A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 19





Lorimer watched as the snowflakes whirled faster around the windows, obscuring the landscape on either side. Even the dark rows of pine trees on this stretch of the M8 had been obliterated by the whiteout and his driver had slowed down, warned by the overhead gantry signs that there was an accident ahead. It was, he thought, the law of natural cussedness that, at a time when he needed to act swiftly, his day was being held up, first by that press conference and now by the vagaries of the Scottish weather.

A small noise from his inside pocket made him take out his BlackBerry and read the latest message. He grinned when he saw Professor Brightman’s name appear at the top.

Cherchez la femme was all it said, but Lorimer knew fine what Solly was hinting at. Despite the fact that he hadn’t yet told Solly about his conversation with Catherine Pattison, the psychologist seemed to have reached the same conclusion about the dead man. He’d spent time during this journey trying out ways of asking questions of Pattison’s closest friends and family. But how did you frame a sentence that asked if a man had been cheating on his wife? As the wind whipped the snow in drifts across the road, the driver turned around, shaking his head.

‘Sorry, sir, think we’ll have to turn off at the next junction. The road’s totally blocked after Harthill. I think it would be best to call up a Land Rover if you still want to get to the capital today.’

‘Do what you can to have a vehicle standing by,’ Lorimer told him. ‘I need to be in Edinburgh today and back tonight if that’s possible. By train if need be.’

Then as the car slithered to the inside lane, skidding slightly on the impacted snow, Lorimer sat back, calculating how late he was going to be for his first appointment.


The tall man reached up as his scarf threatened to unwind itself, caught by a blast of icy wind that seemed to come straight from the Russian Steppes. Tucking it into his dark tweed overcoat, he stepped gingerly across the forecourt of the garage, aware that any dark patch might cause him to fall. He blinked as the snowflakes began to quicken, landing on his eyelashes and dampening his hair.

Once inside the warmth of the car showroom, he turned back his coat collar and glanced around him. Every new car gleamed in the overhead spotlights as he moved from one to the next, savouring the more conventional saloons and dismissing the Grand Editions despite their tag of more leg room more luxury. Yes he might be a big man, but he didn’t require a car with that much space.

When the inevitable ‘Can I help you, sir?’ came from the smartsuited smiling young man, he was ready with a reply.

‘I have a car that I would like to trade in. Perhaps we could discuss terms?’ he said, his voice smooth, but with an Eastern European accent that told the salesman that this customer was not from these parts.

‘Yes, of course, sir. If I could have a look at your current vehicle?’ The young man’s smile stayed glued in place as the tall man nodded to the window where the snow was now falling heavily from a leaden sky.

‘That is it there,’ the tall man replied, pointing to a white Mercedes sports car that was parked a few yards across the forecourt.

‘I’ll just grab my jacket, sir,’ the salesman said, turning into an office behind the curved reception desk.

‘White Merc. Punter here to trade it in,’ the young man hissed at the girl behind a computer screen. ‘We’ve to call the police, remember?’

‘Well, just get his name and address. What’s all the fuss about?’ the girl drawled, shrugging one shoulder as if to say that her colleague was dramatising the affair.

‘Okay, okay, I will,’ he replied sourly, pulling on a padded navy jacket emblazoned with the Mercedes logo.

‘Right,’ he said rubbing his hands and striding towards the automatic doors, not forgetting to fix his smile back on again. ‘Let’s have a look at your car, shall we?’


As the white car purred away from the forecourt, Alan Jackson grinned widely. That would take his monthly bonus up and no mistake! Making the sale of that brand new CLS Class Coupe, Champagne Silver this time, for a new customer was a success indeed. So many of their existing clients were choosing to trade in and buy second-hand in these difficult times, so a sale like this was a genuine reason for Alan Jackson to grin. The guy was in a hurry for it, right enough. Wanted the paperwork done today and could he pick up the vehicle by tomorrow. Alan’s smile had faltered just a tad as he had explained the necessity of arranging insurance and road tax as well as getting the gentleman’s bank details, necessities that would, regretfully, take a little longer than a mere twenty-four hours. But the buyer should have known that, surely?

Smoothing his hair and giving a mocking glance at Estelle, the girl with whom he shared an office, Alan sat down at his desk and pulled a card towards him. Moments later he stopped swinging his chair from side to side and sat up a little straighter as the voice from Strathclyde Police headquarters came onto the line.


