A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 25





Zena Fraser sat obediently, mouth opened wide, while the police doctor ran the swab around the inside of her mouth.

‘That’s it,’ he said, nodding briefly. ‘Thanks for your co-operation, ma’am.’

‘Not at all,’ Zena replied, trying to suppress a shiver of disgust as she rose to leave. In truth she had not wanted to undertake this little visit to her local police office but the fact was that she had to appear as completely apart from the murder investigation as she could. One or two of the tabloids had interviewed her, of course, but her approach to them had been that of a childhood friend grieving for the man who had become no more than a colleague in the Scottish parliament. If anything other than that should leak out then her career could well be finished, Zena thought, her fair brow furrowing in sudden anxiety as she left the building.


Elsewhere in the capital the business of running the country was continuing as usual, Felicity Stewart’s well-oiled machinery of government ensuring that each department had its records up to date for the daily televised appearance within the debating chamber. As ever, questions had been asked about the murder case and, as ever, her answers had been similar to those issued by the police. Enquiries were continuing and evidence being collated but for now, no, there had not been any arrests nor had there been any mention of a particular suspect. And, if the first minister was a little brusque in dismissing any further questions on that subject she could have been forgiven, since the day’s agenda was particularly long.

Frank Hardy listened as the various questions came to the fore, watching Felicity Stewart’s face as she parried several points from the Labour benches. She was good, he thought, her replies quick as lightning, some of them witty enough to evoke a ripple of laughter from the entire assemblage. He could see why Ed had jumped ship. Hardy glanced around at his colleagues, many of whom were grey-haired now and aiming to retire at the next election. There was an atmosphere of apathy within his party at times, something that Edward Pattison had had the nous to sense long before anyone else. Still, there were die-hard types like himself who would rally the electorate to their cause, reminding them of the days gone by when men like the red Clydesiders had fought for their rights.

Perhaps that was one of the things that Cathy had found attractive about him; the old dog who still banged on about human rights and the socialist way of life. Opposites attracted, it was said, and there was no greater contrast than between a working-class type such as Frank Hardy and a woman like Catherine Pattison, whose upper-class Edinburgh background had made him believe that she was for ever out of his reach. Lorimer would make the connection eventually, he thought. And what then? Would he become a suspect in the case? Cathy had hinted as much, hadn’t she? Well, maybe it was time to cultivate as many alibis as he could. Just in case.


The forensic reports had helped to show that there had been several women travelling in Edward Pattison’s car, two at least easily identified as his wife and his old friend, Zena Fraser. The others remained a mystery for now, but questions were being asked of the Pattison family to see if they might be able to give any clues as to which other ladies could have been passengers in the white Mercedes. Pattison’s mother-in-law, Mrs Cadell, was one probability, of course, Lorimer thought, reading the forensic chemist’s report carefully once again. The chemist and biologist had been liaising on this one, careful to give cognisance to each other’s particular skills. He read on, wondering. To whom did that strand of long dark hair belong? There were no traces of narcotics so it had probably not come from a street woman after all. Would its DNA be found anywhere on their massive database? If so, then the hunt for a possible witness or even a possible killer might be nearing its end.

But why would a girl who stood around on street corners plan the deaths of three men whose only crime appeared to be that of driving a flashy big car? Most of the poor souls were totally out of it by the time they picked up their punters, something every police officer knew well, especially if they’d worked the drag at any time in their careers. The girls were usually off their heads on something to help ease the experience of having sex with some stranger or other. Still, it was going to be his mission to talk to as many of them as he could manage. At least once he had the blessing of DCI James.


It was not a good time to be seen around the city, she thought, skimming through the garments on the sale rail in John Lewis. Some of these might come in useful, the dark-haired woman thought, lifting a gauzy blouse and holding it against her body. Every officer on this case would be on the lookout for the woman who had entered Pattison’s car, Barbara had told her, another snippet that the detective constable had let slip as she had forced herself to fondle the woman’s large breasts. But the woman who was currently rummaging on the sale rail would never be mistaken for a street girl, would she? A swift glance in a nearby mirror confirmed what she had supposed: an attractive, businesslike lady smiled back at her knowingly. She might well be taken for one of those well-kept housewives whose husbands worked in the city, idling her time away. Or some career woman, like a lawyer or an accountant, an image that had fooled the policewoman from that first sighting on the train. At least that was a good cover for what the so-called journalist was doing in her spare time.

The woman who had called herself Diana amused herself as she contemplated what the neighbours would make of her. Nice lady, they’d say. (And, yes, wouldn’t they just call her a lady?) Kept herself to herself, never one to make a fuss about the children playing outside her garden. And that was true. Children had never felt afraid of her, had they? Barbara Knox had hinted that she detested children, as if that was something Diana ought to know. Was the woman trying to hint that they should get together? She had already tried to prise her address out of her and Diana had had to resort to taking a circuitous route home just in case the policewoman did anything stupid like following her like a love-crazed spaniel. Her eyes flashed in a moment of anger. There were no more cosy train journeys; that was something she simply couldn’t afford to risk.

