band from his pocket and tied his long hair back in a ponytail. No stray hairs were allowed to float across his lenses. Satisfied that his colleague was now at work, Martin sidled over to the figure by the police tripod.
‘Martin Enderby,the
Gazette
,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Thought it would be your boys,’ answered the photographer curtly, returning to his work.
Martin waited patiently until the man had clicked off sufficient frames for his purpose. ‘A friend of yours?’ he asked, indicating the dark figure still standing on the fringes of the site.
‘Only just met him today,’ the officer replied. ‘Colleague of DCI Lorimer’s.’
Martin nodded, hoping for more, but the photographer was already packing up his gear. ‘Ready, Dr Brightman?’ he called.
The still figure moved out of its trance. Martin was amazed at the transformation on the man’s face as he grinned boyishly at the photographer.
‘Oh, yes, I do think so. I really do think I am ready.’
Then he rubbed his hands in a gleeful gesture and waved cheerily as they passed Martin on their way to the unmarked van.
Well, thought Martin to himself, he’s an odd one. Dr Brightman? Could he be new to the Forensic Medical Department? Perhaps he would give Glasgow University a little call later on.
Davey was several yards from the site by a group of windswept saplings. He looked down on the area, snapping quickly then moving slightly to catch a different angle. Martin waited impatiently. The photos would be terrific but Davey sometimes became detached from their purpose and looked only for a picture’s compositional value. At last he appeared satisfied and returned to Martin’s side.
‘Find anythingout from those two?’ he asked.
Martin shrugged. ‘Not really. Someone new to Forensics, I think. Anyhow, I shouldn’t expect there would be much left to test after a fire like that.’ He indicated the expanse of bald and blackened earth. ‘Seems to have done a thorough job.’
Davey didn’t answer, his eyes on the van now moving off in the direction of Strathblane. Martin followed his gaze. Whatever the prize-wining photographer was seeing, he couldn’t make it out. Ideas for a winter landscape, perhaps?
‘Right, let’s get back and put this lot together,’ he said at last, looking at his watch. Other folk might have time to stand and stare but he had a deadline to meet.
C HAPTER 15
D onna Henderson’s lifelay in fragments within a plain buff folder. Despite the ubiquitous computer, hard copy was still the first point of reference for officers, and the lever arch files were stacked high in Lorimer’s Division. He sat with the folder open in front of him, examining statements several months old. Parents, friends, colleagues and neighbours had all contributed to the picture of who Donna had been. An ordinary lassie, Lorimer had decided at the time; one whose ambitions lay no further than the next good night out with her pals and maybe a holiday abroad, if she could save up her tips.
The young hairdresser had left school at sixteen to train in a local salon. She had apparently been happy enough to sweep up the floors, make tea and learn to shampoo clients’ hair. Then the take-over had come. A larger group of salons had bought out the shop and Donna had been given the chance to travel into one of their Glasgow branches. She had been thrilled at the prospect, a friend had said. Despite the cost of travelling into the city every day, Donna had loved her work there and was keen to learn. The senior stylist had been tactful about her progress. Enthusiasm had not been lacking, but she was not a fast learner. Nevertheless her cheery manner had been an asset to the city salon and she was both punctual and conscientious. Ironically it was that very conscientiousness that had been her downfall, Lorimer thought. A more rebellious spirit might have stayed out later with her pals and risked parental wrath; at least she would have
‘Martin Enderby,the
Gazette
,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Thought it would be your boys,’ answered the photographer curtly, returning to his work.
Martin waited patiently until the man had clicked off sufficient frames for his purpose. ‘A friend of yours?’ he asked, indicating the dark figure still standing on the fringes of the site.
‘Only just met him today,’ the officer replied. ‘Colleague of DCI Lorimer’s.’
Martin nodded, hoping for more, but the photographer was already packing up his gear. ‘Ready, Dr Brightman?’ he called.
The still figure moved out of its trance. Martin was amazed at the transformation on the man’s face as he grinned boyishly at the photographer.
‘Oh, yes, I do think so. I really do think I am ready.’
Then he rubbed his hands in a gleeful gesture and waved cheerily as they passed Martin on their way to the unmarked van.
Well, thought Martin to himself, he’s an odd one. Dr Brightman? Could he be new to the Forensic Medical Department? Perhaps he would give Glasgow University a little call later on.
Davey was several yards from the site by a group of windswept saplings. He looked down on the area, snapping quickly then moving slightly to catch a different angle. Martin waited impatiently. The photos would be terrific but Davey sometimes became detached from their purpose and looked only for a picture’s compositional value. At last he appeared satisfied and returned to Martin’s side.
‘Find anythingout from those two?’ he asked.
Martin shrugged. ‘Not really. Someone new to Forensics, I think. Anyhow, I shouldn’t expect there would be much left to test after a fire like that.’ He indicated the expanse of bald and blackened earth. ‘Seems to have done a thorough job.’
Davey didn’t answer, his eyes on the van now moving off in the direction of Strathblane. Martin followed his gaze. Whatever the prize-wining photographer was seeing, he couldn’t make it out. Ideas for a winter landscape, perhaps?
‘Right, let’s get back and put this lot together,’ he said at last, looking at his watch. Other folk might have time to stand and stare but he had a deadline to meet.
C HAPTER 15
D onna Henderson’s lifelay in fragments within a plain buff folder. Despite the ubiquitous computer, hard copy was still the first point of reference for officers, and the lever arch files were stacked high in Lorimer’s Division. He sat with the folder open in front of him, examining statements several months old. Parents, friends, colleagues and neighbours had all contributed to the picture of who Donna had been. An ordinary lassie, Lorimer had decided at the time; one whose ambitions lay no further than the next good night out with her pals and maybe a holiday abroad, if she could save up her tips.
The young hairdresser had left school at sixteen to train in a local salon. She had apparently been happy enough to sweep up the floors, make tea and learn to shampoo clients’ hair. Then the take-over had come. A larger group of salons had bought out the shop and Donna had been given the chance to travel into one of their Glasgow branches. She had been thrilled at the prospect, a friend had said. Despite the cost of travelling into the city every day, Donna had loved her work there and was keen to learn. The senior stylist had been tactful about her progress. Enthusiasm had not been lacking, but she was not a fast learner. Nevertheless her cheery manner had been an asset to the city salon and she was both punctual and conscientious. Ironically it was that very conscientiousness that had been her downfall, Lorimer thought. A more rebellious spirit might have stayed out later with her pals and risked parental wrath; at least she would have
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