by Alex Gray
‘I don’t know,’ she said sadly. ‘I always wear a scarf over my hair, pull my collar up, that sort of thing, you know?’
Lorimer gave her a nod. It didn’t take much imagination to see how they had conducted their clandestine affair here in this city with its watchful eyes everywhere.
‘One wrong move and the Press would have had a field day,’ Catherine muttered.
Sarah Cadell switched out the light but left Kim’s bedroom door half-open. The child was having night terrors as it was. Waking up to find her mother gone was not going to be easy. The old woman gave a sigh as she stood in the corridor, one hand against the wall as though for support. Would she be charged? That tall policeman had hinted that wasting police time was a serious offence. It had taken quite a long time for Catherine to untangle the web of deceit she had spun for herself. And, even now, Sarah Cadell was not completely sure if what she had heard earlier this evening had been the entire truth. Glancing at her daughter’s profile, Sarah had felt a frisson of fear. Was that lovely face hiding some darker, deeper secret? She’d been with the man, Hardy, Catherine had told them eventually. That much she had guessed already. Yet hearing her daughter’s words come tumbling out, Sarah Cadell had been amazed but not shocked. Little about human nature could shock her these days. And infidelity was so utterly commonplace nowadays, wasn’t it? she thought, a spasm of contempt crossing her fine features. Besides, she had known pretty much what Catherine had been up to, hadn’t she? Edward may have been a fool, but Sarah Cadell knew the sort of woman Catherine was much better than the man who had taken her daughter for better or for worse.
CHAPTER 28
‘Are you coming up to Blythswood Square?’
Barbara Knox spun round to see two of the detectives standing behind her desk.
‘Everyone’s going up. It’s the rally.’
‘What rally?’ Barbara asked, puzzled, then frowned as one of them gave her a pitying look.
‘Only the start of the Monte Carlo rally, love,’ he said. ‘History in the making. Thought you were a car buff? Or is it just Mercs that turn you on?’ he laughed.
‘Oh, is it today? I’d totally forgotten,’ she said, grabbing her jacket and following the two men as they left the room.
The day was darkening as they walked briskly up away from HQ and Barbara could hear the crowds before she saw them. Already the pavements were three deep on each side of the square and she had to strain to see the rally cars all lined up along the perimeter. It was, as her colleague had pointed out, a little bit of history. Decades before, amateur rally drivers had left the front of the stately building that was now the Blythswood Square Hotel to make the journey through Britain and France; something that had captured the imagination of the entire country. In those days the hotel had been the premises of the Royal Automobile Club.
Diana had told her that there were certain bits of memorabilia still in the place, though Barbara had never been over its threshold in her life. A spurt of envy surged through her as she looked at the steps leading up to the entrance, a commissionaire in top hat and tails standing looking down on them. She’d never get to stay in a classy place like that on her salary, would she? Yet Diana had been there. Och well, she was here to see the cars, not to hang out with the clientele over there. And so it was to the cars she turned her attention as one of the men nudged her arm.
‘Hey, check out that one, Knox!’
Barbara blinked in the gathering twilight, following his finger towards a chocolate-coloured Porsche.
‘Cool, eh?’
She smiled and nodded then her eyes widened as she saw a blue Morgan gleaming under the lamplight, its running board a graceful curve along the length of the car. The policewoman took in every detail of the bodywork, sighing over its curved chrome radiator and frog-eyed headlamps. Next to it was a black Lancia, covered in signs that showed it to be a veteran of this rallye classique as one metal plaque proclaimed. Barbara moved a little to see the car behind, a red sports car with the familiar silver wings that were, she knew, etched with the Austin Healey name. She’d been a car nut since childhood, much to the despair of parents who had once hoped to encourage her towards more gender-appropriate interests. Somehow the boys at Pitt Street must have sussed this out, she mused, wandering further along to admire the classic cars with their drivers all ready to set off on this historic rally.
Tag Heuer signs were plastered everywhere, reminders that this was big business and only the few wealthy or well sponsored owners of these fabulous cars could take part in something as prestigious as this. Nevertheless there was an atmosphere around the square that Barbara felt: this was Glasgow and these were Scottish drivers. National pride hung in the air, evident without anyone needing to say a word.
A disembodied voice from a loudspeaker was telling them all about the cars, their drivers and co-drivers, but Barbara’s attention was suddenly taken by a tall figure moving along the path inside the private park.
Pushing her way out of the crowd gathered by this side of the square was no easy matter but her bulk and her stern look made a few of them move as she tried to cross the road.
‘Sorry, miss, no one’s allowed to get closer than this,’ a man with a steward’s armband informed her, lifting his hands and directing her back.
For a moment Barbara was tempted to whip out her warrant card and say she was on official business but her colleagues might notice and, besides, it was bad form to use it like that. Instead she made her way back, pushing through the press of people, one eye on the corner of the square where she thought that Diana might emerge.
The dark silhouette flitted across the road away from the square and, just as Barbara opened her mouth to call her name, a roar went up as the first car set off, preventing any thought of following her friend.
