Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Superintendent Mitchison does not share Dr Bright man’s theories, I might add,’ he said, looking deliberately at Jo. But the DI showed no triumph at his remark. In fact, she was frowning now and Lorimer wondered just what she was thinking. ‘I’ll have a copy of Docherty’s statement circulated to all of you as soon as it’s available. Let’s just hope he tells us what we want to hear.’

Lorimer took his detective sergeant aside as the other officers departed. ‘I want you downstairs with me when Docherty’s brought up,’ he told him. ‘We’ll not have his DNA results for a bit and they may prove crucial. Meantime he’s in for a grilling.’

‘You really believe Brightman’s theory, don’t you?’ Wilson asked, a rueful smile on his lips.

Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye, more’s the pity. It just makes so much sense, you know. The logic of it all hangs together apart from anything else.’

‘And has he come up with a profile for killer number two yet?’

‘I think he’s still working on that. But I’ll let you know. If Mitchison lets him carry on, of course.’

‘Any chance that the Super will halt the investigation?’

‘Don’t even ask me that yet. Wait till we’ve heard what Docherty has to say.’

It was a different figure from the man they’d seen escorted between two burly police officers. Malcolm Docherty’s shoulders were slumped and his head hung down as if a weight drew it earthwards. The police doctor handed Lorimer a file, nodding towards the prisoner seated at the table.

‘No problems, Chief Inspector. We’ll let you know the results ASAP OK?’

‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied and walked around the table to face Malcolm Docherty. The man did not look up as Lorimer stood at the table, nor did he flinch when the DCI scraped a metal chair across the floor, its grating squeal setting everyone’s teeth on edge. At first Lorimer simply stood there appraising the prisoner. His mind flicked back to the January night when this case had begun. The swirling fog had cleared away now and he felt a weird sense of peace in the interview room. Euphoria had given way to calmness now that the man was finally here in front of him.

One glance at his feet made the line on Lorimer’s mouth tighten. This man’s shoes were size twelve, at the very least.

Alistair Wilson waited patiently out of Docherty’s line of vision. His boss would begin whenever he was good and ready. At last Docherty looked up as if some magnetism stronger than his own will was forcing him to acknowledge Lorimer’s presence. Lorimer sat down, Wilson beside him.

‘Interview with Malcolm James Docherty beginning at 15.00 hours. June sixth. Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer and Detective Sergeant Wilson in attendance,’ Lorimer began in a voice that sounded utterly bored by what he had to do. It was a useful ploy. It made a suspect feel both inferior and at ease, often resulting in a sense of outrage. How dare this cop treat me as if I were some unimportant part of his daily grind?

Docherty’s eyes gave a glitter that told the two policemen that the ruse had worked.

‘You are Malcolm James Docherty of 19 Peninsula Crescent, Springburn?’

Docherty glared at Lorimer then shifted his eyes to take in Wilson who nodded encouragingly. ‘Aye,’ he said at last.

‘Where were you on the night of January 12th this year?’

Docherty licked his lips nervously, eyes shifting from Lorimer to Wilson and back again. His silence was not unusual. Many suspects were at a loss how to begin answering questions in an interview room, especially those who had no previous experience of the situation. Lorimer waited as if he had all day. If Docherty stalled too long, he’d simply pick up the Gazette and begin to read bits out to Alistair Wilson about last night’s football results. That was another ploy that got under their skin, he knew.

But he hadn’t long to wait. Docherty sat up a bit straighter and looked at Lorimer.

‘It’s my work,’ he began.

Lorimer nodded encouragingly, but not too eagerly. He’d make Docherty do the talking if he could.

‘You see, I clean up the railways.’ He paused, uncertain of how to continue. ‘There’s a lot of rubbish everywhere. Everywhere,’ he added, a dreamy look appearing in his eye.

Lorimer tried hard to sit still although his impulse was to lean forward to catch any nuance of speech.

‘I was asked to do these other jobs,’ he told Lorimer, a note of querulousness creeping into his tone.

‘What other jobs?’ Lorimer asked.

Docherty looked surprised. ‘Clearing up the station. Those women can’t come in and do things there,’ he protested, sitting up in his chair with an air of righteous indignation.

‘What women?’

Docherty bent across the desk and glared at Lorimer as if he were stupid. ‘Prostitutes,’ he hissed, his teeth showing in a grimace of hatred.

‘What method did you use to clear these women from your station, Malcolm?’

‘I put them down.’

‘Could you describe exactly what you did, Malcolm?’

Docherty hesitated as if he were trying to find the correct answer then he moved his hands up and clasped them together as if they were round an invisible throat.

‘Like this,’ he said.

‘You strangled them?’

Docherty nodded.

Lorimer swallowed hard. His next question was crucial. Trying to sound as if this was a normal conversation he asked, ‘How many women have you strangled, Malcolm?’

The sound of Docherty’s feet shuffling under the table could be heard as Lorimer waited for the answer.

‘Just two,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lorimer took a deep breath, suddenly understanding what the man was apologising for. It was not contrition about taking lives. It was that he’d only taken two of them.

‘Are you sure it was only two?’

Docherty nodded sadly. ‘Aye. Two prostitutes, they were.’

‘Tell me what you did after you’d strangled them, Malcolm.’

The man seemed to brighten up a little at the question. ‘Oh, I sent them on their way. I gave them a flower and let their hands do a prayer. I said a prayer too. They’re quite safe now, you see. They’ll not harm anything ever again.’

Beside him Lorimer could feel Wilson shift uneasily in his seat. They had a right one here and no mistake.

‘Did you give a flower to any other young women recently, Malcolm?’

‘No. Just those two. It’s not my fault,’ he told them, round-eyed. ‘I didn’t get any other orders.’

‘You said earlier that you were told to do these clearing up jobs, as you put it. Who exactly was it who told you to kill these women, Malcolm?’

Docherty gave a smile. ‘God.’

Lorimer nodded as if this was something he heard every day in the course of his investigations.

‘And how did God make his instructions clear, Malcolm?’

‘He talked to me. He showed me the flowers. His flowers. They’re perfect, you know. All His creation is perfect. But they weren’t perfect. They had to be cleared away. Like the rubbish.’

A nutter, Lorimer thought. A twelve carat nutter. Voices in the head from God. Sometimes they actually heard them from the television. That kind of mental illness wasn’t really so uncommon. But had he had anything to do with the killing of the two nurses? Lorimer had to ask.

‘Where were you on the nights of May 7th and May 14th?’

Docherty shook his head. ‘I don’t know. What days were they? I work during the day. But I don’t go out much at night.’

Lorimer told him.

‘No, I’d be at home. I watch TV at night then go to my bed. Sometimes I go out for a fish supper. Can’t remember, really.’ He shrugged as if the dates were of no importance to him.