‘First one!’ Detective Constable Barbara Knox crowed triumphantly, though there was in truth nobody to hear the delight in her voice. Her part of the office was empty at that moment, most of her colleagues either out on separate actions or upstairs in the canteen having lunch. But that did not matter to the stout young woman who was busily typing details into her computer.

Mr Vladimir Badica, with an address in the west end of Argyll Street, was a new client, Alan Jackson had told her.

How did he seem? Barbara had wanted to know and was gratified when Jackson had replied, in a hurry. Aye, there might be a few rich punters with white sports cars wanting to offload them as fast as they could after all the media coverage about Pattison being found shot dead in his big white Mercedes-Benz. The dealership where Jackson worked was the main one in the city but Strathclyde Police had put out the same message to Mercedes dealerships throughout the country: all possible trade-ins of white Mercedes sports cars had to be reported back here to Glasgow. As the woman shifted her gaze to the window and saw the falling snow she let her gaze linger, lulled for a few moments by the hypnotic quality of the huge snowflakes constantly falling out of a cold white sky. Then blinking as though to clear her head, she had a sudden thought: who in their right mind would want to drive to a car showroom on a day like this? Pulling her chair closer to the desk, DC Knox began to type in her own little note about Mr Vladimir Badica and why he might want to take all that trouble to get rid of his car.

‘Facts, Barbara, facts,’ she whispered to herself as unfounded suspicions began to rise to the surface. Just because the owner of this car had a foreign sounding name didn’t mean he was Russian mafia or anything, did it? No, the politically correct brigade would delight in telling them that this man deserved the same attention as any other law-abiding citizen in this part of the world, wouldn’t they? Still, she grinned to herself, it would be nice if she were to be given the role of interviewing Mr Badica, wouldn’t it? The DC gave a nod of satisfaction as she finished typing up the information.

For a moment the woman’s eyes darted to the printer next to her computer. Her finger hovered above the button then she breathed in sharply, wondering for a moment what the consequences of this small action might be. It was completely against all the regulations that had been dinned into her from the beginning of her career.

Rubbing the palms of her hands together, Barbara felt the unfamiliar sweatiness. She swallowed then glanced around the room, listening for footsteps outside. There was nobody about, she told herself, nobody to see two copies being made.

Taking a deep breath, the policewoman pressed the button. She watched as the sheets of paper shot out onto the tray then changed the command back to a single copy.

The second sheet of paper was folded twice, and once more hastily tucked into a pocket of her handbag that she zipped tightly shut. It was done. She would leave the office later today carrying information for her friend. No one would need to know. And, besides, surely it would help this investigation in the long run?

The sense of triumph was overcast by a lurking feeling of guilt, however, as DC Knox attempted to resume the task she had been given.


‘Detective Superintendent! Goodness. I really didn’t expect to see you today,’ Felicity Stewart declared, tossing a cashmere wrap across her left shoulder then offering Lorimer her right hand in a firm grasp. As before, the first minister was dressed in severely cut tweeds, her sensible flat-heeled shoes a gesture towards the weather outside the parliament building. ‘Lots of call-offs in the diary, as you might expect,’ she went on as they walked through the corridors. ‘Jimmy’s in, though.’ She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘I’d be interested to know how your little chat with him goes,’ she said, smiling a crocodile smile that was all teeth.

‘I think Mr Raeburn will be hoping for the same discretion that I afforded you, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, the hint of a smile hovering around his mouth.

Felicity Stewart threw back her head and hooted with laughter. ‘Oh, you would have made a smooth politician, Lorimer,’ she chortled. ‘Telling me off but still polite with it. I could always do with a man who isn’t afraid to treat me like that,’ she added with a grin. This time her smile was genuine and she regarded the detective superintendent with an expression that made him feel both flattered and uncomfortable.

The first minister’s laughter had alerted the occupant of the office where they stood; the open-plan offices were like a visual metaphor for political transparency, Lorimer thought. Nobody in this place apart from the first minister had the luxury of a wooden door that was closed to prying eyes. Every one of the small offices was identical; a minuscule glass fronted area where the secretarial staff worked leading to a narrow room ending in the famous pod by the window. The detective superintendent saw a short, stout man approaching and as he drew closer Lorimer noticed that he was wearing a tartan bow tie and a mustard-coloured checked suit. The effect of his choice of garments could have made the man appear clownish, but there was nothing in the least comical in his grave expression as he regarded the man and woman outside his office.

