Never Somewhere Else (11 page)

They passed through the little village of Strathblane in minutes. The cottages and old coaching inn which boasted such colourful hanging baskets in high summer looked strangely abandoned in this late winter light. Martin slowed down as they breasted the hill, looking for the site of the fire. It wasn’t difficult to spot. A little way off the road a police landrover was parked, a small van beside it. Davey glanced over, raising his eyebrows.

‘We’re not the first, then?’

Martin parked on the grass verge then helped Davey unload his gear. Below them a copse of fir trees screened the sweep of moorland from the road. A sheep track meandered downwards through the heather and round a curving hillock that concealed the site of the fire from the road above. It was a difficult, but not impossible, route for a heavy vehicle to negotiate. The police landrover was not too close to the locus, thought Martin. Perhaps that was deliberate, though.

As they scrunched
through the wet heather they could see several figures by the site, some in uniform. A camera tripod was balanced carefully in the tussocky grasses.

‘Damn!’

Davey shrugged. ‘It’s all one. You’ll do a better story.’

Martin laughed ruefully. ‘And you’ll take better pictures.’

‘Of course!’

As they drew nearer Martin could see that three of the figures were police officers. He did not recognise the other two men. The photographer by the tripod was aware of Martin’s approach and waved a warrant card in his direction as if to prevent any distraction. So. A police photographer. Martin felt relief. They were the first from the Press, then.

The second man in civilian clothes was a strange-looking fellow. He was standing staring at the burnt grass as if it had been the site of an alien landing rather than a spot ravished by mere human violence. His arms were folded across his chest and the breeze ruffled his thick black beard. Although Martin’s professional curiosity normally prompted him to speak to any interesting stranger who came into his orbit, there was something about this character’s bearing which he didn’t like to disturb. It would have been like violating the private moment of someone at prayer, he thought.

Davey was circling the burnt grass, his gear weighing him down to a slow walk. At last he stopped by a spot where the sun fell behind him. Martin watched as he fished a band from his pocket and tied his long hair back in a ponytail. No stray hairs were allowed to float across his lenses. Satisfied that his colleague was now at work, Martin sidled over to the figure by the police tripod.

‘Martin Enderby,
the
Gazette
,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Thought it would be your boys,’ answered the photographer curtly, returning to his work.

Martin waited patiently until the man had clicked off sufficient frames for his purpose. ‘A friend of yours?’ he asked, indicating the dark figure still standing on the fringes of the site.

‘Only just met him today,’ the officer replied. ‘Colleague of DCI Lorimer’s.’

Martin nodded, hoping for more, but the photographer was already packing up his gear. ‘Ready, Dr Brightman?’ he called.

The still figure moved out of its trance. Martin was amazed at the transformation on the man’s face as he grinned boyishly at the photographer.

‘Oh, yes, I do think so. I really do think I am ready.’

Then he rubbed his hands in a gleeful gesture and waved cheerily as they passed Martin on their way to the unmarked van.

Well, thought Martin to himself, he’s an odd one. Dr Brightman? Could he be new to the Forensic Medical Department? Perhaps he would give Glasgow University a little call later on.

Davey was several yards from the site by a group of windswept saplings. He looked down on the area, snapping quickly then moving slightly to catch a different angle. Martin waited impatiently. The photos would be terrific but Davey sometimes became detached from their purpose and looked only for a picture’s compositional value. At last he appeared satisfied and returned to Martin’s side.

‘Find anything
out from those two?’ he asked.

Martin shrugged. ‘Not really. Someone new to Forensics, I think. Anyhow, I shouldn’t expect there would be much left to test after a fire like that.’ He indicated the expanse of bald and blackened earth. ‘Seems to have done a thorough job.’

Davey didn’t answer, his eyes on the van now moving off in the direction of Strathblane. Martin followed his gaze. Whatever the prize-wining photographer was seeing, he couldn’t make it out. Ideas for a winter landscape, perhaps?

‘Right, let’s get back and put this lot together,’ he said at last, looking at his watch. Other folk might have time to stand and stare but he had a deadline to meet.

