A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 15





He had passed the junction for Erskine hundreds of times in the past, but now Detective Superintendent Lorimer was taking the turning near the Erskine Bridge. The call had come some time after two a.m. with a barked instruction from the chief constable to get his arse over to Renfrewshire asap. Hearing the victim’s name had galvanised him into action and now he was here on this darkened stretch of road, flicking his lights on to full beam.

The presence of a police car let Lorimer know to swing left off the main road and slowly follow the narrow track that led into woodland. The thermometer in his new car registered minus one but there was no wind and the thick pine trees ahead glistened with frost, illumined by his headlights. He stopped the silver Lexus round the next corner behind a line of other cars, the familiar blue and white tape some yards ahead barring further entry, and lifted his kit bag from the passenger seat beside him.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Serious Crimes Squad,’ he told the uniformed officer standing guard at the side of a muddy path. The man looked at him warily so, suppressing a sigh, Lorimer flipped open his warrant card and the officer immediately stepped aside.

‘Just watch your feet, sir, it’s a bit icy further along,’ the man told him, pulling his coat collar up around his ears.

Lorimer edged carefully over the hard ground, almost slipping once or twice as his feet connected with a frozen patch. The scene of crime was a few yards further along the narrow track and Lorimer could make out several white figures moving about in the swirling gloom. As he drew nearer a pale shape flew silently past, a barn owl hunting for its prey. The arcs of torchlight up ahead had done nothing to deter this bird from its usual nocturnal habits, Lorimer thought, his eyes trying to focus on what was happening. He peered into the darkness, looking for the victim’s car. Was that it? A white blur partly obscured by dense foliage?

‘Can you keep back please?’ A thick-set man suddenly stepped towards him out of the darkness, torch in hand. ‘Only official personnel allowed.’

For the second time Lorimer whipped out his warrant card and held it close to the man’s torch beam so that he could read it.

‘Sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you this soon. Scene of crime personnel are still attending the scene and we’re waiting for the pathologist. I’m DS Jolyon, scene of crime manager from K Division.’

‘Good to meet you, Jolyon,’ Lorimer said, giving the man a brief handshake. ‘Just let me get geared up will you?’ Turning aside to a patch of dark grass that looked reasonably flat, Lorimer laid down his kit bag and took out the regulation garments that were essential to protect a crime scene from any contamination. Soon he was clad like the others in a white hooded suit and latex gloves, his shoes encased in bootees to prevent any contamination of the soil around the crime scene.

The slam of a car door made Jolyon and Lorimer turn around and they waited until another figure appeared, similarly geared up and carrying a medical bag, stamping along the path to join them.

‘Doctor White,’ Lorimer nodded at the pathologist who was serving as Rosie’s locum.

‘Lorimer,’ the dark haired woman nodded briefly then strode past them both as if she had no need of torchlight to see the locus of this particular crime.

The victim was lying slumped to one side; the hole in his chest black against his white dress shirt. Headlights from nearby patrol cars had leached all sense of colour from the man’s face. Lorimer looked once, then looked away. It was true, then. Edward Pattison, deputy first minister for Scotland, was dead, shot in this quiet woodland, far from his Edinburgh home. The first officers on the scene had identified him from the bank cards in his wallet, then the call had gone out, wakening even the chief constable who had then instructed Lorimer to attend the scene as SIO.

‘Near contact wound?’ he ventured as the pathologist turned to look at him.

‘Possibly,’ she said and smiled. But there was no warmth in that smile and Lorimer had the feeling that the woman would be happier to talk to him once the body had been examined on her surgical table. The gunshot wound was almost certainly near contact like the others but the pathologist was obviously refusing to commit herself in any way at all right now.

In truth there was little for him to do here. Dr White’s examination would continue later in the mortuary; much later, he thought, since they had decided to leave the scene intact until daylight. Sometimes it paid dividends to work at the scene before shifting the body since a wealth of evidence could be gathered by scene of crime officers and the forensic services. And this was a case that he couldn’t afford to mess up in any way, Lorimer told himself. The terse call from the chief constable had made that much clear.

