A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 28





‘Are you coming up to Blythswood Square?’

Barbara Knox spun round to see two of the detectives standing behind her desk.

‘Everyone’s going up. It’s the rally.’

‘What rally?’ Barbara asked, puzzled, then frowned as one of them gave her a pitying look.

‘Only the start of the Monte Carlo rally, love,’ he said. ‘History in the making. Thought you were a car buff? Or is it just Mercs that turn you on?’ he laughed.

‘Oh, is it today? I’d totally forgotten,’ she said, grabbing her jacket and following the two men as they left the room.

The day was darkening as they walked briskly up away from HQ and Barbara could hear the crowds before she saw them. Already the pavements were three deep on each side of the square and she had to strain to see the rally cars all lined up along the perimeter. It was, as her colleague had pointed out, a little bit of history. Decades before, amateur rally drivers had left the front of the stately building that was now the Blythswood Square Hotel to make the journey through Britain and France; something that had captured the imagination of the entire country. In those days the hotel had been the premises of the Royal Automobile Club.

Diana had told her that there were certain bits of memorabilia still in the place, though Barbara had never been over its threshold in her life. A spurt of envy surged through her as she looked at the steps leading up to the entrance, a commissionaire in top hat and tails standing looking down on them. She’d never get to stay in a classy place like that on her salary, would she? Yet Diana had been there. Och well, she was here to see the cars, not to hang out with the clientele over there. And so it was to the cars she turned her attention as one of the men nudged her arm.

‘Hey, check out that one, Knox!’

Barbara blinked in the gathering twilight, following his finger towards a chocolate-coloured Porsche.

‘Cool, eh?’

She smiled and nodded then her eyes widened as she saw a blue Morgan gleaming under the lamplight, its running board a graceful curve along the length of the car. The policewoman took in every detail of the bodywork, sighing over its curved chrome radiator and frog-eyed headlamps. Next to it was a black Lancia, covered in signs that showed it to be a veteran of this rallye classique as one metal plaque proclaimed. Barbara moved a little to see the car behind, a red sports car with the familiar silver wings that were, she knew, etched with the Austin Healey name. She’d been a car nut since childhood, much to the despair of parents who had once hoped to encourage her towards more gender-appropriate interests. Somehow the boys at Pitt Street must have sussed this out, she mused, wandering further along to admire the classic cars with their drivers all ready to set off on this historic rally.

Tag Heuer signs were plastered everywhere, reminders that this was big business and only the few wealthy or well sponsored owners of these fabulous cars could take part in something as prestigious as this. Nevertheless there was an atmosphere around the square that Barbara felt: this was Glasgow and these were Scottish drivers. National pride hung in the air, evident without anyone needing to say a word.

A disembodied voice from a loudspeaker was telling them all about the cars, their drivers and co-drivers, but Barbara’s attention was suddenly taken by a tall figure moving along the path inside the private park.

Pushing her way out of the crowd gathered by this side of the square was no easy matter but her bulk and her stern look made a few of them move as she tried to cross the road.

‘Sorry, miss, no one’s allowed to get closer than this,’ a man with a steward’s armband informed her, lifting his hands and directing her back.

For a moment Barbara was tempted to whip out her warrant card and say she was on official business but her colleagues might notice and, besides, it was bad form to use it like that. Instead she made her way back, pushing through the press of people, one eye on the corner of the square where she thought that Diana might emerge.

The dark silhouette flitted across the road away from the square and, just as Barbara opened her mouth to call her name, a roar went up as the first car set off, preventing any thought of following her friend.

It was no use, Barbara fumed. She was going nowhere fast and would just have to wait until all the cars had left the square. A sense of disappointment filled her and with it an unnatural disquiet. Hadn’t Diana said she was going to be out of the city tonight? But then, a small voice suggested, had it really been Diana after all? Perhaps she was becoming so besotted with the woman that she had begun to imagine seeing her wherever she went?

As she watched the line of cars drive off amid cheers to the south of France, Barbara Knox reflected gloomily that she wasn’t going anywhere glamorous any time soon. These lucky beggars would be sunning themselves in Monte Carlo while ordinary folk like her stayed home in cold, rainy Scotland. Even Diana’s hints about a holiday abroad had ceased to charm her. What she really needed was a tangible sign of the woman’s intentions when all she had to look forward to was yet another night in her lonely bed.


