A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 26





‘Best idea is to speak to the warden at Robertson Street,’ Helen James told him. ‘Mattie Watson. Want me to square it with her?’

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Lorimer replied. The warden was known to keep her charges under her wing like some sort of mother hen and Helen James had spent months cultivating a friendship with the woman.

‘Do you feel well enough to come along with me if she okays it?’ he added suddenly.

‘I don’t think so,’ the DCI replied. ‘The girls can be a tad unpredictable and I don’t feel strong enough to cope if any of them become nasty.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well,’ James continued, ‘not all of them look kindly towards the police. See us as out to get them, if you know what I mean.’

‘But you’ve done such a lot to help them,’ Lorimer insisted.

‘Aye, well, not all of them know that, do they? And there are girls coming on to the scene all the time who don’t know me from Adam. Look, why don’t I ring you back once I’ve spoken to the warden? Then you can talk to her yourself. See if you can use some of your legendary charm.’

She chuckled as she put down the telephone, wondering if the man who had been chosen to head up the Serious Crimes Squad had any notion of how his presence might go down at the drop-in centre. Who wouldn’t be charmed by a big, bonny lad like Lorimer, she thought dreamily, thinking of the missed chances she had had in her own love life. Ach, it’s all this stuff you’ve been reading, woman! Helen told herself, flinging down her magazine with its pages devoted to romance. Fair addled your brain! Time you were back at work, your mind on real life not stories. She flicked the ‘on’ button for the television and surfed between the channels. The velvet tones of the actor, John Cairney, made her pause and listen as he recited one of the more amorous poems of Robert Burns. Smiling despite herself, Helen James settled down to enjoy the programme. It was Burns day after all, she told herself, then wondered idly what sort of reception the bard would have got from the girls who frequented the drop-in centre.

‘Bet you never paid for it in your life, Rabbie,’ she said aloud, then stopped. Was that behind all of those brutal killings? Had some man refused to pay a woman’s price? Out of … what? Some warped sense of pride? Or some notion that he was above that sordid sort of transaction? Helen blinked, trying to imagine such a scenario, the words of poetry lost to her now as she gazed past the television screen. She rose, pressed the mute button to banish the actor’s lovely voice and lifted the telephone once more. Sooner Lorimer got over there and did some digging the better.

‘Mattie? It’s me, Helen James. Yes, okay DCI James. Listen, I wonder if you could do me a favour?’


The warden in the Robertson Street drop-in centre looked at the tall policeman from narrowed eyes. They were sitting in a back room that served as an office away from the main area frequented by the street women.

‘You don’t like me being here, do you?’ Lorimer asked candidly, his smile crinkling the corners of his piercing blue eyes.

‘The girls are happier with women around,’ Mattie Watson retorted.

‘Less of a threat to them?’ he suggested.

‘Something like that,’ she replied grudgingly. ‘You know many of them prefer to live with women, don’t you?’

Lorimer nodded. It was hardly surprising, given the way that so many of Glasgow’s prostitutes had been treated, that they had become lesbians. One familiar pattern was of early abuse at the hands of a father or father figure, then a decision to go on the game and earn money for the sexual favours that had already been stolen from them for nothing.

‘Men, for some of them, are merely the means to an end,’ Mattie said, breaking into his thoughts.

‘A punter for a hit,’ he mused.

‘Exactly. So, given that we can’t do as much as we want about getting them clean and off the game, we have to have a place where they can at least get some practical help.’

Lorimer nodded. Beside Mattie Watson’s desk were stacked boxes of leaflets that he knew would contain information about sexual health and advice on housing; probably the same as the posters fixed on the walls in this very office.

‘Do you encourage them to go on the Big Blue Bus?’ he asked. ‘They hand out stuff like that, don’t they?’ He pointed to the flyers displayed on the walls behind the warden.

‘Oh we are all in it together,’ she agreed, ‘even those do-gooder types,’ she added, though there was something in her voice that sounded a tad cynical, Lorimer thought.

‘Yes?’ Lorimer raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

‘Och, you get a few religious nuts who only want to save their souls. But there are other ones who know the score. Like that minister, Mr Allan, he goes around helping the girls, you know,’ she added.

‘Did you ever meet with Edward Pattison?’

For the first time since his arrival at the drop-in centre Mattie Watson gave a smile. ‘Such a lovely man,’ she said, dropping her gaze for a moment.

‘He came here?’

‘Oh, no,’ Mattie replied in shocked tones. ‘We met at a reception given by the SNP. That was before he made his visit to the Big Blue Bus,’ she added.