Daylight would bring more officers to this woodland spot and, he acknowledged, the ever eager press pack. He was already composing a brief statement that would go out to their own press officer; finding the right words was of paramount importance if he was to have the papers and the public on his side. But right now he had to work with the scene of crime manager to ensure that everything was done as efficiently as possible.

Lorimer’s expression was sombre as he thought of the scientists who would be involved; a forensic chemist, biologist, firearms examiner and mark enhancement officer as well as the usual scene of crime officers would be grumbling as they feigned exasperation with his orders to obtain a full forensic. The press would just have to wait their turn.



The Gazette

Saturday 14th January


TOP POLITICIAN SHOT DEAD IN GLASGOW


Deputy First Minister Edward Pattison was found dead in his car in the early hours of this morning. Pattison, who had been part of a delegation at Glasgow City Chambers yesterday evening, was discovered by a young couple walking through a woodland track near to the Erskine Bridge. Early reports suggest that the politician had been shot at pointblank range and police and forensic experts are currently searching his white Mercedes sports car and the surrounding area for clues.

This is the third shooting of a middle-aged man in a white Mercedes that has taken place on the city’s perimeter in recent months, sparking off two manhunts, and police may be considering the theory that the victims were the target of a serial killer with some peculiar agenda. In September last year Matthew Wardlaw, from Birmingham, was the first victim, followed in January by fellow Englishman, Thomas Littlejohn. Each of the three men was away from home on business but the most notable thing they seem to have had in common was the make and colour of their luxury cars.

The deputy first minister leaves a wife, Catherine, and three children who are at the family home in Edinburgh being comforted by relatives.

A full report on Pattison’s life and career can be found on page 12.


‘Pattison is not to be treated like some ordinary person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!’

The chief constable’s words rang in William Lorimer’s ears even after he had replaced the telephone. A high-profile murder like this one was always going to be a bit of a nightmare and handing it over to Serious Crimes was one way of dealing with it, the detective superintendent supposed, absently chewing his index finger. That he already had intelligence about the first two cases under his jurisdiction was helpful to say the least. It let Mumby and Preston off the hook at any rate and he could almost imagine their sighs of relief that they wouldn’t have to deal directly with the press pack right now, something that had fallen to him as SIO. The Gazette and other papers had the bones of the story but Lorimer knew he would have to keep them updated on a daily basis.

The entire day was going to be taken up with Edward Pattison’s death. Just as the early evening news would devote extra space to the dramatic developments surrounding the deputy first minister’s killing, so Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s officers had all weekend leave cancelled and were now being expected to drop everything else to concentrate on this highprofile murder. Lorimer ground his teeth in hopeless rage. The fact that he had already diverted so much of Serious Crime’s resources into the prostitute murders had been brushed aside by the chief. These young women who had been so horribly brutalised were to be of lesser importance now that this public figure had been found dead. He remembered the smirk of satisfaction that DI Sutherland had given when he had broken the news to them. The street girls’ investigation was to be scaled back for now, though he had allowed Professor Brightman to continue his inquiries. Maybe they’d find Pattison’s killer pretty quickly, Lorimer told himself. After all, he had been promised all the resources he wanted.

From just after two a.m. when his car had been found out in that lonely Renfrewshire wood, the police hunt had spread across Glasgow and was now making its way to the capital where Pattison had lived. By midday Lorimer was heading along the M8, the motorway that cut Scotland in two with Glasgow and Edinburgh at either end. Throughout the journey he had kept in touch with what was happening back in the woods near Erskine bridge and the beach, a popular spot for courting couples. The scene of crime lads and lasses had been and gone but there was still a strong police presence there, the usual blue and white tape keeping dog walkers and nosey parkers from contaminating the site.