‘Coming to bed?’ Maggie Lorimer stood in the doorway, feeling the chill from the room swirl around her ankles. She smiled ruefully, glancing down at her new silk negligee, a Christmas present from Bill. He’d been so tired lately, and now this idea of pacing the streets on a cold January night was just too much to bear. Could she tempt him into staying home with her?

‘Aye, why not.’ His eyes flicked over her from head to toe with that lazy smile that made her stomach flip in anticipation.

‘And,’ she paused for a second, ‘will you stay there afterwards?’

He shook his head but the smile did not falter. ‘Go on, I’ll be right up.’

The room was not completely dark, a flickering light from the street lamp outside shining through the window where Maggie had left the curtains still tied back. It was a wild night, wind whistling through the trees and rain lashing against the window, rattling the panes. Maggie smiled, remembering the lines from a poem that one of her third years had recited yesterday at the school’s Burns Supper. The Bard’s entrance to the world had been heralded by

‘ … a blast o’ Janwar Win’.

Her smile faded as a different thought came into Maggie’s head. Somewhere out in that storm there were women plying their ancient trade, fighting not just against the elements but against the pull of the drug that forced them into the streets night after lonely night. Bill’s determination to seek them out and ask questions was typical of the kind of man her husband was. He’d worry away at a problem until something yielded. There had not been much said about the Pattison case, only that Mrs Pattison was now helping with their enquiries. Maggie’s raised eyebrow had given her husband a chance to tell her more but he’d not chosen to go into any further details.

‘Hope you’re not sleeping, Mrs Lorimer,’ he said softly, slipping into bed beside her. Then, as his arms encircled her, Maggie’s thoughts about what her husband might find out later during the wee small hours vanished as her body responded to his.


Lily cried out as the man slammed her against the wall but her protest only served to make the punter more excited as he pushed himself into her, forcing her head back as his grunts became louder and louder.

It was soon over and she breathed a silent prayer of gratitude as he released her from his grip.

There was no word of thanks, no word at all, as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers and headed back down the cobbled lane leaving Lily shivering with a mixture of fear and disgust. The rain that had made puddles all along the rutted lane had become a thin drizzle, soaking through her clothes and making rats’ tails of her hair. She should do something with it, tie it into a band or something; tidy herself up in case another punter came her way. But that last encounter seemed to have leached every last drop of the girl’s energy and she stood there wanting only to add her tears to the water running down her face.

Some of the other girls had mentioned you might get ones like this; brutes who only wanted a quick shag and could be rough about it. You were a body for sale, that was all, Doreen had told her with a laugh as though it were a matter of no significance at all.

Well, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, Lily thought, gathering up her bag and straightening her skirt. The oldest profession, one of the women at the drop-in centre had called it, though Lily hadn’t been sure if the words had been spoken with pride or sarcasm.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Bracing herself for the approach of another punter so soon after the one that had left her, Lily leaned back against the wall, tugging her coat more closely around her. The man who was walking towards her was tall and strong-looking, but something about the way he walked on the other side of the lane, dodging the puddles, made Lily feel a little less anxious.

He regarded her with interest as he approached, then, just as Lily had decided he was definitely a potential customer, he pulled out a card with a familiar badge.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

Lily blinked as the tall man gazed down at her. ‘Are you wanting…?’

He shook his head and smiled. ‘Sorry to intrude on your working hours, but, no, all I want from you is some information.’

‘Oh,’ Lily said and for a moment she felt a stab of disappointment. Being taken by this man would have made up for the hurt she’d just had, she felt sure of it.

‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Yes. Very happily,’ the tall man replied. And there was something sincere in his tone that made Lily glad. Not all men were brutes, then, were they? Some of them didn’t need to come out in the dark and wet looking for the likes of her to answer their needs.

‘What’s your name?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Lily.’

‘Well, Lily, I’m hoping some of you street girls can assist me with a case.’ He paused then fished into an inside pocket of his coat bringing out a folded sheet of paper that had been coated in some shiny plastic stuff. Lily stepped forward as he unfolded the paper, revealing photographs of four different women.

