Never Somewhere Else (19 page)

His
eyes wandered over the walls, noting the artist’s taste in paintings. There was an abstract of Moorish buildings in solid colours that picked out the bright rugs, several tiny embroideries collected within one frame and, he was heartened to recognise, an original Anda Paterson. The blues and mauves showed ancient women and their donkey coming from market. Lorimer looked at the picture, oblivious for a few minutes to the rest of the room. At last he jerked his eyes away and moved on to the kitchen wall where, he was surprised to see, there was simply a blank. A swift appraisal of the whole room caused him to frown. It was unbalanced somehow, this empty space. He moved closer, then drew in his breath sharply as he saw the holes. Tiny particles of pink plaster lay in the cavities from where, unless he was much mistaken, picture hooks had been wrenched.

Lorimer stepped into the hall where the scene-of-crime photographer was busy. A sudden camera flash illumined the wrecked body on the floor and Lorimer pursed his lips together in a gesture of angry disgust. What a bloody awful waste.

‘Fred. In here, please.’

The photographer followed him into the lounge and Lorimer pointed to the wall.

‘There. It looks like someone may have taken some pictures off the wall.’

‘Mm. Theft, you think?’

The man’s grey
eyebrows rose in speculation. Lorimer shrugged briefly. He was quite sure that any art thief worth his salt would not have left Anda Paterson’s gem behind. Whatever the nature of the missing pictures, they had been taken for a reason other than theft. The photographer fitted on a different lens then snapped a few close-up shots of the tell-tale holes.

‘Thanks.’

‘Sure. Anything else, just let me know.’

Lorimer stepped back to appraise the room once more then decided it was time to investigate the kitchen.

There were plants everywhere. The original fittings of the kitchen were light grey but the colour had virtually disappeared beneath the foliage. Huge untidy spider plants hung over the tops of cupboards and there were pots of streptocarpus ranged on the window sill. Every available work surface held tins or trays full of cuttings and an enormous spiky yucca dominated one corner. Many of the plants were in flower already, and Lorimer guessed that the kitchen window faced south. There was even a delicate orchid, its pale pink blooms wilting slightly. Lorimer picked up a plastic container and sprayed a mist of water over the plant. He recalled the plain face of the young woman whose remains would shortly be zipped into a body bag and carted off to the mortuary. It was not surprising that she had surrounded herself with such things of beauty. Her own adornment had not been important, if Solomon’s theory was correct. There had been nobody else to please. Except Lucy, a little voice reminded him.

Lorimer stretched his shoulders back, realising for the first time that night just how tired he was. Out in the hall the body had been hidden away in a black bag and already there were men being instructed by the pathologist to take it away. Rosie shook out her blonde hair as Janet Yarwood left her flat for ever, then turned and smiled as she caught sight of Lorimer.

‘Does your
friend need a lift home?’

Solly was on his feet now, swaying from weariness. ‘Thanks,’ he said before Lorimer could reply. ‘I’d appreciate it. Not taking you out of your way, I hope?’

‘That depends where you live.’

‘Oh. Not far from the university.’

‘In that case, Dr Brightman, it’s no bother at all.’

‘Right. I’ll leave you to Rosie’s tender care then,’ Lorimer said, sketching a salute and watching the pair of them leave. Hopefully he’d not be far behind.

Had there been a hint of something in Lorimer’s tone? Solly wondered. Was that a twinkle in the pathologist’s eyes?

As he followed the woman out into the night, past the fluttering cordons and the duty policemen still guarding the locus, Solomon breathed in the cold air in great gulps. Rosie held open the passenger door for him and he sank into the leather seat. They remained silent on the journey, Rosie covertly examining the man whose dark lashes were now closed over eyes that had seen too much. Her fingers reached out for a moment as if she had a sudden urge to stroke the tumble of thick curls back from his forehead, then she drew back and smiled to herself. Let him sleep for the moment.

In fact Solomon was still very much awake, his head spinning not with thoughts of his undeniably attractive driver, but with recent memories of a much plainer creature altogether.

