Never Somewhere Else (3 page)

The main building of the university was old and chilly. Stone steps and balustrades, marble-tiled floors and old creaking wooden doors gave the place a Gothic atmosphere. Lecture theatres and labs gave off from one side of a wide corridor whilst offices lay on the other. ‘Doctor S. Brightman’ proclaimed a small plastic plaque. Underneath, picked out in gold, was the word ‘Psychology’.

On the other side
of the door was a surprisingly modern office with the normal accoutrements of grey steel filing cabinets, pale pine desk and chair and several shelves of books. Solly Brightman sat behind the desk, a large ordnance survey map before him. He was a young man of thirty-two, rather foreign in appearance, due to his thick black beard, black-rimmed spectacles and handsome Semitic features. His large brown eyes were fringed with the sort of luxuriant lashes most women would have given a month’s salary for. These eyes were pondering an area on the map. A green circle showed St Mungo’s Park and its immediate residential environs. Solly had ideas about these environs.

The telephone rang. He picked it up casually, without taking his eyes off the map for one moment.

‘Yes, Chief Inspector. Certainly. Yes, I will. No. That’s all right. I’ll see you then. Goodbye.’

Solly spoke smoothly,
as if the words had been rehearsed for a part he was playing, then put down the telephone. His preoccupation with the map before him made the conversation with Chief Inspector Lorimer seem quite incidental, almost irrelevant, instead of the one for which he had been waiting most of the day. Solly could see more in the map before him than simple areas of green parkland and networks of suburban streets. He saw opportunity. He saw escape routes. And he saw the emergence of a possible personality.

O
utside the closed
gates of St Mungo’s Park, PC Matt Boyd stood waiting for his neighbour. He shivered beneath the police-issue raincoat. What a foul night to be on duty. Guard duty.

His shiver had expressed a disgust for the murders perpetrated within the darkened park as well as a thrill of fear that the murderer could return to the scene of the crime. His hands felt the radio in his top pocket then went to his baton concealed below the coat. Heavy footsteps told him that Henry was coming back from the chippy. Sure enough, the younger constable strode smartly around the curve of the park’s railings, his breath clouding the cold night air.

‘Lord, this is a miserable duty,’ he spat out, turning on his heel to face the road, his back, like Matt’s, to the gates behind him. He passed over the newspaper-wrapped packet.

‘Ta, mate,’ Matt said, unwrapping the vinegary chips and beginning to devour them greedily.

‘Keep one for Rover,’ laughed Henry.

Rover was the nickname for the dog-handler rather than the dog, whose name was Ajax. Handler and Alsatian were patrolling the perimeter of the park constantly that night, passing Matt and Henry at the main gates about every forty-five minutes. They were due to make an appearance in less than ten minutes if their tour of the park had proved uneventful. Matt chuckled again. Rover would be lucky to see any of his chips. Still, he might give one to the dog.

The sound of the rain
was a soft drilling on the pavement and a gurgle of water trickling down the drains. His footsteps were muffled by the wetness, each print illumined for an instant in the streetlight, then gone, melting into shadows. His head turned slowly from street to park, past trees and open grassland, past swishing cars and buildings shuttered against the night.

Ajax’s breath came out in a faint misty cloud as he loped along, mouth slightly open showing strong white teeth. The railings took on a long curve, foliage thick and high above them as the hill banked steeply. Suddenly the dog stopped, stiff and alert. His head strained and his nose probed the air. The handler made a movement to unleash him if need be, while above them the rhododendron bushes swayed madly. Then a splintering crash revealed a white face glaring through the leaves. The handler slipped the leash and reached for his two-way radio.

In a moment there was a flurry of leaping dog and a cry as the face disappeared, falling backwards through the bushes.

Henry’s radio crackled into life.

‘Tango Two, this is control. Ajax has a prowler inside the park. Assistance requested. Car on its way. Over.’

‘Roger, Control. Wilco.’

Henry’s eyes were shining, all boredom gone. He and Matt broke into a jog along the wet pavements, ears straining for Ajax’s growls. Matt paused briefly by a bin to toss away their scrunched up chip packets. A different kind of hunger was taking over.

