A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 8





‘Hell’s teeth!’

DCI Helen James grabbed her stomach and lurched forwards. The nagging pain that had resisted several packs of Rennies over the past week was now tearing into her guts with a ferocity that took the senior officer’s breath away.

‘Ma’am?’ One of her detective constables was approaching her, an expression of alarm on his face as Helen staggered from her office, one hand waving feebly to warn him off.

The projectile vomit was nothing short of spectacular, splattering a vast swathe of the floor outside her room as well as catching the unfortunate officer’s well-polished shoes.

‘Get me an ambulance,’ Helen croaked, doubling up once again as the pain creased her insides.

It was only later as she was being wheeled to the operating theatre that Helen remembered where she should have been and what she ought to have been doing, but by then the pre-med had taken effect and she could only pray that Tracey-Anne would be sensible and do what she had advised.


The drop-in centre was a haven for girls like Tracey-Anne who used it at night. The older women with more experience tended to keep to the evening hours of seven till eleven, though desperation for a fix sometimes forced them back out in the wee small hours of darkness. Tracey-Anne sat swinging her leg up and down up and down as the jitters began take hold. She shivered under her fake fur coat, wishing that she had put on a few more clothes, but hey, the punters couldn’t be bothered to unwrap layer upon layer as they searched for their honey pot.

‘You awright, hen?’ A dark-haired woman lurched towards Tracey-Anne, the mug of tea in her hand threatening to tip sideways. ‘C’n I sit here?’ the woman added, plonking herself down on the chair opposite without waiting for a reply.

‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne nodded, her leg action becoming faster and faster as her agitation increased. In truth she didn’t care if someone sat beside her. Sometimes it paid to hear what the other women said about their punters. They’d moan about ones to avoid, those who threw you out of the car as soon as they’d done the business or the big bruisers who’d had too much to drink and were little more than brute beasts by the time they’d pulled you in.

‘Ur you no’ the lassie that wis gassin’ tae that polis woman?’ The woman’s thick accent wasn’t local, reminding Tracey-Anne of a woman she knew as mad Moira. Falkirk, maybe? Or some place the other side of Edinburgh?

‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne agreed, though most of the girls who came here had talked to Helen James at one time or another. So many of her mates were dead and gone, three of them murdered; others lost to the drugs; it was no wonder the polis kept an eye on them all. Helen was there to warn them, she always insisted, wanted them to avoid dangerous situations, as she put it, so yes, she let the policewoman buy her the occasional cuppa. But she’d never spoken again about the night that Carol had been killed. Couldn’t bring herself to go over any of the details, she’d told her, crossing her fingers under the table. There were some things she’d been warned to keep entirely to herself. But, aye, the polis wifie was okay, spoke nice to you an’ that. It didn’t make you a grass or anything to have a wee blether. Not when the woman was doing her best for you, handing out leaflets about getting off the game and into a better place.

‘Och, she’s awright,’ Tracey-Anne shrugged, her eyes passing over the woman for a moment. She was older than most of the others, probably somewhere in her forties, her dark hair crimped around a thin narrow face, shards of rainbow light flashing from her dangling earrings as she shook her head uncertainly. It was odd that she had never set eyes on this one before, but then perhaps she was new to the city?

‘Are ye not from around here, then?’ Tracey-Anne asked.

‘Naw,’ the woman replied, fixing her with a gimlet stare that seemed to say that no more questions were welcome.

A tap on the window made both women turn to see who was there. A man’s pale face stared in at them, his breath fogging up the glass.

Wearily Tracey-Anne rose from her seat, picked up her handbag and headed for the door. Tam was peering at her through the window, one hand beckoning her over, making it clear that she should get out of there pronto and go and find her next punter.

‘C’mon, hen. C’mon. Whit’s keeping’ ye?’ he demanded, jerking her from the doorway so that her coat fell open revealing the thin blouse and short lycra skirt. Tracey-Anne hardly had time to pull it back around her before he was urging her along Robertson Street.

