Never Somewhere Else (28 page)

The path, if there was one, was in total darkness and Martin had the sensation of going deeper and deeper into some valley. The House for an Art Lover lay behind them now, screening them from view. His breath fogged the darkness as he strained to make out the ground which suddenly became stony. Steps. There were steps. He must count them. But there were only four. An archway loomed above him and, as he ducked his head, he felt the knife in his back once more.

The car
slewed off onto the expressway and Solomon felt pinned back against his seat as the driver risked his own licence to speed to the park. The helicopter had been scrambled and was on its way. The heat-sensitive device could track their quarry on the ground, Solomon knew. One way or another, this one wouldn’t get away. But would the journalist escape unharmed? The dark shapes of trees and bushes burst into colour against the full beams of the headlights as they turned off into Pollokshields. The car squealed around a bend then slowed down to enter the narrower paths leading up to the Rennie Mackintosh house.

‘It’s a dead end at the car park,’ Solomon advised.

‘Right. Alert all units.’

Lorimer began to speak into the radio again, issuing instructions.

The trees lining the driveway loomed towards them and then the shape of the house came plainly into sight. There were no lights on anywhere but there was a solitary car parked at the far end of the car park.

The Chief Inspector and the uniformed driver opened the doors of the Rover, motioning to Solomon to leave them open. No noise. That was understood. The rain had stopped and only the sound of dripping branches could be heard as they stood peering into the darkness.

‘It’s Enderby’s, all right.’

A torch
was swept over the red Peugeot’s registration and briefly into the interior. The three men stood listening. Not a sound.

‘Get onto the radio. Tell air support our exact location,’ Lorimer whispered.

His glance flicked over Solomon, who had leaned against the red car. Where on earth had they gone? With the darkness for cover and hours until dawn the whole park was a threat. He recalled St Mungo’s Park in the wake of the three bloodied corpses and the surveillance exercise there. Would the dogs be circling this perimeter yet? Suddenly a faint noise made him look up. The light from the helicopter was a swiftly moving star in the distance.

Another sound from the driveway alerted them to the approach of other cars. They’d killed their lights and were like grey shadows coming through the trees. Soon the whole area was filled with uniformed officers. Lorimer’s call for mutual aid had alerted numerous other Divisions. Briefly he wondered if any of them had been called away from George’s party. But despite the numbers, there was no immediate move to scour the park.

‘Why aren’t they making a move?’ Solomon was indignant.

‘Air support.’ Lorimer pointed upwards. ‘They’ll use the tracking device to follow anyone moving across the park. The infrared picks them out. We’ll just have to hope that there is still a moving target.’ Solomon glanced at the Chief Inspector, as if sifting his words for meaning.

Catching his look, Lorimer gave a crooked smile. ‘Oh, yes, Dr Brightman. These men are armed.’

They looked up as the twin-engined Eurocopter banked above them, its lights flooding an area as big as the football pitch at nearby Ibrox. Lorimer returned to the car, leaning forward to hear the radio controller’s report. So far there was no movement in the park. The beams from the helicopter swept over the wet grass, illuminating the lawns for a second, then the darkness seemed blacker than ever.

Martin
was on his knees under some sort of wall. His hands had been forced behind him and tied with a chain that cut into the flesh. He wanted to cry out but his throat was dry and, anyway, who would hear him? Davey Baird sat above him on the steps, still clutching the Sabatier. For a while he had simply stared at him. What the hell was going through his mind?

‘Want to know why I did it, Marty?’

The voice didn’t sound familiar in the dark. It was the sneer of a badly acted villain in some cheap drama. Somehow that gave Martin a glimmer of hope. It would come to an end. It wasn’t real.

‘No?’ the voice continued. ‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Remember the wee hairdresser? That first one? I didn’t know her from Adam. She just turned up when I needed her. And the third one? The schoolgirl? All that rubbish about a number seven bus. She never even caught one. Had a spat with the boyfriend and hitched a lift home in an off-duty ambulance. Only the nice ambulance driver turned out to be me.’ He laughed softly. ‘I had them hopping all right. Thought they’d got another Yorkshire Ripper. St Mungo’s murderer. Oh, Marty, what a help you were in keeping that jackanory going. And all along the only one who needed to be done in was that bitch, Lucy.’

