Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

The DCI was used to reading background reports on criminals whose behaviour suggested a lack of mental capacity and who might not be considered fit to plead, but this file had him puzzled. Russell did not seem to fit neatly into any sort of category. The man appeared to be perfectly capable of looking after himself and leading an apparently normal life. Nowhere was there evidence to suggest a pattern of violent behaviour except for the episode where he had claimed to have self-harmed.

So why had he run? And why had he stalked Jessica King?

Lorimer rubbed his eyes; they were gritty and beginning to sting with tiredness. He was certain there must be something within this file, something that would give him an insight into this case.

It came to him quite suddenly, not so much what was there but what was missing. He’d read them over and over, almost dismissing the thin paper pages as irrelevant. But now he saw it: several dates when Russell should have been in receipt of benefits were blank. He turned over the pages again and again, but there was nothing to show the man had been in paid employment. And it was at the same time for the last three years in early summer. So what had he been doing?

Three years ago a girl had arrived in Scotland to stay and Muirpark Secondary School had been her host. Then last year another girl had come. Both were now missing persons. Was it their mortal remains now lying in Glasgow City Mortuary?

He had worked in a funeral parlour. Was there some link there? Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, hadn’t he been a mortuary attendant? Lorimer’s head buzzed with unanswered questions.

Then he thought back to what Maggie’s head teacher had told him and his hand stretched out towards the telephone.

Manson was at home and not best pleased to be disturbed by the sound of the DCI’s voice. But he did provide the name Lorimer was looking for.

The offices were closed for business, the recorded voice told him, but there was a mobile number he could ring in an emergency.

‘Mr Clark? Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, Strathclyde CID,’ he began, wondering just what the man on the other end of the line would make of a call at this late hour. If Derek Clark was surprised he was too polite to show it and within minutes Lorimer was ringing off, thanking the man for his time.

It was the sort of moment that he relished, the clarity that came when all the pieces finally fell into place.

The agency had been happy to employ the young man, himself a former pupil from Muirpark, and they had had no hesitation in renewing his services each year as an escort for their overseas students. Mr Russell had been paid in cash, but that was all right, surely? Clark had asked, obviously anxious that his firm had not transgressed any of the legal requirements of employing casual labour. There had been a moment’s silence after Lorimer had mentioned the names of the missing teenagers, though. Not our responsibility, had been Clark’s final response.

‘Where are you?’ he asked aloud, staring at the picture of Russell standing awkwardly against the black railings, his hand raised in a blur, lips slightly parted as if to protest. The SOCOs had scoured the man’s flat once a warrant had been obtained but no forensic results would be shown until tomorrow at the very earliest.

Lorimer heaved himself to his feet. There was no way Russell would return to the flat now but he’d posted an unmarked car across the street to keep watch just in case.

It was time to go home, catch some sleep. Maggie would be waiting as usual and the thought of her welcoming smile when he walked into their home quickened his step as he went out of the incident room, leaving the faces of all those different people staring blankly into the night.

T he leaves that had been drifting slowly from the trees in the last lazy days of summer now whirled downwards, scattering across the grass, the frenzied wind whipping at the branches. Autumn was almost here now, this early morning chill edging the breeze with a memory of ice and snow from the high peaks further north. All sounds seemed concentrated within the trees themselves, like a roar of an aircraft repeatedly taking off into the darkness. Wave upon wave of gusts made the ancient oaks sway under the flying scraps of clouds, the moon appearing fitfully like a ghostly face leering out from a veil of grey, torn cobwebs.

But the noise made him feel strong, excited, as though it were endowing him with special powers. As he sat on the stone by the tunnel’s mouth, Adam felt as if he were the only person alive. And wasn’t he named for the first born man, the special son of God? The wind in his face made him think of the hot blood running through his veins; though in truth his bare hands were numb from the cold. It was almost time to hide himself away once more, deep within his cave, his kingdom. The all-night grocer’s had provided enough rations to keep him going for days and he had plenty of spare batteries for his torch, should he need to use it.

A movement to his left made him start but it was only a squirrel scampering down from the foot of a tree trunk. The animal froze suddenly as if aware of the man’s intention. Then, just as Adam stooped down to pick up the stone, it whisked around the bole of the tree and out of sight. He stood up then, angry with himself for letting the beast escape. The moment’s fury made something in his stomach churn and he tasted sour bile in his mouth. Looking over his shoulder, Adam decided to risk one quick dash into the bushes to void his bowels.

Minutes later he was walking down the old railway tracks, his feet keeping time with the carillon of echoes from the noise of the wind outside.

Lorimer woke early and, despite so little sleep, he felt more awake than he had for days. All night the wind had howled around the house, the straggling fronds of climbing rose beating against their bedroom window, making him feel as though he had been just on the edge of wakefulness. As if recalling a vivid dream, Lorimer remembered the events of last night and a quickening sense of purpose made him slip away from Maggie’s warm body.

It had to be Adam Russell.

All the bits fitted together, even to the profile that Solly had at last produced. A white male in his twenties to forties, was the first line on the psychologist’s report, the description applying to a vast sector of society but in particular to every profile Lorimer had ever read of a serial killer. Dressing quickly, Lorimer made up his mind.

‘Ye-es?’ Doctor Solomon Brightman reached for the handset, his head still muzzy with sleep.

‘It’s me. Can I come up?’

‘Lorimer?’ There was barely a pause as the psychologist registered the note of excitement in the detective’s voice. Something must have happened if the DCI was at his door at this hour.

Ten minutes later the two men were sitting opposite one another, a steaming pot of one of Solly’s herbal brews on the table between them.

‘Russell was diagnosed with some depressive type of illness, okay?’ Lorimer began. ‘Nothing so specific that he presented himself as a danger to the public. On the contrary, according to these case notes,’ he tapped the file he was holding, ‘the man was an exemplary patient, completing all the necessary programmes so that he could cope on his own, taking all the relevant medication.’

‘Right, I read all of that,’ Solly said, his brow creasing in an uncharacteristic frown of annoyance.

‘The focus of the notes was always on Russell’s well-being,’ Lorimer said grimly, lifting up his cup and taking a sip, then grimacing at the taste. ‘How can you drink this stuff, Solly?’ he asked, setting the cup back down. The psychologist smiled briefly and shrugged.