‘So he kills her.’

  Solly nodded. ‘And he knows where he wants her to be buried. The place in the woods has a real significance for him and I bet you find that it is linked in some way to the woman, mother figure or whoever, that he is still seeking.’

  ‘Classic fixation pattern,’ Lorimer murmured.

  ‘Same thing happens when he eventually meets Carolyn and Patricia. I doubt very much if either woman was aware of their stalker. He probably appeared to them quite out of the blue, his stalking methods honed to perfection by then.’

  Lorimer looked away, imagining the scenes: a man appearing suddenly by their side in a park at twilight, professing his love for them … it must have freaked out these poor women. Did they try to run from him? Shake him off? Scream abuse. He thought back to the Facebook posts. Why write them after he’d killed those two women? Was it his twisted way of saying goodbye, or was he consigning them to eternal darkness, knowing they were dead?

  ‘Their rejection triggered an instant reaction, of course,’ Solly continued as though he had read Lorimer’s thoughts. ‘And he had to destroy the very embodiment of a dream that had crashed right in front of him.’

  ‘You feel sorry for him,’ Lorimer said, looking at his friend, ‘don’t you?’

  Solly gave a tired smile. ‘I regret the loss of innocent lives as much as you do,’ he began, ‘but yes, I feel an element of pity for a man whose mind has been twisted to such an extent. Will we ever know the whole story, I wonder?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Auld Ayr. Whom ne’er a town surpasses. For honest men and bonny lasses.

  Maggie Lorimer smiled to herself, remembering the lines from her favourite of Burns’ poems, ‘Tam o’ Shanter’. She had loved it as a schoolgirl and taught it year on year to her own pupils, enthusing over the language as well as the story. A quick glance at Ivy who was busy looking out for a parking space told her that there was no point in quoting aloud for the woman. She had expressed no interest in poetry or anything to do with the bard’s heritage. It was such a pity. Perhaps her next PR would be cut from a different cloth, Maggie reasoned.

  She had called Lucy, her agent, the previous day before confronting Ivy, explaining the revelations about her. Lucy had been appalled and wanted to reassure Maggie that she was sure the publishers would do everything they could to compensate for her distress. Maybe Lucy Jukes might accompany her on the next outing with the book, Maggie thought. She was to be at the Edinburgh event in August, introducing Maggie to the audience there at any rate. Would Ivy’s interference have spoiled her relationship with the London staff for good? Maggie stifled a sigh as they rolled into a car park at the back of Ayr library. She could expect a warm greeting from the librarians, a special breed of people whom she was beginning to rate more highly than ever.

  ‘Hello; welcome to Ayr.’ A friendly woman stood at the back door of the library and smiled at Maggie as she walked from the car. ‘We’ve been looking forward to this all week,’ the woman went on. ‘I’m Janice. Come on through. The kettle’s on and there’s a pile of home baking ready for you.’

  Maggie allowed herself to be led through a narrow passageway and into what appeared to be the staffroom, a cosy place with old armchairs around a table set with mismatched mugs and plates of scones, iced buns and buttered pancakes.

  ‘My goodness, what a lot of trouble you’ve all taken. This looks like a feast!’ Maggie exclaimed.

  ‘This is Aileen and that’s Natalie,’ Janice said, waving her hand at two other women in the room, one of whom held a large yellow teapot. ‘Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?’ Janice asked, this time including Ivy in her question as the woman pushed her way into the room and flopped down on the nearest chair.

  ‘Coffee for me, please,’ Ivy replied, her eyes already on the table full of home baking.

  ‘Tea, please,’ Maggie answered.

  ‘Lovely flowers,’ Janice said, handing a huge bouquet of pink and white roses to Maggie.

  ‘Oh, my. That’s so kind …’

  ‘Not from us,’ the librarian said with a smile. ‘Local florist delivered them.’

  Maggie put the fragrant flowers to her face. They had to be from Bill, she thought, then searched for a card.

