Lorimer’s eyes were gritty from peering into the swishing windscreen wipers hour after hour. He’d been reasonably circumspect on the journey through the Highlands, given the rain sweeping across the winding roads, but after that call on his mobile the car had hurtled down from Loch Lomond, breaking every speed regulation in the book. Now they were entering the city boundaries at last. Solly had slept a lot of the way from Ullapool, folded into his black raincoat like one of those cormorants he’d seen around the Harris coastline. Lorimer was glad of the silence between them. It had given him time to think, time to digest that phone call from HQ telling him to get himself over to the south side double quick, there’d been another death.
He’d called Rosie at the University to see if she’d be at the scene of crime. Yes, she’d said shortly, and not with Mitchison if Lorimer could get his arse into gear. Her tone expressed distaste for Lorimer’s boss that had made him chuckle. But his mirth was short-lived. There was nothing remotely funny about this.
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer spoke softly to himself. ‘Who on earth would want to do you in?’ It didn’t make sense. First a prostitute in Queen Street station, then a nurse working the night shift. Now another member of the clinic’s staff murdered in her own home. Had she seen something the night of Kirsty’s death? Had she been keeping something back from Strathclyde CID? Or had something happened that she’d failed to register as significant? Either way it took him back to the same place: the Grange. One thing was certain, though; neither Sam Fulton nor Sister Angelica could have committed this latest murder.
Lorimer braked sharply as the lights turned to red.
‘Here already?’ Solly turned to look out at the familiar urban landscape. ‘How long till we reach Govanhill?’
‘Another fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky.’ He stared ahead at the build up of rush hour traffic. It would take them at least that to cross town, he reckoned. Maybe he should have crossed the Erskine Bridge. Hunger was gnawing at his guts. He should have made more time for a lunch stop. Maggie would be home by now. Maybe even cooking something decent for him, he thought wistfully. God, he’d missed her these last few days.
The journey across town via the Clyde Tunnel was a nightmare. Lorimer fretted and fumed aloud, cursing each and every driver that slowed him down. To cap it all, the tunnel was down to one lane. Solly, sitting beside him, kept a tactful silence. The psychologist looked out onto the darkening skies. He’d already worked one thing out for himself. Whoever had killed Brenda Duncan had known exactly where she lived and when she’d be off duty. Someone she knew, possibly. A colleague? A patient? Again, Solly felt a frisson as he thought of the killer and the risks he’d taken. There was both recklessness and a sense of calculation about the man that seemed at odds with one another. More than ever Solly was disquieted by the three murders; it was as if they had been carried out by a different hand each time. Still, there was a new crime scene ahead and that might throw light upon the puzzle. Solly shivered. The sight of a corpse was not some thing he relished.
It was well after six o’clock when Lorimer turned the car into the street in Govanhill. Rosie Fergusson’s BMW was parked outside the close mouth, a squad car just beyond.
‘Coming up?’ Lorimer asked, unbuckling his seat belt.
Solly just looked at him and nodded. He had to see it for himself. There was no other option.
Brenda Duncan’s flat was on the second landing. Lorimer acknowledged the scene of crime officer with a nod as he reached the open doorway. He could see a uniformed officer at the far end of the passage where the glare of the arc lights washed over the scene. Rosie was examining the body as they entered the hallway. It was a surprisingly large area, reminding Lorimer of the old-fashioned room and kitchen belonging to an aged relative, long since deceased. The Glasgow tenements had fairly teemed with family life a century ago. But he was here to deal with death, he reminded himself, his eyes returning to the body beyond Rosie’s white-coated figure.
The pathologist looked up at the sound of their footsteps. ‘Hi. Oh, Solly. You’re here too. Good!’ She waggled a glove-clad hand in their direction before continuing her examination.
Brenda Duncan’s body lay close to the wall. Above her a huge gilt mirror reflected the grim tableau of Rosie and Lorimer now crouching over the body. Solly held onto the wall for support, his stomach suddenly queasy. Yet he could not look away from the mirror. It was there, all right. Clasped between her podgy fingers was a single red carnation.
His signature, thought Solly, his calling card. Sliding along the wall, he took in the whole length of the woman’s corpse, the raincoat riding up above the fleshy thighs, legs falling apart. The hands were pressed together and pointing downwards. It was just like the others.
