A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 22





Rosie lifted the lid of her husband’s laptop and was soon keying in his password. It was something that they had agreed on when they had moved in together, even before their marriage. No secrets, shared case studies, the lot. If Solly chose to ignore the gorier aspects of forensic pathology, that was up to him, Rosie thought with a grin. But the no-holds-barred policy meant that she had access to all his ongoing cases and she was curious to see what her beloved had made of the four prostitute murders. Reading through them on screen was like being back at work, Rosie told herself; or at least it felt like that while Abby was slumbering soundly in her crib. And, besides, hadn’t she performed the post-mortem on at least one of the women?

The telephone ringing made her shoot out of her chair and grab the nearest handset, panic filling her lest the sound wake her baby and make her lose this precious time she had set aside for herself.

‘Maggie!’ she gasped, hearing the voice of her friend. ‘What a surprise! Shouldn’t you be at school this afternoon?’

‘We were all sent home early yesterday because of the snow and the council has decreed in their wisdom to keep the schools shut until at least tomorrow,’ Maggie said, the unconcealed glee in her voice making Rosie smile. Outside the huge bay windows that overlooked Kelvingrove Park Rosie could see children playing on sledges, some of them little more than tin trays.

‘Ah, right, so you’re footloose and fancy free,’ Rosie said. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to come across town to see your god-daughter?’

‘I’d love to,’ Maggie replied, ‘but it’s only Bill’s car that’s going anywhere in this weather. Mine’s well and truly stuck in the garage, I’m afraid. What are you up to yourself? Abby being a good wee girl?’

‘She’s asleep, actually,’ Rosie said, trying not to whisper.

‘Oh, sorry, hope I haven’t woken her up.’

‘No, don’t think so. I was just trawling through that case our husbands were both working on, the prostitute killings, you know?’

‘Aye, something nasty in them,’ Maggie said. ‘Not that I’m given all the gristly details, mind.’ She paused. ‘See if I was in Solly’s shoes, I’d be looking for a class one nutter, you know? Someone who howls at the moon.’

‘Best not let him hear you refer to the mentally unstable like that,’ Rosie chuckled. ‘Listen, why not come over this weekend if you can thaw out that car of yours? We could take the wee one to the park if it’s not too cold. Wrap her up in her sling.’

‘Okay, but I’ll let you go now in case Abigail wakes up. Speak soon. Bye.’

Rosie put down the telephone, listening hard for the sound of a baby’s plaintive cry but there was nothing. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she returned to the laptop, pressing the space bar to make the screen re-appear. It would be funny if Maggie was right, she thought, then, more to amuse herself than anything else, Rosie jotted down the four dates when each woman had been murdered then Googled them to see if there had indeed been any planetary influence.

A few minutes later she stared at the notes she had scribbled on a pad, blinking in disbelief. The very thing that Maggie Lorimer had uttered in jest had actually taken place. Carol Kilpatrick, Miriam Lyons, Jenny Haslet and Tracey-Anne Geddes had all been murdered on the night of a full moon.


‘Why wasn’t this picked up before?’ Rosie asked accusingly as she rocked the baby back and forth in her arms.

‘It isn’t something that most people would think to do,’ Solly answered quietly. ‘In fact I might not even have thought of it at this stage. Thanks to Maggie, however, we now have something that links all four of these girls, albeit,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘something that might not be looked upon by the police or even the courts of law as anything more than a strange sort of coincidence.’

‘But Lorimer … ’

‘ … doesn’t believe in coincidences,’ Solly finished for her. ‘No more than I do, darling. No, what we have here is the possibility of a psychotically motivated series of killings. But what else must we see in this picture?’ he murmured, no longer looking at his wife but rather talking to himself. ‘Remember Lorimer’s mantra: means, method and opportunity,’ he said, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Opportunity might have come easily enough either from someone frequenting the sauna or out on a familiar patch of the streets – all the victims were vulnerable young women. The methods tended to differ inasmuch as two were strangled and the others stabbed in something of a frenzied attack, but we still have to keep an open mind about that. Then the means. Someone,’ he said slowly, ‘had a way of attracting each of these girls into a situation where they could be overpowered and murdered.’

‘A drug dealer, maybe?’ Rosie suggested, breaking in on his train of thought. ‘They were all on the game to feed their habit, remember.’

