A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 41





‘Hope you enjoy the food,’ Maggie said as she teetered down the spiral staircase in her high heels.

Were these new shoes to match her classy outfit? Lorimer wondered, catching her arm lest she stumble. It was quite dark down here in what the receptionist had called the brasserie. Too damn dark for anyone to see where they were going properly, he thought, finding the ground floor at last.

‘Surprise!!!’

When all the lights went on Lorimer raised a sudden hand to shield his eyes from the dazzle. A chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ rang out and he stood, mesmerised, looking at all the familiar faces grinning back at him.

There was Alistair Wilson and his wife, Betty, Niall Cameron, the lanky Lewisman and even wee Sadie Dunlop from the canteen, dressed up to the nines in a sparkly number.

‘Flynn!’ he said in surprise as he noticed the lad who he’d taken off the streets and who now made an honest living as a landscape gardener. They were all here, his pals from the old division as well as the familiar faces of neighbours, good Lord even Joyce Rogers! His eyes scanned the crowd, picking out some of his cousins and their wives and, oh there was Rosie looking ultra glamorous, hanging onto Solly’s arm.

‘Good Lord!’ he said at last, turning to Maggie. ‘You wee rascal!’ he beamed.

‘You’re not cross?’

‘Do I look it? No way,’ he whispered, bending to kiss her lips and evoking a cheer from the assembled guests.

Three dark-suited waiters appeared bearing trays of champagne and then, amidst the buzz of talk and glass in hand, Lorimer found himself moving amongst his friends, shaking his head in mock bewilderment, as they all tried to tell him how his face had looked when the lights had gone up.

‘Maggie’s been really good at keeping it a secret,’ Rosie told him.

‘And I didn’t say a thing,’ the deputy chief constable said. Resplendent in a short black number she gave him a toothy grin as she raised her champagne flute in a silent toast. ‘Just made sure you weren’t on duty, that’s all.’ She winked conspiratorially.


The dark-haired woman regarded herself in the bedroom mirror. Her face was thin and devoid of make-up, her chiselled cheekbones giving her a haunted look. She could easily be taken for a junked-up street woman. Her hand hovered above a mass of brushes and make-up palettes. Was it better to keep to her natural pallor or to go through a routine that would find her looking back at the sort of face that might grace a glamour magazine? She had to tempt him, ensure that he stopped to pick her up, didn’t she? Tilting her head upwards so that the light caught all the angles and shadows, she squeezed a blob of foundation onto the back of her hand then dipped her finger into it like an artist beginning a new canvas.

Downstairs there was a birthday party going on. She had heard the noise of celebrations earlier and had seen the pale blue balloons with their ribbons stacked in a corner of the dining room as she had finished her meal. So much better for her: the noise and goings on would keep the staff too busy to notice her leaving and returning late on into the night, especially now that she was familiar with the back stairs that led to the upper floor.

This was her last night here, she told herself. She shivered as though some premonition had caught that thought and held it up for scrutiny, daring fate to meddle in her plans. She was overwrought with nervous excitement; that was all. Her eyes fell to the Starfire pistol lying openly on the counterpane. One swift shot and it would all be over. Then her nights would be free once more, memories of Carol tempered by the knowledge that she had avenged her killing.


A swathe of blood-coloured cloud split the sky above the horizon, its edge like the crest of an endless wave, silvered in the moonlight. Pinpoints of red and amber twinkled and shimmered; the city seeming vibrant and alive those miles away to the east.

He tried not to stare at the moon that was looking down upon him from the upper darkness. Wisps of cloud rolled off the mass like smoke, obscuring the moon, its white gold glow an arc of mysterious light. Then the shreds and scraps of cloud separated, drifting apart to reveal the face that was leering down at him once more.

As though in a dream he picked up the clothes he had left on the chair by his bed and began to dress. It was time. The image of the sabre downstairs came to him as sharply as its cutting edge. The house was in silence, Vlad and Aunt Andrea asleep long since. But they could not awake tonight. This was his time, his destiny. Still, he tip-toed quietly downstairs, despite the certainty that they were colluding in this enchantment that kept all bad things from him.