‘Jimmy, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police,’ Ms Stewart said. ‘I’ll be in my office should you need me, Lorimer,’ she added then, giving them both a perfunctory wave of her hand, she turned on her heel and left the two men together.

‘Amazed you made it across here today,’ Raeburn began, then stepped aside and ushered Lorimer into his office. ‘Come in, come in. It’s not very big in here, more of a den, really, but at least it’s warm.’

Lorimer walked into the room, surprised by how tiny it was, but then perhaps the clutter of books and files spread across the strip of mottled carpet made the place appear smaller than it really was. As Raeburn bustled about, attempting to tidy things away, Lorimer had time to absorb the man who had been, if one believed the media reports, Edward Pattison’s closest friend and political ally. Raeburn was a man in his late fifties, his soft white curls around a balding pate giving him a scholarly look. Lorimer had seen the politician on television but here, in the flesh, he was different somehow. It was odd, almost ironic, Lorimer told himself with a puzzled frown, that here in real life Raeburn seemed more like someone acting the part than the man he recalled from several late night TV programmes.

At last the politician appeared to have cleared away sufficient documents to create a space on two modern-looking chairs around a small wooden table. For a moment Lorimer was nonplussed. Had James Raeburn really been so busy all morning, sorting out paperwork? He had been expected, after all, Lorimer reasoned, telephoning to alert the people he had arranged to meet that he might be a little late, that was all. Perhaps Raeburn lived in a perpetual state of chaos? Or had he been looking for something in particular, Lorimer wondered: something to do with the death of his friend?

‘Sorry about that, Lorimer,’ Raeburn said, pulling one softlooking earlobe as though it were an unconscious habit. ‘Now,’ he said, pulling his chair sideways so that he was facing the policeman. ‘What can I do for you?’

Lorimer crossed then uncrossed his legs, feeling the dampness from the melted snow that had seeped onto the edges of his trousers. ‘I’m here about Edward Pattison, of course,’ he began.

‘In any murder inquiry there is a need to clarify much about a victim’s personality and social habits,’ he said carefully. ‘So I may have to ask you some rather personal questions. He was your best friend, was he not?’ He paused, seeing the nod of agreement and that unwavering stare in the other man’s eyes. Whatever he suspected about Pattison, Raeburn’s body language was not giving much away.

‘You were with Mr Pattison in Glasgow at the delegation on the night he died, I believe?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Raeburn. ‘But I left to catch the late train back to Edinburgh. It’ll be in the diary if you need to verify that,’ he commented dryly, indicating the lady sitting with her back to them, her tiny workspace practically out in the corridor. He shrugged and smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t help you very much. You see,’ he added, ‘as far as I knew Ed was going back to his hotel for the night.’ The smile slipped as he blinked, as though remembering. ‘The last I saw of him was when we were putting on our coats before I left to catch the train from Queen Street station.’

‘Did Mr Pattison have any particular friends in the Glasgow area he might have decided to see that night?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.

Raeburn’s eyes flickered and Lorimer could see that the implication behind his words was not lost to him.

‘Had Edward Pattison been seeing some woman behind his wife’s back? Is that what you’re really asking me, Lorimer?’ Raeburn bit his lip suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps he had been. But if that was the case, nobody knew about it. Not even me!’ He looked straight at Lorimer, meeting the policeman’s blue gaze with a stare of his own. ‘If Ed had been seeing someone then it was done so discreetly that no mention of it would ever have come out. No matter how thoroughly the press pack raked in various middens,’ he added sourly.

‘But he did have friends in the Glasgow area, surely?’ Lorimer persisted. He was aware that the man’s feathers had been ruffled. The detective superintendent, however, was determined to remain as impassive as possible. ‘Didn’t he used to visit Mar Hall sometimes for dinner?’

‘Perhaps he did,’ Raeburn countered, looking at Lorimer with suspicion. ‘But not with me. I’m an Edinburgh man, myself,’ he added. ‘Most of my socialising is done here in the capital,’ he went on. ‘And I can tell you,’ Raeburn lifted one finger and began to wag it as though he were giving the policeman a lecture, ‘Edward Pattison enjoyed this city more than any other in Scotland. Glasgow is all very fine, I suppose,’ he conceded, the finger still raised, ‘but unless he had a reason to go there, Ed was happy to spend his leisure time here among his friends and family.’

