A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 3





She picked up the croissant, surprised at the steadiness of her fingers. The perfectly manicured nails sank into the burnished crust, tearing it apart and revealing layers of soft yellow pastry. She broke off a piece and chewed thoughtfully.

Her act of killing seemed to have given her strength. She had expected to feel some reaction, weakness or trembling, but there had been nothing. Not even the satisfaction of a job well done. Perhaps, she thought, taking a sip of the hotel’s very good espresso, it was because it was only the beginning.

She had chosen to sit facing the windows, her back to the waiting staff in the dining room, looking out at the trees and grass of Blythswood Square. This was possibly the most upmarket hotel in Glasgow, formerly the home of the Royal Automobile Club and the historic setting for the start of many a famous rally. Glancing at the scarlet lightshade suspended in the long window, she wondered if whoever had been commissioned as interior decorator for this place had had any notion of its less salubrious history. Not only was it part of the notorious square mile of murder, it had been known for decades as the red light district. At each window looking out onto the square there was a similar red lamp. And, directly opposite the main door, were two deeply recessed seating areas in plush red velvet, reminiscent of a nineteenth-century bordello. Was that a deliberate joke on the part of the firm contracted to give the hotel some cachet? Or was it only an ironic coincidence?

There was something missing from the place, however classy it might be. It was too quiet, that was it. No trace of music gave any comforting layer to the atmosphere, though what sort of music could be pleasing after last night was questionable. And that quietness brought her a sense of unease rather than solace. Noises from her fellow guests as they clattered cutlery and chattered to their breakfast companions seemed to be magnified in this place with its minimalist decor, making her feel exposed, somehow. Even as she sat facing away from them she wondered who might be looking at her and speculating about this solitary woman. What was she to them? Surely just another guest breakfasting quietly before whatever work had brought her to the city, her laptop case placed strategically against the table legs like a keep off sign to guard her privacy. Today her demure charcoal business suit and smart cotton blouse proclaimed her for what she really was – a businesswoman.

But nobody glancing her way would ever suspect that her business was murder.

She picked up the linen napkin, wiping away some stray crumbs from her lips just as effectively as she had disposed of the bloody garments several hours earlier. There was not a trace of her on his body or in the car. She was certain of that. She allowed a small smile of satisfaction to play about her lips.

There had been no smile on her face that night in the hospital, just a dry gasp as she had entered the cubicle where the dying woman lay. The memory could sweep back into her thoughts at the most unexpected moments, like a harsh black outline against the lemon light of dusk.

She was alive, she reminded herself, sipping the last of her coffee. It was Carol who was gone, far away from the pain and bloody shambles that had taken her. But the horror of her leaving repeated itself night after night, images of what must have happened endlessly reverberating in her mind. She’d thought to quench it with that other, noisier, death. But that hadn’t happened. Nothing would bring Carol back and nothing, it seemed now, could relieve the painful recollection of her last moments. The cruel point of that turning knife (she knew all about that from the pathologist’s report: she’d spared herself nothing); the samples of sweat still waiting for a match in the lab; Carol’s endless cry as the pain shot upwards, fearing she was about to die. Sometimes it seemed that it was Carol’s scream she heard, tearing her from sleep; often it was her own.

It might take days before she knew if she had been successful, and she wasn’t stupid enough to believe in beginner’s luck. It might take several nights standing beneath that street lamp before she found the man she sought. And until then she would have to content herself with the fact that there was one less kerb crawler littering up the streets of Glasgow. If that were the case, it might prove to be a small consolation, rubbing balm into the sore place of failure.