A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  The road was endless as is the way in dreams. A shroud of mist seemed to surround him, giving no hint as to what lay ahead as he walked along the wet pavement. His feet, he noticed, made no sound and there was an unnatural quietness in what he knew to be a busy city. Just a little ahead was a street lamp and under it, a woman who smiled at him as he passed it by, her fair hair tied back in a thin black ribbon. As he passed she opened her mouth as if to laugh and he saw her tongue emerge like a snake’s, thin, forked and red as though to strike. But when he looked again, sweating and fearful, she was only a little girl swinging on the lamp post and singing some foolish song. The sudden sound made him start as though he would awaken from the vision that held him but something stronger than fear urged him on.

  From behind a stone column another woman emerged, thin and dark, her eyes boring into his. She lifted her hand and beckoned him and it was then that he noticed her fingernails painted scarlet and filed into cruel points. Some force beyond his power compelled him towards her and then she was opening her mouth and swallowing him whole, a throbbing darkness taking him into that confined space that always made him scream in terror.

  Lorimer woke up and felt the sweat trickle down his chest. It was all right. Everything here was familiar; Maggie’s sleeping form a source of comfort in the darkened room. He took several deep breaths, trying to stifle the remnants of the images that had disturbed his sleep. Then, blinking hard, he stopped. He had seen that woman’s face before, the dark-haired female who was, in this dream, also the blonde who had appeared before her. There was something, something that he could not remember from the past. A case, perhaps?

  Frowning, Lorimer looked at the luminous digits on his bedside clock. It was past two a.m., a time when a different sort of life was happening in the city. Clubs could be emptying by now, hotels disgorging the last guests from late-night revelries. Maybe the dream was a way of telling him to get out there and see for himself just what was happening in the heart of Glasgow? Being there, maybe asking some of the street girls questions about Tracey-Anne, would bring him back to the reality of the case.

  Yet, as he dressed, Lorimer could not rid himself of the image of that woman’s face and her eyes as she lunged towards him.

  The drag was quiet tonight, Lorimer thought as he left the warmth of the Lexus. He had decided to park outside the Blythswood Hotel close enough for any CCTV cameras to note his presence. It was, he felt, important not to be seen skulking around but making his presence felt as openly as possible lest anyone misinterpret his motives. The file he had created was in the possession of both Helen James and Professor Brightman and so he felt reasonably assured about his movements should he ever be asked to account for them. He had his warrant card in his pocket so any questions he might ask the girls tonight would be official enough, he supposed. Combining both of these cases would be frowned upon by the top brass, he knew. Still, it was worth it to see what he could make of Pattison’s relationships with the Glasgow street girls, other than his public involvement with the Big Blue Bus project.

  His initial impression of quietness was broken by shouts coming from across the square soon followed by a group of men and women laughing and screeching as they rounded the corner from West George Street. It didn’t take a detective’s skills to realise where that lot had been, he thought, seeing the men’s kilts and the women dressed up to the nines; Burns Suppers tended to be pretty flexible, stretching both sides of the bard’s birthday on January 25th and on into February. This group were singing and making what looked like an attempt at a sort of reel along the pavement and, as they approached, Lorimer noticed one man in particular detach himself from the group and stare at him for a moment. His red hair shone like a beacon under the street lamp and Lorimer groaned inwardly as he recognised DI Sutherland.

  ‘Out on the batter, eh, Lorimer?’ the man said as he approached. ‘Good night for it, an’ all,’ he remarked, looking his boss up and down as if to remark on the lack of dress clothes appropriate for the occasion. ‘Or maybe ye’re after somethin’ wi’ a bit mair flesh on its bones, eh?’ He hiccupped as he lunged forwards drunkenly, taking Lorimer by the arm.

  ‘Hey lads, here’s ma boss, Detective Super-intendent Lorrrimer!’ Sutherland roared out, pulling a reluctant Lorimer towards the others in his group. ‘What d’ye say we buy the man a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, Sutherland,’ Lorimer murmured, pulling his sleeve out of the other man’s grasp. ‘Got some business to attend to. Official business,’ he said sternly, hoping that his words would not rebound on him once Sutherland had gossiped about meeting him outside the Blythswood.

