A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  The officer’s face remained impassive. ‘If he has no record then your description is all the more important for us to find him, sir.’ Jim brightened at that. The last couple of hours had seemed interminable, his head swimming with the images, all the while trying so hard to keep the picture of that brute in his mind. ‘So I can still help you, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. Now let me explain how this works.’

  ‘I hate to raise any hopes and call this a breakthrough,’ Lorimer began. ‘But I’m not one for believing in coincidences. Lily Winters was almost attacked by a man wielding a scarf, perhaps the same person who attacked and killed Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet. Of course, unless we find and apprehend this man we have no way of matching his DNA on our current database. But it is surely not a coincidence that he was at the end of the same lane where Carol Kirkpatrick and Tracey-Anne Geddes were both attacked. And he was driving a white Merc when he went after Lily Winters.’

  ‘What’s with the Mercedes?’ a voice asked. ‘Surely we’re not looking for another link to the Pattison case?’

  Lorimer stifled a sigh. Duncan Sutherland was always going to play devil’s advocate, wasn’t he?

  ‘We could be doing just that, Duncan,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘If what Dr Brightman thinks is correct, then we have a scenario where a female perpetrator is picking off punters in a white Merc in revenge for the prostitute killings.’

  ‘A prossie shooting three innocent men?’ Sutherland’s tone was full of derision.

  ‘Perhaps not a street woman, but someone close to them,’ Lorimer replied evenly. ‘As we have seen, this series of murders has required an organised mind and a lucidity that would probably not be found in most of these women.’

  ‘Too doped-up to see straight, never mind hit their target,’ someone else added.

  ‘Right,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘So we have two concurrent cases.’ He curled his fist, sticking up his thumb. ‘One, we see four prostitutes murdered in our city over a period of less than two years, all of them known to have worked the drag. Two,’ he lifted his index finger, ‘during that same period three men are killed in their Mercedes cars, one of them, our deputy first minister.’ Lorimer swept his gaze over the room of officers, each one focused on his words.

  ‘Now for the third part of this series of coincidences,’ he said quietly, raising a third finger. ‘It had initially escaped our notice, but each of the women just happened to have been murdered on the night of a full moon.’

  There was a rustling of diaries as some of the officers checked the date.

  ‘Last night wasn’t a full moon, sir,’ Rita Livingstone said at last.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Lorimer said. ‘But Lily wasn’t murdered, was she?’

  ‘Are you seriously wanting us to believe that some head case is out there baying to the moon?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘It has been documented that patients suffering some types of mental disorder can be more seriously disturbed on the nights of a full moon.’

  ‘Looks like we need to be careful next week, then,’ another voice chimed in. ‘Tuesday the seventh is the next one.’

  Lorimer gave a start. That was the date of his fortieth birthday, an evening he had promised to keep free to spend with Maggie for the celebration dinner she’d arranged.

  ‘Once we have circulated a photofit of this man,’ he pointed to the picture behind him on the screen, ‘there might not be any need for extra vigilance on that particular date. Maybe we’ll have caught him by then,’ he said grimly.

  All eyes turned to the black and white image behind the detective superintendent. A man with dark hair and high Slavonic cheekbones stared back at them. It was not the picture of a monster some of them might have expected to see; in fact the technician responsible for creating the e-fit had shown the suspect’s features to have a certain boyish charm. That, thought Lorimer, was one of the enduring things about chasing criminals: many of them look just like you or me, he continued to tell his junior officers. And this lot here knew that full well, even hardened cynics like Sutherland who saw junked-up street women as simply worthless and killers as evil monsters. The truth was usually far more subtle than that.

  ‘What are you going to tell the press?’ a voice asked and Lorimer turned to see DC Barbara Knox, her eyes bright and eager as though this was something that concerned her.

