defended his party’s lack of progress in achieving independence for Scotland. And that was not all; of the three of them, Raeburn was the only one who had had any previous experience with small firearms. But logic dictated that everything else was wrong about the man as a potential killer, Solly told himself; unless Mrs Pattison knew more about the politician than she was letting on.
Solly was standing at the large bay windows that looked down on Kelvingrove Park and across the city to its western edges. It was still dark outside and he could hear a fierce wind blowing. The lights from the street lamps outside seemed to waver and sway, blurred by the rain falling across his window. It was like a parody of his mind, he thought; wasn’t he trying to see through a sort of darkness? There were some things that were obscuring his vision, too; these three politicians amongst them. He had seen them all on television at one time or another and could remember the attractive woman, the Glasgow man, Hardy, and James Raeburn whose programme on contemporary art Solly had also followed at one time. The psychologist rubbed his eyes with both hands as though to erase the pictures of them from his mind, then turned from the windows to concentrate on the day ahead. He was still pursuing the case that Lorimer had been forced to abandon, meeting with any friends and family of the murdered street women, and today he had an appointment with Miriam Lyons’ father.
I’ll come to your office, Jeremy Lyons had said when Solly had called up the number Lorimer had given him. Give me a time, the solicitor had added in a brusque tone that sounded as if he were already looking at his diary to check a slot that was free.
Solly, who knew his own university timetable off by heart, had offered the man an hour mid-morning that he could fit between lectures. Now, in this time before dawn when sounds from the city were beginning to drift up to the houses above the park, Solly wondered why Miriam’s father had insisted on seeing him on his own without Miriam’s mother present and not at their address. Perhaps anyone who had business with their daughter’s death brought with them a sort of violation of their home. What sort of striving for normality must these poor parents have had? Not only coming to terms with Miriam’s death but its aftermath, the media poking and prying into every crevice of their personal lives. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to work that out, Solly reminded himself grimly.
The Jewish lawyer was right on time, Solly thought, seeing the man in the dark overcoat who stood on the corner of University Gardens checking his watch. His navy scarf was wound several times around his neck, the fringed ends flapping as the wind caught it and Solly wondered how long he had been standing there in the cold. He came away from the window and, leaving his door ajar, headed down the flight of stairs, ready to greet his visitor. Lyons looked up from where he stood on the pavement outside the Department of Psychology and, catching sight of Solly, he nodded as though recognising something reassuring in the psychologist’s appearance.
‘Mr Lyons.’
‘Professor Brightman.’ Gloved hands closed over Solly’s for a moment as the two men regarded one another. Jeremy Lyons was a man of around fifty, Solly guessed, noticing the dark hair receding and greying at the temples. But those deeply set brown eyes pouched with heavy folds of skin suggested someone much older. Solly knew that look; it was a look of grief beyond normal suffering that Jeremy Lyons shared with others in the aftermath of violent death.
‘Please come up.’ Solly waved a hand at the open door and ushered the man into the building and upstairs to his capacious office.
‘Sit over here by the radiator,’ he urged, nodding towards the pair of comfy chairs that flanked the heater. Lyons sat down on the edge of the seat without unbuttoning his overcoat, the scarf still wound around his neck.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Solly asked, lifting up a box of assorted teabags that he kept for his students.
‘No, no, I must get back … ’ Lyons hesitated.
‘A herbal tea, perhaps? Just to warm us up? I have some nice camomile,’ Solly said, flipping the switch on the kettle and pulling a pair of mugs off a shelf.