Alex Gray - Never Somewhere Else

‘See you tomorrow!’

‘Sure. See you!’

Donna Henderson turned into the narrow cobbled lane that was a short cut to the taxi rank. Her friends continued down the street, chattering like sparrows, their much brighter plumage a vivid splash against the drab city night. The older girls were heading off to yet another club, but Donna was on a strict curfew. Protestations about being nearly old enough to vote had cut no ice. Still, it wasn’t long till her birthday. Then she’d go clubbing all night if she felt like it.

Her mouth relaxed into a smile as she thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow she would be working with that new stylist, Mark. In her mind she saw them together. She would be all attentiveness while he would surely reward her efforts with one of his gorgeous smiles. The fantasy continued on down the lane, past the back doors of restaurants and the cinema, past the chained-off squares of car parks belonging to the darkened offices above. There was a street light halfway down, an ornate structure dating from the earlier part of the twentieth century. Its weird elongated shapes, which were now a hallmark of this city, drew the eye upwards.

Donna, looking up at the lantern’s black outline against the sodium glow of the sky, did not see the movement from the shadows until it was too late.

The silver bicycle chain swept upwards in a graceful arc then two leather-clad fists yanked it tight. Donna’s hands scrabbled towards her neck for a moment.

As she fell, the lamp swung overhead, scattering shards of light. Then unseen hands put out the light for good. Donna never heard the thud as her body hit the cobbles.

The shadowy figure bent over her body and smoothed her hair from the now distorted face. Fingers traced the brow line in a slow caress. From the depth of its shadow, the figure breathed a long sigh over the dead girl. Under the lamplight a blade flashed out and there was a frenzy of activity as flesh and hair were hacked away.

For a moment only the sound of traffic could be heard passing by the mouth of the lane then the black figure laughed softly, holding up a blood-soaked scalp.

Donna Henderson’s body lay in the narrow lane, arms flung out as if in protest, blood shining like a pool of patent leather over the cobbles.

It was over so quickly. All her dreams of tomorrow crushed in that swift and brutal act.

Hilary Fleming strode through the knee-length grasses, her hands stuck into the pockets of her waxed jacket. The wind which blew her blonde hair over her eyes flattened the grasses around her. For a moment she lost sight of Toby then, pushing back her hair, she saw his feathery tail thrashing through the thicker undergrowth ahead. Hilary smiled as she raised her face to the morning sun. What a perfect way to begin the day!

Suddenly Toby broke into a paroxysm of barking, darting backwards and forwards at an overgrown laurel bush. Squirrels, thought Hilary. Stupid dog. She quickened her pace, the grasses swishing against her green wellingtons.

Then she stopped abruptly, the smile freezing on her lips.

From under the bright green laurel leaves a white arm protruded. White, bloodless and certainly dead.

Hilary’s gorge rose and she was aware of Toby’s concerned whines mingling with a strange high noise which became her own scream.

The tall man in the raincoat stood a little apart from the activity surrounding the body. He had seen enough to fill in his report, had asked the pathologist all the relevant questions, but he lingered still, regarding the section of the park that was cordoned off by police tape. This was the third young woman to be found in St Mungo’s Park and it was the business of the man in the raincoat to find answers to the questions of who had killed them and why.

As he stared at the scene of this latest crime a worried blackbird flapped out of the laurel bushes, breaking into his reverie.

They would have to close the park now, for sure. Round the clock surveillance would put an even greater strain on their limited resources but something drastic had to be done to stop the killer revisiting the scene of his crimes. The Press wanted to know if it was the work of a serial killer. He hadn’t confirmed that yet, but the corpses certainly bore the hallmarks of that type of murder.

His gaze returned to the girl’s body. It was out of sight now, its grisly contents concealed in the body bag. He wondered at the mentality behind such a vicious act and, as ever, how on earth he was going to find words that sought to explain this to a grieving mother and father.

‘No, I’ve told them to wait for the forensic report. No. We’ll discuss it later.’

Chief Inspector Lorimer put down the phone and glared at it. He sat for a few moments, fists clenched on the desk in front of him, face set in grim, determined lines.

It was a face which could never have been called handsome, but there was something which made you look twice. Craggy features and a strong jawline might have indicated a well-weathered sportsman.

In fact he had been a rugby player in his younger days. The mouth was thin, downturned and looked incapable of smiling. It didn’t have much practice in this line of work. What really made a person stop and look again, though, were the pale blue eyes. A dreamer or a poet might have been gazing out of them. Combined with Lorimer’s sterner features, they came as a disconcerting surprise. Hardened criminals had broken under these strange staring eyes.

Lorimer had his blue eyes to thank for his career as a policeman. He had never considered the police force as a way of earning his living when he had left school. University had been the obvious choice and he soon immersed himself in a variety of Arts subjects, favouring Art History as his principal discipline. In a decade when job choices had been plentiful, Lorimer had not been overly concerned about what career lay ahead of him on graduation. One with prospects, he’d assured himself vaguely, except that it would never be banking. That decision had been taken one week into his first summer job in a city bank. The tedium and office small talk was only just bearable for a few weeks; certainly not for a lifetime.

Ironically the job in the bank was the catalyst which brought about an abrupt end to Lorimer’s student days.

On the day that was to mark such a radical change in his lifestyle, Lorimer had been summoned to his manager’s office where two uniformed police officers stood, eyeing him with interest. The manager had been terse in explaining the situation and the student had found himself being driven off discreetly to the local police station to be put into a line up.

‘A man with penetrating blue eyes’ fitting Lorimer’s description was sought in connection with a spate of robberies from branches of his own bank, he was told. Youthful indignation had given way to curiosity after the identity parade had eliminated him as the culprit. Lorimer had lingered in the station with the officers, drinking tea and asking questions, in no hurry to return to his flinty-faced bank manager who clearly had him tried and sentenced already.

With the alarming experience of being a suspect, for however short a time, had come the realisation that villains were very much a part of everyday society; a realisation quickly confirmed by chatting to the officers in charge. There was an allure about this kind of job which sought out and found criminals who might look just like himself.

Now, several years later, Lorimer was the Detective Chief Inspector in his Divisional Headquarters. Years of experience in and out of uniform lay behind him; on the beat, into CID, learning all the time about humankind and learning too about himself.