A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 14





Edward Pattison smiled to himself, blissfully unaware that it was only a matter of hours from now when all smiles would stop together, as the poet, Robert Browning, had put it, the expression of murderous intent hedged about with cunning euphemism. Pattison was no poet, however, nor a lover of poetry. Politics had thrust him into quite a different sphere of creativity and now, as Scotland’s newly appointed deputy first minister, he was enjoying the sort of power over his peers that the ‘Last Duchess’ of Browning’s poem would have recognised. Sitting here, on the front row of the debating chamber, Pattison knew that he was a presence to be reckoned with, his smile more for the cameras that were recording the debate than for any of his colleagues. Changing his colours for those in the current ruling party had been seen by the media as pure opportunism and Pattison had never denied it; well, not in so many words. And he had a way with words, was able to charm most of the reporters who came into his orbit with titbits of parliamentary gossip and free tickets to red carpet events (Don’t tell the others, he’d whisper as he sat with them in the Garden Lobby. Just make them jealous.)

So far Pattison’s progress had been remarkable. From being one of several Labour Party members of the Scottish parliament, he had defected to the Nationalists and found his reward in the upward curve of success. Deputy Leadership was not enough, however, and as Pattison let his eyes slide across to the woman who currently headed up both party and country, he considered his next step towards the ultimate goal. Felicity Stewart’s ruddy complexion, weathered by years of country pursuits, was not going to grace the press pages for much longer if he could help it, Pattison told himself. He’d already dropped hints about their leader’s drinking habits, some of which had been taken up by the redtops. A canny word here and an allusion there had sown seeds that were beginning to bear fruit.

Glancing at his diary, Pattison read what his agenda consisted of for the remainder of the week. A meeting in Glasgow with Visit Scotland personnel then a dinner at the City Chambers tomorrow for a delegation on educational business that would take him through until later that evening. He’d already told his wife, Cathy, he’d be staying over in the west and his long suffering secretary had booked him into the Central Hotel as usual. His smile deepened as he considered his options: an hour or so of forbidden fruit in the city, perhaps? He was taking the Merc anyway, so why not? It was risky, of course it was, and tomorrow was Friday the thirteenth, his diary told him, but Edward Pattison had never really been a superstitious man, trusting instead to his own abilities.

Pattison uncrossed his legs as a familiar warmth stole through his nether regions, his mind now completely distracted from the facts and figures being thrashed out by the Labour member currently on his feet. As the clock on the wall measured its relentless progress towards Pattison’s final hours, the man himself could only wish that time would pass more quickly so that he could indulge his hidden desires.

It was an irony that would never be discovered, however, by those who were to report on his death, or by the ones who were left to ruminate over what might have become of his life.


It gave her a frisson of pleasure to create her disguise. Gone was the serious-faced professional, a brittle frown scoring lines between eyes the colour of faded leaves. In its place she admired the curving brows above eyelids painted like an Egyptian queen’s, haughty yet provocative. She’d dressed with her customary care, zipping the pelmet of skirt against her bare thighs, feeling the metal teeth cold and ragged upon her skin. After the first night she had chosen to wear black. That red skirt had beckoned like a flag but now she wore confidence as though it were a primary colour.

Tonight boots replaced the sandals, their thin metal heels beating a sharp rhythm across the marble tiles of the hotel bathroom. Killer heels, she thought with just a hint of a smile. Slung across her low cut blouse the fashionably large bag held everything she would require. It had been easy to find a taxi back to the city centre from the vicinity of a railway station but she knew better than to lead her next victim to a similar place. That was why her bag contained a pair of well-worn running shoes. Together with the gun that was now nestling between the folds of a rolled-up tracksuit.


There was a dent in Edward Pattison’s lower lip, bitten into a dark pink tooth shape of indecision. Would he or wouldn’t he? It was a question he asked himself purely because of an irritating conscience, not from any worry that it might prove a matter of life and death.

Pattison could almost read the thought bubbles emanating from his head.

‘Go for it,’ the horned beast leered at him.

‘Think of Cathy back home,’ countered the one with the halo.

