Alex Gray - A small weeping

Lorimer smiled. Solly would never change.

‘What are you having?’

‘Ah. Something nice and cold. I don’t mind,’ he answered vaguely.

‘White wine? Beer? Orange juice?’

‘Yes, lovely,’ he replied.

Lorimer raised his eyes to heaven and ordered another pint for himself and a glass of squash for Solly.

‘So,’ Solly suddenly put the drink down, giving Lorimer a considered look. ‘We have another young woman who’s been strangled.’

Lorimer sighed. ‘I can’t believe four women have been killed and we’ve no trace of their killer.’

‘No,’ Solly replied. ‘It’s a difficult one.’ There was a pause as he seemed to examine his glass carefully, then he placed it on the table and shifted close towards Lorimer. ‘More difficult than I think you realise.’

‘Oh? How’s that?’ Lorimer looked at Solly. There was something familiar in the sad smile, something that told him Solly was about to be the bearer of bad news, as if he hadn’t enough to contend with.

‘We don’t have one killer. We have two.’

Lorimer nodded slowly. It was something that he’d fleetingly considered himself. ‘That would be a lovely idea, pal, but how do you account for the modus operandi? Besides, the guy places flowers into her praying hands each time. Same signature.’

‘But a different locus. And a different type of victim,’ Solly tapped the edge of the table to underline his point.

‘Granted. But how can you explain the hands? Even the press didn’t get hold of a picture of any of the bodies. Their mock-up shows a different position altogether. It has to be one and the same person who’s carrying out these killings.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Solly told him quietly. He heaved a sigh. ‘The whole picture didn’t make sense from the time of Kirsty MacLeod’s death. I simply couldn’t build a profile. Now I think I know why. There are two people to profile, not one.’

Solly watched as the policeman’s mouth set in a grim line. The murder case sat heavily on his shoulders. Until they could solve it there would be a feeling of inadequacy heightened by something he couldn’t yet put his finger on, an extra weight that he was bearing. His energies were directed at finishing off this job if he could. That was good for the case and good for Strathclyde CID, but was it good for William Lorimer?

Just then a crowd of students piled into the pub, their voices loud with post-exam relief. Soon it would be standing room only in the Rubaiyat.

Lorimer bent forwards, suddenly aware of any ears that might be tuning into their conversation. ‘Look, why not finish off here and we’ll go for a walk? Fancy the Botanics? It’s a nice night.’

Solly nodded and raised his glass. The two men sat back opposite one another, drinking in a silence that was full of questions.

‘We’d have to check all the members of the team, too,’ Lorimer told him. ‘If your theory’s correct, and I’m not saying you’re wrong, then someone inside the investigation has let slip details of the signature.’ Lorimer didn’t dare voice any other thoughts than that. Carelessness, that was the only crime any of his team could be guilty of, wasn’t it?

‘It could have been the railwayman who discovered the first victim,’ Solly reminded him.

Lorimer gnawed a raggle on his fingernail. Nobody had noticed the flower until he’d arrived at the scene. Still, it was worth checking out. ‘If the nurses have been killed by a copycat killer then we’re still left with a helluva lot of questions. Like, why?’

Solly didn’t reply. He was walking slowly along the path, face towards the ground as if he was looking for a lost penny. Lorimer glanced sideways at him.

What was going on in that brain? He’d given the psychologist the benefit of the doubt and, in an uneasy way, he felt he was on to something.

‘What about the prostitutes, then?’

Solly looked up and stopped, smiling sadly. ‘Oh, that’s easy, I’m afraid. The killer is suffering from some kind of delusions. Religious delusions. Fairly common, I have to say. He’s probably hearing voices telling him to take away the bad women of the night.’

‘A religious nut, then? What we thought all along?’

‘Yes. And I think this latest crime shows he’s definitely got a link with Queen Street station.’

‘The staff car park’s close circuit camera is out of order,’ Lorimer told him gloomily.

‘There. Have a closer look at who has access to that area at night. Or even during the day.’

‘Anything else?’

‘If forensics haven’t found any DNA matches between railway personnel then maybe you could dig a little deeper into each member of staff’s background.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘White, single male. Thirty to forty. There’s possibly a history of being in an institution. I suppose he must have a car, too,’ Solly mused, stroking his beard absently as if he were seeing a shadowy figure in the recesses of his mind.

‘And the other murders?’

‘Ah. Now that’s more difficult. We’re dealing with somebody very clever indeed.’

‘Someone inside the Grange?’

Solly frowned before answering. ‘I’m not sure. It’s possible, but then again…’ he trailed off.

‘Look, why don’t we go for a curry? See if we can get into the Ashoka?’ Perhaps with some food inside him Solly would become more expansive, he thought. Besides, Lorimer wasn’t in the mood to go home just yet.

It was dark by the time the taxi drew up outside the house. Maggie stumbled a little in her high heels as she tried to tiptoe to the door. She failed to see the swish of curtains from upstairs as her key turned in the lock.

Her husband appeared to be asleep when she crept into the bedroom.

Maggie slipped easily out of her skirt and top, let ting them fall onto the carpet. She was unfastening her suspenders when Lorimer spoke suddenly, making her jump.

‘Been out on the town?’

‘Good God! You gave me a fright. I thought you were asleep.’ Lorimer half sat up, regarding his wife in the darkness. She saw him shake his head.

There was a silence as she finished drawing off the stockings and underwear, a silence that was charged with embarrassment as if he had no right to be watching her. She fished out a nightdress from under the pillow and slipped it hastily over her head. His eyes were still on her as she climbed into bed beside him. There was a continued silence that was full of unspoken questions about where she’d been, who she’d been with.

Heaving a sigh, Maggie gave in.

‘I was out at the Rogano having a drink with Sheilagh. OK?’

There was no reply. She turned her head towards him and in the darkness she could make out the smell of onions on his breath.

‘Been out for a curry?’

Lorimer gave a laugh. ‘Want to join my team, Sherlock? Or is it that obvious?’

Maggie giggled, the tension suddenly evaporating. ‘You stink! You always eat far too many spiced onions,’ she complained.

‘I was seeing Solly,’ Lorimer said, as if that was an explanation for the state of his breath.

‘And?’

‘He’s got this idea that we’re dealing with two separate killers.’

Maggie twisted towards him, interested in spite of herself. ‘And is he right?’

Lorimer lay back on the pillows, one hand behind his head. ‘I don’t know. If he is, though, I may have to start looking a lot closer to home.’

‘You mean someone in the force?’

Maggie could hear her husband sigh in the darkness. It was a sigh that went all the way through him. She snuggled up closer, her cold skin touching Lorimer’s warm body. He didn’t answer her question but wrapped an arm round her shoulders, pulling the duvet in tighter to keep her cosy.