A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 29





She woke with a cry, sitting up in bed, staring into the empty darkness. Carol’s face had come floating towards her, hair lapping on the endless waves as though they were both deep underwater, drowning together, helpless as each sought to clutch the other’s hand. Then, that noiseless cry as she felt the tug of the current pulling her under.

It was only a dream, a fantasy bred in the subconscious mind. Everyone had dreams that impinged on their waking thoughts, didn’t they? But it had been Miriam, not Carol, whose body had been washed up from the river. Dreams, like newspaper reports, they always got things a bit muddled, she told herself, rolling onto her side and tucking the duvet around her shivering body. Reality, now that was a different thing altogether. In real life she was capable of shooting her gun and killing a man. But this time she would find the right target, thanks to dear little Barbara.

The woman’s smile faded as she thought of the lesbian officer. It was as if she had prostituted herself with the girl. But then, perhaps she now had an inkling of what it had been like for Carol, having to give her body in return for something she wanted.

The cold, long month of January was drawing to its close, she thought, clenching her fists and drumming them together in a determined beat. And soon there would be a new month and a new opportunity to seek out and destroy the man who had robbed her of everything she had held most dear in this sorry world.


Barbara Knox grinned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The cost of that stylist had made a pretty big hole in her budget but the result was well worth it, she told herself, turning her head this way and that to admire the sharp cut and flecks of deep red that tipped each spiky lock. A quick dab of gel and fingers raking through was all that was required now to make her look the part. Her smile faded as she moved away from the mirror; that ever-present muffin top revealed above the elastic of her pyjama trousers. Scowling now, Barbara turned from the glaring truth of her image and began to pull her clothes out of the walk-in cupboard that served as a makeshift dressing room. Okay, so she was fat. All the women in her family had been the same. It was a hereditary thing. Something she simply couldn’t help. But some folk liked a bit to cuddle, didn’t they? And Diana didn’t seem to mind.

Cheered by that thought, Barbara began to hum tunelessly to the music on her radio. Today might be just another working day for most folk but for Barbara Knox it was something much more exciting. Being part of the Serious Crimes Unit, however temporary that might prove, was a hell of a lot better than being dogsbody to Mumby, wasn’t it? Now that the case had taken this strange twist there might well be an end in sight. Detective Superintendent Lorimer had spoken with such conviction yesterday, though the line of enquiry was pretty surprising. He’d been fairly impassioned and DC Knox had listened to all that he’d said, nodding her approval even though that tosser, Sutherland, had had a face on him like a fried egg. They’d all discussed it afterwards, of course, and Barbara had been gratified to hear that most of them had taken Lorimer’s side.

Her work on the cars had come in for a wee mention too, Barbara remembered, smiling in satisfaction as she recalled the titbit of praise the boss had handed out. He was fair minded, that man, but oh how driven! Sutherland had been passing round rumours that Lorimer had been mooching around the drag, but that one had been nipped in the bud by the man himself when he revealed that he had spent time talking to the street women on his own. Crazy! Some of them had said, Imagine getting up in the middle of a bleak January night. But it was his devotion to duty that had prompted him, though Lorimer hadn’t said that himself. He didn’t need to, Barbara thought as she pulled on her trousers. It was there for anyone to see and if Duncan Sutherland thought he could sully that good man’s reputation, well, he’d have the entire squad down on him like a ton of bricks. The actions had been given out and Barbara had not been at all surprised to learn that she had more stuff to do with contacting the owners of these white Mercs once again.

A name flashed into her mind as she switched off the bedroom light and made her way into the kitchen. Vladimir Badica. A Romanian garage dealer. ‘Bad Vlad,’ she said aloud then raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. Would Diana be interested in this new line of enquiry? Or had she chanced her arm enough for the dark-haired woman, the very thought of whom made her pulse beat faster?


Frank Hardy sat quite still, watching the woman opposite weep silently into her hands. It was odd this sudden urge to take her into his arms, comfort her, tell her it had all been a terrible mistake. He had expected screams of recrimination, Jill throwing things at him, crashing plates off the wall; all the classic stuff he’d seen in films. But Frank Hardy had not been prepared for this display of genuine grief. Had Jill had no inkling at all of his infidelity, then? Even when he’d asked her to lie to the police, hadn’t she suspected a thing? And now, seeing her so broken, it was not just guilt that Hardy felt but a stronger emotion, something that he might once have called love.