  ‘Oops, sorry, boss,’ Sutherland grinned at him then laughed and winked as though he knew exactly what sort of business a man got up to at this time of the morning in this part of the city. Waving, the DI rejoined his pals and Lorimer watched them disappear over the brow of the hill and on down towards Sauchiehall Street.

  Cursing under his breath, Lorimer made his way across the now empty square and down towards Pitt Street. There was no sign of any woman waiting for custom tonight so he pulled up his coat collar against a sharp wind that had begun to knife his face and started to trace a circuit around the square. Shadows from the darkened streets fell across his path and, looking up at the street lamps ahead, Lorimer could almost imagine the female figures from his earlier dream. But there was no flesh and blood female here tonight to take the place of these spectral figures. Sighing, he decided to take a stroll downhill just in case he ran into any of the regular girls before turning back for his car.

  Lorimer was almost level with the entrance to police headquarters when he slowed down to look up at the building. The street might be deserted but lights from one of the offices above shining into the night showed traces of a human presence. Someone was doing a spot of overtime. His eyes followed the levels back down to the reception area and the darkened stairwell that led to the main hall where he had addressed the men and women from the press.

  Suddenly his feet came to a halt. He had seen that woman in his dream before. And it was inside this very building. She was the stranger amongst the regular journalists who came daily, gathering for titbits like the rude starlings clustered around his bird table.

  Lorimer frowned, making twin creases between his dark brows. Something wasn’t right, though. He was now certain that he had seen her in a different context, though where and when was a mystery. And, for some reason that he could not explain, it was the image of the first woman wrapped around that street lamp, her blonde hair tied back, that kept coming into his mind.

  Maggie Lorimer groaned in her sleep as her husband slipped back into bed. Pulling the sheets over his body, Lorimer wished he could cuddle in to her warmth, but that would mean waking her up and he didn’t want to be so selfish. Tomorrow was not just a working day for them both: Maggie had all the preparation and work for her school’s Burns Supper. She’d mentioned that new woman, Lena or something her name was, trying to muscle in on what was for Maggie a pleasurable activity. She’d not been too happy about the supply teacher staying on, had she? Well, you couldn’t always choose your colleagues, he thought, remembering the drunken DI grabbing his arm in the street. Sutherland would have a whopper of a hangover in the morning and with a little luck would have forgotten all about seeing his boss in the passing.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘Best idea is to speak to the warden at Robertson Street,’ Helen James told him. ‘Mattie Watson. Want me to square it with her?’

  ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Lorimer replied. The warden was known to keep her charges under her wing like some sort of mother hen and Helen James had spent months cultivating a friendship with the woman.

  ‘Do you feel well enough to come along with me if she okays it?’ he added suddenly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the DCI replied. ‘The girls can be a tad unpredictable and I don’t feel strong enough to cope if any of them become nasty.’

  ‘Oh?’

 
; ‘Well,’ James continued, ‘not all of them look kindly towards the police. See us as out to get them, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘But you’ve done such a lot to help them,’ Lorimer insisted.

  ‘Aye, well, not all of them know that, do they? And there are girls coming on to the scene all the time who don’t know me from Adam. Look, why don’t I ring you back once I’ve spoken to the warden? Then you can talk to her yourself. See if you can use some of your legendary charm.’

  She chuckled as she put down the telephone, wondering if the man who had been chosen to head up the Serious Crimes Squad had any notion of how his presence might go down at the drop-in centre. Who wouldn’t be charmed by a big, bonny lad like Lorimer, she thought dreamily, thinking of the missed chances she had had in her own love life. Ach, it’s all this stuff you’ve been reading, woman! Helen told herself, flinging down her magazine with its pages devoted to romance. Fair addled your brain! Time you were back at work, your mind on real life not stories. She flicked the ‘on’ button for the television and surfed between the channels. The velvet tones of the actor, John Cairney, made her pause and listen as he recited one of the more amorous poems of Robert Burns. Smiling despite herself, Helen James settled down to enjoy the programme. It was Burns day after all, she told herself, then wondered idly what sort of reception the bard would have got from the girls who frequented the drop-in centre.

