Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘You might find this one a bit close to home,’ he went on, nodding at the file marked LYONS. ‘Girl was a well-brought up lassie from Newton Mearns. Family were devout Jews,’ he said, with the hint of a smile. Lorimer knew fine that Solomon Brightman no longer visited the synagogue as part of his Jewish faith, but the religion was something he could respect and understand, especially as his own parents were still practising Jews.

‘Miriam,’ Solly said softly, ‘the older sister who put Moses into a basket in the water. How sad that she should have been left to die like that.’

‘Hope you’re not going to start seeing obscure symbolism in this,’ Lorimer said darkly. ‘Miriam was on the game for the same reason as Carol and the others. Got hooked on junk and had to fund her habit,’ he said, his mouth twisting in distaste.

‘You disapprove of the street girls?’ Solly asked, his bushy eyebrows raised in surprise.

‘I’d like to see every last one of them off the streets, same as Helen James wanted,’ Lorimer muttered. ‘Somewhere they could be safe from any predatory males. It’s a damn sight better than it used to be,’ he added, ‘but while there is still one wee lassie out there selling her body for a fix then we’re not doing our job properly.’

‘We?’

Lorimer sighed. ‘Och I don’t just mean the police. It’s society as a whole. Nobody wants to think about things like that going on under their noses. At least till something like this happens,’ he said, tapping the photo of Miriam Lyons after she had been taken out of the Clyde by the riverman.

‘What would you like me to do?’ Solly asked, suddenly aware of the passion in his friend’s voice.

‘I know exactly what I’d like you to do,’ Lorimer answered.

‘See if Helen James was wrong. There’s way too much similarity in the MO’s of Geddes and Kilpatrick. The other two girls worked the drag as well. It’s just the way they died and the place where their bodies were found that set them apart.’

‘What about DNA traces?’

Lorimer shook his head again. ‘None on Lyons due to the length of time she had been in the river and, according to her notes, Helen James thinks that whoever strangled Jenny Haslet must also have been forensically aware.’

Solly put his fist to his lips, pondering. Lorimer was already involved in this in a big way, he thought. Was it to do with it being his first major case in this new job? Or was the policeman’s natural instinct for justice asserting itself? Lorimer was a man capable of feeling great pity for murder victims, Solly knew, and would treat these poor, vulnerable women with as much compassion as any other girl who had been brutalised.

The Malmaison Hotel was a short walk from the red brick building that comprised police headquarters, a fact that amused rather than intimidated her. It was in direct contrast to the large façade of the Blythswood where she had spent these other few nights, being tucked away on the sloping hillside, though in truth both hotels had been landmarks in the city for quite different reasons in the past. While the Blythswood owed its history to the Royal Automobile Club, this smaller place had once been a Greek Orthodox Church. Any religious connotation seemed long gone, however, as she stepped into the foyer, noting the chequered carpet in purple and beige.

‘Any chance of a coffee?’ she asked the couple behind the desk.

‘Certainly.’ The girl looked up from the papers she had been discussing with her colleague and came around to where the tall, dark-haired woman was standing. ‘Just through here to the brasserie. Down the spiral staircase,’ she added, showing her the way.

Light flooded down from a glass roof to the enclosed courtyard below the wrought iron stairs. She glanced to one side at a pink checked chair, its back rising up into one curved point ending in a black tassel like a jester’s cap. It was a quirky bit of styling that made her smile as she walked delicately down to the coffee parlour below. Here there was further evidence of the chequered theme with three small tables topped with chessboards, empty of their playing pieces for now. She was just sliding into a comfortable seat when a blonde waitress approached, pad and pen in hand, a smile on her face that looked totally genuine rather than pasted on for the benefit of the clientele.

‘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.