The Stalker

Book 16: DSI William Lorimer

by Alex Gray

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The latest William Lorimer investigation from best-selling author Alex Gray — Glasgow-set crime at its most thrilling.

When Detective Superintendent William Lorimer's wife, Maggie, publishes her first book, he is thrilled for her. But joy soon turns to fear when a mysterious stranger starts following Maggie on her publicity tour.

Meanwhile Lorimer and the MIT are on the search for the murderer of two young women, but can Lorimer catch the killer and track down Maggie's stalker at the same time...?

If you like Cara Hunter, Angela Marsons, Patricia Gibney, Lisa Jewell or Joy Ellis, you will be utterly gripped by this twisty, heart-stopping crime novel.

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

It was like being at her own funeral.

Maggie Lorimer shuddered. Where on earth had that thought come from? She glanced back at the audience in front of her, men and women who had come out of friendship or a sense of loyalty. Even, perhaps, out of curiosity. Similar to the sort of attendance you’d see outside a crematorium …

Stop it, an inner voice scolded. Maggie swallowed hard. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. No, it was one of the happiest days. She smoothed down her velvet skirt, the dark green chosen in a moment of caprice to match the book jacket. Nerves, she told herself; just nerves, that’s all. Yet the sudden morbid thought had taken the edge off the excitement she had felt all day.

Looking out at the crowd of people waiting for them to begin, she gave a deep sigh to calm herself then smiled as she experienced an unfamiliar tug of pride. Every seat had been taken.

The shop window downstairs had posters proclaiming that tonight was the launch of Margaret Lorimer’s debut children’s book, Gibby the Ghost of Glen Darnel. ‘Free but ticketed’, the chalk board at the door had told any passers-by. Only half an hour ago she had stopped and gasped at the display of brand-new books piled right in the middle of the aisle. Her books! Holding the first printed copy in her hands had been special, but this made her want to laugh out loud. Wicked, her kids at Muirpark Secondary might have said. Her book was there, in a real bookshop, alongside the work of hundreds of other authors, as if she actually belonged.

The bar staff had been giving out drinks to the stragglers as Lucy, her agent, and Ivy, her publicist, escorted her along to the theatre area and Maggie had given a small wave, recognising Sadie Dunlop, the canteen lady from Police Scotland, all dolled up for this special occasion.

Heads turned and people grinned when she passed down between the two aisles of seats. They had all come to cheer her on; and now that she looked out from the stage, Maggie spotted several colleagues from school (and quite a few of the kids), friends and neighbours, even Audrey Ellis, from along the street, though Maggie suspected that was out of sheer nosiness. There was a cousin she hadn’t seen since Mum’s funeral … perhaps that was where the strange thought had come from. All these people from different parts of her life. There were women she hadn’t seen for ages, and some men, too, though several faces were unfamiliar to her.

And then she spotted the one person she most wanted to see.

There he was at the end of a row, preferring to take a seat at the back, his long legs stretched out. Bill. She had surprised him with this book, she remembered with a smile, the news of its publication coming right at the end of one of his successful cases. Next to her husband were a few other police officers of their acquaintance: Niall Cameron and his nice wife, Eilidh; Betty and Alastair Wilson; and several other men and women from Stewart Street Police Office as well as the Major Incident Team in Govan. Solly Brightman and his wife, Dr Rosie Fergusson, were right at the front, however, faces wreathed in smiles. The book was dedicated to Abigail and baby Ben, though Maggie and Bill’s godchildren were both at home. It was a school night for Abby and in any case she was still too little to read about Gibby, the little ghost boy who had taken the children’s publishing world by storm.

Maybe that was why there were so many strangers here? Ivy, her publicist, had sent out a press release insisting that there was a lot of interest in this Glasgow teacher turned author. Only last weekend Maggie had gazed in astonishment at the double-page spread in the Gazette’s Saturday supplement, her picture staring out at her, the delighted expression unmistakable.

‘Ready?’ Lucy asked quietly, a slight nod to catch Maggie’s eye.

Another deep breath and a proper smile, just as Ivy had told her, then she watched as Lucy rose to her feet, the murmurs from the audience immediately dying down, the spotlight now focused on the stage.

‘Good evening and thank you all for coming. My name is Lucy Jukes and I have the pleasure of being Maggie’s agent. When I first read the manuscript of Gibby the Ghost of Glen Darnel I knew at once that here was a writer with a great imagination and an ability to make her words conjure up pictures in the mind of a child. I have to tell you,’ she turned and looked at Maggie with a brief smile, ‘I was quite blown away by the story and I am sure that anyone reading it for the first time will agree that a superb new talent is born!’