  Meet me at Auld Alloway’s haunted kirk at five. XXX

  Maggie chuckled. He knew how much she loved ‘Tam o’ Shanter’ and she smiled at the poetic reference to the kirk. They’d spent a great day out at the new centre in Alloway last summer and the kirk, or church, was not far away. She’d take a taxi from the library, though, Maggie decided. No way was she going to ask Ivy for a lift there as she definitely did not want a scene between the woman and her husband.

  There was a noticeboard on the wall outside the staffroom with several small business cards attached, one of which was for a local taxi company. Phone in hand, Maggie tapped in their number. She’d call them straight after the event and be there early to surprise him.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised. ‘Now, about that nice cup of tea,’ she declared, beaming at the library staff and taking a seat at the table. ‘And these scones look delicious.’

  He had chosen the best room in the hotel, casting any thoughts of expense aside, telling himself that Maggie deserved it. Lochgreen House Hotel was a little way out of the town, its gardens and trees giving it a secluded feel. As he approached the building Lorimer gave a sigh of pleasure, seeing again the red-tiled roofs and the swathes of well-tended lawn. Yet his mind drifted like the black-headed gull he watched gliding overhead, and he could not help thinking about the man that had followed his wife around the country.

  Who was he? And where had he gone now? What sort of stalker flitted from one woman to the next, their similar appearance like some sort of magnet attracting him? Most of the stalking cases he’d read about in recent years had involved women (or men) whose stalker was obsessed to the point where they followed just that one single person, sometimes for many years. But this man was different. And part of his difference included being a ruthless killer. Lorimer heaved a sigh, half-wishing he was back in Glasgow, finding out if the team had come up with any answers.

  Though he was officially off the case, Lorimer knew that Niall Cameron would keep him abreast of any new developments and so he had his mobile charged and in his jacket pocket, ready to hear what was happening back in the city. And, however much he told himself that this was a welcome break from the investigation, Lorimer’s instinct was to consider the features of it that still troubled him most and which had resulted in a conflict of interest. This stalker was most likely a middle-aged man who had brazenly offered his services to Maggie as a security guard. That had been taking a risk, but was that part of the challenge for him? He had followed Patricia Donovan into Bellahouston Park (or, more likely, persuaded her to accompany him: they were still at a loss to know why she had not returned home after the exercise class) and the same thing may have taken place last summer in Queen’s Park with Carolyn Kane. Had they rejected his advances? Solly seemed to think so and Lorimer trusted the psychologist’s instincts. Celia Gemmell, now that one was a mystery. Had he enjoyed a relationship with the woman who was rumoured to be a sex worker? And, if so, what had happened to make her killer lure Celia into these woods out near Hessilhead? That looked as if it had been planned, but he still felt the other two women’s deaths might have happened after an emotional outburst of some kind. Solly thought the place could have significance and the ruined house was being investigated to see if there was any link. Lorimer touched his pocket, instinctively willing Cameron to call.

  The whole thing came down to a man’s preference for a type of woman, a woman bearing a resemblance to his beloved Maggie. Lorimer shivered despite some warmth from the heated seats in the Lexus. The stalker was searching for a particular woman, Solly had said, someone that bore a striking resemblance to a woman from his past, he reckoned. A former lover? He sighed, racking his brains for an explanation. What sort of man would hunt down his perfect woman only to end up killing them? Had Celia Gemmell seen him as one of her customers? Just another lonely man needing the attentions of a woman? Why had she gone with him into these woods wearing these new wellington boots? Had he promised her more money for a sex romp there? Lorimer frowned, recalling that Solomon Brightman had suggested the stalker might be impotent, a man enraged by his own inability to perform the sex act and destroying the very woman he had stalked. But surely that gave rise to the notion of a sudden burst of emotion? An anger that overwhelmed him?

  ‘Have Darkness,’ he quoted softly. And Celia had been deliberately taken back to the same dark spot amongst the trees where she’d been before. That was well thought out beforehand. He closed his eyes, imagining a car trundling into the woods, a spade already in the boot, Celia Gemmell in the passenger seat dressed in her pink coat and high-heeled boots. She’d been ready for a night out in the town, not a country ramble. So, what had gone wrong? And why had she been murdered?

