Rhoda Martin lived in a maisonette on the outskirts of Kilmacolm not far from Port Glasgow Road. It had been built in the nineties on farmland sold for development and now the entire area had pockets of residential housing. These were far from the elegant mansions within the nearby village; the housing estate contained the sorts of properties more suited to the average family whose aspirations had taken them to a home in the countryside within a desirable school catchment area.
Number Twelve, The Steadings, backed on to a row of lock ups, their metal doors painted in a bright shade of turquoise blue, a colour, DS Wainwright thought, more suited to a continental residence than to this wee estate in Scotland’s west coast.
He’d taken young Dodgson with him; more because he wanted to show the lad just how things should be done than from any desire to curry favour with Lorimer. The Super had shown a distinct favouritism towards the police constable that rankled with the older detective.
‘Ach, this is a’ a waste of time,’ he said, heaving his massive frame out of the patrol car. ‘Rhoda’ll go ballistic when she sees us here. If she’s even at home.’
It seemed the DS was spot on. ‘Naebody at home,’ he concluded once they had stood at the door, his fat finger pressed on the bell for more than a minute.
PC Dodgson lifted the letterbox and peered inside.
‘Nothin doin, laddie. Just whit ah said. Waste o’ bloody time,’ Wainwright snorted, taking his finger off the bell.
‘Wait a minute, Sir,’ Dodgson replied. ‘Shush,’ he said, lifting a finger as Wainwright began to protest. ‘I think I can hear something inside. Listen!’
Sure enough a muffled sort of cry could be heard by both men; a cry that was certainly human.
‘What the…?’ Wainwright looked at his colleague in amazement. Then, taking a few paces back, the detective sergeant hurled himself at the door. It took only two more heaves till the wood splintered with a deafening crack, leaving the door sagging off its hinges.
The sound was coming from a room at the back of the house. Two pairs of boots thundered up the stairs, the detective sergeant puffing heavily as he followed the younger man.
‘Oh my God!’ Dodgson threw open the door of the room then reeled backwards, one arm protecting his face. Wainwright thrust past him. There on a single bed was a woman, her semi-naked body displayed in a red-and-black tart’s outfit, blonde head lolling to one side. Vomit had dried into her hair and streaks of putrid yellow had run down arms that were pinioned by the handcuffs. Her bare legs were criss-crossed in purple welts from some sort of sado-masochistic whipping.
‘Christ almighty!’ Wainwright stepped forward and knelt by the woman’s side, feeling for a pulse.
Then her eyes flickered and she groaned as she saw the policeman’s face.
‘Don’t worry, hen. We’ll get you out of here,’ the big man whispered. ‘Dodgson. Ambulance. Quick as you can, lad.’
‘There’s no sign of Rhoda Martin’s car. No. The lock up at the back was empty. What? A bike? Aye, there is. A silver colour. No, nothing else that we could see,’ Wainwright told Lorimer.
The Detective Superintendent stood in the middle of his kitchen, thinking hard. Wainwright and Dodgson had done well to find the poor girl. The DS had not spared him any details about her predicament, even managing to make some lewd suggestions as to what had taken place over the weekend.
Who had taken Rhoda Martin’s car? And who had abused the detective inspector leaving her imprisoned by police issue handcuffs?
The DI had seemed so full of vitality on Friday, anticipating a good time at the Jackson woman’s party. Was there some man behind this? Someone she had wanted to play games with? Games that had led to sexual abuse, it seemed. Lorimer ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It was more important than ever that he speak to Serena Jackson and find out exactly who had been at her party. Was the same man who had assaulted Rhoda the person who had taken his mother-in-law from the safety of their home?
Just as he was about to try her number again, the front doorbell rang.
‘Mum!’ Maggie leapt to her feet and was yanking open the door in feverish expectation.
But it was no old lady who stood there, but a bearded man, a long striped scarf wound several times around his neck.
‘Oh, Solly, it’s you.’ Maggie stood back, allowing him to enter the hallway, disappointment clearly etched on her face.
‘I’m so sorry, Maggie,’ the psychologist had taken her hands in his own and was gazing into her eyes with concern. ‘You must be feeling dreadful. The waiting…’ he tailed off, nodding as she began to weep again.
‘Here.’ Lorimer took her shoulders and turned her round, sheltering her within the protection of his arms. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, darling,’ he soothed as though calming a distraught child. ‘We’ll find her, I promise.’
