Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

Lorimer had not been cited as a witness. There was a morass of statements from his officers who had stood already in the witness box, stony-faced and answering questions in clipped monotones for the most part. He’d been proud of their disciplined manners towards the cross-questioning, especially of DC Cameron who had been rigid with nerves.

Matt Boyd’s commendation had more than made up for his disappointment that the case had not after all been drug-related. In the witness box he’d stood ramrod straight, never once referring to his notebook.

Solomon had surprised him, too. The psychologist had been, if anything, more professional than all the others. It was almost as if he’d been detached from the whole affair. Even when he had described his own attack, there had been the usual considered pauses and an air of seeming indifference to the fate of the accused.

The background reports and the trial itself had thrown up so many aspects of the murderer’s past. Solomon’s profile had been uncanny in its accuracy. And there had been answers to other questions Lorimer had been unable to work out. How had Baird made his way from Strathblane without an accomplice? In the end, as so often, it was a simple explanation. A bicycle. Obvious, really, once he’d pieced it all together.

The murder weapon should have given him a clue, of course. The man rode his bike all over the city, it seemed. It also explained why the ambulance had never been seen in the vicinity of St Mungo’s Heights. It had never been there. Baird had kept his bike in the old ambulance. Kevin Sweeney remembered that later. Other small boys interviewed by Gail Stewart confirmed this.

Norman Yarwood’s visit to HQ on the day following Baird’s arrest had also been most satisfying. Lorimer had shown Solly the file that contained the witness statements taken at St Mungo’s Heights all those months before. Any long-running murder inquiry was logged into their computer system and Lorimer had pointed the cursor at the name, highlighting it. Davey Baird. Thirteenth floor, St Mungo’s Heights. Occupation: photographer. He remembered Solly’s astonished face as he’d told him.

‘Yarwood found a photo of Lucy Haining taken in Janet’s flat. The missing pictures were in the background. They weren’t paintings at all.’ Lorimer had paused to let his words sink in. ‘They were black and white portrait photographs. Of Lucy.’

Solly had nodded sagely. ‘And he’d taken them down after …’

‘Exactly. Janet Yarwood must have become suspicious or he wouldn’t have had to kill her too. Those photographs told too much for his liking; that he’d known Lucy and had met Valentine through her classes.’

‘And his name would be on my list. The one on the disk.’

‘Janet Yarwood must have told him. She never realised that she’d signed her own death warrant. But he knew you’d have his name by that time.’

‘So he paid me a visit.’

Lorimer had nodded. ‘But he didn’t need to do you in. A quick slug and you were out of the way while he found that disk. Anyway, you must be pretty pleased that he fitted your own profile.’

‘Indeed.’ Solomon had agreed. ‘Baird was motivated by the effects of his abuse as a child. The redskin warrior was lurking underneath all the time.’

‘Don’t forget the other motive, though,’ Lorimer had warned him. ‘It was being blackmailed by Lucy that drove him to want to kill her in the first place.’ He’d shaken his head wearily, thinking of the meaningless sacrifice of those other young lives.

‘It seems we were both right,’ he’d added. But looking back at them now he knew neither he nor Solomon had taken any satisfaction from his words.

Since then all the missing pieces had been put into place.

Now the summing up was to begin and the jury would have to decide on a verdict. Lorimer had no doubt what they would choose. He listened as the prosecuting counsel began his address to the jury. It was a harrowing litany of evil; murder, mutilation and child abuse. Lorimer noticed with approval how the advocate paused to let his words sink in as he outlined each item in the catalogue of crimes. He wasn’t ramming it down their throats. He didn’t have to.

Forensic evidence had shown clearly that Baird had indeed killed and mutilated the four young women. The pathologist’s testimony showed that the traces of blood from their scalps matched those found among the photographer’s camera equipment. The traces of DNA had also conclusively linked Baird with the deaths of all four women and Valentine Carruthers.

Now the defence would begin its summation. Lorimer uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. These seats were not designed for the comfort of a long-legged policeman. Lorimer’s lip curled in distaste for what he was about to hear.

The advocate chosen to defend Davey Baird was an older man, much experienced in the ways of murder trials. Lorimer had encountered him before. He began slowly and gravely. But Lorimer noticed that he avoided looking at the defendant. There was the usual stuff about an unfortunate background. Baird’s mother had been a convicted drug user. There was no mention of a father. The child had drifted in and out of care but not before the mother had taken a knife to the boy. It had happened while she’d been under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. The pictures held up earlier had been close-ups of Baird’s damaged scalp.

The advocate was banging on about the psychological damage done by a mother. But into Lorimer’s mind came the image of another mother, stiff and unbending, standing beside that bleak cottage door. Now the man was relating background reports that had shown how Baird had been subjected to sexual abuse at the hands of his carers. He clearly wanted the jury to take account of all this when they made their decision.

There was a clearing of throats and a rustling of papers as the Court prepared to hear His Lordship’s charging of the jury.

The judge reiterated the gravity of the case, not dwelling on the horrors but nonetheless spelling out the catalogue of crimes.

Not a snowball’s, thought Lorimer, glancing at the jury. He noted the faces pale with stress and fatigue after all these weeks. One man put his hand under an older woman’s arm as they rose to consider their verdict. All eyes in the Court were on them as they made their way to the jury room.

Lorimer looked at the red digital clock on the side of the bench. There was plenty of time before lunch. It would all be over soon.

As they filed back into the Court, not one of them looked at Davey Baird, flanked by the two police officers in the dock.

‘Guilty, my lord.’

The words rang out in Court.

Lorimer stared at Baird’s back. He had reeled as if he’d been struck a blow. He made to sit down but the two officers had him on his feet again and then there was silence as the Court waited for His Lordship to speak. There was no kindliness about the judge’s demeanour now.

Lorimer could see the back of Baird’s head, the scars more evident now because he knew they were there. The killer’s eyes would be fixed on His Lordship’s, needing to know his fate.

‘David Baird, you have been found guilty of the following crimes …’

Lorimer listened to the familiar litany of the man’s atrocities. One after another of his crimes was awarded custodial sentences and Lorimer counted them up rapidly. The man would never see the light of day again, if the sums really added up. But things could change, as Chief Inspector Lorimer knew. With the overcrowding in prisons reaching crisis point, there was a tendency towards early release. There could be remission then rehabilitation followed by community involvement and even a spell in the open prison system, all laudable things in themselves but not for the likes of the St Mungo’s murderer. At least he hoped not.