A Pound Of Flesh Page 6
‘Cappuccino, please,’ she said, glancing around at the other tables. Not many people were here at a quarter to midday; a bit too late for morning coffee and not quite time for lunch, she decided. From the adjoining restaurant came the faint sound of saxophone music, a soothing undercurrent of noise to blunt the edge off clinking cups and glasses. She sighed, stretching out her legs. For the first time in days she felt relaxed. It had been a good decision to come here, she thought, gazing up at the sky through the glass roof. White clouds scudded across it, blown by an easterly wind that had made her glad to leave the windy street and retreat into this welcoming place.
The coffee, when it came, was the best she had tasted anywhere in the city. And the home-baked gingerbread man on the side made a refreshing change from the familiar plastic wrapped biscuit. A small smile made her mouth twitch as she picked it up. One bite and its head was gone. The spicy fragrance curled around her mouth as she chewed and swallowed, breaking off bits of the body until there was only a scattering of brown crumbs left on the plate.
It had tasted good but had given her an entirely different sort of satisfaction from polishing off these men in their posh white cars.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
The nice waitress was back again, breaking into her reverie.
‘Yes,’ she decided. ‘Do you have a room?’
*
The bedroom had a stylish interior that echoed the main parts of the hotel, she noticed once the porter had taken his leave. Flinging herself down on the comfortable bed, she smiled and sighed deeply; her decision to stay here had been spot on. Her eyes strayed to the remote control for the television that was within reach and her fingers moved towards it as though by habit.
The BBC news programme showed a familiar female presenter sitting against the backdrop of the river Clyde. As she watched, the woman’s carefully lipsticked mouth changed shape from her usual smile and her voice dropped a couple of tones as she began to describe a particular item of news.
‘The body of a young woman discovered in the early hours of this morning in a back alley close to the main shopping area of Sauchiehall Street has been identified as that of Tracey-Anne Geddes … ’
Both fists grabbed at the silken counterpane as she sat up again, back suddenly rigid as she listened to the rest of the news. A photograph appeared, filling the screen, then the alley where the murder had taken place – an alley that was in easy walking distance from this very hotel … Her heart began to beat faster as she heard the story unfolding.
‘Police are appealing for anyone who saw Tracey-Anne in the hours leading up to her death to come forward.’
The thin sound that began somewhere in the back of her throat ended in a howl of anguish as she let the pain and horror consume her once more, then racking sobs made her whole body judder.
A maid, walking by in the corridor outside, paused. For a moment she stepped closer, one hand poised to knock and enquire if everything was all right. She bit her lip, wondering. Was it just a television programme, perhaps? But the wails that sounded from behind this locked door sounded like real, grief stricken cries. She stepped back, her mind made up. The guests deserved their privacy, no matter what had happened to them. Maybe the woman was here in Glasgow for a funeral? She had been wearing a good black coat, after all. Yet, even as she continued along the corridor the maid shuddered, remembering the unearthly quality of that outpouring of anguish.
Behind the wooden door the woman was now sitting on the edge of the bed, tears drying on her pale cheeks. The fingers that gripped each other tightly betrayed an inner anxiety. Tracey-Anne was dead. And that might just be a threat to her own safety. No longer would there be any midnight calls alerting her to the man she sought, nor any more meetings with the woman who had befriended Carol. No. She was on her own now.
She glanced down at her handbag lying open on the floor beside her, the mobile phone peeking out of its tiny pocket. For a moment she blinked, her mind trying to focus on what she was seeing, what it meant.
Hands trembling, she reached down and took the phone out of her bag, swiftly removing the SIM card. They would try to call her, wouldn’t they? But whatever number Tracey-Anne had stored on her mobile would soon be impossible to reach.
CHAPTER 12
‘I want as much of our resources put to this case as possible,’ Lorimer said, eyeing the group of officers assembled in the room. It was not the assembly he had anticipated: some of them had been seconded from DCI James’s team, others were his new colleagues from Serious Crimes. Becoming acquainted with this latter group would either have to wait now or happen on the job.
‘Professor Brightman may not be known to many of you,’ he continued, one hand raised to acknowledge the bearded man standing slightly to one side. ‘But let me assure you he has been of great use to Strathclyde in many cases of multiple murder.’
There was a murmur at that, some of which Lorimer hoped was approval.
‘Tracey-Anne Geddes’s murder may well turn out to be the work of the same person who killed these other girls.’ He turned to the huge screen behind him and pressed the switch that made the faces of Carol Kilpatrick, Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet appear.
‘You’ll notice I have kept the images of Tracey-Anne separate from the others. Maybe you’ll be thinking is he hedging his bets?’ The laugh that followed made Lorimer relax a little.