‘What do you think he was doing out in his sports car in the woods of West Renfrewshire, Mr Raeburn?’ Lorimer asked suddenly, sitting forward a little so that the smaller man shrank back, clasping his hands tightly.

‘I don’t know.’ Raeburn shook his white curls sorrowfully. ‘Truly I don’t. And,’ he continued, rubbing his thumbs together, ‘it pains me to think that there might have been some area of Ed’s life that he kept secret from me.’

The silence that followed this remark was probably his cue to get up and leave, Lorimer thought, but, as he bent forward to rise, his eyes were caught by one of a pile of books that lay askew on the carpet.

‘A hobby of yours?’ he asked, pointing towards the 2010 edition of The Standard Catalogue of Firearms: The Collector’s Price and Reference Guide.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m a collector,’ Raeburn told him, straightening his back. ‘Not a passion that Ed shared, I’m afraid, and before you ask, no, I have nothing missing from the locked case where my guns are kept. Lost quite a lot of them after Dunblane,’ he said ruefully. ‘And the ones that remain are all licensed. You can do a check on me if you like,’ he added testily, lifting up the book and placing it into his desk drawer. ‘I have nothing to hide.’


There was little more to be had from Raeburn after that and Lorimer had left the MSP at the door of his office, wondering at that tone of regret. Did Raeburn suspect that his friend had had a secret that he had chosen not to share with him? And, Lorimer thought, what sort of secret would a man in Pattison’s position wish to keep from his closest friend? Somehow the idea of a sexual liaison as suggested by Solly seemed more and more likely. Cherchez la femme, the psychologist had written in his text message. Well, perhaps his team would begin to do just that. And, he smiled grimly to himself, maybe the next person he was going to see would have a different sort of slant on this particular theory.

Zena Fraser was seated in her pod, a quiet sanctuary that each member of the Scottish parliament had been given, conceived as a place of contemplation by Enrico Miralles, the clever architect of this marvellous building. It was, in truth, only a raised seating area set at right angles to the narrow little room and next to a window barred with rounded poles of what might have been beechwood. Yet, as the word came to his mind, Lorimer dismissed it. Barred was the wrong term to apply to these spars that reminded him of waving lines of bamboo: there was certainly some movement suggested by that simple design.

She looked up at Lorimer as he strode into the room, knocking on the glass door that was, he assumed, permanently ajar. Despite the room being a mirror image of the one he had just left, Zena Fraser’s was far neater and it was evident that she had made an effort to personalise her limited space. This room had a woman’s touch here and there: a vase of winter leaves and scarlet berries was arranged on the small desk, almost hidden by an enormous anglepoise lamp that dominated the surface and the coat stand held a cream-coloured wrap with a large furry collar. There was a plant on the steps within the pod, albeit a sad-looking orchid with one fragile bloom still clinging to its narrow stem. The whiteboard to his right held a garish calendar with African tribal figures dancing in the heat of this January month. He blinked as he entered the inner office, surprised at the bleakness of the decor: one wall was like a wooden jigsaw, panels opened to reveal the shelves of files within; the other simply looked as though the builders had upped tools and left, the white wall surrounded by greyish concrete that had the look of slightly ageing chipboard.

Lorimer’s first impression of Zena Fraser as she stepped off the pod and came to greet him was of a pretty, middle-aged woman who might easily have graced the fashion pages of a classy magazine in her earlier days. Her blonde hair curled softly just above shoulder level and, as she removed a pair of rimless spectacles, Lorimer noticed that her blue eyes had been skilfully enhanced by muted shades of blue and grey make-up. As she stood up and smoothed down her short skirt Lorimer was afforded the sight of a pair of very shapely legs and slim feet clad in expensive-looking high-heeled shoes, the sort that Maggie sighed over but had never actually bought.

‘Miss Fraser, Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Strathclyde Police. I spoke earlier to your assistant,’ Lorimer began, smiling politely as Zena Fraser looked him up and down.

‘Hello, Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’ The woman’s smile lit up her face and Lorimer could see at once the keen intelligence in those baby blue eyes. ‘Rather a mouthful,’ she said teasingly. ‘Is it all right if I just call you Lorimer?’

‘Everybody does, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied.

