A Pound Of Flesh Page 12

  ‘First one!’ Detective Constable Barbara Knox crowed triumphantly, though there was in truth nobody to hear the delight in her voice. Her part of the office was empty at that moment, most of her colleagues either out on separate actions or upstairs in the canteen having lunch. But that did not matter to the stout young woman who was busily typing details into her computer.

  Mr Vladimir Badica, with an address in the west end of Argyll Street, was a new client, Alan Jackson had told her.

  How did he seem? Barbara had wanted to know and was gratified when Jackson had replied, in a hurry. Aye, there might be a few rich punters with white sports cars wanting to offload them as fast as they could after all the media coverage about Pattison being found shot dead in his big white Mercedes-Benz. The dealership where Jackson worked was the main one in the city but Strathclyde Police had put out the same message to Mercedes dealerships throughout the country: all possible trade-ins of white Mercedes sports cars had to be reported back here to Glasgow. As the woman shifted her gaze to the window and saw the falling snow she let her gaze linger, lulled for a few moments by the hypnotic quality of the huge snowflakes constantly falling out of a cold white sky. Then blinking as though to clear her head, she had a sudden thought: who in their right mind would want to drive to a car showroom on a day like this? Pulling her chair closer to the desk, DC Knox began to type in her own little note about Mr Vladimir Badica and why he might want to take all that trouble to get rid of his car.

  ‘Facts, Barbara, facts,’ she whispered to herself as unfounded suspicions began to rise to the surface. Just because the owner of this car had a foreign sounding name didn’t mean he was Russian mafia or anything, did it? No, the politically correct brigade would delight in telling them that this man deserved the same attention as any other law-abiding citizen in this part of the world, wouldn’t they? Still, she grinned to herself, it would be nice if she were to be given the role of interviewing Mr Badica, wouldn’t it? The DC gave a nod of satisfaction as she finished typing up the information.

  For a moment the woman’s eyes darted to the printer next to her computer. Her finger hovered above the button then she breathed in sharply, wondering for a moment what the consequences of this small action might be. It was completely against all the regulations that had been dinned into her from the beginning of her career.

  Rubbing the palms of her hands together, Barbara felt the unfamiliar sweatiness. She swallowed then glanced around the room, listening for footsteps outside. There was nobody about, she told herself, nobody to see two copies being made.

  Taking a deep breath, the policewoman pressed the button. She watched as the sheets of paper shot out onto the tray then changed the command back to a single copy.

  The second sheet of paper was folded twice, and once more hastily tucked into a pocket of her handbag that she zipped tightly shut. It was done. She would leave the office later today carrying information for her friend. No one would need to know. And, besides, surely it would help this investigation in the long run?

  The sense of triumph was overcast by a lurking feeling of guilt, however, as DC Knox attempted to resume the task she had been given.

  ‘Detective Superintendent! Goodness. I really didn’t expect to see you today,’ Felicity Stewart declared, tossing a cashmere wrap across her left shoulder then offering Lorimer her right hand in a firm grasp. As before, the first minister was dressed in severely cut tweeds, her sensible flat-heeled shoes a gesture towards the weather outside the parliament building. ‘Lots of call-offs in the diary, as you might expect,’ she went on as they walked through the corridors. ‘Jimmy’s in, though.’ She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘I’d be interested to know how your little chat with him goes,’ she said, smiling a crocodile smile that was all teeth.

  ‘I think Mr Raeburn will be hoping for the same discretion that I afforded you, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, the hint of a smile hovering around his mouth.

  Felicity Stewart threw back her head and hooted with laughter. ‘Oh, you would have made a smooth politician, Lorimer,’ she chortled. ‘Telling me off but still polite with it. I could always do with a man who isn’t afraid to treat me like that,’ she added with a grin. This time her smile was genuine and she regarded the detective superintendent with an expression that made him feel both flattered and uncomfortable.