‘Well, perhaps I am,’ he continued. ‘Nobody should ever be guilty of making assumptions at the beginning of a case and I can assure you that DCI James did not fall into this trap and neither will I.’ He paused to let his words sink in. This was something that every officer knew fine but it was all too easy to let initial intelligence gull even the best cop into haring off down one particular route. He didn’t want to insult his audience by spelling it out, though. These were all hand-picked officers who had great track records in helping solve crimes of a serious nature.
‘We are fortunate to have some of DCI James’s team here with us for the duration of this investigation. Manpower within the force has never been more severely challenged and I am accordingly grateful that they have agreed to work with us on this.’
Lorimer paused again. Was this the time to drop the bombshell? Hints that Serious Crimes was going to enjoy a limited shelf life had been going on for years; part of his own hesitation in accepting the post had revolved around that fact. But budgetary cuts were going to be made in the coming weeks by the Scottish Executive and rumours included the mothballing of this very sector of Strathclyde Police or, at best, the reorganising of it out of existence. Joyce Rogers wanted him here for now, heading up the team, but it would only be a matter of time, she had explained, till he was moved on again. No, he decided. He was the man in charge of this unit and, as far as anyone was concerned, in charge of this ongoing series of cases. He would just have to hope that they could find Tracey-Anne’s killer before any police politics took him off the case.
‘One of the things that I want to insist upon in this case is the way we treat any potential witnesses,’ Lorimer said. ‘I believe it is hugely important to call back any witnesses who come forward. They need the reassurance that their information is important to us. And we need them to be on our side at all times.’
A good few nodding heads showed that they were on his wavelength.
‘It’s inevitable that as overall SIO I will be at the mercy of our friends from the press each and every day.’ He smiled as he heard the collective groan.
‘You know what they all say,’ he continued ruefully. ‘You’ve got to feed the bear or it’ll bite you.’
It was true. The press could be helpful or frustrating in equal measure in their headlong rush to sell stories.
‘Instilling public confidence is always one of our top priorities,’ Lorimer went on. ‘And I want people to feel that they can walk about our streets without fear.’ He turned again to the wall behind him. This time the visual of Tracey-Anne dominated the screen.
Jacqui White had done a decent job, he thought, as the pictures moved from the pend where the victim’s body had been found to the city mortuary.
‘Sixteen stab wounds, all inflicted with a sharp instrument,’ he went on. ‘The pathologists have given measurements that suggest the weapon may have been some sort of sword.’ He paused again to let this new detail impinge on their minds. ‘This was exactly the same suggestion given after Carol Kilpatrick’s murder,’ he told them. ‘Obviously one of our major lines of enquiry is going to be into the sale and possession of such weapons.’ He enlarged the image of one of the stab wounds, a lengthy gash in the abdominal area.
‘I have to tell you,’ he continued, ‘the severity of this was much worse than any of the wounds inflicted upon Carol Kilpatrick.’ He hesitated for a moment. Even these battle hardened men and women were going to react to this one.
‘This particular wound penetrated the victim’s body and came out the other side,’ he said. ‘The pathologist’s report tells that the victim was probably standing against the wall. There’s blood on the bricks at just the height of the victim’s waist,’ he went on, pulling the image back once more to show where the weapon had been thrust. ‘Carol Kilpatrick also had wounds to her stomach and abdomen but none as deep and penetrating as these,’ he went on.
‘Once again, we cannot afford to make any assumptions, but it’s hard to ignore the glaring similarities in the deaths of these two young women.’
This time there was an undercurrent of murmurs as they concurred. It was going to work, he thought. They were already on his side, united in the search for this girl’s killer.
He took a deep breath.
‘I’m going to ask as many of you as possible to delegate your current cases in favour of this one,’ he said quietly, staring out at them with a determination that he hoped they now shared. He let his words sink in, then, ‘Any questions?’ he asked, scanning the group of men and women, turning at last to include the bearded psychologist who was beginning to look a trifle queasy.
‘Who’s going to mind our ongoing cases if we’re to drop them for this…?’ someone asked.
Lorimer stared at the big red-haired man who had spoken, wondering at the way his question had tailed off, at the nod he had given towards the pictures on the screen. Had he really detected a note of disgust in this man’s voice? And, anyway, who was he? Not one of Helen’s … then it came to him. This must be DI Sutherland, one of the men who were currently pursuing inquiries into the delicate area of the Ministry of Defence. He might not share it, but Superintendent Lorimer could see things from this man’s perspective. Why muck up an important government inquiry just to root around into the deaths of four prossies? Without allowing his expression to change, Lorimer nodded towards the man.
‘DI Duncan Sutherland?’
The answering grunt that was given for affirmation was so breathtakingly rude that he could hear Solly’s sudden gasp of astonishment. Sutherland was showing remarkable gracelessness, something Lorimer knew was quite deliberate. Was he trying to wind him up? And if so, why? For a few seconds the rest of the officers assembled in this room appeared to be holding their breath.
‘I didn’t hear a sir after that inaudible response, DI Sutherland. Something stuck in your throat, perhaps?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.
The man stared back defiantly, arms folded across his black leather jacket.
