A Pound Of Flesh Read online

  ‘What I am actually here for,’ Solly began, laying the cup back gently on its saucer, ‘is to ask you about Carol.’

  ‘Already told the police everything we know, which is nothing,’ Mr Kilpatrick said brusquely. ‘We had a daughter. She chose a … a … ’ he frowned, as though struggling for a word, ‘a route that was alien to us. We don’t have anything to do with people like that,’ he added, as though the entire matter was closed to further discussion.

  ‘Sadly my own profession sometimes takes me into the worlds of many different souls,’ Solly told him quietly. ‘I see things that I would hate any of my loved ones to see. So I do understand what pain you must have experienced, and not just when Carol died.’

  ‘Do we have to go through this all again?’ Robin Kilpatrick demanded.

  ‘I wish I could spare you,’ Solly said, ‘but it is not just Carol’s death that is being investigated.’

  ‘Oh?’ The man’s head went up and Solly could see that he was suddenly curious in the way that most humans are when other people’s tragedies impinge upon their own.

  ‘Another girl was attacked in the same place where your daughter met her death.’

  ‘So? It could have been a coincidence, couldn’t it?’ Kilpatrick blustered.

  ‘This girl was one of Carol’s friends,’ Solly continued, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. ‘And I have to tell you that the method used by the killer was identical to that used on your daughter,’ he added.

  ‘Another street girl?’ the father asked, his face twisted into a mask of disgust. ‘Why should we care about her?’

  ‘Because some evil bastard is out there and we want to catch him before he sends another unfortunate victim to her death!’

  All three of them turned to stare at Connie Bryant, whose mild manners suddenly seemed to have deserted her.

  ‘You’re not the only parents who have lost a child to heroin, you know,’ she continued heatedly. ‘There are hundreds like you all over this city and every city in the country. We try to stem the tide but it’s not easy,’ she went on. ‘So many young girls are lost to their families and friends then turn in desperation to selling their bodies on the streets for the price of a fix.’ She paused for breath, cheeks flushed. Then her voice dropped and her tone became gentler and more persuasive. ‘The police have done a sterling job of cleaning up the streets, protecting the girls as best they can, but until we have help from people like you two then we’re not going to change the public’s perception of prostitution.’

  There was silence in the room but Solly still felt the woman’s words reverberate in the air around them. Robin Kilpatrick was staring at Connie Bryant, his lips parted as though to speak, but it was his wife who spoke first.

  ‘How can we help?’ Mrs Kilpatrick said, raising her head at last.

  ‘Tell us about Carol,’ Solly told her gently. ‘What she was like as a girl, why you think she went off the rails. What contact you had with her after she left home.’ He paused then stared into space, wagging his dark beard thoughtfully. ‘That would be particularly helpful to begin with.’

  ‘Carol left home when she was sixteen,’ Mrs Kilpatrick said, her lip suddenly trembling. ‘We had no contact with her after that.’

  Solly frowned. ‘Did Carol leave home because she had an addiction to heroin at that time?’ he asked. Sixteen? It seemed so young to be leaving her family. A quick memory flicked into his brain of himself at that age, steeped in his school exams, home and family a secure and loving support. How different Carol Kilpatrick’s experience had been!

  ‘Why?’ he added, shaking his head slightly. ‘Why did Carol leave home then?’

  There was a silence that he longed to break, an uncomfortable minute when things that had long been hidden were coming close to the surface for this mother and father. Things, Solly felt sure, that would give him more insight into the woman that Carol Kilpatrick had been.

  Robin Kilpatrick gave his wife a swift glance but once more she had elected to disappear into some world of her own, her head bent so that she was staring at a spot on the carpet. The psychologist wanted to take her to a place where he could talk to her alone, search her soul for whatever was troubling her, driving her deep into herself. Something, he felt certain, that had to do with their daughter.

  ‘She left home because she wanted to live with her friends,’ Robin Kilpatrick said, in a voice that sounded suddenly weary. ‘That’s all we can tell you.’ He rose stiffly and glanced at the door. ‘Do you mind? I think my wife and I would prefer to be left alone now.’

