Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

‘But why would anyone do that?’

‘A sense that the elderly are taking up too much space on Planet Earth? Or perhaps some sort of bitterness that each of them had a decent home to live in if the perpetrator was living in substandard accommodation? Who knows?’

Rosie’s mouth gave a twist of disgust. She was well used to the atrocities that human beings performed upon one another but the idea of the wilful and capricious murder of three old ladies was a little hard to swallow.

Leaning back against her husband’s knees, the pathologist wondered what Lorimer might make of Solly’s suggestions.

The pathologist did not have to wait too long for that question to be answered. It was as she opened up her Internet connection next morning that she saw the email waiting for her from Lorimer. So, she thought, reading the lines, he wasn’t involved in this case after all. But what was this about a possible link between the cyclist stalking that old lady and the fire in Kilmacolm? Tenuous was the word that immediately sprang to Rosie’s mind as she felt her eyebrows rise in surprise. Unless he had some very good reason for supposing the two cases to be… ah! She read on, nodding to herself at the mention of the man, McGroary, who had been a worker at Jackson Tannock. Now, that did make a little more sense. The fellow’s cycle had been impounded for detailed forensic examination as well. A silver racing job, Lorimer wrote. Like the one seen hurrying away from the Jackson fire that night. Rosie sat silently, letting her thoughts take her back.

It had been her first major case after the honeymoon. They had been in New Zealand for three glorious weeks, oblivious to the news back home, wrapped up in one another as only newly weds could be. It had been a holiday like no other. The memory of standing on the side of a windy hill one day towards the end of their trip came back to Rosie. ‘I wish it could last forever,’ she had told Solly. And she had meant it at the time. For that magical moment she had felt such a desire not to return to the world of corpses and psychopaths.

Now she read Lorimer’s note and wondered what he was really thinking. Had the Jacksons died at the hand of McGroary and Monahan? And if so, why had they also targeted three elderly women? Nodding to herself, Rosie saw what the detective was up to. She would pass this on to her husband who might take more than a fleeting interest in such an aberration. And, knowing Solly, she expected he would want to offer an opinion on the two cases. Lorimer’s hands must be pretty well tied down there, she realised. He couldn’t just appoint Solly as part of an investigative team when he had little control over the divisional budget. But friendship could well make up for that sort of deficit, she grinned to herself. It didn’t take a psychology degree to understand the policeman’s tactic. Okay, so she was being used as a sort of go-between, but that was all right. And there were other things she could do for him. The triple murder wasn’t his bag and so he couldn’t risk the ire of that female DI to go poking around in the forensic reports from these crime scenes. Rosie frowned thoughtfully, twin creases appearing between her eyebrows. She was owed one or two favours from certain forensic scientists at Gartcosh. Maybe it was time to call them in?

Then she remembered that day at the mortuary with Serena and Daniel Jackson. The girl had been really disturbed by the deaths of her parents, but in a way that had made her seem almost aggressive. And her brother, that breathtakingly handsome man, had been stricken not only by his own grief but by that of his sister. If Lorimer could find whoever had committed that dreadful act against the Jacksons then those two young people might be able to pick up the threads of their lives. Pressing the reply button, Rosie decided that she could make a few inquiries of her own from among her forensic chums and pass on any relevant information to Lorimer.

‘Youse’ll no get onythin frae me. Ah demand tae see ma lawyurr!’

DI Martin turned on her heel, leaving the interview room where Anne-Marie Monahan had succeeded in wearing her down over the last hour and a half. Apart from a repetitive demand to see the said lawyer, there had been very little information forthcoming from the woman and Martin’s reserves of patience had reached their limit. Anne-Marie had been charged with assaulting a police officer and they’d probably be able to have her for the drugs as well. But without sufficient evidence, there was no way on earth they could arrest the pair for murder. At least they hadn’t had to get them to sign Voluntary Statement forms, she thought: the drugs being there had been a stroke of luck since there was now a lawful reason to detain them.

The backyard outside the police building was in darkness, a light drizzle smirring down. The DI had hardly lit up the first cigarette before her blonde hair was plastered to her head. Muttering imprecations against the relentless night sky and all creatures sent to provoke her, she leaned against the wall by the door, forcing her shoulders down. The nicotine hit was like a sigh coursing through her body, finally allowing the knotted muscles around her neck to relax. A few minutes were all she would need to regain her perspective, then she could go back in there and try another tactic with the Monahan woman.

But, as Rhoda Martin gazed at the grey mist slanting against the beam of lamplight, she knew that the cause of her disquiet was not just the prisoner upstairs. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the way Lorimer had looked at her, pityingly, as if she had no idea how to do her job. That was something she was finding hard to bear.

Still, he wasn’t going to be around for much longer, she reminded herself with the ghost of a smile. Not if she had anything to do with it.

‘ There isn’t sufficient evidence to charge them with murder,’ DI Martin told him stiffly.

‘What about the tyre tracks? Any joy from the labs yet?’

Martin shrugged, deliberately avoiding the tall detective’s gaze. ‘They’ll come in later on today or tomorrow. It’s not like it’s an all-out emergency.’

‘But you still think they killed these old ladies, don’t you?’

‘Look, Lorimer, we know McGroary and Monahan. They’re previous offenders. He’s a vicious little bastard and if anything she’s worse. Both her kids are in foster care because she neglected them so badly. Social work reports even went so far as to suggest cruelty to the younger one.’

‘So you think they targeted three old ladies, then?’ He spoke slowly as if he were uttering his thoughts aloud. ‘Why?’ Lorimer asked her, stepping directly into the DI’s line of vision so she had to answer his question.

‘How should I know? They’re a pair of mad druggies!’

‘That’s not sufficient reason to target and kill these women,’ Lorimer replied. ‘This was a triple murder, carefully planned and carried out. Don’t forget Jean Wilson’s diary entries about the stalker.’

‘How do you know about those?’ Martin challenged him.

Now it was Lorimer’s turn to give a disarming shrug. Station gossip, the gesture seemed to say. But he was not going to let on that Kate Clark was his particular source for that.

‘Let’s say for the moment that Monahan and McGroary are guilty. You can only charge them with possession of drugs, right? Do they present a real threat to the public if they’re released from custody? That’s what the Procurator Fiscal’s office will say. Surely they aren’t going to push any other old folk off their steps now, are they?’

DI Martin scowled at Lorimer, hating to admit that he was right. ‘Well, if they didn’t do it, who was it?’