A Pound Of Flesh Page 11

  For a long moment the psychologist stared at his computer screen, not seeing the paragraphs he had already written but a vision of Edward Pattison sitting at the wheel of his white Mercedes, his familiar smile directed at an unseen companion.

  ‘Aye, I kent her,’ Doreen Gallagher nodded, her dangly earrings bouncing off each pale cheek as she took the cigarette from the other woman. They were standing on the pavement outside the drop-in centre in Robertson Street, having a friendly chat as the woman who had identified herself as a journalist had put it. ‘Ta,’ she grunted, leaning forwards to get a light. ‘Aye, Tracey-Anne wis a regular here a’right. Pair lassie didnae ken whit time o’ day it wis half the time, mind.’ Doreen blew the cigarette smoke upwards then fixed the other woman with a stare. ‘Whit’s it tae youse anyhow? Thought ye’d be all ower that ither murder. Big cheese in the Scottish parliament.’

  ‘Someone else is dealing with that,’ the dark-haired woman told her. ‘I’ve been assigned to this one. So,’ she continued, ‘what else can you tell me about poor Tracey-Anne Geddes?’

  Barbara Knox smiled wryly at the report in front of her. Detective Superintendent Lorimer had not been wrong on this one, she thought, reading the statistics that told of several white Mercedes sports cars suddenly being offered as trade-ins around the country. Her smile widened as she remembered how the SIO had asked her directly to take on this particular action. Working here in the Serious Crimes Squad was not only better than being at Mumby’s beck and call, it would surely look good on her CV and improve her chances of promotion. Okay, it was only temporary but Barbara was relishing the chance to work on this case, particularly with Lorimer in charge. He had … how could she describe it? The kind of authority that made you want to do your best for him. And he cared, he really cared about the victims of crime, something that DI Sutherland seemed to have forgotten how to do, she thought darkly.

  She pressed the print button, telling herself that she needed to re-read hard copy before she forwarded this information to the rest of the team. It had to be good, to read well, and, most important of all, it had to impress that tall man with the piercing blue eyes. Two copies of the information slid onto the feed tray and DC Knox pulled them off, separating them quickly. One copy she shuffled into a card file, the other she folded twice then, hesitating for just a fraction, stuffed it into a pocket of her handbag.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Lorimer said, turning slightly to one side and smiling, ‘and ladies,’ he added, nodding to the female journalists who were present for this press conference. ‘Thank you all for coming to police headquarters. I intend to give a short statement regarding the progress of this case after which I can give you all time to ask questions.’

  A murmur of appreciation rose from the men and women facing Lorimer in Pitt Street’s assembly hall. The detective superintendent wanted nothing more than to be left to get on with the case right now, but he acknowledged that this time with the press pack was invaluable if he were to get them onto his side.

  ‘There is as yet no suspect for the murder of the deputy first minister or the two men who were killed in sports cars identical to Mr Pattison’s. We are throwing massive resources at this case, however, and hope to have reports from the forensic services very soon. Officers from each of the divisions investigating Mr Wardlaw’s and Mr Littlejohn’s deaths have been seconded to this squad meantime.’ He paused and looked out directly at them all before continuing. This next point might prove controversial but it mattered to him.

  ‘Serious Crimes have enlisted the expertise of Professor Brightman from the University of Glasgow,’ he said slowly. ‘We hope that he might throw some light on the personality of the killer. Professor Brightman has assisted Strathclyde Police most successfully in previous cases and we are very lucky to have someone of his calibre working with us.’

  Several of the people in front of him turned to their neighbours, a questioning look on their faces. Solomon Brightman’s services had been suspended for a time following a debacle south of the border when an experienced psychologist had made a colossal error, throwing the entire science of criminal profiling into doubt. Lorimer realised, however, that this was his chance to reinstate Solly in the most public of ways.

  ‘I would be pleased to take any questions for the next thirty minutes,’ Lorimer said firmly.

  It was in fact considerably more than half an hour later that Lorimer was walking hurriedly across the street to where his driver was waiting. Once again he had to make the trip across to the east of the country, this time to talk to Pattison’s colleagues and friends. Thinking back to the way both Felicity Stewart and Catherine Pattison had described the dead man, Lorimer wondered if in fact the late deputy first minister had had anyone who might recognise themselves as his friend.

  A thin sleet had begun to cover the city rooftops as they made their way from Glasgow past the tall forbidding chimneys of the Royal Infirmary and out along the motorway. Sitting in the rear of the big car, Lorimer had time to think over the press conference. There had been, inevitably, questions asked about the wisdom of using a profiler, particularly at a time when police budgets had been so severely constrained. His reassurances about Solly and reminders of his past successes had hopefully served to assuage any lingering doubts about his friend’s abilities. But it had been the questions about Edward Pattison that had troubled him most.

