Never Somewhere Else (21 page)

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Joe asked.

‘Nothing to do with me but the duty sister looks like she eats razors for breakfast,’ Lorimer remarked, indicating the
NO SMOKING
sign. ‘We could go outside, if you like?’

‘Better not. Don’t want to be too far away. Just in case.’

‘Well, let’s sit over here.’

Lorimer indicated an empty row of respectable padded chairs. Joe Thomson sat down heavily and leaned forward, head in hands for a few moments. When he sat up again, Lorimer could see that he was trembling. Also, he avoided the Chief Inspector’s eye.

‘You’d better tell me all about it, Mr Thomson.’

‘What is there to tell? The boy was okay one day and the next he’s trying to do himself in.’

‘When you say he was okay, do you mean he had been behaving normally since Sharon’s death?’

‘What’s normal? Oh, I don’t know. He was very quiet. But then he’s always been a quiet lad. Never any trouble at school or that. It fair broke his heart, that lassie’s …’ He hesitated then whispered the word. ‘Murder.’

‘And more recently?’

‘Well, the wife said he’d never get over it. But he was back at school. Doing his Advanced Highers no problem.’

‘Did he talk much to either of you?’

‘Not really. Not what you’d call a real talk, you know. But
he was studying in his room. Or listening to music most of the time. What they call music. We had no idea.’

‘No idea about what, Mr Thomson?’

‘Well, you know …’ The man’s eyes widened as if Lorimer had missed the point somewhere along the line. ‘About blaming himself.’

‘For Sharon’s death?’

‘Of course.’

Thomson stared at Lorimer.

‘Just let me get this straight, Mr Thomson. Did James actually say he’d killed his girlfriend?’

‘For Christ’s sake, man, what do you think he is?’ Joe Thomson exploded. ‘He never saw her on any bus that night. He’s been too bloody terrified to tell anybody. Him and Sharon had an argument and she stormed off in the huff …’ The man’s voice rose in indignation, then broke off. ‘My God, that poor wee lassie.’ His head sunk into his hands once more and Lorimer waited for the storm of emotion to pass.

‘It’s a hellish situation, so it is, Mr Lorimer.’

Lorimer caught the other man’s eye at last.

‘How do you know about this quarrel, Joe?’

‘He left his mum a note. It was on her bedside cabinet. We found it when Linda called the doctor.’

‘And did you give it to the officer here?’

Joe Thomson shook his head wearily. ‘What was the point. We never knew if the boy was going to die or what. It didn’t matter at the time.’

Lorimer gripped the man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. But he’ll be fine. He’s young and he’ll heal. Even emotional scars can be treated these days.’

‘Aye.’

‘We’d
like to speak to James, though,’ Lorimer added gently.

‘Oh, I was expecting you to say that, Mr Lorimer. I was expecting that the minute we found him in his bed.’

‘Come on, let’s get back. Your wife’ll wonder what’s been going on.’

Linda Thomson looked up anxiously as they came in.

‘It’s okay. I told him. He’ll speak to James when he’s better.’

Lorimer hadn’t agreed to these terms but he let it pass. This was simply another near-tragedy sparked off by a monster with a taste for blood. A monster in their city whose acts of brutality had been like hurling rocks into a calm pool. And the ripples were still trembling shorewards.

I
f there
was one crime that Lorimer found distasteful above all others, it was the sort that offended against children. Child murder was the worst, of course. Within Glasgow’s City Mortuary the usual light repartee would be silenced and even the burly technicians could be moved to tears. Identification was the worst part. Lorimer had stood behind parents at that viewing window. Screams of hysteria were less common than the profound silence of disbelief. Afterwards he’d be hard put not to show his own emotion: to be strong for those poor bereft souls who unwittingly leaned on him just because he was a policeman. Just because he was there.

Such crimes were rare, thankfully. But not so rare, these days, were cases of child molestation. With the advent of child helplines more and more cases were coming to the attention of the police. The public thought it was all new, of course, though such crimes were as old as the hills. Lorimer had been on a course south of the border in the wake of the Jamie Bulger tragedy. There he’d learned rather a lot about the history of child abuse, way back into the Dark Ages. It had gone on seemingly unchecked for centuries. Only in the nineteenth century had children begun to receive special attention, helped by enlightened reformers and indignant citizens like the great Charles Dickens. They’d come a long way since then. The European Court of Human Rights now gave definition to what a child’s life should be like. Great in theory, thought Lorimer, but in practice there was still plenty of scope for improvement.