  ‘I think we have to tread warily,’ Lorimer answered. ‘If we give them this photofit then that could drive the man underground.’ He turned back to point at the image. ‘I think you’ll agree that there is a slight hint of Eastern European about him. And we don’t want him to head for those particular hills. So,’ he went on, ‘officers at all airports and seaports will be given this picture and a briefing, but the press will be kept out of it for now. If we fail to make any real headway, it might mean a nationwide alert, though. So, it’s back to some of our original ground. If we are right, and this man was responsible for attacking Carol Kirkpatrick and Tracey-Anne Geddes, then someone in the city may have supplied him with the weapon he used. So, let’s see if this picture can jog a memory or two.’

  As Lorimer entered his room he could hear a ‘woooooo!’ coming from the far end of the corridor, no doubt some clown (Sutherland?) mimicking a wolf howling at the moon.

  He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. The Malmaison Hotel where he was to dine with Maggie wasn’t too far away from headquarters. If he had a surveillance team organised for that night, would the man in the white Mercedes make an appearance? Or would it be better to have special officers focused on the CCTV cameras around the drag? Perhaps undercover police officers might be required to take the places of the Glasgow street women that night? These and other questions filled the detective superintendent’s mind as he considered his strategy.

  CHAPTER 34

  ‘I need to see you,’ Barbara whispered into her mobile. ‘Things have started to hot up at this end.’

  ‘Meet you at our usual place. Seven o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Barbara replied, breathing hard. The Starbucks cafe on Bothwell Street had become something of a howf for the two women; Barbara preferred to see it as a romantic location, since it had been the scene of their initial getting together, rather than a convenient stopping point between Pitt Street and Central Station.

  She glanced at the clock on the office wall, calculating how long it would be before she saw Diana Yeats again, then sighing at the long hours between. Still, if she could finish all this stuff about Andie’s Saunas and get on with the meatier details of the new lead, the time should fly by. It was strange, Barbara thought to herself, how this case had revolved around one man, Edward Pattison, but that now it had turned and twisted in ways she could never have envisaged. That, Barbara, is why you joined up, the detective constable reminded herself with a grin.

  The tall dark-haired woman glided into a booth near the back of the crowded cafe, placing her satchel on a seat beside her. The place was busy enough to preclude any intimacy and noisy enough to drown out whatever it was the policewoman wanted to tell her.

  Diana Yeats swallowed a mouthful of coffee and set down her espresso cup. The night when she had almost got on the Big Blue Bus had given her plenty to think about, not least a persistent image of that tall man with the piercing blue eyes. Diana shivered. She had come so close to the very man who wanted to hunt her down. Yet perhaps it was the killer of the street women who had haunted his thoughts too, not just the person who had shot dead three punters in their fancy white cars.

  She saw Barbara through the plate glass window, hurrying along to the entrance, her coat flapping untidily around her, revealing her flabby figure. The new hairstyle had only served to emphasise those chubby cheeks and layers of flesh beneath her chin and to Diana it only underlined the girl’s desire to make an impression. That was all to the good, she thought. She’d caught her now, like a greedy fish mouthing its way towards a tasty fly and DC Knox was being slowly but surely reeled in.

  �
��Hi.’ Barbara sat down beside her on the leather banquette, plonking a chaste kiss on Diana’s cheek.

  Resisting the urge to rub it off, Diana turned to her and smiled. ‘Lovely to see you, darling. Had a good day?’

  Barbara felt a rush of pleasure at those words. ‘Wait till I tell you … ’ she began.

  Diana placed one finger to her lips then glanced around as though to check if anyone was listening to their conversation, a simple enough ruse to heighten the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere that this policewoman loved.

  Giving the girl a nod, Diana smiled reassuringly. ‘Right, what is it you want to tell me?’