  Not being one to follow gossip columns in the tabloids, Lorimer had never really picked up on details of Pattison’s personal life as portrayed by such papers. It had come as a surprise then, to find that his teetotal lifestyle had once been overshadowed by a predilection for cannabis in his student days. One older reporter had quizzed Lorimer about a possible drug connection in Pattison’s death but Lorimer had replied blandly that inquiries were still ongoing whilst furiously trying to recall anything that Rita Livingstone had turned up about the deputy first minister. His former boss, Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison, had always been one for trying to link sudden deaths with drug abuse. Sure, the prevalence of drugs in their city meant that many incidents had them at their source but statistics showed that drunkenness was a far greater contributing factor to a fatal stabbing or the like. His gut feeling was that Pattison had been squeaky clean, especially in the light of Felicity Stewart’s comments. He doesn’t drink, do drugs or drive over the speed limit, she’d told Lorimer with more than a hint of disgust, as though a real man should at least be able to incorporate one of these vices into his lifestyle. Ms Stewart’s own liking for a tipple was well documented, though, and she had hinted that Pattison had been using that to bring her down.

  Well, he might ask a few searching questions of the three people who had agreed to meet him at the Scottish parliament.

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Right, miss, go to sleep,’ Rosie whispered, laying the baby down slowly and gently so she would not waken. The wispthin muslin awnings on either side of the baby’s cradle quivered as Abigail sighed once, her feathery lashes lowering as her blue veined eyelids closed. Rosie stood still for a moment, wondering at the miracle of motherhood. Yes, it was exhausting, but there were times, like now, when she wanted nothing more than to stand and stare at her little daughter, counting the blessings that had come her way since the day she had met Solly. It was three months since Abigail had come into their world, destroying almost every night’s sleep with her constant demands, but Rosie had treasured every moment, knowing that her own career would have to be resumed long before the baby’s first birthday.

  Jacqui White had agreed to be her locum for six months only and part of Rosie was glad that she hadn’t asked the woman to continue for longer than that. Yes, she was looking forward to returning to work and yes, she felt that the celebrity pathologist didn’t really have the same commitment to her work as she did, but then there was another huge part of her that longed to stay home and watch as Abby grew up. Wasn’t it a subject that came perennially into every woman’s magazine, this wrench between nurturing one’s
offspring and making a career? Well, her career was certainly established and Rosie had no doubts that returning to work was what she should do. Still, finding a carer for their daughter was uppermost in Solly and Rosie’s minds and not just anyone who happened to be available; whoever looked after Miss Abigail Margaret Brightman would have to be a very special person indeed.

  Maggie Lorimer had asked if she could help out at weekends, especially as Rosie would have to be on call some Saturdays and Sundays. Before Abby’s birth this hadn’t been a problem but now she was grateful for Maggie’s offer. Spending time with her godmother would be good for their little one, and looking at things another way, might even help to make up for the Lorimers’ own lack of family.

  Rosie slipped out of the nursery at last, certain that Abby was sound asleep. If she were to repeat the pattern of previous days then she might be able to have a whole hour to herself.

  ‘Asleep?’ Solly asked as Rosie came up behind him and placed her arms on his shoulders.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, then looked beyond him at the computer screen. ‘How’s it going? Any clues about Pattison yet?’

  ‘Ah,’ Solly smiled at her, stroking the hand that had wound its way to find his own. ‘Don’t tell me you’re looking for that elusive magic that so many people think is bound up with profiling.’

  ‘Nope,’ Rosie replied. ‘Not only do I know you better than that, I’m cynical enough to believe that Edward Pattison wasn’t just unlucky,’ she said darkly. ‘He was up to something. And I bet it involved a woman.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ Solly murmured.

  ‘Well, stands to reason, doesn’t it? He’d been busy all evening with a delegation or something and should have been getting down to his beddy-byes in some nice hotel or other. So what else could have taken him out in his fancy car at that time of night? Eh? Tell me that!’ she said, nodding her head as though this should have been the most obvious thing in the world to ask.

  ‘Now if we knew the answer … ’ Solly began.

  ‘Well, what about the doorman at the hotel, or the night manager or … or … the guy who looks after the cars down in their garage? Has anyone asked them that question yet?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ Solly said, turning around in his chair and catching his wife around her waist. ‘All of them are co-operating with Lorimer’s team.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you so desperate to get back into harness, my lovely?’ he asked wistfully. ‘Sure you don’t want to give it a rest for a couple of years?’

  ‘Oh, don’t, Solly, please,’ Rosie replied. ‘It’s going to be hard enough, but you know my mind’s made up. Once we find a good childminder it’ll all work out, you’ll see.’

  ‘And meantime you want to know more about the facts of a murder case than when to give our daughter her first solid food?’ he teased.

  ‘Aye, too right,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Let me get back to my department and I’ll appreciate that wee lady next door all the more, I promise you. Anyway, see this case. D’you think it’s all about Pattison or is there really some nutter running around looking for guys in their Mercedes sports cars?’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all that Solly would give as a reply. Then turning back to his computer he began to re-read what he had written so far.

  Rosie waited for a moment then shook her head before leaving him to it. She could hardly complain that her husband was busy at work now that she was thinking ahead to the resumption of her own career. Still, maybe she had struck a chord with her remark about Pattison. If she had been away from home at a conference she’d either have been in the bar talking to her colleagues or else telephoning Solly from her hotel room. Why Edward Pattison had been doing neither of these things but had chosen to drive away from his hotel late at night was not just a mystery, it didn’t make any sense; unless, as she had hinted, he had been up to something that his wife didn’t know about.

