A Small Weeping E-Book

Alex Gray

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DCI Lorimer
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 421

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

***Discover your next reading obsession with Alex Gray's bestselling Scottish detective series*** Whether you've read them all or whether this is your first Lorimer novel, THE DARKEST GOODBYE is perfect if you love Ian Rankin, Val McDermid and Ann Cleeves WHAT THEY'RE SAYING ABOUT THE LORIMER SERIES: Warm-hearted, atmospheric' ANN CLEEVES 'Relentless and intriguing' PETER MAY 'Move over Rebus' DAILY MAIL 'Exciting, pacey, authentic' ANGELA MARSONS 'Superior writing' THE TIMES 'Immensely exciting and atmospheric' ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH _______________ When a murdered prostitute is found in a Glasgow train station, DCI Lorimer is perplexed by the ritualistic arrangement of her body. It isn't long before there is another murder and he realises there's no time to waste if he is to stop Glasgow's latest serial killer. A taut, suspense-filled thriller, A Small Weeping takes the reader on a gripping journey from the inner city to the wilds of the Scottish Isles, and far into the darkest depths of human nature. _______________ ***PRAISE FOR ALEX GRAY*** 'Convincing Glaswegian atmosphere and superior writing' The Times 'Brings Glasgow to life in the same way Rankin evokes Edinburgh' Daily Mail 'Exciting, pacy, authentic' Angela Marsons 'Sums up everything that is golden and enthralling about a good book' Fully Booked

Leseprobe

A Small Weeping

ALEX GRAY

This novel is dedicated to the memory of

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Lucifer Falling

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By Alex Gray

Copyright

Lucifer Falling

The black radiance was Lucifer falling. Space grieved for him shuddering at its own guilt and moons were never the same after passing through the gauze of wings. The crystal battlements shook to hear him laughing; and somewhere amid the angelic jubilations there was a small weeping, forecast

Prologue

The feather wafted upwards, a fine wispy curve, and for seconds it sailed the air. Slowly, slowly it began its downward journey, tacking and spinning on the currents; slight, light, hovering and shimmering. The dust motes danced against the sunlight like a cloud of gnats as the white feather passed them by. It sank at last in a curtsey and settled on the bed, still as the body below the sheets.

Chapter One

There was something appropriate about the fog blotting out everything beyond the station, thought Lorimer as he made his way through George Square. It was as if the natural world was trying to obliterate whatever waited for him behind the swirling curtain of mist. The red surface below his feet was darkened to the colour of old blood, statues loomed out of the mist like silent sentinels and even the tops of buildings were obscured by the pall of dankness, giving an impression of walking through some subterranean chamber. He’d be doing that soon enough. The woman’s body had been discovered in the lift between the upper and lower platforms of Queen Street station. Who she was and how she came to be there at all were the questions uppermost in the Detective Chief Inspector’s mind.

Lorimer had been woken from a fitful sleep around three a.m. After the Transport Police had alerted the Area Control room in Cowcaddens, the call had filtered through to Lorimer as the on-duty DCI. Now he was rounding the corner of George Street, his eyes drawn to the striped scene-of-crime tape cordoning off the station’s entrance. No taxis would be plying their trade up here for a while, that was for sure, he thought, seeing the line of official vehicles parked on North Hanover Street. He’d deliberately left his own car across the square, wishing to approach the railway station on foot as a stranger might have done. Perspective, that’s what he’d wanted. But all he’d found was this Gothic landscape.

A spiteful little wind blew along the narrow, cobbled lane across the road. It caught the back of his neck, reminding him, too late, of his wife Maggie’s sleepy advice to put on a scarf. The uniformed officer standing outside was shifting from one foot to another, beating his gloved hands across his arms in an effort to keep himself warm.

‘Sir?’ The police constable came to immediate attention as he recognised Lorimer.

‘Been here long, Constable?’

‘About half an hour, sir. We were in the area,’ the PC explained, making a move to unlock the glass doors into the station. They opened with a sigh and Lorimer stepped into the light.

Inside was not much warmer, fog swirling along the tracks from the black hole beyond the length of a parked train. Lorimer stared out into the void, wondering.

‘What about Transport? Wasn’t there an officer on duty tonight?’

‘Supposed to be, but they don’t always stay in the station for the entire shift, sir,’ the constable replied, not meeting Lorimer’s eye. Someone’s head was going to roll for this all right, especially if the Press got hold of it. But the DCI didn’t seem to be in a hurry to lay the blame at anyone’s door. Instead he continued to stare down the track as if his vision could penetrate the tunnel’s hidden gloom beyond platform 7.