  Well, they were pulling out all the stops to find this character now and in a few hours Maggie would be safely in his arms, tucked up beside him in the nicest bedroom Lochgreen could provide after enjoying one of the hotel’s legendary gourmet dinners.

  Lorimer got out of the car and lifted his overnight bag from the back seat. There were things he wanted to do to make their reunion perfect: flowers and champagne. Could the hotel arrange this or should he head off in a little while and purchase them himself? With a smile on his lips, Lorimer headed towards the entrance of the country house hotel focusing his mind on their reunion and what he would say when they met in Ayr.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ Janice the librarian offered as Maggie looked up to say goodbye to the last in her signing queue.

  ‘Oh, there’s somewhere I have to be, sorry.’ Maggie smiled. ‘But thanks ever so much for this afternoon. You made it all very easy,’ she added, glancing again at the space where seats had been arranged for her audience and the posters fixed to several book stands.

  She lifted her mobile and nodded. ‘I just need to call a taxi and get my coat from the staffroom,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh, is the other lady not going with you?’ Janice asked. Maggie shook her head, avoiding the librarian’s eyes. She had seen Ivy slip out before she had finished her talk and known instinctively that the woman was intent on putting as great a distance between them as possible. What she would do now was a matter for the publisher to decide but Maggie doubted that she would ever see or hear of Ivy Thornton again unless it was an article revealing the woman’s duplicity.

  The taxi was a silver Skoda, the driver a local man with a strong Ayrshire accent.

  ‘Alloway’s auld haunted kirk? Did ah hear ye right, lady?’ he asked, heaving Maggie’s suitcase into the boot.

  ‘You did.’ Maggie smiled at him. ‘I’m meeting my husband there. We’re both big fans of Robert Burns, especially “Tam o’ Shanter”.’

  ‘Ah, well now, there was a man,’ the driver murmured as he slipped behind the wheel. ‘There was a lad was born in Kyle … ’ he began to sing in a light tenor voice and Maggie smiled as they set off through the town, glad to have found a fellow Burns enthusiast in this particular part of the country. She was already rehearsing how she would retell the incident to Bill when they met.

  *

  The light was fading from the skies and Maggie buttoned her coat up to the neck, aware that it would be chilly after the warmth of the taxi. Still, the Lexus would be waiting and she wouldn’t have long to be outside in the evening air. The driver had begun to croon ‘Bonny Wee Thing’ as they drove along the quiet road to Alloway and Maggie settled back in the passenger seat, listening to the song that Burns had written for his baby daughter. What a genius the man had been! To pen songs and poems as diverse as lullabies, satires and the vivid narrative that was so closely associated with this very area …

  Bill must have had romance on his mind, surely, to arrange the old kirk as a rendezvous? They were almost there when the driver turned to give Maggie a quizzical glance. ‘Sure this is where you want to be dropped, missis? It’s a bleak place at the best o’ times but gey dark the night.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. I’m being picked up by my husband,’ Maggie assured him.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a receipt?’

  Maggie hesitated. Ivy had drummed into her the need to keep all receipts so the publisher could cover expenses.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ she agreed. ‘Can you make it out to Mrs Lorimer, please?’

  ‘Hey, are you the lady that wrote that ghostie book? My wee grandson loves it!’ the taxi driver exclaimed, looking at Maggie wide-eyed.

  ‘That’s me.’ She nodded, surprised that anyone outside a library or bookshop would have heard of her.

  ‘Well, I never,’ the driver said, shaking his head as he fumbled for a business card and wrote down her name, the date and the fare on the back.

  ‘Here, can you sign this for him?’ he took a second card and thrust it into her hands.

  Maggie obliged and then paid the fare, adding a generous tip as he took her case from the boot and pulled out its handle.

  ‘That’s for the free concert,’ she joked, getting out of the car and closing the door.