  ‘Bet you never paid for it in your life, Rabbie,’ she said aloud, then stopped. Was that behind all of those brutal killings? Had some man refused to pay a woman’s price? Out of … what? Some warped sense of pride? Or some notion that he was above that sordid sort of transaction? Helen blinked, trying to imagine such a scenario, the words of poetry lost to her now as she gazed past the television screen. She rose, pressed the mute button to banish the actor’s lovely voice and lifted the telephone once more. Sooner Lorimer got over there and did some digging the better.

  ‘Mattie? It’s me, Helen James. Yes, okay DCI James. Listen, I wonder if you could do me a favour?’

  The warden in the Robertson Street drop-in centre looked at the tall policeman from narrowed eyes. They were sitting in a back room that served as an office away from the main area frequented by the street women.

  ‘You don’t like me being here, do you?’ Lorimer asked candidly, his smile crinkling the corners of his piercing blue eyes.

  ‘The girls are happier with women around,’ Mattie Watson retorted.

  ‘Less of a threat to them?’ he suggested.

  ‘Something like that,’ she replied grudgingly. ‘You know many of them prefer to live with women, don’t you?’

  Lorimer nodded. It was hardly surprising, given the way that so many of Glasgow’s prostitutes had been treated, that they had become lesbians. One familiar pattern was of early abuse at the hands of a father or father figure, then a decision to go on the game and earn money for the sexual favours that had already been stolen from them for nothing.

  ‘Men, for some of them, are merely the means to an end,’ Mattie said, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘A punter for a hit,’ he mused.

  ‘Exactly. So, given that we can’t do as much as we want about getting them clean and off the game, we have to have a place where they can at least get some practical help.’

  Lorimer nodded. Beside Mattie Watson’s desk were stacked boxes of leaflets that he knew would contain information about sexual health and advice on housing; probably the same as the posters fixed on the walls in this very office.

  ‘Do you encourage them to go on the Big Blue Bus?’ he asked. ‘They hand out stuff like that, don’t they?’ He pointed to the flyers displayed on the walls behind the warden.

  ‘Oh we are all in it together,’ she agreed, ‘even those do-gooder types,’ she added, though there was something in her voice that sounded a tad cynical, Lorimer thought.

  ‘Yes?’ Lorimer raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

  ‘Och, you get a few religious nuts who only want to save their souls. But there are other ones who know the score. Like that minister, Mr Allan, he goes around helping the girls, you know,’ she added.

  ‘Did you ever meet with Edward Pattison?’

  For the first time since his arrival at the drop-in centre Mattie Watson gave a smile. ‘Such a lovely man,’ she said, dropping her gaze for a moment.

  ‘He came here?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Mattie replied in shocked tones. ‘We met at a reception given by the SNP. That was before he made his visit to the Big Blue Bus,’ she added.

  ‘Nice man, then?’ Lorimer asked casually. ‘Never met him myself.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Such perfect manners. He listened to everything I told him about the centre. Promised he’d bring up the subject of funding at government level, you know.’

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

  ‘Well, didn’t get the chance to, did he, poor man,’ she said brusquely. ‘That awful serial killer … ’ She broke off then glared at Lorimer. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there finding out who killed him?’

  ‘Actually,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘That’s why I’m here. I hoped you might be able to help.’

  Mattie Watson listened to the door closing behind the tall policeman then headed to the ladies’ toilets. A glance in the mirror was enough to show that the warden was badly shaken. It took quite a lot to disturb Mattie Watson’s composure but what Lorimer had told her had drained her face of colour. The possibility that Mr Pattison had been consorting with some of the girls had never occurred to her till now. But those CCTV images did not tell a lie, did they? Mattie’s mouth pursed: it was just as she had often heard the girls say about men; when it came down to it, weren’t they all exactly the same?

  ‘Andie’s?’ The woman cocked her head to one side, mobile phone pressed close to her ear, making the silver hooped earrings jangle against her dark hair. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  She pulled her raincoat closer to her body as though to hide anything that might reveal who or what she was, a raddled street woman who was fighting for her place amongst a lot of younger and more attractive girls. Doreen Gallagher blew out a line of smoke as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The money sounded okay and it would be great to be off the streets and into a nice warm place like the sauna. ‘How’d you get my name?’ she asked suddenly but the pause that returned her question lengthened, then all she heard was a click.

