A Pound Of Flesh Page 10

  As Lorimer closed the bulky file and thought about going home to Maggie, he suspected that he was probably facing a sleepless night full of unanswered questions.

  Maggie Lorimer shut her book with a bang. What a stupid ending! The characters’ actions had been utterly predictable but she had read on, hoping against hope for some twist in the tail. The book fell onto the floor and she left it there, too annoyed to be bothered to place it back on the bookshelf. Maybe she’d put it into the bag in the hall cupboard that she kept for the charity shop, she thought to herself with a smile of satisfaction. If Lena Forsyth thought that was a suitable text for Advanced Higher pupils then she really was off the wall, Maggie thought, remembering the supply teacher’s strident tones at that afternoon’s departmental meeting.

  Outside darkness had fallen to an inky black and rain battered against the windows. Shivering suddenly, Maggie got up and went to close the curtains against the winter’s night. Bill had told her a little about the latest prostitute murder but not much more than she had gleaned from the television and newspaper reports. What a night for any young woman to be out, standing waiting for some man to use their body! And all because someone had lured them into the world of drug abuse.

  Maggie’s mind slipped to the wall outside the school’s medical room where posters urged the pupils to shun any form of drugs. The messages were hard hitting all right, but did they ever hit home with the kids? There were a few pupils that worried Maggie Lorimer, the quiet ones who seemed withdrawn and anxious as well as the wee neds who slunk into corners of the playground at break times, shuffling stuff in their pockets that might have been bits of hashish or something worse.

  The sound of the new car turning into the drive banished her dark thoughts and Maggie felt her whole body relax as she waited for Bill to turn the key and come through the front door. It was, she admitted to herself, the best time of the day when he arrived home, no matter how late the hour. And, as Maggie waited, she experienced a moment of sheer pride in her husband. He was detective superintendent now, the man heading up this important unit at Pitt Street, whose face was all over the newspapers and TV with this high profile murder case. He had deserved to buy himself this new Lexus, she told herself.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Lorimer was suddenly there, his coat wet from the rain outside. Then, as Maggie found herself folded into his embrace, Lena Forsyth and her stupid book were banished completely from her mind.

  ‘I’ve had dinner but there’s plenty left for you. Made that Sophie Dahl asparagus soup you like so much,’ she murmured. ‘And there’s some chilli as well. Just need to warm it up in the microwave.’

  ‘Ach, you spoil me, woman,’ Lorimer said, holding her still and stroking her hair gently. She felt his sigh against her body. Maybe he would tell her what had been happening in his world, maybe not. Maggie smiled to herself, leaning her head against her husband’s chest. He was home now and whatever lay outside could wait for tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 17

  Travelling by train at rush hour was not perhaps the most likely place to find love. It was certainly not what Barbara Knox was expecting to find that morning, looking through her copy of the Metro and glancing at her travelling companions. A middle-aged man directly across from her sat slumped in his corner next to the window, eyes half-closed, ears full of goodness only knew what sort of music from his iPod. Or was he listening to something work related? Barbara looked covertly at him again from the shelter of the sports pages. Nah, she told herself. Probably not music. Didn’t look the type, and wasn’t she always congratulating herself on being able to tell a person’s character from the little clues about their appearance? She smiled quietly to herself. Maybe that was an attribute she would bring to the team that Detective Superintendent Lorimer had asked her to join?

  Barbara Knox felt a warm rush of pride as she remembered the article in the police magazine. The photo had been horrible, her face grinning out at the photographer from Pitt Street, but the feature itself had given her a glow of satisfaction as it outlined her short biography and the fact that she was to join this prestigious squad. And there would be new people there – people who might become friends, she thought, feeling a little wistful.

  The squeal of brakes drowned out any further thought as the train slowed to a halt at one of the busier stations on the route into Glasgow, several of the passengers already on their feet, queuing to reach the doors. DC Barbara Knox gave a sigh and returned to her reading as the man with the MP3 player rose from his place and joined the others who were silently filing off the train. Barbara felt her coat being dragged slightly as he swept past so she rummaged into the pocket, her hand feeling her warrant card. She was pulling it out and trying to find an inside pocket in her jacket when more passengers began to enter the train. Mr MP3’s place was taken by an attractive dark-haired woman who sat down carefully as though she were taking special care not to disturb Barbara as she shuffled the card to a safer place. For the briefest of moments their eyes met and Barbara was surprised into giving one of her rare smiles. The other woman smiled back then turned away to look out of the window, as though suddenly shy of human contact.

  But it was there, Barbara was sure of it, that little frisson of recognition, one girl to another. A surreptitious glance at the other woman’s ungloved fingers told Barbara what she had hoped to find out: no rings on the third finger of her left hand. Something caught at her throat as she continued to observe the woman and Barbara felt the familiar sense of excitement at anticipating a new conquest. She was undoubtedly a businesswoman; that much Barbara could tell from her thick black coat and expensive-looking leather boots, plus the well-groomed air that she had. It was classy, not overdone like one of these girls from the perfume counters, all blusher and false eyelashes, but subdued and elegant like the profile that was turned as if to let Barbara see just how exquisite she was.