His eyes wandered back along the length of the platform, coming to rest on blue painted plywood sheeting that surrounded the lift area.

‘That was quick. Who rigged that lot up, then?’

‘It was like that, sir. The lifts are being renovated at the moment.’

‘So how do we gain access?’

‘It’s downstairs, sir,’ the constable replied. ‘We’ve got the area sealed off at platform 8 on the lower level.’

‘The stairs are over by the other side, aren’t they?’ Lorimer murmured, looking round but making no immediate move across the forecourt of the station. He wasn’t squeamish but part of him had wanted to see the station empty and open like this before the body downstairs took precedence in his immediate thoughts. He walked back along the platform towards the lifts then turned to face the building on the opposite side of the rails, the stationmaster’s office. Even standing on tiptoe, Lorimer was unable to see the upper windows for the train parked beside him. He nodded to himself, wondering who could have had access to the lifts during the night. There’d be plenty of questions for the stationmaster to answer.

A scattering of traffic cones surrounded the entrance to the lift, a device on somebody’s part, no doubt, to assist the Scene of Crime boys when they turned up. Lorimer approached the blue hoardings and peered in. The concertina doors had been pushed aside and he could see a single line of light from the shaft below. Voices murmured beneath his feet. Looking up into the empty socket of the lift mechanism, Lorimer saw only a tangle of cables. With a sigh he turned and headed for the stairs that would take him to the lower level platforms of Queen Street Station.

By contrast to the violet blue gloominess of the upper level, platforms 8 and 9 dazzled the eyes. The walls were wasp-yellow with a lip for seating and between the two platforms ran a central area supported by filthy, black pillars.

A huge bear of a man dressed in a British Rail donkey jacket emblazoned with orange fluorescent panels looked up as Lorimer approached the lift doors.

There was something like relief in the railwayman’s expression; authority had arrived in the form of this tall figure whose hand took his in a reassuringly firm grip.

‘This is Mr Gibson, sir.’

‘You’re the stationmaster?’

‘No, sir. But I was in charge tonight. I’m the supervisor,’ the man shook his head as if somehow he’d been responsible for the whole sorry mess within his station. ‘I, well…’ he tailed off, raising a hand towards the lift. Then, dropping it with a sigh, he stepped back as if to introduce the main character in this early morning drama.

Lorimer gave the railwayman an understanding nod and turned towards the light flooding out from the lift.

The woman lay in one corner away from the door, her head resting against the wall. For an instant she looked like a rag doll that had been flung down by some petulant child, her legs splayed awkwardly. Long strands were escaping from a plastic clip that skewered her hair. Lorimer could see the gaping mouth that had opened in protest as her last breath was cut off. But it was her eyes that would disturb his sleep for weeks to come. Their expression of terror made his head resonate with her scream. He could hear it echoing around the damp walls of the station.

Lorimer would be glad when a police surgeon came on the scene to close those eyes.

His gaze dropped to the woman’s neck. Two ends of a red chiffon scarf hung like banners either side of her chin. She’d been strangled. It was one of the commonest methods of killing that he’d seen in his career. Sometimes it was a domestic gone wrong, other times a crime of passion, but here? Just what had happened here?

He looked again at the red scarf and hoped to hell there’d be some traces for forensics. Lorimer stood back, taking in the dead woman’s clothing in one glance; the soiled white jacket, skimpy top and short skirt were like a badge of her trade. She wasn’t the first one on the game to be so brutally murdered in this city and she wouldn’t be the last. Lorimer had long since learnt to control the surge of pity and anger that threatened to overwhelm him in such cases but anyone observing that clenched jaw might see he wasn’t yet inured to either emotion.

Lorimer walked to one side of the body, oblivious to the stares of the two men standing outside, then stopped. He hunkered down closer, considering the woman’s hands. At first glance he’d thought they must be tied but now he saw that they had been deliberately arranged in a praying gesture, palm to palm, pointing towards her feet. Lorimer bent forward, his attention caught by the unnatural gesture. Was she holding something? Or was it just a shadow? Lorimer shifted his position so that the overhead light showed the woman’s hands more clearly. Fearful of disturbing the corpse before the arrival of the on-duty pathologist and the SOCOs, the DCI peered at the space between the flattened palms. Yes, there was something there. Lorimer drew a pen out of his inside pocket and gently lifted one white cuff.

