Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

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.

‘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.

Human beings less inured to the disturbing images of women stabbed to death might have drawn a collective breath. This lot, Lorimer was pleased to note, didn’t react at all. Instead every officer’s attention was focused on the pictures as he took them through the discovery of the body and the initial post-mortem examination.

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.