A Pound Of Flesh

by Alex Gray

  On Tuesday she would dress in her trashy clothes for the very last time, take her silvery-blue pistol, and gun down the monster who had taken away the only love of her life.

  She had been surprised and annoyed that it had taken the policewoman to point out the dates of the women’s deaths to her: four full moons suggesting some maddened creature fulfilling his bloodlust in the dark. How could she, who was so meticulous in other ways, have failed to notice that piece of information? How could they have failed to see that until now? Her grip tightened on the stem of her wine glass as she cursed the police and their ineptitude. Well, she was forewarned now and had also been given the nod that several of the street women would be officers in disguise. But it was something else that Barbara Knox had told her that made the woman twirl her glass around and around, smiling as though she was still one step ahead of the police. If what she thought was true, then no white Mercedes would circle the drag on the next full moon. Its driver would have no need to drive round and round the square when she would be ready and waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sacha stood in the doorway, listening hard. The house seemed to be listening back, waiting for him to make the slightest sound. His uncle and aunt had gone to bed hours ago and Sacha had heard them snoring as he’d passed their room. Light from the moon shone down through the landing window, a cold brightness that flooded across the stair carpet, silvering the metal stair rods as he crept down to the hall.

  They had no idea about his nocturnal wanderings, though he knew that his uncle Vladimir had kept a watchful eye on him for the first few weeks after his arrival in the city. That was more than two years ago and Sacha was one of the family now, though sometimes he felt that they treated him more like a family pet that had a wayward disposition and had to be guarded with care.

  The big man padded across the remaining length of hallway and pushed open the door of the lounge. The armoury was located through a panelled archway at the far end of the room and through another door, but first he had to make his way across this place without knocking into any of the furniture or sending one of Andrea’s precious ornaments tumbling to the floor. One small sound and his aunt might come pattering down the stairs, her fear of burglars no doubt fuelled by his uncle’s refusal to insure all her stupid china figurines. Once he had asked about the antique weapons: did Uncle Vlad have any idea of their worth? But Vladimir Badica had shaken his head as if such a question was not to be asked. They were, he told Sacha coldly, of historic value, as though any mention of a price tag on his collection was somehow vulgar.

  To Sacha, the weapons meant more than money or history. As he stood before the glass case he peered through the gloom to make out each and every different sword and scimitar: each piece was endowed with a magic that only one who had held and wielded the weapon could understand. After each of the executions, he had wiped the blades clean, careful to ensure that there was not a single mark left on blade or heft, before returning them to the display case. It was almost time to choose again, he thought, reaching up to unfasten the catch that held them behind the glass. It would be the third time he had chosen one of these special instruments of death. Three was a significant number, he knew, though what it truly meant was hidden somewhere beyond his understanding. And if he succeeded in vanquishing another of these females, then his blood count would have risen to ten, a number that made him tingle with apprehension and delight.

  They were easy prey, these feeble creatures waiting for him in the darkness, standing on the edge of pavements, teetering in their thin-heeled shoes. He remembered how their heads would bend forwards like anxious birds to peer into his wonderful car, willing him to stop for them and barter their stricken bodies for his hard-earned cash.

  It gleamed out at him as the case door swung open, a blade so magnificent that for a moment Sacha wondered why he had not chosen it before. As his fingers closed over the hilt, he realised that it was something he had not seen before. Uncle Vlad must have made a recent purchase, possibly in the wake of trading in the one that had been his very favourite of all the white sports cars. The sabre was heavy as he lifted it from its place against the velvet back cloth and he weighed it carefully in both hands. A cavalry sword, he decided, a Hungarian szablya, perhaps, gazing at all that intricate tooling on its heft. The curved blade had a single cutting edge, designed to cut a swathe through the enemy as the weapon was raised above the head of a galloping horse. Sacha could hear the screams of his adversaries as he sliced through them, the whinnying of his steed as he surged against the tide of bodies coming at him.

