Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Why was that?’

‘Malcolm was adopted, Chief Inspector. His parents were farming folk who had no children of their own and they took him in and gave him a good home and a loving upbringing. Perhaps that love was just too giving, in the end. You see, they told Malcolm about his real mother. She had been a prostitute in Glasgow and had given up her baby for adoption. That was the reason Malcolm gave for wanting to enter the priesthood. He had a vocation, he said, to rid the world of that kind of sinfulness. Of course, we took that to mean that he wanted to save their souls.’

‘And now you think he may have been on an entirely different crusade?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me a bit more about this man. Malcolm…?’

‘Malcolm Docherty. There’s not a lot I can tell you. He must be in his late thirties by now. I can give you the address he had in Dumfries,’ he said, handing Lorimer a piece of paper. ‘But I don’t know what became of him after he left us.’

‘And there’s nothing else?’

‘No. Just my feeling, I suppose. Well, more a certainty, really.’ Father Ambrose looked Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I just know that Malcolm is the man you’re looking for.’

It didn’t take long after the priest had left for Lorimer to run a computer check on their existing data. The names and details of all who had been interviewed were listed in a file. Running his eye down the names, Lorimer wondered if Malcolm Docherty, disgraced novice priest, had even kept his own name.

He had. There, amongst the list of railway employees, was one Malcolm Docherty, aged thirty-nine. Lorimer sat back, stunned. They had him! After all his team’s intensive investigating it had been the conscience of one elderly priest that had cracked it for them. Taking a deep breath, Lorimer lifted the phone.

‘Alistair, get the team together. Now. There’s been a development.’

Malcolm was picking up an empty lager can when he saw them approach. His stick froze in his hand as he watched the figures draw closer. There were about five of them, all in uniform, and they were coming down the side of the railway line. His first instinct was to warn them off, they were too close to the rails. But these were no wee school kids shouting names at him as he chased them away from his line. These men walked towards him with a purpose. Malcolm dropped his plastic sack and turned to run. But just as he began the ascent of the embankment he saw two more uniformed figures sliding down the grassy slope towards him.

He raised his stick and charged, yelling at the top of his voice. Suddenly his legs were swept away from him and he felt a sickening thud as his mouth connected with the hard turf. As he stared at the ground and listened to the harsh voice telling him that he was under arrest, all Malcolm could see were the pale blue speedwells shivering on the grass. He put out his hands and grabbed the tiny flowers, squeezing them tightly in his huge fists, then felt them being wrenched away and cuffed tightly behind his back.

All eyes were on the man as he was led away through the station to the waiting police van. The platforms that had been cleared for this operation were now full of commuters alighting from their trains. Even a press bulb flashed, prompting an officer to throw up an arm as if to protect his prisoner. But there would be plenty of stories told by the passengers held back by the police cordon. Once the news broke, they’d be able to tell how they’d actually witnessed the arrest of the man who’d become known as the Station Strangler.

Solly shook his head as he read the evening headlines, Killer of Four Women Caught. They were wrong of course, just as Superintendent Mark Mitchison was wrong. Malcolm Docherty had not murdered Kirsty MacLeod or Brenda Duncan. Solly’s mouth twisted at the irony of it all. The signature that had identified the man was being used as evidence that he had murdered all four women. And so far Lorimer had not intervened. Mitchison had insisted that he be charged with all four killings. Was Lorimer really doing nothing to prevent this? Somehow he couldn’t imagine the DCI condoning a miscarriage of justice, not to mention the fact that Solly was convinced that a killer was still at large. And Lorimer knew that.

He hadn’t been invited to sit in on the interview. In fact, there had been no communication at all from Strathclyde Police. Perhaps he ought to make it his business to be there all the same, Solly thought, watching as a black cab rolled down Byres Road, its orange light glowing. Making a sudden decision, Solly raised a hand and watched as the vehicle drew in to the kerb.

There was an atmosphere of jubilation at headquarters when Malcolm Docherty arrived. Lorimer felt guilty that he was about to spoil it. The last months had been a slog for all of them and Docherty’s arrest seemed to be the culmination of all that painstaking effort. He’d called the whole team together once Docherty had been safely conducted to the cells for a medical examination.

Lorimer looked from one smiling face to another. Jo Grant was looking positively smug, as well she might. Even the serious Lewisman had a grin on his pale face, though it wouldn’t be there for long.

‘I’m sorry to spoil the party,’ he began, ‘but there is a development that I want you to be aware of.’

All eyes turned to him and he could see their smiles fading as they heard the gravity in his tone.

‘As you know, Dr Brightman has been attempting to profile our killer. I’m pleased to tell you that Malcolm Docherty fits a profile that has been drawn up.’

There were murmurs of approval but among them Lorimer detected Alistair Wilson, hand on his chin, giving his boss a speculative look. The detective sergeant knew Lorimer well enough to tell when some thing was wrong.

‘However, this profile was developed with some difficulty. Dr Brightman did not find it possible to draw his profile until he came to a conclusion about the murders.’ Lorimer paused to see if he had their attention. There was a kind of hush as all eyes were turned his way.

‘He believes we have not one, but two killers,’ Lorimer told them.

‘But that’s impossible!’ someone exclaimed. ‘What about the flowers?’ another voice demanded.

‘I know, I know. I’ve been asking myself exactly the same question. There’s a chance, however, that the murders of Kirsty MacLeod and Brenda Duncan have been carried out by a copycat killer. Until we interview Docherty, we can’t be certain of this, of course. It may well be that he confesses to all four murders. If so, we can open a few bottles and go home. And no one would be happier than me, I can assure you,’ he added. ‘However,’ he raised his hand to quell the murmurs that had broken out, ‘If we have no real evidence to link Docherty with those other two deaths, we may have to consider something else.’ Lorimer took a deep breath before continuing. ‘If Dr Brightman is correct then we have a real problem on our hands. It would mean that information has been leaked from somebody on the team. Now, I don’t have to tell you about security during an investigation. You all know how things operate. But the fact remains that the killer of those two nurses knew exactly how Deirdre McCann’s hands were folded around that flower. The Press got that aspect wrong and we weren’t about to correct them, I can tell you. So. Whoever killed Kirsty and Brenda had to have seen an incident report.’

‘Or been the same killer!’ Jo Grant declared, a mutinous look on her face. Lorimer’s heart sank. Jo had been one of Mitchison’s sidekicks in the past. Would she make trouble for him now?

‘That’s right,’ he told her. ‘But we have to prove that, ladies and gentlemen. I wanted you to be aware of this before I have Docherty up for questioning. If any of you have been guilty of a breach of security then now’s the time to tell me. Otherwise we may have to turn this place upside down.’