A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 16





‘Priorities, Lorimer, priorities,’ the chief constable said, nodding, hands behind his back as he paced the room. ‘Pattison was possibly in line to become the most important figure in Scotland. Whereas … ’ He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that said more than mere words allowed.

If he kept grinding his teeth together like this as he struggled to keep his temper he’d strain his jaw, Lorimer thought, trying to maintain as bland a countenance as he could. The latest killing of a prostitute was of very little significance compared to Edward Pattison’s death, wasn’t this what the chief constable was telling him? Okay, so the public would expect a high profile with this one, but to practically shelve Helen James’s cases was wrong. Lorimer’s face must have expressed something of his inner feelings as the chief constable turned to him, eyes boring into his own.

‘You don’t like it. Well, that’s not my concern right now. You’ll do what you’re told by myself, Chief Constable Turrell in Lothian and Borders and of course by Felicity Stewart.’

He smiled, scratching the side of his nose. ‘What did you make of her, by the way?’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows, wondering if he was genuinely being required to state his opinion or if the chief was trying to search out his political leanings.

‘Fairly sharp, sir,’ he replied, hoping that this answer would be non-committal enough for now. A hard, unforgiving sort of woman, he had thought to himself, though he’d never utter such words outside his own four walls.

‘Aye, she is,’ the chief nodded again. ‘And she’ll be expecting you to find Pattison’s killer as soon as possible. The longer all this goes on, the worse it will be for the current administration. So, prioritise all of the existing cases in the squad, Lorimer. You hear what I’m saying?’


It was, he thought grimly, like being given a taste of his own medicine. Was this how DI Sutherland had felt when he had given him no option but to obey his orders? Perhaps. Well, there was maybe a lesson in this for him. He was always going to be accountable to someone higher up the chain of command, Lorimer thought. And even the chief constable probably had to do whatever the first minister demanded. The case files he’d given Solly suddenly came to mind, images of the Geddes woman in death making him tighten his lips in a moment of pity. He had wanted to take that case and shake it by the scruff of its neck, not because he’d had doubts about Helen James’s capabilities as an SIO, but simply because it seemed to matter so much. And, he acknowledged to himself, he wanted to find the person who had murdered these women and bring them to justice. Well, the street girls’ murders might have to be delegated to someone else now, but he was determined to keep an eye on whatever developments happened in that investigation. He thought of Helen James for a moment; pity she’d been unable to have keyhole surgery. The recovery time from her operation would be at least six weeks. Well, perhaps he’d have the Pattison case done and dusted by then, though something told him that wasn’t likely.

Lorimer sat still for a moment, considering his options. Creating a special unit drawn from Mumby and Preston’s officers and the task force that he now ran here was one possibility. It would certainly make sense to utilise the men and women who already knew the first two cases inside out. But he guessed that given Pattison’s position as the country’s deputy first minister the inquiry was going to require quite a different approach. The chief constable’s demands were perfectly reasonable, after all. Pattison had been a very important man and one who may well have had enemies within political circles. A niggle of suspicion made him frown: was this all to do with Pattison? He had come across sickminded killers before who had carried out several murders simply to obfuscate the one that really mattered. And, if ballistics came up with a different sort of weapon, could this possibly be a copycat killing? Felicity Stewart had given him a few names, one of which was the same as that supplied by Catherine Pattison; a disaffected Labour party member who had been heard threatening Pattison on more than one occasion. The others were SNP colleagues who, she claimed, had resented the late deputy minister’s meteoric rise to power. Somehow though, Lorimer felt it unlikely that any of them would have stooped so low as to actually kill their rival. Still their alibis for the night of Pattison’s death would have to be checked out and Lorimer found himself hoping that each of these politicians had been far from the scene of the deputy first minister’s murder.