‘You OK?’ Rosie looked up suddenly, concern on her face.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Think I’ll go outside for a minute.’
Lorimer and Rosie exchanged glances as Solly made his way out of the flat.
‘Who found her?’ Lorimer asked.
‘The neighbour across the landing. She has a spare key. Got worried when nobody answered the door all day.’
‘Didn’t she think the woman was out at work?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘She knew it was Brenda’s day off. Said she’d arranged to call in and have coffee with her.’ The pathologist crooked her finger at him and Lorimer drew closer. ‘See this?’ Rosie turned the head gently to one side and pointed to the bruising. ‘He used both hands and you can see where his fingers pressed into the larynx.’
‘Any sign of a struggle?’
‘Nope. She was dead by the time she’d hit the floor, I reckon.’
‘Then he had his little ceremony.’
‘The flower? Yes. We saw that right away.’
‘Was she in this position when that neighbour called?’
‘Yes, the body hasn’t been shifted much at all.’
‘So whoever killed her just locked the door and walked away?’
‘I see what you’re getting at,’ Rosie replied. ‘But there was no need to use a key to lock up. The door locks simply by pulling it to.’
‘Time of death?’
‘She’s been dead since last night. I should think around midevening. I can’t be more accurate than that, yet.’
‘What about sexual activity?’ Lorimer pointed at the exposed thighs.
‘None. I’m not sure why he pulled her skirt up like that. There’s a question for Solly, perhaps.’
‘Any chance of fingerprints on the throat?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He wore gloves. Again. But there may be some traces under Brenda’s fingernails. That’s something we’ll have to investigate.’
‘Evidence. We need some evidence,’ Lorimer muttered. He stood up and turned towards the door. ‘Solly and I had better head over to the clinic. I’ll be in touch.’
Lorimer looked down as a flashlight from the SOCO’s camera illuminated the corpse. He blinked then nodded briefly towards the body. The dead woman was in safe hands with Rosie Fergusson.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie’s hand was outstretched as soon as they entered the reception area. ‘This is unexpected,’ she said, ushering Lorimer and Solly into the Grange.
‘I’m afraid we have some rather distressing news. Is there somewhere private we could talk?’ Lorimer said.
‘In my quarters. We won’t be disturbed there,’ she added, tucking a bulky file under her arm.
Mrs Baillie’s rooms were situated on the top floor of the building. She unlocked a door in the corridor that gave way to a tiny square hall. A set of golf clubs lay propped against a shelf that contained a few dusty looking books.
‘In here, please,’ she motioned them through to the sitting room. The windows overlooking the front of the grounds gave a view of the road all the way down to Queen’s Park. Lorimer looked around him. Whatever he had expected from the woman’s living quarters, it certainly wasn’t this. The room was practically bare. An open door gave him a glimpse of a tiny kitchenette; another door, firmly closed, probably led to her bedroom. It, too, would give that view over the front. The walls were painted in the same pale wash that he’d seen throughout the rest of the Grange and were totally unadorned; no prints, no photographs, nothing but a blank expanse. Or was it?
Moving closer to the wall opposite the windows, Lorimer noticed faint rectangular shapes where pictures of some sort had once been hanged. Was she preparing to have the decorators in, maybe? Would that explain the empty mantelpiece and bare walls? Sweeping a practiced eye over the rest of the sitting room, he saw only a plain teak coffee table placed between a basic two-seater sofa and one upright chair. A grey metal filing cabinet stood to one side of the chair as if Mrs Baillie was accustomed to doing her paperwork in the privacy of her own rooms. It reminded him suddenly of Kirsty’s bedsit with its second-hand furnishings, except that Kirsty had tried to project some of her personality into her room. This place had been stripped of any personal touches.
It looked as if someone had packed up all the usual bits and pieces that transform a living space into a real home; the little clues his detective’s eye instinctively sought. Curious, he thought. Was the woman preparing to move out? Did that explain why it all looked so spartan? Catching Solly’s eye, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. Solly’s glimmer of a smile told him that the same thoughts had occurred to the psychologist.
Behind the door there was a cheap telephone mounted on the wall. His eye fell on the box fixed to the skirting board. At least she seemed to have her own private line.
‘Please take a seat,’ Mrs Baillie said, immediately opting for the upright chair so that Lorimer and Solly had to share the sofa. ‘I was just about to begin checking the time sheets,’ she said, patting the folder on her lap.