‘Did you ever know any of them?’

Lily put a wet finger on to the laminated sheet as she peered at the pictures.

‘Sorry, no. Don’t know any of them. Who are they?’ she asked.

The tall man’s face grew grim as he refolded the paper and put it into his pocket. ‘Who were they, you might have asked. They’re all dead, Lily.’

‘Oh.’ The girl bit her lip wondering if she’d said something wrong.

‘They were all street lasses, like you, Lily. But someone took their lives from them. And it’s our job – the police’s job – to find out who that was before he can harm any other wee lassie.’

‘Is that why you’re out on a night like this?’ Lily asked as a gutter beside them began to overflow and splash onto the cobbles. She moved out of the way, coming closer to the policeman who had shifted into a doorway opposite.

‘Aye, it is,’ Lorimer replied. ‘And how about you?’

Lily gave a shrug but said nothing. He knew fine why she was out here, why they were all out here. The need for money. The need for a fix.

‘There’s something else, Lily, something you may have heard about in the news. A man called Edward Pattison was killed recently.’

‘Oh, him? The one in the parliament?’

‘That’s right. What I want to know, Lily, is if you ever saw him around this area.’

‘In the drag, you mean? No.’ She bit her lip and looked away, suddenly ashamed that there was nothing she could offer this nice big man. ‘I haven’t been doing this for very long,’ she admitted, her eyes cast down so she did not need to look him straight in the face.

‘Listen, lass, it’s not too late for you to get help. This doesn’t have to be the way things are, you know,’ Lorimer told her gently.

‘There are places that can help you to get clean.’

Lily’s eyes did not change their focus and the cobbles at her feet seemed to hold a greater fascination for her than the man whose words were making her feel so uncomfortable.

‘Here’s my card,’ Lorimer said. ‘If you hear anything about Mr Pattison, or anyone who saw him, can you let me know?’ Lily nodded silently, her head still bent.

‘And if you ever just want to talk you only have to ring my number. Okay?’

As he walked away Lily wanted to run after him, catch the sleeve of his dark coat, beg him to take her away from this dreary lane, this empty life. But how could he? She swallowed down the tears as his figure disappeared around a corner. There hadn’t even been any mention of paying her for information, had there? she thought bitterly. And money was what she needed most right now.

Doreen had talked about easy money, hadn’t she? Money that didn’t come from the police. Should she have told him about Doreen? No, she decided. She’d be Doreen’s eyes and ears, maybe pick up something for her efforts.

But as Lily stood there in the misty night something stirred within her, something that she vaguely recognised as regret.

*


The young girl was the only person he had managed to see in his walk around the drag and Lorimer felt a keen pity for the lassie standing at the entrance to that lane, waiting for her next customer. She had looked not much older than one of Maggie’s senior pupils, sixteen maybe. Far too young to have her life wasted like this, he raged, as he opened the door of the Lexus and climbed in. For a moment he understood the crusade that DCI Helen James had been waging in the war against prostitution. But was this night-time wandering helping to find the girls’ killer?

The road back home was a dark grey ribbon, its surface glossy with rain. An orange pall hung over the city behind him, reflected in the rear-view mirror with only blackness ahead as he drove south. Yet he was part of this great city with its beating heart, even though he and Maggie had chosen to live in the suburbs. Glasgow was still a special place to him despite all its broken dreams and those girls who wandered its streets looking for someone who would buy their flesh.

As he turned into the drive Lorimer looked up at the bedroom window. The curtains were now closed against the night but Maggie would be there, waiting for him. Who, if anyone, might be waiting up for the girl called Lily?


Alexander turned in his sleep, pulling the corner of the blanket over his shoulder and dislodging one of his pillows so that it tumbled silently to the floor. The sleeping man was quite oblivious to the figure standing in the darkness looking down at him, who saw Alexander’s expression in repose as childlike, innocent even. Vladimir stood still, his back to the window, his jaw hardening as he gazed. Looking at that figure slumbering so peacefully it was hard to imagine the heartache he had brought into everybody’s lives. Vladimir had made a promise, though, and it was a promise that he intended to keep. Yet his fingers twitched by his side even as he imagined picking up that discarded pillow and pressing it down on that handsome face.


