A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  There were no surprises in Edinburgh by the time Lorimer’s driver drew up outside the massive building at Holyrood. The snow on this side of the country was taking longer to clear and there were still piles of frozen ice caught in the angles between pavements and gutters. Although the paths outside the parliament were well swept they were gritty underfoot as Lorimer strode into the warmth of the building and made for the reception desk to collect his security pass.

  ‘Back here again, Superintendent?’

  Lorimer spun on his heel at the Glasgow accent behind him.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said, slowing down to let the other man approach. ‘Yes, I have a meeting with Ms Stewart.’

  ‘Wonder she finds the time, what with her Russian delegation arriving today,’ Hardy muttered sourly. Clearly there was no love lost between the nationalist leader and the socialist MSP.

  ‘Russians? Any special reason why they’re here?’ Lorimer ventured.

  ‘Aye, her ladyship’s Burns Supper up at the castle on Wednesday night,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Even the dear departed aren’t going to stop her holding that particular event,’ he continued as they walked up the staircase, side by side. ‘This lot are from St Petersburg. She went over there last year and is ostensibly returning the compliment. We usually have an event like that here but Felicity’s pulled strings to have it up at the castle instead. Making a big show of it. Fact of the matter is she’s desperately trying to negotiate a trade deal.’ Hardy grinned. ‘Maybe she’ll invite you to attend.’ He dug Lorimer in the ribs then passed him by, whistling a Scottish tune that was vaguely familiar.

  It was not until Hardy had disappeared out of sight and Lorimer was standing at the entrance to the first minister’s private lift that he recognised it as Burns’ own ‘Oh whistle and I’ll come tae ye, my lad’. Was the Glasgow MSP insinuating that the detective superintendent was some kind of government lackey? Lorimer bristled at the thought. Yet perhaps that was just what he had become in this case, running back and forth from Glasgow to Edinburgh at the woman’s bidding when, if truth be told, he would have preferred to delve more deeply into the case of the street girls’ murders.

  Lorimer’s knuckles were white from gripping the file that lay across his knees as he sat in the back of the police car. To bring him all the way over here simply to enquire about the progress of the case was unforgivable and the detective vowed that he would ignore any further such requests from Ms Stewart. Bloody waste of my time! He’d wanted to shout as he got into the car, but caught sight of his driver. Instead he fumed inwardly and waited for the next vibrant ring on his BlackBerry that would doubtless keep him company all the way back along the M8. He could just imagine the conversation Felicity Stewart might be having any time now with her colleagues or the gentlemen of the press: Oh yes, Lorimer keeps me informed of ever ything. Comes here to brief me on what’s going on. No wonder Hardy had whistled that tune.

  Frank Hardy had been right, too, about an invitation to the Burns Supper, for himself and Maggie. His icily polite refusal had included the excuse that his wife already had plans made for her school’s event and he had just stopped himself in time from telling the woman where she could stuff her Burns Supper when he had two separate cases of multiple murder to deal with. What the hell was she playing at? He was a working cop, not a social butterfly. And for the next few evenings he expected to be putting more hours in with his team in Pitt Street while the rest of the country was eating its haggis, neeps and tatties.

  As he read his text messages, Lorimer put the wasted morning behind him and tried to concentrate on what his next plan of action should be. His eyebrows rose as he saw that there was a forensic report waiting for him back at headquarters; the results of the extensive examination of Pattison’s Mercedes were now complete and Lorimer was keen to know what had been found. A huge amount of work had been going on behind the scenes by several experts: the forensic chemist would have been examining the Mercedes for firearms discharge residue, taping surfaces that might hold such traces. Then the firearms officer himself would be the one to examine the vehicle to determine the angle of the shot as well as trying to determine the type of weapon used. Surfaces inside and outside the car had been taped to search for DNA and fingerprints as well as hairs and fibres, especially from places like the seats and headrests.