  Solly frowned, looking intently at the words on his computer screen. Rosie was absolutely right. Of course Pattison should have been at the hotel, not gallivanting about Glasgow at that time of night. His diary had made it clear that he was expecting a full workload the next day and any hard-working politician would have been glad to have a good night’s sleep before returning to the Scottish parliament and his other duties. So, what had he been doing? What attractions had the city for a man with a reputation for clean living? Or, he wondered, had it been one particular attraction? And, if so, should Lorimer and his team be looking for what Glasgow folk would call Pattison’s bit on the side?

  CHAPTER 19

  Lorimer watched as the snowflakes whirled faster around the windows, obscuring the landscape on either side. Even the dark rows of pine trees on this stretch of the M8 had been obliterated by the whiteout and his driver had slowed down, warned by the overhead gantry signs that there was an accident ahead. It was, he thought, the law of natural cussedness that, at a time when he needed to act swiftly, his day was being held up, first by that press conference and now by the vagaries of the Scottish weather.

  A small noise from his inside pocket made him take out his BlackBerry and read the latest message. He grinned when he saw Professor Brightman’s name appear at the top.

  Cherchez la femme was all it said, but Lorimer knew fine what Solly was hinting at. Despite the fact that he hadn’t yet told Solly about his conversation with Catherine Pattison, the psychologist seemed to have reached the same conclusion about the dead man. He’d spent time during this journey trying out ways of asking questions of Pattison’s closest friends and family. But how did you frame a sentence that asked if a man had been cheating on his wife? As the wind whipped the snow in drifts across the road, the driver turned around, shaking his head.

  ‘Sorry, sir, think we’ll have to turn off at the next junction. The road’s totally blocked after Harthill. I think it would be best to call up a Land Rover if you still want to get to the capital today.’

  ‘Do what you can to have a vehicle standing by,’ Lorimer told him. ‘I need to be in Edinburgh today and back tonight if that’s possible. By train if need be.’

  Then as the car slithered to the inside lane, skidding slightly on the impacted snow, Lorimer sat back, calculating how late he was going to be for his first appointment.

  The tall man reached up as his scarf threatened to unwind itself, caught by a blast of icy wind that seemed to come straight from the Russian Steppes. Tucking it into his dark tweed overcoat, he stepped gingerly across the forecourt of the garage, aware that any dark patch might cause him to fall. He blinked as the snowflakes began to quicken, landing on his eyelashes and dampening his hair.

  Once inside the warmth of the car showroom, he turned back his coat collar and glanced around him. Every new car gleamed in the overhead spotlights as he moved from one to the next, savouring the more conventional saloons and dismissing the Grand Editions despite their tag of more leg room more luxury. Yes he might be a big man, but he didn’t require a car with that much space.

  When the inevitable ‘Can I help you, sir?’ came from the smartsuited smiling young man, he was ready with a reply.

  ‘I have a car that I would like to trade in. Perhaps we could discuss terms?’ he said, his voice smooth, but with an Eastern European accent that told the salesman that this customer was not from these parts.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. If I could have a look at your current vehicle?’ The young man’s smile stayed glued in place as the tall man nodded to the window where the snow was now falling heavily from a leaden sky.

  ‘That is it there,’ the tall man replied, pointing to a white Mercedes sports car that was parked a few yards across the forecourt.

  ‘I’ll just grab my jacket, sir,’ the salesman said, turning into an office behind the curved reception desk.

  ‘White Merc. Punter here to trade it in,’ the young man hissed at the girl behind a computer screen. ‘We’ve to call the police, remember?’

  ‘Well, just get his name and address. What’s all the fuss about?’
the girl drawled, shrugging one shoulder as if to say that her colleague was dramatising the affair.

  ‘Okay, okay, I will,’ he replied sourly, pulling on a padded navy jacket emblazoned with the Mercedes logo.

  ‘Right,’ he said rubbing his hands and striding towards the automatic doors, not forgetting to fix his smile back on again. ‘Let’s have a look at your car, shall we?’

  As the white car purred away from the forecourt, Alan Jackson grinned widely. That would take his monthly bonus up and no mistake! Making the sale of that brand new CLS Class Coupe, Champagne Silver this time, for a new customer was a success indeed. So many of their existing clients were choosing to trade in and buy second-hand in these difficult times, so a sale like this was a genuine reason for Alan Jackson to grin. The guy was in a hurry for it, right enough. Wanted the paperwork done today and could he pick up the vehicle by tomorrow. Alan’s smile had faltered just a tad as he had explained the necessity of arranging insurance and road tax as well as getting the gentleman’s bank details, necessities that would, regretfully, take a little longer than a mere twenty-four hours. But the buyer should have known that, surely?

  Smoothing his hair and giving a mocking glance at Estelle, the girl with whom he shared an office, Alan sat down at his desk and pulled a card towards him. Moments later he stopped swinging his chair from side to side and sat up a little straighter as the voice from Strathclyde Police headquarters came onto the line.