‘Nice man, then?’ Lorimer asked casually. ‘Never met him myself.’

‘Oh, yes. Such perfect manners. He listened to everything I told him about the centre. Promised he’d bring up the subject of funding at government level, you know.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

‘Well, didn’t get the chance to, did he, poor man,’ she said brusquely. ‘That awful serial killer … ’ She broke off then glared at Lorimer. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there finding out who killed him?’

‘Actually,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘That’s why I’m here. I hoped you might be able to help.’


Mattie Watson listened to the door closing behind the tall policeman then headed to the ladies’ toilets. A glance in the mirror was enough to show that the warden was badly shaken. It took quite a lot to disturb Mattie Watson’s composure but what Lorimer had told her had drained her face of colour. The possibility that Mr Pattison had been consorting with some of the girls had never occurred to her till now. But those CCTV images did not tell a lie, did they? Mattie’s mouth pursed: it was just as she had often heard the girls say about men; when it came down to it, weren’t they all exactly the same?


‘Andie’s?’ The woman cocked her head to one side, mobile phone pressed close to her ear, making the silver hooped earrings jangle against her dark hair. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

She pulled her raincoat closer to her body as though to hide anything that might reveal who or what she was, a raddled street woman who was fighting for her place amongst a lot of younger and more attractive girls. Doreen Gallagher blew out a line of smoke as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The money sounded okay and it would be great to be off the streets and into a nice warm place like the sauna. ‘How’d you get my name?’ she asked suddenly but the pause that returned her question lengthened, then all she heard was a click.

Doreen raised her eyebrows. Cheeky beggar. Wouldn’t’ve hurt tae give her an answer now, would it? Still, she was to present herself at the Govan shop tomorrow afternoon for an interview with the manager. Dropping her cigarette, Doreen ground it under the toe of her patent leather boot then stepped off the pavement to cross the road without a backward glance at the drop-in centre behind her. Mattie had hauled her into the office to quiz her about that bloke who’d got killed, the one from the Scottish parliament whose face had been plastered all across the papers. Aye, she’d seen him around a few times, no’ very often, mind, but she’d remembered seeing him leering out of that big white car of his.

The memory had stung the woman. He’d never given her the time of day, had he? Taken one o’ the younger lassies instead. Naw, she couldnae mind which wan, she’d told Mattie. Anywise, stuff like that wouldn’t bother her if she were taken on at the Govan place, would it? She had told that wumman, thon journalist, though, hadn’t she? Been paid no’ bad an’ all. Cash in her hand and no questions asked. No’ like the polis. Naw, Doreen told herself, she wasnae goin’ tae get messed up wi’ speaking tae ony polis. Mattie had been given the information she had wanted and that wis that. Mattie wis owed. She wis a’ right was Mattie Watson. Butch as they came but wi’ a hert of gold. Such were the thoughts of Doreen Gallagher as she made her way to the subway station in town, her heels click-clacking against the frozen pavements.


‘Doreen? Och aye, I know her fine,’ Helen James said as she heard Lorimer’s voice on the telephone. The DCI listened carefully as Lorimer outlined the morning’s events. Mattie had turned up trumps with Doreen Gallagher, letting Lorimer know later that, yes, Pattison was one of the punters who turned up occasionally on the drag. No, she hadn’t managed to find a girl who had actually been with him, but she was working on it. Things like that took time, were a bit delicate to handle.

‘What’s she like? Is she reliable?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

‘Doreen? Well, hard as nails like so many of them. Have to be in their profession,’ Helen reminded him. ‘Been on the game as long as I’ve been in the force, I expect. She’ll know all the girls, believe me.’

‘Would she be able to make a statement to the effect that Pattison picked up prostitutes?’ he asked baldly.

‘She’d be able but I doubt she’d be willing. Had too many runins with our boys in blue.’

‘What if it was to help find Tracey-Anne’s killer?’

There was a pause as Helen James digested the detective superintendent’s words. She’d been pleased at first that Lorimer was still keen to give some of his time to the case he’d had to abandon, but now she wondered if he was overstepping the mark.

‘Does anybody else know what you’re up to?’ she asked softly.

The answering silence was enough.

‘And what if the top brass find out you’re moonlighting on a job you were supposed to drop?’

‘They won’t,’ he assured her, but a seasoned cop like Helen James could pick a certain amount of doubt in his voice.

‘Be careful, Lorimer,’ she told him, suddenly serious. ‘It’s not just your neck that’s on the line, remember.’