Martin
cringed at the venom in the voice.

‘Got so bloody greedy. Was going to spill a whole can of worms if I didn’t keep her in funds. Then that stupid old fool. Knew about the ambulance, of course. Had his own kicks in there often enough.’

Martin moved his hands in their metal bond, feeling the blood from his wrist slippery on the chain links. The photographer’s blonde hair fell over his face as he jerked him up.

‘Oh, no you don’t, Marty. I haven’t finished with you yet.’

The boot went into his stomach and Martin buckled in a deep groan.

‘Shit! Bloody helicopters.’

Davey pulled away, letting the journalist fall back onto stony grass. Bright, searching beams picked out the sunken hollow and Martin was suddenly on his own. Davey had vanished into the darkness.

Once the moving target had been sighted, the police spread out in all directions, leaving Lorimer and Solomon with just three officers by the cars. The helicopter pilot kept up a running commentary.

‘Out by the walled garden. No, he’s turned back. Must be locked. No sign of another person.’

Solomon and Lorimer exchanged looks. Was Martin Enderby already another victim?

Lorimer knew the team of men would be tracking the killer now, following the voice above on their radios. The sound of the chopper drowned his thoughts as it wheeled overhead once more, circling an area not too far from the main building. Was he heading their way?

*

This is
a Celtic place, full of sacrifice. Full of blood. The stones form his cross. The sacrifice has to be made.

The figure in the dark seizes his victim and raises the knife high.

A burst of sound resonates into the air and a beam floods the place with light.

He drops the victim and the dark returns.

He has the knife. He is on another level, up and away from this sunken garden and its Celtic knot. Away.

His feet are drumming on the wet turf. The light above points its long finger towards him and he cries out in a whimper as if it pains his eyes.

Keep running. No one can get to you now. The darkness will cover you. Keep to the darkness. The knife feels strong and powerful. A weapon of destruction. Like the chain.

Lorimer was aware of a movement to his left. Turning, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure whose pale hair gleamed in the light from the chopper. Then he was gone. Lorimer was after him like a shot, feet thudding over the wet grass, slipping and sliding until they found the path below. There he was, heading for the nearest patch of trees. With his breath coming in short bursts, Lorimer hammered after him.

The man looked round once and suddenly Lorimer was flinging himself at the running feet in an old-fashioned rugby tackle. Lorimer grabbed the hand brandishing the knife. The killer struggled under his grip then cried out in pain as Lorimer jerked his arm backwards, squeezing tighter and tighter, until the weapon fell dully to the ground.

Other
footsteps thumped over the path and Lorimer glanced up, relieved to see PC Matt Boyd.

‘Right, you!’

Boyd dropped quickly to his knees by Lorimer’s side, handcuffs out and ready. With a click they were on and the constable yanked the killer to his feet. Lorimer straightened himself up, wiping mud from his dress trousers. Under the helicopter’s dazzling lights the Sabatier glinted on the wet grass. Lorimer bent to pick it up gingerly, folding it inside a handkerchief.

Light illuminated the face between them. Lorimer saw the dirty yellow hair and the wild staring eyes. Then the head was drooping and sullen, all fight gone out of him. Lorimer became aware of other uniformed figures closing in on them. He nodded to Matt Boyd then watched as his men marched back towards the car park, Baird a dark shadow in their midst. The noise of the chopper’s blades receded into the night. Taking a deep breath of fresh night air, Lorimer began the climb back up to the waiting cars.

Very little was said as the officers put the man into the back of the waiting car. Lorimer stared at the man in shocked disbelief. How the hell could such a slight figure have wreaked such havoc? Still, there was one more thing left to do.

‘Give me a moment, please,’ Lorimer said.

The uniformed officer beside Davey Baird slid off his seat to make way for the Chief Inspector. Baird was hand-cuffed, so it was not too difficult to take hold of the blond wig and pull it from the scalp of the photographer. The resin gave way to reveal the skinhead below. Lorimer nodded to himself as he saw the scars lacing the man’s scalp. Old scars. Solomon would find the last pieces of his own missing jigsaw there, he was certain. He tossed the wig onto the man’s lap but as he turned to go Davey snarled at him suddenly and spat. The gob of spittle ran down Lorimer’s dinner jacket like a slowly moving slug. The two men locked eyes for an instant.