The sudden applause that followed made Maggie’s cheeks burn. It was something she had not prepared herself for, despite all of Ivy’s pre-publication hype, this sensation of being the centre of attention and actually not quite deserving it at all. For a moment Maggie wished she were anywhere else but here, the object of so many eyes watching her, faces looking at her as though she were now someone special just by having a book published.

It’s nerves, she repeated to herself, simply nerves and excitement now that this moment has arrived.

‘Thank you,’ Maggie murmured, taking her place behind the lectern. She swallowed and then caught sight of Bill at the back of the room. He nodded, just once, and she took another deep breath. You can do this, his eyes seemed to tell her.

‘Thanks, all of you, for coming tonight. It’s really rather overwhelming!’ She shook her head so that a ripple of sympathetic laughter rang out.

‘I’d like to read a little from the book and I hope you like it,’ she added, smiling more confidently as she opened the book at the page she’d marked with one of her own new bookmarks.

Then, as she began to read, it was more like being back in the classroom, the words measured carefully, the different voices bringing the characters to life, and Maggie Lorimer knew that everything was going to be just fine.

The small stage was little more than a raised dais, the two figures seated side by side. Once the reading was over the lights went up and members of the audience were invited by the agent to ask all sorts of questions.

Oh, there were plenty of questions he wanted to ask, heart thudding with excitement, but for now it was better to listen, to remain another anonymous punter sitting in a darkened corner of this room where all eyes were on the slim, dark-haired woman sitting on the stage. She had neat ankles, he noticed, and shapely legs, though that skirt just below knee length suggested a sort of modesty. The lacy top glimpsed beneath her jacket was more promising, however, like a camisole that could be ripped off easily, revealing a warm body beneath. A schoolteacher. A woman who ordered kids about. He drew his legs together, feeling the warmth beginning. This time, surely this time … ?

She was exactly what he wanted. And he would not rest until he made her submit to his will.

The table where Lucy directed her had a large vase of white lilies, making Maggie think again for a moment about death and funerals.

‘Glass of wine?’ Lucy asked. ‘White or red?’

Why not? Maggie thought suddenly. It was her night. She deserved it, surely?

‘White, please,’ she agreed, then looked up as Ivy came to hover over her, ready to hand her each book, turned carefully to the page with the publisher’s logo at its foot. There was so much to learn about this publishing business, Maggie had sighed earlier that day to Bill, but right now, with Ivy by her side, she was happy to greet every person in this long queue that had her book in their hand.

‘Gosh,’ she exclaimed, looking up at Betty Wilson, ‘three books!’

‘One for us, one for Kirsty and James and just sign the third one. It’s a present for a friend,’ Betty explained.

‘How are they getting on in Chicago?’ Maggie asked.

‘Loving it,’ Betty replied. ‘We miss seeing them, mind you, but Kirsty wants us over again next month.’

‘Privilege of being retired,’ Maggie murmured.

‘Aye, well, we worked hard for that and Alastair’s got a decent pension.’

Betty smiled and gathered up her books then leaned forward, tapping Maggie on the shoulder. ‘You look lovely tonight, lass,’ she told her. ‘Well done. So proud of you.’ Then she was gone, another taking her place.

Sandie, her best pal at school, thumped several copies of the book on to the table.

‘All for the school library,’ she said with a grin. ‘Manson reckons the juniors will enjoy it,’ she added. Keith Manson, head teacher of Muirpark Secondary School had sent his apologies earlier in the day and Maggie had felt a certain relief. She got on well enough with the man but he was a real authoritarian and her nerves had been stretched enough.

Who would you like me to dedicate it to? became like a mantra, the question posed to each new person who came to the signing table.

Sometimes she was told to ‘just sign your name’, like the chap in the raincoat who stared at her for a moment then scurried off as soon as she had written in his book. He was a stranger, but one of several who may have come at another’s behest or simply out of curiosity. Seamus from the bookstore had reminded her about the different book groups that met here in Waterstones, so really it should be no surprise to meet new people.

‘So many folk I don’t know,’ she whispered to Ivy.

‘Well, remember, these are first editions,’ Ivy retorted. ‘Could be worth a mint some day.’