‘But Jenny and Miriam had got work in a sauna. Doesn’t that indicate that they were making some attempt to clean up their act?’

‘Aye,’ Rosie said sceptically. ‘If you believe that you’ll believe anything, love. Don’t think the owners of these places are all that particular about what their girls get up to.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Solly replied. ‘There was mention of the Big Blue Bus project. These people go all out to get the girls off drugs, don’t they?’

Abigail, who had been content to listen to the voices around her, let out a familiar whimper.

‘Oops, sorry, wee one, time for your feed,’ Rosie said, patting her baby’s back and making shushing noises as she walked into the nursery.

Solomon Brightman stood watching as Rosie set Abby gently against her breast. It was an age-old gesture that spelled out the wonder of motherhood, something that was a privilege to behold.

Had someone else’s mother held her son to her like that, a son who was destined by dint of some abnormality in his genetic make-up to become a cold-blooded killer? Perhaps, Solly told himself sadly. All the joys and tender moments of motherhood would be destroyed watching one’s beloved child grow into some sort of monster. And, if he were to be instrumental in any way in finding this man, then that mother too would become a victim.

Back in his study, the psychologist lifted his desk diary, hearing the creak of the still-new spine as he turned the pages. Blinking owlishly, Solly stopped at a particular date. Scribbled under the seventh of February he had written Lorimer’s party. Keep free. Babysitter? But above the date, floating quietly on a white space were the words: full moon.


The woman who sometimes called herself Diana walked slowly towards the red brick building, her heavy boots slipping in the slushy snow. She paused for a moment to peer in at the entrance, curious to see what she could see, but it looked simply like any other reception area of a big organisation, though the familiar badge of Strathclyde Police dominated the view for any passersby. Detective Superintendent Lorimer worked somewhere up there, she knew. Barbara had been fulsome in her praise of him and something had drawn her here, wondering just what this man was like. Yet caution prevailed over womanly curiosity and she walked on, smiling a little to herself. If only they knew she was here, she thought, walking past their front door like any ordinary citizen!


Up there within the myriad offices of Strathclyde Police headquarters the detective superintendent in charge of the Serious Crimes Unit was indeed in situ, frowning over the email that Solly had sent him. He’d be much happier if he could devote some of his time to Helen James’s cases, he thought, instead of being sent on what he now believed were wild goose chases to Edinburgh. That Catherine Pattison had her own agenda, he was now certain. Her voice had given her away, even though her words had striven to reassure him. James has all of these dreadful guns, she’d told him, faltering slightly as though she was perfectly aware that her accusation against the MSP was ill founded. And yet, and yet … the memory of Raeburn’s words had come back to him time and again. Nothing to hide, the man had told him. And that gun book had been there for all to see. Had it been a deliberate show, perhaps?

Lorimer shook his head wearily. How many man hours had been spent collating the background checks on those three people, officers struggling through these hazardous conditions over in the capital where the snow had become so bad that the army had been called out to clear main roads like Princes Street? Perhaps, he thought, it was time to delve into Mrs Pattison’s own background. Frowning again, Lorimer realised that this was an action that would be delegated to a more junior officer. Being in charge of this department had meant more paperwork and meetings, not the sort of day-to-day work that he really enjoyed. His naturally restless spirit made him want to be out and about, the way he used to be as a detective inspector; tramping the streets, asking questions, meeting up with his own snouts.

He sighed. He was not quite forty and yet had already gained this rank, this prestigious appointment to Serious Crimes, so why was he feeling such a sense of detachment from the cases under investigation? Was it being here at HQ in Pitt Street, away from the cut and thrust of a division? And there were killers out there on these mean streets, he told himself, biting his lower lip; killers that he wanted to catch before any other innocent victims became their prey.

Standing up, he wandered over to his window and looked down on the snowy street below. There were a few people about and he could see their figures walking gingerly on the filthy pavements where ice had formed under layers of compacted snow. Suddenly the room was too warm, too confined and Lorimer felt that old sensation of claustrophobia that had dogged him from childhood. He had to get out, even if it was only to walk around the block for ten minutes. Looking at his watch (a Christmas gift from Maggie) he saw that his next meeting with the press was not for another half an hour, plenty of time to breathe in the cold air and clear his head.