Pattison gave a defeated sigh. He’d never been one for harps and nightgowns. And Cathy wasn’t exactly a saintly wife either, he reminded himself, eyes narrowing in a bitter little frown. With a tilt of his head the second bubble burst into the ether leaving only traces of what he imagined to be a diabolic chuckle.


He spotted her under the lamp, a slim girl, taller than Cathy (he cursed himself for making comparisons) with luxuriant shoulderlength hair. Something about the way she held herself made him drive around the square for a second look. It was running the risk of being caught on any CCTV cameras that might be working, Pattison knew, but risk served to add an extra spice to the thrill of it all. Under the street light he noticed the raw carelessness of her expression as if she was daring anyone to stop. Daring them to ask, to do what it was she knew they wanted. It was at once seductive and compelling. Even as he let the window open silently he could feel a swelling in his groin.

When she turned to him with a proper smile, not the junkedup glassy stare of so many of the women he’d been with in this city, he knew that this one would be special.

‘I know a place,’ she told him, her voice tantalising the erogenous zones, making him feel that surge of male power, that urge to dominate one of those girls in the street.

He jerked his thumb, a command to get in, then, as soon as she’d clicked her seat belt in place Pattison drove off, head held high as the big car leapt into the night. Another conquest was beginning; another woman was fit to be given a doing.

After giving him a few directions she didn’t speak again until the city had fallen behind them, its myriad lights cast off like a spangled garment.

‘Next left,’ she intoned, one hand placed for a second upon his thigh.

He risked a glance at her and she smiled encouragingly.

‘Not far now,’ she assured him, her fingers sliding slowly up the webbing strap of her seatbelt.

The country lane by the wood looked safe enough, Pattison told himself as his foot pressed the brake. There was a double click as they undid their seat belts and he reached across for her, hungry to begin.

‘Wait.’

The word made him back off as she rummaged in the bag at her feet. He thought he understood, heart beating with anticipation. They all used protection after all. And it would have been crass stupidity on his part not to be careful. Never knew where they’d been.

When she straightened up again he saw her hands full of a dark shadow that became an explosion of light and pain.

Then total darkness as his heart burst into shattered pulp.


The nightly garbage collection cleared Glasgow city streets of more than the usual detritus that night. The woman added the clothes she’d worn, rolled tightly in a double layer of supermarket carrier bags, to the pile lying in the doorway of the cobbled lane. Any residue from the gun or contact traces from her victim might have found its way onto her hair and clothing, traces that she was keen to destroy.

It was a place she knew well. And somehow it was fitting to leave the evidence (that would never be found) in the very spot where two women had been brutalised, the place no longer cordoned off by police tape. If she could have taken any of her victims there she would have enjoyed some dramatic irony in the situation. But it was too much of a risk. Thrusting her tart’s clothes deep into the heavy duty bin liner was as near a twisted joke as she could contrive.

Walking slowly uphill to Blythswood Square and the hotel, she was already planning her next outing. Not this week, though, and probably not the next. She would watch the aftermath of the shooting impinge itself on the city’s consciousness. And, above all, she would follow the progress of the senior investigating officer’s investigation. Or rather, she smiled to herself as she asked for her room key, their lack of it.

Killing time, she told herself, liking the phrase so much that she spoke it out loud as she walked up the back stairs:

‘Killing time.’

There was the semblance of a day job, of course, and what it entailed, but she could pretend to herself that there were shift patterns; days off and the need to maintain an appearance of normality. Washing the car, shopping for groceries, doing the laundry; all the things that filled in the space between the day-to-day obligations and what had become more than a duty. This was no mere act of revenge on her part, she told herself. Revenge was mindless and all her actions had been well conceived, purposeful. If he’d been caught, Carol’s killer would be serving some piffling sentence in Barlinnie, Saughton or wherever they could squeeze him in. Then, early release. Always early release. She ground her teeth in silent rage. No. Revenge was far less sweet than what she would ultimately feel when he finally fell into her trap. It would be a vindication, a meting out of justice. She’d be the one to apprehend him, try, sentence and execute all on one starlit night. Meanwhile she killed time, taking pleasure in watching as the media’s interest in the shootings quickened.