Solly caught his friend’s eyes and motioned with a finger towards the garden. ‘We need to talk,’ he whispered.
Lorimer shook his head but the expression on the psychologist’s face made him pause.
‘Is there something we really need to know?’
Solly nodded.
‘Right now?’
The psychologist gave another nod and headed towards the back door.
‘Darling, why don’t you make Solly a cup of tea? Something herbal,’ Lorimer suggested, steering his wife away from the room with its sofa bed and all her mother’s bits and pieces that were such a constant reminder of the older lady’s absence.
Maggie let herself be guided to the kitchen where she lifted the kettle jug to fill it again. Glancing at her as he followed Solly into the garden, Lorimer saw her going through the motions, exhausted but still trying to hold it all together.
‘This better be quick,’ he said. ‘Maggie’s in a terrible state. As you can imagine.’
‘Have you found Serena Jackson yet?’
Lorimer frowned. ‘What do you mean, found? She’s not gone AWOL. I’ve had a couple of missed calls from her already today.’
Solly shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant to say. We need to see her. Speak to her. She’ll know where Alice is.’
Lorimer stared at the psychologist for a long moment.
‘Drive me down to her home, will you? I have a lot of questions I would like to ask Serena Jackson,’ Solly told him. ‘And I think you will have, too.’
The trip back down the coast took less time than Lorimer had anticipated. It was well after the rush hour and the light was beginning to fade. Solomon had not spoken since giving Lorimer that brief outline of his thoughts. The Detective Superintendent had not responded then and now he was silently wondering just what sort of welcome they might receive on arrival at Greenock. If Solly was right
… he gave a huge sigh. The traffic round by the Oak Mall held them up for a few moments as a large articulated delivery truck backed into the small car park to one side of the shopping centre, making Lorimer seethe with impatience, then they were off again. But every set of traffic lights seemed to turn red on their approach and Solly noted the detective’s increased frustration as he glanced at his glowering profile.
‘Not far now,’ he muttered.
‘I just hope she’ll be in,’ Lorimer snapped in response. ‘Surely we should have checked?’
‘No!’ Solly shook his head firmly. ‘We need to have the element of surprise if I’m going to assess her correctly.’
At last the Lexus was turning into Campbell Street and the block of luxury flats that overlooked the river.
‘Park where she can’t see us,’ Solomon whispered. ‘And buzz someone else’s number to let us in,’ he suggested eagerly.
Lorimer raised his eyebrows: Solly almost sounded as though he were enjoying this moment of high drama.
‘Hello,’ Serena Jackson’s expression was one of curiosity as she opened the door to the two men. ‘Mr Lorimer. This is an unexpected pleasure. Do come in.’ She held open the door, a half-smile upon her face.
‘Doctor Brightman,’ Lorimer indicated his companion as they entered the flat. ‘We wanted to ask you some things, Miss Jackson.’
Serena gave another smile over her shoulder as she regarded the men following her through to the main room. And once more Lorimer was struck by the woman’s ethereal beauty. Taller and thinner than most women he knew, she moved with a sort of cat-like grace. Today her hair was falling smooth, sleek and glossy as though it had just been given a salon treatment. Was that where she had been when he had called: somewhere as ordinary as a hairdresser’s? And she was dressed as though she had recently been out, a neat black skirt showing off those long legs, a matching cashmere jersey slung artfully across a white silk shirt.
‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ she offered, her upper-class drawl the epitome of elegance and good breeding. It was a voice devoid of any sort of anxiety, Lorimer noticed. If she were agitated by their sudden arrival then Serena Jackson was hiding it well. Choosing to take her place in the middle of one of the sofas and casually curling her legs beneath her, she looked more like some contented, aristocratic feline than the suspect for a series of murders.
Lorimer took a deep breath.
‘I wanted to ask you about the party you had here on Saturday evening,’ he began.
Serena Jackson gave a frown. ‘What do you mean? What party?’
Lorimer looked at Solly for support but the psychologist seemed to be fascinated by the woman before him, staring at her intently.
‘Detective Inspector Martin told me that you were having a house-warming party at the weekend,’ Lorimer explained.
Serena raised one shapely eyebrow. ‘Did she, now? How strange. There was no party here, Superintendent. Why on earth would Rhoda tell you that?’ She looked around the room as though bemused by the notion and Lorimer followed her gaze. The lounge was in the same pristine condition that he had seen on his first visit here. There was absolutely no trace of anything that looked like the aftermath of a wild rave-up.
