Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

In minutes he was taken through security by a nice young woman who introduced herself as Grace, whisked upstairs in a private lift then taken into the room that was reserved for the first minister, Felicity Stewart.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ the woman in the purple tweed suit said, as she rose from her desk.

‘Ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, taking her hand and noting the firm handshake as well as the fact that in real life Felicity Stewart looked smaller and more careworn than she did on the television screen or in press photographs. Her steel grey hair was smooth and sleek and her make-up had been applied carefully to conceal her naturally ruddy complexion, but nothing had been done to take away the frown lines from around these penetrating grey eyes or the wrinkled flesh on her ageing hands. She had twisted a green and blue silk scarf around her neck, and, apart from her trademark pearl earrings, there was little other concession to fashion or femininity.

‘Sit down, Lorimer,’ she said, ushering him towards a chair. ‘Now, I don’t know what you expect me to say, but I’m not going to utter meaningless platitudes about Edward’s death. I’ll save those for the press.’

Lorimer’s raised eyebrows elicited a small smile from the first minister.

‘You said on the telephone that you wanted to let me know more about Mr Pattison, ma’am,’ Lorimer began. ‘And I’ll certainly welcome any background information you can give me.’ He looked at her, wondering just what was going on inside the first minister’s mind.

‘You’re shocked that I don’t put on a long Presbyterian face and say how awful Edward’s death is for us all, admit it.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Why do I say that? Well, I’ll tell you because you will want to know the truth about this man.’ She leaned forward, one finger shaking at the policeman as though he were being given a lecture. ‘Edward Pattison was a conniving bastard who would gladly have seen me sacked from this office.’

‘The press always described him as an ambitious man,’ Lorimer said tactfully.

‘Ho! Ambitious doesn’t cover it, Superintendent. Edward was totally ruthless and would have stopped at nothing to realise his plan to run the country.’ She smiled again, sitting back and folding her arms. ‘Suppose that gives me a motive for wanting to see him dead,’ she chuckled. ‘Lucky for me that I have an alibi for all of last night.’

‘Are you trying to suggest that there may have been a political motive behind Mr Pattison’s killing, ma’am?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Lorimer. All I want to do is to give you the facts. I knew Edward Pattison as a colleague and, yes, as a rival. I cannot tell you everything about his personal life, of course. What Edward did in his own time was none of my business. What he did in parliamentary time certainly was and I want you to be clear about the sort of man he was, not what the papers will have you believe.’ She snorted. ‘I expect they’re already making him out to be some sort of Braveheart who would have led the country to independence. He wanted to project that image when it suited him, of course.’ She stopped, her eyes sliding away from his, her expression thoughtful. ‘It was something we all wanted at one time,’ Felicity Stewart remarked. Then she sighed and shook her head. ‘Edward was good at rallying the people. That was why I didn’t make any attempt to block his political career. But I want you to know, Lorimer, there are several people within this building who would happily have seen Edward come to grief. Now whether any one of them would have stooped so low as to take his life is something you have to find out. But he certainly had plenty of enemies, both within the present government and in the Labour Party.’

‘You think there might have been someone bitter enough about his defection to have had him killed?’ Lorimer’s tone held a note of scepticism.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Felicity Stewart replied. ‘Though I admit it is more likely that someone would have brought him down by rumour and innuendo.’ She grinned, showing a set of perfect teeth. ‘After all, that’s exactly what he was trying to do to me.’

‘Really?’ Lorimer could not stop himself remarking. But there was a steeliness in those grey eyes that made him believe her.

‘It would be very helpful, ma’am, if you could give me the names of any persons who might have had reason to harm Mr Pattison,’ he continued, deliberately trying to keep the conversation on a formal footing.

‘Hmm, where do I begin?’ She leaned back, her cheek resting against her hand as she considered his request.

There was a glimmer of sunshine as Lorimer was driven away from the Scottish parliament building and, as he looked up at Arthur’s Seat, the hill behind him, misty clouds above its rounded top parted to reveal patches of blue sky. Enough to mend a sailor’s trousers , his mum had been fond of saying. That thought brought him back to his next visit. Edward Pattison had been a husband and a father. His loss was going to be something quite different for his wife and kids. There would be none of Felicity Stewart’s straight talking; that was for sure.

What had he made of the woman? Lorimer wasn’t a particularly political animal, police politics having been enough to stomach in his career, but he did have a fondness for the history surrounding the ideals of Scottish independence. Ms Stewart was one hard woman, that was evident, but perhaps having a steely core was a primary requirement for trying to run the country whilst fending off an opposition party like Labour, who were traditionally at odds with the SNP. That she had been honest was admirable, but Lorimer felt she had lacked something . The milk of human kindness , he thought, remembering Lady Macbeth. Surely it wouldn’t have hurt the first minister to utter one kind word about Pattison? Still, she had given the detective some names, in complete confidence, of course. Lorimer frowned, wondering if the men whose names he had written into his BlackBerry had really been the dead man’s bitter enemies. Or was Felicity Stewart using him to undermine the credibility of these politicians for her own ends? He had a duty to investigate them now, of course, but why did he feel that he had just escaped from a sticky web of intrigue?

The house where the Pattisons lived was not too far away, probably a ten-minute journey at rush hour. Murrayfield was an upmarket area, not only because of its proximity to the famous rugby grounds, but also due to the large and solid properties marching in rows away from the main road. It was easy to spot the Pattison home. Across from the grey stone detached house a knot of reporters were stood, and they began to rush the police car as soon as it turned into the avenue.

The uniformed driver and his escort stood their ground, however, ushering them back to the opposite pavement, despite their shouts for information. Lorimer heard cameras clicking and he had no doubt that his profile would be gracing the Edinburgh Evening News later in the day. A tall young copper from Lothian and Borders standing outside the garden gate of the house sketched a salute as the detective superintendent passed him. Lorimer gave him a nod in reply. It was to be expected that a police guard would be put upon this place given Pattison’s public persona. He only hoped it would keep the worst of the press at bay for the family’s sake. It was a short walk to the front door, past well-tended lawns and a row of blue ceramic containers filled with rich dark soil. In a few weeks the first bulbs might help to cheer this entrance, but for now this garden was still in the grip of winter.

His office had made the call for him, letting Mrs Pattison know that Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police would arrive some time in the early afternoon. Now, as he stood in the porch, one hand ready to ring the doorbell, Lorimer wondered how that news had been received. Bad enough to have to deal with a sudden death, but murder and the intrusion of the police must surely compound the grief and confusion of any newly bereaved woman. Lorimer waited, watching for shadows behind the glass door with its etchings of a Greek-style vase and plaited laurel wreaths. He had brought bad news to people’s doors plenty of times in the past and was able to empathise with them, understand their shock and horror. It wasn’t the first time he had been involved in the murder of a man with such a high public profile but death had no consideration of class or status and Lorimer expected this widow’s reaction to be similar to those he had seen so often before.