A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 21





Helen James put down the phone with a sigh. The days since her operation had merged into one, with sleep and more sleep as the combination of anaesthetic and the recent punishing regime at work took their toll. He sounded nice, this professor. She’d heard of him, of course. Who in Strathclyde hadn’t? ‘Solomon Brightman,’ Helen said aloud, relishing the psychologist’s name. ‘Solomon the Wise.’ She smiled as she thought of the Old Testament king whose sagacity had earned him universal fame. Well, it would certainly be a diversion for the DCI in her enforced recuperation. She had nobody now in her division that she really wanted to see. Fairbairn had given her a ring, right enough, she admitted grudgingly, but that was out of courtesy, not friendship. And right now she would have welcomed visits from some old friends.

A sudden sigh came as Helen James recalled one of her favourite detective sergeants, a blonde lass with a sharp wit who had been hounded out of the force some time back by the antigay brigade. A high-profile case had resulted and Helen had been unable to do anything but watch helplessly from the sidelines. Claire had won it hands down but had then left in disgust. Such a waste of a good polis, she thought, shaking her head. Claire would have made senior rank no bother. Och, well, at least some of her officers were being usefully deployed with Lorimer. And being introduced to Solomon Brightman. Helen smiled suddenly. Perhaps being at home wasn’t such a bad thing if it brought the opportunity to discuss a case with the celebrated professor.


Vladimir Badica slammed the metal door behind him, creating a draught of frozen air in the vast space that housed his fleet of cars. The weather had brought a spate of cancellations and as a result this side of his business was deathly quiet. Not so the concrete garage that lay beneath the Glasgow streets: the sound of metal banging against metal and rap music from a transistor radio drew his eyes to the mechanic under one of the luxury cars. All Badica could see was a pair of stout black boots sticking out from under the chassis but he knew those feet.

His hands twitched by his sides as he listened to the man whistling tunelessly to the music. If he could grab hold of those boots, pull him out and … and what? What would he really be able to do to this man who had brought such grief into his life?

Badica clenched his fists, struggling to control the urge to do damage to the young man below the car. Better to leave it. He was a good mechanic, he thought grudgingly, watching as the feet shifted under the car; knew these Mercs inside out.

The Romanian shivered suddenly, but it was not a sensory reaction to the cold outside but a chill that came from deep within his heart.


‘Thanks for these,’ Helen James said, sipping her coffee and eyeing the lovely M&S chocolate biscuits that the professor had brought with him. Should she try one? Would it hurt her delicate insides? The district nurse had urged Helen to try different foods bit by bit to see if things were back to normal. Sod it, she thought, picking up her favourite cream-filled biscuit, might as well enjoy it while I can.

‘You’re all right now to eat them?’ Solly asked anxiously, noting the police officer’s hesitation.

‘Och, why not,’ Helen replied, grinning and biting into the biscuit with relish. ‘Right, professor, nice of you to visit but I’m sure you have lots of questions for me, eh?’

‘I want to ask you about the prostitute murders,’ Solly said.

‘Of course you do, professor. Who else would you come to?’ she replied, still smiling. But the smile did not reach Helen’s eyes as she regarded the psychologist thoughtfully.

‘I visited the parents of Carol Kilpatrick,’ he began, looking at her intently. Helen nodded and grimaced as if to show she understood what his reception had been like.

‘It was hard to fathom such animosity, especially now that she is dead,’ he ventured.

‘Aye, they were bitter, bitter people, those Kilpatricks,’ Helen admitted. ‘Couldn’t hack the fact that their wee lassie swung the other way.’

‘That’s what it was all about,’ Solly said and heaved a sigh.

‘Aye, Carol was a lesbian long before she went on the game. Parents kicked her out and she found some friends who made her feel better about herself. In a chemically induced way,’ she added, her voice laden with sarcasm. ‘The parents can’t accept that they were in any way to blame for their girl becoming a druggie.’

Solly looked away, saddened that such a thing could have happened, yet telling himself that it happened all the time. And this policewoman with anger in her eyes knew all the background of stories such as Carol’s. Could she help him to join up the dots in these four murder cases?

‘Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet do not at first appear to fit any kind of pattern,’ he began slowly. ‘But I did wonder what you thought about their deaths.’

‘I know what you’re asking, professor. Do I think the same person killed all four of my girls? Well, the MO might be different but each of them was brutalised by someone. Some man who overpowered them.’ She paused, her eyes dropping to a point somewhere on the carpet. ‘All of them are … were … extremely vulnerable young women, but there was a toughness about Tracey-Anne … ’ Her voice tailed off and Solly saw her biting her lip as though to conceal some emotion.

‘She put up a fight, didn’t she?’ Helen asked at last, her eyes boring into Solly’s own, defying him to deny it.