  ‘Funny couple,’ Connie Bryant muttered as they drove away from the house. ‘Never did find out much about Carol from them.’

  ‘Was it assumed that Carol left home because of her drug habit?’ Solly asked.

  ‘Hmm. Well, you’ve seen what they’re like. Nobody on the investigation team ever doubted that they’d kicked her out. Did you hear what they called her? An alien!’ Bryant’s voice quivered with indignation.

  ‘No,’ Solly corrected her. ‘What they said was that she had chosen a way of life that was alien to them.’ Still, the family liaison officer’s words remained with him, troubling him. Was Mrs Kilpatrick now riven with guilt and regret that she had chosen to cut all ties with her child? Or was there still something else that he needed to know about the relationship she had had with the teenager who had become a heroin addict and prostitute?

  ‘ … Daddy’s coming home, bringing pockets full of plums!’

  ‘Hello, you two. Here I am,’ Solly beamed at his wife and baby daughter as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Hiya,’ Rosie smiled back at him then held the baby up. ‘Go to Daddy, you wee rascal. Let me get dinner sorted while you give her a bath, eh?’ She handed over baby Abigail who gave a delighted chuckle as Solly swung her high above his head then let her little fingers pluck the end of his beard. All around him lay the chaos that only a young baby can create: soft toys littered one corner of the elegant drawing room, Abby’s bouncer sat in the cradle of the bay window, where Rosie had placed it earlier in an attempt to catch the last warm rays of the sun, while evidence of a busy mother could be seen in a discarded muslin dropped on the floor. Solly smiled, seeing past the untidiness, imagining instead the shared moments mother and child had enjoyed throughout the day. He carried Abby through to the bathroom and his smile grew into a chuckle as he noticed that one of his beloved paintings in the hall was slightly askew. This, Solly thought to himself, was as it should be. The days of living here alone with only his artworks for company were gone; now this place was filled with the love and laughter of his little family.

  A few minutes later he was holding Abigail’s shoulders, gently whooshing her back and forth in the warm water, grinning as she gurgled and laughed. Once upon a time Robin Kilpatrick might have done just this sort of thing with his own baby daughter, Solly suddenly thought. When at last he gathered Abigail up in a fluffy towel, the psychologist held her close to his chest and sent up a silent prayer that his little girl would never come to such terrible harm.

  The place was in darkness when she awoke, only the light from a distant street lamp letting her see the dim shapes of this unfamiliar room. Somehow she had slept here, glad to be away from her own place, thoroughly exhausted after that storm of weeping but now the facts of Tracey-Anne’s death came back at her and she shuddered, remembering the words from last night’s television report and the scene where Carol’s friend had died.

  Her fists still clutched the edges of the silken counterpane, the tips of her fingers pulsing blood red with rage: how could she have got it so terribly wrong? She had seen Tracey-Anne get into that car last night. Not a white Mercedes sports car. If only she had kept a lookout at that corner of the square … Then a queasiness began to fill her stomach as the doubts formed. Had Tracey-Anne been lifted by another punter later on? That had to be it, surely?

  She had dispatched two men to their death. Two innocent men, a small voice suggested
. The deepening pain in her belly made her want to retch. Trembling, she rose from the bed and staggered towards the adjacent bathroom. The black and white tiles were chilly under her feet as she leaned over the washbasin and turned on the cold tap to splash water on her hands and face.

  She stood up, shivering now, and grabbed the fluffy towel that someone had placed on the heated towel rail. A huge sigh seemed to ripple through her whole body as she buried her head in the warm towel. It was a small comfort.

  What had she done? How had she got it so wrong? She’d been so certain each time … As she took the towel from her face she looked at the mirror above the basin. A dark-eyed woman frowned back at her, hair straggling over pale cheeks, mouth open as though to utter some words of disparagement. And didn’t she deserve them? Didn’t she deserve to be cursed for these dreadful mistakes? For deciding that these men had to die? For condemning their loved ones to the same sort of suffering that she had endured for so long?