Maggie shook her head and smiled. No, she was not one to crave fame or fortune, despite Ivy’s best intentions. If you believed your hype you could be coming down to earth with a crash, she had told herself. Yet, in an idle moment, Maggie wondered if J. K. Rowling had felt like this on the evening of her first Harry Potter launch.

She had looked forward to it for weeks and yet now, lying here in bed, Maggie was glad that it was all over. The applause, the kind words, the dinner afterwards in Rogano with Bill and her publishers … it had all been magical, creating memories she would treasure. Tomorrow she would begin the tour of bookshops all across the country, leaving Bill behind. She snuggled in to his side, feeling his arm encircle her waist in response.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be daft,’ Bill replied. ‘Just go out there and enjoy yourself. You were fabulous tonight and you’ll wow audiences everywhere, just wait and see.’

Maggie sighed, half in pleasure and half because what she had said was true. The fortnight’s Easter break would be swallowed up by Ivy Thornton’s plans for this tour and she knew a moment’s regret that they would be apart for so long.

Price I have to pay, she thought. For what? Success? She blinked in the darkness. Was that something driving her on? Tonight it sometimes felt as though she had changed into a different person. Being on stage and behind that signing table, she had drifted into another world. Since Maggie had become an author she had the feeling that everyone was looking at her with new eyes, as though she were suddenly deserving of respect. Well, inside she felt just the same.

A movement by the bed and a familiar sound made Maggie reach out her hand to feel the soft fur of Chancer, their old ginger cat. With a purr he responded to her petting then silently leapt up on to the bed and began to circle himself carefully before settling down by her feet.

I’ll miss you, too, she thought, closing her eyes.

Their bedroom curtains were open. If he had a ladder he could climb up and peer in. What would he see? Two people in bed together? The thought made him clench his teeth.

The figure beneath the street lamp raised a hand in silent salutation then slipped quietly away, shadows taking him into the dark.

It was one of those mornings made for climbing a hill, binoculars slung around his neck. The April skies were devoid of any trace of cloud, a shimmering brightness against the horizon where the sun had risen, the air warm and fragrant with the scent of hyacinths in a tub beside him. Bulbs that Maggie had planted in the late autumn. Lorimer sighed as he closed the front door behind him. Too bright, too early, he could almost hear his late mother speaking the words. Well, this was the west of Scotland and the weather was capricious to say the least. If he had set off for the hills there was no doubt he’d have packed waterproofs. Yet Lorimer’s thoughts were still on the journey his wife was making at that moment. The publicity woman had picked Maggie up half an hour earlier, the birds still in chorus, and by now they would be out of Glasgow and heading north while he made his short journey to the MIT office in Govan. In his mind’s eye he followed their route through Dumbarton, along the dual carriageway to the Stoneymollan roundabout with its sculpture of white flying gulls. Maggie always gave such a sigh of pleasure as they drove around that particular landmark, towns left behind, the hills ahead beckoning. They had travelled that road many a time together but now she was with Ivy Thornton. Lorimer pressed his lips tightly together thinking of the PR and how Maggie had allowed her to take the lead the previous evening. The publishing world was new to them both and he supposed the Thornton woman was just doing her best to promote Maggie’s book, but something in her manner had jarred with the detective superintendent. Was it her tendency to cut in whenever Maggie began to show signs of modesty? She had been pleasant enough towards him, but he’d felt the scarlet-lipped smile had been a little forced when Ivy had looked at him and her eyes had dropped under his questioning gaze as if there was something she did not wish to share. Still, perhaps he ought to give her the benefit of the doubt, despite his natural inclination to analyse another person’s behaviour. His wife was more than capable of looking after herself, he told himself, a faint smile hovering across his mouth as he remembered their earlier conversation.

Maggie, practical as ever, had taken out a frozen meal before she left, reminding him there were several more in the freezer. She’d shaken her head and smiled at him ruefully. ‘Bet you dine out on takeaway curries instead,’ she’d murmured as he’d drawn her into his arms for a hug. She knew him so well, this wife of his. Lorimer grinned, as he drove away from their home. He glanced up for a moment, his attention caught as a lone heron slowly flapped its great wings against the pale morning skies. The bird had its destination in mind, just like him, but it was free to go where it pleased and right now, William Lorimer wished he were beside his wife and heading towards the hills.

