A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  ‘Aye, tea’s fine, So long as it isn’t any of your herbal stuff,’ Lorimer said, taking off his coat and hanging it on the old-fashioned coat stand that stood in a corner of the room.

  He sat on a chair next to the window, sinking gratefully into its cracked brown leather and stretching his long legs in front of him. It was, he thought, the sort of room where he could easily relax, so unlike the office he had been given at Pitt Street. There were books everywhere, of course, not only in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases but scattered across the immense table that dominated the room and in small piles against chair legs and corners as if Solly had been looking for material on a variety of topics throughout the day.

  ‘You’ve got new information?’ Solly asked, pulling out a small side table and setting down the mugs of tea. The promised scones were now on a clean plate, buttered and cut in half. Lorimer picked one up, his fingers becoming satisfyingly floury, realising that he had in fact missed lunch and was suddenly quite hungry.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, taking a bite of the scone.

  Solly waited patiently, watching as the policeman wolfed down the food.

  ‘I had a thought about Pattison,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘Why did he take a car to Glasgow that night when it would have been much easier to travel by train? I asked myself. Then I remembered what you had said about a woman.’

  ‘Go on,’ Solly nodded.

  ‘CCTV footage has caught him in the car, probably picking up a prostitute in Blythswood Square,’ Lorimer told him, watching for the psychologist’s reaction. There was only a nod of that dark head and a thoughtful look in those fathomless brown eyes. Had Solomon Brightman got there before him? Lorimer wondered.

  ‘I think,’ said Solly slowly, ‘that it might be helpful to look into the background of the first two murdered men to see if they were in the habit of soliciting prostitutes back in their own home towns.’

  ‘What about a possible link between the murdered women and those three men?’

  Again that sage nod from the psychologist. ‘Perhaps,’ he began. ‘But is there anything to suggest that there is a killer out there targeting both sets of people? Professional men and street women?’

  Lorimer frowned. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Solly raised his eyebrows in an expression of incredulity. ‘I really do not believe that the person who pulled a gun and killed those men is the same one who butchered these girls. Look,’ he continued, leaning forward to emphasise his point. ‘These men were killed at point-blank range, execution-style, whereas someone else has killed at least two of the women in a complete frenzy. The others may well have been strangled in a moment of rage. Or even frustration,’ he added.

  ‘But you still think there may be some kind of link between the two cases, don’t you?’ Lorimer’s mouth twitched at the corners as he regarded the psychologist. He knew this man so well now and could sense that there was more to come.

  ‘Murdering three men who have nothing in common, apart from the make of cars they drive, simply for soliciting girls in a city centre area would be a little extreme, don’t you think?’ Solly asked. ‘And the last known movements of Mr Wardlaw and Mr Littlejohn might well suggest that was what they were doing out so late at night. Hmm,’ he said, stroking his beard as though that helped him to process his thoughts. ‘And I would want to look for a much more serious motive, wouldn’t you?’ He looked into Lorimer’s steely blue gaze without flinching.

  *

  Lorimer knew his next step would mean an even greater workload for his growing team of officers but at least they would have some help from the forces down south where Matthew Wardlaw and Thomas Littlejohn had originated. Their cars were already being taken apart to see if any of the forensic material was a match for Edward Pattison’s white Mercedes; now it remained to be seen if the police could come up with proof that each of the English businessmen were regular clients of the women in their own cities.

  Meanwhile it seemed as though he and Professor Brightman might have to spend a bit of time moonlighting on their own before he could dole out actions to his crew that involved trawling through the lives of the women who patrolled the drag night after night. He would create a file on his computer to show all of his movements and give an explanation for them, of course. A detective superintendent out in the drag might raise a few eyebrows, or even jeopardise his career, if it was to be taken the wrong way. Especially if the press were to get wind of his private investigations.

  CHAPTER 24

  He reached out his hand to feel the cold surface of the blade shining against its velvet casing on the wall. Where it had come from he did not know but it looked like something from an oriental fairy story, one where heroes fought against dark-skinned warriors, overcoming them despite unequal odds. His lips parted slightly and he ran his tongue across the edge of his teeth, savouring the remembered taste of blood in his mouth. The other weapons shone dimly from their places on this wall, the only illumination coming from a few well-positioned lights set into the ceiling.

  The big man turned slightly to glance at the wall next to the half-opened door. These dark wooden cases contained guns, he knew that, but such mechanical weapons would never give him the same thrill as these ceremonial swords. Guns were part of different stories; shoot-outs in the Wild West or duels between foppish men with lace at their wrists and haughty demeanours. But these blades shaped and chased with delicate traceries, some with fine bone handles, created for him a magic all of their own. These were a real man’s weapons; scimitars, cutlasses and broad-swords that could subdue an enemy or hack to pieces anyone who tried to thwart his desires.

  A sound from the next room alerted him to the presence of other people. It was not forbidden, his coming here to stare at the collection arrayed on the walls of this room, but there was a feeling of unease within the big man as he stood there, hands by his side now like a guilty child who fears being caught for a misdeed he had committed only in thought. Taking a step back, he waited for the inevitable entry of the man who was the owner of these wonderful things.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the man said as he entered the room. ‘Thought I’d heard something. Everything all right?’

