A Pound Of Flesh Read online

  He walked through the showroom, admiring the huge four by fours and wondering what Maggie would say if he rolled up in one of those. The price tags were far beyond what he wanted to pay anyway, he told himself, moving out into the yard where there were rows of second-hand saloons and hatchbacks. A black Mercedes caught his eye and he walked around, admiring it, wondering if he wanted a complete change. It was a chunky beast, built for durability rather than the good looks of the S class, he thought, wandering along the rows, looking out for the familiar Lexus logo.

  He found it at the very end of the row, parked slightly at an angle from the rest of the cars as though someone had recently driven it there. Lorimer nodded, a smile forming on his lips. The silver car had the sleek lines that he liked and, peering into the interior his smile broadened into a grin as he caught sight of the walnut fascia and polished metal gear stick. It was lust at first sight, Lorimer knew and any misgiving he might have had about relinquishing his old faithful vanished as he was filled with a sudden desire to drive, no, to own this car.

  There was no sticker across the windscreen and for a moment his heart sank. If you have to ask how much it is you can’t afford it, his old dad used to tell him sternly. But that was when he was a boy, wasn’t it? Now as a man of almost forty, recently promoted to a senior position in Strathclyde Police, he might well be able to afford this lovely set of wheels.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ A young man was suddenly at his side and Lorimer smiled, recognising him as one of the fellows who sometimes booked his Lexus in for its service.

  ‘DCI Lorimer, isn’t it?’ the man smiled, putting out a hand.

  ‘Detective Superintendent since the beginning of this year,’ Lorimer smiled, shaking his hand.

  ‘Congratulations, sir,’ the salesman said. ‘Thinking of trading the old girl in?’

  Lorimer sighed. ‘Aye, it’s well past time I did that. Been too busy,’ he shrugged. ‘But since I had a little time to spare this morning …’ He tailed off, looking back at the silver Lexus, his expression betraying naked longing.

  ‘That’s a lovely car,’ the salesman said, walking around and nodding in admiration. ‘Just came in last night on a trade-in and we haven’t even had it valeted yet.’

  ‘Any notion how much …?’

  ‘Depends on what we give you for yours, of course, but tell you what. Why don’t I get the keys and some trade plates and we can go for a test drive. If you have time, of course.’

  Less than half an hour later Lorimer found himself seated in front of the salesman’s desk, his signature already on several different documents.

  ‘Should be able to collect it by the end of this week,’ the salesman said, smiling happily. ‘And we’ll have it taxed for a full year as discussed.’

  ‘What about the old car? Do you think you’ll be able to find a buyer for it?’

  The salesman shook his head. ‘It’ll most likely go to one of the car auctions.’ He shrugged and gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Big mileage like that. We wouldn’t be able to sell it on from it here, I’m afraid.’

  Lorimer sat at a set of traffic lights, his eyes wandering over the old car. Somehow the things that had spelled familiarity now looked simply dusty and worn and his mind shot back to the silver 300 series that he had just purchased. It was the start of a new year and a new job. Time for a change, he decided, accelerating across the junction and heading back to work.

  Maggie Lorimer pulled the handbrake and sat back against the driver’s seat with a sigh. A few moments of stillness were what she wanted, just a few moments sitting there, letting the noise and tension of the journey drift away as she listened to music. The CD had been played to death but Nicola Benedetti’s recording of the Mendelssohn concerto still had the power to make her feel that life was good and some things worth the effort. As the rain streamed down the windscreen, she could see a blur of yellow amidst the green; winter jasmine cascading across her doorway, its tiny star-shaped flowers winking beyond this downpour, sheltered by the roofline.

  As the last strains of the violin ceased, Maggie smiled and leaned forwards to press the off button then thrust open the door, ready to make a dash for the house. Shaking the water off her raincoat, she hung it across the line of hooks in the hall before turning into the open-plan room that led to her kitchen. A cup of decaf and a wee scone, she thought, her eyes flicking towards the blue flowered tin where she kept her home baking.

  Inside everything was just as she had left it that morning, with one exception. Curled into a round ginger ball, Chancer the cat was asleep on top of the pile of fresh laundry that Maggie had taken out of the tumble dryer that morning.

  ‘Oh, Chancer!’ she sighed, noting the paw prints all over a cream-coloured fitted sheet; but the cat simply opened one eye, stretched out a front leg then curled back to sleep, a deep purr expressing his satisfaction at her return.

  ‘Bad puss,’ Maggie scolded, not really meaning it, her fingers already caressing the cat’s soft fur.

  Later, sitting in her favourite rocking chair, her hands clasping the steaming mug of coffee, Maggie reflected on her first day back at work. When Bill came home she would tell him that everything had gone well, not wishing to bother him with things that had been less than pleasant. Like the new woman in their department who had come to provide cover for her during her absence and had somehow managed to inveigle her way into staying on for the remainder of the term. She’d been given Maggie’s room and had taken down all of her favourite posters, leaving them to gather dust in an untidy heap on top of the cupboard.