They came around the
corner to see Ajax crouching by his handler. A man leaned flat against the inside of the park railings, obviously terrified of the dog. As Matt began to climb the railings he could hear him yabbering, ‘Get ’im off. Don’t let ’im touch me!’

Ajax was trained to look as though he would spring at a suspect. He had full control over the man.

‘Car’s coming,’ Henry quietly told the handler.

Matt was now standing alongside the dog, shining his torch on the man against the railings. The torchlight gave his eyes a sunken, staring look. He was a small man, probably in his sixties, thin on top with wrinkled cadaverous flesh which hung in slack, unshaven jowls. His threadbare grey coat was tied round the waist with rope. Matt felt a sinking disappointment. He was only a derelict. Still, he would be taken in for questioning. The park was out of bounds after all, and notices had been put up to that effect. Closed circuit television cameras with infrared devices were secreted in and around the park, mainly panning the area where the bodies had been found. Yet all this technology had failed to detect what one well-trained dog had found.

Matt was annoyed. For a few minutes the activity had given the impression of a breakthrough. He had been rehearsing what he would say if Chief Inspector Lorimer were to ask for a résumé of their night’s duty. In his imagination he had anticipated the Chief’s nod of approval and his own resulting glow.

A white escort
pulled up and the tramp was hoisted clumsily over the railings and handed into the back of the car. Ajax and his handler watched them drive off round the curve of the park.

‘Ah, well, back to the gate,’ grumbled Matt. He set off, slightly ahead of Henry and the handler. Ajax walked obediently by their side, alert yet calm as ever, pleased by the recent excitement.

S
olly sat in a
corner of the interview room. He had not demurred when Chief Inspector Lorimer invited him to sit in as an observer.

It was highly unusual for a Chief Inspector to conduct interviews. The old man had been cautioned and a preliminary taped interview had already taken place. They could hold him for six hours and in that time it would normally be Alistair Wilson, Lorimer’s smoothly urbane Detective Sergeant, who dealt with the suspect. He especially wanted Lorimer to see this fellow for himself, however, and the Detective Chief Inspector in turn wanted to see what the psychologist made of it all.

The interview room was small and square, with a window set up high; a lozenge of daylight filtered into the harsher brightness from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling. Solly sat very still, one leg crossed, attending to the conversation before him. Rather more than the man’s identity had been established by the computer at the charge bar. Other computerised information told a story about this man’s past. It was an unpleasant story, in which small boys had figured.

Lorimer consulted the preliminary report sheet in front of him.

‘You are Valentine
Carruthers. Is that correct?’ Lorimer had asked. The reply had been mumbled and Lorimer had repeated his demand in a tone which made even Solly uncross his legs and sit up straighter.

‘Yes. Valentine Carruthers.’

The old man’s reply was spat out in defiance. It was obvious that he resented having to admit to his identity. Lorimer’s response had been a surprised lift of the eyebrows. If ever a name failed to match its owner’s appearance, this was one. Lorimer’s eyes flicked over towards the psychologist. Was he wondering about the fellow’s background? Questioning how life had let him down to the level of sleeping rough in parks?

‘Right, Mr Carruthers. You were apprehended last night in St Mungo’s Park.’ Lorimer paused, his blue glare pinning Valentine Carruthers into helpless submission. ‘You did know that the park was closed to the public?’ The man nodded his response. ‘And you know why, I take it?’ Lorimer’s unbroken gaze forced a response.

‘Those murders.’

Valentine’s eyes dropped unhappily down to focus somewhere below the table which separated him from Lorimer.

‘Are you in the habit of spending the night in that particular park?’

Valentine considered the question. He shifted in his chair.

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘It depends.’

‘Could you tell me where you spent the night over the last four weeks?’

Valentine had not looked back at his interrogator whose voice, though demanding, was still reasonable in its tone. Solly wondered if the tramp was capable of remembering where he had slept every night for an entire month.

‘I’ve been
in the park most nights. One night I went down under the Kingston Bridge.’

Valentine’s face was a frown of concentration.

Could you tell me if you were in the park on Wednesday the third of November? That was four weeks ago.’

‘Yes.’ Valentine’s answer was prompt. ‘I’ve been in the park every night since the second girl was found.’