  ‘Thanks a lot, lass. Have a good night,’ he said, giving a wave before turning the car back the way they had come.

  ‘You too,’ she said, though her words were lost in the sound of the Skoda speeding away.

  Maggie turned to look at the dark church outlined below a velvety blue sky. Her breath clouded a little in the cold air and she could see the first star above the horizon. Venus, perhaps? A planet rather than a star? She could not remember what heavenly bodies were visible at this time of year. The area around the church was deserted, no sign yet of the Lexus. Maggie glanced at her watch. It was not quite five o’clock so she was first to arrive. Rather than stand still, she decided to walk around the place to keep warm. Leaving her suitcase propped against the railings, she stepped into the entrance of Alloway’s kirkyard.

  The old gate creaked as she pushed it open, its hinges badly in need of oiling. The sound echoed in the darkness, making her shiver. There was a path winding around the church, ancient gravestones lying along the grass, some completely flat on the ground, others tilted by years of wind and weather, all grey stones marking the last resting place of men and women, long dead.

  Perhaps she should imagine a graveyard like this for her next book, Maggie pondered, stopping to examine one of the more ornate headstones that towered above her, a carved angel with outstretched wings looking unseeingly over the graveyard with her stone eyes. What would Gibby make of a place like this? she wondered, conjuring up an image of her little ghost boy.

  She was almost at the back of the church, past a closed wooden door, when Maggie heard the car arrive. Quickening her step she hurried onwards, taking the path around the church that would surely come out again at the road where she had been dropped.

  At first Maggie assumed that she must have left something in the taxi, for wasn’t that the same silver car parked nearby? It was certainly not the familiar shape of her husband’s Lexus. She looked down at her shoulder bag. The pull-along case was outside and that was all the luggage she had brought for the tour. No, nothing missing. She was wearing her soft leather gloves and her silk scarf was tucked into the collar of her coat. So why had he come back? Puzzled, Maggie quickened her stride just in time to see a figure walk along the pavement and grab her suitcase.

  ‘Hey!’ she cried out then began to run. What did he think he was doing? ‘I’m here!’ she cried. ‘I haven’t forgotten … ’

  Maggie was almost upon the man when he straightened up and turned around.

  Her mouth opened but her voice was shocked into silence as she recognised the face of Christopher Stevenson.

  ‘Hello, Margaret,’ he said, pulling the case towards her. ‘Of course you haven’t forgotten me, how could you?’ He gave her a smile and drew his hand across his mouth. ‘Had to get rid of that moustache. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Maggie stood motionless, her brain refusing to process what her eyes told her she was seeing. This man, the stalker … Her stomach felt suddenly weak as she licked her lips and took a quick, nervous breath.

  ‘My husband. He’ll be here any moment,’ she said, looking around frantically, desperate for a sight of the Lexus rounding the nearest corner.

  She jumped as Christopher took her arm, none too gently. ‘No, my dear. He won’t be coming back for you any more,’ he said then chuckled. ‘It’s just you and me now. Isn’t that nice?’

  You’re mad, Maggie thought. Completely, barking mad. And dangerous, too. Yet, some instinct told her to play along with him, humour him a little the way she did with difficult pupils. Her brain worked frantically as she allowed him to pull her towards the car. Resistance might make him snap into a desperate killer, she thought. For now he saw her as a compliant female, someone that posed no threat to whatever mad scheme his twisted mind had devised and it would be to her advantage to keep up the façade. She just needed to trust that Bill would find her …

  ‘Here, the car’s waiting to take us home,’ Christopher said, pulling her arm and rolling the suitcase behind him.

  Maggie thrust her free hand into her coat pocket, fingers exploring under a paper handkerchief. Yes, there it was, the smooth pebble of rose quartz Bill had given her one day on Calgary beach.

  It made hardly any noise falling to the ground and for a moment Maggie regretted her action, wondering if she might have lost her precious stone for good rather than leave a tiny sign for others to follow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX