‘Let’s go back inside,’ she suggested, sensing the quietness of his mood turning to something too sombre for this wedding night.
‘In a minute,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Look up. Can you see anything? ’
Maggie shook her head. The sky was a black mass with faint patches of cloud scudding across.
‘Wait. Look,’ he urged her, pointing at a patch of cloud beginning to shine at the edges. Then for a brief moment she could see the full moon emerge from the scraps and rags of vapour, only to disappear again behind another storm cloud.
‘Good omen?’ Maggie offered.
Lorimer grinned down at her. ‘Don’t think that pair need any omens. They’re well blessed already.’
And as they left the darkness of the balcony behind, Maggie was nodding her head in agreement. Rosie and Solly would be fine. Here, inside the brightness of this hotel, it felt as if nothing bad could ever touch them again.
CHAPTER 3
‘ Mary MacKintyre. Eighty-seven years old,’ the policeman said, tapping the information into his PDA. ‘Suffered from…?’
‘Arthritis,’ Malcolm replied, swallowing hard as he tried to answer the officer’s questions. Sarah had left the room, holding her hand to her mouth as though to stifle another bout of weeping, leaving Malcolm to deal with the aftermath of his mother’s terrible accident. ‘She should have had a hip replacement, but the doctor reckoned her heart wouldn’t stand another operation,’ he added.
‘Doctor Bennie?’
‘Yes.’ Malcolm swallowed again. His mother’s GP had been very good, his matter-of-fact manner as much of a comfort as that kindly pat on the arm as he’d left. Cause of death had been obvious, though. The doctor hadn’t needed to stay too long to see how she had died. Malcolm fidgeted, desperate for this policeman to finish his questions and let him get on with cleaning up the mess. He itched to hose down that bloody patch on Mum’s patio, the pink and grey slabs that he’d laid himself. To make it easier maintenance, Mum, he’d told her, never once imagining…
‘Was she in the habit of going out of doors at night?’ the policeman was asking Malcolm.
‘No, she wouldn’t have gone out in the dark. I can’t imagine why she was out at all,’ Malcolm gritted his teeth, sudden anger at his mother flaming inside him. ‘Why would she?’ he asked, as much to himself as to the young man sitting in his mother’s armchair.
‘Needed a breath of air, perhaps?’ the officer suggested.
Malcolm shook his head. ‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we?’ he added bitterly.
I decided not to go to her funeral. Seeing the death notice was enough. Mary MacKintyre her name was. I’d seen the tartan nameplate on the front door, knew it was the same old lady I’d decided to kill.
In some ways it was a disappointment, being so dark, but then perhaps I’d needed the cover of night to commit this first one. Plus it was all over far too quickly. Still, I did have to begin with something easy, didn’t I? Seeing her fall through the air had been fun though and there was that extra tingle of anticipation when I could have mucked up, not done her in at all but merely injured her.
Feeling that little piece of skin had been the best bit. No pulse. No life. I’d snuffed it out in seconds. And afterwards I could congratulate myself on a job well done. It had been my apprenticeship, after all.
Now that I knew I could kill, the next one would give me much more satisfaction than this helpless old lady.
CHAPTER 4
You could depend on him to be there.
The flattened earth made a shallow pit for his curled form, the unfolded newspapers coloured yellow as if something putrid had leached out of his body through layers of stained and tattered rags. Regular as clockwork, the tramp could be found near the banks of the Clyde, his makeshift den consisting of one strut of the concrete bridge that soared skywards into an uncertain blue and three sides of not-so-fresh air. Only after the cold light of dawn glittered against the water did he make his shambling way from this untidy nest, picking up anything that might keep body and soul together for another twenty-four hours.
The metal mesh bin at the top of the narrow path was his first stop of the morning. Stooping low so that his arm could reach right down into the base, he would forage among the bits of rubbish left from the night before, ever hopeful of a discarded bit of food that the urban foxes had failed to recover. Sometimes he had to stand aside as early morning cyclists or joggers dodged past and he would utter an oath, shaking one gnarled fist at their retreating backs, swaying like a demented scarecrow.
This morning was no different, except for one thing. As the tramp lifted his eyes from the bin he saw the figure speed towards him, one arm flung out as if to push him out of the way, and just in time he leapt back, a cry issuing from his cracked lips. In seconds his fury had dissolved into anticipation. Forgetting his sudden panic, he came back to the mesh basket, eager to see whatever it was the cyclist had dropped. He was salivating as he fished it out, recognising the Subway wrapper.
‘Miracles!’ he murmured to himself, fingers trembling in excitement, hardly daring to believe that so much of the baguette was still intact. Turning around his mouth curled into a sneer. ‘Nae idea, nae idea at all. A couple o’ bites and ye think ye’re finished. Eh? Eh?’
But there was nobody there to upbraid; there was no swish of cycle tyres to be heard along the path, only the comforting rumble of traffic overhead. Left alone to enjoy his unexpected breakfast in peace, the man shuffled back to his place by the bridge, easing his aching bones on to the patch of hollow ground. Greedily he bit into the sandwich, feeling the shreds of salad escape from his mouth, tasting the tuna fish as he slavered and swallowed, the hard crusts biting into his bleeding gums.
The unexpected fire of chilli made the tramp shrug and for one second he took this as the reason why his benefactor had chucked the food away. His shoulders were still raised in an indifferent shrug when his whole body tensed. Before he knew what was happening, the fire inside his belly roared up.
He tried to scream. But all that issued from his lips was a faint bloodied line of froth. Eyes bulged in their sockets as he glared at the empty path and the bank of withered grass. Then the first convulsion whipped him in two and the fire engulfed him in such pain as only the damned would ever know.
It was not over quickly. Tears streamed down his filthy cheeks, his gaunt face a parody of some ancient gargoyle, jaws strained in an effort to spew up the monster within. Torn by the convulsions, his head cracked against the concrete behind him and then the spasms ceased as oblivion claimed him. Slipping sideways, the weight of his body took him towards the steep side of the river where it lay like some discarded heap of rags.
Up above him, the cyclist leaned against the handlebars, watching and waiting. At last, satisfied that it was all over, one foot pushed against the pedal, making the wheels turn and swish along the empty street.
CHAPTER 5
‘ His name’s Connor Duffy,’ Jenny said, looking up from her screen. ‘Mum’s got twin girls of eighteen months,’ she added, raising her eyes to heaven.
‘Poor bitch!’ Jackie replied. ‘Is Charlie away to take their photo, then?’
‘Aye,’ Jenny replied shortly. ‘Boss wants the copy in by close of today, so I best get cracking.’
The young journalist pursed her lips as she glanced at the scraps of notes lying next to her computer. Connor Duffy, aged five, had wandered away from his home in Upper Port Glasgow and been discovered drowned in the waters of the local quarry before his mother had even known he was missing. It was tempting to put that little snippet in, but Jenny found she simply hadn’t the heart. The poor woman was beside herself with anguish; why rub it in? With twin toddlers to run after it was hardly surprising that she’d taken her eyes off the wee boy for a while. No, she’d milk the grieving mother bit instead; readers loved that.