Then
the door was slammed and Solomon was standing by his side, watching the car take the road to Headquarters.

‘Sir, we’ve found him!’

Lorimer turned to see two officers with a tall man limping between them. An ambulance had already been called. Martin looked up as he saw the Chief Inspector. All traces of his earlier humiliation were gone.

‘Diane, is she …?’

‘She’s all right, son. She’s all right.’

Then, as the journalist broke down and wept, Lorimer patted him on the back and let him be led away to a waiting squad car.

‘Well, that’s it,’ Lorimer breathed deeply, feeling the night air cold and fresh in his lungs.

Solomon watched as the officers gathered again in the car park. ‘Now, what?’ he asked.

Lorimer heaved a deep sigh.

‘The interview room. See what this bastard has to say. Get it done. Then, home. Bed. For an hour or two at least.’ He smiled at the psychologist who shuddered. Every nerve in Solomon’s body was trembling but Lorimer stood, hands clasped in front of him, calm and unruffled. For once, Solomon tried to make sense of the man’s body language but failed.

‘How
do you feel?’ he asked outright.

‘Feel? Bloody glad that it’s over. Relief, frankly. That’s it, barring the paperwork. All over. All that investigating. We’ll have the reports to conclude. Then it’s up to the courts.’

‘What do you think he’ll get?’ Solomon queried as they walked together towards the Rover.

‘Forever, if justice is done. Lock him up and throw away the key.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘Maybe he’ll plead insanity. Fancy yourself as an expert witness?’

His eyes gleamed in the Rover’s headlamps, and Solomon looked to see if Chief Inspector Lorimer was really as unaffected by this result as he made out. But the blue eyes were unfathomable, following the progress of a certain police vehicle as it disappeared between the trees.

T
he High
Court of Justiciary in Glasgow stood in an area of the city poised between life and death. On one side the City Mortuary hugged the new Court buildings while on the other, Paddy’s Market displayed its wares as people drifted in and out, picking over the discards of other people’s lives. Looking across at this, as if from an aloof distance, stood a Spiritualist Church housed in a plain shop-front.

Within the precincts of the Court, life and death were very much to the fore. Lorimer was sitting towards the rear of the court. He’d arrived early. Gazing around at the now familiar modern courtroom he took in the details of the place. The room was brightly lit from a multitude of concealed ceiling lights. Wooden wall panels were punctuated by three columns either side with circles of greenish frosted glass that glowed from the picture lights behind them. They reminded Lorimer of the works of Rennie Mackintosh. There was a frieze of Celtic inlay, dark olive in colour, at picture-rail height. The whole effect was pleasing to the eye, so long as the Court remained empty. The moment the black-gowned figures entered, however, Lorimer’s attention was immediately transferred.

The
trial had lasted seven weeks so far but today, he’d been advised by Iain MacKenzie, sentencing would certainly take place. It was months since Baird had been taken into custody. He’d been questioned countless times about his part in the paedophile ring. But there had been no more names given.

The killer had spent the whole summer in Barlinnie after his initial appearance before the Court, a summer now long past as the days grew darker once more. Even Lorimer’s Portuguese holiday with his wife was only a warm memory now.

Baird had pleaded not guilty.

His solicitor had evidently spent plenty of time and trouble obtaining evidence to show that David Baird of 3/13 St Mungo’s Heights, Glasgow, had been of unsound mind whilst perpetrating the acts of which he stood accused. Several dates had already been fixed for trial. Postponements had included days when the accused was unfit to appear due to illness, or when the defending advocate had some detail that required more careful scrutiny prior to trial. Lorimer had seen it all before. The time-wasting of the law courts was legendary. That it was the same south of the border, and probably the world over, was little consolation. Days had turned into weeks, Lorimer only attending at specific occasions, as the Fiscal kept him informed of proceedings. There were times when he thought he knew Iain MacKenzie’s voice better than Maggie’s.