Perhaps it was the lack of sleep but as Detective Superintendent Lorimer sat at his desk next morning his head seemed to swirl with all the disjointed pieces of information that simply refused to make anything like a whole picture. It was, he thought gloomily, as if he had lost his usual ability to see things objectively. Images of that wee lassie, Lily, her hair slicked against her head with the rain, kept coming back to haunt him. He pushed the thought aside, wearily regarding the piles of officer appraisals he was meant to be reading. He hardly knew any of the officers in this unit, yet somehow he must put words on paper so that when the time came they would have a decent billet to go on to. Joyce Rogers had given him fair warning that the Serious Crimes Squad was winding down and it was only a matter of time before he’d be making decisions about the futures of some of the men and women in Pitt Street.

The rain had stopped some time during the night and now a freshening breeze had brought some hazy blue to the skies above the city. The sight of it from his window ought to have lifted his spirits, reminding him that January was drawing to a close and lighter days lay ahead, but it was as though the dark storm clouds still held him in their grip as he sat, pondering where his next step should take him. All the officers were out on actions relating to the Pattison case, he thought. Perhaps nobody would notice if he were to absent himself for a little while.

Picking up the telephone, Lorimer dialled a number he knew off by heart. A small smile of pleasure softened his features as he heard the man’s voice.

‘Solly? Any chance you’d have time to see me right now?’


‘I just can’t make head nor tail of it any more, Solly,’ Lorimer said as they walked through the university grounds. ‘Mrs Pattison swears now that she was with Hardy in his Edinburgh place. And of course that puts paid to Hardy’s earlier claim that he was with his wife all night in Erskine. One of them’s lying and I think it’s probably him.’

‘Do you really think there is enough evidence to build a case against them?’ Solly asked quietly as they passed through the ancient arches of the quadrangle.

Lorimer shrugged wearily in reply.

‘Let’s take it step by step,’ the psychologist suggested. ‘What you want to know is the identity of the person who shot three men in their white Mercedes cars.’

‘Person or persons,’ Lorimer replied glumly.

Solly shook his head. ‘No, you’re looking for one person, Lorimer,’ he said firmly. ‘And to find that person you should be asking yourself why anyone would want to kill these men in the first place.’

‘You make it sound very simple,’ Lorimer sighed.

‘Let’s look at what you have on the Pattison case. The man has been caught on CCTV camera leaving Blythswood Square in the company of a person we think may be a prostitute. With me so far?’

Lorimer nodded, trying to suppress a yawn. He’d been over and over this territory till his head swam.

‘Why would a street girl want to kill men who came to them for sex?’ Solly asked.

Lorimer frowned. ‘D’you really want an answer to that?’

‘Yes. Give me any reason why someone kills another person.’

‘Money, drugs, falling out, spite … ’ He yawned for real now.

‘Or, perhaps, some notion of revenge?’

‘What are you cooking up in that brainy head of yours, pal?’ Lorimer smiled despite himself as they headed around the corner towards the university chapel.

‘It’s not that difficult, really,’ Solly replied with his customary modesty. ‘A woman with a gun who targets specific victims has an agenda. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Lorimer said, ‘though we don’t know if the perpetrator was a woman.’

‘Let’s say it was,’ Solly came back firmly. ‘The last known person with Mr Pattison was a woman, from the image of her on that CCTV footage. Now, if a woman sets out to kill men who pick up prostitutes, there has to be a reason for it, doesn’t there?’

‘What on earth are you suggesting?’ Lorimer asked, frowning.

Solly stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the chapel and turned to his friend, his hands spread out as he began to explain.

‘If a woman wants to kill someone over and over again like that she must be under some kind of compulsion. Not necessarily one that afflicts her mental state.’ He paused for a moment as though searching for the right words. ‘I think you should be looking for someone who has a deep-seated grudge against someone she doesn’t even know.’

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t it stand to reason?’ Solly asked. ‘All she knows is that her intended victim picks up prostitutes in a particular type of white car. She can’t possibly know his identity or else she wouldn’t have killed three times already.’

‘Unless she’s a prize nutter,’ Lorimer put it, glad to see the psychologist wince at his political incorrectness. The two men climbed the stone steps and entered the chapel. Rays of sunlight from the stained glass windows made shapes of colour dance across the ancient flagstones. All was quiet within, save for the sound of their echoing footsteps.

