‘A curry,’ he muttered to himself. Hadn’t there been some left over from a couple of nights ago?

  Minutes later, the meal re-heated in the microwave, Lorimer sat in his favourite armchair, one hand forking food into his mouth, the other switching between the TV channels to see if there was any football to take his mind off the case.

  He had wiped the plate clean with the warmed naan, stacked the dishwasher and was sitting back down again, console in hand, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Lorimer,’ he said, expecting a voice that would ask him to leave the comfort of his own home and set off for some new crime scene. But there was only silence at the other end, something that made the detective frown. Theirs was an ex-directory number, so who had … ?

  ‘Sorry,’ a man’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Must have got the wrong number.’ Then the line went dead and Lorimer gave a sigh of relief. Settling down once again, he found a channel with a game in the English League more than halfway through, the wrong number call already forgotten.

  The man smiled, looking at the telephone on the table. It was good to check these things and now he knew that this was the correct number. Perhaps one day Margaret’s voice would answer his call. Though, he reminded himself, his plans did not include her ever returning to the home she shared with that policeman.

  Professor Brightman sat back and considered the two scenes of crime. Mapping murders often gave a picture of where the perpetrator might live and in this case he had decided it must be Glasgow, on the Southside, since each of the bodies had been found only a few miles apart. Bellahouston Park was hedged about with a mixture of areas from the well-tended enclaves of Pollokshields to the tenements along Paisley Road West and cottage flats at Mosspark. Queen’s Park sprawled from Shawlands with its up-and-coming bistros and pricey tenements along Langside and around to Victoria Road, again a bit of a mix of housing but possibly with more residents like the Richardson fellow, Carolyn Kane’s fiancé.

  He had a map in front of him, red lines drawn between the two crime scenes, the exits from the parks marked in yellow. A frown crossed Solly’s face. It was not enough. If they did find a third victim then perhaps he might make sense of a map, see if there was any logic to be had in pinning down the whereabouts of the killer. Celia Gemmell had lived in the West End, but she had worked over in the Southside. He traced the route with an inquisitive finger, stopping at Bankbrae Primary School. It was close enough to both of the parks to make his eyebrows rise thoughtfully. Was there some connection between the two dead women and the one that had been missing for a year? He’d think about that but meantime he needed to concentrate on what they already knew. What had been committed, what had been left undone.

  The deaths themselves were interesting. There had been no sign of sexual assault, nothing except for the strangulation, by hands strong enough to overcome each young woman. ‘Who are you?’ Solly murmured softly. The man had chosen each of these victims, possibly stalked them for some time (during school holidays, he reminded himself) then suddenly killed them as light had faded from the skies. There had been no sign of a body being dragged for any great distance, either, so he must have carried them towards the bushes or else cajoled them there before … what? Throwing them to the ground? Grabbing them by the neck? He closed his eyes trying to see what the forensic team had pieced together. A man tall enough and strong enough to overcome each healthy young woman, yet no signs of a struggle. Did that suggest they had known their attacker? Had he lain in wait as Carolyn Kane crossed the park to the safety of her home? He must have known where she had been and where she was heading, the site of the murder a bit away from the path that the accountant usually took. And Patricia Donovan? Why had she been there at all, in the thickest part of the trees? The MIT officers had taken footage from the CCTV cameras at the sports centre but all they’d seen was Patricia walking out of the building, looking down at her phone then out of shot, heading away from the car park. Had she been called by someone? Lured away? The police had discovered that her usual taxi had been cancelled that night so either she had come to the fitness class with a friend or she’d taken another form of transport to get there. The officers from Police Scotland had gone over all of those details but so far they’d come up with nothing to explain how she had arrived and why she had taken that turn away towards the trees.

  It was a puzzle and Solly felt that they were definitely missing something important. Patricia Donovan’s last call was to a number that did not seem to exist, a mobile that may have been trashed after the woman’s death. ‘You’ve covered your tracks,’ Solly whispered, ‘haven’t you?’ This killer had planned it out beforehand, an intelligent mind taking steps to ensure his own safety from discovery. These did not look like crimes of passion, though some latent emotions may have been working away beneath a calm exterior. These were well-thought out. Why? And what had these women done to deserve such horrific deaths?