D
onna Henderson’s life
lay in fragments within a plain buff folder. Despite the ubiquitous computer, hard copy was still the first point of reference for officers, and the lever arch files were stacked high in Lorimer’s Division. He sat with the folder open in front of him, examining statements several months old. Parents, friends, colleagues and neighbours had all contributed to the picture of who Donna had been. An ordinary lassie, Lorimer had decided at the time; one whose ambitions lay no further than the next good night out with her pals and maybe a holiday abroad, if she could save up her tips.

The young hairdresser had left school at sixteen to train in a local salon. She had apparently been happy enough to sweep up the floors, make tea and learn to shampoo clients’ hair. Then the take-over had come. A larger group of salons had bought out the shop and Donna had been given the chance to travel into one of their Glasgow branches. She had been thrilled at the prospect, a friend had said. Despite the cost of travelling into the city every day, Donna had loved her work there and was keen to learn. The senior stylist had been tactful about her progress. Enthusiasm had not been lacking, but she was not a fast learner. Nevertheless her cheery manner had been an asset to the city salon and she was both punctual and conscientious. Ironically it was that very conscientiousness that had been her downfall, Lorimer thought. A more rebellious spirit might have stayed out later with her pals and risked parental wrath; at least she would have travelled in company rather than seeking that solitary taxi home.

A taxi she had
never reached.

Lorimer flicked through other statements. No boyfriends of any note. A few dates at the pictures in the company of lads she had known at school. Except one. Darren Hughes had met Donna at The Garage, a well-known city night spot, and had seen her twice thereafter. She wasn’t really his type, he’d said. Too chatty. He’d thought they’d shared the same taste in music, but apparently Donna had favoured a band that Darren considered passé and he’d lost interest quite quickly. Donna hadn’t appeared too bothered by the brief fling. A bit of necking in the back row of the cinema was about as far as the relationship had progressed. He might interview Darren again, but there was no obvious motive for murder.

Why the hair? Again and again Lorimer had tried to make sense of this aspect of the girls’ murders. ‘Can you guess what colour I’m going to have next?’ that voice had asked. There would be a few attempts at a voice match, Darren Hughes amongst them, but Lorimer had the strong impression that the voice on the telephone belonged to someone who had not yet sat across the table from him in the interview room.

Solly Brightman considered the murder to be deliberate and well planned. That was as may be. The psychologist was coming up with more answers now that he had been to Strathblane to see the locus of Valentine Carruthers’s murder. There was more to it than they could possibly guess, he had told Lorimer, driving the Chief Inspector into a barely concealed rage of frustration. He knew
that
already. Donna might have seen something incriminating, Solly had suggested. She could have been a threat to this man without even knowing it.

Now other questions
must be asked of the people within this dossier. People who would show a greater reluctance to face the nightmare all over again and whose memories might be less reliable. The shock and aftermath of murder sometimes wiped out whole areas of memory for those close to the victim and they would cling to older memories of a younger, safer Donna. Lorimer had toyed with the idea of a client being involved. The trouble was that the city salon enjoyed a lot of passing trade and so not all their clients would be listed in the appointment book. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But someone would have to make the effort to sift through that appointment book and to question the other employees at the salon yet again. Lorimer rolled his eyes to heaven. The Super had brought Solly Brightman into the investigation, but he would not necessarily provide the extra manpower to enable Solly’s theories to be tested. It’s always the same, Lorimer had fumed to his wife. The lack of manpower was the bugbear of every Division in the country. In a case like this, the bottom line was a longer day for the more senior detectives. Unpaid overtime, just part of the job. No wonder Maggie was cheesed off most of the time.

He closed Donna’s file
and picked up the one marked ‘Carruthers V’. The full post-mortem report would take three weeks to prepare. Rosie had given him a start, though, by answering at least one question: who? His mind flashed back to the old derelict he had interviewed. He recalled the hacking cough, his cunning eyes and the wheedling tone of voice. Yet, despite his past he had felt sorry for the man, down and out as he was with no protection from the elements. And, he thought grimly, no protection from whoever had ended his unfortunate life.

