Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘Fred. In here, please.’

The photographer followed him into the lounge and Lorimer pointed to the wall.

‘There. It looks like someone may have taken some pictures off the wall.’

‘Mm. Theft, you think?’

The man’s grey eyebrows rose in speculation. Lorimer shrugged briefly. He was quite sure that any art thief worth his salt would not have left Anda Paterson’s gem behind. Whatever the nature of the missing pictures, they had been taken for a reason other than theft. The photographer fitted on a different lens then snapped a few close-up shots of the tell-tale holes.

‘Thanks.’

‘Sure. Anything else, just let me know.’

Lorimer stepped back to appraise the room once more then decided it was time to investigate the kitchen.

There were plants everywhere. The original fittings of the kitchen were light grey but the colour had virtually disappeared beneath the foliage. Huge untidy spider plants hung over the tops of cupboards and there were pots of streptocarpus ranged on the window sill. Every available work surface held tins or trays full of cuttings and an enormous spiky yucca dominated one corner. Many of the plants were in flower already, and Lorimer guessed that the kitchen window faced south. There was even a delicate orchid, its pale pink blooms wilting slightly. Lorimer picked up a plastic container and sprayed a mist of water over the plant. He recalled the plain face of the young woman whose remains would shortly be zipped into a body bag and carted off to the mortuary. It was not surprising that she had surrounded herself with such things of beauty. Her own adornment had not been important, if Solomon’s theory was correct. There had been nobody else to please. Except Lucy, a little voice reminded him.

Lorimer stretched his shoulders back, realising for the first time that night just how tired he was. Out in the hall the body had been hidden away in a black bag and already there were men being instructed by the pathologist to take it away. Rosie shook out her blonde hair as Janet Yarwood left her flat for ever, then turned and smiled as she caught sight of Lorimer.

‘Does your friend need a lift home?’

Solly was on his feet now, swaying from weariness. ‘Thanks,’ he said before Lorimer could reply. ‘I’d appreciate it. Not taking you out of your way, I hope?’

‘That depends where you live.’

‘Oh. Not far from the university.’

‘In that case, Dr Brightman, it’s no bother at all.’

‘Right. I’ll leave you to Rosie’s tender care then,’ Lorimer said, sketching a salute and watching the pair of them leave. Hopefully he’d not be far behind.

Had there been a hint of something in Lorimer’s tone? Solly wondered. Was that a twinkle in the pathologist’s eyes?

As he followed the woman out into the night, past the fluttering cordons and the duty policemen still guarding the locus, Solomon breathed in the cold air in great gulps. Rosie held open the passenger door for him and he sank into the leather seat. They remained silent on the journey, Rosie covertly examining the man whose dark lashes were now closed over eyes that had seen too much. Her fingers reached out for a moment as if she had a sudden urge to stroke the tumble of thick curls back from his forehead, then she drew back and smiled to herself. Let him sleep for the moment.

In fact Solomon was still very much awake, his head spinning not with thoughts of his undeniably attractive driver, but with recent memories of a much plainer creature altogether.

The two men walked down Gibson Street avoiding puddles in the cracked pavement. Lorimer had turned his coat collar against the downpour and walked head down, hands thrust into his pockets. Solomon, oblivious to the rain soaking his black curls, was talking excitedly, arms waving in wide gestures. A group of students waited for the lights to change. Lorimer raked them with his policeman’s eyes, only half-listening to the psychologist. Huddled and giggling beneath a black umbrella with its spokes awry, they seemed like children compared to the way he remembered himself in his student days. That was definitely a sign of age.

Gibson Street was, for Lorimer, the epitome of student life. Sure, it had changed in the last couple of decades but most of the buildings were still intact, except for a jarring gap where a row of elegant yet decrepit tenements had stood. Now it was a muddy area where the students parked their cars and vans. Lorimer couldn’t help glancing over on the other side of the road to see if the sign was still there. The Manor had been the all-time hippy hangout, a squat for visiting bands and home to the more interesting children of a psychedelic age. Rumour had it that Pink Floyd had once stayed over. Lorimer looked in vain. The sign above the door lintel appeared to have gone.

This was Solly’s patch now.

The newer, upmarket restaurants and bijou interior designers told of a greater general affluence amongst the residents. In his day, his and Maggie’s, there had been the thrill of the exotic as Eastern cuisine first began to take its hold on the city. The old Shish Mahal had been their favourite. God, he thought, you could have had a mutton vindaloo for a couple of quid back then. The Asian grocery stores had proliferated, too. There weren’t so many about now, though.

The Chief Inspector had deliberately met the psychologist after his classes and was now accompanying him on his way back home. He had established the younger man’s routine from casual questioning the previous day and now he wondered if Solly was aware of his role as guardian angel. He had come straight from the City Mortuary to Glasgow University and had just given Solly the latest information obtained from the art student’s bank accounts.

‘But this is tremendous, it explains everything!’

Solly was practically dancing around the puddles.

‘Everything?’

‘Of course. Lucy Haining was receiving regular sums of money that tally with Janet Yarwood’s withdrawals. The dates coincide.’

‘And the other regular payments? Where did they come from?’

He wanted to hear Solly’s answer. Would it fit in with his own ideas? Solly stopped and beamed, oblivious to the rain trickling down his beard.

‘Blackmail. It fits. Lucy Haining was blackmailing somebody.’

‘Janet Yarwood?’

The psychologist shrugged. ‘Possibly. Though the woman would have given her money only too willingly.’ He stopped suddenly and looked straight at Lorimer. ‘For love. There was no need for threats.’

They walked on.

‘So, you think Lucy Haining was killed by someone else. Whoever had been paying her large sums of money for three months before her death.’

‘Exactly. Someone paid Lucy to keep her mouth shut.’

‘And eventually shut it for good.’

Solly nodded eagerly. ‘It was carefully planned. This man had decided that Lucy was either too big a threat to him, or else the payments had to stop.’ He grinned at the policeman. ‘You like it?’

Caught by his child-like enthusiasm, and despite the fact that he’d already worked through the same ideas, Lorimer found himself grinning back.

‘I love it. Not only that but we can begin looking around for an artist who fits the bill. An artist who’d rather remain anonymous.’

Lorimer looked shrewdly at Solomon. The psychologist pulled at his wet beard as they walked on. Then he circled the air with his hand as he spoke.

‘Janet Yarwood was a postgraduate student but she would have a small income from her post as a tutor, wouldn’t she? Enough to pay her mortgage?’

‘That wasn’t her only income. We’ve found that there had been a fairly substantial sum left in trust for her. She got it when she was twenty-five.’