Alex Gray: A Pound Of Flesh

Solly turned at last and let his eyes roam over the extensive library that covered an entire wall of the spacious room. There was something he needed to look up, a chapter he had marked with a lurid pink Post-it note somewhere along the shelf third from the top. It was in one of that collection of stiff-backed books with the bevelled spines he had bought at auction, their faded gold lettering meaning he had to peer more closely to see which one he wanted.

Having researched and written a book, albeit a fairly slim volume, about female serial killers, the professor was hoping to follow it up with a history of British crime relating to underage killers. The Jamie Bulger case might seem an obvious one to begin with, given that it had generated more media coverage than any other, but Solly wanted to go back a lot further than that and his reading currently included material from as long ago as the early nineteenth century.

He was nodding with satisfaction as he selected the text that he wanted, his benign smile changing instantly to an expression of mild annoyance as the shrill noise of the telephone interrupted his train of thought.

Placing his book carefully on the huge table that dominated the room, Solly headed towards his desk, anxious to silence the insistent ringing.

‘Hello?’ he queried politely. ‘Professor Brightman speaking.’

‘It’s me, Lorimer. I’ve got something that might interest you. Any chance we could meet up?’

Solly blinked, taken by surprise. It had been some time since his friend had asked for his help in a professional capacity. Indeed Strathclyde Police had warned Solly that his services might not be required for future cases. But, he reasoned, that had been before his involvement with the case last autumn, hadn’t it? Now the parameters had changed. He was a professor and Lorimer a detective superintendent, the promotions bringing each man some further respect from the police as a whole.

‘Solly? Are you still there?’ Lorimer’s voice sounded impatient and Solly smiled once more. Theirs was an unlikely pairing; the policeman had little time for the lengthy pauses that his friend tended towards, preferring to come straight to the point whenever they discussed a case.

‘Yes, still here. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve got authorisation to have you on a case,’ came the reply. ‘So it’s official, this time.’ Lorimer hesitated, knowing as he spoke that Solly would be aware of every nuance of his speech, every tiny space between his words. ‘It’s the murder of four known Glasgow prostitutes. That’s how the press will see it. I’d rather think of it as the brutal murder of four vulnerable young women.

‘It’s looking a bit complex,’ Lorimer went on in a lighter voice, ‘so you’re bound to like it.’

Solly nodded, responding to the seriousness of his friend’s tone. He could imagine the tense expression upon the policeman’s face as he spoke.

‘Well, as it happens I’m finished with classes for today so … ’

‘Good. See you here in half an hour?’

Solly put down the phone, shaking his head slightly. So much for his plans for spending time reading this afternoon, he thought with a sigh. Yet as he packed some papers into his satchel there was a gleam in his dark eyes. A new case with Lorimer: the first since his appointment to the Serious Crimes Squad. Solly locked the door behind him and hurried down the stairs, his mind already on what lay ahead. A bit complex , Lorimer had said. Well, that remained to be seen.

Helen James opened her eyes and blinked. It was all over then, she thought. A collage of images filled her mind: the siren sound of the ambulance, the overhead lights in the corridor as she was wheeled into the operating theatre and the man in the blue mask and matching cap who had assured her that everything was going to be fine…

It was strange how relaxed she felt now after a night of unbroken sleep. Her lips moved towards the semblance of a smile as she caught sight of the drip, felt the drain in her right arm. Well, maybe not that strange after all if they were pumping some nice drugs into her. She sighed but it was not a troubled sigh, more an exhalation of all the worries and troubles that had dogged her for the past months. There was nothing she could do about any of it and the knowledge that someone else must be taking over from her was surprisingly good.

Closing her eyes once more, Helen slipped into a dreamless sleep, happily unaware of the latest in the series of murders that had taken place on her patch.

Outside the hospital room the uniformed police officer glanced at her watch, checking it for the umpteenth time against the clock on the wall above the nurses’ station. It was funny to be here, PC Patricia Fairbairn thought to herself. The word was that Serious Crimes was supposed to be taking over and she might have been seconded to Pitt Street as part of the team, yet here she was, waiting for her DCI to waken so she could bring her up to speed with this horrible prostitute killing. Sighing heavily, Patricia stepped across to the glass door, peering in at the figure lying on the bed. No, she didn’t seem to be awake yet. She bit her lip. Over and over Patricia had rehearsed the words she would say when her boss was finally awake. If only she would open her eyes so she could get it over with.

Hearing her stomach suddenly rumble, the police constable decided that a visit to the canteen downstairs was in order. With one final glance at the woman who appeared to be sleeping peacefully, Patricia slipped off down the corridor, her thoughts already on a cup of black coffee and whatever calorie laden stuff the hospital canteen might provide.

‘You’re awake, ma’am,’ Patricia said, putting her fingers to her mouth, nervously wiping away any traces of her latest snack.

‘So it would appear, Fairbairn,’ Helen James said dryly, eyeing the rookie cop who had been landed in her division so recently. ‘Nice of you to visit, but perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’re here.’

‘It’s not good news, ma’am,’ Patricia said, all her carefully rehearsed speech flying out of the window as she looked down on her boss’s pale face. ‘There’s been another prostitute killing. Just last night. I … I was one of the officers on duty who found the body,’ she continued, tightening her lips to keep them from betraying her inner trembling.

Helen’s fingers gripped the bedclothes and a sharp crease appeared between her eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Tracey-Anne Geddes, ma’am. She was found when we were patrolling the drag.’

‘Oh, God.’ Helen turned away so that her young colleague could not see the sudden tears. She blinked rapidly before facing the girl once more.

‘Who’s the SIO in charge?’

‘That’s just it, ma’am,’ Patricia told her. ‘It’s gone up to Serious Crimes. Detective Superintendent Lorimer has taken it on now.’

‘Lorimer … ’ Helen sighed heavily, sinking back into the comforting softness of her bank of pillows. ‘Well, that’s some relief.’

‘Who is he, ma’am?’ Patricia Fairbairn asked, coming forward to scrutinise her boss’s face. She’d expected a sudden fury from the SIO, outrage at the very least that the case that had commanded so many man hours was being shipped off to Serious Crimes.

Helen James turned to the young policewoman and gave a smile that lit up her face, softening all its harsh lines and angles. ‘William Lorimer is one of the best senior officers around,’ she said. ‘And you’ll find that out, young lady, if you’re ever lucky enough to be part of his team.’

‘Professor Brightman,’ the officer behind the desk smiled at the bearded man standing waiting for his security pass. ‘Good to see you, sir.’