  Barbara Knox slammed the door of the flat behind her. Why was it that Diana could make her feel as though something nice was about to happen and then just as quickly let her down? A creeping suspicion entered the woman’s mind as she tore off her coat and flung it at the hall stand, missing completely. Leaving it where it lay in a crumpled heap, Barbara stomped into her tiny kitchen and opened a cupboard on the wall. She’d bought the bottle of red in the hope of entertaining Diana here again one night, but since that first time it simply hadn’t happened. Was Diana Yeats (or whatever her real name was) just using her for what she could get?

  Barbara wasn’t so besotted that she hadn’t had some doubts already. Googling the woman’s name had resulted in finding just one elderly lady on Britain’s south coast, but then, she’d reminded herself, she had never expected to find a website for a freelance reporter who worked undercover.

  Uncorking the wine, Barbara poured herself a good measure into one of the crystal glasses she’d bought specially. It was a Friday night and half the city would be out having fun while she was resigned to yet another night of solitude. Even her visit to Badica’s car hire place had been a waste of time; it had been all closed up for lunch with nobody in reception.

  Twenty minutes later the bottle was more than half empty and Barbara’s view of the world was in accord with that. She’d been taken for a mug. She’d given away secret information to a reporter and with it, possibly her entire career. And for what: a few hours of sex and the promise of more? Tears of frustration and rage coursed down her cheeks. She, who had congratulated herself on being such a good judge of character, had been conned good and proper.

  Or had she? Barbara swallowed another mouthful of the Merlot. Was Diana perhaps being absolutely straight with her? She shook her head, bitterness showing in lines around her mouth. Why would a classy female like Diana choose to consort with a fat slob like Barbara Knox if it were not for what she could get out of her? Yet hadn’t she picked her up in conversation before she had any inkling of Barbara’s profession, never mind the link to the Pattison case? As she poured another glass of wine, letting some of it splash onto the carpet beside her, Barbara simply could not make up her mind.

  Friday night in the city was divided into several stages, depending on age and social status. First, the rush-hour trains would be full of men and women anxious to be free of their working week, some of them ready for a weekend at home, others already working out what to wear before returning to the town for a night out. Later, two different generations would sometimes collide between the railway platforms, middle-aged theatre goers heading for home just as a crowd of young things arrived. The girls were always dressed for a big night in sparkling outfits and impossibly high heels that would have to be carried home later after hours of dancing, bare feet oblivious to the cold pavements at the taxi rank.

  This particular Friday the Glasgow pubs were full to overflowing with a raucous clientele, Irish rugby supporters making their presence felt through song and banter before the next day’s big event at Murrayfield Stadium. There would be plenty of sore heads by the morning, but these would clear in the cold Edinburgh air as supporters gathered to see the first game of the Six Nations tournament. Lorimer smiled as he listened to the Irish voices declare that this player or that was really no good, no good at all, and that their chances of winning were slim to none. His own love of the game had lasted long past school days but was confined nowadays to watching these national battles on television, only occasionally allowing himself a day away in the east.

  ‘Don’t think they really mean it, do you?’ he asked Solly as he lifted the whisky glass to his lips.

  ‘I can see that they would like to beat Scotland,’ Solly replied. ‘And telling themselves it is impossible will only heighten their pleasure once they do.’

  Lorimer nodded. Solly was interested in the human and sociological behaviour of these Irishmen rather than the rugby itself. Still, it was a rare interlude for the two men, meeting for a drink after work even if Solly’s tipple was a half pint of cranberry juice with a slice of lime bobbing on its surface.

  Don’t mention the party! Rosie had warned him before he had left the flat, knowing her husband’s tendency to forget such things. And so far he had remembered not to utter a single word about it, careful to avoid any mention of his friend’s fortieth birthday. It was the sort of thing that the women were more likely to discuss, Solly had told his wife, and the subject had not come up once during their time in the pub. Instead the psychologist had turned the conversation from rugby and human expectations to the puzzle surrounding his visit to the two saunas.

  ‘If they’re hiding something it’s a load of girls upstairs,’ Lorimer laughed. ‘Or maybe you simply frightened the guy in Partick. Maybe he’d never met a real psychologist before,’ he joked.

