don’t spend all my time in the City Mortuary, though it feels like it sometimes. Lorimer tells me you’re profiling this guy.’ She indicated the area outside the room, as if the killer’s presence still contaminated the locus.

‘Yes. You know about my, um, accident?’

‘You were mugged in your own flat, right?’

‘Maybe I was closer to our suspect than I’d have wished.’ ‘So it might have been you laid out on my slab!’ Rosie teased.

Solly blushed suddenly at the thought of this attractive young woman examining his naked body. Noticing his discomfiture, Lorimer clapped Rosie on the shoulder.

‘They’re an insensitive lot, Dr Brightman. She’s just winding you up.’

Just then a grey-bearded man put his head around the door.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector.’

‘Back to work,’ commented the pathologist, recognising the scene-of-crime photographer. ‘Right then,’ she tapped Solly’s arm gently, ‘I’d best get on out there. See you later, maybe.’

‘I can have one of the boys take you home,’ Lorimer suggested, seeing Solly slump back into the soft folds of the settee, but the psychologist shook his head.

‘I’m all right now. I’d like to stay while you look around the flat.’

‘Up to you. There may also be a few things to do in the office before I see my bed tonight.’

Lorimer checked that the scene-of-crime boys were still in the flat then began to look around the room. Janet Yarwood had been one of the many solitary people in this city. She had told the psychologist several things about Lucy Haining that Lorimer remembered from the report. Now, thought Lorimer, just as Rosie could read for signs of death, it was time that Janet Yarwood’s home told him something about her life.

First-floor flat, lounge window overlooking the street below. A door directly opposite led to the hall and the other rooms, and there was a small kitchen off the lounge. The only wall without window or doorway was dominated by a huge batik hanging in bright pink, black and white. At first the design seemed abstract but on closer inspection Lorimer saw that it was in fact a representation of a zebra and foal against an African sunset. Remembering the influence on Lucy Haining’s jewellery designs, Lorimer made a mental note to look for other African artefacts. Most of the furnishings were old and shabby, in contrast to the newness of the building itself. Instead of a carpet, there were several durries laid side by side, leaving a broad strip of unvarnished floorboard under the window. Here a collection of artist’s materials were gathered: boxes containing tubes of paint, larger tubes of primary-coloured acrylics, brushes of various sizes sticking out of pottery jars and stacks of unframed canvases, face to the wall. Curious about their subjects, Lorimer flipped them over. They were all studies of children. Had any of the models come from Lucy’s life classes? he wondered. But perhaps they were simply early studies for commissioned portraits. At one end of the room, under the garish batik, was an old square table. Someone had stripped and varnished it at one time and the warm oak glowed in the lamplight. A large blue pottery bowl was filled with exotic fruits. Had she meant to eat them, he thought, or were they a subject for still life? Two squashy chairs and the settee were draped in plain undyed linen, contrasting with the striped multicoloured rugs.

His eyes wandered over the walls, noting the artist’s taste in paintings. There was an abstract of Moorish buildings in solid colours that picked out the bright rugs, several tiny embroideries collected within one frame and, he was heartened to recognise, an original Anda Paterson. The blues and mauves showed ancient women and their donkey coming from market. Lorimer looked at the picture, oblivious for a few minutes to the rest of the room. At last he jerked his eyes away and moved on to the kitchen wall where, he was surprised to see, there was simply a blank. A swift appraisal of the whole room caused him to frown. It was unbalanced somehow, this empty space. He moved closer, then drew in his breath sharply as he saw the holes. Tiny particles of pink plaster lay in the cavities from where, unless he was much mistaken, picture hooks had been wrenched.

Lorimer stepped into the hall where the scene-of-crime photographer was busy. A sudden camera flash illumined the wrecked body on the floor and Lorimer pursed his lips together in a gesture of angry disgust. What a bloody awful waste.