‘ There isn’t sufficient evidence to charge them with murder,’ DI Martin told him stiffly.
‘What about the tyre tracks? Any joy from the labs yet?’
Martin shrugged, deliberately avoiding the tall detective’s gaze. ‘They’ll come in later on today or tomorrow. It’s not like it’s an all-out emergency.’
‘But you still think they killed these old ladies, don’t you?’
‘Look, Lorimer, we know McGroary and Monahan. They’re previous offenders. He’s a vicious little bastard and if anything she’s worse. Both her kids are in foster care because she neglected them so badly. Social work reports even went so far as to suggest cruelty to the younger one.’
‘So you think they targeted three old ladies, then?’ He spoke slowly as if he were uttering his thoughts aloud. ‘Why?’ Lorimer asked her, stepping directly into the DI’s line of vision so she had to answer his question.
‘How should I know? They’re a pair of mad druggies!’
‘That’s not sufficient reason to target and kill these women,’ Lorimer replied. ‘This was a triple murder, carefully planned and carried out. Don’t forget Jean Wilson’s diary entries about the stalker.’
‘How do you know about those?’ Martin challenged him.
Now it was Lorimer’s turn to give a disarming shrug. Station gossip, the gesture seemed to say. But he was not going to let on that Kate Clark was his particular source for that.
‘Let’s say for the moment that Monahan and McGroary are guilty. You can only charge them with possession of drugs, right? Do they present a real threat to the public if they’re released from custody? That’s what the Procurator Fiscal’s office will say. Surely they aren’t going to push any other old folk off their steps now, are they?’
DI Martin scowled at Lorimer, hating to admit that he was right. ‘Well, if they didn’t do it, who was it?’
Lorimer seemed to ponder the question for a moment or two. ‘Look, I’ve got a friend at Glasgow Uni. Lecturer in behavioural psychology. He’s helped me a lot in the past with cases of multiple murder.’
Martin gave a derisive snort. ‘Behavioural psychologist? That wouldn’t be Dr Brightman by any chance, would it? I can’t see us having permission to chuck any of our budget his way!’
‘Hold on,’ Lorimer said. ‘We might not need to pay a bean. Solly’s a friend. I’m sure he would give us some insight into this if I asked him.’
She bit back a sudden retort. ‘I am the SIO on this one, Sir.’
‘I’m just trying to help,’ he began, but Martin’s green eyes were narrowing like an angry cat’s.
For a moment Lorimer thought the woman was going to turn on her heel and stalk away from him but her fury seemed to subside as suddenly as it had appeared.
‘All right then, Sir. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm if Dr Brightman came down here to have a look at the crime scenes. Give him copies of the case notes, too, if you like. But I’d rather it wasn’t made official. Sir.’
For a moment their eyes met and Lorimer could have sworn that Rhoda Martin was challenging him in some way.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, ‘I’ll ask him.’ And I’m sure he’ll say yes, he wanted to add.
‘Traumatic subarachnoid haemorrhage,’ Rosie told him, holding the phone to her ear as she consulted the notes on her desk. ‘Your DI down there has my emailed report,’ she added. ‘Poor old soul struck her head against the concrete and from quite a drop. Twelve stairs down. Think about the impact,’ she added.
Lorimer thought about it and grimaced. The laws of physics being what they were, the woman’s injuries had to be all the more severe given the distance she had fallen. He remembered something a senior officer had told him about the suicides who decided to make the Erskine Bridge their departure point from this world. Did they imagine that their bodies would splash softly into the dark waters below? From that height it was like landing on concrete. Just like these poor old ladies.
‘Pity I couldn’t see the other ones,’ Rosie sighed.
‘No, but Dr Bennie might be able to let you have a look at their medical records, surely?’
‘Aye, that’s true,’ Rosie agreed. The women’s GP had been most helpful: concerned, no doubt that he had missed the similarity in the deaths of his first two patients.
‘Right, have to go. I’m still following up something from the Jackson case,’ Lorimer told her.
‘Report from forensics, boss.’ Kate Clark waddled into his room, a sheaf of papers in her hand. ‘Thought you’d like to see it, so I ran off a copy. They’ve analysed the different soil types around the track. Mostly just garden dirt, but there’s one item that’s a wee tad different. Some mulch stuff that the old lady must have been using for her flower bed. A blood and bone mixture. Looked as if a cat had been digging it up,’ she giggled. ‘There was cat poo in amongst it as well. Who’d be a forensic chemist, eh?’ She turned a page of the documents. ‘Aye and it says that…’ she read on then shrugged, obviously deciding to paraphrase the technical language in the report. ‘Well, it seems that the tyre track isn’t a brilliant match for McGroary’s bike. They took a cast and tried to see if there were any wee bits that might have given an indication of a scar or tear on the rubber, but McGroary’s bike doesn’t have any and the cast does.’