T
he two
men walked down Gibson Street avoiding puddles in the cracked pavement. Lorimer had turned his coat collar against the downpour and walked head down, hands thrust into his pockets. Solomon, oblivious to the rain soaking his black curls, was talking excitedly, arms waving in wide gestures. A group of students waited for the lights to change. Lorimer raked them with his policeman’s eyes, only half-listening to the psychologist. Huddled and giggling beneath a black umbrella with its spokes awry, they seemed like children compared to the way he remembered himself in his student days. That was definitely a sign of age.

Gibson Street was, for Lorimer, the epitome of student life. Sure, it had changed in the last couple of decades but most of the buildings were still intact, except for a jarring gap where a row of elegant yet decrepit tenements had stood. Now it was a muddy area where the students parked their cars and vans. Lorimer couldn’t help glancing over on the other side of the road to see if the sign was still there. The Manor had been the all-time hippy hangout, a squat for visiting bands and home to the more interesting children of a psychedelic age. Rumour had it that Pink Floyd had once stayed over. Lorimer looked in vain. The sign above the door lintel appeared to have gone.

This
was Solly’s patch now.

The newer, upmarket restaurants and bijou interior designers told of a greater general affluence amongst the residents. In his day, his and Maggie’s, there had been the thrill of the exotic as Eastern cuisine first began to take its hold on the city. The old Shish Mahal had been their favourite. God, he thought, you could have had a mutton vindaloo for a couple of quid back then. The Asian grocery stores had proliferated, too. There weren’t so many about now, though.

The Chief Inspector had deliberately met the psychologist after his classes and was now accompanying him on his way back home. He had established the younger man’s routine from casual questioning the previous day and now he wondered if Solly was aware of his role as guardian angel. He had come straight from the City Mortuary to Glasgow University and had just given Solly the latest information obtained from the art student’s bank accounts.

‘But this is tremendous, it explains everything!’

Solly was practically dancing around the puddles.

‘Everything?’

‘Of course. Lucy Haining was receiving regular sums of money that tally with Janet Yarwood’s withdrawals. The dates coincide.’

‘And the other regular payments? Where did they come from?’

He wanted to hear Solly’s answer. Would it fit in with his own ideas? Solly stopped and beamed, oblivious to the rain trickling down his beard.

‘Blackmail.
It fits. Lucy Haining was blackmailing somebody.’

‘Janet Yarwood?’

The psychologist shrugged. ‘Possibly. Though the woman would have given her money only too willingly.’ He stopped suddenly and looked straight at Lorimer. ‘For love. There was no need for threats.’

They walked on.

‘So, you think Lucy Haining was killed by someone else. Whoever had been paying her large sums of money for three months before her death.’

‘Exactly. Someone paid Lucy to keep her mouth shut.’

‘And eventually shut it for good.’

Solly nodded eagerly. ‘It was carefully planned. This man had decided that Lucy was either too big a threat to him, or else the payments had to stop.’ He grinned at the policeman. ‘You like it?’

Caught by his child-like enthusiasm, and despite the fact that he’d already worked through the same ideas, Lorimer found himself grinning back.

‘I love it. Not only that but we can begin looking around for an artist who fits the bill. An artist who’d rather remain anonymous.’

Lorimer looked shrewdly at Solomon. The psychologist pulled at his wet beard as they walked on. Then he circled the air with his hand as he spoke.

‘Janet Yarwood was a postgraduate student but she would have a small income from her post as a tutor, wouldn’t she? Enough to pay her mortgage?’

‘That
wasn’t her only income. We’ve found that there had been a fairly substantial sum left in trust for her. She got it when she was twenty-five.’

‘Ah.’ Solly turned on his heel to face Lorimer, finger wagging gleefully. ‘That explains why she didn’t go to the Art School straight from school! Parental opposition.’

‘Maybe.’ Lorimer continued walking towards the park, adding, half to himself, ‘Perhaps that’s what she had in common with Lucy.’

But Solomon wasn’t to be diverted. ‘So. There was easily enough to afford an Anda Paterson.’

‘And fund her favourite student’s expenses,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘What about the missing pictures? Perhaps the artist took them back.’

‘Okay. What you’re suggesting is that whoever painted them killed Janet Yarwood and knew that their presence on her wall would be a dead giveaway.’

Lorimer nodded grimly, ‘Now all we need to know is what pictures they were.’

‘And who signed them.’