‘Oh, Zena, please,’ she laughed. ‘Let’s not be too formal, shall we? And I can’t stand being called Miss. Makes me sound so spinsterish.’ She smiled again, her cheeks dimpling as though she was perfectly aware that the man before her had no such thought and was in fact regarding her right now with a modicum of male appreciation.

‘We’ll have to make do with my wee office, I’m afraid,’ Zena said, pulling out the two chairs tucked into the circular table that seemed standard issue for these politicians. ‘It’s not very big,’ she apologised, ‘but we’ll be left in peace with nobody to interrupt us.’ She closed the glass door firmly, shutting out sound but not sight: every person who passed along this corridor would be able to note exactly who was in the room. There was certainly no space for any clandestine activity within these offices.

‘Now, have you had a cup of tea or coffee since you arrived? No? Well, what’s your poison?’ she twinkled, moving towards a small refrigerator that had an electric kettle jug and a cafetière placed on top.

‘A coffee would be fine,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Just black, no sugar, thanks,’ he added as Zena Fraser lifted a pair of china mugs from somewhere behind her desk.

‘Ed liked his coffee like that,’ the woman murmured. She was crouched down beside the refrigerator so that Lorimer was unable to see the expression on her face but he could hear a note of wistfulness in her voice that made him curious.

‘You were good friends?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ came the reply. ‘Our friendship goes back … sorry went back … to our childhood days.’ She stood up to fill the kettle with a bottle of water that she had taken from the fridge. ‘Our parents were next-door neighbours. Ed and I were both only children and we used to play in one another’s gardens. I was a year older than Ed so perhaps that’s where I got my bossy attitude from.’

‘Mr Pattison was known for his own strength of character,’ Lorimer countered.

Zena Fraser frowned. ‘Later, perhaps, but as a wee boy Ed was a camp follower, trust me. I was a real little tomboy in those days, always up to some mischief or other. Poor Ed,’ she sighed. ‘I was the one who made the shots for him to fire. Oh!’ Zena’s hand flew to her mouth as she realised the gracelessness of her choice of words. ‘Why did I say that?’ Her blue eyes teared up suddenly. ‘Sorry, it’s so hard to think about what happened,’ she sniffed, reaching for a tissue from a flowered box on her desk.

‘Cath … ’ she broke off to blow her nose loudly then turned away as the kettle began to boil.

For a few moments there was only the soothing noise of cups being filled and stirred, then the MSP handed Lorimer his coffee and sat down behind her desk, cupping her own mug between her hands as though to warm them. It was interesting how things in the room had suddenly changed: Lorimer was seated at a psychological disadvantage, as if he were the interviewee and Zena Fraser the person in charge. Now, with that physical distance between them, Lorimer wondered if the intimacy of their conversation would be resumed.

‘You were about to say something,’ Lorimer began. ‘About Mrs Pattison?’

‘Was I?’ The blue eyes turned to him appeared guileless but Lorimer knew fine she was prevaricating.

‘I thought we were talking about Edward,’ she said, regarding him thoughtfully.

‘You were obviously close to Mr Pattison,’ Lorimer continued smoothly. ‘Were you perhaps close enough to know if he had been seeing someone in Glasgow on the night he died?’

Zena Fraser laid her mug carefully on a slate coaster before replying. ‘I think I would already have told the police if I’d known anything about Edward’s death,’ she said.

‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ he said. ‘May I be blunt?’

A raise of her finely plucked eyebrows was all the answer he required.

‘Was Edward Pattison having an affair with somebody in Glasgow or the Glasgow area?’

‘That’s blunt all right,’ she said. ‘Asking if poor old Ed was up to no good.’

‘Having an extra-marital relationship isn’t a crime,’ Lorimer said gently.

‘No, maybe not,’ she replied, then added with a touch of bitterness, ‘but the press would have treated him like some sort of a social pariah if they had found out something like that. A man in his position … ’ She shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

‘Ed and I … ’ Her voice faltered for a moment and Lorimer saw the uncertainty in Zena Fraser’s face. And, in that moment, he became aware of several things. Why this lovely woman had never married, why she had chosen to follow her childhood friend into politics and why Catherine Pattison had insisted that the MSP was a person capable of killing her husband.

Lorimer stared at her for a long moment until she finally looked away. ‘You and Edward Pattison,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘You were more than childhood friends, weren’t you?’