‘Jilly,’ he began, ‘I’m so sorry, truly I am.’ Then, when she made no reply, Frank Hardy drew his wife’s hand away from her face and held it in his own. Jill’s shoulders heaved but she did not attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp as he had expected. Instead she raised her tear-filled eyes to his and spoke just one word.

‘Why?’

The lump in his throat made speech suddenly impossible and he leaned towards her, arms around her shoulders, holding her close and patting her back gently the way he had when her mother had died. Why had he let himself be beguiled by Cathy Pattison? Had her allure been something to do with a subconscious desire to cuckold a man he despised? Or had it been nothing more than an episode of male lust? In the cold light of dawn Frank Hardy saw his affair now for what it was. A stupid act of bravado. Stupid and thoughtless, he reminded himself, stroking Jill’s back. Had he ever really given his wife a second thought? Well, he would have to do that now, wouldn’t he? The whole sordid affair would come out as part of the investigation into Ed Pattison’s murder.


It was only a week until her husband’s birthday, Maggie realised with a slight sensation of alarm. One week to finalise all the arrangements. Mentally she ticked off what had already been done. The cake had been ordered from the Malmaison hotel and they were also providing champagne for a toast before the meal. All the invitations had gone out by email from her school address so that there could be no reply coming to the house. That had been underlined with SURPRISE PARTY put into bold lettering. Solly’s mother was due to arrive this coming weekend and Ma Brightman would be looking after baby Abigail while Solly and Rosie attended the celebrations. Maggie smiled to herself as she remembered Rosie’s words on the telephone.

‘What on earth am I going to wear? My boobs are still enormous from feeding her ladyship and my pre-baby clothes are way too tight,’ she’d cried.

‘Sounds like an excuse to go shopping,’ Maggie had suggested with a laugh. And Rosie had cheered up almost immediately.

Her own outfit was not such a problem. After all, she was supposed to be taking her husband out for a posh meal for his fortieth birthday so a new dress would not arouse any suspicions on Bill’s part. In fact Maggie had splashed out on a red and black two-piece, the silky pencil skirt hugging her figure in all the right places, the top belted in matching fabric to show off her tiny waist. She’d even purchased some nice costume jewellery from a case at the counter, no doubt positioned to tempt customers into a spur-of-the-moment decision to complete their outfit. There was something a little naughty about the feeling of spending so much money in that exclusive west end boutique, watching the garments being folded carefully between layers of tissue, brazenly adding the jewellery to her credit card as if money was no object. And the shop assistant calling her Madam all the time! Such deferential attention was so at odds with how Maggie Lorimer was normally treated. Miss or Missus Lorimer, the kids called her, sometimes even Mum by a new first-year pupil in a moment of unself-conscious affection before the hoots of fellow classmates made him redden and correct himself. (It was always a wee boy who made that mistake, Maggie reminded herself. The girls were far too streetwise for any of that.)

Maggie put all thoughts of the impending party aside as she drew a new pile of marking towards her. Fifth-year prelims required to be marked and handed back by the end of this week so she’d have her work cut out to finish them in time. Sometimes it was good having a policeman husband who worked late hours. And, with no family demanding she be home at a certain time, Maggie could stay behind and do her marking and preparation hours after many of her colleagues had gone home.


Barbara Knox frowned as she logged into SID, the Scottish Intelligence Database. Access to this was given to police officers wishing to know secrets about investigations across the country. Every enquiry was electronically tagged so her efforts to find information were like sitting naked in a glass box for all to see. But there would be nobody to see her passing on bits of news to Diana when they were alone together, would there? Her face darkened as she saw that there was absolutely nothing on Vladimir Badica. She’d been so sure that the Romanian had to be shady, somehow, a xenophobic prejudice that was, she realised, unworthy of her. Some folk were still bolshy about gays, after all. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge another sort of minority within Scottish society. But it was her police training that made her perennially suspicious, Barbara told herself; that and the staffroom gossip. Older officers were forever making cynical remarks about suspects who came within their orbit and the new wave of immigrant businessmen was fair game for their comments.