  As she looked at the woman in the mirror she saw the mouth close in a tight line. Don’t be so stupid, the voice scolded her. They were never innocent, trawling the streets for the flesh of young women. And then the face before her dissolved as the tears began to fall once more.

  Back in the bedroom she sat at the dressing table and lifted a hairbrush. As each stroke pulled the tangles straight she began to relax once more. She had done nothing wrong but rid the city of some of its vermin. Her only guilt lay in failing to find Carol’s killer. And Tracey-Anne’s.

  She frowned again as a thought came to her. Tracey-Anne had known about the white car. The girl had made those two calls to let her know it was around the drag. Why would she have endangered her life by choosing to get into that particular vehicle? She blinked away the thought, remembering that the poor junked-up girl had not always behaved in a rational manner.

  What was important now was to find the right man. Her eyes fell on the unopened case. Somewhere in its depths lay the pistol wrapped neatly inside a cashmere sweater. It was waiting for her. Just as it had been the night she had found it, tossed under that wardrobe in an east end flat. She had picked the Starfire up in one gloved hand, its silver blue steelwork winking at her, daring her to take it for herself. And she had. Her fingers curled more tightly around the hairbrush, recalling the feel of the gun in her hand as she pulled the trigger, hearing again that awful blast, seeing the expression of shock on the man’s face.

  Yes, she told herself, smoothing down her hair and noting with satisfaction that her cheeks were dry: yes she could do this thing again, even though there was nobody to tell her when a white car might be circling the city streets. She could do it again. And again – until she brought Carol’s killer to a justice of her own.

  CHAPTER 14

  Edward Pattison smiled to himself, blissfully unaware that it was only a matter of hours from now when all smiles would stop together, as the poet, Robert Browning, had put it, the expression of murderous intent hedged about with cunning euphemism. Pattison was no poet, however, nor a lover of poetry. Politics had thrust him into quite a different sphere of creativity and now, as Scotland’s newly appointed deputy first minister, he was enjoying the sort of power over his peers that the ‘Last Duchess’ of Browning’s poem would have recognised. Sitting here, on the front row of the debating chamber, Pattison knew that he was a presence to be reckoned with, his smile more for the cameras that were recording the debate than for any of his colleagues. Changing his colours for those in the current ruling party had been seen by the media as pure opportunism and Pattison had never denied it; well, not in so many words. And he had a way with words, was able to charm most of the reporters who came into his orbit with titbits of parliamentary gossip and free tickets to red carpet events (Don’t tell the others, he’d whisper as he sat with them in the Garden Lobby. Just make them jealous.)

  So far Pattison’s progress had been remarkable. From being one of several Labour Party members of the Scottish parliament, he had defected to the Nationalists and found his reward in the upward curve of success. Deputy Leadership was not enough, however, and as Pattison let his eyes slide across to the woman who currently headed up both party and country, he considered his next step towards the ultimate goal. Felicity Stewart’s ruddy complexion, weathered by years of country pursuits, was not going to grace the press pages for much longer if he could help it, Pattison told himself. He’d already dropped hints about their leader’s drinking habits, some of which had been taken up by the redtops. A canny word here and an allusion there had sown seeds that were beginning to bear fruit.

  Glancing at his diary, Pattison read what his agenda consisted of for the remainder of the week. A meeting in Glasgow with Visit Scotland personnel then a dinner at the City Chambers tomorrow for a delegation on educational business that would take him through until later that evening. He’d already told his wife, Cathy, he’d be staying over in the west and his long suffering secretary had booked him into the Central Hotel as usual. His smile deepened as he considered his options: an hour or so of forbidden fruit in the city, perhaps? He was taking the Merc anyway, so why not? It was risky, of course it was, and tomorrow was Friday the thirteenth, his diary told him, but Edward Pattison had never really been a superstitious man, trusting instead to his own abilities.

