Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

‘Wait and see. Got a few surprises up my sleeve.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows as though this were news to him but rumours had filtered down that George was likely to chair a new advisory panel into Drug Related Crime, the Chief Constable’s pet that gobbled up so much of their budget. That was fair enough but he just hoped that George would remember their stretched resources when it came down to murder inquiries.

‘Happy birthday, George!’

There was Maggie shimmering in that new evening outfit, kissing the big man on both cheeks.

‘Maggie! Ah, the sight of you does an old man’s heart good!’

Maggie giggled while Lorimer scrutinised her. She did look good, he thought, eyeing the black silk hugging his wife’s curves. There was a sparkle about her that wasn’t just an illusion created by the spangly blazer. It made Lorimer feel suddenly reckless.

‘How about a bottle of champagne?’

Maggie looked momentarily surprised then nodded. ‘Great idea. After all, you’ve got plenty to celebrate.’ She turned to George and twinkled mischievously at him.

‘Ah, yes. Freedom. Slippers by the fire. I’ll think of you all when I’m hacking my way around the golf course.’

‘Quite right, too,’ Lorimer heard Maggie declare as he turned back to the bar to order a bottle of Moet.

As he raised the fluted glass to his lips, Lorimer couldn’t help wishing that they were celebrating more than George Phillips’s retirement. He’d have bought a crate of the stuff to toast their success in finding the St Mungo’s killer. He was never very far away from Lorimer’s thoughts. Somewhere on the edge of his mind hovered a shadowy figure with cropped dark hair swinging a silver bicycle chain. The voice on the Crimewatch tape played over and over in his mind. ‘Can you guess …’

‘Can you guess where George is going on holiday?’ Maggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Where?’

‘The Algarve, of course. All those golf courses.’ She put her head to one side. ‘We’ve never been there.’

‘Would you want to go?’

‘Not to play golf, but …’

Her voice drifted off and her eyes grew dreamy, no doubt picturing white Moorish houses smothered with purple bougainvillaea, thought Lorimer.

‘Just to have a holiday,’ she finished lamely.

Lorimer poured more champagne into their glasses then grinned wickedly.

‘On one condition,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘That you pack this into your suitcase.’

He gave a gentle tug on the strap of her dress, feeling the weight of her breasts underneath. Maggie raised her glass in a salute.

Just at that moment there came a series of thumps and the Master of Ceremonies bawled out the command for dinner. Lorimer was glad that he and Maggie were not at the top table with George, who had included the Chief Constable and the Lady Provost among his guests. The Lorimers were at table two, he knew, with four other couples. He saw Alistair Wilson and his wife Betty, a professional cook who was as plump and cheery as he was slim and debonair. Also at the table was DCI Mitchison, an officer from George’s previous Division. Lorimer had come across Mitchison a couple of times at police seminars. He was one of these men who always did things by the book, Lorimer remembered. He didn’t drink and could be relied upon to bang on about delegating authority. Lorimer had taken an instant dislike to the man, who also had a much younger blonde in tow. They were already standing behind their seats as Lorimer ushered Maggie forward, squinting at the place cards and hoping he wouldn’t be next to the unknown blonde. He noticed, however, with surprise and not a little pleasure, that Ms Rosaleen Fergusson’s name was to his right. Good old Rosie! So long as she didn’t put the diners off with any professional anecdotes! Lorimer grinned then wondered who would be partnering the lovely pathologist this evening.

He didn’t have long to find out. He heard the wolf whistles first. Then Rosie appeared dressed in an outrageously short, white, strapless number, her hair caught up in a Grecian knot. With her was Dr Solomon Brightman. Introductions were made, ladies ushered into their seats, and Lorimer heard himself make polite small talk with Betty Wilson on his left, who was already enthusing over the menu.

All conversations were hushed as the Selkirk Grace was given by the Chief Constable and Lorimer had a moment to reflect. Solly and Rosie. Well, well. He caught the pathologist’s eye and made a discreet thumbs-up sign.

The meal passed in a pleasant haze of passable wine, good food and better company than a Detective Chief Inspector usually enjoys. On the opposite side of the table his wife and Solly were in animated conversation; meanwhile Rosie was telling Alistair Wilson about her visits to Rwanda. Betty was explaining the use of herbs in cookery to the couple on her left, leaving Lorimer’s mind free to wander.

It wandered through St Mungo’s Park in the back of an old ambulance. The driver wore gloves, just as Alison Girdley had described. Was there anyone in the passenger seat? Lorimer drank the rest of his glass of Vouvray and tried hard to imagine a female beside the cropped-haired driver. A live female wearing a blonde wig. Kanekelon. Japanese hair fibre.

He looked appraisingly at the women around the table. Mitchison’s companion had swept her platinum locks into a huge wave at the side. More artifice than art, thought Lorimer, comparing the young woman with Rosie’s elegance. Who would ever have imagined that these slim hands with their pearly painted nails could wield such an effective scalpel? Appearance and reality. Belatedly he wondered what DCI Mitchison’s young friend did for a living.

The driver had stopped now and come round to open the rear doors. Lorimer fast-forwarded the scenes in his mind. There would have been the need for a hose, or a scrub-down of some kind. No trace of bloodstains had been found in the burnt-out ambulance. It would have been cleaned up thoroughly. To rid it of evidence and to prepare for his predations on other innocents. Little boys. There was no doubt now that the paedophile who had lured children into his ‘van’ was also an accomplished killer. He’d offered them sweeties. And threats. Wee Kevin Sweeney had painted a picture of a menacing creature who also had the power to beguile. Had he beguiled Lucy? And Janet Yarwood, who had loved the younger artist? At some point Lucy had become involved with this man and his predilection for little boys. That she had known all about it and used her knowledge as blackmail was one theory Lorimer was anxious to prove. The large sums of cash paid into her account had been spent lavishly on gold, silver and precious stones. Lorimer and Solly had built up a picture of the red-haired art student whose determination to succeed in the world of jewellery design had cost her dearly in the end. He cast his mind back to the exotic arm bangles and shining collars that were to be exhibited posthumously at the degree show. The spoils of blackmail.

‘Don’t you think so, Bill?’

Rosie was smiling at him, quite aware of his discomfiture. She knew fine he’d been away in a dream.

‘Just run that past me again, Rosie?’

Lorimer wasn’t quite as sober as he’d have liked but his wits weren’t totally scattered yet.

‘The double-doctor system. We have twice the work but twice the advantages when it comes into court.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

Lorimer picked up on the thread of conversation, a perennial topic for Scottish pathologists who, like so many other professionals this side of the border, were convinced of the superiority of their system.

The wine waiter came between them, replenishing glasses, and when he’d gone Lorimer found to his relief that Rosie had renewed her conversation with her other dinner guests. Lorimer laid down his knife and fork. He’d hardly touched the sirloin steak. Perhaps the champagne had spoiled his appetite. And all that wine, a small voice reminded him.