Right
now he was sitting on an uncomfortable bentwood chair that creaked every time he moved. Mrs McFadden had been most solicitous when they had arrived to interview her foster son, Kevin Sweeney. Tea and fancy biscuits had been provided as she fussed about anxiously. Lorimer had chosen the bentwood to keep out of her way but also because it helped him observe the boy from an angle where he wouldn’t make eye contact. That was Gail Stewart’s job.

Gail had phoned from the Female and Child Unit the day before. Could he sit in on their third interview with Kevin? She had been reluctant to divulge too much, only saying that there was more to this case of abuse than met the eye.

Kevin’s natural father was inside for armed robbery and his mother had done a bunk. It was thought she might be in Canada. For more than two years Kevin had drifted from one set of foster parents to another, a vulnerable and rather unstable little boy. Careful examination of his case had shown that although his current foster parents were not the most ideal of primary carers, they were apparently blameless of any acts of abuse. Kevin himself had said so, and the general belief was that the nine-year-old was telling the truth, not merely protesting his innocence under pressure.

Gail
Stewart was well trained in question-and-answer technique. Lorimer had nodded his approval hearing the woman talk the child gently through the physical part of his ordeal. The preliminary interviews had served to create a rapport with Kevin; now detailed information was sought. Mrs McFadden had reported his case to the social work department. Kevin, it had transpired, claimed to have been taken away by a bad man who had ‘done things to him’. The child had suffered since, his behaviour fluctuating between bouts of aggression and spells of withdrawal.

Lorimer was glad that he himself had no capacity for questioning the child. It was hard enough listening to this WPC trained in the gentle probing of areas that pained the boy so much. Now the child had to be taken through the experiences step by step in an effort to uncover the criminal behind such atrocities.

‘Tell me about the van, Kevin. Can you remember if it was a big van, say as big as an ice cream van?’

WPC Stewart had removed her spectacles and her earnest young face was lit by concern. Kevin’s chair was at an angle beside her. He was perched on a large cushion, his legs dangling into space. From time to time he glanced up at her face as she spoke. Was he trying to see if she had ulterior motives? wondered Lorimer. How secure was the trust that had been built up? The boy’s hands gripped the edges of his seat and he frowned now in concentration. The policeman willed him into remembering.

‘It wis bigger ’n ’at.’ He paused then added, ‘Therr wur mair steps up intae it.’

‘Were the steps at the back, Kevin?’

‘Aye.’

‘You
said it was a white van. Now, can you remember what colour it was inside?’

All eyes were on the child’s trembling lip and his downcast face.

‘Ah cannae mind.’

‘All right, Kevin. Just tell us what you do remember about the inside of the van.’

There was a silence broken by a murmur then, as Gail Stewart asked ‘What was that, Kevin?’, Lorimer realised that the boy’s answer had been an unintelligible whisper. He repeated it now.

‘A bed. Thir wis a bed.’

The sobs began and Kevin’s foster mum slipped into the chair beside him, taking the child in her arms. His dark head was motionless against her ample bosom and Lorimer couldn’t help wondering if the boy resented the belated protection of her arms. But then the sobs subsided and Mrs McFadden withdrew.

The WPC smiled encouragement as she asked, ‘What was it like inside?’ Her voice was casual, almost indifferent in her anxiety not to disturb the demons in his memory. Lorimer glanced at the others in the room. Gail Stewart’s colleague was writing furiously in her notebook, trying at the same time to observe the boy’s body language and facial expressions. The social worker sat silently beside Mrs McFadden. He was a thin, balding individual whose beady eyes reminded the detective of a hamster. The child was clearly struggling with this one and if it had not been for Gail’s gentle and patient persistence, Lorimer was sure Mrs McFadden would have called a halt to proceedings by now.

‘Ah’m no
very sure. But Ah think it wis … Ah think it wis an ambulance.’

