Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

But Jessica King didn’t need a camera to remember the man’s face; it was something that was indelibly etched on her memory and would stay with her all through the long hours ahead.

He wanted to take a shower, to cleanse himself from all that had happened today, as if the police had been burglars, violating his home, intruding on his privacy. It made Eric yearn to leave it all behind, go somewhere else entirely. Make a fresh start.

The telephone rang and he grabbed it, the desire to hear Ruth’s voice making his eager hands clumsy. ‘Hello,’ he began, a smile ready on his face. But it wasn’t Ruth. The voice on the other end of the line had a harsh, nasal quality that set his teeth on edge.

‘Barbara Cassidy, the Gazette . I was hoping to set up an interview with you, Mr Chalmers,’ the woman began.

Eric let the silence between them linger. Was it the same voice that had screamed out at him from the other side of his door? He couldn’t be sure. And what would he say to her, anyway?

‘Sorry,’ he replied at last. ‘I don’t want to talk to the newspapers.’

That was stupid, Eric cursed himself immediately. She’d put his exact words into tomorrow’s edition, wouldn’t she? Murder suspect refuses to talk to the press. He could already imagine the headlines. But would it have been any easier to say what was in his heart? Wouldn’t they twist it all to suit their own story anyway? One way or another, the RE teacher had a feeling of foreboding.

And he could almost sense the demarcation lines being drawn up between those who believed him and those who wanted to see him locked up for a very long time.

The patch of ground was refusing to yield to the edge of the spade, despite the rains that had fallen steadily all night. In disgust he threw the tool away from him, hearing its dull thud as it hit the grass next to the spiked outline of the gorse bushes.

Everything suddenly seemed to be against him. The girl hadn’t opened her door to him as she should have.

Wasn’t she his bright angel, waiting for the kiss that would transform them for ever?

He thumped his fist against the soil where he had tried to dig the new grave, mouth open in a mask of rage.

She’d seen him. And pointed that bloody camera at him. Somehow he had to get back to her, find her on her own and then bring her here. Only then could he find sleep again.

C LUELESS. The front page headline was repeated over and over again in several of the daily papers. It was par for the course at this stage in a missing child case, but knowing that didn’t make it any easier to bear, nor was it going to help when he had his meeting with Mitchison. Would a review be suggested yet? Perhaps. The Superintendent liked to keep on the side of the Chief Constable as well as the press boys, liked to be seen to be doing something. Lorimer’s mouth twisted in a spasm of anger: there were officers in this division working all hours to find Nancy Fraser but none of their painstaking efforts were making headline news, were they? And this triple murder inquiry had all of their resources stretched to breaking point. Cases didn’t come neatly one after the other in this job, but in a whole ramshackle disorder that had to be tackled somehow. No sooner were you off chasing one case than another came hard on its heels, demanding equal attention. Life on the force was like that and he’d long ago reconciled himself to being able to perform the delicate balancing act that being SIO required.

The perennial promise of more manpower never seemed to materialise sufficiently to satisfy their requirements, something he did wish the newspapers would highlight a bit more.

It was now ten days since the abduction, a timescale destined to be met with a vicious reaction from the redtops who demanded results, as if the police could magically produce the child alive and well like a rabbit from a hat. Lorimer threw down the paper in disgust. The police press team could deal with this: his energies had to be saved for the task of finding what had happened to three dead women. And, anyway, finding little Nancy Fraser was officially Jo Grant’s responsibility now.

DS Niall Cameron stepped into the room, one hand holding a sheaf of paper, an expression of excitement on his pale features.

‘I think we’ve found the car!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s a white Mazda registered to a Miss Lorna Tulloch,’ Cameron read from the newly printed page. ‘Her last known address is given as Southbrae Drive, Jordanhill. That’s not all that far from Yoker,’ he added, trying to keep the smile off his face.

‘Right.’ DI Grant nodded. ‘Take DC Weir with you and bring this woman in for questioning. We’ll need a warrant to search the premises as well.’

Jo Grant lifted the phone to call Lorimer: he’d want to know they’d had a possible breakthrough.

‘You’re sure? That’s excellent. Keep me posted after they bring the woman in, won’t you? Thanks.’

Lorimer gave a triumphant glance at the newspaper crushed into his wastebin. Maybe these people would be eating their words before the next issue was out.

Southbrae Drive was in a pretty residential area leading from Crow Road up towards the leafy margins of Jordanhill Teacher Training College. The houses were fronted by well-tended gardens, blazing with colour from the hanging baskets and rows of bedding plants, now full and lush in the late summer sunshine. DS Cameron stopped the car outside the number he’d been given, noting the grey pebbledash walls and the high privet hedge obscuring the front garden. His heart beat just that little bit faster. Could Nancy Fraser have been taken here? He exchanged glances with his colleague whose raised eyebrows told Cameron that DC Weir also seemed to have considered the same possibility. As the younger man slipped on his jacket, Cameron caught a flash of silver cufflink against the snowy white shirt. He refrained from comment, but it looked as if the detective constable was doing his sartorial best to look smart on the job. Or did he have a hot date after work? The Armani label on the jacket seemed to confirm his thoughts. That looked brand-new. Lucky for some, the tall Lewisman thought. But all thoughts of his fellow officer’s rigout quickly vanished as they approached the house.

The doorbell was an old-fashioned single white button set into the side of the stone wall and it gave a shrill ring as the detective sergeant pressed it. When nothing happened he rang again, leaving his finger on the button for a good few seconds.

‘Looks like she’s out,’ Weir remarked, turning to look back at the street. ‘No sign of the car, either.’

‘Let’s take a look round the back,’ Cameron said and headed down a side path towards the rear of the house. A line of fencing with a curved gate barred their way.

‘Locked!’ Weir exclaimed, jiggling the latch.

‘Maybe it’s just bolted from the inside,’ Cameron said. ‘Come on, give us a leg up; can’t have you messing up these new threads.’

He was right. Peering over the top of the gate, Cameron could see that the owner had bolted the gate shut. Grasping the edge of the wood with both hands, he vaulted over and landed lightly on both feet, knees bent. As he opened the gate he saw DC Weir grinning at him.

‘Think you’re in practice for the Glasgow Commonwealth Games, then?’ he joked.

‘Ach, I’ll be too old by then,’ Cameron replied. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s round here.’

The rear garden contained a neatly mown lawn and a whirligig that, today, was empty of any washing. Like the front, this part of the grounds was also hidden behind hedging, but this was leylandii at least ten feet in height.