  Imagination, Solly had told his psychology students, can be a huge force in determining our behaviour. What we imagine another person thinking can become a fact in our minds despite there being no evidence. He had cited Shakespeare’s Othello, a man whose imagination had been fed by the evil Iago. Solly shuddered. That had ended in an innocent young woman being strangled to death too. Was jealousy a factor here? But it had been a calculated action, he reminded himself, not one fuelled by the green-eyed monster.

  Lorimer had told him about Professor Dawson’s agreement to tackle the case of the missing woman, Celia Gemmell, who so resembled the two victims. And Maggie Lorimer, a little voice reminded Solly.

  He gave an involuntary shudder. A goose ran over my grave, he thought. Then, with a sigh, he sat back and looked at the map again. Giffnock was not so very far from Shawlands, was it? Could it be that the stalker lived somewhere on Glasgow’s Southside? He took a pencil and traced another line from Queen’s Park, stopping when he came to the cul-de-sac where William and Maggie Lorimer had made their home.

  The sound of a telephone ringing made him start then he reached out a hand to whisk it from the receiver, lest the noise waken baby Ben.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Solly, it’s me, Lorimer. Sorry to ring you so late but I wanted to talk something over with you.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Solly replied. ‘What’s up?’

  There was an unaccustomed pause then he heard Lorimer give a small sigh. ‘It’s Maggie,’ he said at last. ‘I’m worried about her.’

  Solly nodded. This had not come as a surprise. After all, the articles in the newspapers had given Maggie some fresh publicity, though perhaps not the sort either she or Bill wanted.

  ‘Do you think she’s in any danger?’

  ‘I don’t know, Solly, and that’s the truth. She says it must be some daft kids but I’ve been doing a check on the ones at Muirpark who could be likely candidates and I’ve drawn a complete blank. Most of them are either away on school trips or studying for exams. Muirpark does a really good job of taking busloads of kids away over the holidays. Even the rascals,’ he added.

  ‘Could it be someone who’s trying to get back at you for some reason? That would smack of a cowardly approach, targeting your wife,’ Solly murmured. ‘And you’ve put away plenty of men and women who would be nasty enough to try that sort of thing.’

  Again Solly heard a sigh and imagined his friend running his fingers through his dark, unruly hair.

  ‘Maybe. I do worry that might be the case. But how on earth am I supposed to find the person behind it? A stalker isn’t like other criminals. The intent to harm might be there but until then he’s done nothing except frighten his target.’

  ‘Is Maggie frightened?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She sounded positive on the phone. Said Ivy, her publicist, was watching over her, or something. So, no, I think she’s being her usual sensible self. Takes a lot to make Maggie scared.’ He gave a small laugh.

  ‘And the nuisance calls have stopped?’

  ‘Well, she’s not had any more but she keeps her phone turned off except to call me. And nothing on Facebook. Och, it probably was kids larking about,’ Lorimer said at last.

  Solly bit his lip as his eyes turned towards the map in front of him. Should he say anything to draw attention to the preliminary findings? Or would that simply cause the good police officer a sleepless night?

  ‘If nothing else happens, maybe you can assume that it was just someone trying to alarm their schoolteacher. A prankster who saw how much Maggie resembles the two women … ’ He tailed off with a frown.

  ‘You’re probably right, Solly. Anyway, it was good to talk. Sorry to disturb you. See you soon, okay?’

  And then he was gone. Leaving the psychologist with one more idea to consider.

  Why would a stalker pick on a particular person for their looks alone? An accountant, a former actress, possibly a kitchen assistant and maybe even a secondary school teacher … It was not what they had in common that mattered so much as that their appearance was alike. Like what? Like whom?