‘Are you telling me that Rhoda Martin wasn’t at a party here, then?’
Serena nodded. Then she looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm, wonder if she’s up to her old tricks again,’ she mused. ‘Oh, dear, what’s she done this time?’
Lorimer frowned. ‘Could you explain what you mean, please?’
Serena uncurled her legs and sat up a little straighter. ‘Rhoda’s always been a bit of a fantasist. Trying to emulate the people she would like to hang about with,’ she said, tossing her head.
‘You mean she copied things she might have admired about you?’ Solly asked.
‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact she did. Silly girl! It was the same at school. Always hanging around our little group. Trying to be best friends with me.’
‘And buying the same sort of clothes?’ Solly’s question seemed to be a little absurd to Lorimer. Where on earth was he going with all of this?
‘Oh, I doubt if she could have afforded something like this,’ Serena said lightly, touching the charcoal pullover.
‘But she did buy a car the same make and model as yours, didn’t she?’ the psychologist asked casually.
Lorimer saw the change in the woman’s demeanour instantly. She seemed to freeze, the faint smile wiped off a face that had become suddenly pale.
Then she licked her lips, eyes darting from one man to the other. ‘My car’s down there,’ she said, standing up and pointing towards the window. ‘See?’
Lorimer and Solly rose from the sofa and walked towards the pair of French windows as the woman twisted the blind rod, raising the slats apart. Then, pulling at a cord, the blinds slid upwards. Serena twisted the brass handles and opened the glass doors wide and stepped on to the tiny Parisian balcony.
There was still enough light to make out the red sports car below in the parking area, its shiny roof gleaming under an adjacent street lamp.
‘A Spider. Nice, isn’t it?’ she purred at Solly as she leaned over the railings. ‘Do you like fast cars, Dr Brightman?’
Solly smiled politely. ‘That’s my wife’s department,’ he said. ‘I don’t even drive.’
‘Good Lord,’ she murmured, regarding the psychologist from her amber-coloured eyes as though he were some strange species of human that she had never encountered before.
‘But perhaps you might take us down to the garage in the basement and let us see your other car?’ Solly insisted. ‘A black Volkswagon Golf, isn’t it?’
‘Same as the car you used to take Alice Finlay from my home this morning,’ Lorimer said, taking a step closer to her.
Serena Jackson shot a sudden look of hatred at them both.
‘Don’t let her…!’ Solly yelled.
But Lorimer had sensed the woman’s intention already and sprang forwards, pushing Solly out of the way as Serena Jackson made a desperate attempt to fling herself off the balcony.
One leg was already across the metal railing, impeded by the narrow skirt, when he seized her.
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ he said, hauling her away from the balcony and back into the room.
Behind him Solly looked down at the concrete paving several floors below and shuddered. Was it more than mere irony that Serena Jackson had attempted to end her life the way she had ended the lives of those three old ladies?
Lorimer had already called for support from K Division but for now he held on to Serena Jackson securely as they entered the basement garage.
Solly threw a switch on the wall. There, side by side, were the two matching black cars.
‘Where’s Alice?’ Lorimer demanded, digging his fingers deeper into the woman’s arms. ‘Where’s my mother-in-law?’
For an answer, Serena Jackson gave him a distant smile and shook her head.
‘Tell me, you bitch! Or I’ll…’
‘Lorimer!’ Solly was stepping towards them now, a warning in his tone.
As the sound of blues and twos came whining ever closer, Serena slumped limply in his grasp as if acknowledging defeat. Her perfect face was devoid of any sort of expression now as she looked down at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘Wait till we get you back to the station. And bring your precious brother in as well. Maybe you’ll talk then,’ Lorimer growled, shoving her in front of him.
Lorimer stood in the dim light of the basement, regarding the frames of racing cycles suspended from hooks on the wall. Only one of them still had its wheels attached. The others were stacked neatly against the brickwork. Putting out a gloved hand, he made the front wheel spin slowly till he saw it. There, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a V-shaped nick. Lorimer heaved a sigh. Callum Uprichard would be able to fit this to the tyre impression back at the labs. Evidence of this sort was crucial. But he still had to prise a confession out of the woman as to why she had murdered her own parents. And find out where she had taken Alice.