Alex Gray - A small weeping

It was when she fumbled for his zip that he uncoiled the scarf from his neck and slipped it around her throat.

The ‘Noooooooo!’ was cut off abruptly as the ligature tightened. He felt her body struggle against his in a passion that had nothing to do with sex any more. Her leg came up in a vain attempt to lash out at his crotch but he sidestepped, hanging on to the scarf, yanking against it with all his strength. Suddenly a gurgling noise issued from her throat and she buckled under his grasp. He let go and she fell to the ground with a soft thump.

He took a step back, looking at her for a moment then knelt beside her. The grin that hadn’t left his face was like a mask now, something he couldn’t remove. Not yet. There was still the ceremony to perform.

He clasped her fingers straight within his own, glad of the leather that separated their flesh. How small they were, the warmth seeping through the gloves. He was aware of these things even as he uttered the prayer. The words that he spoke were of forgiveness for sins. She would not commit any more acts of depravity. Sitting back on his heels, he turned to look for the package that he’d left here earlier that evening. It was still there, hidden under the concrete edge of the shed. He slid it out and unwrapped the carnation from its cellophane wrapper. There were tears in his eyes as he forced the stem between her dead palms. It was such a lovely flower, so fresh and sweet. But it was a mark that she was saved now. They would find her and know she’d been redeemed.

He rubbed his gloved hands against his trousers as he stood up. Finished. He was done. The gate made virtually no sound as he fastened the padlock onto its hasp.

It was only a short walk back to the car and there was nobody about to see him slip into the driver’s seat. He peeled off the heavy gloves, letting them fall to the floor. There would be new ones issued tomorrow, unsullied by her kind of filth.

Two black cabs turning into the area made him stop for a moment. Then he released the brake and drove slowly out of the station, up the hill towards Cathedral Street and away, his night’s work complete.

They’d arranged to meet late afternoon. Solly would be free by four o’clock, he’d said, but Lorimer knew from past experience that he was rarely on time. He’d taken the clockwork orange (which was the locals’ name for the Glasgow Underground) as far as Hillhead station, deciding to stroll along Byres road to clear his head.

The woman’s body had been identified as Geraldine Lynch. She was a known prostitute in that area, the railway staff had said. Already there were punters coming forward with information about her. Lorimer’s mouth hardened. She’d been dead for hours before they’d found her, dumped beside the huge industrial rubbish bins at the back of Queen Street station. One of the Transport officers had made the discovery. That, at least, had had the advantage of keeping the area sealed properly for forensics.

There had been an angry scene outside the Gazette’s offices, girls and women who had known Geraldine Lynch and Deirdre McCann making their presence felt. Jimmy Greer’s piece about Glasgow prostitutes had enraged them. None of them ever denied what they did, but to have the city’s newspaper deriding them the way Greer had done was particularly insensitive. It was the usual ploy, Lorimer guessed, to generate letters to the editor.

The Police liaison team had invited the women into Pitt Street to discuss their security. It was doubtful that many would turn up, though. These Glasgow girls liked to think themselves tough, and some of them were, but others were just wee lassies finding themselves at the bottom of the drugs spiral.

Lorimer tried to rid his mind of the murdered girl’s face as he walked along the road, taking note of the shops and buildings. Much of the area had changed dramatically since his own student days, but there were still landmark pubs like the Rubaiyat further down where he was to meet Solly, and of course the Curlers next to the Underground. They’d been revamped over the years but they continued to provide that ethos of camaraderie and heavy drinking a student clientele had come to expect.

Outside the station Lorimer sidestepped the flower vendor with his basket of brightly coloured blooms. He paused for a second. He’d never been in the habit of buying flowers for Maggie except on the rare occasions when they’d been supermarket shopping together. The vendor, a slim boy with lank, dark hair, caught his eye even as Lorimer hesitated.

‘Nice roses. Two bunches for a fiver?’ the boy held up several bunches of the long-stemmed blooms for Lorimer to see.

‘No thanks,’ he shook his head briefly, eyeing the single carnations stuck into a green bucket. Inquiries had been made all over the city. This boy had probably been questioned more than once. Should he stop and buy some flowers for Maggie? He had walked away from the stall even as the thought crossed his mind. No, they’d only wither by the time he reached home, he argued with himself. Anyway, she’d maybe think he was trying to apologise for something.

As Lorimer waited for the lights to change on the corner of University Avenue his attention wandered to the shops on the other side of the road. On dayglo orange stickers, Going Places travel agency was proclaiming cut-price fares to Florida. He could always see what flights were available in October, say?

The lights changed to the wee green man and Lorimer strode across, his mind drifting away from fares and flights to Geraldine Lynch. The only place she would be going was into Rosie Fergusson’s post-mortem room.

As he crossed over, his eye was caught by three older men deep in conversation. Two had greying beards compensating for what they lacked on top and the third was a tall, angular fellow whose mane of white hair made him an imposing figure.

Three academics, Lorimer smiled to himself as they swept past. They still seemed to favour baggy linen jackets and distressed leather briefcases, just like his old Prof. He’d felt at home here once, Lorimer realised. What would life have been like if he’d pursued his original studies to their conclusion? Would he have ferreted into all the intricacies of Art History instead of investigating contemporary crimes? Would Maggie have been happier married to an academic?

Walking in the direction of Partick, he caught sight of another familiar landmark. The newsagent was still there. Lorimer saw with a pang that several youngsters were busy taking down details of flats to let from the cards in the window. This unofficial letting agency had been there for as long as he could remember. He had a sudden memory of standing in the pouring rain in his ancient duffel coat scanning the cards for a room to let where he and Maggie could set up home. They’d talked such a lot about moving in together but it had never happened.

Instead Lorimer had left university for his police training while Maggie had finished her degree. They’d done the conventional thing after all, working and saving to buy the house before they’d finally married. His young man’s dream of a love nest had been set aside when he’d left the university world behind for the new experiences of the police force.

The pub on the corner seemed caught in a time warp, Lorimer thought as he pushed open the door. The Rubaiyat might have a name that conjured up a literary world but it wasn’t so far from the traditional spit and sawdust. The same scuffed brass foot rail had been there in his day and although the banquettes were newer, their vivid patterns continued the attempt at evoking the idea of ancient Persia. Lorimer ordered a pint and settled into the curved seat opposite the door.

‘Lorimer. Hallo,’ Solly’s face displayed his usual boyish grin as he caught sight of him. Seemingly oblivious to the warmer weather, he was wearing a long gabardine raincoat over his leather jacket; he unravelled himself from these layers of clothing, discarding them in a heap over his bulging briefcase.