  Then the moment passed and he was stood there in the darkness, the sabre in his right hand, no sounds but his own breath and the blood ringing in his ears.

  Carefully, reverently, he replaced the weapon and nodded his approbation. His choice was made. Now all he needed was a new victim.

  CHAPTER 36

  It might be her day off, but Barbara Knox was up bright and early, slicking fingers through her gelled hair after a quick shower. The radio was playing some old cheesy pop tune and Barbara found herself singing along, her mood lighter now that her decision had been made. She’d checked and Sundays were days when the car hire place would be open to the public. And why not pay it a little visit, just on the off-chance that she might stumble across some new information. Her smile broadened as she imagined Lorimer’s face when she presented him with the facts and figures on Monday morning. Wouldn’t that just make Sutherland’s eyes water! She’d sensed from the off that the DI had her down as no more than a filing clerk. Now she’d show him and all the rest that DC Knox was a force to be reckoned with.

  Barbara’s smile dropped a little as she checked her mobile for any text messages but there were none. She flipped the phone shut and made a mental note to delete Diana’s number. Perhaps it was time to admit that she was finished with playing the woman’s games. In the clear light of day it was easier to see how she had allowed her judgement to be clouded by a collision of fantasy and reality. Today she would begin afresh, putting the job first.

  Her hand reached out to switch off the radio and the abrupt cessation of noise left the flat empty and suddenly cold. Barbara blinked once, listening to the distant sounds of traffic that emphasised just how quiet it was in the flat. It was peaceful, she persuaded herself. She had space to do her own thing, didn’t she? But it’s lonely, a small voice answered her back from deep inside. Ignoring the voice, Barbara picked up her overcoat from where it had fallen two nights ago, gave it a quick brush and pulled it on.

  Outside a hard frost had formed and Barbara took extra care stepping down the last few steps from the entrance to the block of flats where she lived. There was no direct route to Badica’s car hire premises and so she would have to take a train and a bus to get there, more than an hour’s journey on this freezing morning. Should she have called for a taxi, she wondered, shivering as her breath made puffy clouds like a cartoon dragon’s smoke in front of her face.

  As though in answer to her thoughts she caught sight of a local cab coming to a halt across the busy main road, its passenger pausing to pay the driver.

  Barbara reached the opposite kerb just as the Skoda began to move off but then the driver clocked her waving hand in his rearview mirror and stopped once more.

  ‘Glasgow, please,’ she gasped, her chest hurting from the dash to reach the cab. ‘Badica’s car hire, Argyll Street. Do you know it?’

  ‘Naw, whit end’s it at?’ the driver asked and Barbara told him, settling back against the back passenger seat, rummaging under her left side for the safety belt.

  The car hire was situated on a corner of Argyll Street behind Dumbarton Road, not far from the Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum where Barbara had been taken as a kid on several school trips. The museum had been closed for renovation some years back and Barbara had always meant to see the new layout that had been so widely publicised. Maybe she could go there afterwards, get a bite to eat in the wee snack bar on the ground
floor, if it was still there. The very thought of a hot cup of coffee and a sticky bun cheered her as she stepped out of the cab and stood in front of the white painted building.

  There was no name above the main door, simply a neon sign that read LUXURY CARS FOR HIRE. The premises extended out on two sides; one was a glass-fronted showroom with just a few cars to be seen, the other held a blank wall with a metal-shuttered door and Barbara guessed that the messy business of servicing and maintaining the cars went on behind this area, out of the public’s sight.

  Barbara strolled past the window, taking note of the cars gleaming in a morning sun that held more brightness than warmth. There was a lovely dove-grey Mercedes and, had Barbara been a genuine customer, this was the car she’d have hired for herself, its sleek lines making her sigh with sheer pleasure. The others were classy enough, she supposed; another Merc, the sort of colour the manufacturer probably termed as gold, and a neat little Audi cabriolet in a dishy shade of ice blue. Further back were a couple of Mercedes Sports, neither of which was white, Barbara noticed, and a graphite-coloured Porsche.