‘What about the make?’
‘Oh, it’s a similar make all right, Sir,’ Kate told him, coming round to his side of the desk and pointing out the relevant paragraph.
‘Racing cycle. Dead expensive make. Wonder where he nicked it from. That’s his serial number from the bike frame,’ she added. ‘It’s the same sort of tyre that loads of folk use for that kind of bike,’ she sighed.
‘So you’re no further forward?’
‘Not really. Unless we can turn up a suspect that has a bike like that with a tyre that’s got a wee nick in it, we’re scuppered.’
Lorimer ran his fingers through his dark hair. Was this line of inquiry simply going to lead to another dead end? They had a tenuous sort of evidence now but nothing against which to match it. A sighting of a cyclist near the scene of the fire; a cyclist that had stalked an old lady; and a tyre track that might have come from any one of hundreds.
Perhaps it was time to look at things from a different perspective. Why had these crimes against elderly women been committed? Why had someone set fire to the mansion house in Kilmacolm? Would Solly be able to figure any of this out?
‘Okay, Kate. Are you all right?’ he added, standing up as the police officer gave a sharp yelp of pain.
‘Ooh, it’s nothing, Probably just a wee elbow. Oh, son, that was a sore one,’ she said, rubbing her bump with a frown.
Lorimer watched as she left the room. It wouldn’t be long till Kate was off on maternity leave and he still hadn’t come to any good conclusions in this review case. Losing an officer from his team would make it even harder. With a sigh of resignation, he reached for the heap of files that he’d read and re-read. Surely there must be something more significant that had been overlooked? A witness statement or a part of the forensic report following the fire investigation, perhaps? He would spend the rest of the day going through them all again then leave here at a decent time to accompany Maggie to the hospital.
It was the end of another working day and there was still some light in the evening sky above the western hills, dark and bright as only crepuscular blue can be. The rush hour traffic played its start-stop game at every set of traffic lights, each outside lane casting off like a row in some Scottish country dance. Lorimer’s Lexus was ready to take off as soon as the green light blinked its signal, the drivers behind him watching the traffic lights just as impatiently. He was a careful driver, though he allowed his big car its head often enough, taking the outside lane as soon as he reached the dual carriageway. As he headed for Langbank he was unaware of a nondescript black Golf GTI that had picked him up somewhere on the road leading out of Greenock, cleverly allowing two other cars between them to mask its presence. And he was easy for the driver in the black Golf to follow: a driver who was equally used to fast cars.
It simply required patience to keep just that little bit behind, follow his lead as any driver might do, and see where the journey would end. It was almost forty minutes after picking up Lorimer’s tail near the Greenock Police HQ that the Golf finally turned off the motorway and headed into the suburban jungles in Glasgow’s south side. The lack of daylight was helpful, the black car being less easily spotted as it drove sedately in and out of the narrow avenues of houses.
When the Lexus finally swung into a driveway, it was simple enough for the Golf to keep going along the road, its driver taking a good look at the frontage of the house, noting its distinguishing features and continuing until the end of the street joined another, larger road again. Nobody would notice the sporty little car cruising around for a while before coming back to Lorimer’s street.
Then, when enough time had passed to allay any suspicion, there would be an opportunity for its driver to make further notes about the residence of Acting Superintendent William Lorimer.
‘Did you hear from Flynn yet?’ Maggie asked.
‘Aye, he’s got an interview for that job. Is he coming up to the hospital tonight?’
Maggie nodded. ‘I thought we might treat him to some supper here afterwards. I’ve got a pot of lentil soup made. And we haven’t had him over here for ages.’
‘Good idea. Well,’ Lorimer stretched his arms, releasing the muscles that had stiffened up during the journey home, ‘it’ll be good to catch up again. See what the wee rascal’s been up to.’ He tossed his white shirt on to the bed and reached for a comfortable sports top. But before he could pick it up and put it on, Maggie was at his side, her arms encircling his bare torso.
His chest hairs tickled her nose and she turned her head, leaning her cheek against her husband’s warm body. A great sigh seemed to flow all through her, melting her further into their single union. So long as he was there, then life was all right.
The idea of being alone, bereft, suddenly terrified her and Maggie gave an involuntary shudder.
‘What was that for?’ Lorimer asked, setting her away from his side.
‘Nothing.’ She shook the dark curls out of her eyes. ‘Goose walked over my grave. Come on, time we were off to the Southern General before Flynn eats all of Mum’s grapes.’
The black Golf drew up slowly once the tail lights of the Lexus had disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. They were both out. That was good. The hooded figure lifted a pair of small but powerful binoculars in order to take in every last detail of the residence of Mr and Mrs William Lorimer. The little star-shaped flowers of Winter Jasmine curled around the doorway, lit by a security lantern. The brass nameplate on the wall beside the front door bore the single name LORIMER. Behind the curtains drawn against the darkness a lamp still shone. There was no sign of any home security system, no single eye opened to watch the watcher.
