A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  ‘Jilly,’ he began, ‘I’m so sorry, truly I am.’ Then, when she made no reply, Frank Hardy drew his wife’s hand away from her face and held it in his own. Jill’s shoulders heaved but she did not attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp as he had expected. Instead she raised her tear-filled eyes to his and spoke just one word.

  ‘Why?’

  The lump in his throat made speech suddenly impossible and he leaned towards her, arms around her shoulders, holding her close and patting her back gently the way he had when her mother had died. Why had he let himself be beguiled by Cathy Pattison? Had her allure been something to do with a subconscious desire to cuckold a man he despised? Or had it been nothing more than an episode of male lust? In the cold light of dawn Frank Hardy saw his affair now for what it was. A stupid act of bravado. Stupid and thoughtless, he reminded himself, stroking Jill’s back. Had he ever really given his wife a second thought? Well, he would have to do that now, wouldn’t he? The whole sordid affair would come out as part of the investigation into Ed Pattison’s murder.

  It was only a week until her husband’s birthday, Maggie realised with a slight sensation of alarm. One week to finalise all the arrangements. Mentally she ticked off what had already been done. The cake had been ordered from the Malmaison hotel and they were also providing champagne for a toast before the meal. All the invitations had gone out by email from her school address so that there could be no reply coming to the house. That had been underlined with SURPRISE PARTY put into bold lettering. Solly’s mother was due to arrive this coming weekend and Ma Brightman would be looking after baby Abigail while Solly and Rosie attended the celebrations. Maggie smiled to herself as she remembered Rosie’s words on the telephone.

  ‘What on earth am I going to wear? My boobs are still enormous from feeding her ladyship and my pre-baby clothes are way too tight,’ she’d cried.

  ‘Sounds like an excuse to go shopping,’ Maggie had suggested with a laugh. And Rosie had cheered up almost immediately.

  Her own outfit was not such a problem. After all, she was supposed to be taking her husband out for a posh meal for his fortieth birthday so a new dress would not arouse any suspicions on Bill’s part. In fact Maggie had splashed out on a red and black two-piece, the silky pencil skirt hugging her figure in all the right places, the top belted in matching fabric to show off her tiny waist. She’d even purchased some nice costume jewellery from a case at the counter, no doubt positioned to tempt customers into a spur-of-the-moment decision to complete their outfit. There was something a little naughty about the feeling of spending so much money in that exclusive west end boutique, watching the garments being folded carefully between layers of tissue, brazenly adding the jewellery to her credit card as if money was no object. And the shop assistant calling her Madam all the time! Such deferential attention was so at odds with how Maggie Lorimer was normally treated. Miss or Missus Lorimer, the kids called her, sometimes even Mum by a new first-year pupil in a moment of unself-conscious affection before the hoots of fellow classmates made him redden and correct himself. (It was always a wee boy who made that mistake, Maggie reminded herself. The girls were far too streetwise for any of that.)

  Maggie put all thoughts of the impending party aside as she drew a new pile of marking towards her. Fifth-year prelims required to be marked and handed back by the end of this week so she’d have her work cut out to finish them in time. Sometimes it was good having a policeman husband who worked late hours. And, with no family demanding she be home at a certain time, Maggie could stay behind and do her marking and preparation hours after many of her colleagues had gone home.

  Barbara Knox frowned as she logged into SID, the Scottish Intelligence Database. Access to this was given to police officers wishing to know secrets about investigations across the country. Every enquiry was electronically tagged so her efforts to find information were like sitting naked in a glass box for all to see. But there would be nobody to see her passing on bits of news to Diana when they were alone together, would there? Her face darkened as she saw that there was absolutely nothing on Vladimir Badica. She’d been so sure that the Romanian had to be shady, somehow, a xenophobic prejudice that was, she realised, unworthy of her. Some folk were still bolshy about gays, after all. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge another sort of minority within Scottish society. But it was her police training that made her perennially suspicious, Barbara told herself; that and the staffroom gossip. Older officers were forever making cynical remarks about suspects who came within their orbit and the new wave of immigrant businessmen was fair game for their comments.

  Anyway Bad Vlad, as she had termed him, appeared to be as pure as the driven snow. Or else he just hadn’t been caught yet, she grumbled to herself, still wishing that some dirt had attached itself to the wealthy Romanian. All of the garage franchises south of the border had been checked out once and now it seemed they had to be checked out again in case a car had been shipped up here to Scotland. Someone was the target for these three killings, someone, Lorimer had insisted, who was still at large. But would they still have their white Merc? one of the officers had asked, a fair question after all. And so the movement of all these models within the last eighteen months had to be carefully checked and rechecked, a task that had fallen to DC Knox. She was only a third of the way through the list of Mercedes dealers to see if there were any cars for sale but at least the guy she’d spoken to at the vehicle licensing office was doing plenty on her behalf.

  ‘Hey, nice hair,’ a voice behind her remarked and Barbara swung round to see DI Monica Proctor smiling at her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Barbara replied, reddening slightly as the DI passed through the office, then she looked back once more at the computer screen. Barbara Knox gave a sigh. Oh, to be a DI like Monica, always out and about! She loved her job but sometimes the public simply didn’t understand all the work that went on behind the scenes, some of it frankly tedious. Not their fault. It was all action man stuff to them, wasn’t it, like the cop shows on the telly.