Becoming head of the Major Incident Team here in Glasgow had meant time away from home for Lorimer, too, as the unit could be required anywhere, Police Scotland covering every inch of the country. But today he expected to be in the office, with paperwork to prepare for a forthcoming trial. The streets were busy already; even at this early hour Glasgow was wide awake and ready to roll. As he skirted Pollok Park, Lorimer wished once again that he could turn off and spend some time away from the job. The idea made him slip off the main road and take the single track that wound through the park. A short cut, he persuaded himself, though these speed bumps would hardly help him to make better time. The fields and trees on either side were beginning to show signs of spring, a few new leaves tentatively unfurling, though many of the branches remained bare. Further ahead he saw the shapes of shaggy beasts grazing in the long grass: Highland cattle that lived in this oasis of peace in the middle of Scotland’s busiest city. The road forked to the right past the Burrell Collection but Lorimer headed on, past the Police Sports ground then out again towards his destination.

He sighed as the traffic made him stop and wait. It was a pity that the entire school break was being used for Maggie’s book tour but perhaps they would manage a weekend out of town when it was over. A faint smile worked across Lorimer’s face, crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. She’d been amazing last night, a real star, and the pride he had felt had been tinged with something else. Surprise? Perhaps. After all, Maggie had written the book secretly, waiting until it had been accepted for publication before she had told him about it. And there was something else, a feeling of sadness, regret that her mother had not lived to see this day. She’d have been so proud.

The familiar sight of Ibrox football stadium, home to the famous Glasgow Rangers, hove into view and minutes later Lorimer was driving towards the red-brick building on the corner of Helen Street, close to Bellahouston Park. The dear, green place was the phrase someone had coined to describe Glasgow and so it was, though several cases that had come Lorimer’s way had involved decidedly unpleasant incidents amongst these quiet, leafy enclaves.

Lorimer had hardly sat down behind his desk and opened the laptop when there was a knock on his office door.

The tall, rangy figure of DCI Niall Cameron stood there, papers in one hand and a serious expression on his face.

‘Just came in, sir,’ Niall said, and Lorimer motioned him to sit down.

‘Female found over there,’ Niall tilted his head in the direction of the far-away wall.

‘Bellahouston?’ Lorimer felt a prickle across his scalp. Only minutes ago he had been thinking about the shadowy sides of Glasgow’s parkland and here there was another grim incident to take in. It was as if a sixth sense had been telling him about it already. He shook his head, chasing off any fanciful notions, and skimmed over the details on the pages Cameron had thrust his way.

White female, possibly in her thirties. Strangled with what appeared to be her own scarf and pushed under a line of shrubbery.

‘Uniforms called it in, sir. Less than an hour ago. One of the park keepers discovered the body. Forensics are there now.’

‘Major Incident need to be involved?’ Lorimer asked, his eyebrows raised in question. The body of a young woman found in Queen’s Park some months previously had been dealt with by CID as a one-off. The culprit was never located and the case was still live, though it would most likely be downgraded as time wore on and other cases piled up on the investigating officer’s desk. But, if this poor woman’s death had been at the hands of the same killer, then they might well be called upon to reclassify the whole thing. Any danger to the public made a case top priority, but why would a senior investigating officer turn their case over to the crack team at the MIT? As a DCI back in Stewart Street, Lorimer had dealt with cases of multiple murder without resorting to the MIT.

‘Why has it come to us? Surely this ought to have been given to DCI Fraser Urie, the SIO in the Queen’s Park case?’ He frowned.

‘Urie’s off on long-term leave,’ Cameron explained. ‘He was involved in a bad road accident. But that’s not the only reason this has landed here.’

‘Oh?’ Lorimer was immediately alert to the expression on his DCI’s face.

‘There’s a missing person report too,’ Cameron told him, his face serious as he handed over a second sheet of paper.

Lorimer read the details and stared at the photograph then immediately rose to his feet. ‘Better get ourselves over there right now. If this turns out to be who we think she is all hell’s going to be let loose.’

He swept up his coat as they left the room together, his thoughts on what awaited them in the nearby park.

The grass was still dew-spattered as they made their way across to the white forensic tent and Lorimer could feel the edges of his trousers soaked through already. The earlier brightness had indeed held a suggestion of rain to come and now the sun was blotted out completely. Several white-suited figures loomed out of a mist that had descended across the park, one of them heading their way.

‘Sir.’ The face beneath the forensic hood was one of the Fiscal’s young assistants, a woman whose name Lorimer could not remember. They took the suits from her outstretched arms and in moments he and Cameron were fit to enter the crime scene, their wet shoes covered in bootees.

Lorimer could hear people talking inside the tent and as he approached he recognised the voice of the woman who was leaning over the victim, her accent unmistakable. Dr Daisy Abercromby, the Aussie pathologist, turned as he entered the tent.

