A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  He pulled off the dungarees and slid them down over his thighs, feeling the cool air rush at his midriff as he bent over to release the garment now at his ankles. Maybe he would go into town, see what he could pick up in the sales. It was his birthday soon and he deserved a treat. A new Armani suit, perhaps? Something sharp and sleek to make these Glasgow people look at him with appreciation in their eyes. There was no shortage of money, after all. Vlad saw to that, didn’t he? A crafty look came into the man’s face as he ascended the stairs, the dungarees slung across his shoulders. He had plenty saved up now, easily enough for a holiday in Bucharest if he felt like it. Though whether it would be possible to enter his home country again was a problem that even money might not be able to solve. There were people who could sell you different passports, however. Clever people whose skills in fakery made their prices fairly steep. Could he go along that route, the tall man wondered? Perhaps it was time for a new name and a new identity. Sacha, his uncle still called him, a silly little name for a silly little boy. Alexander had always suited him so much better. It was a warrior’s name, after all; a name for heroes.

  He was still smiling as he crossed the reception area, quite oblivious to the eyes that followed him from behind the desk or to the involuntary shudder the receptionist gave as she watched the handsome mechanic open the rest room door and close it behind him again.

  Andie’s Sauna was smaller than she thought it would be, Doreen Gallagher decided, shuffling her bottom further to one side to accommodate the two young girls who were sitting next to her. One of them was vaguely familiar, a pale faced wee thing who kept turning to look out of the window as if she were expecting somebody to arrive at any minute. The manager, or at least that was what she had called herself, had already interviewed the girl’s pal who was now flicking over the pages of a much-thumbed copy of Now magazine while masticating a wad of gum. Doreen frowned as the pale girl twitched her body around again. Here, sit at peace, she wanted to growl at her as if she were the lassie’s mammy. But the very knowledge that this was what she would sound like prevented her from opening her mouth.

  ‘Mrs Gallagher?’ A middle-aged woman wearing a smart white coat stood there, one hand on the door of the next room. A clipboard in her other hand was meant to give a businesslike impression, Doreen imagined, but she couldn’t see anything written on the pages held in place by a metal clip.

  ‘It’s Ms,’ Doreen corrected the woman, straightening her skirt as she stood up. Head held high, Doreen followed her into the room. Best to get things right from the off, she thought, taking in the peeling paint around the skirting boards and the faded screen over in the corner that had once been decorated with a delicate chinoiserie but was now dull and broken at its hinges.

  ‘Take off your clothes behind the screen. Okay? Then come out with just your knickers on,’ the woman said in a bored tone that reminded Doreen of a visit to the VD clinic.

  Doreen’s heart sank as she removed her black tights. The ravages of years of drug abuse could clearly be seen in these patches of discoloured flesh. Would that matter, though? Nearly every pro she knew was a user after all, and this place was hardly a palace, was it?

  Doreen tried not to shiver as she left the confines of the rickety screen and stood expectantly in front of the sauna manager.

  What did she see? A forty-something-year-old prostitute whose slender body and well made-up face were perhaps her only assets. Maybe. Or did she look beyond that and see eyes that were glazed against hurting too much, hair that had been dyed repeatedly, taking any sign of its natural colour away, and a shivering woman whose need for another fix was becoming all too apparent.

  ‘Aye, you’ll do,’ the woman said after a few moments of wordless scrutiny. ‘Get dressed and I’ll tell you what your shifts’ll be, okay?’

  Lily sat alone now in the waiting room, alternately eyeing the door where they’d gone and watching the street just in case anyone should see her here. At last the dark-haired woman emerged, a half-smile on her face that told Lily she’d been successful in getting the job.

  She rose to take her turn but the white-coated woman raised a hand to stop her.

  ‘Naw, hen, sorry. Ye’re too young for us. Come back when you’ve got a couple mair years under yer belt, eh?’ The snigger that accompanied these words made Lily blush and she practically ran out of the shop, colliding with the woman in the raincoat, the one who had been sitting beside her for so long.

  ‘Hey, watch where ye’re goin’,’ Doreen yelled, then, seeing the girl’s stricken face held out a hand. ‘Aw, it’s you, hen. Here, did they no’ take ye on, then?’

  Lily bit her lip in an attempt to stop the tears coming but one slid down her face anyway.

  ‘Och, come on, wee hen, dinna start that. Look, d’ye fancy a cuppa something? I’m Doreen, by the way,’ she added, her arm now around the younger girl’s shoulder.

  ‘Aye,’ she whispered. ‘Aye, I’d like that fine thanks, missus.’

  Doreen Gallagher fished out the packet of cigarettes and handed one to the girl who shook her head.

  ‘Naw, thanks all the same. Don’t do ciggies,’ she smiled at Doreen who returned the smile with a short laugh. It was a joke that needed no elaboration. They were both street women whose drug habits were far more harmful than anything tobacco could do to them.

  Soon Doreen Gallagher was sitting in a run-down cafe opposite the young girl who had now introduced herself as Lily. The older woman’s face grew thoughtful as they sipped their tea. It was the image of a pile of folded notes in her hand that made her smile suddenly. The woman, that journalist, she paid for information, didn’t she? Wee Lily might be a bit of a rookie when it came to being on the game but perhaps that was all to the good. If she had someone keeping an eye open for things on the street …?