  As the scenery rushed past him Lorimer found his eyes closing on the grey day outside but his thoughts were still very much alive as to what was happening in Glasgow. Every contact leaves a trace, Locard had said, establishing once and for all the principle by which all forensic work was done. Even the tiniest samples of hair, fibres or materials that might have been stuck to the sole of a shoe or boot could be of use in tracing Edward Pattison’s murderer. The initial lots of fingerprints that had been taken from the car had so far been matched against family members and of course Pattison himself. Yet even if the geniuses at Pitt Street could amass a wealth of trace evidence it was only worthwhile when matched against the clothing or hair of a suspect. And so far, as Detective Superintendent Lorimer was woefully aware, he was short of even one person to fit that frame.

  And it was not just the press but the first minister of Scotland who kept reminding him of that particular fact.

  Suddenly the car stopped, making Lorimer open his eyes. There were flashing lights ahead, signalling some sort of accident on the motorway. His driver glanced just once behind him and Lorimer gave a nod. Before long the big police car had manoeuvred its way onto the hard shoulder and was at the scene of the crash, Lorimer letting down the window.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked the uniformed officer who had approached his car. He could see a blue Fiat that was on its side, a white van askew across one lane.

  ‘Probably a poor judgement on overtaking,’ the officer said. ‘Driver must have copped it on impact,’ he added shortly. ‘The other one’s too far gone to tell us anything,’ he added.

  Lorimer nodded. There had been several fatal accidents all during this long hard winter but sometimes it was sheer idiocy rather than icy conditions which brought such lasting grief to the victims’ families.

  The siren sound of an ambulance from the Edinburgh direction gave Lorimer all the excuse he needed. One more vehicle here was only going to cause more problems.

  ‘Well, you won’t want us hanging around, officer. We’ll be on our way,’ he said, giving only a cursory glance towards the blue car. A quick nod from the yellow-jacketed policeman soon saw Lorimer’s driver ease his way past the wreckage and head towards Glasgow, no doubt leaving behind a trail of frustrated motorists in their wake.

  Sitting back in the car, Lorimer’s mouth was a grim line. The driver of the Fiat was a definite fatality, the passenger unconscious and in pretty poor shape. Why did people take such foolish risks in this weather?

  Why take a car at all if you don’t have to? a little voice asked him. Yes, he thought. Why had Edward Pattison driven from Murrayfield to Glasgow in his Mercedes when he was staying overnight in the Central Hotel and could easily have taken the train back to Edinburgh next morning? The service between Glasgow Queen Street and Edinburgh Waverley ran every quarter of an hour and only took fifty minutes, whereas the journey on the M8 was always an hour and usually more, with tailbacks and delays a common occurrence, especially at peak times. Why had Pattison bothered to drive at all? After all, Raeburn had returned to Edinburgh by train, hadn’t he? Ordinarily it didn’t make sense but, if Solomon Brightman was correct, the murdered man had needed his own car to pick up some woman or other after the meeting in the City Chambers. Some woman who couldn’t or daren’t come into Glasgow to meet Pattison? Was the location of Erskine woods closer to the mystery woman’s own home, then? Had Pattison been driving to a romantic rendezvous of some sort? Then who had been with him in that car, gun ready to kill the deputy first minister just as he had killed two other men already? And why would Pattison have given anyone a lift if he was off on a secret assignation?

 
; Lorimer’s brows were drawn down as he frowned, puzzling out the problem. It simply didn’t make sense. Unless…

  He tried to imagine the politician cruising around the darkened streets in his big white car, peering out to see what he might pick up from the choices on street corners. The idea that had been relegated to the back of his mind was brought out and re-examined. Was it possible that the politician had been on the hunt for a prostitute? Certainly someone as high profile as Pattison had been could not afford to risk a call girl coming to his hotel room. Lorimer picked up his BlackBerry again. It was time to translate this particular thought into action.