  The big man gave a grunt in reply, nodding his head vigorously.

  ‘Okay, don’t be too long in there, will you? There’s plenty of work to be done in the morning, remember.’

  As the door closed behind the owner of these magical swords, the big man sighed deeply then frowned as he regarded the wall once more. That broadsword hanging up there above the others was not quite flush with the horizontal line of its scabbard so he took a step towards the wall, reached up and removed it from the twin display hooks.

  His fist closed around the hilt and he brandished it once, twice, hearing a faint swish as the blade cut through nothing but dusty air. Closing his eyes, the big man imagined the chain mail protecting his body and head, heard the sound of battle cries as his men charged against the foe then raised his arm, ready to enter the fray.

  Blinking, he saw that he was still clutching the huge sword aloft but there was no one there in the room but himself. Slowly he lowered it once more and replaced it reverently on the wall hooks, careful to balance it perfectly between them.

  Taking a step back, he bowed towards the weapon. Then, as though some sort of ceremony had ended, he stepped towards the door, switching off the lights as he left the armoury behind in its cocoon of darkness.

  CHAPTER 25

  Zena Fraser sat obediently, mouth opened wide, while the police doctor ran the swab around the inside of her mouth.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, nodding briefly. ‘Thanks for your co-operation, ma’am.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Zena replied, trying to suppress a shiver of disgust as she rose to leave. In truth she had not wanted to undertake this little visit to her local police office but the fact was that she had to appear as completely apart from the murder investigation as she could. One or two of the tabloids had interviewed her, of course
, but her approach to them had been that of a childhood friend grieving for the man who had become no more than a colleague in the Scottish parliament. If anything other than that should leak out then her career could well be finished, Zena thought, her fair brow furrowing in sudden anxiety as she left the building.

  Elsewhere in the capital the business of running the country was continuing as usual, Felicity Stewart’s well-oiled machinery of government ensuring that each department had its records up to date for the daily televised appearance within the debating chamber. As ever, questions had been asked about the murder case and, as ever, her answers had been similar to those issued by the police. Enquiries were continuing and evidence being collated but for now, no, there had not been any arrests nor had there been any mention of a particular suspect. And, if the first minister was a little brusque in dismissing any further questions on that subject she could have been forgiven, since the day’s agenda was particularly long.

  Frank Hardy listened as the various questions came to the fore, watching Felicity Stewart’s face as she parried several points from the Labour benches. She was good, he thought, her replies quick as lightning, some of them witty enough to evoke a ripple of laughter from the entire assemblage. He could see why Ed had jumped ship. Hardy glanced around at his colleagues, many of whom were grey-haired now and aiming to retire at the next election. There was an atmosphere of apathy within his party at times, something that Edward Pattison had had the nous to sense long before anyone else. Still, there were die-hard types like himself who would rally the electorate to their cause, reminding them of the days gone by when men like the red Clydesiders had fought for their rights.

  Perhaps that was one of the things that Cathy had found attractive about him; the old dog who still banged on about human rights and the socialist way of life. Opposites attracted, it was said, and there was no greater contrast than between a working-class type such as Frank Hardy and a woman like Catherine Pattison, whose upper-class Edinburgh background had made him believe that she was for ever out of his reach. Lorimer would make the connection eventually, he thought. And what then? Would he become a suspect in the case? Cathy had hinted as much, hadn’t she? Well, maybe it was time to cultivate as many alibis as he could. Just in case.

  The forensic reports had helped to show that there had been several women travelling in Edward Pattison’s car, two at least easily identified as his wife and his old friend, Zena Fraser. The others remained a mystery for now, but questions were being asked of the Pattison family to see if they might be able to give any clues as to which other ladies could have been passengers in the white Mercedes. Pattison’s mother-in-law, Mrs Cadell, was one probability, of course, Lorimer thought, reading the forensic chemist’s report carefully once again. The chemist and biologist had been liaising on this one, careful to give cognisance to each other’s particular skills. He read on, wondering. To whom did that strand of long dark hair belong? There were no traces of narcotics so it had probably not come from a street woman after all. Would its DNA be found anywhere on their massive database? If so, then the hunt for a possible witness or even a possible killer might be nearing its end.

  But why would a girl who stood around on street corners plan the deaths of three men whose only crime appeared to be that of driving a flashy big car? Most of the poor souls were totally out of it by the time they picked up their punters, something every police officer knew well, especially if they’d worked the drag at any time in their careers. The girls were usually off their heads on something to help ease the experience of having sex with some stranger or other. Still, it was going to be his mission to talk to as many of them as he could manage. At least once he had the blessing of DCI James.

