Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Lorimer looked away, trying to hide his smile. ‘None taken. And you’re right. I only wonder what took her so long to make the break.’

‘And I don’t blame the husband either,’ Annie went on, warming to her theme. ‘She’s not exactly a barrel of laughs to come home to, is she?’

Lorimer didn’t answer, keeping his face turned towards the fields all around them as the car turned onto the main road and headed back to Glasgow. Things weren’t always as simple as his young WPC made out. He was interested now to meet Janet Yarwood’s father. Would he have been closer to his elder daughter?

Norman Yarwood was a stocky man in his early sixties. The red hair that Lorimer had expected was peppered with grey and thinning on top. His florid complexion was either high blood pressure or too much booze, thought Lorimer. His black suit had seen better days and was shiny along the sleeves. Despite the chilly day, the man was perspiring freely and had already taken out a white handkerchief to mop his brow.

Lorimer and Solomon had arrived at Yarwood’s address shortly after their visit to his former home. Now the man was reduced to a rented room in one of the old Pollokshaws tenements. His landlady, Mrs Singh, had been none too pleased to see Lorimer’s warrant card, pursing her lips in disapproval as she showed the two men to her lodger’s room.

‘I couldn’t believe it when they told me,’ Norman Yarwood began. ‘I still can’t.’

He sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, twisting the handkerchief between his large red fists.

‘I mean, who’d want to do something like that to Jan?’

Lorimer was seated on the only chair and Solomon stood motionless by the end of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him. Lorimer was reminded of a Rabbi come to pay his respects.

‘When was the last time you saw your daughter?’ the detective asked.

Norman Yarwood sighed deeply. ‘Only a couple of weeks ago. We had our tea in that place in the park. You know. The art place where she worked.’

‘Did you ever visit her at home?’

The man raised his head and the eyes which had threatened tears suddenly became shrewd.

‘Are you trying to suggest something?’

‘Mr Yarwood, we need to know if any of Janet’s friends or family had visited her flat shortly before her death.’

The man nodded, then went on. ‘Yes, of course I did. I didn’t bother her much, mind. She had her work and it wouldn’t have been fair me dropping in forever.’

‘When did you last visit Garnethill?’

‘Must have been about a week, maybe ten days before the last time I …’ His voice faded and the red fists screwed the handkerchief into a ball. ‘The last time I saw her,’ he finished.

‘Did you notice the pictures in your daughter’s flat?’

Norman Yarwood gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Pictures? The place was full of ruddy pictures. She never stopped working on them.’ The touch of pride in the man’s voice was unmistakable.

‘I’m particularly interested to know if you remember the framed pictures she had hanging on her lounge walls.’

The shrewd look came back into Yarwood’s eyes.

‘Somebody nick them?’ When no answer was given, he shrugged then frowned in concentration. ‘There was the big African thing, the embroidery, the one with the donkey and — ’ he paused, wiping his brow again. ‘There were others but I can’t exactly remember where they were.’

‘On the wall by the kitchen?’

Yarwood nodded. ‘That’s right. I remember now. They were portraits.’

‘Your daughter’s work?’

Yarwood gave a short laugh. ‘No. Not her style at all.’

‘And do you know who the subjects were?’

Lorimer strove to keep the excitement out of his voice but Yarwood was fighting to control a spasm of rage.

‘Oh, aye. I know who they were all right. That Lucy girl. The one who was found in the park.’

‘Lucy Haining?’ Solomon asked, moving across and sitting beside Norman Yarwood.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever meet Lucy?’

Lorimer sat back and folded his arms, interested to see how Solomon would proceed.

‘Aye, just the once. She was a cheeky wee English get! Thought she had the right to tell me off!’

‘How was that, Mr Yarwood?’

The handkerchief was applied to his face once more.

‘Ach, a lot of baloney. Went on about how Janet was a liberated woman and didn’t need her parents. A lot of garbage. As if I didn’t know my lassie was better off away from yon …’

His fist smashed hard against his knee.

‘So you didn’t like Lucy?’

‘Not much. But that’s no’ to say I meant her any harm. I was sorry for our Jan when her friend got killed. It fair broke her up.’

‘Mr Yarwood,’ Solomon said, leaning forward in order to make eye contact, ‘I know it must be very painful for you but could you tell us exactly how Janet behaved after Lucy’s death?’

‘Will it help catch whoever did it?’ the man asked, turning to face Lorimer.

‘It might,’ Lorimer told him.

A long sigh escaped from the man then he straightened himself and began.

‘She was so happy when we left home.’

‘You left at the same time?’ Solomon asked.

‘Oh, aye. Didn’t you know? That’s what it was all about. I took Janet’s part when she wanted to start the Art School. Then all hell broke loose, of course.’ He paused, glancing up at the policeman opposite. ‘You’ve met my wife?’ When Lorimer nodded he continued, ‘Aye. Right. You’ll know why then. Jan couldn’t hack it any longer. And then when my sister died I gave all her money to my girl. She deserved it after putting up with that place all these years.’

‘And your wife asked you to leave too?’ Lorimer enquired.

‘Asked?’ the man laughed sourly. ‘Oh, there was no asking. I was told .’ He looked around the shabby room and waved a hand. ‘See this? This is paradise on earth compared to what I had before.’

‘And when Lucy died?’ Solomon prompted, bringing Norman Yarwood back to the point.

‘She fell to pieces. Wouldn’t eat. Looked terrible, like she couldn’t sleep.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I even thought she might do away with herself.’

There was a hush in the room as they digested this, then Lorimer broke the silence.

‘But she carried on; painting, working with the other students?’

Yarwood shrugged. ‘What else could she do?’

Lorimer drew out a piece of card from his inside pocket and placed it directly in the man’s line of vision.

‘Recognise him?’

Yarwood shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve seen that picture before.’

‘Oh?’ Lorimer’s eyebrows rose.

‘ Crimewatch .’ Yarwood looked intently at Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer answered shortly.

‘And d’you think this man — this one — killed my Jan?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

Lorimer briskly pocketed the picture.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I know of anybody who’d want to murder her?’ said Yarwood.

Lorimer was about to reply but Solly broke in first. ‘Why, do you?’

‘No. But that’s what they always ask, isn’t it?’

‘Who, Mr Yarwood?’

‘Police. On the telly.’ The man stood up abruptly and stuffed the handkerchief back into his jacket pocket. ‘There was no one. No sane person could have had any reason to do what he did.’

Lorimer stood up and handed his card to Norman Yarwood.

‘If there’s anything else you want to tell us,’ he said, then added, ‘And we might have to talk to you again, sir.’

‘Aye, but talking’s no gonnae bring her back, is it?’