Zena Fraser shot him a look then glanced beyond him to the door of her office. ‘I’m very much aware that this is a murder inquiry,’ she said. ‘But I need to know that anything I tell you will not go beyond these four walls,’ she added, glancing at the glass partition beyond them.

‘If you have had nothing to do with Edward Pattison’s death then you have my assurances that anything you say to me here will be kept completely confidential.’

She gave a huge sigh then licked her lips as though wondering how to begin.

‘Ed and I were lovers. Off and on,’ she said. ‘He’d been my first proper boyfriend and even after he and Cath were married we continued to have the odd weekend away together. Nobody knew about us, not our friends or our family. Though I often thought that Cath had her suspicions.’ She looked up as if to see some sign of confirmation in the policeman’s face but Lorimer’s expression remained one of mild interest.

‘What did she tell you? That I had wanted Ed to marry me? That I was the scorned woman?’

Lorimer did not immediately reply, but his thoughts turned to the old adage that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Was she a woman scorned? Not only for the wife of the man she had loved but possibly for a string of mistresses?

‘Where were you on the night that Edward Pattison was killed, Miss Fraser?’ he asked at last.


Third time lucky, Lorimer told himself as he approached the corridor that held the offices of most of the Labour party members of the Scottish parliament. Both Raeburn and Zena Fraser had been able to supply alibis for the night that Pattison had been killed, though these would of course have to be corroborated.

‘You’re Lorimer, I suppose?’ A Glasgow accent made the detective superintendent whirl around to find a stockily built man with untidy dark hair who was wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a striped scarf.

‘Coming to see me? Frank Hardy,’ the man said, shooting out his arm and giving Lorimer a swift once up and down handshake. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. Don’t think I’m paranoid or anything, but walls have ears, know what I mean?’

His grin was infectious and Lorimer found himself smiling as the man tilted his head towards the row of glass and wooden structures that served as offices.

Before Lorimer had time to answer, Hardy was off along the corridor and heading for the stairs that would take them back out of the parliament.

This time Lorimer noticed things that had not caught his attention on the way in. There were several pictures upon the walls and one in particular made him stop and stare, Hardy lingering at his side as he gazed. It was an enlarged photograph of a woman and her goat inside what could have been a ‘but and ben’, the ancient style of rural cottage that served as shelter for both man and beast. The woman, however, was looking askance at the goggle-eyed creature as though wondering what had possessed her to let it in. Lorimer gave a tiny smile, remembering the story of the discontented old woman who had asked a wise man how to make her house bigger. The wise man’s advice had been to take in her animals one by one, causing her to doubt the man’s alleged wisdom. He had, of course, eventually told her to let them all out, at once transforming the house into a larger space.

The smooth feel of wood beneath his fingers as he trailed them on the banister was pleasing to the man who had forsaken art history for a career in the police. As were the polished granite floors and slate steps. It was, Lorimer thought, a great attempt to marry so many of Scotland’s natural resources into this building.

‘Bit of a nip, eh?’ the man said, turning his collar against the wind that was blowing straight off Arthur’s Seat. He looked up at the darkening clouds approaching from the east. ‘Maybe a good idea to find somewhere we can get ourselves some central heating before the next heavy shower, eh? Any particular howf you fancy?’

Bemused by the man’s eagerness to depart the Scottish parliament, Lorimer shook his head. ‘Don’t usually drink on duty,’ he murmured.

‘Ach, one wee dram’ll no’ do you any harm,’ Hardy replied, grinning. Then, looking down at Lorimer’s thick-soled shoes he added, ‘Come on, the pavements shouldn’t be too bad up the Canongate and there’s a nice pub with a good fire that I know.’

Lorimer fell into step beside the man who, he noticed, was wearing stout boots, as though he had decided beforehand that Lorimer would acquiesce to his suggestion of marching through the snow-covered streets of Edinburgh’s old town.

‘You represent one of the West Renfrewshire constituencies,’ Lorimer said.

‘Aye, it takes in Erskine, Bishopton and Langbank,’ Hardy replied. ‘Nice and handy seeing as I live in Erskine myself. Been there since I was a wee boy back in the seventies when the Scottish Special Housing Association built the place. Was a councillor for Bargarran before I became elected,’ he added, puffing slightly as the hill began to rise before them.