But what was the connection between a young hairdresser and an old tramp? Had Donna been involved with charity work which might have brought her into contact with Valentine Carruthers? He doubted it, but it might be worth contacting Glasgow City Mission and checking out that line of enquiry. They might throw some light, too, on Valentine’s nocturnal movements.

Someone, somewhere, badly wanted rid of a young girl and an old man. The other two victims were camouflage, so the psychologist would have him believe. There is something wrong here, thought Lorimer, but until he could put his finger on it he would not dismiss Dr Brightman’s line of thought. Solly certainly would not wear the suggestion a young DC had made that Valentine had simply strayed into the abandoned ambulance and been the victim of hideous circumstances.

The old ambulance, he had noted, had run through the park. For the hundredth time Lorimer cursed himself for failing to follow up the old man’s comment. Perhaps he had been trying to hint at something he knew? Solomon believed now that Valentine Carruthers had known a great deal. The disposal of the old man by fire had taken some forethought and planning. So a thorough investigation into the tramp’s background was essential. Who were his cronies? What might they know of the old man’s involvement in the park?

‘Get yourself down
to Kingston Bridge,’ Lorimer had instructed his youngest DC. ‘See if he took our advice and found a hostel. Ask around. Get to know his haunts.’

Lorimer hoped that gossip from amongst the street people would be forthcoming. It would certainly be welcome.

‘He thinks it’s finished,’ Solly had remarked at their last meeting. ‘He will believe that he has burned every shred of evidence to link him to the murders, including his association with Valentine.’

‘But is it finished?’ Lorimer had asked and Solly had shaken his head slowly.

‘Not at all. The paranoia he has displayed will only escalate, and his behaviour become equally unstable as a result.’

‘He could kill again?’

Solly stared the Chief Inspector straight in the eye.

‘Perhaps he already has.’

The ambulance had been sighted all over the United Kingdom, apparently. The process of elimination was tedious, given that every call to the
Crimewatch
programme had to be treated as potentially helpful. Now, however, there were several possible leads. One in particular interested DS Alistair Wilson, and it was this one that he needed to discuss with Lorimer.

‘Chap over on the
South Side. An Asian bloke who deals in second-hand cars and scrap metal. A bit on the shady side, if you’ll forgive the pun, but no form as such.’

Lorimer was scanning the report rapidly.

‘Says the vehicle went missing last October.’

‘Yes, sir. Can’t think why he didn’t bother to report it.’

DS Wilson’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. They both had a fair idea why the garage owner had not felt it necessary to involve the police in his business. Dodgy vehicles which should have ended up in the scrapyard were all too often sold on for a better profit to unscrupulous characters willing to risk driving about minus a tax disc and MOT certificate.

‘What made him report it now?’

‘Says he saw
Crimewatch
and felt it was his duty as a respectable citizen. He was all too anxious to know if someone had spotted it in his premises, is my guess.’

‘He’s probably hurt the VAT man over the years, but he’s not going to be had up for murder. Sangha. Ravit Sangha,’ read Lorimer. ‘He and his brother run the business, you say, and the brother does the scrap metal side of things.’

‘Sangha says that he has no record of who brought the vehicle to him,’ continued Wilson, ‘but he remembers it had been previously used by some type of rock band. He’d paid cash, of course.’

Lorimer read through Sangha’s statement once more while Wilson waited expectantly. It was up to his DCI to take the next initiative. In bringing the statement to his boss, he was already hinting that more could be done without actually asking for extra manpower.

‘What do you think?’

‘I could always go and
see him again, lean a bit harder,’ Wilson smiled.

Sometimes his pleasant gentlemanly manner in dealing with the public was a blind for the hard steel beneath.

‘Do that. A second visit might shake him up sufficiently to jolt his memory. I want to know who owned that vehicle and where it went after it left Sangha’s yard. There’s a surprising amount of forensic evidence sitting in the file doing nothing. If we know the previous owner we can eliminate at least some of it.’