as SIO. Yet, as his senior, Mumby felt that he should be taking control of a case that fell within his own jurisdiction.
‘Quite a while apart, though, aren’t they?’ Lorimer told him, playing devil’s advocate to see how Mumby would react as much as anything. ‘Late summer and now the middle of winter.’
He could hear the exasperation in Mumby’s voice as the DCI strove to explain just how many parallels there were in the two murders: both men came from south of the border on business, had driven the same make of car (a white Mercedes SL); and had parked below railway bridges several miles from the city centre where they had booked into hotels. And, of course, there was the MO, a shot at close range to the heart. So far there had been no forensic evidence to give a clue as to the perpetrator of either killing, suggesting that they had been carried out by someone who was forensically aware.
‘So, what are you looking for?’ Lorimer asked. ‘A mediator between yourself and DI Preston, or someone to take the entire investigation off your hands?’
Everyone in the force knew that Serious Crimes existed to conduct investigations into a range of criminal activity throughout Strathclyde region. Their caseload at present included a drug cartel and an investigation into money laundering activities as well as an internal inquiry into possible sabotage at the Ministry of Defence at Gairloch.
The first day into the job and murder was already knocking on his door, he thought wryly, acknowledging that his own time in the force had brought him investigations into several high-profile serial killings.
‘There’s no apparent reason for these men’s deaths,’ Mumby began slowly and Lorimer could hear a wheeze in the DCI’s voice, suggesting he was suffering from a bad cold. ‘One of my officers suggested that a night-time watch be made on railway bridges across the city, but of course that’s out of the question given the current budgetary constraints,’ he continued, pausing to cough away from the telephone.
‘And there’s no connection at all between Wardlaw and Littlejohn?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
‘None that we can find, sir,’ Mumby replied. ‘My officers have been over all of that ground with a fine toothcomb, believe me,’ he said firmly.
Lorimer thought for a minute. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Send the files over and we’ll have a look at them.’
He put down the telephone. There had been no promises made to the officer and no decisions taken. Whether this particular pair of shootings found its way under the auspices of the Serious Crimes Squad remained to be seen.
DCI Mumby reached into his desk for a honey and lemon pastille. It was as much as he could reasonably expect from Lorimer. Could twice amount to more than a coincidence? he asked himself, echoing the words of DC Knox who had wanted officers posted at a series of railway bridges just in case. A third time would look like sheer carelessness on the part of the police, the young woman had insisted. She had enthused about local squads making detours from their routes to look out for any parked cars under the bridges’ shadowed arches. Far too time-consuming and expensive, Mumby had snorted, and he knew he was right.
What neither the detective constable nor the DCI could have known, however, was that the killer’s next location would be well away from the echoing embrace of those curving stones below a railway line.
CHAPTER 6
The garage was situated near St George’s Cross, a five-minute drive from Pitt Street. Lorimer parked his old Lexus by the edge of the MOT bay, feeling the driver’s seat give a little, and hearing a creak, as he got out. A new car would take a while to become as familiar as this old friend, he thought, shaking his head at his foolish sentimentality. The midnight blue car had received its fair share of scrapes and scratches over the years and had recently developed a taste for oil on an alarming scale. It was time, long past time, Lorimer told himself, to trade it in for a newer model with a lower mileage.
He walked through the showroom, admiring the huge four by fours and wondering what Maggie would say if he rolled up in one of those. The price tags were far beyond what he wanted to pay anyway, he told himself, moving out into the yard where there were rows of second-hand saloons and hatchbacks. A black Mercedes caught his eye and he