Now, as the police car swung around the roundabout that led to the city’s perimeter, Lorimer wondered just what he was going to say to Catherine Pattison. More to the point, he wanted to know what she would say to him. Rumours had already reached his ears via the chief constable’s office that the Pattisons’ marriage had been a stormy one, to say the least.

‘Good-lookin’ fella,’ the chief constable had commented. ‘Bags of charm. But tended to play away from home, if you get my drift.’

Lorimer wondered if that throwaway remark had been intended to give him some insight into the victim’s character. It wasn’t really helpful, he thought. If every guy who strayed from the marriage bed was shot in his car, the population would be severely depleted.

His head lifted for a moment as a familiar malty smell wafted into the car. Lorimer inhaled deeply, enjoying the old-fashioned scent of a brewery that was now no more. Only the smell lingered in this particular spot. Then the moment passed and his driver was turning into the heart of the city. Lorimer glimpsed the castle on its plug of volcanic rock, an austere and forbidding pile of grey stones built into grey slabs of hillside. Before Christmas he and Maggie had enjoyed an evening in Edinburgh at the German markets, the lights from trees glittering all around, the big wheel turning and the carousel music melding with voices full of Yuletide cheer. Today, under grey skies and a thin, bitter wind that came directly from the River Forth, Edinburgh seemed far less welcoming.

Their first stop was at the Scottish parliament at the foot of the Royal Mile and as the driver slowed to a halt, Lorimer couldn’t help but stare at the modern building. It had been designed by an inspired Catalan for Scotland’s people, but the building had divided the opinion of its citizens, not least for the cost that had escalated almost out of control. It was a place that Lorimer loved although he couldn’t quite say why it moved him. Maggie liked the lines of poetry etched into the wall round from the Canongate, of course, but what was it that lifted his own spirits every time he entered the doors of this place? Was it the feeling that it belonged to the people of Scotland? And that for once they deserved something so spectacular? Or had he been beguiled by the clever use of stone and wood, reminding him in some subliminal way of ancient castles screened by the old Caledonian forests?

In minutes he was taken through security by a nice young woman who introduced herself as Grace, whisked upstairs in a private lift then taken into the room that was reserved for the first minister, Felicity Stewart.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ the woman in the purple tweed suit said, as she rose from her desk.

‘Ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, taking her hand and noting the firm handshake as well as the fact that in real life Felicity Stewart looked smaller and more careworn than she did on the television screen or in press photographs. Her steel grey hair was smooth and sleek and her make-up had been applied carefully to conceal her naturally ruddy complexion, but nothing had been done to take away the frown lines from around these penetrating grey eyes or the wrinkled flesh on her ageing hands. She had twisted a green and blue silk scarf around her neck, and, apart from her trademark pearl earrings, there was little other concession to fashion or femininity.

‘Sit down, Lorimer,’ she said, ushering him towards a chair. ‘Now, I don’t know what you expect me to say, but I’m not going to utter meaningless platitudes about Edward’s death. I’ll save those for the press.’

Lorimer’s raised eyebrows elicited a small smile from the first minister.

‘You said on the telephone that you wanted to let me know more about Mr Pattison, ma’am,’ Lorimer began. ‘And I’ll certainly welcome any background information you can give me.’ He looked at her, wondering just what was going on inside the first minister’s mind.

‘You’re shocked that I don’t put on a long Presbyterian face and say how awful Edward’s death is for us all, admit it.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Why do I say that? Well, I’ll tell you because you will want to know the truth about this man.’ She leaned forward, one finger shaking at the policeman as though he were being given a lecture. ‘Edward Pattison was a conniving bastard who would gladly have seen me sacked from this office.’

‘The press always described him as an ambitious man,’ Lorimer said tactfully.

‘Ho! Ambitious doesn’t cover it, Superintendent. Edward was totally ruthless and would have stopped at nothing to realise his plan to run the country.’ She smiled again, sitting back and folding her arms. ‘Suppose that gives me a motive for wanting to see him dead,’ she chuckled. ‘Lucky for me that I have an alibi for all of last night.’