  The carriage was plunged into gloom as the train entered a tunnel and for a moment each woman gazed at the other in the reflection of the darkened window. This time the gaze was held and Barbara’s smile grew warmer.

  As the train journeyed on through the approach to the city Barbara could see the woman’s smile still fixed on those reddened lips, lips that she suddenly yearned to kiss. She was, she was, she had to be, Barbara told herself, closing her eyes for a moment and imagining the touch of the woman’s hand on hers.

  When she opened them, the woman was looking right at her, a curious expression on her face that made Barbara blush. Surely she couldn’t see into her mind? No, that was ridiculous!

  Then the train was slowing down and everybody was rising to their feet, some straining their eyes to see on what side the platform would appear. Barbara and the dark-haired woman rose together and Barbara automatically ushered her out first before leaving the train herself.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to strike up a conversation as they walked along the platform, side by side. The weather was the first topic, obviously, but then the woman cocked her head to one side and said, ‘You’re a policewoman, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Barbara replied. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You’ve got that clever air about you,’ the woman said, a smile on her half-parted lips that seemed to be keeping back something else that she wanted to say, some secret she wanted to share.

  It was madness, of course it was, speaking like this with a perfect stranger. But at that moment Barbara Knox found herself beguiled by a smile and the soft timbre of the woman’s voice. In a sudden rush of pride, she found herself telling this stranger about the call to join Lorimer’s team and how she hoped to gain some experience and eventually promotion. The dark-haired woman was an easy listener and there was something more, Barbara sensed; a warmth that was greater than the interest of a mere passer-by.

  ‘What is it you do, yourself?’ Barbara asked as they waited to cross Hope Street. She expected she was a lawyer, or maybe an accountant; the offices between here and Pitt Street were full of b
usinesses like that.

  The enigmatic smile made Barbara eager to know more about this woman as she turned away. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that would be telling, now wouldn’t it?’ and the laugh she gave was husky, almost sexy, deepening the policewoman’s curiosity.

  ‘Go on, let me guess,’ Barbara began, deciding that a mildly flirtatious approach would do no harm. ‘You’re an international lawyer of some sort, or, no, let me think, you work for one of those global corporations.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be able to guess,’ the woman told her, a serious note creeping into her voice. ‘Actually, I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Ah.’ Barbara’s face fell and she quickened her step. What the hell was she playing at, trying to charm one of the press pack?

  ‘Oh, it’s not what you think,’ the woman replied quickly, one hand on Barbara’s arm, slowing her down. ‘I’m freelance. In fact,’ she turned around, a furtive gesture as though to ensure that nobody was listening, ‘I work mostly undercover. On really important cases.’

  DC Barbara Knox found that they were standing at the corner of Bothwell Street now, outside Starbucks. Her eyes travelled towards the door, wishing she had the nerve to ask, biting her lip in sudden confusion. She always turned up far too early for work and there was time today…

  ‘Coffee?’ the woman asked and before she knew it, Barbara was inside the place, its familiar smell of coffee overlaid with cinnamon and vanilla tickling her nostrils.

  It was easy after that, talking about work, telling her new friend about the case she’d been on with DCI Mumby and how Lorimer now had her up at Pitt Street to help out with this work, keeping the details deliberately vague.

  The amazed expression on the journalist’s face had made her falter for a moment. ‘What?’ she’d asked, puzzled.

  ‘But that must be the case I’m working on too!’ the other woman had whispered, drawing her seat closer so that their knees met under the table, giving Barbara a fluttery feeling deep within her stomach. ‘The story of the men killed in their white cars!’

  Afterwards Barbara wondered what sort of fate had led Diana Yeats to sit opposite her on that particular morning. That was her name, the woman had confided, but she had uttered it in a manner that made the policewoman wonder if it was a pseudonym of sorts, something to be used in her profession or with a stranger met on a train. She had left her there quite reluctantly, a smile between them and a promise to meet up again after work.

  And, as Barbara Knox turned up into Pitt Street her feet seemed not to notice the steep incline. A red letter day, some folk called it; a day when good things happened. And beginning to work with Lorimer and meeting Diana all on one day surely justified that expression?

  Thoughts of the woman were kept to a secret corner of DC Knox’s mind, however, as she entered Strathclyde Police headquarters, the word for welcome etched on the double glass doors in more than a dozen different languages. The commissionaire nodded as she showed him her warrant card and directed her upstairs away from the small foyer with its empty black seating.

  The woman who had called herself Diana sat on in the coffee house, her second latte still untouched. Was there such a thing as coincidence? Or were the fates that had driven her to seek out Carol’s killer bringing her more help in the rather unlovely shape of this lesbian police officer? Spotting that article in the police magazine had been a piece of complete luck. The feature had been more about the Serious Crimes Squad itself and the woman had sensed the politics behind the editor’s desire to elevate the squad’s profile when she knew fine the department was going to be mothballed. It had paid off having contacts in the right places even after all this time. And one of them had even tip-toed around the matter of Barbara Knox’s sexual orientation. Then it had been a matter of catching the right train at the right time, looking for the face that matched the photo in the magazine, hoping that she could ingratiate herself with the police officer. Forging a liaison with this Barbara person was immensely risky, but then, perhaps the risks would outweigh the final consequences.