‘Let’s say that she is not,’ Solly continued, sitting down in a row of wooden seats that faced the main altar. ‘The killings are planned and show an orderly sort of mind. Now,’ he went on, wagging a professorial finger, ‘most of these women are in thrall to drugs and often not capable of doing anything at all like this, agreed?’

‘Ye-es,’ Lorimer said slowly, flicking the tails of his coat as he sat down beside the psychologist.

‘Don’t you see?’ Solly smiled suddenly. ‘If this killer is a woman from the streets she is unlikely to be an addict. The unidentified hair sample suggests as much. Plus,’ he went on, ‘she must have obtained the gun from somewhere and knows how to use it.’

‘And she’s forensically aware,’ Lorimer pondered, following Solly’s line of thought now.

‘There’s something else,’ Solly went on then paused as though to gather his thoughts or, Lorimer suspected, to choose his words carefully. The policeman glanced sharply at his companion; he had a feeling that whatever Solly was going to tell him was not something he wanted to hear.

‘I’ve been going over this from different angles,’ he began.

‘Thinking out of the box, you might say,’ he added. ‘What have the three men in common apart from their cars and the way they were killed?’ he asked quietly.

Lorimer’s frown deepened. This was something he’d been over and over with other officers. ‘Nothing, so far as we know,’ he muttered.

‘Let’s say that the woman who picked Pattison up was a Glasgow prostitute. Just for argument’s sake,’ Solly said.

‘Okay.’

‘She gets into the cars after making some sort of proposition to each of these men, shall we say?’

‘Go on,’ Lorimer said, wondering where this was leading.

‘Well,’ Solly said, ‘think about it. There has to be a verbal exchange of some sort. She doesn’t get into the car until she has spoken to them and they with her. Don’t you see? She’s looking for a particular person, but since none of these three men had any visible resemblance to one another that just leaves one thing, doesn’t it?’

‘You mean…?’

‘Their voices,’ Solly said firmly. ‘Each of these men came from a place outside Glasgow. Two of them had English accents and Pattison had a cultured, Edinburgh accent, something that Glaswegians sometimes associate with an anglicised accent. There have been studies into this, by the way,’ he added as though to reassure the detective.

‘I can see what you’re saying and it does make a sort of sense,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘She’s looking for somebody who drives a type of car like that, a man from outside Glasgow who picks up prostitutes.’ He shook his head as though he were failing to convince himself. ‘But why?’

‘Ah.’ Solly wagged his finger in the air once more. ‘That’s my point exactly. Why is this mystery woman seeking to kill the man in the white Mercedes?’

‘So, let me get this straight. You think that these three men may have been killed by mistake?’ He shook his head at the idea of such callousness, then paused. ‘Well, doesn’t that mean that she is still looking?’

Solly nodded. ‘It’s possible. There may be a target that fits all of the killer’s criteria but her knowledge of him is so scanty that she is taking a chance on anyone who ticks these particular boxes.’

‘We’ve been looking for all the owners of white Mercs,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘But not with this in mind. We just wanted to see if there was any sort of pattern we could establish that might help find the killer.’

‘I did wonder …’ Solly began and looked into the distance as though he were too shy to look his friend in the eye.

‘What?’

‘Well, this mystery woman. Is she really a prostitute?’

‘We’ve got information about the first two victims. They did use street girls. And so did Pattison,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘But I can see what you’re saying. This woman has to have had a clear head for what she did. And we know most of our poor lassies are usually doped to the eyeballs when they’re out on the game.’

Solly smiled sadly. ‘I have given this a lot of thought,’ he said.

‘And the more I consider it as a possible theory the more it seems to make sense.’

Lorimer nodded but said nothing. He had sought help from this man to clear his head, make things a little more objective. But all the while Professor Brightman had been creating a profile for the killer they sought and now he had begun to share it with him. It might be true, or at least have some grains of truth in it. Solly’s previous profiling had been invaluable and Lorimer had learned to listen without prejudice. But would the rest of his team take this idea onboard? And how would they set about finding this mystery woman?


‘You’re not being permitted to charge her,’ the deputy chief constable told Lorimer.