There, like a blossom of blood, lay a single carnation, its stem fixed between the dead woman’s palms.

He let the sleeve of her jacket fall back into place, wondering what Dr Solomon Brightman might make of this murder. This looked like the hallmark of a ritualistic killing. Under his gaze the woman was being transformed from a flesh and blood creature to a victim whose death had to be solved. Lorimer had long ago learnt the need to detach himself from the horror of a killing. The victim, whoever she was, would become real enough in the days to come, but for now he must force himself to see her objectively. He was looking at a new and complicated case and not just a case for forensics, either. They’d be mad not to use Solly’s expertise as a criminal profiler.

Voices from the staircase made him look up. Two figures appeared out of the darkness carrying their kitbags. The cavalry had arrived in the shape of Dr Rosie Fergusson and Dr Roy Young, forensic pathologists. Between the two of them there should be some answers to the dead woman’s silent cry for help.

Gibson, the railwayman, caught Lorimer’s sleeve as he walked out to meet the two medics, ‘D’you need me for anything else?’ The man’s face took on a white glow under the fluorescent light making him look as sick as he probably felt.

‘Yes,’ said Lorimer shortly, ‘but I wouldn’t hover around here if I were you. Stay upstairs in the staffroom meantime.’ He glanced at the PC who had, until his arrival, been in charge. ‘Any chance of some hot drinks? It’s freezing down here.’

‘We can rustle something up in the manager’s office,’ Gibson told them both. ‘I’ll show you.’ He led the constable towards the stairs, his gait quickening. Lorimer smiled wryly. Even the biggest guys were still daunted by the sight of a corpse. Not so this pair, he thought, striding forward to greet them.

‘You do pick them, don’t you?’ Rosie glared at him as if Lorimer had manufactured the murder all by him self. ‘Here I was all cosy, tucked up with a good book thinking nobody would be daft enough to end it all on a night like this.’ The diminutive blonde was already delving into her kitbag and pulling out white overalls.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Roy Young laughed. ‘She’d be out of there like a whippet once the call came in.’ Lorimer grinned. Rosie’s grumbles would stop the minute she set foot inside the locus. Her professionalism was total. Even though she was the senior pathologist she didn’t pull rank and always took her fair share of duties. Looking at her now, pulling her hair back into a knot, Lorimer marvelled at how Rosie Fergusson revelled in the business of cadavers and their hidden secrets.

His thoughts were cut off by another voice commanding his attention.

‘You beat us to it, then,’ Alistair Wilson strode across to join him. In the wake of the detective sergeant was a tall young man whose padded jacket made him look like the Michelin Man. Maggie had joked that the boy from Lewis was so new to his role as a detective constable that you could still see the shine. Niall Cameron nodded to Lorimer but immediately looked beyond him, his eyes drawn towards the figures huddled within the open lift.

‘Want a look?’ Lorimer asked. Both men stepped forward and Lorimer heard Rosie’s ‘tsk’ of annoyance as she stood up to make room for the officers.

‘Bloody hell, we’ve got a right one here,’ Wilson’s voice echoed coldly over the deserted platform. ‘put to sleep with a flower in its hand. What d’you think, young Niall? Is it Ophelia or what?’

Niall Cameron glowered down at the detective sergeant, his pale cheeks reddening, aware of everybody’s scrutiny. Lorimer watched him, glad to note that the boy was wise enough not to rise to the bait.

‘She hasn’t got a name yet, Sergeant,’ Rosie snapped, ‘and if you don’t mind we’ll not find that or much else until you take yourself off!’

‘That’s me told, then,’ Alistair Wilson grinned at the pathologist, totally unabashed. He tried to catch Cameron’s eye but the Lewisman had already backed out of the confined space and was looking expectantly at Lorimer.

‘This your first murder case?’ Lorimer murmured, steering Cameron away from the scene of crime, one hand lightly upon his shoulder.

The lad nodded, a frown creasing the space between his thick, straight eyebrows.

‘Don’t mind Sergeant Wilson. It’s just his way.’

‘I don’t mind. I just don’t like to think of her as a thing, that’s all.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘I know, but sometimes it helps to keep a distance between the victim and the investigating team. A murder investigation is unlike any other. Emotions can run high.’

Lorimer shrugged then added, ‘She probably will be named Ophelia just for the record, you know, now that DS Wilson has given her a soubriquet. At least until there is a positive I.D.’ Lorimer could see that Wilson’s offhand approach had ruffled the lad but despite this Cameron was turning back towards the corpse as if he wanted another moment to see for himself.

