A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 36





It might be her day off, but Barbara Knox was up bright and early, slicking fingers through her gelled hair after a quick shower. The radio was playing some old cheesy pop tune and Barbara found herself singing along, her mood lighter now that her decision had been made. She’d checked and Sundays were days when the car hire place would be open to the public. And why not pay it a little visit, just on the off-chance that she might stumble across some new information. Her smile broadened as she imagined Lorimer’s face when she presented him with the facts and figures on Monday morning. Wouldn’t that just make Sutherland’s eyes water! She’d sensed from the off that the DI had her down as no more than a filing clerk. Now she’d show him and all the rest that DC Knox was a force to be reckoned with.

Barbara’s smile dropped a little as she checked her mobile for any text messages but there were none. She flipped the phone shut and made a mental note to delete Diana’s number. Perhaps it was time to admit that she was finished with playing the woman’s games. In the clear light of day it was easier to see how she had allowed her judgement to be clouded by a collision of fantasy and reality. Today she would begin afresh, putting the job first.

Her hand reached out to switch off the radio and the abrupt cessation of noise left the flat empty and suddenly cold. Barbara blinked once, listening to the distant sounds of traffic that emphasised just how quiet it was in the flat. It was peaceful, she persuaded herself. She had space to do her own thing, didn’t she? But it’s lonely, a small voice answered her back from deep inside. Ignoring the voice, Barbara picked up her overcoat from where it had fallen two nights ago, gave it a quick brush and pulled it on.

Outside a hard frost had formed and Barbara took extra care stepping down the last few steps from the entrance to the block of flats where she lived. There was no direct route to Badica’s car hire premises and so she would have to take a train and a bus to get there, more than an hour’s journey on this freezing morning. Should she have called for a taxi, she wondered, shivering as her breath made puffy clouds like a cartoon dragon’s smoke in front of her face.

As though in answer to her thoughts she caught sight of a local cab coming to a halt across the busy main road, its passenger pausing to pay the driver.

Barbara reached the opposite kerb just as the Skoda began to move off but then the driver clocked her waving hand in his rearview mirror and stopped once more.

‘Glasgow, please,’ she gasped, her chest hurting from the dash to reach the cab. ‘Badica’s car hire, Argyll Street. Do you know it?’

‘Naw, whit end’s it at?’ the driver asked and Barbara told him, settling back against the back passenger seat, rummaging under her left side for the safety belt.


The car hire was situated on a corner of Argyll Street behind Dumbarton Road, not far from the Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum where Barbara had been taken as a kid on several school trips. The museum had been closed for renovation some years back and Barbara had always meant to see the new layout that had been so widely publicised. Maybe she could go there afterwards, get a bite to eat in the wee snack bar on the ground floor, if it was still there. The very thought of a hot cup of coffee and a sticky bun cheered her as she stepped out of the cab and stood in front of the white painted building.

There was no name above the main door, simply a neon sign that read LUXURY CARS FOR HIRE. The premises extended out on two sides; one was a glass-fronted showroom with just a few cars to be seen, the other held a blank wall with a metal-shuttered door and Barbara guessed that the messy business of servicing and maintaining the cars went on behind this area, out of the public’s sight.

Barbara strolled past the window, taking note of the cars gleaming in a morning sun that held more brightness than warmth. There was a lovely dove-grey Mercedes and, had Barbara been a genuine customer, this was the car she’d have hired for herself, its sleek lines making her sigh with sheer pleasure. The others were classy enough, she supposed; another Merc, the sort of colour the manufacturer probably termed as gold, and a neat little Audi cabriolet in a dishy shade of ice blue. Further back were a couple of Mercedes Sports, neither of which was white, Barbara noticed, and a graphite-coloured Porsche.

