Alex Gray - A small weeping

Once in the driveway Solly tugged his sleeve.

‘What was all that about? You were practically rude to her. Don’t you want her cooperation, Lorimer?’ Solly raised his arms then let them fall in a moment of bewilderment.

‘Oh, she’ll cooperate all right,’ he smiled. ‘She’ll be only too pleased to cooperate once we’ve gone through the other files.’

‘What other files?’

Lorimer looked down at his quizzical expression and smiled. ‘Before we left Stornoway I got a rather interesting fax.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t mention it at the time but it seems that this clinic has been experiencing financial difficulties after all. Despite the accountant’s previous assurances.’

‘So?’

‘So. A number of things. On their own they could be nothing to worry about but put together they make me uneasy. For a start the last accounts show a big loss. That could be OK on its own but the most recent accounts haven’t been lodged and they’ve recently changed their bankers. That’s always a bad sign.’ Lorimer paused. ‘But there’s something else that’s got me worried.’

‘What?’

‘The building contractors who were doing renovations have slapped an inhibition order on the whole business.’

‘You don’t think any of the contractors could have kept a key to the basement door, do you?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘Who knows? They’ve been questioned just like everybody else who has something to do with this place. No. What’s concerning me is money. The builders haven’t been paid and they’ve obviously run out of patience so what they can do to get their money is to take steps to stop any of the properties being sold until the directors cough up.’

‘But I thought Phyllis Logan owned them. Surely the directors can’t market the properties without her permission.’

‘I don’t know. There’s something odd going on and it’s not just to do with her saving money on airline tickets to Lewis. Did you see that place of hers? Didn’t you think it looked like she was in the throes of moving out? There was hardly a decent stick of furniture in the entire flat.’

‘I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the murder of three women,’ Solly replied.

‘Nor do I,’ Lorimer frowned suddenly. ‘But my policeman’s nose tells me something’s rotten in that place. Maybe something Kirsty and Brenda knew about, too. I want to sniff around a bit and find out what it is.’ He unlocked the car and leant on the door. ‘And another thing. I’ve rarely seen anybody display so little grief. Shock, maybe, but not a word of sorrow. Explain that to me, eh?’

Solly pulled open the passenger door and slid into the leather seat. ‘Can’t fault her there. Some people hide their emotions very well. She may well be crying her eyes out right now for all we know.’

‘Hm,’ Lorimer sounded sceptical.

‘Anyway, aren’t you forgetting Deirdre McCann? She’s got nothing to do with the Grange,’ Solomon bit his lip suddenly. This was what he had wanted to discuss with Lorimer but each time he came close to it something stopped him. He’d been trying to see and feel his way into a killer’s mind and all he could think was how disparate it all was, especially since Brenda Duncan’s murder. He gnawed at the edges of his moustache. How could he tell Lorimer how he felt? It was as if there were two shadows following them, just out of sight, each intent on strangling some poor woman.

As the car roared into the night, Solly looked out into the streets and all he could see was a red flower crushed between dead fingers.

‘It’s me,’ the familiar, husky voice breathed through the intercom.

‘Come on up.’

Solly grinned. Rosie was just what he needed right now, he realised, his tiredness vanishing. It was late. She would stay the night, surely? Or was she merely bringing him up to speed with this latest murder? Solly caught sight of his boyish expression in the hall mirror and laughed softly. She’d have phoned if it was just about work.

Leaning over the banister, he looked down at the fair head bobbing below him as she climbed the stairs. His hands gripped the metal rail. Brenda Duncan might have stopped at such a place watching out for her assailant. But had she? Or was the freshly painted close with its yawning mouth an open invitation for a stranger to walk right in? Solly shook his head. No way. Brenda might not have expected a visitor but she would have known who he was.

Thoughts of the woman’s corpse disappeared as Rosie smiled up at him.

‘Hallo, you.’

She raised herself up on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth. Solly’s arms were around her in a welcoming embrace, drawing her to him.

‘Mm. That’s better,’ she murmured. ‘Can I come in, now?’

Solly gave a laugh, pulled the door wider and then closed it firmly behind her.

‘Oh, what a day!’ Rosie flopped into the nearest comfy armchair, dropping her handbag and jacket onto the floor.

‘Drink?’

‘Any of that gin I brought you?’

‘I even bought in some tonics, specially for you.’

‘Ah! That’s my man!’

Moving into the kitchen to fetch her drink, Solly warmed to her words. Her man. Not her waiter, her butler, but her man. Her man.

He sat at her feet, his head resting companionably against the chair as they drank in silence. It was comfortable, secure, so he could tell her what he’d been thinking, couldn’t he?

‘I’ve had some thoughts about the profile.’

‘Because of tonight, you mean?’

‘Not really, but this death does rather consolidate my ideas.’

‘Go on.’

Solly remained silent for a few minutes. Rosie let it linger. She was familiar enough with those silences of his by now so she waited, sipping the gin slowly.

‘It’s the flower that bothers me most.’

‘His signature?’

‘Hm. Signatures can be forged, don’t you know.’

‘Solly. What’re you trying to say?’ Rosie leant forward, her eyes on his dark profile.

‘Not all of it makes sense. A murderer who kills a prostitute in a station then two nurses, one at her work and the other in her own home. What kind of man is that?’

‘Reckless? A risk taker?’

Solly shook his head. ‘Not just that. There aren’t any proper links. Just that flower and the praying hands.’

Rosie laid her glass down suddenly. ‘Hey! Are you saying we’ve got more than one guy doing these killings? Or is there some sort of religious fundamentalist gang targeting women victims?’

Solly heaved a sigh. ‘Not a gang. Nor do I think the two killings show a pattern.’

‘Three. Three killings,’ Rosie corrected him.

Solly turned and faced her, his expression suddenly grave. ‘Yes, but there are only two killers and I doubt very much if they have ever met.’

‘But the flowers?’

‘Yes, that’s what I keep coming back to. In profiling you must look at the location first to see what opportunity the killer might have had and if he lives anywhere near the choice of locus. With the station that was difficult at first.’

‘He could’ve come by train?’

‘Not in the middle of the night. He has to have something to do with Queen Street station. He knows the layout well, gets away without anybody noticing him or being caught on a security camera. Now, if the second murder had been in the vicinity of the city, even a mile or so away, I wouldn’t have bothered so much. But the Grange is away over on the south side.’

‘So?’

‘So, there’s no pattern. You see, serial killers tend to work in ever increasing circles away from a base, which is usually where they live. With each killing they become bolder and travel a bit further afield. OK. It’s not a rigid model. There are cases like the long distance lorry driver who murdered those children. But even then there was a pattern defined by his delivery schedules. Here I can’t find any evidence to show me a killer who progresses from a prostitute in a station to a nurse at work.’