Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘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.’

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.

‘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.’