  The first minister’s laughter had alerted the occupant of the office where they stood; the open-plan offices were like a visual metaphor for political transparency, Lorimer thought. Nobody in this place apart from the first minister had the luxury of a wooden door that was closed to prying eyes. Every one of the small offices was identical; a minuscule glass fronted area where the secretarial staff worked leading to a narrow room ending in the famous pod by the window. The detective superintendent saw a short, stout man approaching and as he drew closer Lorimer noticed that he was wearing a tartan bow tie and a mustard-coloured checked suit. The effect of his choice of garments could have made the man appear clownish, but there was nothing in the least comical in his grave expression as he regarded the man and woman outside his office.

  ‘Jimmy, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police,’ Ms Stewart said. ‘I’ll be in my office should you need me, Lorimer,’ she added then, giving them both a perfunctory wave of her hand, she turned on her heel and left the two men together.

  ‘Amazed you made it across here today,’ Raeburn began, then stepped aside and ushered Lorimer into his office. ‘Come in, come in. It’s not very big in here, more of a den, really, but at least it’s warm.’

  Lorimer walked into the room, surprised by how tiny it was, but then perhaps the clutter of books and files spread across the strip of mottled carpet made the place appear smaller than it really was. As Raeburn bustled about, attempting to tidy things away, Lorimer had time to absorb the man who had been, if one believed the media reports, Edward Pattison’s closest friend and political ally. Raeburn was a man in his late fifties, his soft white curls around a balding pate giving him a scholarly look. Lorimer had seen the politician on television but here, in the flesh, he was different somehow. It was odd, almost ironic, Lorimer told himself with a puzzled frown, that here in real life Raeburn seemed more like someone acting the part than the man he recalled from several late night TV programmes.

  At last the politician appeared to have cleared away sufficient documents to create a space on two modern-looking chairs around a small wooden table. For a moment Lorimer was nonplussed. Had James Raeburn really been so busy all morning, sorting out paperwork? He had been expected, after all, Lorimer reasoned, telephoning to alert the people he had arranged to meet that he might be a little late, that was all. Perhaps Raeburn lived in a perpetual state of chaos? Or had he been looking for something in particular, Lorimer wondered: something to do with the death of his friend?

  ‘Sorry about that, Lorimer,’ Raeburn said, pulling one softlooking earlobe as though it were an unconscious habit. ‘Now,’ he said, pulling his chair sideways so that he was facing the policeman. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Lorimer crossed then uncrossed his legs, feeling the dampness from the melted snow that had seeped onto the edges of his trousers. ‘I’m here about Edward Pattison, of course,’ he began.

  ‘In any murder inquiry there is a need to clarify much about a victim’s personality and social habits,’ he said carefully. ‘So I may have to ask you some rather personal questions. He was your best friend, was he not?’ He paused, seeing the nod of agreement and that unwavering stare in the other man’s eyes. Whatever he suspected about Pattison, Raeburn’s body language was not giving much away.

  ‘You were with Mr Pattison in Glasgow at the delegation on the night he died, I believe?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Raeburn. ‘But I left to catch the late train back to Edinburgh. It’ll be in the diary if you need to verify that,’ he commented dryly, indicating the lady sitting with her back to them, her tiny workspace practi
cally out in the corridor. He shrugged and smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t help you very much. You see,’ he added, ‘as far as I knew Ed was going back to his hotel for the night.’ The smile slipped as he blinked, as though remembering. ‘The last I saw of him was when we were putting on our coats before I left to catch the train from Queen Street station.’

  ‘Did Mr Pattison have any particular friends in the Glasgow area he might have decided to see that night?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.

  Raeburn’s eyes flickered and Lorimer could see that the implication behind his words was not lost to him.

  ‘Had Edward Pattison been seeing some woman behind his wife’s back? Is that what you’re really asking me, Lorimer?’ Raeburn bit his lip suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps he had been. But if that was the case, nobody knew about it. Not even me!’ He looked straight at Lorimer, meeting the policeman’s blue gaze with a stare of his own. ‘If Ed had been seeing someone then it was done so discreetly that no mention of it would ever have come out. No matter how thoroughly the press pack raked in various middens,’ he added sourly.