  Pushing open the main door, Barbara saw that while the door into the showroom was made of glass, all the rest of the offices were rather old-fashioned, solid doors and dark wood panelling giving the place a rather shabby appearance, as though this part of the business didn’t really matter. The cars spoke for themselves, Barbara supposed, and it wasn’t as though they were trying to sell them, after all. Anyone patronising this place would have already decided they wanted a hire car. Probably didn’t even come themselves, just sent their office minions to collect one for them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A young girl with curly blonde hair wrapped up in a bandeau was sitting behind the desk, a copy of OK magazine propped in front of her.

  ‘I was wondering about car hire,’ Barbara began.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ the girl replied dryly and gave her a smile. ‘Is it for a wedding?’

  Barbara thought quickly. A wedding would require a white car, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Can you show me anything?’

  ‘Here’s our brochure, and this is the current price list,’ the girl said, picking up a couple of leaflets from a stand on her desk that Barbara had already noticed.

  ‘Oh.’ Barbara took them in her podgy hand, then flicked through the glossy leaflet until she came to a page where bridal couples posed in front of a selection of cars. ‘Can I actually get to see one like that?’ she asked, pointing to a white Mercedes.

  ‘If you like,’ the girl replied brightly. ‘Just let me put a call through to the garage and I’ll have somebody show you round.’

  She picked up the telephone and pressed a number. ‘Sacha, there’s a customer here to see wedding cars. Can she come down to the garage? Okay. Fine. I’ll let her know.’

  The girl put down the phone and smiled again at Barbara. ‘He won’t be long. Just take a seat over there and the mechanic will be with you in about ten minutes. Would you like a coffee?’ she added, nodding at a machine beside a long table. ‘It’s not bad stuff. I brought it in myself yesterday morning, I only work weekends here,’ she rattled on, already moving towards the coffee machine and pulling a cup and saucer from a rack above the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ Barbara replied, her mind working swiftly. If this girl was only a weekend worker, then did she know much about the entire business? Maybe it was time to be a nosey parker, before the man downstairs took her to see the cars.

  ‘Who owns this place?’ she asked, stirring a sachet of brown sugar into her coffee.

  ‘Oh, it’s a family-run place,’ the girl answered. ‘Mr Badica and his family own it. He’s Romanian, you know. Has a big house over in Bearsden, apparently. Dead rich,’ her voice fell to a whisper as the girl shared the gossip. ‘Seems he’s got quite a few business interests around the city,’ she told Barbara, who nodded, wide eyed, pretending to be impressed.

  ‘When’s your wedding?’ the girl went on and Barbara spluttered as she sipped the hot coffee.

  ‘Oh,’ she improvised, ‘I’m just the bridesmaid.’

  ‘I thought it was the groom who traditionally looked after the cars side of things,’ the girl went on.

  ‘I’m his sister,’ Barbara continued, making it all up as she went along. ‘He’s in the Forces.’

  ‘Oh, right. So do you all have a date?’

  ‘September twenty-ninth,’ Barbara said, remembering her own birthday was to fall on a Saturday this year.

  ‘Did you see that wedding last week…?’ The girl drifted back to the desk then returned with the magazine open at the centre page. ‘Here, aren’t they lovely!’

  Barbara peered at the froth and frilliness of a pop star’s over-the-top nuptial celebrations, trying to conceal her disgust.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she lied, then, as a door opened beside her, she dropped the magazine into the girl’s hands, her mouth open in a moment of unconcealed astonishment.

  There, wiping his hands on a piece of rag, stood a huge man in ochre-coloured overalls.