They had turned into the gates of Kelvingrove Park and were now heading up the path that ran parallel to the river. The brown water gurgled below them. Up ahead a jogger appeared, his cotton vest soaked through. As he padded heavily over the downhill slope Lorimer’s eyes roved over him. Anyone passing this way would be subject to the policeman’s scrutiny, measured up against that photofit of Alison Girdley’s.

‘Coming up?’

They had reached the other side of the park where the curved terraced houses looked down majestically over the city. Lorimer hesitated for a moment, anxious not to play the nursemaid.

‘Sure. A
quick coffee would be good. Wash away the taste of the mortuary.’

Solly grimaced then his face cleared as he asked – just a shade too casually, Lorimer thought – ‘And how is Dr Fergusson?’

‘Oh, she looked very fetching in yellow wellies.’

Solomon refused to take up the banter.

‘What more do you know about Janet Yarwood’s death?’

‘Well, the stab wounds were pretty extensive. Suggests a frenzy of sorts. She’d evidently put up a fight. And the strangulation was post-mortem. So your signature theory still holds up. What I am pleased about is the traces we’ve got from her fingernails. DNA testing is definitely on.’

‘Providing you have a suspect to match.’

Lorimer nodded. They had reached Solly’s front door. Inside Lorimer was pleased to see that the psychologist’s flat had been restored to order. Despite the rain still battering against the bay window panes, the room overlooking the city was filled with light.

‘You’ve been busy.’

Lorimer swept his eyes over the lounge. The place had been carefully dusted for prints and other traces during Solly’s stay in hospital and had still been a mess the previous evening when they had left abruptly for Janet Yarwood’s flat.

‘Ah. My cleaning lady usually does everything. I’m afraid I’m not great at housekeeping.’

‘Come in regularly, does she?’

Lorimer couldn’t help himself sounding like an interrogating policeman. Solly grinned, catching the tone.

‘Twice a
week. I share her with my neighbour across the landing.’

‘And she’ll have her own key?’

‘Yes. You’re not suggesting …?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. You just need to be extra careful from now on.’

‘You’d be sorry to lose your criminal profiler?’

Solly chuckled as Lorimer shook his head. There had been times when he’d gladly have seen the back of this young man. But now?

They took their coffees back into the lounge and Lorimer sank into the nearest armchair, its soft leather giving a sigh. He looked around the room appraisingly. It was so different from the chaos of previous days that he had the impression he was seeing it for the first time. Solly, he was interested to see, had a fair art collection of his own. He stood up and walked over to have a closer look.

‘Originals?’

‘Mostly. When I can afford them.’

They were all abstracts. Could the psychologist see things in the swirls of colour the way he appeared to see into the souls of human beings? Some of them seemed to Lorimer as if huge strokes of colour had been applied with a pasting brush. And perhaps they had, he mused, surprised that the overall effects were really rather pleasing.

‘Not my taste,’ he began, ‘but I think I could live with one or two of them.’

‘That’s the real test, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You buy a painting because you can’t bear to live without it,’ he said simply.

Lorimer
didn’t reply. It was true enough in his own case, though he supposed there were plenty of wealthy folk who collected for investment purposes or just for the prestige of having famous signatures on their walls. His thoughts went back to Janet Yarwood. Were the missing pictures ones she couldn’t live without? And if so, what had they meant to her?

‘Got to go.’

He gulped the rest of his coffee and handed the beaker to Solly.

‘You’ll let me know if you find anything?’

‘Of course. Did you think I’d let you read it in the papers?’

Solly hesitated. Now would be the time to mention his interview with that McArthur girl. The Chief Inspector seemed quite touchy on the subject of the Press. Best not say anything. Solomon held the door open, listening to Lorimer’s footsteps echo down the stone stairs. Frowning, he realised there had been no follow-up to the journalist’s visit. Perhaps he’d better make some enquiries of his own.

T
he reporter
stood at his window looking down. Even from the seventh floor the feeling of being apart from the city was intoxicating. Now that the nights were drawing out he could see strands of cloud the colour of tallow drifting over the horizon. It was like watching white birds floating lazily home to roost at the end of another day. The open window admitted the sound of traffic below that was a dull roar like wind shaking the treetops. He rubbed sweaty palms against his best jeans, aware of his nervous excitement.