  ‘Hey, wee yin,’ Doreen said suddenly. ‘How’d you like to make some easy cash?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer?’ a well-educated voice asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Sir, this is DS Jackson, Lothian and Borders. It’s about Mrs Pattison.’

  Lorimer’s eyes grew dark as he listened to the detective sergeant. Why on earth had nobody checked up on this before? Had he been too caught up in the politics of the case to think of this, perhaps? As the story unfolded it became clear that Catherine Pattison had told him a barefaced lie when she had claimed to have been at home the night of her husband’s death. All three of her children, the Edinburgh cop went on, had been at their grandmother’s home in Barnton. A chance remark by one of the kids to the family liaison officer had opened up a whole new can of worms. Plus nobody had logged the fact that the initial call to Mrs Pattison was to her mobile. In all the excitement of finding the deputy first minister murdered it had slipped the notice of someone in Lothian and Borders that no one had answered the Pattisons’ landline number. Lorimer ground his teeth in a moment of frustrated anger. Things like that were elementary and should never have been overlooked. But there was no time for recriminations as he listened to what the officer from Edinburgh was telling him.

  ‘So far the wife is saying absolutely nothing. She’s been instructed by her lawyer, of course,’ the DS told him. ‘What do you want to do?’

  What Lorimer wanted to do right now was to hop on a train back to Edinburgh and wring the bloody woman’s neck! He knew she’d been wasting their time, but hadn’t ever thought that the reason she’d sent them on wild goose chases was to cover up lies about her own whereabouts that particular night.

  A quick glance at the clock on the office wall told him he’d be in time to catch an express train if he hurried. The alternative at this time in the afternoon was a lengthy queue of traffic all along the motorway. He could pick up a squad car at Haymarket and be at the Murrayfield house in just over an hour’s time. There were meetings scheduled from now till after seven o’ clock but he supposed Rita Livingstone could cover them just this once.

  ‘I’m coming across,’ Lorimer sai
d at last. ‘Tell them I want her to remain in the house. And keep the kids and the granny there too, understand?’

  Mrs Cadell scrubbed at the copper pot with a vigour that surprised her. Though well into her seventies, the old lady could still muster up a cold fury that translated itself into such small actions. Stupid girl, she thought, Stupid, stupid girl! It could all have been so easy if only that Glasgow man had left Catherine in peace. Edward was what people used to call a cad. A love rat, these awful soaps called them nowadays. The old lady’s mouth twisted in a moue of distaste. This horrible business was becoming just like an episode from one of these ghastly programmes.

  ‘Gran.’ A small voice made her turn to see a pretty child with blonde curls framing her pale face. It was Kim, her youngest granddaughter standing at the kitchen doorway, a favourite raggy doll clutched to her chest.

  ‘Oh, my darling!’ she sighed, swooping down and taking the child into her arms as she stepped towards her. The warmth from the child’s body coursed through her, bringing an unexpected comfort. It took a huge effort to keep her own tears from falling onto the child’s shoulders. She might be old but she had to be strong.

  Then that same small voice piped up, crushing her resolve.

  ‘Why is Daddy not coming home?’

  Lorimer’s presence was a dark shadow against the glass door, something that a child might tremble to see. Sarah Cadell had made sure, however, that none of the children were downstairs to await the detective’s arrival. The television in their parents’ bedroom was currently showing one of their many Christmas DVDs and for once Sarah was glad of the space that watching cartoons afforded them all. It had been that police liaison officer’s idea. She was a mother herself, knew how to keep her own brood amused, she’d said, as she’d asked if there was another television anywhere in the house.

  ‘Can I stay when the Detective Superintendent arrives?’ Sarah had asked, but Catherine had shaken her head then glared a warning at her. There was a back room that served as the children’s playroom. A family room, Catherine called it, though God alone knew when they had last all sat there as a family. Sarah slipped into it, knowing she was close enough at hand should the tall policeman demand to see her. She was also in earshot of anything that might be said in the drawing room should she be able to keep both doors slightly open.

  Sarah Cadell heard the door opening and then one of the uniformed officers was speaking to the man from Glasgow.

  ‘The children are upstairs, sir. Family liaison officer will keep them there until you need to speak to them.’

  ‘They will need to be with their mother or another adult relation,’ Lorimer was saying when Sarah stepped hurriedly out of the playroom and approached the tall man whose long shadow seemed to stretch out unnaturally along the corridor.

  ‘I can stay with the children,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m Mrs Cadell, Mrs Pattison’s mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorimer said, taking off his gloves and clasping her hand. ‘We met before,’ he added.

  Sarah Cadell took in a sudden breath. It was not just the strength of that warm hand closing on her own, but the directness of his gaze and those blue eyes … lovely eyes, she thought, eyes that should be painted by a master, but eyes that would surely follow you around any room looking down from their face in a portrait.

  ‘You will be kind…?’ she asked falteringly as he released her hand.