‘And what would we charge her with anyway? Wasting police time? I see that might not be in our interest right now,’ Lorimer replied, unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice.

‘Probably not,’ Joyce Rogers agreed. ‘The newspapers would have our guts for garters. Poor widow being hounded by police when they should be finding her husband’s killer etc., etc. Aye, I know what you’re thinking and believe me it sticks in my craw as well that so many man hours have been wasted. Our budget’s shot to buggery as it is,’ she added gloomily.

‘There is one thing that has come up,’ Lorimer began.

‘Oh?’ Joyce Rogers raised her eyebrows as she heard the tentative tone in her senior officer’s voice. ‘Am I going to like it?’

‘Oh, maybe not,’ Lorimer said with a long sigh. ‘It’s something Professor Brightman suggested.’

The deputy chief constable listened to Solly’s theory, not interrupting once, though her eyes grew wider as Lorimer went on.

‘So, if it is true that there is a woman behind all of this, we need to decide on our next plan of action.’

‘This isn’t just one of his latest hobby horses, is it? I know the professor was writing a book about women serial killers,’ Joyce asked.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s quite correct about the killer being organised and although we’ve seen psychopaths committing crimes that show a degree of organisation, Professor Brightman doesn’t think this protagonist fits into that sort of category.’ Lorimer bit his tongue. The profile that was emerging was one that might well fit an experienced police officer; a woman who was not only adept with firearms but was forensically aware. He was certain Solly was thinking along the same lines though as yet neither of the men had voiced this particular theory.

‘Does he not, indeed?’ Joyce replied tartly. ‘Well, that remains to be seen once you’ve caught her. If it is a her,’ she added darkly.

‘Meantime, what is this I’ve been hearing about you wandering around the drag during the wee small hours?’

Lorimer bit his lip. Curse the man! Sutherland’s tongue must have been wagging, he thought. ‘Well … ’

‘Moonlighting, are you? Hoping to combine this with Helen James’s cases?’ She looked keenly at him and nodded. ‘Well, for God’s sake don’t let the chief know about it. I can only keep a lid on this for so long. He’d have something to say if he thought you’d deliberately crossed him, Lorimer.’

‘It’s not quite like that, ma’am,’ Lorimer protested. ‘Okay, I’d love to find out who killed Tracey-Anne Geddes, but it’s more than that. With the CCTV footage of Pattison there’s every chance that the two cases might be linked.’

‘Because a girl got into his car in Blythswood Square?’ Joyce Rogers asked. ‘That’s pretty flimsy linkage if you ask me, Lorimer.’

‘Frank Hardy told me that Edward Pattison used prostitutes in Glasgow,’ Lorimer went on. ‘And we know that Littlejohn and Wardlaw also used girls from their own neck of the woods so there’s reason to suppose they might have tried it out here too.’

‘And their deaths happened not long after Carol Kilpatrick was killed and just before the attack on Tracey-Anne,’ she said slowly. ‘You really think there’s something behind these poor lassies’ deaths to do with the car killings?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to continue my own investigation into this. I’d thought I might take a trip on the Big Blue Bus, ask some of the girls there if they know anything about Pattison or the other men.’

Joyce Rogers smiled. ‘I can’t stop you, of course, but see if you can confine your nocturnal wanderings a little, hmm? Otherwise tongues will wag and I’d hate to see you castigated for something as stupid as this.’


The meeting with the deputy chief constable was a lot easier, Lorimer decided later, than the one with his squad of handpicked detectives, who were not afraid to criticise Solly’s theory. However, with the exception of Duncan Sutherland who had stood with a leering grin on his face throughout, all hands had been raised when Lorimer had asked for their support in tackling the case from a different angle. Barbara Knox, in particular, had shown her enthusiasm, her hand shooting straight up in a manner that made Lorimer fear the big woman actually had a crush on him. Some of the actions would be going over old ground, like visiting the owners of several white Mercedes cars.

Solly had not voiced any explanation about why such a person might have sparked off a killer’s intent, but it was there all the same: somebody had deserved to die. That was the thinking of this mystery killer, wasn’t it? And from there the next logical step was to ask what it was they had done to provoke such a desperate chain of events.