‘The post-mortem suggests as much,’ he said, nodding. ‘Dr White’s report includes details of defence wounds.’ The psychologist blinked, trying hard to blot out the memory of those photographs of slash marks on the young woman’s arms, images that could make him feel distinctly queasy.

‘What I don’t understand,’ Helen said slowly, ‘is how anyone could have got to Miriam and Jenny.’

Solly frowned, unable to see where she was going with this. ‘But if they were as vulnerable as you say they were…?’

‘Aye, they were, but if my information about them is accurate they were also both off the streets by the time of their deaths.’

‘But I thought…?’

‘You assumed they were all working the drag, is that right? Well,’ Helen pointed a hectoring finger at the psychologist, ‘those two girls had been working in a sauna for weeks before they were killed. And there was no sign of them back out on the streets. That,’ she said firmly, ‘is something they had in common, even if their deaths were different.’

‘So, you saw no pattern linking all four of the women, then?’ Solly asked after a moment’s consideration.

‘I wish I had,’ Helen replied. ‘There was something wrong with it all,’ she added with a frown. ‘Carol’s death was a shock to everyone. So brutal, so … ’ She searched for the right words to describe the girl’s murder. ‘So vicious. Look, we all see terrible things in our line of work, but that was the worst any of my team had ever experienced. How she stayed alive for those few hours, only God knows. Then when Miriam was found in the Clyde … well she’d been strangled and dumped, you know that, yes?’

Solly nodded as she continued.

‘Maybe it was because her murder was different, but I felt at the time that it could have been the same person who killed them both. George Parsonage, the Glasgow humane society officer, told me at the time that her body was probably pushed into the Clyde near the city centre. He knows all there is to know about tides, currents and stuff,’ she added.

‘And Jenny Haslet?’ Solly prompted.

‘Aye, wee Jenny. Poor wee lassie. Had been trying to get off the drugs with help from the folk in the Big Blue Bus. You’ve heard of that, I assume?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘As I said, Jenny and Miriam had both found jobs in a sauna. Same one as it happens. Place called Andie’s. We thought we’d found a link at first.’ Helen shrugged. ‘But nothing came of it. Owner told us later that Jenny had simply failed to turn up for work one day. Seems their girls can be a bit unreliable that way,’ she grimaced.

‘And Jenny Haslet was strangled, like Miriam,’ Solly said slowly.

‘Aye. Not far from where she lived in Govanhill. If any of them was the odd one out then it would’ve been Jenny. Away from the city centre, maybe pulling punters near where she lived. Who knows? Forensics found she’d been choked to death with her own black tights. Someone had raped her first. Some big ugly brute, if the pathologist’s report was right. Hey, hold on,’ she said suddenly. ‘That was Dr Fergusson, wasn’t it? Your … ’

‘My wife,’ Solly said. ‘Yes. That’s right. I do remember Rosie telling me about that particular case. She was so sure that someone would be found and that she would have to give evidence in court.’ He shrugged. ‘But it didn’t happen.’

‘Well perhaps if we put our heads together and find some common strand in all of this then something will come of it,’ Helen James replied, but there was such doubt in her voice tinged with bitterness, that Solly Brightman wondered if the DCI was already resigned to these murders remaining unsolved, at least by her own team of officers.


Andie’s Sauna was located in a side street off Govan Road. It was less than a mile away from the BBC and STV studios and the luxury flats that had sprung up on both sides of the Clyde, but it might have been on a different planet. That, thought Solomon Brightman, was one of the more fascinating aspects of Glasgow, where those who had plenty of life’s riches rubbed shoulders geographically with those who had nothing. At first glance the sauna might have been a launderette, its double-fronted glass windows showing a couple of blonde women sitting with their backs to the street, mugs of something hot clutched in their hands looking for all the world as though they were passing time waiting for their washing to be done. But, crouching a little to peer inside, Solly saw that they were sitting reading magazines, their bare legs crossed, spangly stiletto sandals revealing garishly painted toenails.

‘Looking fur a quick ride, pal?’ A voice behind Solly said with a guffaw, making him straighten up in alarm.

A short man with grizzled grey hair and yellowing teeth leered up at him then nodded towards the door. ‘Awright if ye can afford them sort of prices, eh? Eh?’

Solly opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it as the smell of drink wafted off the old man. ‘On ye go son, dinna mind me,’ the man said, then, giving Solly a swift dig in his side, he staggered off cackling to himself.

As Solly opened the door he noticed the two women looking up at him as soon as they heard the tinkle of the door chime.

‘I’m looking for the owner of the, um, establishment,’ he said brightly. ‘Andie?’

‘S’no’ in the noo,’ one of the girls replied, looking at Solly with thinly disguised interest. ‘If ye’re wantin’ a session see an’ phone fur an’ appointment, okay?’