‘Are you trying to suggest that there may have been a political motive behind Mr Pattison’s killing, ma’am?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Lorimer. All I want to do is to give you the facts. I knew Edward Pattison as a colleague and, yes, as a rival. I cannot tell you everything about his personal life, of course. What Edward did in his own time was none of my business. What he did in parliamentary time certainly was and I want you to be clear about the sort of man he was, not what the papers will have you believe.’ She snorted. ‘I expect they’re already making him out to be some sort of Braveheart who would have led the country to independence. He wanted to project that image when it suited him, of course.’ She stopped, her eyes sliding away from his, her expression thoughtful. ‘It was something we all wanted at one time,’ Felicity Stewart remarked. Then she sighed and shook her head. ‘Edward was good at rallying the people. That was why I didn’t make any attempt to block his political career. But I want you to know, Lorimer, there are several people within this building who would happily have seen Edward come to grief. Now whether any one of them would have stooped so low as to take his life is something you have to find out. But he certainly had plenty of enemies, both within the present government and in the Labour Party.’

‘You think there might have been someone bitter enough about his defection to have had him killed?’ Lorimer’s tone held a note of scepticism.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Felicity Stewart replied. ‘Though I admit it is more likely that someone would have brought him down by rumour and innuendo.’ She grinned, showing a set of perfect teeth. ‘After all, that’s exactly what he was trying to do to me.’

‘Really?’ Lorimer could not stop himself remarking. But there was a steeliness in those grey eyes that made him believe her.

‘It would be very helpful, ma’am, if you could give me the names of any persons who might have had reason to harm Mr Pattison,’ he continued, deliberately trying to keep the conversation on a formal footing.

‘Hmm, where do I begin?’ She leaned back, her cheek resting against her hand as she considered his request.


There was a glimmer of sunshine as Lorimer was driven away from the Scottish parliament building and, as he looked up at Arthur’s Seat, the hill behind him, misty clouds above its rounded top parted to reveal patches of blue sky. Enough to mend a sailor’s trousers, his mum had been fond of saying. That thought brought him back to his next visit. Edward Pattison had been a husband and a father. His loss was going to be something quite different for his wife and kids. There would be none of Felicity Stewart’s straight talking; that was for sure.

What had he made of the woman? Lorimer wasn’t a particularly political animal, police politics having been enough to stomach in his career, but he did have a fondness for the history surrounding the ideals of Scottish independence. Ms Stewart was one hard woman, that was evident, but perhaps having a steely core was a primary requirement for trying to run the country whilst fending off an opposition party like Labour, who were traditionally at odds with the SNP. That she had been honest was admirable, but Lorimer felt she had lacked something. The milk of human kindness, he thought, remembering Lady Macbeth. Surely it wouldn’t have hurt the first minister to utter one kind word about Pattison? Still, she had given the detective some names, in complete confidence, of course. Lorimer frowned, wondering if the men whose names he had written into his BlackBerry had really been the dead man’s bitter enemies. Or was Felicity Stewart using him to undermine the credibility of these politicians for her own ends? He had a duty to investigate them now, of course, but why did he feel that he had just escaped from a sticky web of intrigue?

The house where the Pattisons lived was not too far away, probably a ten-minute journey at rush hour. Murrayfield was an upmarket area, not only because of its proximity to the famous rugby grounds, but also due to the large and solid properties marching in rows away from the main road. It was easy to spot the Pattison home. Across from the grey stone detached house a knot of reporters were stood, and they began to rush the police car as soon as it turned into the avenue.

