Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

‘But why would someone want to scalp three young women?’

‘Or four. If he’d been successful.’

‘Quite.’

The phone rang.

‘Lorimer.’

He spoke curtly into the mouthpiece. His working day was peppered with telephone calls. It was Alistair Wilson asking for the annual staff profiles.

‘I’ve got someone in at the moment. I’ll get back to you later,’ said Lorimer, wishing he could make it sooner. This psychologist dealt with intangibles. Lorimer preferred to deal with facts. He felt that Alison Girdley’s attack was the first real progress he’d made towards apprehending this killer. The ambulance, the description — both were concrete. The photofit face would be shown on TV. This was something real to go on, not like Solly Brightman’s nebulous psychological profile. Still, both paths could lead to the same place in the end, he thought.

‘I’d check the local libraries and schools, if I were you,’ Solly said suddenly. ‘Look for something specific. Nonfiction. A history of American Indians, or something like it. Look to see if there’s been a borrower who has repeatedly taken out such an item.’

‘What if he’s bought the book?’ Lorimer said unkindly.

Solly shrugged and spread his hands. Lorimer felt immediately ashamed.

‘Okay.’

Solly looked at his large wristwatch.

‘I’m afraid I have to be going now. I have a lecture at three o’clock.’ He smiled. ‘Dreams.’

Chief Inspector Lorimer give him an obligatory, polite smile. Dreams, indeed!

The photofit was complete. A man’s thin face glared up from the screen, small eyes, cropped hair and large ears. Lorimer remembered something about large ears, large hands, large feet … he could ask Alison Girdley about the hands. As an identification it was unsatisfactory, though. The features, when put together, made a fairly ordinary face. There was nothing really outstanding. Still, he’d often thought that of other photofits and marvelled at the results they had produced. This one was to be shown on Crimewatch . It would take all his powers of organisation to ensure that the screening was a success. Certain information was to be made known; some facts had already been printed by the tabloids but others were still under wraps. The main thing being withheld was the involvement of the psychologist. He was to remain a secret for now, thank God.

The air was still with that clinging dampness which is a depressing feature of the Scottish West Coast. Wet grey streets were an ocean of tarmac reflecting the grey skies. Martin Enderby emerged from the towering edifice of concrete and glass, loosening his collar and pulling down the knot of his tie. The journalist was tired after the long hours at his desk, and he paused for a moment, gazing at the dark sandstone tenements and newer yuppie flats across the street. Should he head for the car park or give in to the thirst that had been building up all afternoon? His very hesitation spelt out a weakness. With a cursory glance at the Press Bar, where he would be sure to find many of his senior colleagues, he turned in the direction of his preferred watering place, already imagining the taste of cool beer.

Inside, the bar was warm and dark. Later there would be live music from their resident folk group, but for now Martin was content to enjoy the peace and quiet and the familiar, musty smell. The reporter ordered his drink and took it to a corner table, a solid dark oak circle with an ornately carved pedestal. It was the sort of table which usually annoyed him, as there was nowhere to rest his feet, but today he was too tired to care and too intent on washing down the dust and dryness of his office. He closed his eyes for a moment. The sound of taped Scottish fiddle music and the rattle of a fruit machine were noises that scarcely impinged on his senses.

‘Mind if I join you?’

With a start Martin looked up to see Diane, the slim, hungry-looking brunette whose acerbic articles in the women’s page caused such letter-provoking controversy. Martin liked her. She talked a hell of a lot, but usually to some purpose and with wit.

‘Sure. What’ll you have?’

‘Oh, it’s okay, I’ve ordered.’ She perched jauntily on the edge of the chair, crossing her legs neatly. ‘How’s the great white hunter, then?’

‘Oh, God knows. They’re putting out a story on Crimewatch so until then we have very few crumbs of information. I tell you what, though,’ Martin leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I don’t think even the publicity will run him to earth.’

‘Why not? Wouldn’t it make him wary?’

Martin took a long swig of beer then put down his glass, sucking the foam from his lips.

‘Nope. My guess is that he’s acting from compulsion. Nothing and no one will stop him unless he makes a real mistake, or he’s caught by sheer chance.’

‘You mean he hears voices in his head, that sort of thing?’

Diane’s voice was teasing, and Martin wondered if she was genuinely interested. Just then, the barman stepped up, smiled at Diane and with a certain flourish placed her glass of wine on the table. She returned the smile with one of her own dazzling looks. But then she was gazing back at Martin, all attention.

‘There’s no reason for these killings. I mean, no motive. The killer is unknown to his victims, let’s assume. His “reason” is possibly unclear even to him. Something makes him kill, something else makes him take the scalps.’ He paused, glancing at his companion seriously. ‘You might not be far off the mark when you say he hears voices. Think of the case of David Koresh. He claimed that God was telling him to kill anyone who opposed his cult. Quite a lot of criminals have made such claims. There’s even been a TV programme about it. Seemingly perfectly sane people can hear voices.’

‘Like Joan of Arc?’

Martin frowned.

‘That’s so long ago. I’m inclined to believe that she did hear God’s voice anyway. No. It’s the ones who behave in certain ways, as if a trigger — not necessarily a voice — had set something off.’ Diane made a face. Martin could see she was becoming rather bored with voices other than her own. ‘Well, then, what’s new in your neck of the woods?’

‘Oh, the usual. Lots of hot gossip.’

Diane gave him a wicked grin. Her column might give the impression that she was a regular tattle-tale, but she gave little away until it was committed to print. Her head turned slightly towards the bar, and she raised her eyebrows as the tape changed to an old Pretenders number.

‘Thank God I’m off for some culture tonight.’

‘Oh? Theatre?’

‘Nope. Jayne’s doing a review of Davey’s exhibition. So I’m toddling off to see our ace photographer’s latest offerings.’

‘It’s the private viewing, then?’

‘Mmm,’ she nodded, sipping her wine.

‘He’s done well, has our Davey. Commendation in the Nationals, and now this. His own exhibition. Not just one of many.’

‘What sort of pictures are they?’

‘Mostly black-and-white, I expect. None of your sensational scene-of-crime stuff. That’s strictly for the paper. Mind you, they’re good, too.’

Martin remembered one of his friend’s pictures. It was the spot where Donna Henderson had been murdered. What had struck him most about the picture was the beautiful art nouveau lamp curled against the white sky. It seemed to throw up the real contrast of Glasgow: City of Culture and city of crime.

‘Kids, I think.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Davey’s photos. In this exhibition. I think Jayne said it was mainly studies of children. Like Oscar Marzaroli did in the Gorbals. You know.’ She gave a little cat-like smile. ‘Come with me, if you like.’