Never Somewhere Else (20 page)

Tonight Diane was coming for a drink, though the signals they had been sending out lately hadn’t fooled either of them. His heart beat fast in anticipation that the night would progress beyond their present stage of meaningful looks and, certainly in his own case, lustful thoughts. There were certain sorts of women that really turned him on. Diane was one of them. Martin glanced over his shoulder. The flat was reasonably tidy; books, newspapers and magazines had been piled into corners. Even the soapstone elephants he’d brought back from Zimbabwe were standing neatly in a row on the windowsill, nose to tail. The dimmer switch was turned down to just the right romantic light; the CD player was ready to be switched on as soon as he heard the door buzzer.

In fact, he
thought smugly to himself, the room was well and truly prepared as the setting for seduction. Diane would probably see through all his efforts but he didn’t care.

The door buzzer seemed louder than usual and in a few swift strides he pressed the CD play button and lifted the handset.

‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve got Davey with me. Can we come up?’

The husky voice held just a trace of apology.

‘Sure. Come on up.’

Martin forced a careless tone, though he was inwardly cursing the photographer. He slammed the cupboard door open and pulled out a pack of beer. So much for the sauvignon chilling in the fridge and the dishes of Marks & Spencer nibbles.

‘Hallo. Ooh, nice place you’ve got here.’

Diane had shed her leather coat and handed it to Martin in one movement as she entered the living room. Ruefully, his eyes swept over her short skirt and long suede boots before he turned to say hello to Davey. The photographer’s long hair hung in tangles around his face, reminding Martin for the umpteenth time of the heavenly seventies. His parents’ generation. Sometimes even Davey referred to his hippy looks as a blast from the past. The leather jacket that hung on his bony frame had clearly been tailored for broader shoulders than his, if tailored was the right word to use of such a decrepit garment. Martin had once joked that his friend had invented the distressed look for clothes merely by wearing them. His precious bag of equipment that went everywhere with him was slung over one shoulder, pulling the leather jacket even further out of shape. But it was not the weight of cameras that made the photographer sway somewhat unsteadily on his feet, his glazed eyes not quite focusing.

‘Whoa, you
look as if you’ve been having fun!’

Davey smiled dreamily and raised his hand in a peacemaking gesture. Martin shrugged. Maybe he wouldn’t stay long. On the other hand there was a fair chance that whatever he was on would make him crash out and he’d be lumbered with him all night.

‘Drinks?’

‘Yes, please.’

Diane answered for both of them, Davey merely nodding his agreement. When Martin came back, a beer in one hand and a long glass of white wine in the other, Diane was curled on his favourite rug with her long dark hair tossed over one shoulder. Davey sat on the couch with a far away smile fixed to his face. Martin joined his friend, wishing it was the gorgeous gossip columnist sitting cosily next to him.

‘Bin talkin to Diane.’ The photographer’s speech was slurred. ‘She’s bin tellin’ us about this Dr Brightman.’

Martin frowned but Diane gave a careless shrug.

‘Everyone knows he must be in cahoots with the cops,’ she said. ‘Especially after this latest murder.’

‘Yeah. Another one bites the dust, hey, hey!’ Davey sang, and Martin rolled his eyes to heaven. Diane caught his glance, mouthing ‘Sorry’.

‘What about something to eat. You hungry, mate?’

Davey was
downing his beer steadily in a way that betokened regular practice.

‘’S’all right. Can’t stay. Just came up to say hello.’

Martin grinned, his antagonism vanishing.

‘We were just talking about that last murder. Davey thinks it’s some weirdo,’ Diane said.

‘A bam. A gen-u-ine bampot.’ Davey belched loudly, then put his fingers to his mouth in an expression of mock horror. ‘Oops. Pardonnez-moi!’ He set down his empty glass as Diane giggled, then rose slowly to his feet. ‘Home time, I think.’

‘C’mon then, let’s see you to the lift.’

Martin tucked his hand below his friend’s elbow and steered him towards the door. Was he mistaken as he glanced back, or had Diane dropped a lascivious wink? And if so, for whom was it intended?

‘Safe home.’

Davey raised both hands in farewell, smiling still as the lift door closed. Martin sighed with relief. At least the guy wasn’t going too far.