The road outside led upwards to Blythswood Square and its patch of gardens surrounded by elegant Georgian buildings. As he approached this city centre oasis of greenery he looked up at the façade of the Blythswood Square Hotel, a luxury establishment that dominated one entire side of the square. Perhaps he could take Maggie there some evening for a meal, he thought idly; she might enjoy a bit of high living.

The sound of birdsong made the policeman stop suddenly at one corner of the gardens and look up. He blinked then blinked again, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. There, fluttering from one bare branched tree to the next, were several small buff-coloured birds, their tiny crests making them easily identifiable. Lorimer stood gazing upwards as the high pitched notes floated down, the little birds hopping from branch to branch before taking flight, displaying the blobs of red on their open wings, and making for the original tree once more. Waxwings! Here in the city centre, he thought. The severe weather must have made them rest there to feed on the plentiful berries in the trees and bushes, he told himself. Slowly he walked to the opening where a path led around the interior of the gardens, taking care not to slip on the patches of ice. Overhead the grey skies had begun to clear and there were swathes of blue making a backdrop for the silhouettes of leafless trees. He stood still, watching the birds, then inhaled a deep draught of frosty air, his warm breath forming a cloud around his face.

The walk back to Pitt Street took only minutes but it seemed to Lorimer that he had been away from his office for far longer, such was his feeling of liberation. As he entered the building he reminded himself that his tenure here was not for ever. Serious Crimes would be shelved eventually, and then he would be looking for a new challenge, something that would hopefully take him back to a more hands-on role in policing. Smiling at the thought, Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, ready for the more imminent daily task of facing the journalists, this time expecting their endless questions about the murder of Edward Pattison.


The idea had been growing slowly in her mind ever since Barbara had mentioned the daily press conference. Watching from behind a parked car, she saw them entering the red brick building, some singly, some in pairs, as though they were familiar with each other; the press pack, gaining entrance to this place and ready to question the man who had all knowledge of the ongoing investigation. Drawing a deep breath, she willed herself to follow them, fingering the laminated badge in her pocket. Diana Yeats, freelance journalist, had made a good job of faking the ID, but just how good a job was about to be tested. Would anybody recognise her? Hopefully not. The fluffy blonde that she had been all those years ago had been transformed dramatically into someone entirely different. Besides, there was something else, a feeling that she had carried with her ever since that first shot had been fired; it was as though she was invulnerable, safe from discovery.

The dark-skinned man behind the desk looked enquiringly at her as she stepped towards him.

‘Press,’ she said as brightly as she could, her confident smile belying the nerves that were making her stomach turn over. What did this police officer see? A woman smartly dressed in a black, fur-trimmed coat carrying a leather briefcase as she waited for the plastic pass that would allow her to follow the others down to the press room.

‘First time here?’ the officer said, taking her business card and turning to his computer to type her name onto a piece of card.

‘Yes,’ she replied, watching as he slipped the card into its clipon holder and handed it to her.

‘Just go downstairs and you’ll see them all gathering in the main hall,’ he said, leaning forwards and indicating the staircase opposite.

‘Thanks,’ she said, still forcing herself to smile as she clipped on the badge and headed towards the darkened stairwell.


There were perhaps forty people assembled in the hall waiting for the detective superintendent to make his entrance. Someone had failed to put on all of the lights and the large room was shadowy and cold as Lorimer walked on to the stage. The murmurs of talk from the assembled journalists ceased immediately as all eyes turned towards the tall figure spreading his notes upon the lectern.

To someone who had never seen him before, Detective Superintendent Lorimer was an imposing man. He might have been a sportsman, had in fact played rugby rather well as a young man, but the strength of his physique was more than matched by a different sort of power; those unsmiling eyes and that granite jaw came from a man whose experience of life had hardened him into a formidable opponent of the worst sort of criminal. When he began to speak it came as no surprise to hear a clear, deep voice in an accent that was securely rooted in his native Glasgow. And, as he spoke about Edward Pattison, the ongoing investigation and the need for journalism to help and not impede the case, his eyes were roving over each and every member of the pack. Yet some of the seated figures had deliberately chosen corners that were in shadow, watching while not being watched in turn.