It was no use, Barbara fumed. She was going nowhere fast and would just have to wait until all the cars had left the square. A sense of disappointment filled her and with it an unnatural disquiet. Hadn’t Diana said she was going to be out of the city tonight? But then, a small voice suggested, had it really been Diana after all? Perhaps she was becoming so besotted with the woman that she had begun to imagine seeing her wherever she went?
As she watched the line of cars drive off amid cheers to the south of France, Barbara Knox reflected gloomily that she wasn’t going anywhere glamorous any time soon. These lucky beggars would be sunning themselves in Monte Carlo while ordinary folk like her stayed home in cold, rainy Scotland. Even Diana’s hints about a holiday abroad had ceased to charm her. What she really needed was a tangible sign of the woman’s intentions when all she had to look forward to was yet another night in her lonely bed.
‘Coming to bed?’ Maggie Lorimer stood in the doorway, feeling the chill from the room swirl around her ankles. She smiled ruefully, glancing down at her new silk negligee, a Christmas present from Bill. He’d been so tired lately, and now this idea of pacing the streets on a cold January night was just too much to bear. Could she tempt him into staying home with her?
‘Aye, why not.’ His eyes flicked over her from head to toe with that lazy smile that made her stomach flip in anticipation.
‘And,’ she paused for a second, ‘will you stay there afterwards?’
He shook his head but the smile did not falter. ‘Go on, I’ll be right up.’
The room was not completely dark, a flickering light from the street lamp outside shining through the window where Maggie had left the curtains still tied back. It was a wild night, wind whistling through the trees and rain lashing against the window, rattling the panes. Maggie smiled, remembering the lines from a poem that one of her third years had recited yesterday at the school’s Burns Supper. The Bard’s entrance to the world had been heralded by
‘ … a blast o’ Janwar Win’.
Her smile faded as a different thought came into Maggie’s head. Somewhere out in that storm there were women plying their ancient trade, fighting not just against the elements but against t
he pull of the drug that forced them into the streets night after lonely night. Bill’s determination to seek them out and ask questions was typical of the kind of man her husband was. He’d worry away at a problem until something yielded. There had not been much said about the Pattison case, only that Mrs Pattison was now helping with their enquiries. Maggie’s raised eyebrow had given her husband a chance to tell her more but he’d not chosen to go into any further details.
‘Hope you’re not sleeping, Mrs Lorimer,’ he said softly, slipping into bed beside her. Then, as his arms encircled her, Maggie’s thoughts about what her husband might find out later during the wee small hours vanished as her body responded to his.
Lily cried out as the man slammed her against the wall but her protest only served to make the punter more excited as he pushed himself into her, forcing her head back as his grunts became louder and louder.
It was soon over and she breathed a silent prayer of gratitude as he released her from his grip.
There was no word of thanks, no word at all, as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers and headed back down the cobbled lane leaving Lily shivering with a mixture of fear and disgust. The rain that had made puddles all along the rutted lane had become a thin drizzle, soaking through her clothes and making rats’ tails of her hair. She should do something with it, tie it into a band or something; tidy herself up in case another punter came her way. But that last encounter seemed to have leached every last drop of the girl’s energy and she stood there wanting only to add her tears to the water running down her face.
Some of the other girls had mentioned you might get ones like this; brutes who only wanted a quick shag and could be rough about it. You were a body for sale, that was all, Doreen had told her with a laugh as though it were a matter of no significance at all.
Well, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, Lily thought, gathering up her bag and straightening her skirt. The oldest profession, one of the women at the drop-in centre had called it, though Lily hadn’t been sure if the words had been spoken with pride or sarcasm.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Bracing herself for the approach of another punter so soon after the one that had left her, Lily leaned back against the wall, tugging her coat more closely around her. The man who was walking towards her was tall and strong-looking, but something about the way he walked on the other side of the lane, dodging the puddles, made Lily feel a little less anxious.
He regarded her with interest as he approached, then, just as Lily had decided he was definitely a potential customer, he pulled out a card with a familiar badge.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’
Lily blinked as the tall man gazed down at her. ‘Are you wanting…?’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘Sorry to intrude on your working hours, but, no, all I want from you is some information.’
‘Oh,’ Lily said and for a moment she felt a stab of disappointment. Being taken by this man would have made up for the hurt she’d just had, she felt sure of it.
‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes. Very happily,’ the tall man replied. And there was something sincere in his tone that made Lily glad. Not all men were brutes, then, were they? Some of them didn’t need to come out in the dark and wet looking for the likes of her to answer their needs.
‘What’s your name?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Lily.’
‘Well, Lily, I’m hoping some of you street girls can assist me with a case.’ He paused then fished into an inside pocket of his coat bringing out a folded sheet of paper that had been coated in some shiny plastic stuff. Lily stepped forward as he unfolded the paper, revealing photographs of four different women.
‘Did you ever know any of them?’
Lily put a wet finger on to the laminated sheet as she peered at the pictures.
‘Sorry, no. Don’t know any of them. Who are they?’ she asked.