He turned back from the landing, light from his doorway and the strains of music beckoning. Now the evening could really begin. Diane was still sitting on the rug but Martin was pleased to see that she had taken off the suede boots. With her long legs curled under her, she reminded him of a sleepy cat settled down in front of a fire.

‘More wine?’

‘Mm. Yes please.’

As she held out the thin-stemmed glass, Martin caught the expression in her green eyes. It was more than sauvignon blanc she seemed to be asking for. The neck of the wine bottle was still cold against his hands as he poured.

‘What
about joining me up here?’

For answer, the girl uncurled herself from the floor and sank in close beside him. She raised her wine.

‘Cheers!’

Martin chinked his beer mug lightly against the proffered glass.

‘To us,’ he said softly. ‘To better acquaintance.’

Her eyes sparkled with merriment at his deliberate understatement. He watched her face intently as they sipped their drinks. Suddenly a thought came to his mind. Putting down his glass, he reached for her long hair and twisted it gently into a long cord then folded it around her neck. He kissed her startled mouth.

‘Porphyria’s lover,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘“I found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string I wound her little throat about.”’

‘Where on earth’s that from?’

‘Browning’s poem. “Porphyria’s Lover.” Didn’t you do that at school?’

‘No as it happens. What did he do?’

‘Strangled her.’

Diane pushed away from him suddenly.

‘I’m not sure I like that. Besides, my hair’s not yellow.’

Martin stroked the long thick hair back into place and looked at her gravely.

‘You’re beautiful.’

He kissed her again, gently at first; then, as she responded, deeper kisses followed and this time she didn’t pull away. A feeling of triumph came over Martin as he probed her mouth with his tongue. She wanted him. His fingers tip-toed under her skirt and he felt her quiver under his touch. He stroked her belly, naked below the tights, guiding his fingers lower and lower until she gasped with pleasure. There was an urgency in yanking down the tights then pulling her body against his. She pressed her body closer in turn and now her fingers explored his crotch, feeling his hardness.

As he
groaned softly, she whispered, ‘Let’s go into your bedroom.’

‘No! Don’t go in there!’

His hand shot out from the folds of her clothing as he sat up suddenly. In reply to her look of surprise, he grinned sheepishly.

‘It’s a tip. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.’ Diane put his hand back deliberately on her thigh. ‘What sort of impression do you want me to have?’

Her throaty voice was full of invitation.

For answer, Martin unzipped and shoved off his jeans in one swift movement then pulled her under him. As the jeans landed on the floor Martin ignored the sound of a falling wineglass. In the half-light he saw the swathe of Diane’s dark hair tumbling back against the couch and her eyes looked black with desire. Her knees were bent and he was aware of the sudden thought that here was no virgin for deflowering. His face contorted for a split second then he was pushing into her sweet softness, hearing himself cry out. The torrent inside him suddenly released and the cry torn from him turned to a groan.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wanted you too much.’

She was
making hushing noises now and, taking his face in her hands, she kissed him as if he were a child.

‘It’ll be better next time.’

Her hands were still clasping his back, fixing him against her young slim body. Martin kissed her again, slowly, savouring the moment.

Next time. There was going to be a next time.

‘C
ome in.’ Lorimer
heard the knock and was aware of Annie Irvine hovering in his line of vision. He would finish his conversation first, though.

‘Yes, sir. Certainly. Thank you. I will.’

Lorimer put down the phone as if it was a delicate piece of porcelain. He’d hoped for such a call but it was still a surprise when it finally came. So. He was to be in the running for George Phillips’s job, was he? He mused for a brief moment then looked up as Annie cleared her throat.

‘Right, let’s be having it.’

‘Sir, it’s the boyfriend. I mean Sharon Millen’s boyfriend. He’s in the Royal Infirmary. Attempted suicide.’

Lorimer was already rising to his feet, all thoughts of promotion forgotten.

‘When?’

‘There’s just been a call from the officer there. His mother found him in bed. Couldn’t wake him up. An overdose, it looks like.’

‘Tell the team I want them all in the incident room pronto.’ Lorimer whirled past her and slammed out of the room.

*

‘Right.’
Lorimer faced the officers assembled around him. ‘We have already eliminated James Thomson from our inquiries. However, we cannot ignore the obvious here. You know what I’m talking about. Remorse. We’ve seen it lots of times before. The murder preys on their mind. They can’t face what they’ve done and so they try to top themselves.’

