Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

Kyle Kerrigan seemed to be a bit happier now for some reason that she couldn’t fathom. He wasn’t the same boy she’d known last session, but then he’d been through so much, hadn’t he? And poor little Samantha Wetherby, Julie’s best pal; how was she coping? Maggie’s lips gave an ironic twist. Why was it she cared so much about the kids in her class? From their point of view, Mrs Lorimer probably ceased to exist once the final bell had sounded every day. Was it because she had never had children of her own? Was that it? Sinking further back into the soothing warmth of the bath, Maggie smiled at her own introspection. Sandie’s tales of her teenage son were designed to be completely off-putting, but a little baby. . The memory of Ruth Chalmers and baby Ashleigh swam into her mind, the softness of the baby’s downy skin, her sheer vulnerability and Ruth’s protecting arms. That was what she had missed, wasn’t it: the desire to nurture, to care for another human being. Well, teaching gave her that opportunity, didn’t it? And now that she had taken over the Scripture Union club, wasn’t she in a position to look out for the kids a little bit more?

The vision of Kenny Turner came to her then, making Maggie sit up, the water swishing around her waist, droplets streaming off her bare shoulders. Had she been right to delve into matters that were really none of her business? Finding out from him about Kyle and Julie had been a nasty shock. But was this feeling of unease caused by her suspicions about the boy’s relationship with Julie or guilt that she was dabbling in things best left to people like her husband?

With a sudden shiver, Maggie recalled Eric’s face as she had come upon him that day, Julie tearing away from him. What had that all been about? And were her protestations about the innocence of the tall, handsome RE teacher really justified?

‘It won’t do, you know. Your reputation is going to be tainted for ever, let me tell you. And how you can expect to have the trust of parents again is beyond me.’

Eric Chalmers sat gazing at the tall man in the wing chair whose eyes refused to meet his own. It had been a mistake to come over here, but he had never given up the hope that his father would see things from his point of view. Perhaps this time, he’d told himself, he’d show some sympathy. But as usual none had been forthcoming.

‘What do you suggest, then?’ Eric asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, hiding the thickness in his throat.

‘Take your wife and child as far away from here as possible. Start again somewhere else. If that Manson fellow is prepared to give you a decent reference then take up another teaching post. All you’re trained for, after all,’ the Rev Chalmers added, his bitter tone edged with spite.

‘Wouldn’t it have been worse right now if I had been an ordained minister?’ Eric asked quietly.

‘Hah!’ His father pointed the stem of his pipe towards Eric. ‘For the first time in my life I’m actually glad you never took up the ministry. Just think of the damage this would have done to the Church!’

Eric sat silently, his eyes wandering over the man who sat before him. His thin craggy features still had a sort of classical refinement about them, though the tilt of his head was more haughty than noble. It could have been a Shakespearian actor sitting there, spouting his fine words. And hadn’t there always been a bit of that in his father? Wasn’t he known for some memorable sermons, words rolling off his lips as if he was inspired. But it had been an inspiration born of a love of the English language and the sound of his own remarkable voice rather than anything holy and sacred, Eric thought with a pang of sorrow. Rev Chalmers’ own reputation was based on a lifetime of Sunday morning performances, rather than any quiet, unseen pastoral work.

‘Is that all you have to say, Father?’ Eric asked at last, rising from the hard-backed seat he had chosen in this familiar room with its book-lined walls and soft lighting. He’d been ushered into the study like one of his father’s parishioners on a matter of business, not as the son of the Manse.

‘You have never bothered with my advice before, Eric, so I don’t see why I should waste my time trying to warn you now. But I’ll say this,’ again the pipe was jabbed in his direction, ‘if you’re not careful it’s more than your job you’ll lose once this matter is finished.’

And turning away towards his desk, the Rev Chalmers began to read over the contents of a paper. It was a gesture meant to convey that he had uttered his final word and Eric was now dismissed.

Back out in the cool night air, Eric walked slowly past the snug rows of houses along the street, catching glimpses of a well-lit interior or the flicker from a television set. Other people would be going about their ordinary lives, watching the news, having a drink, talking over the day’s events with their families. He swallowed hard, determined not to let any self-pity overwhelm him, but he could not banish a sudden sense of loneliness.

There was still no sign of his car being returned and he had walked over the hill from Anniesland so now he would return the same way over Switchback Road. As Eric drew close to the brow of the hill, his eyes were drawn to the dark mass of trees flanking the opposite side of the dual carriageway. Dawsholm Park, where he had fed chaffinches as a boy and scattered peanuts for the squirrels, now seemed to Eric Chalmers a place of ineffable sadness. And, like his childhood, it would be forever tainted with memories impossible to forget.

Lorimer stood looking around the incident room. Blown-up pictures of Julie Donaldson and the skeletons of the other two victims were alongside enlarged passport photographs of the missing girls, their young faces gazing out hopefully at a world that they had expected to enjoy. Now these images were stuck on the board side by side with the men who might be in the frame for their murders. The latest photos had been enlarged and copied so that Adam Russell’s face was now part of this collage. The DCI had dismissed the rest of the team before utter exhaustion set in; he simply couldn’t afford any mistakes being made at this crucial stage. But Lorimer had remained there alone, thinking over what he had read in Russell’s case notes.

Adam Russell had been on his own ever since the death of both parents, continuing to live in the family home. It was a stone’s throw from the Donaldsons’ house and easy walking distance from Dumbarton Road, from where he could catch a bus or the Underground into the city. After giving up on his film and media course at university, he’d drifted into a series of jobs, none of which had lasted very long. And he’d been treated for depression, several episodes of anxiety following as the years passed and his condition justified the prescribed medication. Lorimer sat down at the nearest desk and turned once more to the thick, well-thumbed document he held in his hands.

‘Personable. . charming. . plausible,’ the words seemed to leap off the page at him. Russell had told stories to his doctors about his responsible career as a professional make-up artist, a tale that did, however, hold a grain of truth. The notes showed that he had been employed on a casual basis at the King’s Theatre and also at a funeral parlour, his skills evidently sufficient for someone’s purposes. But most of what he claimed to be was based on a tissue of lies. Make-believe, perhaps. Or would a psychiatrist call it something else? Delusions? Most of the man’s income over the past few years had derived from Social Security benefits; flimsy papers typed up by his visiting officer were stapled to several of the pages, showing dates and figures, his continuing illness regularly assessed to justify his claiming invalidity allowances.