  ‘But he did have friends in the Glasgow area, surely?’ Lorimer persisted. He was aware that the man’s feathers had been ruffled. The detective superintendent, however, was determined to remain as impassive as possible. ‘Didn’t he used to visit Mar Hall sometimes for dinner?’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ Raeburn countered, looking at Lorimer with suspicion. ‘But not with me. I’m an Edinburgh man, myself,’ he added. ‘Most of my socialising is done here in the capital,’ he went on. ‘And I can tell you,’ Raeburn lifted one finger and began to wag it as though he were giving the policeman a lecture, ‘Edward Pattison enjoyed this city more than any other in Scotland. Glasgow is all very fine, I suppose,’ he conceded, the finger still raised, ‘but unless he had a reason to go there, Ed was happy to spend his leisure time here among his friends and family.’

  ‘What do you think he was doing out in his sports car in the woods of West Renfrewshire, Mr Raeburn?’ Lorimer asked suddenly, sitting forward a little so that the smaller man shrank back, clasping his hands tightly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Raeburn shook his white curls sorrowfully. ‘Truly I don’t. And,’ he continued, rubbing his thumbs together, ‘it pains me to think that there might have been some area of Ed’s life that he kept secret from me.’

  The silence that followed this remark was probably his cue to get up and leave, Lorimer thought, but, as he bent forward to rise, his eyes were caught by one of a pile of books that lay askew on the carpet.

  ‘A hobby of yours?’ he asked, pointing towards the 2010 edition of The Standard Catalogue of Firearms: The Collector’s Price and Reference Guide.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m a collector,’ Raeburn told him, straightening his back. ‘Not a passion that Ed shared, I’m afraid, and before you ask, no, I have nothing missing from the locked case where my guns are kept. Lost quite a lot of them after Dunblane,’ he said ruefully. ‘And the ones that remain are all licensed. You can do a check on me if you like,’ he added testily, lifting up the book and placing it into his desk drawer. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

  There was little more to be had from Raeburn after that and Lorimer had left the MSP at the door of his office, wondering at that tone of regret. Did Raeburn suspect that his friend had had a secret that he had chosen not to share with him? And, Lorimer thought, what sort of secret would a man in Pattison’s position wish to keep from his closest friend? Somehow the idea of a sexual liaison as suggested by Solly seemed more and more likely. Cherchez la femme, the psychologist had written in his text message. Well, perhaps his team would begin to do just that. And, he smiled grimly to himself, maybe the next person he was going to see would have a different sort of slant on this particular theory.

  Zena Fraser was seated in her pod, a quiet sanctuary that each member of the Scottish parliament had been given, conceived as a place of contemplation by Enrico Miralles, the clever architect of this marvellous building. It was, in truth, only a raised seating area set at right angles to the narrow little room and next to a window barred with rounded poles of what might have been beechwood. Yet, as the word came to his mind, Lorimer dismissed it. Barred was the wrong term to apply to these spars that reminded him of waving lines of bamboo: there was certainly some movement suggested by that simple design.

  She looked up at Lorimer as he strode into the room, knocking on the glass door that was, he assumed, permanently ajar. Despite the room being a mirror image of the one he had just left, Zena Fraser’s was far neater and it was evident that she had made an effort to personalise her limited space. This room had a woman’s touch here and there: a vase of winter leaves and scarlet berries was arranged on the small desk, almost hidden by an enormous anglepoise lamp that dominated the surface and the coat stand held a cream-coloured wrap with a large furry collar. There was a plant on the steps within the pod, albeit a sad-looking orchid with one fragile bloom still clinging to its narrow stem. The whiteboard to his right held a garish calendar with African tribal figures dancing in the heat of this January month. He blinked as he entered the inner office, surprised at the bleakness of the decor: one wall was like a wooden jigsaw, panels opened to reveal the shelves of files within; the other simply looked as though the builders had upped tools and left, the white wall surrounded by greyish concrete that had the look of slightly ageing chipboard.