‘I know Dr Fergusson would be pleased if you attended the post-mortem,’ he told the detective constable. ‘Only if you want to,’ he added, watching Cameron’s jaw tighten.

‘I don’t mind,’ he replied with a diffidence that earned him some points with Lorimer. This one was cool under fire, all right.

‘So,’ Alistair Wilson had caught them up now. ‘No handbag, no apparent identification. D’you think she was local?’

‘Who knows?’ Lorimer replied, thinking once more of the railway tracks that disappeared into the mist. ‘Depends what direction she came from, doesn’t it?’

‘Want me to ask about?’ Wilson persisted. ‘Try Waterloo Street, maybe?’ he suggested, mentioning one of the main haunts of Glasgow’s prostitutes. He had thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his raincoat and pulled it tightly across his body against the bitter chill, but his eyes were alight with the desire to be off on the hunt for whoever had put an end to this poor wretch. His detective sergeant might seem flippant at times but Lorimer knew it was just a front. Under the surface Wilson was as angry and disgusted as any of them at the waste of a young life.

‘Won’t do any harm. If any of them are daft enough to be out in a night like this,’ he added.

‘Oh, they’ll be daft enough if they need a hit,’ Wilson laughed mirthlessly.

‘Okay. It’s worth a try. But make sure you’ve got an accurate description from Dr Fergusson. We’d certainly be wasting our time waiting for a missing person’s report if she was on the game. Meantime, I think DC Cameron should take a statement from Mr Gibson. He was the one who found the body,’ Lorimer explained, pointing towards a door. ‘He’s upstairs in the staff room,’ he added.

As if on cue, a constable descended the stairs bearing a tray of polystyrene cups, their contents steaming in the cold air like alchemists’ potions. Lorimer retreated to the edge of the platform, observing the tableau around the open lift. An aura seemed to surround the group as though their breaths had clouded together. For an instant he thought about the dead woman’s spirit. Then he turned and walked back to the stationmaster’s office.

Lorimer was drinking his third hot chocolate of the night as he made his way back to the North Hanover Street entrance. The SOCOs had come and gone, the body was on its way to the mortuary and Frank Gibson had been driven home. His footsteps echoed across the stone floor of Platform 7. It was still as cold as the grave. He’d wandered around the perimeter of the station with DC Cameron, checking out the CCTV cameras. It was most likely the killer had come by car, parking in the car park at the back where no swivelling grey heads recorded the comings and goings of staff vehicles. There was so much to be done. CCTV footage from the area around George Square, North Hanover Street and Cathedral Street was being carefully checked by the night shift at Cowcaddens. The scene of crime people had gone over the area between the car park and platform 7. It was the only logical way a stranger could have entered the station unseen. The black cab drivers were being contacted to find out about any late night drops or uplifts from the rank at the station door. And what would DS Wilson find from his questioning of the girls along in Waterloo Street?

Gibson’s main concern had been for the minimum disruption to the trains. They’d keep the North Hanover Street entrance cordoned off from the public and platform 7 was out of commission meantime, but the station would open for business as usual. Lorimer yawned. It wasn’t yet daylight and he had hours of work still ahead of him. These nine-to-five commuters didn’t know they were living.

Chapter Two

It had been a long day. Rosie stretched out with a yawn that made her jaw crack. It was good to be finished at last, she thought, sinking into the leather folds of her favourite chesterfield in the University staff club. The post-mortem had shown death by strangulation and it looked like the ligature was the dead woman’s own scarf. Forensic testing would verify that eventually, of course.

Lorimer had brought along his lanky Highlander to observe. Give the lad credit, thought Rosie, swirling the ice cubes at the bottom of her brandy glass, he’d not blanched at the sight of her opening up the cadaver. Some of them simply fainted away, usually the big macho ones that wouldn’t flinch in a bar room brawl when glasses were flying. But DC Cameron had watched with an interested detachment as if he’d been one of her senior med. students.

The staff club was quiet tonight, just three elderly gentlemen discussing academic something-or-others over by the fireside. Rosie found the sound of their low voices soothing. She didn’t want to make small talk or any other sort of talk until she had to. Despite her tiredness there was an underlying excitement. Solly would soon be here and then she could give him an account of the day’s events.

Lorimer had assured her that the psychologist would be invited on board for this investigation. Although he was the Senior Investigating Officer, the procurator Fiscal still had to be consulted. However, he hadn’t shown any worries over Solly’s involvement.

