the coffin would be kept overnight in church. One evening, just before leaving, we caught sight of Malcolm placing a flower in the hands of a young woman who had passed away. It was a red carnation.’
Lorimer sat up smartly.
‘It was a nice idea, we thought, and the relatives rather liked it, so it became a habit of Malcolm’s to select a flower for the coffin thereafter. Of course that stopped when he went away.’
‘He left the Order?’
Father Ambrose sighed once more. ‘Not exactly. He was asked to leave. There was an incident,’ he hesitated, his pearly skin flushing. ‘Malcolm was found interfering with a corpse, Chief Inspector.’
‘What exactly do you mean, Father? Interfering in what way?’
‘Normally the coffins were screwed down after vigil prayers and somehow that job always fell to Malcolm.’ The old man wiped a hand across his eyes as if trying to erase a memory. ‘One of the other novices had left something in church and went back for it. That’s when he saw Malcolm.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was trying to make love to the corpse.’ The priest’s voice had sunk to a whisper again as if the memory of that shame was too much to bear. ‘We realised then what we had suspected for some time, that he was not quite right. Academically Malcolm was fairly poor and his progress towards the priesthood would always have been in question, but there was more to it than that. I think there may have been some problem. There was talk of behavioural difficulties when he was little. Perhaps I’m trying to find an excuse for what happened, I don’t really know. Anyway, it was a terrible time. We managed to keep it out of the papers but it rocked the whole novitiate. Malcolm was sent home and I left shortly afterwards.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault, surely?’
‘I was responsible for the boys and their welfare, Chief Inspector. My integrity was in question. There was no way I could continue as a novice master,’ the priest replied firmly.
‘So,’ Lorimer began, ‘you think this Malcolm may have had something to do with the murder of Deirdre McCann and the other women?’
‘I do. Although,’ the man hesitated again, ‘I worried about the nurses. I couldn’t see him murdering good people like that. Still, the mind does odd things, isn’t that so? No, it was the killing of the two prostitutes that concerned me.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Malcolm was adopted, Chief Inspector. His parents were farming folk who had no children of their own and they took him in and gave him a good home and a loving upbringing. Perhaps that love was just too giving, in the end. You see, they told Malcolm about his real mother. She had been a prostitute in Glasgow and had given up her baby for adoption. That was the reason Malcolm gave for wanting to enter the priesthood. He had a vocation, he said, to rid the world of that kind of sinfulness. Of course, we took that to mean that he wanted to save their souls.’
‘And now you think he may have been on an entirely different crusade?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me a bit more about this man. Malcolm…?’
‘Malcolm Docherty. There’s not a lot I can tell you. He must be in his late thirties by now. I can give you the address he had in Dumfries,’ he said, handing Lorimer a piece of paper. ‘But I don’t know what became of him after he left us.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No. Just my feeling, I suppose. Well, more a certainty, really.’ Father Ambrose looked Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I just know that Malcolm is the man you’re looking for.’
It didn’t take long after the priest had left for Lorimer to run a computer check on their existing data. The names and details of all who had been interviewed were listed in a file. Running his eye down the names, Lorimer wondered if Malcolm Docherty, disgraced novice priest, had even kept his own name.
He had. There, amongst the list of railway employees, was one Malcolm Docherty, aged thirty-nine. Lorimer sat back, stunned. They had him! After all his team’s intensive investigating it had been the conscience of one elderly priest that had cracked it for them. Taking a deep breath, Lorimer lifted the phone.
‘Alistair, get the team together. Now. There’s been a development.’
Malcolm was picking up an empty lager can when he saw them approach. His stick froze in his hand as he watched the figures draw closer. There were about five of them, all in uniform, and they were coming down the side of the railway line. His first instinct was to warn them off, they were too close to the rails. But these were no wee school kids shouting names at him as he chased them away from his line. These men walked towards him with a purpose. Malcolm dropped his plastic sack and turned to run. But just as he began the ascent of the embankment he saw two more uniformed figures sliding down the grassy slope towards him.
He raised his stick and charged, yelling at the top of his voice. Suddenly his legs were swept away from him and he felt a sickening thud as his mouth connected with the hard turf. As he stared at the ground and listened to the harsh voice telling him that he was under arrest, all Malcolm could see were the pale blue speedwells shivering on the grass. He put out his hands and grabbed the tiny flowers, squeezing them tightly in his huge fists, then felt them being wrenched away and cuffed tightly behind his back.
All eyes were on the man as he was led away through the station to the waiting police van. The platforms that had been cleared for this operation were now full of commuters alighting from their trains. Even a press bulb flashed, prompting an officer to throw up an arm as if to protect his prisoner. But there would be plenty of stories told by the passengers held back by the police cordon. Once the news broke, they’d be able to tell how they’d actually witnessed the arrest of the man who’d become known as the Station Strangler.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Solly shook his head as he read the evening headlines, Killer of Four Women Caught. They were wrong of course, just as Superintendent Mark Mitchison was wrong. Malcolm Docherty had not murdered Kirsty MacLeod or Brenda Duncan. Solly’s mouth twisted at the irony of it all. The signature that had identified the man was being used as evidence that he had murdered all four women. And so far Lorimer had not intervened. Mitchison had insisted that he be charged with all four killings. Was Lorimer really doing nothing to prevent this? Somehow he couldn’t imagine the DCI condoning a miscarriage of justice, not to mention the fact that Solly was convinced that a killer was still at large. And Lorimer knew that.
He hadn’t been invited to sit in on the interview. In fact, there had been no communication at all from Strathclyde Police. Perhaps he ought to make it his business to be there all the same, Solly thought, watching as a black cab rolled down Byres Road, its orange light glowing. Making a sudden decision, Solly raised a hand and watched as the vehicle drew in to the kerb.
There was an atmosphere of jubilation at headquarters when Malcolm Docherty arrived. Lorimer felt guilty that he was about to spoil it. The last months had been a slog for all of them and Docherty’s arrest seemed to be the culmination of all that painstaking effort. He’d called the whole team together once Docherty had been safely conducted to the cells for a medical examination.
Lorimer looked from one smiling face to another. Jo Grant was looking positively smug, as well she might. Even the serious Lewisman had a grin on his pale face, though it wouldn’t be there for long.
‘I’m sorry to spoil the party,’ he began, ‘but there is a development that I want you to be aware of.’
All eyes turned to him and he could see their smiles fading as they heard the gravity in his tone.
‘As you know, Dr Brightman has been attempting to profile our killer. I’m pleased to tell you that Malcolm Docherty fits a profile that has been drawn up.’
There were murmurs of approval but among them Lorimer detected Alistair Wilson, hand on his chin, giving his boss a speculative look. The detective sergeant knew Lorimer well enough to tell when some thing was wrong.
‘However, this profile was developed with some difficulty. Dr Brightman did not find it possible to draw his