The uniformed driver and his escort stood their ground, however, ushering them back to the opposite pavement, despite their shouts for information. Lorimer heard cameras clicking and he had no doubt that his profile would be gracing the Edinburgh Evening News later in the day. A tall young copper from Lothian and Borders standing outside the garden gate of the house sketched a salute as the detective superintendent passed him. Lorimer gave him a nod in reply. It was to be expected that a police guard would be put upon this place given Pattison’s public persona. He only hoped it would keep the worst of the press at bay for the family’s sake. It was a short walk to the front door, past well-tended lawns and a row of blue ceramic containers filled with rich dark soil. In a few weeks the first bulbs might help to cheer this entrance, but for now this garden was still in the grip of winter.

His office had made the call for him, letting Mrs Pattison know that Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police would arrive some time in the early afternoon. Now, as he stood in the porch, one hand ready to ring the doorbell, Lorimer wondered how that news had been received. Bad enough to have to deal with a sudden death, but murder and the intrusion of the police must surely compound the grief and confusion of any newly bereaved woman. Lorimer waited, watching for shadows behind the glass door with its etchings of a Greek-style vase and plaited laurel wreaths. He had brought bad news to people’s doors plenty of times in the past and was able to empathise with them, understand their shock and horror. It wasn’t the first time he had been involved in the murder of a man with such a high public profile but death had no consideration of class or status and Lorimer expected this widow’s reaction to be similar to those he had seen so often before.

A figure approached the glass door and it opened with a click and a rattle, the tell-tale sign that a security chain had been unfastened.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer?’ An older lady stood by the half-opened door, looking at him uncertainly. She had the voice of a well-educated woman, deep and clear, with that cultured accent he associated with Edinburgh gentlefolk.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, holding out his warrant card so that she might be able to verify that he was indeed a policeman.

‘I’m Mrs Cadell, Catherine’s mother,’ the woman told him. ‘Please come in.’ She closed the door firmly behind them and replaced the chain.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ she remarked, her voice betraying the first signs of nervousness, but she gave the ghost of a smile, as if it was important to keep one’s spirits up. ‘Catherine asked me to take you through to the drawing room. She’ll be right down.’

Lorimer followed Mrs Cadell through the reception hall and into a bright airy room that looked out onto the street. He was not surprised to see cafe curtains at each pane of the bay windows, keeping any prying eyes from seeing into the Pattison’s home. His own mum had always kept her nets, as she’d called them, up at the front windows and Lorimer could still recall summer days when they had billowed from their washing line before being given a quick iron and put back onto their wires. It was a pleasant room, its walls painted pale yellow to tone with the ochre tapestry cushions on the occasional chairs surrounding a large oak coffee table. As always, Lorimer’s eyes were drawn to the paintings, his history of art training making him notice anything that was in a decent frame; two were landscapes that he recognised as the work of the Scottish artist, Tom Shanks, but the third was a full-length portrait of a young woman in a black evening dress, her long dark hair wound around one side of her neck in the manner of an old Gainsborough. She seemed to look down at him as he gazed, her eyes following him as he stood to one side then the other, trying to catch the light properly. The pale face was tinged with just a hint of pink on the cheeks and the laughing mouth was outlined in scarlet. It might have owed something to the old masters but this was certainly a modern portrait and he was curious to identify the artist: a Robert Mulhern, perhaps? Just as Lorimer was approaching to see if he could make out a signature, the door opened and the subject of the painting walked in.

‘Mrs Pattison?’ Lorimer stepped towards Edward Pattison’s widow, one hand outstretched.

Catherine Pattison glanced up at her portrait and then back at the tall policeman from Glasgow. Her long hair was tied back in an elastic band but there was no mistaking that pale face with its high cheekbones and those dark eyes. Instead of the formal black evening clothes, the woman was dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans, a navy cashmere sweater and a pair of red leather loafers.

‘Ed had it painted after we were married,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why he bothered, really,’ she added in the same clipped tones as her mother.

‘It’s a lovely picture, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said gently.

They were silent for a moment as Catherine Pattison chewed her lip and looked away from him.