The queer sight of that carnation pressed between the woman’s hands still bothered Rosie. Straight forward murder was OK but weird stuff like that gave her the willies. She considered the wording of her draft report. She’d outlined the position of the praying hands resting on the woman’s vulva. It was a point she’d already endowed with significance in her own mind though the report afforded no room for symbolic speculation. That was the area of expertise that she expected from Solomon Brightman.

Solomon. She gave a tiny sigh. There was something otherworldly about him that she found both attractive and exasperating, his timekeeping, for instance. He was notoriously late for everything and tonight he’d already kept Rosie waiting for the best part of an hour. So why did she do it? Rosie asked herself. She was not a naturally patient person, just the opposite, but since getting to know Solly she’d found herself habitually waiting in the staff club where they’d meet up after work. He didn’t drive so Rosie often dropped him off home even though his flat was less than ten minutes’ walk through Kelvingrove Park.

Rosie Fergusson was hooked and it surprised her. Solly wasn’t her type at all. He had no great interest in socialising other than to sum up his fellow man, but he seemed happy enough in her company even though he’d been a bit shy to begin with. They’d met in the most inauspicious of circumstances, the locus of a grisly murder in Garnethill, and she’d taken an instant liking to him.

The ice had melted in her glass. Rosie slurped the watery dregs, considering whether to have another and leave the car parked overnight. She could always take a taxi home. If she didn’t get a better offer, a bad little voice murmured in her head. Rosie grinned at the delicious naughtiness of the thought then looked up to catch the barman’s eye.

‘Same again, please,’ she smiled at him, holding out the glass.

‘Rosie.’ Suddenly Solomon was standing there looking down at her, his eyes twinkling gently behind those horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘So sorry I’m late. Had to take another class for one of my colleagues. Fellow I told you about, remember? He’s having a bad time of it, poor man.’ Solly unwound an enormous knitted scarf from his neck as he spoke, his expression somewhere between apologetic and glad to see her, as Rosie noted with delight. ‘There,’ he plonked himself down beside her and flung an arm around her shoulders, giving a friendly squeeze.

‘Never mind that,’ Rosie told him. ‘You’re here now and I’ve been dying to tell you what happened today. Lorimer’s got a new murder case and he says you’re going to be asked onto the team.’

‘In that case I’d better have a drink, don’t you think?’ Solly grinned at her. ‘Before you tell me the nastier bits.’

Rosie waited impatiently as he sauntered over to the bar then returned with a pint glass of orange squash.

‘That all you’re having? I thought you’d be needing a double vodka at least,’ she joked.

‘Really? OK, let’s hear it.’

‘Well, it started off this morning. Early. And I mean early. Something like four o’ clock. Peter and I were called out to Queen Street Station. It was bloody freezing. Anyway. A woman’s body had been discovered in the lift between the upper and lower levels. Strangled. Probably with her own scarf.’

‘Any idea who she is?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘Looks like a prostitute and there are plenty of traces of semen. No handbag, nothing in her pockets; young, probably early twenties. She’d been dead long enough for rigor to set in.’

‘Sounds pretty normal,’ Solly put in. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound callous, but why do they want me?’

‘Ah, that’s the interesting part. Whoever strangled her didn’t just leave her lying there in a heap in the corner.’ Rosie paused for dramatic effect. ‘Wait till I tell you. They stuck a flower in her hands then put them together in a praying position. Like this,’ she added, placing her hands palm to palm, pointing down between her legs.

Solomon did not respond for a moment, gazing at Rosie’s hands.

‘What sort of flower?’

‘A red carnation. One of the long-stemmed sort. Why? Could that have any significance?’

‘Possibly. For the killer, at any rate.’

‘What about the praying hands? D’you think that might have some religious meaning?’

‘How can I tell? I haven’t even seen a report, let alone been asked officially to comment.’

‘OK, let’s look at this clinically. We’ll say that God created Eve with the anatomical advantage of having arms that stretch towards the genitals; that might simply be the way they fell but I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Wait till you see the photographs. It really looks like he’s made a kind of ritual out of the flower and the hands. It’s been done so carefully. But what I wanted to ask you is, why place the praying hands downwards like that? Why not fix them up so that they looked as if they were really praying?’

‘You’re hoping I’ll make the leap between the genital area and a sexual motivation,’ Solomon gave her a half smile.

‘Sort of. I don’t know. She’d certainly been sexually active. There was semen in her mouth as well as in the vagina.’

‘Lorimer thinks it’s a stranger killing, then? Just because of the flower?’