  Diana understood, though, and that was one big consolation in the detective constable’s life right now. She passed her fingers through the spiky haircut. Would the journalist like it? she wondered anxiously. Well, they had a date tomorrow night so she’d find out then. And if she could offer her friend something a bit more concrete to help her research then all to the good.

  There was, she thought to herself, no need to carry on. She could quit right now, leave the country even, forget all about the killings and start a new life for herself where nobody knew who she was or what she had done. There was plenty of money in her bank account after all. The insurance claim and a keen-eyed lawyer had seen to that. Besides, she was tired of waiting for one of these street women to tell her if another white car had been seen around the drag. Often as not it was a Skoda, since a private taxi firm in the area seemed to have loads of them cruising around at night. Some nights she’d prepared for hours in the hotel room then emerged into the street, dressed to kill. And, if the punters thought it strange that a hooker was ignoring their overtures, well, that was just too bad for them. The other women didn’t seem to notice, probably glad to get the custom that came their way.

  Yet there was something that would not let her go. A memory of Carol, perhaps, laughing as they’d run along that beach in Cyprus. Or the night she’d died, hearing her described by that uniformed officer as though she was less than human, just a bit of society’s flotsam washed up on the shore of the city’s streets. Whatever it was, she could not leave this task unfinished. Soon, surely it would be soon, she would find the man who had murdered Carol and bring him to justice.

  She looked at the date on the digital clock by her bed. Tomorrow was the first of February. She would be meeting Barbara after the girl had finished work. But would the policewoman have anything worthwhile to tell her? She had kept one step ahead of Detective Superintendent Lorimer, thanks to her inside information, but she needed more than that. Perhaps it might be wo
rth seeing if that woman called Doreen was around today? A couple of folded twenties could do wonders if you knew the right questions to ask. She keyed in the woman’s number and waited but there was no answer, just the usual recorded message.

  ‘Hey. It’s your friend here,’ she said as Doreen’s answering machine kicked in. ‘Can you text me if there’s anything interesting going on?’

  She flipped the mobile phone shut. Maybe the woman was busy right now. Too early for trade. Then, just as she was about to put the mobile back into her handbag the vibration that signalled an incoming text made her take it out again.

  MT U ON BIG BLU BUS 2NT

  The woman who had befriended the prostitute looked at the message intently. Doreen was obviously in a situation where she couldn’t talk. But she’d picked up her voicemail nonetheless. The Big Blue Bus left the centre of town at midnight. If Doreen really had something to tell her then it might be worth her while making that particular trip.

  ‘What about the Big Blue Bus?’ Helen James asked. ‘You might want to talk to some of the volunteers. Probably not worth your while trying to ask the girls anything. They’re either out their heids or too pissed off with us coppers to gain anything at that time of night.’

  Lorimer grimaced as he listened to the DCI’s advice. She was right, of course, and it was very much DCI James’s territory, after all. And he was tired, he had to admit that too. Another night spent away from home was not what he had had in mind. Still, now that James had suggested it…

  ‘Okay, I’ll ring up the contact you’ve given me, see if I can meet them in George Square tonight.’

  Lorimer put down the phone with a sigh. He’d go home, have dinner with Maggie and then change into different clothes, things like his old donkey jacket and jeans that wouldn’t intimidate the street women. The Big Blue Bus only went around the city on certain nights and this Tuesday was one of them. So, if he wanted to push this line of enquiry on he had to take the opportunities as they arose.

  CHAPTER 30

  Red Square, some local folk had dubbed it, due to the red asphalt surface that had replaced the former tarmacadam and flower beds of the city’s central square. The city fathers had deemed it an improvement but Lorimer was one of many who dismissed that notion, remembering springtime outings as a boy when he had crossed the square and his senses had been assaulted by masses of pink, white and blue hyacinths wafting their heady perfume from the many raised flowerbeds dotted around the place. There was no such olfactory welcome tonight, just the leftover smell of home-made soup from the all-night van that served the down-andouts who came shuffling along for what might be their only decent meal of the day. Glasgow might have its fair share of social problems like homelessness and prostitution, Lorimer thought as he parked his car at the edge of the square, but at least there were those good folk who were willing to give up their time to help them. The thought made him feel at once guilty when he remembered his unwillingness to leave the warmth of his own home and somehow glad that he had come.

  The street lights illumined the grand buildings on all four sides: the old Post Office that was still under renovation; the Millennium Hotel opposite, the Merchant’s House and of course the graceful Victorian façade of the City Chambers that dominated the whole square. Lorimer walked past the recumbent stone lions guarding the cenotaph and headed towards the Big Blue Bus whose interior lights showed that it was ready and waiting for its nightly passengers.