  Lorimer’s first impression of Zena Fraser as she stepped off the pod and came to greet him was of a pretty, middle-aged woman who might easily have graced the fashion pages of a classy magazine in her earlier days. Her blonde hair curled softly just above shoulder level and, as she removed a pair of rimless spectacles, Lorimer noticed that her blue eyes had been skilfully enhanced by muted shades of blue and grey make-up. As she stood up and smoothed down her short skirt Lorimer was afforded the sight of a pair of very shapely legs and slim feet clad in expensive-looking high-heeled shoes, the sort that Maggie sighed over but had never actually bought.

  ‘Miss Fraser, Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Strathclyde Police. I spoke earlier to your assistant,’ Lorimer began, smiling politely as Zena Fraser looked him up and down.

  ‘Hello, Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’ The woman’s smile lit up her face and Lorimer could see at once the keen intelligence in those baby blue eyes. ‘Rather a mouthful,’ she said teasingly. ‘Is it all right if I just call you Lorimer?’

  ‘Everybody does, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied.

  ‘Oh, Zena, please,’ she laughed. ‘Let’s not be too formal, shall we? And I can’t stand being called Miss. Makes me sound so spinsterish.’ She smiled again, her cheeks dimpling as though she was perfectly aware that the man before her had no such thought and was in fact regarding her right now with a modicum of male appreciation.

  ‘We’ll have to make do with my wee office, I’m afraid,’ Zena said, pulling out the two chairs tucked into the circular table that seemed standard issue for these politicians. ‘It’s not very big,’ she apologised, ‘but we’ll be left in peace with nobody to interrupt us.’ She closed the glass door firmly, shutting out sound but not sight: every person who passed along this corridor would be able to note exactly who was in the room. There was certainly no space for any clandestine activity within these offices.

  ‘Now, have you had a cup of tea or coffee since you arrived? No? Well, what’s your poison?’ she twinkled, moving towards a small refrigerator that had an electric kettle jug and a cafetière placed on top.

  ‘A coffee would be fine,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Just black, no sugar, thanks,’ he added as Zena Fraser lifted a pair of china mugs from somewhere behind her desk.

  ‘Ed liked his coffee like that,’ the woman murmured. She was crouched down beside the refrigerator so that Lorimer was unable to see the expression on her face but he could hear a note of wistfulness in her voice that made him curious.

  ‘You were good friends?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ came the reply. ‘O
ur friendship goes back … sorry went back … to our childhood days.’ She stood up to fill the kettle with a bottle of water that she had taken from the fridge. ‘Our parents were next-door neighbours. Ed and I were both only children and we used to play in one another’s gardens. I was a year older than Ed so perhaps that’s where I got my bossy attitude from.’

  ‘Mr Pattison was known for his own strength of character,’ Lorimer countered.

  Zena Fraser frowned. ‘Later, perhaps, but as a wee boy Ed was a camp follower, trust me. I was a real little tomboy in those days, always up to some mischief or other. Poor Ed,’ she sighed. ‘I was the one who made the shots for him to fire. Oh!’ Zena’s hand flew to her mouth as she realised the gracelessness of her choice of words. ‘Why did I say that?’ Her blue eyes teared up suddenly. ‘Sorry, it’s so hard to think about what happened,’ she sniffed, reaching for a tissue from a flowered box on her desk.

  ‘Cath … ’ she broke off to blow her nose loudly then turned away as the kettle began to boil.

  For a few moments there was only the soothing noise of cups being filled and stirred, then the MSP handed Lorimer his coffee and sat down behind her desk, cupping her own mug between her hands as though to warm them. It was interesting how things in the room had suddenly changed: Lorimer was seated at a psychological disadvantage, as if he were the interviewee and Zena Fraser the person in charge. Now, with that physical distance between them, Lorimer wondered if the intimacy of their conversation would be resumed.

  ‘You were about to say something,’ Lorimer began. ‘About Mrs Pattison?’

  ‘Was I?’ The blue eyes turned to him appeared guileless but Lorimer knew fine she was prevaricating.