‘I think so too, Solly. It wasn’t like the killer was sneering at her. It was different. As if…oh, I don’t know. As if he had some sort of remorse, maybe.’

‘A valedictory message, perhaps?’

Rosie squinted up at him. Her excitement had evaporated between waiting for Solly to arrive and his almost diffident response to her news.

‘I thought you’d be pleased to be working on another case with us,’ she huffed.

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.

Chapter Three

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.

‘Part of the Chief Constable’s strategy for effective urban policing is to encourage you all to study methods used by police officers from overseas. This division is one hundred per cent behind him on this, naturally.’ The Superintendent rolled back and forth in his chair while Lorimer tried hard not to grit his teeth. Maggie was complaining that he even did it in his sleep these days. Mitchison’s nasal voice expounded the virtues of his latest ploy.

‘You may be interested to know that we have been chosen to play host to a most experienced officer from the State of Florida.’ Mitchison’s smile became almost beatific but if he expected Lorimer to grin inanely he was much mistaken. This DCI wasn’t giving the Chief Constable many brownie points for originality. It was only a few years back that there had been similar interest in comparative policing methods during the highly acclaimed OperationSpotlight campaign, when New York had supplied some specially trained officers to liaise with Strathclyde.

‘Officer Lipinski will be arriving at Glasgow Airport at 10.30 a.m. next Thursday. I want you to be there to do the usual welcome-to-Glasgow on our behalf. Here’s the dossier. I think you’ll find it makes fascinating reading.’ Mitchison handed over a slim black file then raised his hand in another imperious gesture to show that the meeting was over. Lorimer stood up and dragged his chair over the thick new carpet pile.

‘Sir,’ he gave a swift nod before turning away. It was all he could do to stop himself clicking his heels and saluting the man. Once out in the corridor Lorimer strode towards his own room then halted abruptly. He needed some fresh air after that. In a few minutes Lorimer was down the stairs and out of the building. He took a turn away from the main part of the city, out of reach of any close circuit television cameras that would show his whereabouts, and headed for the nearest park.

Glasgow wasn’t short of wide green spaces. That was one of the things most visitors marvelled at. There were parks and gardens within walking distance of most parts of the city. And it wasn’t just the tourists who wandered among the flowerbeds and fountains. Summer brought out the mini-skirted office girls clutching their lunches in paper bags. The first blink of sun and there they would be, basking in the warmth as if it were Lanzarote instead of the west coast of Scotland. They were as predictable a phenomenon as learner drivers in the spring.

Lorimer slowed his pace as a flurry of birds flew in front of him. The pigeons thrived on lunchtime crumbs. Lorimer screwed his eyes up against the sunshine, taking in the figures seated along the pathway. There were always some derelicts sunk over in the benches, biding their time to rake in the bins for scraps of their own. Lorimer knew them all by sight. Since some of them included his own touts, he liked to roll by the park when he could. However nobody was paying the detective any attention today and he came to a halt in front of an empty bench beneath a flowering cherry tree. Pink blossoms lay scattered on the newly cut grass and Lorimer flicked his hand over the seat where more of them had fallen.

If he closed his eyes for a moment he could pretend that he was back on holiday in Portugal. The heat gave that momentary illusion of continental sun. Even the noise of traffic didn’t diminish the feeling. Lagos hadn’t been far away from civilisation. For a few moments Lorimer indulged in the sights and sounds of Portugal in his imagination until the file slipped off his knee to the ground. As he bent to pick it up with a grunt he wondered briefly about the man he was about to meet. He’d be on his way pretty soon. Curious now, in spite of himself, Lorimer crossed one foot over his knee to balance the file and opened it. The officer’s face looked up at him from the colour photograph. Lorimer grinned back. So this was Officer Lipinski, was it? Well, well. Maybe the Chief Constable’s ideas about sharing policing methods wouldn’t be too bad after all.

Chapter Four

The Grange was perched on a windy hill overlooking the terraces of Mount Florida and Cathcart. Like many of the old Victorian properties that had survived conversion into service flats after the war, it now served as a medical clinic. A wide strip of lawn curved around the chipped driveway then fell sharply away to a steep bank, ending at the path below in a mass of shrubbery. Tom Coutts noticed the huge buds of the rhododendrons tipped with scarlet. A few more weeks of sunshine and the whole lot would be a blaze of colour. As he approached the massive front door his eye rested on the ancient brass bell that pulled straight out of the stonework. There were still so many original features in this rambling place and Tom had some times wondered why they hadn’t been swept away with all the other alterations to the old house. He heard the jangle of the bell and almost immediately footsteps came hurrying towards the frosted glass door.