  Barbara looked up, her eyes travelling to his face, noting the triangular shaped cheekbones and the jaw that tapered sharply to a small, firm chin. It was the same face that had been so recently thrown up on a screen back at police headquarters. For a moment he met her gaze.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t he?’ the girl whispered behind her hand as she retrieved the magazine, then took her place behind the desk once more as Barbara, her heart beating hard in her chest, followed the man dumbly down a flight of steps that led to a cavernous basement garage.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sunday afternoons in Kelvingrove Park were becoming something of a regular event, Solly thought, pushing the pram along the path, Rosie walking quietly by his side. Abigail was sleeping now, the motion from the pram having soothed her at last and the two parents were enjoying a little respite from the baby’s crying. It had not been a good Saturday night. Abby had woken them both around midnight and, despite feeds and changes of nappies, she had wailed incessantly for hours, Solly and Rosie taking turns to walk her up and down, wearied and anxious, looking for any signs that would explain the child’s malaise. One little red cheek had Rosie suggesting that the baby might have begun teething, but since it was impossible to ask Abigail herself, Solly had simply nodded, letting his wife rub some gel on the little one’s gums.

  Now they were walking side by side and it was a considerable relief to them both that the baby was sleeping soundly.

  ‘Remember when we used to go over there for breakfast?’ Rosie murmured, pointing at a riverside cafe.

  Solly nodded. The carefree days when they had risen late at weekends and made the day their own seemed like another life altogether. Rosie’s tone was wistful and he knew that, just for a moment, she longed for that freedom again.

  ‘We can all go when she’s a bit older,’ he suggested gently, taking one hand off the handle of the pram to reach out and squeeze his wife’s gloved hand.

  Rosie smiled and nodded. ‘Aye, if she gets to be a bit older,’ she threatened, jokingly. Then her face took on a tenderness that never failed to touch Solly’s heart. ‘Poor wee mite,’ she whispered, ‘no wonder she’s so sound; must be as tired as we are by now.’

  They continued to walk along the path, heading in their usual direction towards the pond where a resident grey heron could usually be found.

  ‘Look,’ Rosie said. ‘The bird man. He’s got a load of people with him today.’

  As they drew nearer, they could see the tall, slim figure of a man surrounded by a couple of families, all looking up as he spoke to them about the different birds in the park. As Solly and Rosie slowed down, the bird man took out a tin of seed then placed a little into the hands of each of the children. They watched and waited as the children stretched out their palms, standing stock still offering the seed to any little birds that might be brave enough to venture from their perches in the bushes and trees that surrounded the pond.


  Sure enough, a great tit appeared, landed on one of the girls’ hands, pecked then flew off again. A low murmur of pleasure came from the families and Solly and Rosie exchanged glances.

  ‘That’ll be us one of these days,’ Solly murmured, moving past the little group. Rosie caught his arm and gave him a hug. Things might have changed for ever with the arrival of their daughter in their lives but there was so much to look forward to and Abby wouldn’t always be a little baby whose every need seemed a mystery to him. As he glanced back at the families, Solly saw the little girl who had fed the bird taking her father’s hand and smiling up at him. That would be him, one day, he thought again. And the child’s innocence gladdened his heart.

  Smiling still as they made their way along the narrow path, Solly’s mind was blissfully free from any thought of the police cases that had commanded so much of his time and energy.

  There was no premonition of danger, no hint on this peaceful Sunday afternoon that the man whose profile he had helped develop was at this very moment threatening the life of another young woman.

  Barbara woke, wondering why she felt so thirsty and why everything hurt so much. Just as the darkness refused to turn to light, Barbara remembered where she was. It was at that same moment her bladder decided to release its contents, warmth flooding her trousers and with it came a sense of helplessness that made her weep. Then the events of the Sunday afternoon began to come back to her.

  Stepping down into the chilled interior of that garage space, everything in the detective constable’s head had screamed out that she should turn around, call this in at once and wait for backup. She had been trained to follow certain procedures when facing a potentially dangerous situation. Hadn’t she? So why had she meekly followed the suspect down to the basement? Why had she asked such obviously pointed questions?