‘I’m sorry to have to come today, so soon after you’ve received this terrible news,’ Lorimer said at last. Then, as she made no reply, he took her gently by the elbow and steered her towards one of the chairs. ‘Better to sit here while we talk,’ he added, hoping that she was going to be able to speak to him.

‘My husband,’ she began, turning to Lorimer. ‘He … ’ Her voice tailed off in a note of despair, then she thumped the arm of the chair, her face twisted into a mask of fury. ‘Oh God! What the hell was he doing in that wood? Can you tell me that, Superintendent? Why wasn’t my husband in his hotel room where he said he would be?’

Lorimer noticed the unshed tears in those dark brown eyes, but it was her expression of hatred that gave him pause for thought. He had been expecting grief but instead it was pent-up anger that seemed to be spilling out.

‘We’re following every possible lead, Mrs Pattison, and I can assure you that the police will do everything in their power to discover why your husband was out in Renfrewshire. That,’ he added more firmly, ‘is one reason why I’m here. To see if you can shed any light on this for us.’

‘Me?’ Catherine Pattison’s mouth fell open for a moment in genuine astonishment. ‘How on earth would I know what he’d been doing or who he’d been with? I’m only his wife,’ she added with a bitterness that made Lorimer’s eyes widen.

‘You think that your husband was with another woman?’

‘Oh, probably. Ed was one of those men who simply can’t … sorry couldn’t keep his trousers on … ’ She tutted, as though annoyed with herself. ‘God, I’ve got to get used to referring to him in the past tense, haven’t I?

‘Was there anyone he knew in that area?’

‘In Erskine? Not that I know of,’ Catherine Pattison replied. ‘Though he had been out at that hospital for the ex-servicemen once or twice and he’d stayed over at Mar Hall on several occasions. Even took me there once,’ she added.

For the first time, as she smiled at the memory, Lorimer saw the young woman through the artist’s eyes. Young, lovely and with a suppressed passion that was at once appealing and erotic. What the hell had Edward Pattison been thinking when he had abandoned his wife for casual affairs, if that was what they really had been?

‘Did you consider these other women any real threat to your marriage?’

Catherine Pattison smiled again but this time her mouth was twisted in an expression of cynicism. ‘Ed would never have left me. He was always far too aware of his public face, you know: the happily married man with three gorgeous kids who adored him. And they did, you know,’ she added, suddenly serious. ‘It’s going to be very hard for them. Ed might have been a philandering bastard but he was a good father.’

Then, as though she had held them back for too many hours, Catherine Pattison let the first tears trickle down her cheeks.

For a few minutes Lorimer let her weep, even handing her one of his own well-laundered white handkerchiefs to blow her nose.

‘I said there were several reasons why I had to speak to you, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And I do have to ask you if you know of any reason why someone might have wanted your husband dead.’

‘Apart from me?’ She smiled through her tears, then bit her lip as she saw the policeman’s unflinching expression. ‘Shouldn’t have said that, even as a joke, should I? After all it’s usually the spouse that commits the crime, if all these TV shows are to be believed.’

‘Statistically speaking, they are correct,’ Lorimer told her. ‘And so, yes, I do need to know where you were yesterday evening.’

Catherine Pattison heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I was at home all of last night. Peter, Kim and Lucy were in bed and I read a book till after twelve o’clock. The police phoned just after breakfast. She paused. ‘And my mother came straight over, of course.’

‘But there was nobody else with you last night?’

‘No.’

‘And did you receive any telephone calls during the course of the evening?’

‘No,’ she frowned. ‘What are you asking me all this for?’

‘As you said yourself, you need to give an account of your whereabouts in order to be eliminated from our inquiries.’

She looked at him, suddenly surprised at the idea of being regarded as a possible suspect. ‘I wouldn’t have murdered him, Superintendent. Even though he might have deserved it. I know I have a temper but I couldn’t do a thing like that.’

‘Well, can you think of anyone else who might have been capable of killing your husband?’

Catherine Pattison looked at him intently. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I can.’