Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

The forensic biologist lifted up her head and smiled. That was better. One hair from the mass of evidence bags was caught between the two prongs of her tweezers, a brittle reminder of a life that had been snuffed out years ago. The mortuary might have the skeletal remains but the grave itself had yielded up much, much more. This hair, for instance, showed that this girl had been naturally dark-haired, but examination under the microscope had given away the fact that the hair had been repeatedly bleached to make it several shades lighter. But that wasn’t all the scientist had to make her smile.

When the report was finally typed out to send to the SIO, she would have a lot of satisfaction writing up the details of what flora had been discovered in and around the crime scenes. The usual specimens like rosebay willow herb and several species of fern were already there in abundance, cross referenced against the sort of soils found in the woods, but there had been a rogue among the traces taken from all three of the women’s graves. One that might have gone unseen, had it not been for her meticulous and painstaking work. Soil sifting had uncovered seeds from a species that simply didn’t exist in or around the park. Ulex europaeus , the thorny, yellow-flowering gorse, was more at home in acidic sandy heaths than in the dark shadiness of a place like Dawsholm Woods. Difficult to distinguish from whin or broom, but for someone who had made a study of these particular plants, well, the woman from GUARD knew exactly what it was she was looking at. The pods had burst on a hot dry day, probably in high summer, she thought absently, already composing the report in her head, though the plant actually can flower all throughout the year. Was this a clue as to where these victims had been prior to being killed under the shadow of these trees? Perhaps, but that wasn’t her job to find out. Once her report was done, she’d be happy to know how the triple murder investigation progressed, even to the extent of preparing herself to become an expert witness for the Crown.

Humming softly, the biologist laid aside the hair sample on a clean Petri dish, a vision of a hillside aglow with the prickly, evergreen shrubs and their acid-yellow flowers.

‘When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season,’ she murmured, remembering the old saying.

Suddenly she had an image of a man embracing a woman just moments before he put his hands around her throat. And the sharp thorns of the sweet-smelling gorse seemed to be reminders of what pain could be inflicted even in a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

‘They were possibly all taken for a walk by their killer before entering Dawsholm Woods,’ Lorimer told the team.

The faces that looked back at the SIO showed tell-tale signs of weariness; too much overtime, too little sleep and a withdrawal from the normal routine of family life took its toll on officers after a while. So any new information that helped push things along was welcome.

‘Forensic results show that both of the unknown victims were killed at a time of year when the weather was probably hot and dry; the gorse seeds in the grave soil are not native to the crime scene but may have been taken there on their clothes or shoes. And the seeds would only have been present at a time when the pods were ready to split open, again probably summer. We’re not known for hot dry days in Glasgow at other times of the year,’ he added wryly. ‘Now we’ve been given a proper sort of timescale for the women’s deaths; we know that Julie was killed in mid-August, victim number two was likely murdered last summer and the remains of our third woman have been dated as having been killed three years ago. Obviously they can’t be exact, but the soil evidence does point towards a similar sort of time.’

‘School holidays,’ someone murmured.

Lorimer’s head jerked up. The implication was clear: Eric Chalmers may well have had the opportunity to carry out these murders. But there was another consideration as well.

‘There is the possibility that all three victims were of school age,’ he told them. ‘Forensic examination identifies the bones as being young adults. So far we haven’t found any missing persons of that age who fit our two unknown victims.’

‘Might have been school leavers,’ Alistair Wilson offered. ‘They aim to go to college in another city then disappear off the radar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens all the time.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘It certainly is a consideration. And that narrows our focus to a certain age group. More paperwork, I’m afraid,’ he said to a chorus of groans. ‘Find out who went missing around these times, concentrating on girls from sixteen to twenty. Then maybe we’ll come up with names to put to these,’ he pointed at the pictures of two sets of skeletal remains that adorned the wall, ‘and figure out just what happened to them.’

Lorimer gave each member of the team the benefit of his penetrating blue stare as he swept his eyes around them. ‘We have less than a fortnight to come up with more evidence,’ he told them. ‘After that, unless we are making real progress, we’ll be faced with the prospect of a review team coming in to crawl all over us. And I for one don’t relish that idea. So let’s find out who these girls really are.’

‘Kyle Kerrigan? That’s not the lad. . Oh, it is him. How strange,’ Rosie Fergusson mused as she listened to her friend’s request. The Fourth Year boy, the one whose own father had been convicted of murder, wanted to become a forensic scientist. Cathartic or what? Rosie thought, her natural cynicism asserting itself. But Maggie Lorimer sounded keen for the lad to pursue this notion and was asking Rosie for help.

‘Okay, why not?’ she decided. There was nothing to lose and maybe it would actually help the kid find closure from his friend’s murder. Something of Solly’s subject must be rubbing off on me. Rosie grinned as she flipped off her mobile. She’d have to speak to Dan, clear it with the mortuary supervisor, but it shouldn’t be too big a problem. A wee trip around the place might succeed in putting the boy off any romanticised notions he had about studying pathology. But was that what Maggie had in mind?

Kenny Turner looked down at his hands as soon as he saw the photograph. Hiding his blushes, Maggie told herself.

‘Quite a stunner, wasn’t she?’ Maggie remarked quietly. Only a brief nod came in response and, as she watched the boy’s reaction, she could see the heaving shoulders that told her he had begun sobbing. Silently she passed him the box of Kleenex tissues and waited until he’d blown his nose and gathered his emotions together.

‘Were you two a couple, then?’ she asked softly, her tone full of sympathy.

Kenny gave a brief, watery smile and shook his head. ‘I wish,’ he replied, meeting Maggie’s eyes for a second before looking down again. ‘There are a lot more better-looking guys in school than me. Anyway, she couldn’t see past Chalmers, could she?’ The voice that trembled with tears took on an edge of bitterness. ‘I mean,’ Kenny lifted his acne-scarred face and raised his hands towards it in a gesture of despair, ‘how could I compete?’

Maggie tried not to smile back. Young love could hurt so much and a teenage lad’s self-esteem might easily reach rock-bottom when he had been rejected in favour of an older man. And if that man had been Eric Chalmers, with his film-star good looks and natural charm, well, Kenny was spot on: how could he compete with that?

‘But Julie liked you, didn’t she? I mean, her expression in the photo. .’

Kenny’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a grin but his eyes were full of regret. ‘Ach, she put it on for anyone, Julie did. Not camera shy, know what I mean? Fantasised about being something she wasn’t.’