Tracey-Anne just kept her head down and let him lead her up through the city to her pitch. It was better not to cross Tam when he needed to score. Usually he was too out of his head to be a threat, but sometimes, like tonight, she’d glimpse a mean streak that gave her the feeling he might turn nasty. Just get him the money and he’d leave her alone for the rest of the night. She’d be back at the flat some time, hoping he’d left enough for her. What was it Helen had told her? A vicious circle or something. Well that was right enough, Tracey-Anne thought as they headed up the hill towards Blythswood Square. There was never a good time to come off this drug that held her in its grasp. Never a good time to leave Tam either. Besides, where would she go? Helen’s other warnings faded from her mind as she tried to concentrate on the here and now.

The red lights from that fancy hotel twinkled as they approached. Funny how so many posh folk in their big cars came after the likes of her, Tracey-Anne often thought. But then punters were men and men all had that desire between their legs that needed to be satisfied. She felt a jab on her back through the fur coat as Tam staggered suddenly, pushing her against the railing.

‘See and get back tae me within the next hour, d’ye hear me? Ah’m jist aboot ready tae top myself,’ he warned her, releasing his grasp on her arm at last.

Then, slouching off into the night, Tam left her to shiver once more as she stepped to the edge of this pavement that had become more familiar to her than any home Tracey-Anne really knew.

Be careful, Helen had warned her. Remember what happened to Carol and the others. The policewoman’s voice came back to her now in the silence of the night.

Tracey-Anne had listened and nodded, hoping that Helen would stop going on about the dangers that certain predatory men posed for a vulnerable woman like herself. Och, but who really cared? So what if someone was to end it all tonight? Nobody would miss her, would they? Not even Tam, who would just find another junkie woman to scrounge off, she thought wearily. Her thoughts were interrupted as the big car rounded one side of the square and slowed almost to a standstill.

Tracey-Anne was at the door, her best smile directed towards the driver, before she had time to consider any of the consequences. It was a punter. He was asking How much? And she was already getting into the car, thinking about how easy this was, how soon she could be back at the flat and how marvellous she would feel again when this deadly cold was stopped for a while by the fire rushing through her veins.


The woman standing on the steps of the hotel wrapped her black cashmere coat around her more closely as she watched the car’s tail lights vanish over the hill. She had recognised the prostitute, known that she might be recognised herself had she stepped further into her orbit. Maybe it was a good thing that poor, junked-up Tracey-Anne was now using Carol’s old pitch. Any punter comparing her to the attractive dark-haired woman who sometimes stood across from her on Blythswood Square would find it easy to choose between them, wouldn’t they? But that other woman was not coming out to play tonight, she thought, turning back into the warmth of the hotel. She was biding her time. And it paid to be patient, didn’t it? The police inquiries were simply all over the place, officers at a loss as to who had despatched those two men in their fancy white cars.

She smiled as the duty manager nodded at her. She hadn’t been here often enough to have become a familiar figure, a businesswoman who patronised their establishment, sometimes staying over, coming and going at odd hours of the night when different members of staff would simply glance as she went past. Had they ever noticed the changes that she went through? The sleek night clubber returning as an insomniac jogger? Possibly not. But perhaps she might think of shifting her custom a little way down the hill to the Malmaison. After all, it paid to be cautious.


Tracey-Anne stood with her back to the road, wiping her hands furiously with the antiseptic wipes she kept in the bag at her feet. Just a hand job. Only a measly tenner, not enough for either Tam or herself to score a bag of gear. And she needed that fix. Oh, dear God how she needed it!

The white car rounded the corner of the square as she straightened up. Could her luck be in this time?

For a moment she froze, striving to remember something Helen had told her. Or was it something she had meant to tell Helen? A fugginess like the mist around the lamp post swirled in the young woman’s brain. The white car. She should step back and wave it off, shouldn’t she? Make that phone call, like she’d promised. But the thought of a whole bag of gear and being back at the flat instead of standing here for hours in the cold made her shake her head as if to dispel any residual fears.

Stepping forward, Tracey-Anne saw the tinted window being rolled down, the shape of a man’s head leaning towards her, an arm being raised to open the door.

‘Want tae do the business?’ she asked, trying to make eye contact with the driver.

‘Get in,’ a heavily accented voice told her. ‘I pay double your usual. Okay?’

It was hard to keep the grin off her face as she climbed into the car, taking in its warmth, the rich leathery scent of its interior. She knew a classy car didn’t always mean a nice punter, but this one didn’t even look at her as she buckled on the seat belt.