The tall man’s face grew grim as he refolded the paper and put it into his pocket. ‘Who were they, you might have asked. They’re all dead, Lily.’
‘Oh.’ The girl bit her lip wondering if she’d said something wrong.
‘They were all street lasses, like you, Lily. But someone took their lives from them. And it’s our job – the police’s job – to find out who that was before he can harm any other wee lassie.’
‘Is that why you’re out on a night like this?’ Lily asked as a gutter beside them began to overflow and splash onto the cobbles. She moved out of the way, coming closer to the policeman who had shifted into a doorway opposite.
‘Aye, it is,’ Lorimer replied. ‘And how about you?’
Lily gave a shrug but said nothing. He knew fine why she was out here, why they were all out here. The need for money. The need for a fix.
‘There’s something else, Lily, something you may have heard about in the news. A man called Edward Pattison was killed recently.’
‘Oh, him? The one in the parliament?’
‘That’s right. What I want to know, Lily, is if you ever saw him around this area.’
‘In the drag, you mean? No.’ She bit her lip and looked away, suddenly ashamed that there was nothing she could offer this nice big man. ‘I haven’t been doing this for very long,’ she admitted, her eyes cast down so she did not need to look him straight in the face.
‘Listen, lass, it’s not too late for you to get help. This doesn’t have to be the way things are, you know,’ Lorimer told her gently.
‘There are places that can help you to get clean.’
Lily’s eyes did not change their focus and the cobbles at her feet seemed to hold a greater fascination for her than the man whose words were making her feel so uncomfortable.
‘Here’s my card,’ Lorimer said. ‘If you hear anything about Mr Pattison, or anyone who saw him, can you let me know?’ Lily nodded silently, her head still bent.
‘And if you ever just want to talk you only have to ring my number. Okay?’
As he walked away Lily wanted to run after him, catch the sleeve of his dark coat, beg him to take her away from this dreary lane, this empty life. But how could he? She swallowed down the tears as his figure disappeared around a corner. There hadn’t even been any mention of paying her for information, had there? she thought bitterly. And money was what she needed most right now.
Doreen had talked about easy money, hadn’t she? Money that didn’t come from the police. Should she have told him about Doreen? No, she decided. She’d be Doreen’s eyes and ears, maybe pick up something for her efforts.
But as Lily stood there in the misty night something stirred within her, something that she vaguely recognised as regret.
*
The young girl was the only person he had managed to see in his walk around the drag and Lorimer felt a keen pity for the lassie standing at the entrance to that lane, waiting for her next customer. She had looked not much older than one of Maggie’s senior pupils, sixteen maybe. Far too young to have her life wasted like this, he raged, as he opened the door of the Lexus and climbed in. For a moment he understood the crusade that DCI Helen James had been waging in the war against prostitution. But was this night-time wandering helping to find the girls’ killer?
The road back home was a dark grey ribbon, its surface glossy with rain. An orange pall hung over the city behind him, reflected in the rear-view mirror with only blackness ahead as he drove south. Yet he was part of this great city with its beating heart, even though he and Maggie had chosen to live in the suburbs. Glasgow was still a special place to him despite all its broken dreams and those girls who wandered its streets looking for someone who would buy their flesh.
As he turned into the drive Lorimer looked up at the bedroom window. The curtains were now closed against the night but Maggie would be there, waiting for him. Who, if anyone, might be waiting up for the girl called Lily?
Alexander turned in his sleep, pulling the corner of the blanket over his s
houlder and dislodging one of his pillows so that it tumbled silently to the floor. The sleeping man was quite oblivious to the figure standing in the darkness looking down at him, who saw Alexander’s expression in repose as childlike, innocent even. Vladimir stood still, his back to the window, his jaw hardening as he gazed. Looking at that figure slumbering so peacefully it was hard to imagine the heartache he had brought into everybody’s lives. Vladimir had made a promise, though, and it was a promise that he intended to keep. Yet his fingers twitched by his side even as he imagined picking up that discarded pillow and pressing it down on that handsome face.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep but as Detective Superintendent Lorimer sat at his desk next morning his head seemed to swirl with all the disjointed pieces of information that simply refused to make anything like a whole picture. It was, he thought gloomily, as if he had lost his usual ability to see things objectively. Images of that wee lassie, Lily, her hair slicked against her head with the rain, kept coming back to haunt him. He pushed the thought aside, wearily regarding the piles of officer appraisals he was meant to be reading. He hardly knew any of the officers in this unit, yet somehow he must put words on paper so that when the time came they would have a decent billet to go on to. Joyce Rogers had given him fair warning that the Serious Crimes Squad was winding down and it was only a matter of time before he’d be making decisions about the futures of some of the men and women in Pitt Street.
The rain had stopped some time during the night and now a freshening breeze had brought some hazy blue to the skies above the city. The sight of it from his window ought to have lifted his spirits, reminding him that January was drawing to a close and lighter days lay ahead, but it was as though the dark storm clouds still held him in their grip as he sat, pondering where his next step should take him. All the officers were out on actions relating to the Pattison case, he thought. Perhaps nobody would notice if he were to absent himself for a little while.