Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

Lorimer had refused to talk to the psychologist on his return to Headquarters, choosing instead to listen to his detective sergeant’s report. Things seemed to be falling into place now. He looked across at Enderby, taking in the pale yellow shirt and brightly patterned tie, seeing the long limbs stretched under the table, arms crossed in defiance of his authority. They often began like that, Lorimer knew.

‘Mr Enderby,’ he began, a politeness in his tone that they both knew was simply a veneer. ‘I believe you visited Miss Janet Yarwood in the last few days?’ Lorimer rustled some papers. ‘February 27th, to be exact.’

Martin Enderby stared mulishly at the Chief Inspector. He might not answer any of his questions, Lorimer knew from bitter experience. Would he demand the presence of a lawyer? Sometimes the interview tape was peppered with No comment . Lorimer was relieved when Enderby decided to reply.

‘I did pay a visit, yes.’

‘Why was that, Mr Enderby?’

‘I’m an investigative journalist. I was investigating the St Mungo’s Murders.’

‘And you interviewed Miss Yarwood?’

‘Yes. She was a friend of Lucy Haining. I thought she might give me some angle on the dead student. We talked about the possibility of an exhibition of Lucy’s jewellery.’

‘I see.’ Lorimer’s voice sounded as though in fact he saw a great deal more. ‘Were you yourself acquainted with Miss Haining at all?’

Martin appeared suddenly disconcerted, not by the implications of the question but by the blue gaze that fixed on him so powerfully.

‘Me? I’d never even heard of her until she was dead.’

‘What did you study at university, sir?’ Wilson was questioning him now, his face a polite mask, the voice almost deferential.

‘Well, journalism, of course.’

‘Not psychology, then?’

‘As a matter of fact I started out with psychology but I switched courses at the end of my first year.’

‘Stood you in good stead, did it?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Yes, it did. It still does. A bit of insight into human behaviour always helps,’ Martin retorted.

‘ That will be why you have so many books on the subject.’ Lorimer spoke lightly, as if he’d suddenly solved a problem, but the tone wasn’t lost on any of them. Martin didn’t reply, so Lorimer continued, ‘Pathology too. You take a special interest in how to strangle people?’

They saw a pulse in the journalist’s throat begin to throb with anger.

‘Now, look here — ’

‘No,’ the voice cut in, ‘ you look here, Mr Enderby. Investigative journalism is one thing but it seems to me that you had a great deal of knowledge about the St Mungo’s Murders that didn’t come from the police Press Officer.’

‘Of course I had!’ Martin thumped his fists on the table as he leaned forward. ‘I read up every bloody thing I could find on the subject. Good journalists do, you know!’

‘Really.’

Lorimer’s tone indicated that he was unconvinced.

‘Yes, really!’ Martin ran his hand through his fair hair. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with the murders?’

His exclamation was met with silence. Lorimer was writing something down and the detective sergeant looked across at Martin, his bland gaze never wavering. The enormity of the situation seemed to be settling on the journalist and he looked around him in panic. Now both men sat staring intently at him. Martin took a deep breath.

‘Are there any traces?’ he asked.

‘Sir?’ the detective sergeant feigned puzzlement.

‘Traces. You know. To test for DNA.’

‘Why do you ask?’

The Chief Inspector had his fingertips together under his chin but his stare never faltered.

‘Because if you have, then you can do tests on me right now! I have done nothing wrong whatsoever and you have an obligation to eliminate me from your, your, enquiries .’

Enderby loaded the word with meaning. Lorimer wondered if he’d make anything of it. The Press Association might have them up for harassment.

‘I take it you had a warrant to search my flat?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Wilson replied, smiling a thin-lipped smile. ‘I see housework’s not your strong point.’

‘That’s hardly a chargeable offence!’

‘No, Sir, it’s not.’

‘You gave a brief statement during our house-to-house enquiry, did you not?’ asked Lorimer.

‘Yes. There wasn’t anything to say. I saw nothing until your guys had the scene of crime cordoned off.’

‘Good view from your window?’

‘Yes, actually. Though I don’t spend a lot of time standing looking out. I’ve usually got better things to do.’

‘Where were you on the nights of October 21st, 25th and November 3rd, Mr Enderby?’

The man’s face became quite blank for a moment. Was he considering what he had said in his statement to the police that winter night on his doorstep? Everyone in the flats would have talked about it when they’d met up in the lift, Lorimer was willing to bet. They’d maybe even have compared the questions asked, wondered if the police thought the murderer was being harboured by a neighbour. Speculation always ran rife. And sometimes to the advantage of the police.

Lorimer’s blue eyes were still turned on him.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember off-hand. I’d need to check last year’s diary. No. Wait a minute. The third girl. I was at a club with friends the night before … well, the night it happened. We got the news first thing and my piece was in the earliest edition.’

Lorimer folded his arms and regarded the journalist speculatively. He’d rattled his cage all right. But he didn’t need Solomon Brightman to tell him he wasn’t sitting across the table from a multiple killer. Certain things had fitted nicely but Enderby seemed to be speaking the truth. Lorimer was pretty experienced at hearing the truth. Also, he doubted whether that fair hair flopping over his forehead could have grown from a cropped cut in a mere four months. Perhaps he’d send him to the doc for testing all the same. See if any fibres or traces matched.

‘Excuse us a moment.’

Lorimer motioned Wilson to follow him and they left the journalist alone except for the uniformed officer standing sentinel at the doorway.

‘I can’t hold him, he’s not being cautioned,’ Lorimer said. ‘But at least he’s co-operative about the forensics. I’d like to have a mouth swab and a blood test done. Bastard knows too damned much for my liking. Nosied into something he should have left alone.’

‘Dr Brightman said right off we hadn’t found the killer,’ remarked Wilson casually.

‘Oh? Did he give a reason?’

‘Said Enderby was totally disorganised. We’re looking for Mr Neat-and-Tidy, according to Brightman.’ Wilson paused then asked, ‘So, what’s to do? Tell him to clear off or give him the kind of fright that’ll make him want to cover the ladies’ page in future?’

Lorimer glanced at his watch.

‘Let’s have a think about this over coffee, shall we?’ Lorimer smiled at his colleague, indicating the way upstairs to his office. There was plenty of time before he needed to be home preparing for George Phillips’s big night. He’d let the journalist sweat for a while in the interview room then politely ask his co-operation in a series of tests. To eliminate him from their enquiries. Tomorrow they’d stick a certain young DC on his tail for a while, just to see the company he kept. They weren’t finished with this one yet.

If he couldn’t get any more on Brightman and the murders, then he could switch his attention to police methods, thought Martin viciously. He felt soiled by the contact with the interrogation room, with the specimens he’d had to give the Police Surgeon and, yes, if he was honest, he felt downright shit scared. Nothing in his journalistic life, however seedy, had prepared him for the personal experience of being a suspect in such a crime. In his worst nightmares, Martin could never have imagined the reality of being imprisoned in that ill-lit room, a police guard barring his escape while the power of these officers took decisions out of his hands. He even wondered if he’d be cautioned, charged, put in a cell and left to rot. The mind played strange illogical tricks when fear took over. Latterly there had been co-operation of sorts between the police Press Office and the newsdesk in covering stories. But now, Martin’s editor had snarled at him, he’d alienated the lot of them. And what had he got to show for it? Jangled nerves, a splitting headache and an assignment to cover some Glasgow councillors on the fiddle.