Lorimer was aware of Solly’s eyes still roving over the room as he began. ‘I’m sorry to have to disrupt your evening, Ma’am, but there’s been another murder.’
Mrs Baillie’s face remained impassive, her eyes waiting for the information Lorimer was about to give.
‘Brenda Duncan’s body was found this evening by a neighbour.’ Lorimer watched the woman’s face turn pale. Her hands clutched briefly at the folder but then she stayed stock still as though frozen by the news.
‘It appears that she was killed last night, shortly after she had returned from her shift here,’ Lorimer went on. ‘You have my commiserations,’ he told her, wondering just what emotions were circulating under that bloodless face.
‘I can’t quite take this in, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie began slowly. ‘Brenda? She was such a harmless big woman. Who on earth would want to kill her?’ she said, echoing Lorimer’s earlier thoughts. ‘Where did it happen?’
‘In her own home.’
Mrs Baillie frowned. ‘So, do you think it was the same person…?’ she tailed off, her eyes flitting from one man to the other.
Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘We aren’t at liberty to divulge details right now,’ he began, then took a swift look at Solly.
‘If it was the same person, then there is an obvious link between the clinic and the killer,’ Solly said.
‘We could station a uniformed officer here if you wished,’ Lorimer told her.
‘No. No. That won’t be necessary. There’s been enough disruption already. This business has set back a good number of our patients. Imagine how they will feel if they think they’re being watched. Some of them suffer from paranoia, you know.’
‘There will have to be a police presence here at some time, though. We still have to question your staff about Mrs Duncan.’
‘But why? If she was killed in her own home? Why bother us here?’ The woman clenched her fists, her expression defiant.
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer began, smoothly. ‘I understand she left here yesterday evening. What time would that have been?’
Mrs Baillie opened the folder that lay across her knees. She turned the pages of the file with great deliberation, unaware of the eyes firmly fixed on her, intent on every emotion flickering across her face, watching for every sign revealed by her body language.
‘According to Sister Pearson’s sheet, she left at four minutes to eight yesterday evening, Chief Inspector. Today was her day off.’
The papers had stopped being rustled and Lorimer had the impression that Mrs Baillie could have given that information without the need to sift through the time sheets. The woman’s white hands were folded in front of her on the documents. She looked from Lorimer to Solly with an apparent coolness that was betrayed by two pink spots highlighting her cheek bones.
‘The shift doesn’t finish until eight on the dot but we are fairly flexible with our staff.’ There was a pause as she eyed them both. ‘She had a bus to catch over the hill. Anyway,’ she tapped her fingers in irritation, ‘Brenda was a good timekeeper. Never had a problem with her.’
The woman’s words jarred. She’d said much the same about Kirsty.
‘Even after Kirsty MacLeod’s murder?’ Lorimer swiftly interjected. Mrs Baillie’s shoulders tensed. Lorimer could feel the anger being controlled. It was a cruel question but he wasn’t in this job to ask easy ones.
‘She went for counselling at my request. Through her own GP, of course.’
‘So she was off work?’
‘Not for very long. Five days in all. She seemed fine once she was back into the routine.’ Mrs Baillie leant forward slightly to press home her point. ‘That’s what the Doctor recommended, a return to the normal working day. And it worked,’ she added defiantly. Lorimer didn’t doubt it.
‘But I thought she worked nights?’ Solly asked innocently.
‘It wasn’t thought suitable for her to return to nightshift work. A later shift beginning at noon and finishing at eight was deemed more appropriate,’ Mrs Baillie fixed Solly with a stare that brooked no nonsense then turned to Lorimer.
‘Actually,’ the matron gave him a lopsided smile, ‘Brenda had spoken to me privately about handing in her notice.’
The smile stayed glued to her mouth but failed to reach the eyes that continued to betray their hostility towards the two men. Her hands were clasped firmly in front of her. Lorimer was instantly reminded of his guidance teacher way back in secondary school when he and his mates had been caught drinking Carlsberg Specials in the boys’ toilets. He stared her out too, if he remembered rightly.
‘And did she?’ he asked.
‘I persuaded her otherwise,’ she said. ‘She didn’t enjoy being grilled by the police. None of us did. You seemed to ask the same questions over and over as if you didn’t believe what we were telling you. Brenda was most upset.’