When the question and answer session began it surprised the woman sitting at the back to hear how polite most of the journalists were to this man who was now gripping the lectern and leaning forward slightly as though to catch every word that was being said. There were none of the recriminations that might have been expected in a case that had not seen much progress. That, she thought, was some relief. Having Barbara as her deepthroat was one thing, but she was never completely sure if she was being fed useless titbits by the detective constable or not. Glancing round the room, the dark-haired woman knew that was an added risk of coming here. Okay, Barbara believed her story about being a freelance journo, but she still didn’t want to run into the girl.

As she listened it was all about the deputy first minister. Pattison, Pattison, Pattison. She could have told them all they ever wanted to know, couldn’t she? But why was there never a mention of Tracey-Anne? And what about these other victims? The sensation in her chest that she had thought to be nerves deepened into a pain as she fought the desire to stand up and demand that the officers in this place get off their backsides and find these women’s killer. The rage inside her screamed so hard to be released that she turned her head a fraction, wondering if the man next to her had sensed it.

Then suddenly the meeting was over and Lorimer was striding off the stage, as if to demonstrate that he was eager to be off to some other area of the investigation. The babble of talk resumed as they filed out, lining up at the front desk to leave their security passes.

Once outside she walked smartly away from the building, not even turning to look behind her, and headed up towards the Malmaison. The hotel was becoming something of a refuge, she thought, as the twin bay trees flanking the main door came into sight. It was not until she was settled in the brasserie with a coffee that the woman who called herself Diana took out her reporter’s notebook and flipped it open.

What had she written on that lined page? One short sentence that, reading it now, made her mouth turn up into a secret smile: He doesn’t know.


Lorimer closed the door behind him, glad that the daily task of facing the press pack was over. It had been a much more subdued meeting than usual, perhaps the intense cold had made them want to scurry back quickly to the warmth of their offices. And there had been a new one in their midst, that dark-haired woman sitting silently at the back, listening but not asking any questions. That in itself had drawn him to regard her with a flicker of interest. Perhaps she’d been sent by her editor as a substitute for the regular news reporter; this weather was playing havoc with everybody’s travel arrangements, after all.

Then, as the telephone rang, commanding the detective superintendent’s attention, all thoughts of the strange woman disappeared.


Maggie Lorimer listened as the rain pattered onto the skylight window. It was well after two in the morning and the thaw that the weather forecasters had promised seemed to have arrived. If only it didn’t turn to ice afterwards, she thought, shivering as she closed the bathroom door behind her. At least the schools would be back today and they could catch up with all the missed lessons. Padding quietly back to bed, she paused for a moment, looking down at her sleeping husband. He’d not missed a single day at work despite the dreadful weather. Crime didn’t take off snow days, did it? Especially crimes like the vicious murders that concerned Detective Superintendent William Lorimer.

Slipping into bed, Maggie let her thoughts wander. What would life be like if Bill hadn’t joined the police force? Would he have become an art historian as he had always intended? She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, and drifted into a halfdream about pictures in a gallery, but they were all the same subject; a woman lying in the snow, blood spilled artistically from a wound beneath her curvaceous body. Then they were not flesh and blood people at all but pictures of a broken statue and the blood was not that bright red colour at all but a sickly brown as water coursed past, leaving the marble muddied and wet, its surface gleaming in a chiaroscuro light coming from somewhere that only the artist could see. Then she was falling off the edge of a pavement…

Maggie woke up suddenly, aware of the dream but with it already slipping from her consciousness. She heaved a sigh, turned on her side and let her head sink deeper into the pillow.


The Glasgow streets had been washed clean by the rain but there were still lumps of brown-tinged snow in car parks and untreated side roads where huge drifts had been piled up by the relentless snow ploughs. Lorries with their flashing lights had been a familiar sight, scattering their ever-diminishing supplies of grit like pebble dash onto the icy roads, sometimes flicking the tiny particles onto other vehicles as they made their lumbering night-time way along motorways and city streets alike.

Jim Blackburn was listening to the request programme from Radio Clyde as his gritting machine moved slowly along Sauchiehall Street. He signalled right as the pedestrian area loomed ahead, then turned the wheel and headed uphill, across Bath Street and upwards into the shadows of the buildings that lay on either side of Blythswood Street.