‘I’m Professor Brightman,’ Solly said. ‘I’m actually here on behalf of Strathclyde Police.’

The reaction was immediate. Both women sat up straight, uncrossed their legs and tugged at what passed for their skirts. If it hadn’t been part of a serious case, Solly would have burst out laughing as he observed their body language.

‘Andie’s away over at the other place, far as I know,’ the younger of the women told him. ‘We’re jist keeping things tickin’ ower, isn’t that right, Jessie?’

‘Aye,’ agreed the other, churning a wad of gum around in her mouth while looking at Solly as if she had found some new species of humanoid. ‘Yer no’ wantin’ a session then, mister?’ she asked regretfully, her eyes slipping over him in a way that made his face burn with embarrassment.

‘No thank you. Maybe you can help me, though,’ he said suddenly, squashing the urge to back out of the place at once.

‘Oh, aye, sure we can,’ the girl called Jessie giggled as she stood up.

‘Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet,’ he said quietly, looking intently at them from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles with an expression that he hoped was sufficiently professorial. Hearing the names had an immediate effect on the women whose faces both became suddenly serious.

‘Mind the names,’ one of the women said with a frown. ‘D’you ’member them, Francine?’

‘Aye,’ the younger woman said shortly. ‘Knew them from before … used to see them both down in Robertson Street.’

‘And on the Big Blue Bus, perhaps?’ Solly asked gently.

‘Aye, there ’n’ all. Whit’s with the questions, Sherlock? Jenny an’ Miriam are both deid,’ Jessie protested.

‘I know that,’ Solly said. ‘That’s why I’m here. You see, ladies, I’m a psychologist and I’m trying to create a profile of whoever killed these young women.’

The nervous glance that passed between the two women gave Solly the idea that some revelation was about to be produced. But he was wrong.

‘Better come back anither time, son,’ Jessie said, walking towards him so that Solly had to back towards the door again. ‘An’ make a proper appointment tae see the boss, okay?’

‘Aye, an’ we wisnae here when ye called, right? Got that, professor?’ Francine insisted. The timbre of her voice had heightened and Solly knew that, if he were ever asked, he would admit that he was hearing a young woman who was now under a good deal of stress.

*

The whistling stopped as soon as the man heard the door slide closed once more. Stuffing the oil-soaked rag into a pocket of his dungarees, the mechanic shuffled his body from under the Mercedes-Benz and emerged from his prone position beneath the luxury car. Anyone seeing the big man would be surprised at how nimbly he sprang to his feet, smiling as though there was a secret joke he was keeping to himself. He stretched upwards, flexing his muscles after their confinement below the car, making him appear even taller than his normal six feet and five inches. Then, looking around at the cars parked in a careful row, he nodded to himself as his glance rested on one particular model. The white Merc was due for its trade-in, Vlad had told him, in clipped tones that made the mechanic aware that the boss was less than well pleased at having to part with this particular model.

The big man shrugged. It would be one less car to wash and polish for weddings, he supposed. Pity, though. There were still a few white Mercs but there was something alluring about the sporty model that made customers want to take it out for hire. A babe magnet, he’d heard one of them call it. The mechanic turned away, still smiling as he wiped his hands on a fresh piece of paper towel. He liked that idea. A magnet attracted metal to metal, didn’t it? His grin widened as he looked in a rectangle of mirror that someone had placed by a shelf near the wooden staircase that led to the offices above the garage. A dark-haired man with deep brown eyes stared back, his finely chiselled cheekbones giving just a hint of his ethnic origin. He’d been told more than once what an attractive man he was. A throwback, Vladimir had called him once, and, though he did not fully understand what that meant, he took it to be a compliment, however grudgingly given.

As he made his way upstairs he could hear the woman in the office speaking in the tone of voice she reserved for customers. Only this was not a customer. A uniformed police officer stood patiently by the reception desk as the mechanic passed him by. There was not even the flicker of a glance towards him as he walked through reception to the small side room where he would wash and change before eating the lunch that had been prepared for him. Nobody, after all, noticed a mere mechanic in greasy overalls within the precincts of a garage, did they? Even though this particular mechanic had a handsome face that might attract attention.


‘So, let me get this right,’ the officer said. ‘You hire out these Mercedes-Benz cars for weddings and for general use?’

‘Well, general covers a lot of things, constable,’ the woman replied starchily, drawing herself up as far as her five feet two including sensible court shoes would allow.

‘These are luxury cars,’ she told him reprovingly. ‘Not the sort of vehicles available to every Tom, Dick and Harry,’ she sniffed.

‘So,’ the police officer continued, ‘what sorts of people do hire them out?’

‘People with good taste,’ she fired back. But seeing his eyebrows draw together in a frown of disapproval hastily added, ‘Businessmen usually. The sort who are used to good quality and don’t wish to compromise when they’re away from home.’