And now she’s dead, Lorimer wanted to say. The woman didn’t appear to have taken that news in properly, yet. There was a hostility here that he couldn’t comprehend, something that threatened to create a chasm between the Director and himself. Fear could cause that, he knew. Had she something to hide, he wondered?
‘This is quite normal procedure, Mrs Baillie,’ he began, keeping his tone neutral, almost bored. ‘You may expect to answer the same questions several times. Memory’s a funny thing. Suddenly there are aspects people remember days later. Even when they were certain they’d recalled everything there was to recall.’
Mrs Baillie inclined her head in a token of deference.
She doesn’t buy that one, thought Lorimer. Let’s try a different tack.
‘We visited Failte in Lewis and spoke to Sam Fulton and Sister Angelica.’
‘Well, I’m sure they enjoyed that little change to their routine,’ she remarked, the sarcasm scarcely concealed.
‘Sister Angelica told us that Leigh Quinn had been very upset the night of Kirsty MacLeod’s murder. He’d actually been in her room shortly after the body was discovered. Praying.’
‘Really?’
‘Where was Leigh Quinn last night, Mrs Baillie?’
For the first time the woman looked flustered. She unclasped her hands and wiped them down either side of her skirt.
‘Here, I suppose. They’re not prisoners, you know, Chief Inspector. Only those patients who might be a danger to themselves are kept under close scrutiny.’
‘And Leigh Quinn doesn’t come into that category?’ Solly asked mildly.
‘No. Leigh has severe problems but he may come and go as he pleases.’
‘And does he?’ Lorimer asked.
The woman hesitated before answering. ‘Sometimes he’ll go out for a walk. He doesn’t sleep well, you see. Other times,’ she broke off, biting her lips as if she had already said too much.
‘Yes?’ Lorimer prompted.
‘Other times he sits with Phyllis in her room.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Phyllis doesn’t mind,’ she insisted. ‘We’d know if she didn’t want him to visit her room.’
Lorimer nodded. Could anything be gleaned from that crippled patient downstairs to confirm Quinn’s whereabouts last night?
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer switched tack again. ‘Have you any record to show when she and Kirsty worked together and with whom? Nursing staff as well as patients.’
Mrs Baillie clasped then unclasped her fingers and Lorimer saw the knuckles white and bloodless under her tight grasp. He suddenly had the impression of a physically strong woman beneath the navy suit.
‘That’s not a problem, Chief Inspector. We have duty rosters made up and signed after every shift. I can let you have a photocopy of the more recent ones.’ She paused and gave a small frown as if they were two tiresome small boys taking up her valuable time. Lorimer thought back to Kirsty’s diary. It had yielded very little after all. No personal information had been recorded other than birthdays; her work rotas had simply been marked early or late depending on the shifts.
‘And I believe you were not here yesterday evening, Mrs Baillie,’ Lorimer added.
‘That’s right. I…’ The woman stopped in mid-sentence, staring at him as the full import of his words hit home.
‘You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with Brenda’s death? Dear God!’ she exclaimed, her hand clutching the pearls at her throat.
‘I’m not suggesting anything, ma’am. But it would be helpful to know where you were last night.’ Lorimer sat up abruptly, his shadow now cast over the coffee table between them. Mrs Baillie stared at him blankly then twisted round to search for something in the handbag that was looped over the arm of the chair, head lowered to cover her confusion.
When she looked up her face was flushed.
‘I can’t find it,’ she began. ‘My cinema ticket. I thought I’d kept it but I must have thrown it away.’ Then she straightened up and smoothed her hands along the front of her skirt. ‘But I don’t suppose you’re really looking for an alibi for me, are you?’ She smiled again, her confidence returning.
‘No, no. Not at all,’ Solly reassured her before Lorimer could speak. ‘What a pity you hadn’t been here, though. Isn’t it?’ Solly smiled and shrugged.
‘Anyway,’ she stood up and turned towards the filing cabinet, ‘I can give you the duty rosters for the last month.’ Lorimer watched as she walked her fingers through the files. At last she stopped and pulled out a green folder. Her back was to them as she leafed through its contents but even so, Lorimer and Solly could see the raised shoulders stiff with tension.
‘Here,’ she pushed the file across the table to Lorimer. ‘All the rosters for April and May. You should find what you’re looking for in there.’
‘Really?’ It was Lorimer’s turn for sarcasm now. ‘We’re looking for a murderer.’
