Alex Gray: A small weeping

The psychologist gave a sigh. ‘I’ll be highly flattered to be asked, but my workload right now is pretty scary. With Tom’s classes…’

‘Solly, you don’t mean that!’

‘No, of course I don’t.’

‘Then you’ll come on board with us?’

‘If you’re sure I’ll be asked. What about Superintendent Mitchison?’

Rosie made a face. The new superintendent was not making himself popular with anybody. Rosie and Solly had met him at George Phillips’ retirement dinner, never really expecting him to take over from the Divisional Commander. They’d all seen the Super’s job as Lorimer’s and it had been a shock when Mark Mitchison was appointed to the post.

‘Mitchison would probably ask you to sign several forms in triplicate,’ Rosie snorted, ‘but he’s not the SIO in this case. It’s down to Lorimer. Anyway, I don’t think Mitchison would oppose your involvement, especially if it gets the press off his back. Having a celebrated profiler will give him all the kudos he wants.’

‘Well, we’ll see,’ Solomon replied, nodding gravely into his orange squash. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Yes!’ Jimmy Greer punched the air and sat back down in front of his computer screen. It had paid off. A bit of chat here, a backhander there, ach, it was all in a good day’s work. Tonight there’d be punters tut-tutting over the murder of some scummy wee whore but they’d be reading his byline. Jimmy’s nicotine-stained teeth grinned out from his moustache as he typed in the copy. The police press Conference hadn’t given that much away but Jimmy had his own methods of filling in the blanks left by tight-lipped senior officers. So far he’d avoided any brushes with the Press Complaints Commission, though he’d sailed pretty close to the wind a few times.

DCI Lorimer was in charge of this case and Jimmy knew he’d be lucky to get anything off him. Still, there were always hard up coppers who’d tip him the nod whenever there was something salacious enough to tempt the senior reporter.

Greer hunched his long, cadaverous frame over the desk, his reddened fingers tapping out the details he’d gleaned about the murdered woman. She’d still to be identified but from the description the man Gibson had given him, he could tell what she had been, all right. Anyway, no self-respecting woman should have been out in the station at that time of night.

The case of Deirdre McCann was headline news for three days. By the end of the first week the political situation in the Scottish Parliament had taken precedence over the dwindling paragraphs concerning the prostitute’s bizarre killing. Then there was nothing. Even Jimmy Greer couldn’t manufacture a news item from thin air. Oh, yes, the case was certainly still a live one, he was assured, but damn all was happening, or that was how it seemed. He’d managed a piece on her mates for the Sunday supplement. There were lots of photos of the women lounging against walls and smoking. But his text had been padded up by the prostitutes’ own stories. Not much was really known about the McCann woman. Twenty-three, originally from Airdrie, a known prostitute and heroin user, she’d been on the game since her mid-teens. There was no family in the background causing a ruckus, which was a pity. Both her parents were dead and her only sister didn’t want to talk to the Press. Sometimes the family angle could keep copy going for weeks with protests about police incompetence thrown in for good measure.

DCI Lorimer hadn’t forgotten Deirdre McCann though she’d been dead now for almost three months. Intensive police work had uncovered her identity and her manner of death but even with the help of Dr Solomon Brightman there had been no way forward in the case. Unless they were very lucky it would remain unsolved, adding yet another layer of discontent to Lorimer’s present mood.

As he sat as his desk, scanning the latest memo from Mitchison, Lorimer wished for the hundredth time that George Phillips’ taciturn face would appear round his door, demanding action, demanding results. But Lorimer only saw him whenever the former superintendent called round on some committee business for the Chief Constable. The new man in charge of the division was a different kettle of fish from old George. Fish was right, thought Lorimer. Mark Mitchison was a cold fish if ever there was one. He went by the book, didn’t even take a drink or socialise with the lads. Lorimer had nursed some promotion hopes of his own, as everybody knew, so it looked too much like sour grapes to be other than polite to the new boss, but Lorimer groaned inwardly every time they met. Mitchison was a paper man. He generated forests of administration and memos on a weekly and daily basis. Lorimer was fed up to the back teeth with him and had even considered asking for a transfer.

There was a vacancy for a training officer at Tulliallan, the police college, and he had gone as far as writing for an application form. But he knew fine it would end up in the bin next to Mitchison’s endless memos. Meantime it was put up and shut up. Maggie had been badly upset by his failure to secure the post of Superintendent. She’d seen it as a foregone conclusion, especially after the successful outcome of the St. Mungo’s case. They all had.

Accepting the commiseration of his fellow officers had not been easy. It had been even harder to persuade them to transfer their loyalty to this new man whom so few of them knew. Lorimer had met him on various courses and at George Phillips’ retiral dinner. He was a smooth, good-looking individual who curried favour with the Press boys. Anyway, it was done now, the man had been in the post for almost six months and if Maggie was disappointed by Lorimer’s failure that was just too bad.

A knock on the door banished all these thoughts from his mind and he looked up to see the dark head of DC Cameron appear.

‘A call from on high, sir,’ Cameron grinned. It was his oblique way of telling him that Mitchison required his presence. Why the blighter didn’t simply phone through to his extension baffled the DCI. It was yet another of the man’s annoying traits, using an officer to summon him to his office.

‘Sit down, Lorimer,’ the Superintendent waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. Mitchison was full of this sort of little thing: mannerisms that only irritated. You’d think you were being invited into a Papal audience, Lorimer had remarked to Alistair Wilson the first time Mitchison had summoned them into what had been George’s old room. Now, as he looked around him, Lorimer realised there was no trace of his old colleague whatsoever. The walls had been painted beige and there were mementoes from Mitchison’s career hanging everywhere. Lorimer glanced at them. There was plenty to show that the Superintendent had been busy in various parts of the globe. It was, reflected Lorimer, like a kid’s bedroom full of football pennants.

‘I really don’t know how to begin, Chief Inspector,’ Mitchison’s frigid smile was directed at Lorimer.

‘I understand that you have been contemplating a move to Tulliallan.’ The nasal voice was not asking a question. Lorimer clenched his teeth. Someone at the training school had been gossiping. He cursed inwardly. It was becoming like the bloody Secret Service the way this man kept tabs on them all. Lorimer shot him a look but said nothing.

‘Hm. Not too happy with detective work these days, perhaps. Too many cold cases?’

‘On the contrary, sir,’ Lorimer forced himself to be icily polite. ‘Just keeping my options open.’

‘In that case you’ll be pleased to increase your present knowledge of investigative procedures.’ Mitchison’s smile never faltered and Lorimer had a sudden longing to wipe it off the man’s face.