  Pattison uncrossed his legs as a familiar warmth stole through his nether regions, his mind now completely distracted from the facts and figures being thrashed out by the Labour member currently on his feet. As the clock on the wall measured its relentless progress towards Pattison’s final hours, the man himself could only wish that time would pass more quickly so that he could indulge his hidden desires.

  It was an irony that would never be discovered, however, by those who were to report on his death, or by the ones who were left to ruminate over what might have become of his life.

  It gave her a frisson of pleasure to create her disguise. Gone was the serious-faced professional, a brittle frown scoring lines between eyes the colour of faded leaves. In its place she admired the curving brows above eyelids painted like an Egyptian queen’s, haughty yet provocative. She’d dressed with her customary care, zipping the pelmet of skirt against her bare thighs, feeling the metal teeth cold and ragged upon her skin. After the first night she had chosen to wear black. That red skirt had beckoned like a flag but now she wore confidence as though it were a primary colour.

  Tonight boots replaced the sandals, their thin metal heels beating a sharp rhythm across the marble tiles of the hotel bathroom. Killer heels, she thought with just a hint of a smile. Slung across her low cut blouse the fashionably large bag held everything she would require. It had been easy to find a taxi back to the city centre from the vicinity of a railway station but she knew better than to lead her next victim to a similar place. That was why her bag contained a pair of well-worn running shoes. Together with the gun that was now nestling between the folds of a rolled-up tracksuit.

  There was a dent in Edward Pattison’s lower lip, bitten into a dark pink tooth shape of indecision. Would he or wouldn’t he? It was a question he asked himself purely because of an irritating conscience, not from any worry that it might prove a matter of life and death.

  Pattison could almost read the thought bubbles emanating from his head.

  ‘Go for it,’ the horned beast leered at him.

  ‘Think of Cathy back home,’ countered the one with the halo.

  Pattison gave a defeated sigh. He’d never been one for harps and nightgowns. And Cathy wasn’t exactly a saintly wife either, he reminded himself, eyes narrowing in a bitter little frown. With a tilt of his head the second bubble burst into the ether leaving only traces of what he imagined to be a diabolic chuckle.

  He spotted her under the lamp, a slim girl, taller than Cathy (he cursed himself for making comparisons) with luxuriant shoulderlength hair. Something about the way she held herself made him drive around the square for a second look. It was running the risk of being caught on any CCTV cameras that mi
ght be working, Pattison knew, but risk served to add an extra spice to the thrill of it all. Under the street light he noticed the raw carelessness of her expression as if she was daring anyone to stop. Daring them to ask, to do what it was she knew they wanted. It was at once seductive and compelling. Even as he let the window open silently he could feel a swelling in his groin.

  When she turned to him with a proper smile, not the junkedup glassy stare of so many of the women he’d been with in this city, he knew that this one would be special.

  ‘I know a place,’ she told him, her voice tantalising the erogenous zones, making him feel that surge of male power, that urge to dominate one of those girls in the street.

  He jerked his thumb, a command to get in, then, as soon as she’d clicked her seat belt in place Pattison drove off, head held high as the big car leapt into the night. Another conquest was beginning; another woman was fit to be given a doing.

  After giving him a few directions she didn’t speak again until the city had fallen behind them, its myriad lights cast off like a spangled garment.

  ‘Next left,’ she intoned, one hand placed for a second upon his thigh.

  He risked a glance at her and she smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Not far now,’ she assured him, her fingers sliding slowly up the webbing strap of her seatbelt.

  The country lane by the wood looked safe enough, Pattison told himself as his foot pressed the brake. There was a double click as they undid their seat belts and he reached across for her, hungry to begin.

  ‘Wait.’

  The word made him back off as she rummaged in the bag at her feet. He thought he understood, heart beating with anticipation. They all used protection after all. And it would have been crass stupidity on his part not to be careful. Never knew where they’d been.

  When she straightened up again he saw her hands full of a dark shadow that became an explosion of light and pain.