Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘Ah.’ Solly turned on his heel to face Lorimer, finger wagging gleefully. ‘That explains why she didn’t go to the Art School straight from school! Parental opposition.’

‘Maybe.’ Lorimer continued walking towards the park, adding, half to himself, ‘Perhaps that’s what she had in common with Lucy.’

But Solomon wasn’t to be diverted. ‘So. There was easily enough to afford an Anda Paterson.’

‘And fund her favourite student’s expenses,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘What about the missing pictures? Perhaps the artist took them back.’

‘Okay. What you’re suggesting is that whoever painted them killed Janet Yarwood and knew that their presence on her wall would be a dead giveaway.’

Lorimer nodded grimly, ‘Now all we need to know is what pictures they were.’

‘And who signed them.’

They had turned into the gates of Kelvingrove Park and were now heading up the path that ran parallel to the river. The brown water gurgled below them. Up ahead a jogger appeared, his cotton vest soaked through. As he padded heavily over the downhill slope Lorimer’s eyes roved over him. Anyone passing this way would be subject to the policeman’s scrutiny, measured up against that photofit of Alison Girdley’s.

‘Coming up?’

They had reached the other side of the park where the curved terraced houses looked down majestically over the city. Lorimer hesitated for a moment, anxious not to play the nursemaid.

‘Sure. A quick coffee would be good. Wash away the taste of the mortuary.’

Solly grimaced then his face cleared as he asked — just a shade too casually, Lorimer thought — ‘And how is Dr Fergusson?’

‘Oh, she looked very fetching in yellow wellies.’

Solomon refused to take up the banter.

‘What more do you know about Janet Yarwood’s death?’

‘Well, the stab wounds were pretty extensive. Suggests a frenzy of sorts. She’d evidently put up a fight. And the strangulation was post-mortem. So your signature theory still holds up. What I am pleased about is the traces we’ve got from her fingernails. DNA testing is definitely on.’

‘Providing you have a suspect to match.’

Lorimer nodded. They had reached Solly’s front door. Inside Lorimer was pleased to see that the psychologist’s flat had been restored to order. Despite the rain still battering against the bay window panes, the room overlooking the city was filled with light.

‘You’ve been busy.’

Lorimer swept his eyes over the lounge. The place had been carefully dusted for prints and other traces during Solly’s stay in hospital and had still been a mess the previous evening when they had left abruptly for Janet Yarwood’s flat.

‘Ah. My cleaning lady usually does everything. I’m afraid I’m not great at housekeeping.’

‘Come in regularly, does she?’

Lorimer couldn’t help himself sounding like an interrogating policeman. Solly grinned, catching the tone.

‘Twice a week. I share her with my neighbour across the landing.’

‘And she’ll have her own key?’

‘Yes. You’re not suggesting …?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. You just need to be extra careful from now on.’

‘You’d be sorry to lose your criminal profiler?’

Solly chuckled as Lorimer shook his head. There had been times when he’d gladly have seen the back of this young man. But now?

They took their coffees back into the lounge and Lorimer sank into the nearest armchair, its soft leather giving a sigh. He looked around the room appraisingly. It was so different from the chaos of previous days that he had the impression he was seeing it for the first time. Solly, he was interested to see, had a fair art collection of his own. He stood up and walked over to have a closer look.

‘Originals?’

‘Mostly. When I can afford them.’

They were all abstracts. Could the psychologist see things in the swirls of colour the way he appeared to see into the souls of human beings? Some of them seemed to Lorimer as if huge strokes of colour had been applied with a pasting brush. And perhaps they had, he mused, surprised that the overall effects were really rather pleasing.

‘Not my taste,’ he began, ‘but I think I could live with one or two of them.’

‘That’s the real test, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You buy a painting because you can’t bear to live without it,’ he said simply.

Lorimer didn’t reply. It was true enough in his own case, though he supposed there were plenty of wealthy folk who collected for investment purposes or just for the prestige of having famous signatures on their walls. His thoughts went back to Janet Yarwood. Were the missing pictures ones she couldn’t live without? And if so, what had they meant to her?

‘Got to go.’

He gulped the rest of his coffee and handed the beaker to Solly.

‘You’ll let me know if you find anything?’

‘Of course. Did you think I’d let you read it in the papers?’

Solly hesitated. Now would be the time to mention his interview with that McArthur girl. The Chief Inspector seemed quite touchy on the subject of the Press. Best not say anything. Solomon held the door open, listening to Lorimer’s footsteps echo down the stone stairs. Frowning, he realised there had been no follow-up to the journalist’s visit. Perhaps he’d better make some enquiries of his own.

The reporter stood at his window looking down. Even from the seventh floor the feeling of being apart from the city was intoxicating. Now that the nights were drawing out he could see strands of cloud the colour of tallow drifting over the horizon. It was like watching white birds floating lazily home to roost at the end of another day. The open window admitted the sound of traffic below that was a dull roar like wind shaking the treetops. He rubbed sweaty palms against his best jeans, aware of his nervous excitement.

Tonight Diane was coming for a drink, though the signals they had been sending out lately hadn’t fooled either of them. His heart beat fast in anticipation that the night would progress beyond their present stage of meaningful looks and, certainly in his own case, lustful thoughts. There were certain sorts of women that really turned him on. Diane was one of them. Martin glanced over his shoulder. The flat was reasonably tidy; books, newspapers and magazines had been piled into corners. Even the soapstone elephants he’d brought back from Zimbabwe were standing neatly in a row on the windowsill, nose to tail. The dimmer switch was turned down to just the right romantic light; the CD player was ready to be switched on as soon as he heard the door buzzer.

In fact, he thought smugly to himself, the room was well and truly prepared as the setting for seduction. Diane would probably see through all his efforts but he didn’t care.

The door buzzer seemed louder than usual and in a few swift strides he pressed the CD play button and lifted the handset.

‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve got Davey with me. Can we come up?’

The husky voice held just a trace of apology.

‘Sure. Come on up.’

Martin forced a careless tone, though he was inwardly cursing the photographer. He slammed the cupboard door open and pulled out a pack of beer. So much for the sauvignon chilling in the fridge and the dishes of Marks amp; Spencer nibbles.

‘Hallo. Ooh, nice place you’ve got here.’

Diane had shed her leather coat and handed it to Martin in one movement as she entered the living room. Ruefully, his eyes swept over her short skirt and long suede boots before he turned to say hello to Davey. The photographer’s long hair hung in tangles around his face, reminding Martin for the umpteenth time of the heavenly seventies. His parents’ generation. Sometimes even Davey referred to his hippy looks as a blast from the past. The leather jacket that hung on his bony frame had clearly been tailored for broader shoulders than his, if tailored was the right word to use of such a decrepit garment. Martin had once joked that his friend had invented the distressed look for clothes merely by wearing them. His precious bag of equipment that went everywhere with him was slung over one shoulder, pulling the leather jacket even further out of shape. But it was not the weight of cameras that made the photographer sway somewhat unsteadily on his feet, his glazed eyes not quite focusing.