  ‘Check all the CCTV camera footage round the drag on the night of Pattison’s death, will you?’ he asked the person on the other end of the line.

  This wouldn’t take too long, Lorimer thought. By the time he was back in his office the information he had just requested might well be on his desk, such was the efficiency of modern technology.

  What the hell was he to tell the press pack this time, Lorimer asked himself, watching the footage that had been emailed to his computer.

  There it was, the big white car, its registration number showing as it moved slowly around Blythswood Square. The shadowy figure of Pattison in the driver’s seat might be anyone, but once the boys in the lab had hold of this they would be able to work their magic and bring that blurry image into a sharper focus to enable better identification.

  Lorimer could anticipate the sort of headlines in tomorrow’s papers: Pattison found seeking prostitutes. Deputy first minister in sleazy street.

  Oh, they were going to have a field day, weren’t they? That is, if he decided to spill the beans. Then again … he drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking hard. Perhaps it was time to summon the troops, alert only the officers who were dealing with this case, keeping from more senior members of this establishment the new information he now had?

  Detective Superintendent Lorimer regarded the men and women assembled in the muster room. Some of them were slouched by radiators or bent over their chairs, obviously pretty weary, having spent hours on this case already. But there was that keen light in every pair of eyes that looked his way; for, with every meeting, there was the hope that the boss might have come up with something that could push things to a good conclusion.

  ‘Good news and bad news,’ Lorimer began, looking at them to see the effect of his words. Some sat up a little straighter, others simply stared.

  ‘Good news first,’ he continued. ‘New CCTV footage of Pattison has been found from the night that he was killed.’

  There was an immediate reaction from the officers; not yet a full-blooded cheer but a loud enough sound of appreciation that at last this case was getting somewhere.

  ‘Now for the bad news,’ Lorimer told them, his hand up to quieten them. ‘Pattison was last seen in Blythswood Square and it was pretty obvious from the way he was driving what he was up to.’

  ‘Looking for a whore!’ Sutherland’s voice came loud and clear.

  ‘Yes, that’s the most likely explanation,’ Lorimer said. ‘We don’t have any footage of him actually picking a woman up but the time on the film shows that it was well after he had left his meeting in George Square.’ He turned to Barbara Knox who was standing beside a laptop that was connected to a screen behind him.

  ‘Okay, DC Knox, let’s see it.’

  Soon the entire room was silent, peering at the images of a pale car cruising around the drag, the different shades of grey picking out skeletal trees and darkened basements.

  Then there was a collective gasp as one of the images showed the face of the murdered man leaning forwards as though he needed to see something or someone that was out of the camera’s view. As the car disappeared off the screen for a moment the officers’ murmurs became louder but the next image silenced them all.

  The tail lights of the Mercedes could be seen as the car accelerated over the hill and it was just possible to make out a second figure seated in the passenger seat.

  There was a moment’s silence as they digested what they had seen, then Rita Livingstone’s voice piped up, ‘What are you going to tell the press?’

  The team had seen the sense in keeping a lid on this new piece of evidence, even Duncan Sutherland had nodded his approval as Lorimer had outlined the need to keep the press away from the possibility that Pattison had been out looking for a prostitute on the night he had died.

  What would not have gone down so well would have been any suggestion that the three men who had been killed might somehow be linked to the ongoing prostitute murder case. That was something that Lorimer kept to himself for now but it was a matter he felt needed urgent discussion with the one man he knew would not rubbish the idea.

  Solly rubbed his eyes then replaced the round horn-rimmed spectacles that gave him the appearance of a wise old owl; at least that had been the caricature some wag of a student had drawn in the Glasgow Guardian and somehow the perception had stuck. For once the psychologist was looking forward to the weekend and the chance to catch up on some much needed sleep. Baby Abigail was his heart’s delight but after yet another broken night, Solly wished that his little daughter would not wake quite so often between midnight and six in the morning. So it was that he arrived in his large office overlooking University Avenue each morning almost glad of the peace and quiet that pervaded this part of the building. And, if he did have to stifle a few yawns by late afternoon, these were shared by many of Solly’s students whose lives were bound by the frantic need to cram as much activity into each of the twenty-four hours in a day as they could possibly manage.