‘And you weren’t afraid?’ Lorimer’s question forced Valentine’s eyes to meet his own. ‘Didn’t you worry that you might be in some danger?’ The DCI leaned forward, finger jutting in the air as if danger were a tangible force.

Lorimer saw the darkness in the derelict’s expression. Fear. Danger. When you live in the open like that, life becomes cheap. Emotions are whittled down to a cunning game of outwitting the elements which hamper daily survival. A killer on the loose would perhaps be irrelevant to Valentine’s equation of life. He still didn’t answer the question. Lorimer guessed it was probably futile but he let the words hang in the air nonetheless. Now he probed more directly into the matter which concerned him.

‘I am interested to know what you saw or heard during those nights in St Mungo’s Park.’

Lorimer’s tone held just a hint of supplication. The old man was meant to understand that he was there to help, that his assistance might be invaluable to the police in apprehending this killer. All this was contained in a look and an inflection rather than via an obviously ingratiating approach. Lorimer tilted his head slightly before asking his next question.

‘Did you, for
instance, hear any cries for help, or any noises which might be taken for two people struggling?’

Valentine looked as though he would shake his head, but then the blue gaze caught him again.

‘I hear all sorts of things.’ His voice came out in a whine. ‘Just ignore them. I leave other folk alone and they don’t bother me. Most of the time.’ He cast a sly glance at Lorimer. ‘I’m under the trees, right, and I aim to stay there for the night.’ He paused. ‘Of course I hear stuff. Yobs yelling and playing their music up loud. Vans going through the park.’

‘You were near the main road that runs through the park, then?’ Lorimer cut in.

‘Sometimes.’

Suddenly Valentine began to cough violently, the harsh rasps rising in a crescendo until it seemed as though he would retch. Lorimer winced, watching the old man double up clutching his chest. At last he straightened up, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. Lorimer let him recover for a few moments then tried again.

‘Did you ever hear a cry for help?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear any sound which was out of the ordinary? Something being dragged along the ground, for instance?’

Lorimer’s elbows were on the table now, his face closer to the old man’s. Valentine paused to consider.

‘No.’

Lorimer decided to try a different tack.

‘Could you see the path from where you were concealed in the bushes?’

‘Oh, yes. I could see out through the leaves, but nobody could see me inside.’

The old man looked
a little smug, as if he had scored a point.

‘Did you see anything unusual during those nights? Anything out of the ordinary?’

Lorimer, reflecting on his choice of words, wondered what ordinary meant to a derelict. Other derelicts wandering through the night. Addicts fixing drugs. Low life passing through like a shadowy pageant. Valentine shook his head.

‘What vehicles did you see passing through the park?’

‘I dunno. Hard to see when it’s dark. Police car sometimes. Vans.’ He paused for an instant, then added quickly, ‘Oh, and the old ambulance.’

‘The
old
ambulance?’ Lorimer sat back, curious. ‘What do you mean
old
?’

‘Well, you get to know sounds in the dark. The new ambulances sound different. Different engines or something. This one was old.’

Lorimer let this pass for the moment. He spread photographs in front of Valentine.

‘Ever seen these women?’ Lorimer leaned back in his chair, giving Carruthers space and watching his face intently. The eyes looked down on the photos of Sharon Millen, Lucy Haining and Donna Henderson. Valentine’s eyes were expressionless, his bottom lip slightly open as he stared at the dead women. Finally he shook his head and looked up as Lorimer removed the photographs. He licked his lips nervously.

‘That’s them, isn’t it?’

Lorimer ignored the question and the old derelict took his silence as affirmation.

‘I think it would be best if you could find a hostel meantime, Mr Carruthers. The park is out of bounds and I really think you should be indoors for your own safety. Besides,’ the blue eyes fixed him again as Lorimer leaned closer, ‘we would be much happier to have an address so we can contact you again. You understand?’

Valentine nodded. He
was going to be released now and he didn’t look sorry. He’d almost seemed to welcome the cell and the breakfast, the constable on duty had claimed. There had been no aggro. But now he shifted restlessly in the plastic chair, eager to get shot of his temporary accommodation.