Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

As he pointed the key to lock the car, Lorimer’s thoughts were already considering the next step in his review of the Jackson case. He wanted to talk to the sort of people who would welcome a chat about their departed friends, Ian and Pauline Jackson: people who had known them outside of Jackson Tannock.

And he thought he knew just where he might obtain such information.

The HOLMES room had been set up as an incident room, given that Lorimer had appropriated the only other available space. He stood at the doorway, arms folded, listening to the DI as she directed questions from her colleagues. Something was up, that was clear, and it didn’t sound as if it had anything whatsoever to do with the Jackson case.

‘Right, I want everyone back for a meeting at eighteen hundred hours. DS Wainwright’s your crime scene manager so if I’m not here for any reason you make sure your reports are with him. Understood?’

Lorimer listened to the woman’s voice. It was hard and clear, like brittle glass, but the way she stood there, tall and commanding, looked anything but fragile. And he could see that every eye was upon her. Not one of them had noticed his presence, lurking in the shadows. She was good; Lorimer had to grant her that. And with her sort of authoritative manner, yes, she would go far.

Before the meeting broke up, Lorimer came further into the room and stood to one side, waiting for the opportunity to speak with the DI. One or two of the officers gave him a half-smile as they passed him but there was a sense of urgency in the way they hurried out that made his eyebrows rise in curiosity.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, stepping forward as soon as the DI had finished speaking to Robert Wainwright.

Rhoda Martin turned and for a moment her mouth fell open in surprise at seeing him there. Then the green glint was back in her eyes, the blonde head raised in a defiant manner.

‘Another killing,’ she began shortly. ‘A third old lady. Same MO. Same district.’

‘Upper Port Glasgow?’

She gave a bitter smile. ‘Yes. Not down in the main drag where you might expect a few CCTVs to help us. A housing estate. There are a lot of old folk living in that part of the area now.’

‘Dying too, by the looks of it,’ Wainwright put in, his grin cut short by the glacial look Martin shot at him.

‘Anything to go on?’

Martin seemed distracted, avoiding his eye as if she wanted to look around the room for something she had forgotten. ‘Cycle tracks, if you must know. Forensics are on to it and the elderly neighbour next door claims to have seen kids hanging around on their bikes a couple of nights ago.’ She shrugged then turned back to face him. ‘So if you don’t mind I’ve got a lot to do. I’m the SIO on this one. All right, sir?’

She marched past him without waiting for an answer and he caught a whiff of her expensive perfume. It was one that he recognised; Maggie wore it whenever they were going out somewhere. DS Wainwright gave him a nod as he followed the woman out of the incident room. Lorimer stood back, letting them past.

Being the Detective Superintendent on hand did not mean that by rights this case should have come to him, he reminded himself. He was only here on sufferance: just a review officer seeing to a case that had been botched. That was all. And if things carried on the way they had been, he might end up back in Glasgow as a DCI quicker than he would like. Okay, he decided. They were all intent on this new case and it was imperative that they found out as much as possible as quickly as they could to maximise their chances of apprehending this killer. He looked at the spot where Rhoda Martin had stood moments ago. He had a lot of experience in dealing with murder cases and she knew it. So why not ask him for help? Because she wants to prove she can do this one herself, a little voice told him. And if the Detective Inspector did manage to catch this killer then she’d see it as a chance for promotion, satisfying that ambitious streak he’d seen in her.

Meantime he would take a trip up the country to Kilmacolm. That trail might be colder now, but perhaps he could rake around and see what he could find. There was something missing. Many things had been lost in that fire but memories of the dead might still be fresh in people’s minds. And it might help the case to bring those memories alive once more.

Rosie Fergusson stood back from the stainless steel table, scrutinising the body. She had to admit that the perpetrator of these attacks had left no visible clues as to their identity. There were no ligature marks, no defence wounds; nothing that might help the police find whoever it was that had shoved the old woman down the flight of stairs. Had it not been for the other deaths this would have passed her by and been filed as a tragic accident. And the fact that this old lady was under her care showed that she was being considered as something special. Freda Gilmour was to have the dubious distinction of being kept in cold storage whereas the other old dears were now either in a family urn or scattered to the four winds of heaven. A report was always sent to the Procurator Fiscal following any sudden death and it had been an easy decision for someone at the Crown Office to find that Mary MacKintyre and Jean Wilson had each died from a simple accident. They all had the same GP, though, Rosie had noticed. Wonder what he had made of the second death? Had Dr Bennie put it down to a macabre sort of coincidence? This third death wouldn’t allow that sort of conclusion, though, would it?

The pathologist’s report would of necessity be brief and to the point. The injuries were consistent with a fall from a height on to concrete paving stones: the skull fracture and damage to the arm and both legs showed signs of very recent injuries. The poor old thing hadn’t had much luck, Rosie thought, stepping forward and feeling the left leg. She could see another break that had been sustained not all that long ago. The pathologist shook her head, wondering. It might have looked just like bad luck: an elderly lady who had a history of falling, crashing to her death outside her own back door. One thing she wasn’t looking forward to was the part of her report that dealt with the time of death. For Freda Gilmour had not been killed on impact. Her injuries had gone unseen throughout the night as she lay alone. Rosie would write down that the victim might have been unconscious after the fall, hoping that, mercifully, that had been true. Death, she reminded herself, was a process. But few people ever wanted to think of that.

Glancing up at the viewing window a few feet away, Rosie could see the face of that tall Detective Inspector from Greenock. She was gazing intently at the corpse, interested no doubt to see what Dr Fergusson was going to do. She didn’t look the squeamish type, Rosie thought. And the pathologist was experienced enough to know.

For a moment her thoughts turned to Lorimer. The DI up there above the post-mortem room had not mentioned Lorimer’s name at all. Would he be in touch? Was this case to come under his jurisdiction now that he had been seconded to the divisional headquarters down the river? It was a fleeting thought. Right now she had to concentrate on performing a post-mortem examination on this latest statistic of violence.

With a straightening of her shoulders, Rosie motioned to her assistant and then reached forward to pick up a scalpel.

‘Davie! Well, well, what do you know!’ DS Wainwright rubbed his hands together as a uniformed officer handed him a clipboard with the names of residents living close to the late Freda Gilmour.

‘Just the sort of wee toerag we’ve been looking for. Pity you couldn’t have found him a bit sooner.’ He looked at the young police constable as if it were somehow Dodgson’s fault that the old ladies had died.