The sabre flickered in the moonlight as he drew it from the case and he breathed a sigh of gratitude that it had waited for him, for this night.

He had left the car parked near the open gates, facing outwards. Placing the weapon reverently across the back seats, he started the engine and drove slowly onto a road that was a stream of moonlight pulling him back to the city.


The party had been a great success, Maggie knew, looking around at all their friends. The dinner and speech-making now over, dancing had just begun. For a moment or two she had been terrified that he would have hated the whole idea but Lorimer had entered into the spirit of the party almost as soon as the lights had gone up. Now he was walking across to the toilets, having given her a promise of the next dance as soon as he returned.

‘Just going up to the room. It’s pretty busy in there,’ he told her, coming back a few moments later, nuzzling into her neck and making her laugh.

‘Okay, see you in couple of minutes,’ she replied, turning back as Flynn grabbed her hands and swung her into a dance.

‘C’mon, Mrs L., let’s show these oldies a thing or two,’ he called out as the tempo of the music quickened.


Lorimer smiled as he left their room, heading for the back staircase with its arrangement of gilt mirrors. It had been a great surprise, lovely of Maggie to do all of this, he thought as he began to walk along the narrow corridor.

Just at that moment a door ahead of him opened and a woman slipped out. Lorimer stopped for a moment, observing her with professional interest. She was dressed in a short skirt and fishnet tights, carrying her high-heeled shoes in one hand as though to effect some sort of escape. Had someone in the hotel been enjoying the services of a high-class call girl? Lorimer frowned. There was something familiar about the tall figure, her dark hair swinging loose around her shoulders. He blinked. Too much of the bubbly stuff, he told himself. Yet as he followed her along the carpeted passage he could not rid himself of the feeling that he had seen this woman somewhere before tonight.

The lamps were all lit above the staircase and, as he descended, he caught a glimpse of the woman’s reflection as she passed one of the gilded mirrors, the artificial light turning her dark hair to a halo of gold. The image of the woman in his dreams came back to him then, making Lorimer stop where he was.

‘Claire,’ he said suddenly, the name coming back to him like a dam bursting, bringing with it all those memories of the scandal that had tarnished the good name of Strathclyde Police for a time.

The woman turned and saw him looking at her; red lips parting in horror as she recognised the detective superintendent.

‘Claire,’ he said again, but she had sped down the remaining steps and was gone even before he reached the reception area.

Heart thumping, Lorimer pushed open the doors, anxiously looking up and down the deserted street. He knew now who she was. And in a moment of revelation he understood exactly why she was here.

Claire Johnson had been entangled in one of Helen James’s cases, hadn’t she? As he walked uphill towards Blythswood Square, Lorimer remembered the details of the scandal. How the lesbian officer had sued the force for discrimination and won: receiving substantial damages out of court as well, if the rumours were to be believed. But there had been other rumours too, rumours surrounding the Carol Kilpatrick case. DS Claire Johnson had been Helen James’s right-hand woman, someone the DCI could trust. Yet it had been pictures of Claire weeping at Carol’s funeral, not Helen, he remembered.

Pressing himself against the wall of the office buildings as he rounded the corner, Lorimer looked along the west side of the square. It all made sense now. An intelligent woman, used to firearms. Set on revenge. She couldn’t have known many details of the case, Carol had died during that night. But suppose she knew enough to chase after a man with a certain type of white car, a man who came from outside the city, his accent betraying his origins? And she’d been smart enough to infiltrate that press conference at Pitt Street, seeking out just what was happening in Lorimer’s cases.

Yet how could she have known about tonight? About the surveillance op? And about the full moon? With a groan, Lorimer remembered what Sutherland had told him about the papers they had found in Barbara Knox’s flat. Surely his faithful detective constable hadn’t … but even as the thought came to him, Lorimer knew with a certainty that Claire Johnson had beguiled his young lesbian officer.