‘Do you have records of everyone who has hired a car from here in the last two years?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I suppose so. I could check, perhaps.’ Then, turning away from her desk, she took a few steps towards a half-glazed door marked PRIVATE and pushed it open.

Watching her closely, the officer thought he could discern a certain timidity in her approach as she looked around. It was, he realised, unfamiliar territory. The boss’s office, he guessed; somewhere sacrosanct, or a place where secrets were hidden?

On the desk beyond the door lay an opened laptop and the woman stood before it, making a show of clicking on buttons, her tongue nervously darting in and out over her lips. There was an old-fashioned high-back chair, ornately carved, but the receptionist chose to remain standing as though to sit in her employer’s place was a breach of protocol.

‘There’s a diary here of transactions going back to 2009,’ she said at last. ‘What exactly was it you wanted?’ She looked up but her eyes were not on the policeman, they looked beyond him as if to check that her boss was not going to come in the front door and interrupt them.


Barbara Knox tapped the information onto the page, nodding silently to herself. This was good stuff. Not only had they found a series of Mercedes owners (all men, she thought with a grin) who wanted to offload their white sports jobs, but now there was this company who actually hired them out. Vladimir Badica was the owner of these hire cars, many of them white ones used for weddings. She grimaced as she read the list of couples that had hired the larger and more expensive ones for their big days. Waste of money, she thought. Better to spend it on a holiday somewhere like Mauritius. Barbara’s face became thoughtful again. Diana hadn’t exactly said they should take a holiday together, but had hinted that something like that would follow as a reward for their joint efforts.

She shrugged the idea away. Probably wouldn’t happen, knowing her luck. Better to concentrate on the job in hand. See who had hired the white Mercedes during the past couple of years in case there was some sort of tie-in with the three shooting victims.


Lorimer read the report for the second time. It simply didn’t make any sort of sense that the three people named by Catherine Pattison had reason to murder her husband. One of them, Zena Fraser, was out of the picture anyway because of her alibi. Raeburn had no apparent motive for killing his close friend and somehow Lorimer could not believe that Frank Hardy would have been so forthcoming to a senior police officer had he had anything to hide. Why, then, he thought to himself, had Pattison’s widow been so adamant that these people had been worth the time and effort it had already taken to check on their backgrounds and their whereabouts on the night of the murder?

She may well have been aware of the liaison between Ms Fraser and her husband. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, he reminded himself. Had it been some sort of female spite to name Zena Fraser as a possible killer? His frown deepened. There had been something in Frank Hardy’s words that had suggested that the Labour MSP’s sympathies lay with not against Catherine Pattison. So what on earth would make the woman suspect that man of killing her errant husband? Cherchez la femme, Solly had told him, meaning something quite different at the time. But, he wondered, was there something worth searching for in Catherine Pattison née Cadell’s own background? Picking up the telephone, Lorimer dialled the 0131 ex-directory number.


Catherine Pattison put down the telephone, her fingers trembling. Had Frank said something? She bit her lip as she turned towards the window. Outside the snow had stopped falling and the garden was shrouded in silence. Once she would have gasped in girlish delight at the frosted leaves on her holly trees or the bare branches covered in glittering white against that powder blue sky. But years of waiting and wondering had robbed her of the capacity to enjoy such simple sights as this. She rubbed her thumb repeatedly across her forefinger as though to warm it against the chill outside, but her eyes had taken on a faraway look as if her thoughts were somewhere other than this Edinburgh suburb and its winter landscape.

She had given Detective Superintendent Lorimer Frank Hardy’s name as a double bluff. That was what they had agreed, after all. What had Frank told that policeman? She shifted restlessly as she recalled the tall man with those piercing blue eyes that had seemed to gaze into her very soul. Or, was that simply something she had made up since then? A false memory born of a conscience that one could only brand as guilty?

She turned at the sound of a door opening and blinked as her mother entered the room, bearing a tray laden with home-baked marmalade loaf and a small pot of coffee. Catherine looked up as the older woman laid down the tray and began to fuss with the pair of folded linen napkins.

‘Don’t,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended, seeing the shadow that crossed her mother’s face. ‘Leave it just now, will you?’

‘Thought you said you were hungry,’ Mrs Cadell murmured. ‘Who was that on the phone just now?’ she added.

‘Lorimer,’ Catherine answered, turning away from the buttered loaf that had been made as a treat for her. It was all she needed to say; one single word to explain why her appetite for her mother’s home baking had suddenly vanished.

‘Well,’ the older woman said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Did you tell him what really happened?’

‘Of course not,’ Catherine replied crossly. ‘What sort of fool do you take me for?’

‘The sort of fool that makes most women wish their husband was gone so they can make the same mistakes all over again,’ Mrs Cadell sighed, shaking her head wearily.