A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 7





It had been a night like this when she had died. A bleak night of wind and rain battering against the sheets of corrugated iron that had served as a backdrop to the crime scene. Carol’s body had lain for ages, soaked through, until those police officers had found her and called for an ambulance. Amazing that she had been able to survive for so long, one of them had remarked later, as though it was the junk in her veins rather than her own resilience that had kept her lingering for those few hours.

The injuries did not bear thinking about, but she had made herself look and learn them by heart, as though remembering was the single most important thing to do. When that call had come she had hurried out right away – a night-time scurried panic through near-empty streets, leaving the car parked any old how, running, running through the hospital corridors until she came to that small cubicle with its dingy yellow curtains drawn around the bed. It had afforded Carol scant privacy, especially with the constant noise of trolleys being wheeled past and some man in the cubicle next to theirs yelling in drunken incoherence.

Carol had woken just once, her head turned so that she knew who was sitting next to her, holding her hand. She would never forget that ghost of a smile under the dim lighting; it was as if the dying woman knew that it was only a matter of time before she would slip back into an unconsciousness from which she would never awaken.

‘Who did this to you?’ she had whispered, aware of the uniformed police officer standing just feet away from them, listening beyond the curtain.

A slight rise in her eyebrows was probably answer enough but Carol had managed to utter a few words. ‘Some punter,’ she’d said, the words hardly audible as her breath came in painful gasps. ‘Picked me up at Blythswood … ’ Tears had filled her eyes as she remembered. ‘Stranger … Not from here.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about him?’ she’d demanded, squeezing Carol’s hand as tightly as she dared, urging her to give her something, anything that would help to nail the bastard.

‘Hurt me,’ she’d whispered, her eyelids flickering. Was she sinking rapidly into that darkness? But, no, she had opened her eyes, looked straight at her, focusing on a different memory. ‘Tell my … mum … I’m sorry,’ Carol had wheezed, then that bubble of blood had appeared at her mouth and the terrible sound deep within her chest as though some subterranean creature was trying to escape from her ruined body.

Then the alarm bell had begun its insistent beeping and she had been ushered out firmly, several white-coated professionals filling that tiny space around Carol’s bed.

It was still strange to recall how quickly it had all been over. The next time she had seen Carol there was a clean white sheet drawn up to her chin, hiding those other horrific knife wounds, and she appeared to be simply asleep, her face turned slightly to one side, mouth half-open as though she still had things to say.

Later, as she sat in the Accident and Emergency waiting room clutching a cardboard cup of milky tea, she had overheard two of the uniformed policemen talking about Carol. That prostitute, one of them had said and she had seen the indifferent shrug of the shoulders by the other. That was all she had been to them: a woman from the drag, a junkie out for her next fix, the dross of society that they had to sweep away as part of their bloody job.

She’d set down the tea on the floor by the metal chair then, turned deliberately on her heel and left, a rage boiling inside her that made her want to smash her fist into someone’s face. And what had transpired afterwards? Not a hell of a lot; the senior investigating officer had made lots of noises via the press but they’d never found Carol Kilpatrick’s killer. She’d given up on the police eventually, doing her own investigation, talking to folk like Tracey-Anne who had been with Carol that night. Listening as the girl had told her things she hadn’t mentioned to the police. A white Mercedes, big sports job, Tracey-Anne had told her. Aye, that wan, she’d said, her finger jabbing on the brochure she’d picked up from the dealership in Milton Street. The SL, a sporty car that had been the rich man’s favourite for decades. Anger had energised her, made her seek out things she feared the police had overlooked.

Well, she thought, listening to the rain beat down on the skylight window; that anger was controlled now and had a direction and focus that would eventually bring Carol’s killer to the sort of justice he deserved.