Lorimer took a step forward, his blue eyes raking the man’s face. When he spoke again, there was no mistaking the venom in his tone.
‘Perhaps it’s the search for the man who has murdered four street women that sticks in your craw? Hmm? Don’t see the point of wasting police resources in chasing after the killer of four wee junked-up lassies that nobody’s going to miss? Is that it?’
Every officer watched, mesmerised, as Sutherland continued to stare back at the tall man who was slowly bearing down on him. For a moment the tension in the air was almost palpable, then a collective sigh could be heard as the red-haired officer seemed to sag before the intensity of Lorimer’s glare.
He took one more step towards the man, pleased to see that Sutherland had not only unfolded his arms but had dropped his gaze. ‘Well, DI Sutherland, to answer your question; you will be part of this team and you will relinquish your current case to the local police, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled at last.
‘Right,’ Lorimer said briskly, addressing the entire room once more. ‘Any other questions or can we get on with the business of finding this killer before he selects his next victim?’
‘There’s plenty to do,’ Lorimer said, sinking into the easy chair in his new room at last. Solly had followed him back here and now he was enjoying a few minutes alone with the psychologist.
‘And not only in the investigation, it would seem,’ Professor Brightman replied, a tiny smile hovering across his lips. ‘You’ll have your work cut out just running this unit,’ he murmured.
‘Well, each of these officers maybe sees himself or herself as pretty special just by virtue of being in Serious Crimes,’ Lorimer conceded. ‘Still, I hate to hear anyone denigrate the street women just because of who they are and what they do. They’re entitled to the same level of justice as any other citizen.’
‘Not everyone is going to share your opinion,’ Solly continued mildly.
‘No, I suppose you’re right,’ Lorimer sighed, running a hand through his thick dark hair. ‘But I just can’t stand that kind of attitude, you know?’
‘I know,’ Solly agreed, his dark eyes bright behind his hornrimmed spectacles. ‘Anyway, to return to the object of my being here,’ he continued. ‘I think I would like to talk to the families of the victims.’ Then, before Lorimer could reply, he continued briskly, ‘Would there be anyone from family liaison to accompany me on such visits? I don’t recall much of the media coverage except for the Miriam Lyons case. Wasn’t her father a lawyer?’
‘Aye, that’s the one.’ Lorimer heaved a sigh. ‘Poor guy was hounded by the press, of course. They made hay with the fact he was a solicitor and his girl had been soliciting. You know the kind of thing they love to do in headlines; it’s either a play on words or alliteration.’
‘Is Mr Lyons still in practice?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. He retired from his firm shortly after Miriam’s death. But our intelligence suggests he is still at the same address. Why? Do you want to begin with him?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Solly replied. ‘I think beginning with the first victim and looking at them all in chronological order would be the most constructive approach.’
‘Well, best of luck with the Kilpatricks,’ Lorimer told him. ‘According to Helen James’s reports they were pretty offhand with her officers first time around.’
CHAPTER 13
Professor Solomon Brightman sat awkwardly on the edge of the armchair trying not to spill the tea from the exquisite little floral cup that he held gingerly between his fingers. His discomfort was not about taking tea from something that resembled a delicate antique, however, but from the man and woman who sat facing him. He had decided that he had to make these two people his priority, not only because their daughter’s death had begun what might be a series of killings, as he had told Lorimer, but also because of the similarities in the MO.
Robin and Christine Kilpatrick had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to permit this visit but Solly wondered if they were having second thoughts now that he and the family liaison officer were actually here in their home. The house was off a road that ran between two villages in West Renfrewshire, easier to see from the M8 motorway that whizzed past the foot of their garden than from the
overgrown lane. Solly’s first impression of the place was that it was unloved and neglected. Waist-high weeds obscured half the gable end and there were greenish lines from the tiled roof running down the once-white roughcast walls where moss and water had gathered in the sagging gutters. Even the stone steps leading to the front door were a slick dark green.
Once inside, though, things were rather different. Someone, Mrs Kilpatrick perhaps, had continued to make an effort to keep the place decent; logs crackling in the grate gave the place a warm glow even though his welcome had been a tad frosty.
‘You may remember my colleague, PC Bryant?’ Solly smiled and nodded towards the middle-aged officer sitting next to him as they sipped their tea. Connie Bryant was a motherly looking woman, slightly overweight with thick corn-coloured hair. Solly had taken to her immediately, realising she was well suited to her job; those large blue eyes held an expression of sympathy that was more friendly than pitying.
‘You came to see us afterwards,’ Robin Kilpatrick acknowledged, giving a stiff nod in the family liaison officer’s direction. Mrs Kilpatrick said nothing, her eyes cast down to her cup and saucer.
She’s still in denial, Solly thought. But was it denial of her daughter’s death or of the way she had lived? A discreet look around the room had shown no evidence of any family photographs, though Solly knew from the records that the couple still had another daughter.