Her smoky blue uniform appeared as an Impressionistic blob then the door was flung open and a young nurse stood there staring at him. Tom frowned at her then his brow cleared in recognition.

‘Kirsty? Kirsty MacLeod?’

‘Dr Coutts. Gosh. It’s a while since I saw you. What brings you here?’ The nurse ushered Tom into the darkened hallway where light from outside filtered through lozenges of stained glass flanking the main door, casting streaks of green and yellow across the pale emulsioned walls.

‘I’m a patient,’ Tom grimaced but saw that his half-smile had brought a look of curiosity to the young woman’s eyes.

‘Depression. Like most of the cases in here.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Just never got over her death, I suppose.’

‘Oh,’ the girl suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Are you in for a therapy session, then?’

‘Yes. I’ve been coming for a while now,’ Tom answered, directing his gaze at a spot on the floor. ‘Anyway, I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He looked up then put out a hand, touching her sleeve.

‘Community nursing wasn’t…’ she broke off as if stuck for an answer.

‘Satisfying enough?’ Tom suggested.

‘Something like that. There was a post going here and I grabbed it. Not too many private clinics for nurses specialising in neural diseases, you know. I was lucky to get it.’

‘Nonsense,’ Tom chided. ‘Nan always said you were the best.’ He hesitated as if trying to find the right words. ‘We couldn’t have survived without you, you know.’

Kirsty looked away from him and he tried in vain to see her expression.

‘Funny I’ve not seen you here before.’

‘I’m normally on nights. Just covering for someone today,’ she replied. Kirsty turned back towards Tom but did not meet his eyes. ‘Your appointment,’ she reminded him, stepping towards the corridor that led to the therapy rooms.

Tom followed her, his heart thumping. It was the same every time. He had come to banish his demons but now the very act of entering this place had added to them. What tricks would they have in store for him today, he wondered, giving Kirsty MacLeod a little nod as he turned the door handle of a room marked ‘patients’ lounge’.

Inside there were several people seated in a circle. One metal chair was empty and as Tom entered all eyes turned towards the latecomer. His mind shifted briefly to the comforting familiarity of the lecture theatre where his students would meet his arrival with friendly enthusiasm. Now, as he faced this room full of people who were still strangers, all he could feel was a clutch of fear deep in his stomach.

‘Tom, come on in,’ the psychotherapist beckoned him over to the only remaining chair set in the circle. On either side of the empty seat were the two men he least liked in the group. One was a young man whose shaved head bore strange Celtic tattoos. His faded black t-shirt was torn at the shoulders with another twisted design circling each pale, muscular upper arm. Bron had been in hospital for his depression, a fact that he flaunted to mere day patients like Tom.

On Tom’s other side was Sam, a former shipyard worker who had been redundant for years. In the beginning they had told one another of their occupations and Sam had been openly contemptuous about Tom’s profession.

‘Psychologist, eh?’ he had sneered. ‘How come ye cannae sort yourself out, then?’

Now as Tom sat down, he glared at the University lecturer as if he had no right to be there at all. Even the therapist came in for some verbal abuse but Tom knew this was part of his job. He probably expected it. How about the nurses, though? Were they trained to take that sort of crap, too?

As the therapist began his session Tom tried to concentrate on his words, using them as a mantra to focus on the topic. Anxiety. It was ironic that the very act of coming into this group situation should create anxieties for him, he thought. Being a psychologist didn’t help in the least, in fact it had made him even more self-critical. Nan’s death had been the trigger. But now he must move forward, he’d been told. Be positive. Affirmation was the key.

He would heal. He would be well again. Then there would be no need for him to sit with these patients whose anger reached out at him with invisible tentacles.

Chapter Five

Divine unclipped the belt that had pinioned her to the airline seat for considerably more hours than the scheduled flight should have taken. Her fellow passengers were rising now and pulling travel bags from the overhead bins. Divine waited. She was in the unenviable middle of the row of five that DC10 passengers strive to avoid, so she wasn’t going anywhere fast. Besides, she was in no hurry now that they’d landed. The shuttle was leaving Heathrow in just under two hours. Plenty of time to ease herself out of this pigeon coop and find her connection.

The flight attendant smiled at her sympathetically. Not a hair of the young girl’s head was out of place. It prompted Divine to return the smile and comment, ‘How come you girls look so fresh after a night like that?’