‘Were you at home the night that Edward Pattison died, then?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Hardy nodded, fishing in his coat pocket and drawing out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you smoke? No?’ he asked, offering the packet to Lorimer who shook his head. ‘Cannae think that Ed was just along the road from our part of Erskine when … ’ He stopped for a moment to light his cigarette then blew out a plume of smoke that lingered in the frosty air. ‘Terrible thing to have happened, eh? And him that well thought of, too.’

Lorimer glanced at him, trying to detect any trace of sarcasm and wondering if the words were at all sincere or merely an empty platitude. Frank Hardy’s quarrel with Pattison had been well documented in the press after Pattison had defected from the Labour party. The things that Hardy had uttered then had been far less gracious, Lorimer remembered.

‘Over there,’ Hardy said at last when they had marched well up the hill and past the crown-steepled church of Saint Giles. The politician was nodding to a pub on the corner diagonally opposite the crossroads where they now stood waiting for the traffic lights to change.

Deacon Brodie’s Tavern was, thought Lorimer, an interesting choice of pub for the MSP to bring the policeman. He knew most of the story: Brodie had been an Edinburgh worthy back in the eighteenth century, a town councillor and supposedly wealthy cabinet-maker by day but a housebreaker by night. His double life had ended when he’d been caught and he had been condemned to death on the gallows.

The warmth hit them right away as they stepped inside the pub. Almost every table was surrounded by men and women drinking and enjoying a late lunch and the vinegary smell of chips began to waft temptingly around Lorimer’s nostrils.

‘Bet you havenae had anything to eat,’ Hardy asked abruptly. ‘Listen, I’m not like these Edinburgh folk. You’ll have had your tea?’ he said in a high voice that was intended to be a mimicry of an Edinburgh matron that made Lorimer grin despite himself.

‘I could murder a burger and chips,’ he confessed.

‘Well, come on upstairs. There’s a nice warm fire up there too,’ Hardy assured the policeman. Then, ‘Hey, Chloe, hen, can we have a couple of menus for the restaurant?’ he called to a young girl in black who was polishing glasses behind the bar.

‘Sure, Mr Hardy. Here you are,’ she said, picking up a couple of hefty leather-bound menus from a pile at the end of the counter. ‘Be with you shortly,’ she said, smiling.

‘You’re a regular here, then,’ Lorimer said as they headed upstairs past prints of Lord Byron and Robert Burns, poets both, perhaps favourites of the legendary Brodie.

‘Aye, your powers of deduction are just brilliant, Detective Superintendent,’ Hardy laughed as they settled at a table by the window. ‘Wee Chloe works here during the week so she knows all the punters that come in. See that new place across the road?’ he said, pointing at a modern building that stood out against the older, more gracious architecture on either side. ‘Well there used to be one of the ugliest buildings in the city right on that spot, before they knocked it down and built this new hotel. That was where we all worked before they created that money-sponge down at Holyrood. Brodie’s was a dead handy place for members of the Scottish parliament. And I kind of like it. So,’ he shrugged and grinned, ‘I see no reason not to keep on patronising their illustrious establishment.’

Perhaps the man’s patronage was indeed pure altruism, for the upstairs restaurant was completely empty except for themselves; or was he in the habit of coming here for peace and quiet, Lorimer wondered.

‘Deacon Brodie was supposed to have been the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, wasn’t he?’ the policeman asked.

‘Is that right?’ Hardy shrugged. ‘Not a great reader myself,’ he added.

‘My wife is an English teacher,’ Lorimer told him. ‘And a big Stevenson fan. The book was about a man who had two sides to his personality, one moral and the other evil. Wasn’t Brodie a little bit like that?’

‘Och, Brodie was a pure chancer,’ Hardy replied. ‘Oh, Chloe, right hen,’ he said as the waitress approached. ‘A couple of pints of Stella and two drams of Macallan. That okay with you, Lorimer?’

‘Just the whisky, thanks,’ Lorimer replied.

‘Are you ready to order your food, gentlemen?’ the girl asked politely, taking her little notebook and pen out of a black wraparound apron.

‘Burger and chips twice?’ Hardy asked, looking at the detective who nodded hungrily.

After the girl had gone through the usual rigmarole of sauces and sides, the two men were left alone, the only sound coming from the fire that was crackling and hissing as the rain began to pour down against the windows.

‘You were telling me about Deacon William Brodie,’ Lorimer reminded Hardy.

