Solly nodded. ‘There are a few cases in the US that will come into the book. But it isn’t all contemporary crime. I do use some models from the previous two centuries.’
‘But be warned,’ Rosie told them, pretending to be stern, ‘every unsolved case you have from now on is potentially by a female warrior!’
Maggie laughed with the rest of them, knowing that the pathologist’s words were only half-true. Solly might be pretty focussed on this topic right now but in every case where he had collaborated with the police, her husband had respected his judgement concerning a possible profile.
‘Have you included Aileen Wuornos in your study?’ Lorimer asked and immediately the conversation turned to a TV programme that they had seen on the subject of the American serial killer.
Maggie listened for a little, nodding as they spoke. Solly’s book, she realised, would make good reading.
A pretty Polish waitress glided up to their table, asking for drinks orders, and Maggie let her eyes wander across the room to where other diners were already busy over their plates of food. A dark-suited actor whose name she couldn’t recall was regaling his young female companion with a story that involved a lot of hand waving and facial grimaces. Maggie took a surreptitious look at the girl to see how she was responding but saw only a fixed, polite smile on her face. Every table was full. A quick glance towards the door let her see a foursome of hopefuls enter only to be told with dignified courtesy that there would be no place for them that evening. The disappointment on their faces told its own story.
Then a smiling waiter was at her side, blocking any further chance she might have of people-watching, and Maggie joined the others in ordering their favourite dishes. To her relief, Solly’s book was still being discussed and nobody seemed to mind that she did not contribute to the conversation. It was enough for Maggie that nobody had asked the all-encompassing question of her mother’s welfare: for once she wanted to forget the daily visit and the problems that might lie ahead. As if something of this thought had been uttered aloud, Solly caught Maggie’s eye and for a long moment he smiled at her. There was more than sympathy in the psychologist’s expression: it was as if he could read her very thoughts, see into the depths of her soul. Instead of being disturbed by this sudden insight, Maggie Lorimer found it oddly comforting and she reached across the table, giving Solly a light pat on the back of his hand.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough and only towards the end of the meal did Lorimer mention the subject that had been concerning him.
‘A stalking cyclist?’ Solly murmured. ‘That sounds a little bit complicated. I don’t think I’ve come across an example of that, but do let me check up, will you? The old ladies sound as though they have little else in common, however. One very frail and practically housebound, the other out and about on a daily basis.’ He smiled his slow smile at the tall policeman sitting next to him. ‘If their deaths hadn’t been so similar nobody would have bothered, would they? But,’ he added with a twinkle, ‘you don’t believe in coincidences, do you?’
It was a frosty night, the air clear and sharp, promising a day of bright skies to come. Every star and planet that had fizzled into the Universe seemed to be demanding attention — especially the moon, its one baleful eye bearing down on me. The ticking sound of the bicycle pedals ceased as soon as I stopped walking and I held my breath, waiting for the right moment to continue my preliminary study of the street. It was several blocks away from the ones that I already knew but this particular row of homes looked promising.
The back of the houses faced a sloping hillside that had once been divided into allotments but was now overgrown with winter grass and banks of bramble bushes. A path ran all the way along, behind the high fences, leading away from the estate and petering out at the entrance to an electricity substation. The edges on each side were littered with empty bottles and polystyrene containers, the detritus from the take-aways a short walk across the fields. I thought about the people who had been there, smoking dope perhaps, seeking a bit of seclusion away from prying eyes. There was a track of sorts trodden into the winter earth, showing a short cut from the houses to the back of the local shops.
As I looked across the darkened patch of grass I realised that it could provide me with an escape route.
All I needed now was another victim.
CHAPTER 19
There was no pain. And she supposed that she ought to feel grateful for that. But it was hard to reconcile herself to the absence of any feeling down one whole side of her body. Today the physiotherapist was coming to take her out of bed. To try to make her walk again, she’d told her cheerfully.
‘We’ll have you up and about in no time at all, Mrs Finlay,’ the girl had said. Alice had attempted a lopsided smile, glad that someone was addressing her by her full title and not in that patronising tone she’d come to hate when they called her Alice dear. Oh, dear God, she thought, eyes welling with sudden tears. What was she thinking? Shouldn’t she be grateful for what kindness they were showing her instead of worrying about wee things like that? But this ward was so full of old geriatric women, so different from any of her own lady friends back at the Seniors club. A sudden rush of self pity filled her and Alice gripped the bedclothes in both fists, momentarily overwhelmed by feelings of fear and loneliness.
So now it was all a question of waiting. Alice Finlay was becoming quite good at waiting. Waiting for a bedpan to arrive when she thought that her bladder would burst and flood the sheets beneath her; waiting for the doctor on his rounds; and waiting for visiting time to see Maggie’s face again. Oh, such heaven to see Maggie! Though once, when she’d been asleep, the bell for visiting had rung and she’d only had a few minutes with her precious daughter. Haltingly, she’d made Maggie promise to wake her up if such a thing ever happened again. After that visit she’d wept tears of frustration and disappointment into her pillow.
Alice Finlay looked up at the ceiling, noting the patches of flaking paint and a dull grey corner that might have been spiders’ webs. It wasn’t much to look at. But the alternative was to ask to be heaved up on a bank of pillows and then risk being engaged in conversation with one of the other patients. And that was something Alice dreaded. One old dear, her white hair fluffed round a thin, slack-jowled face, had stared at her for a long minute yesterday before shuffling up the ward to wherever she was going: the day room, perhaps? Alice had been slightly unnerved by the woman. She’d seemed to look at her with a vacancy in her expression that made Alice shiver. It was as if a dead person had been looking out of those pale blue eyes.
She closed her own eyes and began to drift away in her mind, conjuring up memories. There was something Maggie had always been fond of quoting from Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’; something about being on a bed and using your imagination to remember times past. That was what she would do now. Maybe her body was beginning to let her down, but there was nothing wrong with her mind.
She conjured up the cold spring day long ago when Mother had taken her to Pettigrew and Stephens. That was the preferred department store for ladies who had wanted quality in those days and little Alice had trotted along by her mother’s side as they’d made their way up Glasgow’s Sauchiehall Street. They may have taken a tram, but that was one memory that eluded her for the moment. She could remember the rumble of trams on their shiny metal rails. And hadn’t they all had fun a few years back at the Glasgow Garden Festival? Alice yawned, suddenly aware of the frozen side of her face. Not the Garden Festival. Think about Pettigrew’s. Why had they gone there? Alice squeezed her eyes tight as if that would bring back the images she sought.