‘Well, sort of. It’s one of the roads with these huge big houses. Like a lot of the village up there.’ She grinned. ‘They do say it’s the place with the most expensive real estate in the whole of Scotland.’
It was a nice change to be out of the office, Kate thought, humming to herself as she drove into the village of Kilmacolm. The road wound up from Port Glasgow, twisting and turning before easing out over an expanse of moorland on either side. Few houses could be seen along this desolate part of the countryside and Kate shivered at the low clouds on the horizon threatening snow, then gave another shudder as she passed the dark gap on her left just before the cemetery gates. She’d seen enough of the scene of crime photographs to imagine what it must have looked like in the aftermath of that fire and was thankful that it was not within her remit to go up the shadowy drive.
Lochwinnoch Road led Kate through the heart of the village, past rows of shops and over an ancient railway bridge. She had telephoned the Reynolds house, not expecting any reply, and had been surprised to find from his wife that Mr Reynolds would be at home during the afternoon. Yes, she could come up and speak to him, the woman reassured her.
Later Kate would report back that she had little to tell. But she had stayed long enough to enjoy a good cup of coffee and some homemade lemon drizzle cake that Mrs Reynolds served on pretty Emma Bridgewater plates. Mike Reynolds had been nice, she thought. Frowning hard as if to remember as much as he could, but all he’d said was that he had the impression the cycle had been a silver colour and that the rider had worn black. And maybe a hood. Looked like he was out on a training run, speeding along, bent low over the handlebars. Weird, though, at that time of night, wasn’t it? No lights, he’d added, his brow deeply furrowed. Strange, that, don’t you think? Yes, and Kate put it in her report. Cycling without lights on and not wearing the usual fluorescent gear. It was indeed strange. But not if the cyclist had been deliberately trying to conceal his presence at that particular time and in that particular place.
The budgetary constraints on Strathclyde police, like every other public body in the country, were such that acting Detective Superintendent Lorimer could no longer justify asking his old friend, Dr Solomon Brightman, to step into a case in an advisory capacity. It would take a series of high-profile murders before that was going to happen. Besides, the role of the psychologist in cases of serious crime was beginning to lose its appeal since what was perceived as a major blunder by a criminal psychologist south of the Border had led to the conviction of an innocent man. Solly had always been ready with his words of wisdom, sometimes taking a while to prepare a profile, but in previous cases it had been well worth an investigating team listening to what he’d had to say. But lack of resources to engage Solly’s services didn’t stop Lorimer from consulting him as a friend.
It was an interesting scenario for the man from Glasgow University. What made a stalker of old ladies tick? And one that followed them on his bicycle, if that were indeed the case. After visiting his mother-in-law that evening, Lorimer and Maggie were meeting up with Solly and Rosie in one of their favourite West End eateries, the legendary Shish Mahal. It was Friday and Rosie wasn’t officially on call, though a major emergency could drag the pathologist away from her evening out with friends. Perhaps that was why Lorimer had always felt a certain kinship with Rosie; they both understood what it was like to drop everything whenever work demanded it.
So there was an extra spring to his step when Lorimer finally left the Greenock headquarters and headed for his ancient Lexus. The big car seemed restless and impatient as one set of traffic lights after another made it stop and start, but at last the long stretch of dual carriageway alongside the River Clyde came into view and Lorimer swung into the outside lane, accelerating with a sense of relief. Work was behind him for another day. The chaos left by Colin Ray’s sudden departure was gradually coming under control and each aspect of the case was being dealt with. His final report could make the former SIO look like a total incompetent but Lorimer knew he would temper it with a lot of sympathetic detail about Grace’s demise. For now it was not only his responsibility to sort out what had gone wrong with this case but to try his level best to make new progress. And he felt that he was beginning to do just that.
The Shish Mahal restaurant in Park Road was always full on a Friday night and so booking a table had been essential. Maggie smiled as a waiter took her coat and led them to their table.
‘I still think of this as the new place,’ she confided as they sat down opposite one another. ‘How long has it been here now?’
Her husband shrugged, his mind clearly on other things. He’d not spoken about work today either before the hospital visit or on their way across town, but that didn’t mean that his thoughts weren’t occupied by what was going on down in Greenock.
Maggie looked around, admiring the decor. Muted beige blinds were rolled down to head-height on the huge expanse of windows to keep out the darkness; the remaining glass was scattered with lozenges of circles and stars. Above them a giant seven-legged brass disc was suspended from the ceiling. Maggie smiled. The chandelier always reminded her of a strange spaceship, something that might have escaped from the War of the Worlds.
In the old days the Shish had been around the corner in Gibson Street, a haven for students like themselves. Now the building that had housed the former restaurant was demolished and only Maggie’s memories of these times remained. Her reverie was disturbed by Rosie bouncing in beside her, one arm flung around her neck and a kiss firmly planted on her cheek.
‘Hi, you two. Sorry we’re late. Met up with a neighbour and his dog as we came over the park. Typical! We live a stone’s throw from the Shish and you’re here before us!’ Rosie leaned across the table and blew a kiss in Lorimer’s direction. ‘How goes it? No, don’t tell me or we’ll be talking shop all night. Anyway, we’ve got some great news!’
Maggie looked from her friend’s shining face to the bearded man sitting beside her husband. Solly Brightman seemed both shy and embarrassed at once.
‘You’re not…?’
‘Preggers? No chance!’ Rosie laughed, showing twin dimples in her fair cheeks. ‘No, my clever man here’s got himself a fabulous book deal!’
‘Well! Congratulations, Solly. Think this may call for champagne. How about it?’ Maggie suggested.
Lorimer nodded his agreement and smiled at his companion. Solly had written several books on the subject of behavioural psychology and Lorimer was curious to know why Rosie was making a fuss about another one. ‘Something special?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Solly began, pausing as though the three pairs of eyes upon him were rendering him speechless. Then he grinned, his expression one of boyish glee. ‘It’s about female serial killers, actually. And a London publisher has offered me rather an attractive advance.’
‘Seems the public can’t get enough of real-life crime and Solly’s been doing work on this area for ages now,’ Rosie enthused.
‘I wouldn’t have thought that there were all that many women who committed crimes like that,’ Maggie began. ‘It’s not something you hear about, is it? I mean, there are the women who are in thrall to men who are multiple killers, but I can’t think of any single woman who has been on a killing spree.’
‘Perhaps that’s why the publisher found it so appealing,’ Lorimer countered. ‘What we don’t know is going to become all that more interesting once we read about it. Though I suspect Solly’s case studies won’t be confined to the UK. Right?’