Their eyes met in a frozen stare then, to Lorimer’s satisfaction, Mrs Baillie dropped her glance.
‘Thank you,’ he said as if nothing untoward had happened between them. ‘I’ll see this is returned to you as soon as possible,’ he added, tapping the green file and easing himself out of the sofa. Solly followed his lead, springing to his feet. Mrs Baillie simply stood there for a moment, her tall figure ramrod stiff.
‘I’d better show you both out,’ her voice was dry.
Nothing was said as the three made their way downstairs to the main entrance. The woman’s hand flicked over the security buttons then pulled the door wide open.
She made no attempt to return Lorimer’s ‘goodnight’ as he strode towards the drive, Solomon in his wake.
Once in the driveway Solly tugged his sleeve.
‘What was all that about? You were practically rude to her. Don’t you want her cooperation, Lorimer?’ Solly raised his arms then let them fall in a moment of bewilderment.
‘Oh, she’ll cooperate all right,’ he smiled. ‘She’ll be only too pleased to cooperate once we’ve gone through the other files.’
‘What other files?’
Lorimer looked down at his quizzical expression and smiled. ‘Before we left Stornoway I got a rather interesting fax.’
‘Go on.’
‘I didn’t mention it at the time but it seems that this clinic has been experiencing financial difficulties after all. Despite the accountant’s previous assurances.’
‘So?’
‘So. A number of things. On their own they could be nothing to worry about but put together they make me uneasy. For a start the last accounts show a big loss. That could be OK on its own but the most recent accounts haven’t been lodged and they’ve recently changed their bankers. That’s always a bad sign.’ Lorimer paused. ‘But there’s something else that’s got me worried.’
‘What?’
‘The building contractors who were doing renovations have slapped an inhibition order on the whole business.’
‘You don’t think any of the contractors could have kept a key to the basement door, do you?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘Who knows? They’ve been questioned just like everybody else who has something to do with this place. No. What’s concerning me is money. The builders haven’t been paid and they’ve obviously run out of patience so what they can do to get their money is to take steps to stop any of the properties being sold until the directors cough up.’
‘But I thought Phyllis Logan owned them. Surely the directors can’t market the properties without her permission.’
‘I don’t know. There’s something odd going on and it’s not just to do with her saving money on airline tickets to Lewis. Did you see that place of hers? Didn’t you think it looked like she was in the throes of moving out? There was hardly a decent stick of furniture in the entire flat.’
‘I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the murder of three women,’ Solly replied.
‘Nor do I,’ Lorimer frowned suddenly. ‘But my policeman’s nose tells me something’s rotten in that place. Maybe something Kirsty and Brenda knew about, too. I want to sniff around a bit and find out what it is.’ He unlocked the car and leant on the door. ‘And another thing. I’ve rarely seen anybody display so little grief. Shock, maybe, but not a word of sorrow. Explain that to me, eh?’
Solly pulled open the passenger door and slid into the leather seat. ‘Can’t fault her there. Some people hide their emotions very well. She may well be crying her eyes out right now for all we know.’
‘Hm,’ Lorimer sounded sceptical.
‘Anyway, aren’t you forgetting Deirdre McCann? She’s got nothing to do with the Grange,’ Solomon bit his lip suddenly. This was what he had wanted to discuss with Lorimer but each time he came close to it something stopped him. He’d been trying to see and feel his way into a killer’s mind and all he could think was how disparate it all was, especially since Brenda Duncan’s murder. He gnawed at the edges of his moustache. How could he tell Lorimer how he felt? It was as if there were two shadows following them, just out of sight, each intent on strangling some poor woman.
As the car roared into the night, Solly looked out into the streets and all he could see was a red flower crushed between dead fingers.
‘It’s me,’ the familiar, husky voice breathed through the intercom.
‘Come on up.’
Solly grinned. Rosie was just what he needed right now, he realised, his tiredness vanishing. It was late. She would stay the night, surely? Or was she merely bringing him up to speed with this latest murder? Solly caught sight of his boyish expression in the hall mirror and laughed softly. She’d have phoned if it was just about work.
Leaning over the banister, he looked down at the fair head bobbing below him as she climbed the stairs. His hands gripped the metal rail. Brenda Duncan might have stopped at such a place watching out for her assailant. But had she? Or was the freshly painted close with its yawning mouth an open invitation for a stranger to walk right in? Solly shook his head. No way. Brenda might not have expected a visitor but she would have known who he was.