Pushing open the main door, Barbara saw that while the door into the showroom was made of glass, all the rest of the offices were rather old-fashioned, solid doors and dark wood panelling giving the place a rather shabby appearance, as though this part of the business didn’t really matter. The cars spoke for themselves, Barbara supposed, and it wasn’t as though they were trying to sell them, after all. Anyone patronising this place would have already decided they wanted a hire car. Probably didn’t even come themselves, just sent their office minions to collect one for them.

‘Can I help you?’ A young girl with curly blonde hair wrapped up in a bandeau was sitting behind the desk, a copy of OK magazine propped in front of her.

‘I was wondering about car hire,’ Barbara began.

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ the girl replied dryly and gave her a smile. ‘Is it for a wedding?’

Barbara thought quickly. A wedding would require a white car, wouldn’t it?

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Can you show me anything?’

‘Here’s our brochure, and this is the current price list,’ the girl said, picking up a couple of leaflets from a stand on her desk that Barbara had already noticed.

‘Oh.’ Barbara took them in her podgy hand, then flicked through the glossy leaflet until she came to a page where bridal couples posed in front of a selection of cars. ‘Can I actually get to see one like that?’ she asked, pointing to a white Mercedes.

‘If you like,’ the girl replied brightly. ‘Just let me put a call through to the garage and I’ll have somebody show you round.’

She picked up the telephone and pressed a number. ‘Sacha, there’s a customer here to see wedding cars. Can she come down to the garage? Okay. Fine. I’ll let her know.’

The girl put down the phone and smiled again at Barbara. ‘He won’t be long. Just take a seat over there and the mechanic will be with you in about ten minutes. Would you like a coffee?’ she added, nodding at a machine beside a long table. ‘It’s not bad stuff. I brought it in myself yesterday morning, I only work weekends here,’ she rattled on, already moving towards the coffee machine and pulling a cup and saucer from a rack above the table.

‘Thanks,’ Barbara replied, her mind working swiftly. If this girl was only a weekend worker, then did she know much about the entire business? Maybe it was time to be a nosey parker, before the man downstairs took her to see the cars.

‘Who owns this place?’ she asked, stirring a sachet of brown sugar into her coffee.

‘Oh, it’s a family-run place,’ the girl answered. ‘Mr Badica and his family own it. He’s Romanian, you know. Has a big house over in Bearsden, apparently. Dead rich,’ her voice fell to a whisper as the girl shared the gossip. ‘Seems he’s got quite a few business interests around the city,’ she told Barbara, who nodded, wide eyed, pretending to be impressed.

‘When’s your wedding?’ the girl went on and Barbara spluttered as she sipped the hot coffee.

‘Oh,’ she improvised, ‘I’m just the bridesmaid.’

‘I thought it was the groom who traditionally looked after the cars side of things,’ the girl went on.

‘I’m his sister,’ Barbara continued, making it all up as she went along. ‘He’s in the Forces.’

‘Oh, right. So do you all have a date?’

‘September twenty-ninth,’ Barbara said, remembering her own birthday was to fall on a Saturday this year.

‘Did you see that wedding last week…?’ The girl drifted back to the desk then returned with the magazine open at the centre page. ‘Here, aren’t they lovely!’

Barbara peered at the froth and frilliness of a pop star’s over-the-top nuptial celebrations, trying to conceal her disgust.

‘Oh, lovely,’ she lied, then, as a door opened beside her, she dropped the magazine into the girl’s hands, her mouth open in a moment of unconcealed astonishment.

There, wiping his hands on a piece of rag, stood a huge man in ochre-coloured overalls.

Barbara looked up, her eyes travelling to his face, noting the triangular shaped cheekbones and the jaw that tapered sharply to a small, firm chin. It was the same face that had been so recently thrown up on a screen back at police headquarters. For a moment he met her gaze.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t he?’ the girl whispered behind her hand as she retrieved the magazine, then took her place behind the desk once more as Barbara, her heart beating hard in her chest, followed the man dumbly down a flight of steps that led to a cavernous basement garage.