  ‘Superintendent Lorimer? Richard Allan. Pleased to meet you.’ The man with the beaming smile and outstretched hand was suddenly there as Lorimer approached the double decker bus sitting right outside the City Chambers. The Reverend Richard Allan was, like Lorimer himself, devoid of the usual signs of rank or status. No dog collar peeped from under that stripy scarf, nor, at first glance, was there anything other than the man’s bright countenance to show his Christian affiliation. However Lorimer did notice the tiny silver lapel badge in the shape of a dove – a visible reminder of the man’s faith. Allan, like so many other men of the cloth, had put his burning desire to do something for the poorer elements of society into practice. Lorimer remembered reading an article about the pastor when the project had taken off; how he had pestered the owners of bus companies into letting his organisation have the vehicle they needed and how the women had gradually responded to the facilities offered aboard the bus. Not only that, but there was something else, something Lorimer wanted to ask the man right away.

  ‘Didn’t I read that you’d had some success in helping the girls to come off drugs?’ he asked as Allan ushered him on board.

  ‘That’s quite correct,’ the pastor replied. ‘There have been a few, sadly just a very few, who have managed to kick their habits, both drugs and prostitution. Still, one lost lamb and all that. The volunteers here do a marvellous job, though. There’s always someone to listen to the women and give them advice about anything at all. Quite a number of them have served prison sentences and that can have a terrible effect on their self-esteem. That’s one of our biggest challenges, you know,’ he continued. ‘Trying to let them know that nobody is worthless.’

  Lorimer made a non-committal noise in reply. He’d like to have told this kindly soul just how bad it really was when even some of Strathclyde’s finest regarded these women as less than human and undeserving of police time.

  ‘DCI James,’ he began.

  ‘Ah, Helen, she’s a wonderful lady,’ Allan enthused. ‘Knows just how to speak to the women. They like her, you know. Trust her, too. So, when I introduce you to them I’ll say that you’re a friend of hers, shall I?’

  ‘That’s a good idea, but I will probably have to tell them the reason I’m here,’ Lorimer reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Allan frowned suddenly, his face clouding for a moment. ‘Of course. Terrible business. We used to see Tracey-Anne on a regular basis. Poor little thing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Reverend—’

  ‘Richard, please,’ the pastor interrupted with a smile.

  ‘Richard, one of the things I want to ask the women who board the bus is if they have ever seen a white Mercedes sports car cruising around the drag.’

  ‘Ah,’ Allan replied. ‘I read about that. Edward Pattison and these other men.’ He looked intently at Lorimer. ‘Do you have suspicions that they had been consorting with the Glasgow women, then?’

  Lorimer nodded and was met with an understanding look. The Revd Richard Allan could be trusted with this intelligence. For all his spirituality there was something to this man that Lorimer liked; a sense that he was with a man whose keen intellect was matched by a burning zeal to use his time and talents to make the lives of other folk a little better. And right now that included helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.

  ‘Oh, here’s Doreen,’ Allan said suddenly, looking across the square at a couple of women who were approaching the bus.

  Lorimer followed his gaze toward the two figures. Despite the chilly night, one of them wore a short red coat and was teetering along on high-heeled boots. The other, dressed in a long black coat, a camel scarf covering her hair, was looking around her as though this was something of a novelty. Lorimer was standing a little behind Richard Allan who waved them on board with a welcome, so it was not until he was on the bus that he saw the taller of the women had turned back and was now disappearing across the square. He frowned. Hadn’t he seen her somewhere before?

  ‘Have you ever had members of the press coming on board?’ Lorimer murmured to the minister.

  Allan’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘That lady who was with Doreen…?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said slowly. ‘But it seems she’s changed her mind.’

  ‘Well.’ The minister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Perhaps she only wants to see us from the outside,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think she might be a friend of Doreen’s?’

  ‘Could be,’ Allan replied doubtfull
y. ‘I haven’t seen her here before,’ he added, peering into the blackness. ‘But I do worry about certain of the newspapers, you know, Lorimer. Always looking for a negative, sensational sort of story to print. Stuff that doesn’t do us any good at all.’

  ‘Want me to have a quiet word if she attends any of my press conferences again?’

  ‘Would you, Lorimer? Thanks, that is kind of you.’ Allan beamed once again as though his world had tilted back on course.

  The woman called Doreen had walked right up to the front of the lower deck and was sitting next to a display of leaflets. She had begun to pick out one or two and was examining them as Lorimer approached.

  ‘May I?’ he said, taking a seat next to her across the aisle. The woman jumped and gasped.

  ‘God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You gied us a fright!’

  Lorimer began to smile an apology; the woman’s face had turned such a sickly white.

  ‘We haven’t met before,’ he said, putting out a tentative hand.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

  Doreen’s face changed so immediately that the detective superintendent wondered if his initial impression of shocked disbelief had been wrong. Just a trick of the light, perhaps?

  ‘Aye,’ she replied shortly, not reaching over to shake the policeman’s hand. The street woman’s dark eyes narrowed, however, as she scowled at Lorimer.

  ‘You came with another lady tonight, but she seemed to have changed her mind about getting on the bus,’ Lorimer began.

  ‘Naw, I dinna think so,’ Doreen said sourly.

  ‘Isn’t she a journalist, then?’ Lorimer persisted.