Gail shot the detective a meaningful look and Lorimer felt the hairs on his scalp tingle. It couldn’t be. Hastily he riffled through his copy of the relevant notes, checking dates. My God, it could be, after all. His palms began to sweat. Kevin’s abuse had occurred between the date that Lucy Haining had bought the old ambulance from Sangha and the fateful day on which it had been found a burned-out wreck.

Now Gail came and squatted in front of Kevin taking both his hands in hers so that he looked down into her eyes.

‘Kevin. It’s all right to tell us about the bad man. He won’t be allowed to do any bad things to you any more.’

The child’s eyes looked doubtful.

‘Will he go tae jyle?’

‘We hope so. Is that what you’d like?’

The boy nodded. Christ, thought Lorimer, what’s going through that kid’s mind? His old man’s in the nick and now he’s going to associate that with this beast, whoever he is.

‘Now take your time and tell me just what the man looked like.’

Slowly the words jerked from the boy.

‘He wis big. Awfy big. Ah thocht he wis a, a doctor.’

‘A doctor? Now what made you think that?’

‘He had a big white jaicket on.’

‘Go on. What else?’

The boy gave a shuddering sigh as further memories were dredged up from the place he didn’t really want to see again. Lorimer felt the tension all around him.

‘He had wee hair.’

‘Wee
hair? Describe it.’

‘Like the back o’ yer hair when ye’ve had the razor oan’t. A slapheid.’

‘All right. Now, Kevin, do you think if you saw a picture of him you would recognise the man?’

‘Aye.’ The word was pulled out of him reluctantly.

‘Well, how would you like a trip in a police car to see some pictures?’

Kevin’s eyes grew crafty.

‘C’n Ah have the siren oan?’

Lorimer wanted to laugh out loud and he felt the atmosphere relax as several of the faces around him broke into wide grins.

‘Oh, let’s ask Chief Inspector Lorimer, shall we?’

Gail Stewart’s expression was impish.

‘I think that could be arranged, Kevin,’ Lorimer said, trying to keep his tone suitably grave, but the boy had sensed the change in the room and his eyes shone with mischief that was suddenly wholesome and healthy.

An hour later Kevin left the station having been shown around the CCTV room as a reward. The boy was skipping between his foster mum and the social worker and Lorimer could almost feel his eagerness to get away to tell his pals all about it. As they reached the main door Mrs McFadden nudged him.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Kevin. ‘Thanks very much for the ride in the car. It wis great.’

They disappeared out of the building leaving Lorimer shaking his head. How quickly kids seemed to bounce back. Even his medical examination by the police doctor hadn’t been too much of an ordeal, according to WPC Stewart. Still, the process of delving into his traumatic experiences was not all over yet.

Upstairs
George Phillips would soon know about this latest development. Kevin Sweeney’s grubby little finger had jutted out defiantly at the photofit. Aye, he was sure. It was the same bad man.

Lorimer whistled through his teeth as he took the stairs two at a time. In his hand he held the envelope containing the photofit put together by Alison Girdley.

‘It’s too big a coincidence to ignore.’

Lorimer’s voice betrayed his excitement. Maybe this was the break they’d been looking for. Phillips swung back in his chair contemplating the photofit and Kevin Sweeney’s statement which he held between his finger and thumb.

‘The kid’s been systematically abused. In an ambulance, he says. Valentine Carruthers had a record of involvement with paedophiles.’ As Lorimer raised his eyebrows questioningly, Phillips added, ‘Supplying rent boys in his nefarious past, you say?’

Lorimer stood up suddenly and began to pace the room.

‘He dies in a burnt-out ambulance. Now this. Young Kevin has ID’d our photofit. So. What’s the link?’

Phillips said nothing. Lorimer slapped his fist down on a pile of papers on his desk.

‘Look,’ the DCI continued, ‘We’ve got these reports from the down-and-outs who knew Valentine Carruthers.’

‘The response was pretty limited,’ ventured Phillips.

‘Only to be expected. Protecting their own backs. Even those who admitted knowing him didn’t give much away.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘I want
all of these street contacts brought in for further questioning. Someone must know something.’

‘You think now that a child’s involved, tongues will loosen?’

The Superintendent leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Lorimer nodded, his mouth a single, grim line. He knew that Phillips could see his drift.

‘What I want to do is circulate this photo among the men. Get them down to Glasgow City Mission and the regular haunts the old man visited.’