There were nods all round. The officers knew the score, all right.

‘But,’ Lorimer continued, ‘I don’t want anybody jumping to conclusions. Is that clear? There may be other explanations for this incident. Until we know the facts, I want this boy and his family treated with kid gloves.’

There were glances exchanged between a few of the officers, then Alistair Wilson spoke up.

‘Sir, if it
was
Thomson who did in his girlfriend, then what about the MO?’

‘I’m there already, Alistair. Was the lad capable of cutting her up like that? We’ll need to talk to him again. If he’s in a fit state to be questioned,’ he added.

Lorimer ran a hand through his hair. The team were as anxious as he was to make an arrest. But there was always the danger of an over-enthusiastic officer mucking things up. He swept his eye over the individuals he knew so well. Wilson he’d trust under any circumstances. Young Cameron had a lot to learn but Lorimer would temper his keen-asmustard approach with plenty of basic plodding.

‘We still don’t know the whereabouts of Sharon Millen’s murder. But let’s assume for now that it took place somewhere similar to West George Lane.’ He turned to Cameron. ‘Anything on the buses yet?’

The DC
straightened up under Lorimer’s direct gaze.

‘Not a thing, sir. There were several passengers who came forward but they all say the same thing. Nobody remembers the girl that night.’

‘Right. Keep circulating her photo meantime. Someone’s memory just might be jogged.’

‘We’ll go up to the Royal,’ he nodded to Wilson, who merely raised his eyebrows in acquiescence. ‘I want to see the boy if he’s awake.’

As they dispersed to go about their various duties, the others exchanged surprised glances. But nobody voiced the opinion that they all shared. If Lorimer was going up there himself, did that mean he suspected James Thomson of his girlfriend’s murder?

The Royal Infirmary sat on the Glasgow skyline overlooking the drearier part of the main Glasgow to Edinburgh motorway. Its dark spires and filthy chimneys were a reminder of earlier days when the city revelled in its industrial glory. Despite its grim exterior, however, the hospital had been thoroughly modernised and the ground-floor reception area was more like that of an airport lounge than a medical centre.

‘Which ward?’ Lorimer asked.

Alistair Wilson told him and they made their way towards the bank of lifts that would take them to the boy’s bedside.

‘He’s been in theatre to have his stomach pumped,’ the PC outside the room informed Lorimer. ‘His mum and dad are in there with him just now.’

Lorimer waited at the door while Wilson spoke to the sister on duty. She glanced up at the Chief Inspector warily.

‘The
doctor says he’s not to be disturbed,’ she said, her lips firmly pressed together.

‘Oh, we’ll be very discreet, sister,’ Wilson assured her, turning on his most charming smile. The nurse failed to return it.

‘You’d better be,’ she retorted, clearly unimpressed by any authority outside the medical world.

At a nod from his Detective Sergeant, Lorimer slipped inside the private ward. Both parents looked up as he entered. Linda Thomson had been crying. Her eyes were dark smudges where she’d rubbed away her mascara. Beside her, James’s father sat holding her hand. There was a depth of pain that Lorimer could only guess at behind those expressionless eyes. He’d never known the agonies of parenthood. Or the joys, whatever they might be.

‘Mr Lorimer.’

Joe Thomson started to rise but Lorimer motioned him to stay where he was.

‘How is he?’

‘We think he’ll be all right. It wasn’t paracetamol, thank God. Just aspirin.’

Lorimer nodded, taking in the boy’s waxy face.

‘He’ll feel like he’s got one hell of a hangover when he comes round,’ he joked.

Linda Thomson managed a watery smile.

‘Can you talk about it?’ he asked gently.

Linda gave a huge sigh and nodded.

‘Not in here, Mr Lorimer. Can we go outside?’ Joe Thomson whispered.

‘I’d rather stay,’ Linda pleaded. ‘In case he wakes up.’

‘All right, love. We won’t be long.’

He
gave his wife a tremulous smile and slipped out behind Lorimer. Hospital corridors figured prominently in police investigations. Glasgow, like any other large city, had its share of violent crimes. Assault to Severe Injury often necessitated these impromptu interviews. Or, as in this case, attempted suicides.