Lorimer let his gaze pass from one photograph to the next, willing something to ignite a spark in his brain to show him a connection between each victim, not that he lacked faith in the officers who had been down these roads before. Until now all they had were crazy things: they’d all owned luxury cars in the same dazzling showroom white, they’d been staying just for a few days (or overnight in Pattison’s case) in the city centre. And the first two men had been killed by the same gun, according to ballistics. So far, questions asked in Glasgow’s shadier corners had failed to turn up anything, but there was still plenty of time for that, especially with the lure of a substantial reward in the wake of Edward Pattison’s death, something that had already been promised by the Scottish government. None of the informants questioned in the first two cases could supply the name of any pro that had been hired for the jobs. In fact there had been a distinct sense of unease coming out of the Glasgow underworld. Word had it that whoever was carrying out the killings had no previous connection with anyone in the network either up here or south of the border. But now things had changed. With the death of this high-profile figure surely something would emerge?

Edward Pattison’s death had begun to intrigue him. Despite the other cases that demanded Lorimer’s attention he admitted to himself that he wanted to know more about this man and what he had been doing out in that remote woodland area. Forensic reports still had to come in and perhaps then he would be able to make more sense of this bizarre killing. He’d already spoken to several journalists as well as allowing a press notice to be circulated with the grave warning to let the police get on with their investigation without interference. There were times when the press could be positively helpful but Lorimer knew this case would be plastered over every paper in the country, with speculation running high; and some journalists could and would write things that were counter-productive in a case. Well, at least it helped to have the authority of government to rein them in for now, he thought grimly. Politics came in handy sometimes after all. Tomorrow there would be more meetings with government figures and Pattison’s friends and family but for tonight he might just allow himself the luxury of a few hours away from here.

As Lorimer closed the bulky file and thought about going home to Maggie, he suspected that he was probably facing a sleepless night full of unanswered questions.


Maggie Lorimer shut her book with a bang. What a stupid ending! The characters’ actions had been utterly predictable but she had read on, hoping against hope for some twist in the tail. The book fell onto the floor and she left it there, too annoyed to be bothered to place it back on the bookshelf. Maybe she’d put it into the bag in the hall cupboard that she kept for the charity shop, she thought to herself with a smile of satisfaction. If Lena Forsyth thought that was a suitable text for Advanced Higher pupils then she really was off the wall, Maggie thought, remembering the supply teacher’s strident tones at that afternoon’s departmental meeting.

Outside darkness had fallen to an inky black and rain battered against the windows. Shivering suddenly, Maggie got up and went to close the curtains against the winter’s night. Bill had told her a little about the latest prostitute murder but not much more than she had gleaned from the television and newspaper reports. What a night for any young woman to be out, standing waiting for some man to use their body! And all because someone had lured them into the world of drug abuse.

Maggie’s mind slipped to the wall outside the school’s medical room where posters urged the pupils to shun any form of drugs. The messages were hard hitting all right, but did they ever hit home with the kids? There were a few pupils that worried Maggie Lorimer, the quiet ones who seemed withdrawn and anxious as well as the wee neds who slunk into corners of the playground at break times, shuffling stuff in their pockets that might have been bits of hashish or something worse.

The sound of the new car turning into the drive banished her dark thoughts and Maggie felt her whole body relax as she waited for Bill to turn the key and come through the front door. It was, she admitted to herself, the best time of the day when he arrived home, no matter how late the hour. And, as Maggie waited, she experienced a moment of sheer pride in her husband. He was detective superintendent now, the man heading up this important unit at Pitt Street, whose face was all over the newspapers and TV with this high profile murder case. He had deserved to buy himself this new Lexus, she told herself.

‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Lorimer was suddenly there, his coat wet from the rain outside. Then, as Maggie found herself folded into his embrace, Lena Forsyth and her stupid book were banished completely from her mind.

‘I’ve had dinner but there’s plenty left for you. Made that Sophie Dahl asparagus soup you like so much,’ she murmured. ‘And there’s some chilli as well. Just need to warm it up in the microwave.’

‘Ach, you spoil me, woman,’ Lorimer said, holding her still and stroking her hair gently. She felt his sigh against her body. Maybe he would tell her what had been happening in his world, maybe not. Maggie smiled to herself, leaning her head against her husband’s chest. He was home now and whatever lay outside could wait for tomorrow.