listened. Rosie Fergusson took her time as she filled him in on what she’d found since last night.
‘We’ve run tests on the fibres from all three and there are definite matches between Kirsty’s and Brenda’s, so far. There were traces that may have come from surgical gloves. There’s static showing up in several sets of fibres, particularly around their throats.’
‘That makes sense,’ Lorimer said, visualising only too clearly how the women had been strangled.
‘No matches with Deirdre McCann, then?’ he frowned.
‘Nope, but there are still loads of things to work on. There is something else, though.’
‘Go on.’
‘There were traces on the hall carpet that show a dirty footprint. Remember it had been raining really heavily that day.’
‘Any indication of foot size?’
‘A size eight shoe as far as we can determine.’
‘So. You’re saying it’s a man’s print?’
‘Come, on. You know me better than that. When did I ever jump to those kinds of conclusions? No. I’m simply saying someone had on a pair of wet shoes in a particular size. Not necessarily a man.’ Lorimer grinned at the indignation in her voice. ‘Anyway, the imprint suggests a size eight shoe. The heel mark was quite distinctive. And the traces from the carpet fibres showed all sorts of stuff. Mostly to be found in the Glasgow streets,’ she added wearily.
‘So. A very big lady or a small man?’
‘Even a man of average height might have a smaller shoe size. You know that, Lorimer,’ Rosie protested. ‘My cousin Ruth’s only about five foot three and she takes a size seven.’
‘What about the post-mortem?’
‘This morning sometime. Coming down?’
‘Will I make it by ten? The Super wants to see me first thing.’
‘OK. Have fun,’ Rosie’s voice was loaded with sarcasm. Mitchison obviously wasn’t her flavour of the month either.
Lorimer gazed into space, thinking about what Rosie had just told him. Surgical gloves. A man’s footprint. Were they dealing with a member of staff from the Grange, then? That’s what had been running through his mind since last night. The sooner they had these computer checks available the better. Then he could focus on the picture more clearly. For now it was blurred round the edges, just like that grainy press photo lying on the floor.
Mitchison was on the warpath. The latest broadside from the Press had obviously got under his skin. And now there was another victim to add to the tally of unsolved murders.
‘How do you account for the time spent? One interview with a relative and a brief visit to Failte! You’ve been away three days, Lorimer!’
Lorimer ground his teeth. Whose case was this anyway? He was the investigating officer, for God’s sake! But he kept the thought to himself, refusing to give Mitchison the satisfaction of his outrage.
‘Another thing. I don’t see anything in writing from the second victim’s relative,’ Mitchison went on, flicking through a file that was indeed painfully thin. Lorimer knew he’d not be happy until there was a Bible-sized report on his desk.
He ached to take the man by the collar and give him a good shaking. Victim. Relative. They were statistics to this man, not the flesh and blood figures that peopled Lorimer’s every waking thought.
‘There hasn’t been time yet to write up a report. With the discovery of Brenda Duncan’s body I decided to go straight over to the Grange last night. Besides,’ he continued, ‘Dr Fergusson’s report should be included.’
‘Anything new there, yet?’
‘Dr Fergusson’s team have found traces of latex on Kirsty and Brenda’s bodies. It may suggest the involvement of a member of the medical staff.’ Lorimer stopped short of divulging any other information. He wasn’t prepared to go into the whys and wherefores of the Grange’s finances just yet. He’d follow that up as and when he could. But he certainly didn’t need this kind of earache.
Mitchison pressed his fingertips together and frowned. ‘I don’t want the Press involved with members of staff until we know more. Tell Mrs Baillie.’
Bit late for that now, thought Lorimer, remembering the morning’s headlines. Let the Police Press Office sort that out. He had enough on his plate right now.
The Superintendent sat up as if he were about to dismiss Lorimer then changed his mind, leant forward and added, ‘A Press conference with members of the Duncan family might be helpful after the PM. Get the TV boys in to video it. See how the family members react.’
Lorimer shrugged. Was Mitchison hedging his bets or did he simply want to control the Press boys as well? He’d be lucky, thought Lorimer; there was no way he was going to go down that path. The less the public knew right now, the better.
‘You missed the course with Miss Lipinski,’ Mitchison told him. ‘Pity, that. You might have learnt something.’
The Superintendent’s change of tack didn’t fool Lorimer for a minute. It was his way of reminding his DCI who was Boss. Reminding him who sat in the Super’s chair. Reminding him yet again that he hadn’t got George’s old job.
The City Mortuary was situated in one of the oldest parts of Glasgow, rubbing shoulders with the modern High Court building next door. Lorimer had often conjectured that the killers up before a judge and jury could be mere yards away from their victims held in cold storage in the mortuary.
Brenda Duncan’s body was already in Rosie’s ‘In-tray’ as one of the mortuary assistants had jokingly coined it. Rosie was in her bright yellow wellies and green plastic apron, her assistant, Don, by her side as she performed the post-mortem examination. Lorimer stood at the window that looked into the PM room. He had no problem with this aspect of detective work. Some policemen and women simply couldn’t take it even after years of seeing dead bodies revealing their innermost secrets on the pathologist’s slab. There was an intercom between him and the PM room. Not only could he hear Rosie’s instructions to Don while they worked, but it enabled her to keep a running commentary of her examination for Lorimer’s benefit.
Lorimer looked at the body of Brenda Duncan. She’d been a large, heavily built woman in life, he remembered. But now death had shrunk her body as she lay, the vital organs openly displayed to curious eyes. Her killer had taken everything from her, even her last dignity.
‘Yes. There we are. Larynx compressed against the cervical spine. Injury to the hyoid bone. The cricoid cartilage has been damaged also. Someone pretty strong who knew exactly what they were doing, Lorimer. The element of surprise, too, of course. But she was a big woman and you might have expected her to fight back. He had used both hands so she’d have had her hands free.’
‘So, why didn’t she?’
‘Fright. Coupled with the fact that she was breathless from climbing the stairs. She had a weak chest. Being overweight was really to her disadvantage. And she was of an age that made fractures to the laryngeal cartilages more likely. A younger, fitter person would have fought back.’
‘Any resemblance to the injuries Kirsty MacLeod sustained?’
‘He came at Kirsty from in front, too. But Kirsty’s death was inflicted by one hand while he held an arm across her chest.’
‘And Deirdre McCann was strangled with her own scarf,’ Lorimer mused.
‘No carbon copies of murder for you, I’m afraid.
Just the killer’s signature for Solly to deal with,’ she sighed.
‘But I can tell you we are probably looking for a strong, fit person of at least average height, someone who works out, maybe. It takes a lot of strength to strangle a person who’s standing upright.’
Lorimer tried to picture the man in his mind. A shadowy figure that leapt at the women’s throats, someone of significant strength to force them to the ground. He bit the end of his fingernail. There was something not right. He thought about the latex gloves and the security door.
Everything seemed to indicate that this was a murder where the victim had known her assailant. And had