She gave him a brief nod then returned to speaking details into her recording device.

‘… time of death to be established,’ she said, then switched off the tiny machine and stood up. ‘Poor woman’s been here for at least two nights, I reckon,’ Daisy murmured before turning to see the men from the MIT.

‘Big guns out this morning, eh?’ she remarked, eyes meeting Lorimer’s own. ‘Something special bring you across the road, Superintendent?’

‘Possibly,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘I’ll tell you more once I’ve seen the victim.’

Daisy Abercromby frowned. ‘You know who she is?’

In answer, Lorimer stepped forward and the pathologist made room for him to examine the victim.

The woman was lying on her back, arms by her sides. Her attacker had been kneeling on the victim’s body, Lorimer thought, seeing the bruised flesh on the gap between her leggings and the cropped sports top. The cause of death was easy enough to see, the ligature around her neck a twisted silk scarf. Long dark hair had drifted across the victim’s face and with one gloved hand, Lorimer gently swept it aside.

He had never seen a picture of this person until Cameron had handed him that second piece of paper. But now, here in this damp little space, looking down on her pale complexion, eyes wide and glassy, Lorimer knew without any doubt that this was the woman who had been reported missing.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know who she is.’

Lorimer had craved a trip into the countryside but as the Lexus took each bend of the Stockiemuir Road he wished that he were not travelling to break the news of the woman’s death to her father. In contrast to his sombre mood, the rain clouds had lifted and every hill and mountain was clearly etched against the morning sky, their shadowy blues and greens a harbinger of better days to come. Even the hillsides of tawny bracken had glints of fresh green fronds peeping through with here and there a clump of wild primroses, pale yellow faces shivering in the still cold breeze. Up and down they went, each rise revealing more and more of the hidden secrets beyond the valleys: a glimpse of Loch Lomond, then, higher still, the Cobbler peeping out between twin peaks, its anvil mountain tip clear to see. Then they were driving down again, through little villages where life was being played out as normal: children running in their playground, a tractor in the fields, several hikers ready to tackle the West Highland Way, backpacks shouldered as they took the route from Drymen.

His eyes turned briefly to scan the forest that had been the target of a terrorist gang several years before when Lorimer had been called to investigate a serious plot. It had been re-planted after the explosion that had rocked the quiet hillside and already the young trees were showing a dark line against the horizon. Life went on, Lorimer told himself. Nature was a force that would always come back despite the depredations of humankind. But nothing would bring back the girl whose father he was about to visit and the thought made his lips draw together in a thin, hard line.

Lord Donovan, celebrated high court judge and friend of several members of the royal family, sat beside Lorimer and wept. Lorimer had last seen him in court, the long wig and formal robes giving him a gravitas that had frequently terrified guilty men and women. But this man bore little resemblance to the authoritative figure that Lorimer remembered and the sounds of his anguish tore at the detective’s heart. It was a moment that no father wanted to experience: the facts that he’d dreaded coming to reality.

Lorimer waited, his hands ready to offer more tissues from the big box on the table in front of them. He and Hilary Johnston, the family liaison officer, had driven out immediately to the small village in Stirlingshire. They would try to keep the press at bay but it was only a matter of time before this news hit the headlines. Patricia Donovan had been a favourite of the tabloids, a party girl whose lifestyle was at odds with her upbringing. Boarding school then a year away in Switzerland, Hilary had read the brief notes aloud as Lorimer had driven them out of the city and through the winding country lanes. Then rumours of drugs and rehabilitation centres; a sad story that was all too familiar. Patricia had dabbled with fashion modelling after an acting course and had even enjoyed a bit part on a TV drama, but she had seemed happier being in the sunshine, aboard the yacht of some oil tycoon or on the arm of a perma-tanned actor. More trouble with drugs had brought her back to Scotland and lately she had been a patient at the Priory Hospital in Glasgow. Was that the link, perhaps? Had Patricia Donovan flirted with low life in her attempt to buy drugs? Had she become a victim because of the company she’d kept?

Arthur, Lord Donovan, would likely ask these kinds of questions and Lorimer had to be ready with his answers.

The judge raised his head, eyes red with weeping and caught Lorimer’s blue gaze.

‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why?’

Lorimer reached out and placed his hand across the other man’s arm.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But I promise we will do our best to find out.’

Donovan grasped Lorimer’s outstretched hand. ‘Was it because of me? Does someone want revenge? We. . .