Anyway Bad Vlad, as she had termed him, appeared to be as pure as the driven snow. Or else he just hadn’t been caught yet, she grumbled to herself, still wishing that some dirt had attached itself to the wealthy Romanian. All of the garage franchises south of the border had been checked out once and now it seemed they had to be checked out again in case a car had been shipped up here to Scotland. Someone was the target for these three killings, someone, Lorimer had insisted, who was still at large. But would they still have their white Merc? one of the officers had asked, a fair question after all. And so the movement of all these models within the last eighteen months had to be carefully checked and rechecked, a task that had fallen to DC Knox. She was only a third of the way through the list of Mercedes dealers to see if there were any cars for sale but at least the guy she’d spoken to at the vehicle licensing office was doing plenty on her behalf.

‘Hey, nice hair,’ a voice behind her remarked and Barbara swung round to see DI Monica Proctor smiling at her.

‘Thanks,’ Barbara replied, reddening slightly as the DI passed through the office, then she looked back once more at the computer screen. Barbara Knox gave a sigh. Oh, to be a DI like Monica, always out and about! She loved her job but sometimes the public simply didn’t understand all the work that went on behind the scenes, some of it frankly tedious. Not their fault. It was all action man stuff to them, wasn’t it, like the cop shows on the telly.

Diana understood, though, and that was one big consolation in the detective constable’s life right now. She passed her fingers through the spiky haircut. Would the journalist like it? she wondered anxiously. Well, they had a date tomorrow night so she’d find out then. And if she could offer her friend something a bit more concrete to help her research then all to the good.


There was, she thought to herself, no need to carry on. She could quit right now, leave the country even, forget all about the killings and start a new life for herself where nobody knew who she was or what she had done. There was plenty of money in her bank account after all. The insurance claim and a keen-eyed lawyer had seen to that. Besides, she was tired of waiting for one of these street women to tell her if another white car had been seen around the drag. Often as not it was a Skoda, since a private taxi firm in the area seemed to have loads of them cruising around at night. Some nights she’d prepared for hours in the hotel room then emerged into the street, dressed to kill. And, if the punters thought it strange that a hooker was ignoring their overtures, well, that was just too bad for them. The other women didn’t seem to notice, probably glad to get the custom that came their way.

Yet there was something that would not let her go. A memory of Carol, perhaps, laughing as they’d run along that beach in Cyprus. Or the night she’d died, hearing her described by that uniformed officer as though she was less than human, just a bit of society’s flotsam washed up on the shore of the city’s streets. Whatever it was, she could not leave this task unfinished. Soon, surely it would be soon, she would find the man who had murdered Carol and bring him to justice.

She looked at the date on the digital clock by her bed. Tomorrow was the first of February. She would be meeting Barbara after the girl had finished work. But would the policewoman have anything worthwhile to tell her? She had kept one step ahead of Detective Superintendent Lorimer, thanks to her inside information, but she needed more than that. Perhaps it might be worth seeing if that woman called Doreen was around today? A couple of folded twenties could do wonders if you knew the right questions to ask. She keyed in the woman’s number and waited but there was no answer, just the usual recorded message.

‘Hey. It’s your friend here,’ she said as Doreen’s answering machine kicked in. ‘Can you text me if there’s anything interesting going on?’

She flipped the mobile phone shut. Maybe the woman was busy right now. Too early for trade. Then, just as she was about to put the mobile back into her handbag the vibration that signalled an incoming text made her take it out again.

MT U ON BIG BLU BUS 2NT

The woman who had befriended the prostitute looked at the message intently. Doreen was obviously in a situation where she couldn’t talk. But she’d picked up her voicemail nonetheless. The Big Blue Bus left the centre of town at midnight. If Doreen really had something to tell her then it might be worth her while making that particular trip.


‘What about the Big Blue Bus?’ Helen James asked. ‘You might want to talk to some of the volunteers. Probably not worth your while trying to ask the girls anything. They’re either out their heids or too pissed off with us coppers to gain anything at that time of night.’

Lorimer grimaced as he listened to the DCI’s advice. She was right, of course, and it was very much DCI James’s territory, after all. And he was tired, he had to admit that too. Another night spent away from home was not what he had had in mind. Still, now that James had suggested it…

‘Okay, I’ll ring up the contact you’ve given me, see if I can meet them in George Square tonight.’

Lorimer put down the phone with a sigh. He’d go home, have dinner with Maggie and then change into different clothes, things like his old donkey jacket and jeans that wouldn’t intimidate the street women. The Big Blue Bus only went around the city on certain nights and this Tuesday was one of them. So, if he wanted to push this line of enquiry on he had to take the opportunities as they arose.