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 Operation Spotlight 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.