  But all she received by way of an answer was a tired sort of smile and a nod of the head. Sarah stood, helplessly, unable to decide whether to go back to the room next door or creep upstairs and join the children.

  She watched as they moved into the drawing room then sighed as Lorimer closed the door firmly behind them.

  *

  Catherine Pattison did not rise as the men entered the room. Instead she merely turned her head and stared, an expression of defiance etched on her handsome features.

  ‘Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said, then turned his attention to a slim blonde who had risen to her feet, hand outstretched.

  ‘Belinda Joseph. Joseph, Connery and partners,’ the woman told him. ‘I’m Mrs Pattison’s solicitor,’ she added in a slightly patronising tone as though it were necessary to spell things out in plain English for this man from Glasgow.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he replied briefly. ‘Now,’ he said, turning to gaze at Catherine Pattison. ‘Would you like to tell me why you’ve been wasting so much police time, Mrs Pattison?’

  ‘I’ve instructed my client to say nothing,’ Belinda Joseph stated with a toss of her head that made her blonde ponytail swish. For an absurd moment she reminded Lorimer of a well-bred racehorse, nervy and highly strung.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case perhaps I should ask Mrs Pattison to accompany us to Glasgow,’ he began, watching the reaction in the two women’s faces.

  Catherine Pattison opened her mouth to speak, her cheeks suddenly turning white but the solicitor raised a hand to stop her, eyes flashing angrily.

  ‘Are you threatening my client?’ she asked, hands on her hips. ‘If so, I can report you—’

  ‘Let’s get one thing absolutely clear,’ Lorimer stormed, cutting across the woman before she could utter another word. ‘This is a serious murder case and Mrs Pattison has already lied to me about her alibi for the night on which her husband was killed. I want to know why. And if I don’t get the answers here I can try to get them back at police headquarters.’ He turned to Catherine Pattison, fixing her with his blue gaze, adding sternly, ‘Even if I have to arrest you on suspicion of murdering your husband!’

  The gasp from the doorway made them all turn to see Mrs Cadell who was standing, hands by the sides of her face.

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘You can’t do that! It wasn’t what you think … ’

  ‘Mother!’ Catherine Pattison was on her feet now, her face a mask of terror. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘I have to,’ the old lady said, stumbling forward and catching hold of the back of a chair. ‘It’s no use, Catherine, they have to know the truth.’

  ‘Mrs Cadell.’ The solicitor stepped forward and made as if to take the old lady’s hand but Sarah Cadell shook her off.

  ‘No, the detective superintendent needs to know what’s been going on here. There have been too many lies told already,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Pattison?’ Lorimer murmured quietly, moving around the room so that Catherine Pattison could not avoid looking up at him. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to tell me what this is all about?’

  Catherine Pattison shot an anguished glance at the solicitor who merely shrugged then looked at Sarah Cadell who was clutching the back of the chair to steady herself.

  ‘Come and sit down, Mother,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been such a strain for us all.’

  Lorimer rose to assist the old lady into a vacant chair so that the three women were sitting side by side. He remained standing, hands behind his back, deliberately towering over them as though to symbolise the presence of law and order.

  Catherine Pattison sat up a little straighter then cleared her throat. ‘My husband was not a faithful man,’ she began. There was a pause as she bit her lip before continuing. ‘But then, I was not a faithful wife.’ She had clasped her hands now and Lorimer watched as she wrung them together, in an unconscious gesture of despair.

  ‘Frank Hardy?’ Lorimer asked quietly.

  Catherine Pattison opened her mouth in an O of astonishment. ‘You knew?’ she said, frowning as though she had suddenly been tricked.

  ‘No,’ Lorimer replied. ‘But I did make an educated guess.’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman replied, suddenly at a loss for words.

  ‘And were you with Hardy on the night of your husband’s death?’

  She had dropped her gaze now and was sitting, head bowed so that her nod was barely imperceptible.

  ‘So why did you tell me that he might be a candidate for killing your husband? I don’t quite understand,’ Lorimer continued.

  ‘
We thought … ’ Catherine tailed off, sniffing into a handkerchief that she had found behind a cushion.

  ‘Mrs Pattison thought that if you knew about her affair with Mr Hardy then that might constitute a motive for murder,’ Belinda Joseph told him.

  ‘And it might still,’ Lorimer replied.

  ‘You see, giving you Frank’s name was Catherine’s way of distancing herself from him,’ the solicitor continued, but Lorimer hardly acknowledged her breathless interruption. He’d already come to that conclusion anyway and didn’t need anyone else to spell it out for him. Instead he hunkered down in front of Catherine Pattison, forcing her to look him in the eye.

  ‘What we need to know, Mrs Pattison, is where exactly you were with Hardy on the night Edward was killed and if you can provide alibis that place you both firmly elsewhere than Erskine woods.’

  ‘I … ’ The woman seemed caught in his gaze but she nodded her understanding. ‘We were together all night. Frank has a flat here in the city.’ She bit her lip once again. ‘I don’t think anyone knew we were there that night, though. You see, we try to be as discreet about going there as we can,’ she added, her face reddening.

  ‘Still, someone may have seen you?’ he offered.