She slid the garment back on to its rail and marched out of the store into the maelstrom of people in Buchanan galleries and the pedestrian precinct that was crowded with shoppers eager to claim a late bargain, no doubt thwarted by the bad weather earlier in the month. And, as she made her way through the crowded streets, she felt a sudden panic. Time was slipping by and still she was no further forward. But there was one thing she had in her favour, if Knox was to be believed: Detective Superintendent Lorimer had been ordered to shelve that case and so now she had free rein to find Carol Kilpatrick’s killer.


‘There’s a match,’ he stated aloud, though at that particular moment there was nobody around to hear the words uttered by the forensic scientist. It might be a small statement, but it was one that would, perhaps, help to bring a satisfactory conclusion to at least one of Strathclyde Police’s ongoing cases.

The white-coated scientist grinned in a moment of quiet triumph: there was now a massive link between each of these murders, since he had been able to match DNA from particles found in the Tracey-Anne Geddes case with traces from the crime scene productions concerning Jenny Haslet. The traces picked up from the more recent victim might be minute but they were sufficient for this particular forensic biologist to be confident that he could stand up in a court of Scottish law and state that there was a strong probability that whoever had murdered Jenny Haslet had also killed the prostitute who had been working the drag. The scientist shifted his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and smiled again as he rubbed his eyes. He knew at least one police officer who was going to like this.


‘You beauty!’ Detective Superintendent Lorimer whispered under his breath as the voice on the telephone outlined the latest forensic discovery. It was usual for forensic reports to take days, or even weeks, to come through, but the men and women working on these cases were savvy enough to let him have any fresh information as it came in. He might no longer be officially involved but a word here and there had let his friends in the forensic sciences know he wanted to be kept in the loop.

‘Thanks, thanks a lot,’ Lorimer said warmly. ‘I owe you big time for this one, believe me.’

It took only a matter of seconds to forward the email report to Solly and Helen James. Lorimer’s smile faded as he thought of the case that he had been ordered to shelve; there was something about these street women murders that needed more attention, not less. Failure to make any headway could see another bloody corpse flung into the dark corner of a pend. Well, if Maggie could endure his absence for a few nights, then he’d be rooting about in the city, seeing what he could find by himself.

Meantime he had instructed the Lothian and Borders officers to keep a sharp watch on Catherine Pattison, not merely for her own protection from the press pack, but because, as he had warned his counterpart on the Edinburgh force, he suspected that she might be impeding her husband’s case by deliberate time wasting. The three supposed suspects she had named had been passed over to Lothian and Borders now and there was a general feeling that both Zena Fraser and James Raeburn had nothing whatsoever to do with their colleague’s murder. It was partly a matter of eliminating them from the scene of crime, Lorimer had assured them. Frank Hardy, though, posed a different sort of problem. Living so close to the murder scene meant that Hardy’s movements on the night of the murder would have to be examined in greater detail.

Lorimer drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, trying to recall the tone of voice the MSP had used when he had mentioned Catherine Pattison. Cathy, he’d called her. And had there been a slight wistfulness there or had Lorimer imagined it? Perhaps the enmity that had existed between the two men had its origins in something much more basic than politics. He sat back for a moment, wondering. If Hardy and Catherine Pattison had been having an affair then that would have given one or both of them a reason to want Edward Pattison out of the way. There had been no love lost between man and wife, if the woman’s reaction to his death was anything to go by. A serial philanderer, Pattison was not going to be mourned greatly by that dark-haired beauty in her Murrayfield mansion. Lorimer thought back to Solly’s enigmatic text: Cherchez la femme, he’d written. Well, that could mean one of two things, couldn’t it? Femme in French did not only mean a woman – it could also refer to a wife.


The road was endless as is the way in dreams. A shroud of mist seemed to surround him, giving no hint as to what lay ahead as he walked along the wet pavement. His feet, he noticed, made no sound and there was an unnatural quietness in what he knew to be a busy city. Just a little ahead was a street lamp and under it, a woman who smiled at him as he passed it by, her fair hair tied back in a thin black ribbon. As he passed she opened her mouth as if to laugh and he saw her tongue emerge like a snake’s, thin, forked and red as though to strike. But when he looked again, sweating and fearful, she was only a little girl swinging on the lamp post and singing some foolish song. The sudden sound made him start as though he would awaken from the vision that held him but something stronger than fear urged him on.

From behind a stone column another woman emerged, thin and dark, her eyes boring into his. She lifted her hand and beckoned him and it was then that he noticed her fingernails painted scarlet and filed into cruel points. Some force beyond his power compelled him towards her and then she was opening her mouth and swallowing him whole, a throbbing darkness taking him into that confined space that always made him scream in terror.

Lorimer woke up and felt the sweat trickle down his chest. It was all right. Everything here was familiar; Maggie’s sleeping form a source of comfort in the darkened room. He took several deep breaths, trying to stifle the remnants of the images that had disturbed his sleep. Then, blinking hard, he stopped. He had seen that woman’s face before, the dark-haired female who was, in this dream, also the blonde who had appeared before her. There was something, something that he could not remember from the past. A case, perhaps?

