Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Near contact wound?’ he ventured as the pathologist turned to look at him.

‘Possibly,’ she said and smiled. But there was no warmth in that smile and Lorimer had the feeling that the woman would be happier to talk to him once the body had been examined on her surgical table. The gunshot wound was almost certainly near contact like the others but the pathologist was obviously refusing to commit herself in any way at all right now.

In truth there was little for him to do here. Dr White’s examination would continue later in the mortuary; much later, he thought, since they had decided to leave the scene intact until daylight. Sometimes it paid dividends to work at the scene before shifting the body since a wealth of evidence could be gathered by scene of crime officers and the forensic services. And this was a case that he couldn’t afford to mess up in any way, Lorimer told himself. The terse call from the chief constable had made that much clear.

Daylight would bring more officers to this woodland spot and, he acknowledged, the ever eager press pack. He was already composing a brief statement that would go out to their own press officer; finding the right words was of paramount importance if he was to have the papers and the public on his side. But right now he had to work with the scene of crime manager to ensure that everything was done as efficiently as possible.

Lorimer’s expression was sombre as he thought of the scientists who would be involved; a forensic chemist, biologist, firearms examiner and mark enhancement officer as well as the usual scene of crime officers would be grumbling as they feigned exasperation with his orders to obtain a full forensic. The press would just have to wait their turn.

The Gazette

Saturday 14th January

TOP POLITICIAN SHOT DEAD IN GLASGOW

Deputy First Minister Edward Pattison was found dead in his car in the early hours of this morning. Pattison, who had been part of a delegation at Glasgow City Chambers yesterday evening, was discovered by a young couple walking through a woodland track near to the Erskine Bridge. Early reports suggest that the politician had been shot at pointblank range and police and forensic experts are currently searching his white Mercedes sports car and the surrounding area for clues.

This is the third shooting of a middle-aged man in a white Mercedes that has taken place on the city’s perimeter in recent months, sparking off two manhunts, and police may be considering the theory that the victims were the target of a serial killer with some peculiar agenda. In September last year Matthew Wardlaw, from Birmingham, was the first victim, followed in January by fellow Englishman, Thomas Littlejohn. Each of the three men was away from home on business but the most notable thing they seem to have had in common was the make and colour of their luxury cars.

The deputy first minister leaves a wife, Catherine, and three children who are at the family home in Edinburgh being comforted by relatives.

A full report on Pattison’s life and career can be found on page 12.

‘Pattison is not to be treated like some ordinary person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!’

The chief constable’s words rang in William Lorimer’s ears even after he had replaced the telephone. A high-profile murder like this one was always going to be a bit of a nightmare and handing it over to Serious Crimes was one way of dealing with it, the detective superintendent supposed, absently chewing his index finger. That he already had intelligence about the first two cases under his jurisdiction was helpful to say the least. It let Mumby and Preston off the hook at any rate and he could almost imagine their sighs of relief that they wouldn’t have to deal directly with the press pack right now, something that had fallen to him as SIO. The Gazette and other papers had the bones of the story but Lorimer knew he would have to keep them updated on a daily basis.

The entire day was going to be taken up with Edward Pattison’s death. Just as the early evening news would devote extra space to the dramatic developments surrounding the deputy first minister’s killing, so Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s officers had all weekend leave cancelled and were now being expected to drop everything else to concentrate on this highprofile murder. Lorimer ground his teeth in hopeless rage. The fact that he had already diverted so much of Serious Crime’s resources into the prostitute murders had been brushed aside by the chief. These young women who had been so horribly brutalised were to be of lesser importance now that this public figure had been found dead. He remembered the smirk of satisfaction that DI Sutherland had given when he had broken the news to them. The street girls’ investigation was to be scaled back for now, though he had allowed Professor Brightman to continue his inquiries. Maybe they’d find Pattison’s killer pretty quickly, Lorimer told himself. After all, he had been promised all the resources he wanted.

From just after two a.m. when his car had been found out in that lonely Renfrewshire wood, the police hunt had spread across Glasgow and was now making its way to the capital where Pattison had lived. By midday Lorimer was heading along the M8, the motorway that cut Scotland in two with Glasgow and Edinburgh at either end. Throughout the journey he had kept in touch with what was happening back in the woods near Erskine bridge and the beach, a popular spot for courting couples. The scene of crime lads and lasses had been and gone but there was still a strong police presence there, the usual blue and white tape keeping dog walkers and nosey parkers from contaminating the site.

Now, as the police car swung around the roundabout that led to the city’s perimeter, Lorimer wondered just what he was going to say to Catherine Pattison. More to the point, he wanted to know what she would say to him. Rumours had already reached his ears via the chief constable’s office that the Pattisons’ marriage had been a stormy one, to say the least.

‘Good-lookin’ fella,’ the chief constable had commented. ‘Bags of charm. But tended to play away from home, if you get my drift.’

Lorimer wondered if that throwaway remark had been intended to give him some insight into the victim’s character. It wasn’t really helpful, he thought. If every guy who strayed from the marriage bed was shot in his car, the population would be severely depleted.

His head lifted for a moment as a familiar malty smell wafted into the car. Lorimer inhaled deeply, enjoying the old-fashioned scent of a brewery that was now no more. Only the smell lingered in this particular spot. Then the moment passed and his driver was turning into the heart of the city. Lorimer glimpsed the castle on its plug of volcanic rock, an austere and forbidding pile of grey stones built into grey slabs of hillside. Before Christmas he and Maggie had enjoyed an evening in Edinburgh at the German markets, the lights from trees glittering all around, the big wheel turning and the carousel music melding with voices full of Yuletide cheer. Today, under grey skies and a thin, bitter wind that came directly from the River Forth, Edinburgh seemed far less welcoming.

Their first stop was at the Scottish parliament at the foot of the Royal Mile and as the driver slowed to a halt, Lorimer couldn’t help but stare at the modern building. It had been designed by an inspired Catalan for Scotland’s people, but the building had divided the opinion of its citizens, not least for the cost that had escalated almost out of control. It was a place that Lorimer loved although he couldn’t quite say why it moved him. Maggie liked the lines of poetry etched into the wall round from the Canongate, of course, but what was it that lifted his own spirits every time he entered the doors of this place? Was it the feeling that it belonged to the people of Scotland? And that for once they deserved something so spectacular? Or had he been beguiled by the clever use of stone and wood, reminding him in some subliminal way of ancient castles screened by the old Caledonian forests?