  Maggie felt her cheeks burn with indignation as she remembered how Lena Forsyth had slapped down her diary on her desk (her desk, not Lena’s!) and made her look at the class lesson plans that had been created, as though Mrs Lorimer were a probationer who didn’t yet know the ropes. The woman’s effrontery had continued as Lena had suggested (no, not suggested, thought Maggie, insisted was a better word to describe her manner) that Maggie continue to follow her recommendations to the letter. From the first glance Maggie could see that this teacher had been chancing her arm, failing to follow several guidelines as well as having done very little in the way of issuing and marking written work. Her mouth narrowed as she remembered how she had sidestepped the woman’s commands. She would drop a hint to her head of department when the time was right but for now Maggie knew she would simply have to put up with Lena’s strident manner, especially since they were to share the responsibility for two first-year classes. It had irked her to see that Lena would have use of her classroom during some of Maggie’s non-teaching periods. To make matters worse, the new member of staff had spent what seemed the entire lunch break talking in a loud voice about her Christmas skiing holiday in France. At least Maggie would only have to endure her till the end of term. Then she could regain total control of her classes and her beloved classroom.

  Pity she didn’t manage to break her leg, Sandy, Maggie’s friend, had muttered. Ah, dear Sandy! It had been good to catch up with her pal again. Sandy, one of the Business Studies teachers, had an acerbic tongue that made Maggie chortle with glee whenever a few apposite words were thrown out to describe one of their fellow colleagues. She was an excellent mimic, too, and could give a few of the staff a red face whenever they became too full of themselves.

  Maggie yawned, suddenly wearied by the day’s events. She closed her eyes, stretched out her feet and, in a matter of minutes, was fast asleep.

  There was no reply to his usual ‘Hi!’ as Lorimer stepped into the house and locked the door behind him, shutting out the biting wind. Shrugging off his winter coat, the policeman listened intently for the domestic noises that usually came from the kitchen at this time of the evening, but there were none.

  ‘Maggie?’ His voice held a note of anxiety as Lorimer walked through the doorway into their study-cum-dining room. He stopped next to her rocking chair, his expression softening as he spotted his wife lying asleep. Reaching down, he smoothed her unruly dark curls aw
ay from her face, but that small movement disturbed her and Lorimer felt a pang of regret as she blinked and yawned, wishing he could have let her rest a little longer.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked sleepily, gazing up at him.

  ‘It’s gone seven,’ Lorimer replied.

  ‘Oh dear. Sorry about that,’ Maggie yawned again. ‘Haven’t even started dinner yet.’

  Lorimer hunkered down at her side. ‘Tell you what. How about a fish supper, eh? I can be at the chippie and back by the time you’ve got the kettle on and warmed the plates. Okay?’

  Maggie smiled and nodded, taking his outstretched hand in hers. ‘Ooh, you’re cold. Sure you want to go back out there again?’

  ‘No worries.’ He hesitated, looking at her sleepy eyes.

  ‘What’s your first day been like?’ she asked, stroking his fingers.

  ‘Tell you all about it later. There’s an interesting double murder case but I don’t know if we’ll take it on,’ he added with a wry smile. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘See you in a bit,’ he told her, then straightened his long frame and stood up. He’d save the news about his new car for later.

  Outside the wind had gathered strength; the trees in next door’s garden were being whipped sideways and Lorimer struggled to button his coat as he headed towards the Lexus. It wasn’t a night to put a dog out but in every part of this city there would be officers driving or on foot, their job taking them into some of the seediest parts of Glasgow as the offices closed and the night life began. He’d done his share of foot slogging as a young uniformed copper and could still remember how his trousers would turn stiff and hard with hours of constant rain lashing against them. As he drew in to the kerb by the chippie he spotted a young girl shivering in an office doorway, her short jacket barely covering a flimsy dress and sparkly tights. Her pallid complexion and stick-thin arms were a dead giveaway. Was she waiting for a punter? Or simply craving her next fix? Location seemed of no importance now; even in what was considered respectable suburbia there were lassies who had succumbed to the relentless pull of some drug or other. Tonight there would be young policemen and women walking around their beats, some of them taking in the pends and cobbled lanes that comprised the red light district, or drag, as it was usually called. Not his business, he told himself, heading into the shop. But the image of the girl outside in the rain stayed in his mind.

  As Lorimer stood waiting for his order in the steamy warmth of the chip shop he thought about these women who sold their bodies for a quick fix of heroin. Over the years, thanks to schemes like Routes out of Prostitution, Strathclyde Police had helped to reduce the hundreds of prostitutes on the streets and now there was barely a tenth of the number that had been on the game when he had been a new recruit.

  ‘Three fish suppers,’ he said, wondering if he was daft and if the lassie would even be there when he emerged from the shop or if Chancer would be getting an extra special treat tonight.

  Lorimer held the vinegary parcel close to his chest as he left the shop, his eyes immediately drawn to the empty doorway.

  So, she’d gone.

  Looking up the street he could see two figures, one whose skimpy dress was blowing all ways in the vagabond wind; the other the dark-coated figure of a man clinging to her as if for support. Her pimp? A punter? Her dad, perhaps? Telling himself once more that it was none of his business, Lorimer shoved the food onto the passenger seat and drove off into the lashing rain.

  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.

  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 th
e 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.