A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 34





‘I need to see you,’ Barbara whispered into her mobile. ‘Things have started to hot up at this end.’

‘Meet you at our usual place. Seven o’clock?’

‘I’ll be there,’ Barbara replied, breathing hard. The Starbucks cafe on Bothwell Street had become something of a howf for the two women; Barbara preferred to see it as a romantic location, since it had been the scene of their initial getting together, rather than a convenient stopping point between Pitt Street and Central Station.

She glanced at the clock on the office wall, calculating how long it would be before she saw Diana Yeats again, then sighing at the long hours between. Still, if she could finish all this stuff about Andie’s Saunas and get on with the meatier details of the new lead, the time should fly by. It was strange, Barbara thought to herself, how this case had revolved around one man, Edward Pattison, but that now it had turned and twisted in ways she could never have envisaged. That, Barbara, is why you joined up, the detective constable reminded herself with a grin.


The tall dark-haired woman glided into a booth near the back of the crowded cafe, placing her satchel on a seat beside her. The place was busy enough to preclude any intimacy and noisy enough to drown out whatever it was the policewoman wanted to tell her.

Diana Yeats swallowed a mouthful of coffee and set down her espresso cup. The night when she had almost got on the Big Blue Bus had given her plenty to think about, not least a persistent image of that tall man with the piercing blue eyes. Diana shivered. She had come so close to the very man who wanted to hunt her down. Yet perhaps it was the killer of the street women who had haunted his thoughts too, not just the person who had shot dead three punters in their fancy white cars.

She saw Barbara through the plate glass window, hurrying along to the entrance, her coat flapping untidily around her, revealing her flabby figure. The new hairstyle had only served to emphasise those chubby cheeks and layers of flesh beneath her chin and to Diana it only underlined the girl’s desire to make an impression. That was all to the good, she thought. She’d caught her now, like a greedy fish mouthing its way towards a tasty fly and DC Knox was being slowly but surely reeled in.

‘Hi.’ Barbara sat down beside her on the leather banquette, plonking a chaste kiss on Diana’s cheek.

Resisting the urge to rub it off, Diana turned to her and smiled. ‘Lovely to see you, darling. Had a good day?’

Barbara felt a rush of pleasure at those words. ‘Wait till I tell you … ’ she began.

Diana placed one finger to her lips then glanced around as though to check if anyone was listening to their conversation, a simple enough ruse to heighten the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere that this policewoman loved.

Giving the girl a nod, Diana smiled reassuringly. ‘Right, what is it you want to tell me?’


Barbara Knox slammed the door of the flat behind her. Why was it that Diana could make her feel as though something nice was about to happen and then just as quickly let her down? A creeping suspicion entered the woman’s mind as she tore off her coat and flung it at the hall stand, missing completely. Leaving it where it lay in a crumpled heap, Barbara stomped into her tiny kitchen and opened a cupboard on the wall. She’d bought the bottle of red in the hope of entertaining Diana here again one night, but since that first time it simply hadn’t happened. Was Diana Yeats (or whatever her real name was) just using her for what she could get?

Barbara wasn’t so besotted that she hadn’t had some doubts already. Googling the woman’s name had resulted in finding just one elderly lady on Britain’s south coast, but then, she’d reminded herself, she had never expected to find a website for a freelance reporter who worked undercover.

Uncorking the wine, Barbara poured herself a good measure into one of the crystal glasses she’d bought specially. It was a Friday night and half the city would be out having fun while she was resigned to yet another night of solitude. Even her visit to Badica’s car hire place had been a waste of time; it had been all closed up for lunch with nobody in reception.

Twenty minutes later the bottle was more than half empty and Barbara’s view of the world was in accord with that. She’d been taken for a mug. She’d given away secret information to a reporter and with it, possibly her entire career. And for what: a few hours of sex and the promise of more? Tears of frustration and rage coursed down her cheeks. She, who had congratulated herself on being such a good judge of character, had been conned good and proper.

Or had she? Barbara swallowed another mouthful of the Merlot. Was Diana perhaps being absolutely straight with her? She shook her head, bitterness showing in lines around her mouth. Why would a classy female like Diana choose to consort with a fat slob like Barbara Knox if it were not for what she could get out of her? Yet hadn’t she picked her up in conversation before she had any inkling of Barbara’s profession, never mind the link to the Pattison case? As she poured another glass of wine, letting some of it splash onto the carpet beside her, Barbara simply could not make up her mind.


Friday night in the city was divided into several stages, depending on age and social status. First, the rush-hour trains would be full of men and women anxious to be free of their working week, some of them ready for a weekend at home, others already working out what to wear before returning to the town for a night out. Later, two different generations would sometimes collide between the railway platforms, middle-aged theatre goers heading for home just as a crowd of young things arrived. The girls were always dressed for a big night in sparkling outfits and impossibly high heels that would have to be carried home later after hours of dancing, bare feet oblivious to the cold pavements at the taxi rank.

This particular Friday the Glasgow pubs were full to overflowing with a raucous clientele, Irish rugby supporters making their presence felt through song and banter before the next day’s big event at Murrayfield Stadium. There would be plenty of sore heads by the morning, but these would clear in the cold Edinburgh air as supporters gathered to see the first game of the Six Nations tournament. Lorimer smiled as he listened to the Irish voices declare that this player or that was really no good, no good at all, and that their chances of winning were slim to none. His own love of the game had lasted long past school days but was confined nowadays to watching these national battles on television, only occasionally allowing himself a day away in the east.

‘Don’t think they really mean it, do you?’ he asked Solly as he lifted the whisky glass to his lips.