  Solly closed his eyes and began to think.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  His dream was always the same. She was drifting backwards, away from him, arms outstretched as though in supplication, dark hair floating behind. But he could never reach her. It was too late to make a grasp for those pale hands.

  He would awaken, drenched in sweat, the bedclothes damp, his hands clutching the edge of the duvet as though he was squeezing and squeezing. The memory of his fingers around another pale neck came back and he let the cover go with a small cry. His heart was beating loudly and he sat up, trying to feel the cool air on his chest, a trickle of perspiration running down his face. Would he never be rid of her? Was it his fate to be so tormented that he could not forget … ?

  Taking a few deep breaths, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet searching for his slippers. Outside the day was beginning, pale light filtering through the thin curtains of the bed and breakfast he had chosen. Soon it would be time to get into his car and follow his destined route. He gave a sigh then stood up, stepping out of his pyjamas and folding them neatly. The night terrors were over and it was time to face the day.

  A shower and a decent breakfast then he could begin again. Margaret would be waiting and he must not disappoint her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  If there was one thing that Lorna Dawson enjoyed it was a challenge and soil science presented plenty of those. She was a lady who smiled a lot, humming under her breath today as she stared into the Light Stereo Microscope. The particles recovered from the wellington boot loomed large under her powerful lens, pieces of a jigsaw that would eventually come together as they were analysed and compared to samples collected from areas within Scotland. She was content to follow the detective superintendent’s advice and start with the Glasgow area, though her net would widen as different possibilities emerged. In her experience bodies were buried far enough from human habitation to allow the grave-digger enough seclusion for clandestine burial and to make a complete get-away. It was quite normal to look for sites about fifty metres from a roadside where there was deep, diggable soil: somewhere close enough to carry or drag a corpse to a site that might even be already prepared. The perpetrator could be caught eventually by having traces of his deadly work on footwear or in a vehicle that were a match for soils in and around the burial place.

  She had recently given evidence in a murder case where a not-guilty plea had been issued on behalf of a defendant, watching the man subsequently break down in the witness box as her testimony made it clear he had murdered his lover. Should this investigation by the MIT succeed in turning up a body then Lorna could be back in court once more as an expert witness for the Crown Prosecution.

  It was later in the day that Lorna sat tapping information on to her report. The soil analysis had thrown up several interesting things, one being the seeds of a garden plant, Crocosmia Lucifer, that was often found still thriving long after being abandoned by the sides of country roads. Several different particles of pollen had been identified in the grass – Scots pine, ash, birch – and traces of faeces were present in the soil sample, suggesting the place might be adjacent to grazing land. Now it remained to narrow down the soil type, though if she were to hazard a guess they might be looking at a soil with an organic peaty layer, with sheep grazing nearby, some ancient woodland in the vicinity … and a derelict house.

  It was a start, she thought, sitting back with a smile. She would keep looking at the land cover maps in and around the city to see what was the likeliest source location for the soil recovered from the boots.

  ‘Think we’re getting somewhere,’ DCI Cameron told the two detectives. ‘One of the teachers is back home, just went away for a few days. Deputy head, a Mrs MacDonald. Stays in Newlands. She’s asked to come here to Helen Street rather than have officers in her home.’ Cameron gave a shrug. ‘No idea why. Maybe she just doesn’t want any nosy neighbours asking questions.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘She’ll be here about two p.m.,’ he continued. ‘Tea and biscuits in the conference room, I think. Okay?’

  Janice MacDonald was a forty-something lady with blonde hair swept back into a ponytail, her tweed jacket and jeans smart but casual. She didn’t look like Molly’s memory of a primary teacher, though they had all seemed so much older when she’d been a kid. As they shook hands, Molly noticed a keen, intelligent pair of hazel eyes behind purple-rimmed spectacles giving her a direct look.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Mrs MacDonald,’ Molly said, gesturing for the woman to sit at the huge oval table.

  ‘My husband’s off too,’ Janice MacDonald explained. ‘He’s on child-minding duty today.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘There wouldn’t have been a moment to talk properly to you at home.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’ Davie asked.