Thoughts of the woman’s corpse disappeared as Rosie smiled up at him.
‘Hallo, you.’
She raised herself up on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth. Solly’s arms were around her in a welcoming embrace, drawing her to him.
‘Mm. That’s better,’ she murmured. ‘Can I come in, now?’
Solly gave a laugh, pulled the door wider and then closed it firmly behind her.
‘Oh, what a day!’ Rosie flopped into the nearest comfy armchair, dropping her handbag and jacket onto the floor.
‘Drink?’
‘Any of that gin I brought you?’
‘I even bought in some tonics, specially for you.’
‘Ah! That’s my man!’
Moving into the kitchen to fetch her drink, Solly warmed to her words. Her man. Not her waiter, her butler, but her man. Her man.
He sat at her feet, his head resting companionably against the chair as they drank in silence. It was comfortable, secure, so he could tell her what he’d been thinking, couldn’t he?
‘I’ve had some thoughts about the profile.’
‘Because of tonight, you mean?’
‘Not really, but this death does rather consolidate my ideas.’
‘Go on.’
Solly remained silent for a few minutes. Rosie let it linger. She was familiar enough with those silences of his by now so she waited, sipping the gin slowly.
‘It’s the flower that bothers me most.’
‘His signature?’
‘Hm. Signatures can be forged, don’t you know.’
‘Solly. What’re you trying to say?’ Rosie leant forward, her eyes on his dark profile.
‘Not all of it makes sense. A murderer who kills a prostitute in a station then two nurses, one at her work and the other in her own home. What kind of man is that?’
‘Reckless? A risk taker?’
Solly shook his head. ‘Not just that. There aren’t any proper links. Just that flower and the praying hands.’
Rosie laid her glass down suddenly. ‘Hey! Are you saying we’ve got more than one guy doing these killings? Or is there some sort of religious fundamentalist gang targeting women victims?’
Solly heaved a sigh. ‘Not a gang. Nor do I think the two killings show a pattern.’
‘Three. Three killings,’ Rosie corrected him.
Solly turned and faced her, his expression suddenly grave. ‘Yes, but there are only two killers and I doubt very much if they have ever met.’
‘But the flowers?’
‘Yes, that’s what I keep coming back to. In profiling you must look at the location first to see what opportunity the killer might have had and if he lives anywhere near the choice of locus. With the station that was difficult at first.’
‘He could’ve come by train?’
‘Not in the middle of the night. He has to have something to do with Queen Street station. He knows the layout well, gets away without anybody noticing him or being caught on a security camera. Now, if the second murder had been in the vicinity of the city, even a mile or so away, I wouldn’t have bothered so much. But the Grange is away over on the south side.’
‘So?’
‘So, there’s no pattern. You see, serial killers tend to work in ever increasing circles away from a base, which is usually where they live. With each killing they become bolder and travel a bit further afield. OK. It’s not a rigid model. There are cases like the long distance lorry driver who murdered those children. But even then there was a pattern defined by his delivery schedules. Here I can’t find any evidence to show me a killer who progresses from a prostitute in a station to a nurse at work.’
‘Unless he’s a nutter inside the Grange already.’
Solly didn’t answer her. For a moment he stared into space, unblinking.
‘With Brenda Duncan’s death I feel justified in proposing that we have two killers. Whoever killed Deirdre McCann is a person in serious need of help. He’s a danger to himself as well as to society.’
‘And Brenda? Kirsty?’
‘Ah. I’m not entirely happy with the disturbed personality theory everyone is so eager to believe. There’s a reason for those deaths. Someone badly wanted these two women out of the way. The flowers are a blind.’
‘You mean someone is trying to make you think there’s a serial killer on the loose?’
‘Exactly. There are two profiles here and my job right now is to untangle them.’
‘What does Lorimer think about this?’ Rosie took one look at Solly’s face and laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t told him yet?’
‘No. But I will. I’ll have to, won’t I?’
Solly pulled himself up and perched on the arm of the chair. ‘What about you? What’s next on your agenda?’
‘Oh, back to the lab. Early’ she added with a grimace.
‘Well,’ he hesitated and then smiled as if a happy thought had just occurred to him.
‘Hadn’t we better go to bed now, then?’