  It was fortunate for the psychologist that he was in between classes when the call came from Pitt Street.

  ‘Solly, I need to talk to you about this case. Something’s come up. Are you free any time later this afternoon?’

  Solly glanced at the clock on his wall. There were two classes left today: a lecture and a seminar. He had planned to leave right after the latter and walk home through the park, but he recognised a quality of urgency in Lorimer’s voice and his curiosity was aroused.

  ‘Do you want me to come into town?’

  ‘No. I’d rather we met somewhere outside headquarters. This is really big stuff, Solly, and I don’t want the press to get wind of it.’

  ‘Come up here, then,’ Solly said with a smile. ‘It is as private as you could wish for, my friend. Say a little after four o’clock? Gives me time to shoo any earnest young things out of my office.’

  Lorimer studied the forensic report that ran to several pages. There were plenty of pieces of fibre, hair and other materials that had been taken from Pattison’s car, all listed according to their chemistry as well as giving their possible sources. The most interesting ones were the hairs taken from the passenger seat, five different types in all. These could be DNA tested and matched against family members and Pattison himself, just like the fingerprints had been. If there were any rogues among them then that would prove to be very interesting indeed, Lorimer thought. The image of a smart, blonde woman came into Lorimer’s head. He would bet a month’s salary that Zena Fraser had sat in the Mercedes passenger seat plenty of times and that one of these hair samples belonged to her. Was it worth asking her to give a DNA sample for elimination purposes? She could easily arrange to go along to her local police station and have it done.

  The thought was no sooner in his mind than Lorimer was lifting the phone off its cradle and dialling the number at Holyrood that he now knew off by heart.

  ‘Zena Fraser, please,’ he asked the voice on the switchboard. ‘It’s Detective Superintendent Lorimer calling.’

  By the time Lorimer arrived in the west end of the city, darkness had begun to cover the skyline with leaden clouds and a light rain was falling. Parking the Lexus was not a problem, for once, as there were now several empty bays along the avenue, most lectures being over for the day. Pulling up his coat collar, the detective hurried across the road and looked up at the double
windows on the first floor where Solly had his domain. Since becoming a professor, the psychologist had enjoyed the luxury of one of the university’s most coveted rooms. Several departments were housed in this terrace that hugged the avenue, curving around a row of trees between the library block and the Students’ Union.

  Solly was standing with his hands clasped behind his back gazing out of the window when Lorimer walked into the room and for a moment the detective had a rare glimpse of the professor of psychology in contemplative pose. Just what went on in that brain of his? And how could a man who was utterly squeamish about the carnage at a crime scene begin to fathom what went on in the depraved mind of a criminal? He cast his mind back to the time when he had mistrusted this man and all that he had been prepared to offer. He’d learned a lot since those days, however, and now Solly was one of the first he turned to for advice. Forensic profiling had enjoyed a mixed reception from the public but it was still a tool that many forces throughout the UK used when faced with difficult cases.

  ‘Lorimer, hello.’ Solly had turned back into the room and the smile lit up his face when he saw his friend. ‘I was just thinking about … ’ He paused and shook his head as though his thoughts were irrelevant to this visit. ‘Cup of tea? And there might still be some scones in that paper bag over there,’ he murmured as he walked the length of the room to the table that housed a kettle and an assortment of mugs. He picked one up and frowned. ‘Hmm, must get them washed. No worries, here’s a couple of clean ones,’ he added cheerfully, selecting a Celtic Football Club mug with its green shamrock logo and a pretty porcelain one with flowers that had been overlooked by the last lot of students who had been treated to afternoon tea with the prof.