The hooded figure nodded. That was even better. The next step would be so much easier to put into action.
‘Och, that’s awfie nice. Thanks. Lentil soup? Bet it’s the same Mrs Fin used tae make fur me when ah stayed here.’ Joseph Alexander Flynn grinned up at his hosts.
Maggie beamed back at him. Visiting hour had been a success. The younger man’s banter had made Mrs Finlay’s face twist into a lop-sided grin and she had even reached out her good hand to grasp his own as the bell rang, signalling that it was time for them all to go. A plate of homemade soup and a pot of spaghetti carbonara was scant reward for the pleasure of seeing her mother so animated tonight. Somehow Flynn’s presence had made all of their own fears about her mother’s discharge from hospital disappear.
Supper over, Lorimer strolled over to the drinks cabinet. ‘A wee tot to finish you off, Flynn?’
‘Och, no fur me, Mr Lorimer. Anyhow, I better keep ma head clear fur the morrow. Thon interview, mind?’
‘Some of this, then?’ Lorimer held up the orange bottle that was known as Scotland’s Other National Drink.
‘Where would you be working if you got the job?’ Maggie asked.
Flynn turned towards her. ‘Och, all over. It’s a landscape business based in Erskine but they do stuff all down the coast. Contracts fur they new housing developments in Wemyss Bay, contracts fur the horse place out by Bishopton, wan fur that technology place up the back of Greenock-’
‘Jackson Tannock?’ Lorimer asked, interrupting Flynn as the young man counted off the businesses on his fingers.
‘Aye, that’s it. Couldnae mind their name. I knew a lad worked in that place. Daft eejit name of McGroary.’
‘David McGroary?’ Lorimer shook his head in disbelief at two coincidences landing on his lap at once.
‘Aye. Huv ye come across him?’ Their young friend screwed up his eyes and for a moment Lorimer recalled the scruffy lad that had been hauled off the Glasgow streets. There was still that element of the wee hard man about Flynn that hadn’t been completely softened by the experience of a near-fatal accident. Had McGroary figured in Flynn’s past life?
‘He’s been nicked. At Greenock. I’m down there doing a review of a case,’ Lorimer said carefully.
‘Ah, Davie’s a bit of a space cadet. Used to be a pure nutter in the old days,’ Flynn said. ‘But I thought he’d got a bird and a hoose,’ he added, regarding the detective thoughtfully.
‘How did you come across McGroary?’ Lorimer asked, screwing the top back on to the bottle of Irn Bru.
‘Same course. He wis oan the… whatdyou call it… induction course wi me at Bellahouston when I started ma training. He’d been in the nick. Didnae make ony bones aboot it neither. We hung aroon wi some o’ the other lads at weekends. He wis okay maist o’ the time. But when he’d had some skag then he wis mental. Know whit ah mean?’ Flynn pretended to blow smoke from his lips, two pointing fingers describing an arc through the air as if they were holding a joint. He grinned. ‘You know ah’m off the stuff, though, eh?’ He looked up slyly as if expecting to see a pair of disapproving faces looking at him.
Lorimer nodded, his thoughts racing. This was an unexpected source of information that could serve to enhance any background reports DI Martin might already be requesting. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would talk to her, see if anything else Flynn could tell them tonight would be of value in their respective cases.
‘See McGroary,’ he began again. ‘Was he the type to hold a grudge?’
Later, as he drove home again from dropping Flynn at his flat in Govanhill, Lorimer pondered the lad’s words. David McGroary was a tough nut; that much he had seen for himself, but according to Flynn he’d also been eager to mend his ways. The gardening course had given him lots of big ideas, Flynn had said. McGroary had seen himself as the big businessman. Never mind that no bank in its right mind would lend someone like him the necessary capital, McGroary patently had enough self belief (or sufficient drug money stashed away) to realise his dream of making it on his own. The leaflets dropped through neighbourhood letterboxes had been testament to the man’s desire to better himself. Okay, it was easy enough to label him a bad wee toerag given his past record. And he was obviously still a dealer, despite his attempts to go straight. But was he capable of cold-blooded murder? Lorimer shook his head. McGroary was a nasty character but somehow Lorimer had believed him when he had protested his innocence.
The Jackson fire wasn’t the work of local vandals. Of that Lorimer was almost certain. And even though McGroary had a motive of sorts, it didn’t really seem likely that he would have torched his employer’s home like that. Different from setting fire to rubbish behind empty warehouses when he’d been a laddie. No, the perpetrator of this fire was someone who had wanted to kill those two people. And Lorimer needed to look more closely at their lives in order to find out why.