In an Irish accent that had charmed her American passengers the girl announced, ‘Oh, I’m bionic, me!’ As if to prove her point she hopped up onto an armrest, revealing a tiny waist and a slim pair of legs as she reached towards another bin. Stretching her own long legs was something Divine was longing to do. Her sigh turned into a yawn.

At last the trail of passengers disappeared down the aisle and Divine ducked out of the seat and made her way onto British territory for the first time.

The flight to Glasgow was uneventful and a lot more comfortable than the larger aircraft that had ferried Divine across the Atlantic. She recognised several of her fellow travellers from the earlier flight. Some were obviously families and couples returning home to Scotland after their trip to the sun. There was a tall man with greying hair who had spent the entire journey deeply ensconced in paperwork. Divine glanced at his hawk-like profile several times. He was worth looking at and he intrigued her. Divine was a people person, her old mother used to say of her youngest daughter. If she couldn’t work out what a person’s occupation was, then she’d simply make it up. Like Paul Simon, she had always loved ‘playing games with the faces’ of people she travelled with. Who was the guy? Expensive suit, thin tweedy coat folded on the spare seat beside him. (Another good thing about this flight were the empty spaces where folks could spread out.) A scientist, maybe? Looked the scholarly type.

Her gaze swept over the other travellers. There was that boy with the ponytail. He’d come across with them too. American down to the toes of his sneakers. But not such a boy either. His ponytail was thin and the sideburns showed grey curls. He could be any body. Divine knew these things now. Anonymous looking guys might be bums or millionaires. She used her powers of observation these days instead of her imagination. After all, that’s what had brought her so far in her varied career.

Lorimer looked at his watch then scanned the arrivals screen. Where the hell was Lipinski? At last the information on the screen rolled over and proclaimed that flight BA2964 had landed. Lipinski would have gone through customs at London so there wouldn’t be too much longer to wait.

At last the figures of travellers began to emerge and Lorimer’s blue eyes bore down the corridor. A thin fellow carrying a worn leather document case under one arm strode past the policeman without a glance, his long tweed coat flapping around his legs. There were several family groups, one of whom was an Asian couple and their little daughters. The two children were obviously exhausted, clinging to their parents’ sides like colourful small limpets.

The stream of passengers dwindled and Lorimer began to look at his watch again with impatience. A tall figure strode into view, wheeling an enormous carry-on bag behind him. As the figure drew closer, Lorimer could see that it wasn’t a man at all but a black woman, her shiny hair drawn back into a tight knot. There was something commanding about her that made Lorimer stare; that loping stride and the head held high. For a brief moment the woman’s eyes flickered in his direction and he looked away. it was rude to stare, his mum used to scold him. From the corner of his eye Lorimer noticed the woman pausing to change the hand that dragged her baggage. But then he was aware that she had not moved on and was standing right beside him. For a moment Lorimer was confused as he cast a look over a face that was on a level with his own. Then she smiled that smile he’d seen in the photograph and Lorimer recognised her.

Divine thrust out her hand at the rugged-looking man before her. ‘Officer Lipinski. How are you?’

The introductions at Divisional HQ were over and Divine Lipinski from Florida State police Department was ready to go. She’d made an immediate impression on the team, though at six-feet two that wouldn’t be hard, Lorimer thought. A commanding figure she might be, but the woman was yawning now and Lorimer was suddenly glad that Maggie had insisted on him bringing the American home for her first evening in Scotland.

‘OK, you’ll meet them again tomorrow.’ Lorimer was about to turn and escort Divine out to his waiting car when he noticed DC Cameron stiffen and look beyond them. He sensed rather than saw the Superintendent enter the room and there was an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere. Even Divine noticed that, he saw. She straightened up, feet together, and folded her large hands behind her back.

‘Ms Lipinski, Superintendent Mitchison,’ Lorimer heard his own voice make the necessary introductions as the Superintendent came forward, a smile fixed to his thin face. Again Lorimer found himself irritated by Mitchison’s body language; the fingers circling the air, that condescending head to one side. He watched Divine’s face to see if she would succumb to the good-looking senior officer’s overtures. Detached, Lorimer heard the small talk as Divine politely described her flight.

‘I’m sure Chief Inspector Lorimer will take good care of you. We’ll see you in the morning,’ and he swept a gracious hand in their direction. Lorimer glanced at Divine and was gratified to see her narrow her eyes at Mitchison’s back as he left the muster room.

‘OK. Home-time. You’re bound to be pretty tired, right?’