  ‘I want every car dealership and every paper that advertises private sales to be contacted,’ Lorimer said. ‘And don’t forget these car auctions places either,’ he added, remembering the fate of his old Lexus. ‘It stands to reason that anyone owning a white car of that particular make is going to become jittery, so expect a small flood of car sales or trade-ins.’

  ‘What about the owners?’ DI Sutherland wanted to know.

  ‘I was coming to that,’ Lorimer told him. ‘We could work on the theory that there is some obsessive killer on the loose who is randomly targeting men in white Mercedes sports cars. Professor Brightman will bring us up to speed on that one,’ he added. ‘But we cannot rule out the possibility that whoever has been luring these men to their deaths actually has some prior knowledge of the victims.’

  ‘But surely Wardlaw and Littlejohn were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ Sutherland protested.

  ‘Could be,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Or it could also be the case that there is a link between all three men that we have yet to discover. A link,’ he added, turning to the rest of the officers assembled in the incident room, ‘that may be shared by other Mercedes owners and that could possibly give us some sort of clue about these deaths.’

  The expressions on the faces of his officers were far from happy, Lorimer could see. The nitty-gritty business of police investigation was always laborious and time-consuming but they had no alternative but to throw all their resources at this case, given the third victim’s public profile.

  ‘Delegate as much as you can to Mumby and Preston’s officers but it is imperative that every single one of you report even the smallest finding back to me. This is a team effort and I don’t want any mavericks looking for glory,’ he added sternly. ‘You’re part of an elite squad so you don’t have to prove yourselves to me or to anyone else. Okay?’

  As he left them to carry out their various actions, Lorimer felt a pang of envy. His present remit was to go downstairs and face the group of journalists who would no doubt be already assembled and waiting for him.

  Professor Solly Brightman smiled to himself as he typed in the information to his preliminary report. Cases of obsessive personalities fixating on one particular set of circumstances or objects that led to murder were actually quite rare and it intrigued the psychologist to think that there might be someone of that description out there in the city who needed to be taken into custody. Solly was the sort of person who was able to look at the facts dispassionately, however. Three men had been lured to their death by a person or persons unknown. Each had been found in a quiet place, far from main roads, the first two beneath railway bridges, suggesting that the killer may have made his way back to the city by a late train. Whoever had murdered Edward Pattison had had to leave the scene on foot, however. There were no buses from Erskine at that time of night so either the killer lived in the vicinity or had simply walked away. Unless there had been another person waiting for them in those woods, of course.

  The police would be able to examine any CCTV footage of the Erskine Bridge itself. It was a magnet for suicides, Solly knew, recalling the Samaritans placard on the approach to the footpath. But he felt intuitively that the killer would have taken a less public route from the scene of crime, losing themselves in the labyrinth of housing estates that comprised the town of Erskine. He was not much given to using his intuitive powers, though, preferring to look at the facts in a logical manner.

  He blinked as he continued to type, remembering the family of Carol Kilpatrick. Their home was only a few miles from the scene of crime; a walk that might take a fit man less than an hour. And then there was the death of Miriam Lyons, whose body had been found on the other side of the river that separated Erskine from Clydebank and Bowling. Could there be a link between the death of the deputy first minister of Scotland and these poor street girls?

  Solly shook his head, smiling once again. No. He was being fanciful, seeing thi
ngs that simply weren’t there. Coincidences did happen and, sadly, murders took place all over the city and its environs. For now his remit was to examine everything he could about the possible type of mind that had planned and carried out the killings of these three men. Heaving a sigh that Lorimer would have recognised as pity for the women whose cases were being regarded as of secondary importance, Solly continued his work, frowning in concentration as the words continued to grow on the computer screen.

  Images of these lonely places loomed up in his mind as Solly tried to visualise the cars and the bodies that had been left for some unsuspecting person to discover. A frown formed as he pictured each scene. The men had been sitting in the driver’s seat, hadn’t they? So, he wondered, what had taken place before the shots that had killed them? Had they been coerced into driving to these outof-the-way spots, a gun forced against their sides, perhaps? Or had they known their assailant? Trusted them, even? Solly removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes as though that small action would aid his thought processes. If each of these men had been abducted, he reasoned, it would have taken at least one strong man to have overpowered them. But that did not make sense if he was looking for someone who fitted an obsessive disorder of this sort of magnitude. The assassinations had to have been carried out by a single killer. Someone who had cowed the men into meekly obeying orders to drive into a quiet and dangerous location. Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully. All three victims had been big men, physically, and surely strong enough to have at least tried to fight back against a dangerous gunman? Solly only had photographs and written descriptions of the first two victims but since his death images of the deputy first minister had been plastered over every newspaper and television screen until he could conjure up his face at will.