Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

They passed under the gantry near Ibrox Park.

‘Left.’

The word snapped out. It didn’t sound like Davey Baird at all. It was a nightmare where everything was distorted. In his dream Davey had turned into the St Mungo’s killer. Surely he’d wake up any moment and see Diane safe and sound by his side.

The traffic lights were green and they sailed through.

‘Right at the gates.’

Martin risked a glance then looked swiftly away. The black-handled knife gleamed under a passing street lamp. He slowed the red car down and read the two signs. The ski slopes, or …

‘Right.’

Martin drove slowly around the curving driveway that took him up that familiar road. Guiltily, he recalled the last time he had been up this trail. His interview with Janet Yarwood.

‘In here.’

Martin brought the Peugeot to a halt and cut the engine. For a moment he thought of leaving the lights on. A signal of some kind for help. But Davey leaned over and snapped them off.

‘Keys.’

Martin handed them over, fingers trembling.

‘Keep that seat belt on till I come round.’

The car door opened and Martin was facing that blade again.

‘Out.’

For one mad moment the journalist feigned a stumble and lunged out at the man with the knife. He screamed as the blade slashed his wrist bone.

‘Get to hell, Marty.’ Davey Baird was a crouching shadow as Martin sank to his knees with the pain. ‘Get up. Walk.’

The blade came close to his throat and Martin eased himself up away from its lethal point. Davey motioned ahead of them into the darkness.

‘Down there, and don’t make a sound or you’ll get more of this.’

The knife jabbed through the wool of his jersey, forcing Martin into a stumbling walk. The curry he’d eaten hours before tasted sour in his mouth.

The path, if there was one, was in total darkness and Martin had the sensation of going deeper and deeper into some valley. The House for an Art Lover lay behind them now, screening them from view. His breath fogged the darkness as he strained to make out the ground which suddenly became stony. Steps. There were steps. He must count them. But there were only four. An archway loomed above him and, as he ducked his head, he felt the knife in his back once more.

The car slewed off onto the expressway and Solomon felt pinned back against his seat as the driver risked his own licence to speed to the park. The helicopter had been scrambled and was on its way. The heat-sensitive device could track their quarry on the ground, Solomon knew. One way or another, this one wouldn’t get away. But would the journalist escape unharmed? The dark shapes of trees and bushes burst into colour against the full beams of the headlights as they turned off into Pollokshields. The car squealed around a bend then slowed down to enter the narrower paths leading up to the Rennie Mackintosh house.

‘It’s a dead end at the car park,’ Solomon advised.

‘Right. Alert all units.’

Lorimer began to speak into the radio again, issuing instructions.

The trees lining the driveway loomed towards them and then the shape of the house came plainly into sight. There were no lights on anywhere but there was a solitary car parked at the far end of the car park.

The Chief Inspector and the uniformed driver opened the doors of the Rover, motioning to Solomon to leave them open. No noise. That was understood. The rain had stopped and only the sound of dripping branches could be heard as they stood peering into the darkness.

‘It’s Enderby’s, all right.’

A torch was swept over the red Peugeot’s registration and briefly into the interior. The three men stood listening. Not a sound.

‘Get onto the radio. Tell air support our exact location,’ Lorimer whispered.

His glance flicked over Solomon, who had leaned against the red car. Where on earth had they gone? With the darkness for cover and hours until dawn the whole park was a threat. He recalled St Mungo’s Park in the wake of the three bloodied corpses and the surveillance exercise there. Would the dogs be circling this perimeter yet? Suddenly a faint noise made him look up. The light from the helicopter was a swiftly moving star in the distance.

Another sound from the driveway alerted them to the approach of other cars. They’d killed their lights and were like grey shadows coming through the trees. Soon the whole area was filled with uniformed officers. Lorimer’s call for mutual aid had alerted numerous other Divisions. Briefly he wondered if any of them had been called away from George’s party. But despite the numbers, there was no immediate move to scour the park.

‘Why aren’t they making a move?’ Solomon was indignant.

‘Air support.’ Lorimer pointed upwards. ‘They’ll use the tracking device to follow anyone moving across the park. The infrared picks them out. We’ll just have to hope that there is still a moving target.’ Solomon glanced at the Chief Inspector, as if sifting his words for meaning.

Catching his look, Lorimer gave a crooked smile. ‘Oh, yes, Dr Brightman. These men are armed.’

They looked up as the twin-engined Eurocopter banked above them, its lights flooding an area as big as the football pitch at nearby Ibrox. Lorimer returned to the car, leaning forward to hear the radio controller’s report. So far there was no movement in the park. The beams from the helicopter swept over the wet grass, illuminating the lawns for a second, then the darkness seemed blacker than ever.

Martin was on his knees under some sort of wall. His hands had been forced behind him and tied with a chain that cut into the flesh. He wanted to cry out but his throat was dry and, anyway, who would hear him? Davey Baird sat above him on the steps, still clutching the Sabatier. For a while he had simply stared at him. What the hell was going through his mind?

‘Want to know why I did it, Marty?’

The voice didn’t sound familiar in the dark. It was the sneer of a badly acted villain in some cheap drama. Somehow that gave Martin a glimmer of hope. It would come to an end. It wasn’t real.

‘No?’ the voice continued. ‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Remember the wee hairdresser? That first one? I didn’t know her from Adam. She just turned up when I needed her. And the third one? The schoolgirl? All that rubbish about a number seven bus. She never even caught one. Had a spat with the boyfriend and hitched a lift home in an off-duty ambulance. Only the nice ambulance driver turned out to be me.’ He laughed softly. ‘I had them hopping all right. Thought they’d got another Yorkshire Ripper. St Mungo’s murderer. Oh, Marty, what a help you were in keeping that jackanory going. And all along the only one who needed to be done in was that bitch, Lucy.’

Martin cringed at the venom in the voice.

‘Got so bloody greedy. Was going to spill a whole can of worms if I didn’t keep her in funds. Then that stupid old fool. Knew about the ambulance, of course. Had his own kicks in there often enough.’

Martin moved his hands in their metal bond, feeling the blood from his wrist slippery on the chain links. The photographer’s blonde hair fell over his face as he jerked him up.

‘Oh, no you don’t, Marty. I haven’t finished with you yet.’

The boot went into his stomach and Martin buckled in a deep groan.

‘Shit! Bloody helicopters.’

Davey pulled away, letting the journalist fall back onto stony grass. Bright, searching beams picked out the sunken hollow and Martin was suddenly on his own. Davey had vanished into the darkness.

Once the moving target had been sighted, the police spread out in all directions, leaving Lorimer and Solomon with just three officers by the cars. The helicopter pilot kept up a running commentary.