‘Aye, so I was. Seems he was a terrible gambling man. That’s how he got into the housebreaking game. Lost all his family’s money. They say that Brodie got off by bribing the hangman. Was supposed to have been seen alive and well in Paris.’

‘Must have been a bit of a character to have had a place like this named after him,’ Lorimer mused. ‘Wasn’t Edward Pattison rather a colourful character too?’ he asked mildly.

‘Pattison? Colourful?’ Frank Hardy looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Don’t know that I’d call him that. Bit of a chancer like Brodie, though,’ he said, leaning forward then lowering his voice. ‘You want to know what that man was really like, Lorimer? Well, you’ve come to the right man to tell you—Thanks, lass.’ Hardy sat back as the waitress placed their drinks on the table then waited until she had left the room and her feet could be heard clattering on the wooden staircase.

‘Edward Pattison was a shit of the first order,’ Hardy growled. ‘See if he’d been an Edinburgh wifie, you’d have said he was all fur coat and nae knickers. Pretended to be all lah-de-dah with that big hoose of his and the fancy sports car. The wife’s money, of course,’ he added, pausing to take a swig of his lager. ‘Pattison came from an ordinary background but that was never going to be good enough for him. He was the sort of man who had to be someone, know what I mean? A right wee social climber. Why he even joined the Labour party I cannot imagine. Didn’t have a socialist bone in his body!’ he finished in a tone of disgust.

‘Why do you think he joined the Scottish Nationalists?’ Lorimer asked.

‘So he could get ahead. That was Edward all over. He wanted to be part of whatever was successful at the time,’ Hardy snorted.

‘Politics aside,’ Lorimer said, ‘what can you tell me about Edward Pattison’s private life?’

‘His women, you mean?’ Hardy gave a lopsided grin but his eyes had narrowed and there was a sly look on his face as he regarded the policeman. ‘Oh, I can tell you plenty.’

‘I’ve already spoken to James Raeburn and Zena Fraser,’ Lorimer told him.

‘Och, James knew nothing about what Edward got up to in Glasgow. But I guess Zena may have had an inkling,’ Hardy said, lifting his glass for another mouthful of beer.

‘And what was that?’

Hardy grinned, his green eyes twinkling under his bushy eyebrows.

‘Poor wee Catherine was never enough for that big man,’ Hardy said. ‘She’d given him her family’s fortune and three nice wee weans. And in return her man went off with anything in a skirt that took his fancy.’ He looked sharply at Lorimer. ‘Paid for it too, from all accounts,’ he added quietly. ‘At least he did back in our home town.’

‘How do you know this?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Edward Pattison wasn’t always the clean-living boy he was made out to be,’ Hardy began. ‘Truth was he couldnae hold his drink, that’s why he gave it up. Terrified he’d make a fool of himself in public.’ He leaned forward again, his voice lowered. ‘See, one time when we were a lot younger, me and Edward were out on the batter and he told me some things that would make your hair curl. Things about what he did to girls, street girls, you know?’

‘When was this?’

‘Och, years ago, before either of us was married,’ Hardy admitted. ‘But I know fine he was still at it,’ he continued. ‘Saw him driving round Blythswood Square a couple of times, on the lookout, y’know?’

‘And you never told anybody about this?’

Hardy shrugged. ‘None of my business what the man got up to, was it? And I’m not the type to go bleating to the papers about another bloke’s weaknesses.’

Lorimer frowned. ‘But it was well known that you couldn’t stand the man,’ he began.

Hardy straightened up, his face reddening. ‘Now listen, Lorimer, I might have had a grudge against the wee shit, but I would never have stooped so low as that. Some of us MSPs do have principles, you know, despite what the journalists would like the public to believe. Plus,’ he mumbled, ‘what do you think that might have done to Cathy and the kids?’


The return journey to Glasgow began much more quickly, snow ploughs having cleared the earlier blizzards and a heavy rain washing the residual slush to the sides of the M8. As the afternoon closed in and darkness began to fall, Detective Superintendent William Lorimer had a lot to think about, mainly from what Frank Hardy had revealed about his erstwhile colleague. The chief constable of Strathclyde had hinted that Pattison had been a bit of a ladies’ man, but surely he had not known that he had been a regular along the drag? Perhaps, Lorimer thought to himself, it was time to see if anyone else had knowledge of Pattison’s nefarious activities.