His eye caught the figure hovering near the corner of the pavement. She was not quite close enough to the kerb to be making a move to cross, yet neither was she lurking in the shadows, since the light from a street lamp let Jim see her clearly enough. In the moments it took for his gritter lorry to pass her by, he saw a skinny wretch of a girl. She was clad in a black jacket, a pale blue miniskirt that barely covered her decency (a phrase his granny had sometimes used in an offended Presbyterian tone) and kneelength boots. Jim’s glance took in the white of her bare legs. He swallowed, realising just what she was and why she was standing there at this hour of the morning. Not only would her legs be bare, he thought, but she wouldn’t be wearing knickers either. Somehow the thought did not arouse any other feeling than pity in the man; as he saw her in his wing mirror he realised she was about the same age as his own wee lassie, Kelly, a schoolgirl who was strictly forbidden from going into the town after a certain time of night. Jim’s mouth tightened in a grim line. What sort of life led a young lassie like that onto the streets? He sighed and gave a shake of his head at the thought, leaving the girl behind as he drove up to the square, letting the grit scatter over the icy tarmac.

Jim Blackburn did not think much more about the prostitute that night but later she was to haunt his dreams for many months to come.


Lily shivered as she stood on the pavement. It’ll be fine, the other girls had told her, you’ll make a fortune. For the first half-hour Bella had waited just across the road, nodding encouragement whenever she had looked up. Lily had smiled back but inside she’d been hoping against hope that it wasn’t really happening and that she might just be allowed to go back home again. But home wasn’t on the agenda any more, was it? Not since her mother’s boyfriend had come on to her…

This bit of pavement was special, one of the others had told her; it had been another girl’s pitch. Lily thought she knew who they had meant: the dead girl whose face had been in all the papers. Her shivering became so bad that her teeth began to chatter. A spiteful little wind had begun to lift the debris from where she stood, swirling it into crazy patterns as Lily stared into the cobbled lane. That was where her body had been found, wasn’t it? She wrapped her arms around her chest, wishing she’d remembered to bring a scarf. You look the part, one of them had told her after they’d chosen her outfit and made her twirl before that big mirror in the bedroom three of them shared. The approving glance in her eye had made Lily smile then, basking in the glow that the pills had given her. The clothes had seemed quite glamorous, certainly a lot more expensive than anything she had ever owned before. But that feeling had dissipated as the night had worn on and now she saw herself for what she really was, a fifteenyear-old girl who had run out of options and needed to sell her flesh to survive.

A car had stopped opposite and taken the other girl away so now Lily stood on her own, waiting and wondering. Would he be nice to her? Would he be gentle? Some of them were old enough to be her father, one of the girls had giggled. Her grandfather more like, another had hooted and back there in the flat it had all sounded like a bit of harmless fun. But there was nothing nice about being out here at the mercy of the elements, waiting for a stranger to offer her money for sex.

Only the gritter lorry had passed in the last half an hour and Lily had begun to wonder if it would be safe to return to the flat, telling them she’d not had any custom, when a sleek grey Jaguar turned into the street and began to slow down. Lily stepped forward. Maybe he was a stranger in this city? Perhaps all he was going to do was ask for directions?

A middle-aged man wearing an open-necked shirt smiled at her as though he could see what she was and didn’t mind. Lily could see a thick gold chain around his neck and a heavy gold signet ring on the hand that was beckoning her closer.

She was supposed to ask him if he wanted to do the business, but the cold seemed to have frozen the little speech that she had been rehearsing all night.

‘Get in, girl,’ the man said, looking at her as though she was a girlfriend he’d been expecting to pick up. Some of them had that sort of fantasy, Lily had been told.

‘Car’s nice and warm,’ he added, patting the leather seat next to him.

The door was open and she hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before scrambling in beside him.

‘Fasten your seat belt. Don’t want the cops to catch you,’ he told her with a complicit grin that made her smile back at him. Then, as the car accelerated into the night, Lily knew it was going to be okay after all. Perhaps it would only take a quick half an hour, maybe even in a nice hotel room? She pictured herself stuffing a wad of notes into her handbag. Easy money, the girls had told her, and maybe it was, Lily thought, settling back against the soft leather, glancing at the man who was to be her very first customer.