  ‘There’s something that still bothers me,’ Solly went on. ‘If Jenny and Miriam had been given work there one would have assumed that they would have been safe from any predator, yes?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lorimer replied. ‘That would depend on the level of care shown to the girls. Helen James reckoned that getting them all off the streets was a good start.’

  ‘Have you told her about the man who tried to attack Lily?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘The picture is being circulated amongst the girls out on the drag over this weekend as well as in the Robertson Street drop-in centre. It was a calculated risk,’ he added as Solly’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘You don’t think any of them will blab to the papers?’

  ‘As I said, it’s a risk I was prepared to take. Anyhow, the press have to clear it with us before they print a single word, never mind something as highly sensitive as that.’

  ‘And you’re going to set up your officers for Tuesday night?’

  Lorimer nodded again. ‘Aye,’ he gave a rueful grin. ‘My big four-o.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Maggie’s got me on a date that night and I can’t disappoint her.’

  Solly ducked his head and rummaged in his coat pocket, bringing out a large white handkerchief to blow his nose. It was a simple enough ruse to cover up any hint that he knew what Maggie Lorimer was really up to. The policeman was good at reading anybody’s body language and Solly knew he had to keep one step ahead if he was to avoid giving the game away.

  ‘Coming down with a cold?’

  ‘No, probably just all the dust in here,’ Solly answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  The pub suddenly erupted as one voice raised in a chorus of ‘The Irish Rover’ was joined by several others and Solly smiled to see Lorimer beginning to mouth the words, his head turned away to look at the crowd of singers. As a Londoner he should feel like an outsider but years of living in Glasgow had given Solly a feeling of kinship with these people, gathered together; Celts united in song who would only be divided by eighty minutes on the rugby field before heading for the pubs once more, the afterglow of success or failure bringing the supporters together again. Tonight was all about the thrill of anticipation, tomorrow the tone would be one of telling over and over what had taken place at Murrayfield and putting to rights any poor play shown as though each and every one of the men talking was a seasoned rugby coach.

  Was that how the undercover officers felt as they waited for the next full moon to rise over the Glasgow rooftops? Solly wondered. Was there
a sense of camaraderie, all of them hoping fervently to trap this man who had wreaked such havoc in their city? He had worked on several cases now with Lorimer but this was the first time he had felt a bit adrift, not really a part of the whole set-up. Yes, he had been trying to create a profile of a killer, yes he had come up with some suggestions that were even now being acted upon, but there was not the same sense of being part of a team at Pitt Street as there had been in Lorimer’s previous division. And he was certain that the detective superintendent felt it too.

  ‘What will happen to you when they wind up the unit?’ he asked, but Lorimer was in full song now and did not hear the psychologist’s question.

  The hotel was eerily quiet tonight, most of the staff having left earlier in the evening, as the woman in the darkened booth sat drinking her second glass of Pinot Grigio. The food had been exquisite, the room where she slept becoming almost like home, but it would soon be time to leave here for good and as she contemplated her uncertain future, the woman who had called herself Diana Yeats wondered just what would happen four nights from now. She would check out on Wednesday morning, she decided, and return home to pack. A new beginning was called for, somewhere far from Scotland, far from all the memories that had haunted her for too long now. She had played with Barbara, hinting at a trip to Mauritius, so perhaps that thought could be translated into a plan of action. Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow she would take her passport and buy tickets, but only for herself. There would be no lady in her company this time, she knew, just the shadow of a girl whose murder she was destined to avenge.

  The barman had glanced her way a few times already, waiting to see if she wanted anything else, but Diana had studiously avoided his eye, contenting herself with the dark green bottle that sat at an angle in its ice bucket. If only he knew, the woman smiled to herself. How had she appeared to them? A sophisticated businesswoman, probably? Certainly not a person who posed any sort of threat.