Frowning, Lorimer looked at the luminous digits on his bedside clock. It was past two a.m., a time when a different sort of life was happening in the city. Clubs could be emptying by now, hotels disgorging the last guests from late-night revelries. Maybe the dream was a way of telling him to get out there and see for himself just what was happening in the heart of Glasgow? Being there, maybe asking some of the street girls questions about Tracey-Anne, would bring him back to the reality of the case.

Yet, as he dressed, Lorimer could not rid himself of the image of that woman’s face and her eyes as she lunged towards him.


The drag was quiet tonight, Lorimer thought as he left the warmth of the Lexus. He had decided to park outside the Blythswood Hotel close enough for any CCTV cameras to note his presence. It was, he felt, important not to be seen skulking around but making his presence felt as openly as possible lest anyone misinterpret his motives. The file he had created was in the possession of both Helen James and Professor Brightman and so he felt reasonably assured about his movements should he ever be asked to account for them. He had his warrant card in his pocket so any questions he might ask the girls tonight would be official enough, he supposed. Combining both of these cases would be frowned upon by the top brass, he knew. Still, it was worth it to see what he could make of Pattison’s relationships with the Glasgow street girls, other than his public involvement with the Big Blue Bus project.

His initial impression of quietness was broken by shouts coming from across the square soon followed by a group of men and women laughing and screeching as they rounded the corner from West George Street. It didn’t take a detective’s skills to realise where that lot had been, he thought, seeing the men’s kilts and the women dressed up to the nines; Burns Suppers tended to be pretty flexible, stretching both sides of the bard’s birthday on January 25th and on into February. This group were singing and making what looked like an attempt at a sort of reel along the pavement and, as they approached, Lorimer noticed one man in particular detach himself from the group and stare at him for a moment. His red hair shone like a beacon under the street lamp and Lorimer groaned inwardly as he recognised DI Sutherland.

‘Out on the batter, eh, Lorimer?’ the man said as he approached. ‘Good night for it, an’ all,’ he remarked, looking his boss up and down as if to remark on the lack of dress clothes appropriate for the occasion. ‘Or maybe ye’re after somethin’ wi’ a bit mair flesh on its bones, eh?’ He hiccupped as he lunged forwards drunkenly, taking Lorimer by the arm.

‘Hey lads, here’s ma boss, Detective Super-intendent Lorrrimer!’ Sutherland roared out, pulling a reluctant Lorimer towards the others in his group. ‘What d’ye say we buy the man a drink?’

‘Thanks, Sutherland,’ Lorimer murmured, pulling his sleeve out of the other man’s grasp. ‘Got some business to attend to. Official business,’ he said sternly, hoping that his words would not rebound on him once Sutherland had gossiped about meeting him outside the Blythswood.

‘Oops, sorry, boss,’ Sutherland grinned at him then laughed and winked as though he knew exactly what sort of business a man got up to at this time of the morning in this part of the city. Waving, the DI rejoined his pals and Lorimer watched them disappear over the brow of the hill and on down towards Sauchiehall Street.

Cursing under his breath, Lorimer made his way across the now empty square and down towards Pitt Street. There was no sign of any woman waiting for custom tonight so he pulled up his coat collar against a sharp wind that had begun to knife his face and started to trace a circuit around the square. Shadows from the darkened streets fell across his path and, looking up at the street lamps ahead, Lorimer could almost imagine the female figures from his earlier dream. But there was no flesh and blood female here tonight to take the place of these spectral figures. Sighing, he decided to take a stroll downhill just in case he ran into any of the regular girls before turning back for his car.

Lorimer was almost level with the entrance to police headquarters when he slowed down to look up at the building. The street might be deserted but lights from one of the offices above shining into the night showed traces of a human presence. Someone was doing a spot of overtime. His eyes followed the levels back down to the reception area and the darkened stairwell that led to the main hall where he had addressed the men and women from the press.

Suddenly his feet came to a halt. He had seen that woman in his dream before. And it was inside this very building. She was the stranger amongst the regular journalists who came daily, gathering for titbits like the rude starlings clustered around his bird table.

Lorimer frowned, making twin creases between his dark brows. Something wasn’t right, though. He was now certain that he had seen her in a different context, though where and when was a mystery. And, for some reason that he could not explain, it was the image of the first woman wrapped around that street lamp, her blonde hair tied back, that kept coming into his mind.


Maggie Lorimer groaned in her sleep as her husband slipped back into bed. Pulling the sheets over his body, Lorimer wished he could cuddle in to her warmth, but that would mean waking her up and he didn’t want to be so selfish. Tomorrow was not just a working day for them both: Maggie had all the preparation and work for her school’s Burns Supper. She’d mentioned that new woman, Lena or something her name was, trying to muscle in on what was for Maggie a pleasurable activity. She’d not been too happy about the supply teacher staying on, had she? Well, you couldn’t always choose your colleagues, he thought, remembering the drunken DI grabbing his arm in the street. Sutherland would have a whopper of a hangover in the morning and with a little luck would have forgotten all about seeing his boss in the passing.