  The woman gave a smile that showed dimples on her cheeks. ‘Four. All primary stage. And a real handful, I can tell you!’

  ‘Do they attend Bankbrae where you work?’

  ‘Oh, no. They all go to the local primary. Think I’d go mad if mine were close at hand all day,’ she added.

  Molly smiled, warming to the deputy head teacher. A family of four kids and she still worked full time in a promoted post. Hats off to you, lady, she thought to herself.

  ‘We’re trying to locate a former member of the ancillary staff. A Ms Celia Gemmell,’ Molly began.

  Janice MacDonald’s face changed at once, the smile now a frown, her jaw hardening. She sat back and looked from Molly to Davie then back again. ‘She was trouble, that one,’ she began. ‘But perhaps you know that already?’

  ‘We have heard some rumours,’ Molly offered, keeping the details from the deputy head.

  ‘Oh.’ Janice let out a long sigh and glanced down at her hands. ‘Celia was a terrible timekeeper. I think she would have been sacked if she hadn’t decided to swan off for good. But it wasn’t just that.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can I say something that is more gossip than fact?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Molly nodded.

  She leaned forward, placing her arms on the polished table. ‘We all thought she was trying it on with the male members of staff.’

  ‘The teaching staff?’ Davie asked.

  Janice nodded. ‘Yes. Our dear janitor wouldn’t have given her the time of day. Don’t get me wrong. Jack McCormick’s a lovely man. Everyone’s his friend, you know? I just don’t see Jack being … well, that way, with Celia.’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘And young Jamie was terrified of her.’

  ‘Then who … ?’

  ‘We have three men on the staff. Our head teacher who is a bit too long in the tooth for all that malarkey, I’d have thought, the PE teacher and a nice guy from the US who’s with us on a two-year secondment. She was always cadging lifts from one or other of them, even poor Mr Dewar.’

  ‘Did they all live in the west end, then?’

  Janice nodded. ‘Well, Travis, that’s my American colleague, has a rented house in Broomhill. Gary Johnstone, the PE chap, lives over in Scotstoun. Gary might be able to tell you more about Celia,’ she added. ‘I often thought she was a tad too friendly with him. A bit flirty, you know?’ She shook her head. ‘Though I have to say that I never saw or heard of any of our male staff behaving inappropriately towards Celia. She was high-spirited, loved fancy clothes. How she lasted as long as she did at Bankbrae was more of a mystery than why she suddenly left.’

  Davie glanced down at the papers in his hand. ‘I thought your head teacher lived in Beith, that’s surely not on Celia Gemmell’s way home?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Janice nodded. ‘It’s his family home in Beith. Belonged to his parents, I think. He’s got a flat in Pollokshields where he stays during the week, used to drop Celia at the subway station, I think.’

  ‘And he’s still off on holiday, I believe?’ Molly asked.

  The woman nodded her agreement. ‘Goes away hill climbing every chance he gets. He’s not married, no kids other than the ones he has responsibility for at school.’ She made a face. ‘Sometimes I envy him that freedom,’ she laughed.

  ‘The other members of staff are also still away,’ Davie stated.

  ‘Are they? I couldn’t say. There are a few of us who chat about what we’re doing over the holidays but I have no idea where either Travis or Gary were planning to escape to. Travis Quinn is here with his wife and kids but they’re off back home to Montana in the summer. You should be able to speak to our janitor, though. He might know a bit more.’

  The deputy head had been thanked and walked out to the car park by Davie, leaving Molly to clear away the cups and saucers. She sat on a while, however, thinking hard. If Celia Gemmell had been a bit of a flirt, coming on to these three men, surely she would have been given warnings about her behaviour? Was that why she had been looking up the legal stuff about suspensions? Or had one of them succumbed to her charms then been blackmailed? That might make sense of the regular cash transaction going into her bank account. An account that had not been touched for a year, Molly thought darkly. ‘Where are you, Celia?’ she whispered aloud. ‘And what on earth were you up to back then?’