  It was not a good time to be seen around the city, she thought, skimming through the garments on the sale rail in John Lewis. Some of these might come in useful, the dark-haired woman thought, lifting a gauzy blouse and holding it against her body. Every officer on this case would be on the lookout for the woman who had entered Pattison’s car, Barbara had told her, another snippet that the detective constable had let slip as she had forced herself to fondle the woman’s large breasts. But the woman who was currently rummaging on the sale rail would never be mistaken for a street girl, would she? A swift glance in a nearby mirror confirmed what she had supposed: an attractive, businesslike lady smiled back at her knowingly. She might well be taken for one of those well-kept housewives whose husbands worked in the city, idling her time away. Or some career woman, like a lawyer or an accountant, an image that had fooled the policewoman from that first sighting on the train. At least that was a good cover for what the so-called journalist was doing in her spare time.

  The woman who had called herself Diana amused herself as she contemplated what the neighbours would make of her. Nice lady, they’d say. (And, yes, wouldn’t they just call her a lady?) Kept herself to herself, never one to make a fuss about the children playing outside her garden. And that was true. Children had never felt afraid of her, had they? Barbara Knox had hinted that she detested children, as if that was something Diana ought to know. Was the woman trying to hint that they should get together? She had already tried to prise her address out of her and Diana had had to resort to taking a circuitous route home just in case the policewoman did anything stupid like following her like a love-crazed spaniel. Her eyes flashed in a moment of anger. There were no more cosy train journeys; that was something she simply couldn’t afford to risk.

  She slid the garment back on to its rail and marched out of the store into the maelstrom of people in Buchanan galleries and the pedestrian precinct that was crowded with shoppers eager to claim a late bargain, no doubt thwarted by the bad weather earlier in the month. And, as she made her way through the crowded streets, she felt a sudden panic. Time was slipping by and still she was no further forward. But there was one thing she had in her favour, if Knox was to be believed: Detective Superintendent Lorimer had been ordered to shelve that case and so now she had free rein to find Carol Kilpatrick’s killer.

  ‘There’s a match,’ he stated aloud, though at that particular moment there was nobody around to hear the words uttered by the forensic scientist. It might be a small statement, but it was one that would, perhaps, help to bring a satisfactory conclusion to at least one of Strathclyde Police’s ongoing cases.

  The white-coated scientist grinned in a moment of quiet triumph: there was now a massive link between each of these murders, since he had been able to match DNA from particles found in the Tracey-Anne Geddes case with traces from the crime scene productions concerning Jenny Haslet. The traces picked up from the more recent victim might be minute but they were sufficient for this particular forensic biologist to be confident that he could stand up in a court of Scottish law and state that there was a strong probability that whoever had murdered Jenny Haslet had also killed the prostitute who had been working the drag. The scientist shifted his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and smiled again as he rubbed his eyes. He knew at least one police officer who was going to like this.

  ‘You beauty!’ Detective Superintendent Lorimer whispered under his breath as the voice on the telephone outlined the latest forensic discovery. It was usual for forensic reports to take days, or even weeks, to come through, but the men and women working on these cases were savvy enough to let him have any fresh information as it came in. He might no longer be officially involved but a word here and there had let his friends in the forensic sciences know he wanted to be kept in the loop.

  ‘Thanks, thanks a lot,’ Lorimer said warmly. ‘I owe you big time for this one, believe me.’

  It took only a matter of seconds to forward the email report to Solly and Helen James. Lorimer’s smile faded as he thought of the case that he had been ordered to shelve; there was something about these street women murders that needed more attention, not less. Failure to make any headway could see another bloody corpse flung into the dark corner of a pend. Well, if Maggie could endure his absence
for a few nights, then he’d be rooting about in the city, seeing what he could find by himself.

  Meantime he had instructed the Lothian and Borders officers to keep a sharp watch on Catherine Pattison, not merely for her own protection from the press pack, but because, as he had warned his counterpart on the Edinburgh force, he suspected that she might be impeding her husband’s case by deliberate time wasting. The three supposed suspects she had named had been passed over to Lothian and Borders now and there was a general feeling that both Zena Fraser and James Raeburn had nothing whatsoever to do with their colleague’s murder. It was partly a matter of eliminating them from the scene of crime, Lorimer had assured them. Frank Hardy, though, posed a different sort of problem. Living so close to the murder scene meant that Hardy’s movements on the night of the murder would have to be examined in greater detail.

  Lorimer drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, trying to recall the tone of voice the MSP had used when he had mentioned Catherine Pattison. Cathy, he’d called her. And had there been a slight wistfulness there or had Lorimer imagined it? Perhaps the enmity that had existed between the two men had its origins in something much more basic than politics. He sat back for a moment, wondering. If Hardy and Catherine Pattison had been having an affair then that would have given one or both of them a reason to want Edward Pattison out of the way. There had been no love lost between man and wife, if the woman’s reaction to his death was anything to go by. A serial philanderer, Pattison was not going to be mourned greatly by that dark-haired beauty in her Murrayfield mansion. Lorimer thought back to Solly’s enigmatic text: Cherchez la femme, he’d written. Well, that could mean one of two things, couldn’t it? Femme in French did not only mean a woman – it could also refer to a wife.