‘I can see that they would like to beat Scotland,’ Solly replied. ‘And telling themselves it is impossible will only heighten their pleasure once they do.’

Lorimer nodded. Solly was interested in the human and sociological behaviour of these Irishmen rather than the rugby itself. Still, it was a rare interlude for the two men, meeting for a drink after work even if Solly’s tipple was a half pint of cranberry juice with a slice of lime bobbing on its surface.

Don’t mention the party! Rosie had warned him before he had left the flat, knowing her husband’s tendency to forget such things. And so far he had remembered not to utter a single word about it, careful to avoid any mention of his friend’s fortieth birthday. It was the sort of thing that the women were more likely to discuss, Solly had told his wife, and the subject had not come up once during their time in the pub. Instead the psychologist had turned the conversation from rugby and human expectations to the puzzle surrounding his visit to the two saunas.

‘If they’re hiding something it’s a load of girls upstairs,’ Lorimer laughed. ‘Or maybe you simply frightened the guy in Partick. Maybe he’d never met a real psychologist before,’ he joked.

‘There’s something that still bothers me,’ Solly went on. ‘If Jenny and Miriam had been given work there one would have assumed that they would have been safe from any predator, yes?’

‘Maybe,’ Lorimer replied. ‘That would depend on the level of care shown to the girls. Helen James reckoned that getting them all off the streets was a good start.’

‘Have you told her about the man who tried to attack Lily?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘The picture is being circulated amongst the girls out on the drag over this weekend as well as in the Robertson Street drop-in centre. It was a calculated risk,’ he added as Solly’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘You don’t think any of them will blab to the papers?’

‘As I said, it’s a risk I was prepared to take. Anyhow, the press have to clear it with us before they print a single word, never mind something as highly sensitive as that.’

‘And you’re going to set up your officers for Tuesday night?’

Lorimer nodded again. ‘Aye,’ he gave a rueful grin. ‘My big four-o.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Maggie’s got me on a date that night and I can’t disappoint her.’

Solly ducked his head and rummaged in his coat pocket, bringing out a large white handkerchief to blow his nose. It was a simple enough ruse to cover up any hint that he knew what Maggie Lorimer was really up to. The policeman was good at reading anybody’s body language and Solly knew he had to keep one step ahead if he was to avoid giving the game away.

‘Coming down with a cold?’

‘No, probably just all the dust in here,’ Solly answered, shrugging his shoulders.

The pub suddenly erupted as one voice raised in a chorus of ‘The Irish Rover’ was joined by several others and Solly smiled to see Lorimer beginning to mouth the words, his head turned away to look at the crowd of singers. As a Londoner he should feel like an outsider but years of living in Glasgow had given Solly a feeling of kinship with these people, gathered together; Celts united in song who would only be divided by eighty minutes on the rugby field before heading for the pubs once more, the afterglow of success or failure bringing the supporters together again. Tonight was all about the thrill of anticipation, tomorrow the tone would be one of telling over and over what had taken place at Murrayfield and putting to rights any poor play shown as though each and every one of the men talking was a seasoned rugby coach.

Was that how the undercover officers felt as they waited for the next full moon to rise over the Glasgow rooftops? Solly wondered. Was there a sense of camaraderie, all of them hoping fervently to trap this man who had wreaked such havoc in their city? He had worked on several cases now with Lorimer but this was the first time he had felt a bit adrift, not really a part of the whole set-up. Yes, he had been trying to create a profile of a killer, yes he had come up with some suggestions that were even now being acted upon, but there was not the same sense of being part of a team at Pitt Street as there had been in Lorimer’s previous division. And he was certain that the detective superintendent felt it too.

‘What will happen to you when they wind up the unit?’ he asked, but Lorimer was in full song now and did not hear the psychologist’s question.


The hotel was eerily quiet tonight, most of the staff having left earlier in the evening, as the woman in the darkened booth sat drinking her second glass of Pinot Grigio. The food had been exquisite, the room where she slept becoming almost like home, but it would soon be time to leave here for good and as she contemplated her uncertain future, the woman who had called herself Diana Yeats wondered just what would happen four nights from now. She would check out on Wednesday morning, she decided, and return home to pack. A new beginning was called for, somewhere far from Scotland, far from all the memories that had haunted her for too long now. She had played with Barbara, hinting at a trip to Mauritius, so perhaps that thought could be translated into a plan of action. Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow she would take her passport and buy tickets, but only for herself. There would be no lady in her company this time, she knew, just the shadow of a girl whose murder she was destined to avenge.

The barman had glanced her way a few times already, waiting to see if she wanted anything else, but Diana had studiously avoided his eye, contenting herself with the dark green bottle that sat at an angle in its ice bucket. If only he knew, the woman smiled to herself. How had she appeared to them? A sophisticated businesswoman, probably? Certainly not a person who posed any sort of threat.

On Tuesday she would dress in her trashy clothes for the very last time, take her silvery-blue pistol, and gun down the monster who had taken away the only love of her life.

She had been surprised and annoyed that it had taken the policewoman to point out the dates of the women’s deaths to her: four full moons suggesting some maddened creature fulfilling his bloodlust in the dark. How could she, who was so meticulous in other ways, have failed to notice that piece of information? How could they have failed to see that until now? Her grip tightened on the stem of her wine glass as she cursed the police and their ineptitude. Well, she was forewarned now and had also been given the nod that several of the street women would be officers in disguise. But it was something else that Barbara Knox had told her that made the woman twirl her glass around and around, smiling as though she was still one step ahead of the police. If what she thought was true, then no white Mercedes would circle the drag on the next full moon. Its driver would have no need to drive round and round the square when she would be ready and waiting for him.