He stood stock still, waiting to see where she had gone. The square was quiet on this side though he could see a few late-night revellers in the distance who were staggering up the steps of the Blythswood Square Hotel. Some of the undercover team, perhaps? He had been involved to an extent in the planning but had left some of the finer details to these expert officers themselves.

Suddenly he caught sight of her emerging from the deep recess of an office doorway halfway along the square. And at that same moment the white nose of a car emerged from the shadows coming directly towards her.

‘Claire!’ he shouted, his voice falling like a stone as he began to run.

She did not even turn at the sound of his cry. Instead she teetered in her stiletto heels towards the edge of the kerb, one hand raised towards the approaching car.


Sacha saw the woman standing in the moonlight, her smile as fixed and red as a gash of blood. His pulse quickened as he thought of the wounds he was going to inflict, the red slashes that would criss-cross these pale arms.

‘Get in!’ he commanded and she slipped into the car, still smiling at him. But then, as he prepared to drive off another figure hurled itself at the car, making him skid a little. He heard the thud as the man hit the pavement then he accelerated, his tyres squealing as they sped off into the night.

Sacha bared his teeth in a snarl: the woman was his. Who dared try to steal his prize tonight? The steering wheel slid under his fingers as he took the corners recklessly before descending down that steep hill. Under the lamplight he caught a glimpse of her long legs, their white flesh encased in a diamond pattern, her sex barely hidden by that strip of skirt. He had a sudden longing to grasp the weapon that lay along the length of the rear seats, imagining it glittering in the moonlight as he raised it above his head.

‘I know a place,’ the woman said dreamily and Sacha looked at her in astonishment as she turned the pistol towards him.


Lorimer picked himself up from the ground, oblivious to the tear in his good trousers and the bloodied knee. Limping slightly, he ran after the white Mercedes, cursing as it turned into West George Street. Then he heard its tyres squealing as it took the corner too fast and disappeared over the brow of the hill into Blythswood Street.

His feet thudded as he raced into the middle of the road. They had to slow down on this steep incline … The red tail lights seemed to flicker for a moment as he charged towards them.


Claire saw the man’s mouth open as though to protest, his eyes bulging in sudden fear. She smiled and nodded.

‘Retribution,’ she whispered then laughed aloud at his expression of disbelief.

He knew he was about to die. And she wanted him to die in a moment of sudden understanding. She had made no mistake this time. The accent as he had spoken, the glint of metal she had spied behind them … everything was clear to her now. Her mouth closed in a grim line as she pressed the trigger.

Then the world tilted sideways as the street seemed to close in and swallow her in its hard embrace.


When the shot rang out it was as if the car had backfired. Lorimer ran on then stopped, watching helplessly as the car jerked against the kerb. For a moment it seemed to take flight, a white bird soaring up through the darkness.

Then an agonising crash as metal hit stone. Followed only by silence.

He ran on, mouth falling open in dismay at the scene. The car had ploughed into the side of a building, its bonnet open and bent. Then the whole place seemed to come alive as police officers appeared from the darkened lanes of the drag, one car sounding its siren.

The driver of the car was slumped sideways, a neat bullet hole in his chest. But the woman had fallen forwards against the windscreen, face smashed against the glass.

Even as he looked at those wide eyes and open mouth, Lorimer could tell that she was dead.

‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’ DI Armstrong was suddenly at his side. ‘Thought it was your birthday party tonight … ’ His voice trailed off as the DI followed Lorimer’s horrified gaze.

‘Christ! Looks like we’ve got her, then, sir,’ Armstrong said, putting his radio to his lips.

‘We’ve got them both,’ Lorimer said, stepping forwards and pointing at the shining blade that had fallen between the two bodies. ‘You’ll find that the woman’s name is Claire Johnson,’ he said, reeling back slightly from the carnage inside the vehicle.

‘You okay, sir? Sir?’ Armstrong had caught his sleeve before Lorimer stumbled back onto the road. ‘And how do you know the woman’s name?’

‘That’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘But then, I expect this is going to be a long night.’