  Doreen raised her eyebrows. Cheeky beggar. Wouldn’t’ve hurt tae give her an answer now, would it? Still, she was to present herself at the Govan shop tomorrow afternoon for an interview with the manager. Dropping her cigarette, Doreen ground it under the toe of her patent leather boot then stepped off the pavement to cross the road without a backward glance at the drop-in centre behind her. Mattie had hauled her into the office to quiz her about that bloke who’d got killed, the one from the Scottish parliament whose face had been plastered all across the papers. Aye, she’d seen him around a few times, no’ very often, mind, but she’d remembered seeing him leering out of that big white car of his.

  The memory had stung the woman. He’d never given her the time of day, had he? Taken one o’ the younger lassies instead. Naw, she couldnae mind which wan, she’d told Mattie. Anywise, stuff like that wouldn’t bother her if she were taken on at the Govan place, would it? She had told that wumman, thon journalist, though, hadn’t she? Been paid no’ bad an’ all. Cash in her hand and no questions asked. No’ like the polis. Naw, Doreen told herself, she wasnae goin’ tae get messed up wi’ speaking tae ony polis. Mattie had been given the information she had wanted and that wis that. Mattie wis owed. She wis a’ right was Mattie Watson. Butch as they came but wi’ a hert of gold. Such were the thoughts of Doreen Gallagher as she made her way to the subway station in town, her heels click-clacking against the frozen pavements.

  ‘Doreen? Och aye, I know her fine,’ Helen James said as she heard Lorimer’s voice on the telephone. The DCI listened carefully a
s Lorimer outlined the morning’s events. Mattie had turned up trumps with Doreen Gallagher, letting Lorimer know later that, yes, Pattison was one of the punters who turned up occasionally on the drag. No, she hadn’t managed to find a girl who had actually been with him, but she was working on it. Things like that took time, were a bit delicate to handle.

  ‘What’s she like? Is she reliable?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  ‘Doreen? Well, hard as nails like so many of them. Have to be in their profession,’ Helen reminded him. ‘Been on the game as long as I’ve been in the force, I expect. She’ll know all the girls, believe me.’

  ‘Would she be able to make a statement to the effect that Pattison picked up prostitutes?’ he asked baldly.

  ‘She’d be able but I doubt she’d be willing. Had too many runins with our boys in blue.’

  ‘What if it was to help find Tracey-Anne’s killer?’

  There was a pause as Helen James digested the detective superintendent’s words. She’d been pleased at first that Lorimer was still keen to give some of his time to the case he’d had to abandon, but now she wondered if he was overstepping the mark.

  ‘Does anybody else know what you’re up to?’ she asked softly.

  The answering silence was enough.

  ‘And what if the top brass find out you’re moonlighting on a job you were supposed to drop?’

  ‘They won’t,’ he assured her, but a seasoned cop like Helen James could pick a certain amount of doubt in his voice.

  ‘Be careful, Lorimer,’ she told him, suddenly serious. ‘It’s not just your neck that’s on the line, remember.’

  CHAPTER 27

  The white Mercedes rounded the corner of the street and disappeared, leaving him feeling slightly bereft. It had been fun driving it around, the tall man thought, turning back to the concrete walls and metal doors that comprised the garage space where Vladimir kept his fleet of luxury vehicles. Still, there was a need to have a few other classic cars in virgin white, wasn’t there? He grinned for a moment, doubting whether any of the brides in their frothy dresses whom he had driven to churches or hotels had actually been virgins on the day of their weddings. They were all the same, he told himself, tossing a grubby rag into the air and catching it again. When it came down to it all women were the same. And he should know better than most, shouldn’t he? The massive metal doors shut behind him with an echoing clang and he twisted the lever to lock the premises from the inside. Vlad was taking the car to trade it in, returning later with something that he had promised would make his eyes water. Well, maybe it would, the tall man thought, scrunching the rag into a ball and chucking it so that it fell neatly into an empty waste bin.