Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

A figure approached the glass door and it opened with a click and a rattle, the tell-tale sign that a security chain had been unfastened.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer?’ An older lady stood by the half-opened door, looking at him uncertainly. She had the voice of a well-educated woman, deep and clear, with that cultured accent he associated with Edinburgh gentlefolk.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, holding out his warrant card so that she might be able to verify that he was indeed a policeman.

‘I’m Mrs Cadell, Catherine’s mother,’ the woman told him. ‘Please come in.’ She closed the door firmly behind them and replaced the chain.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ she remarked, her voice betraying the first signs of nervousness, but she gave the ghost of a smile, as if it was important to keep one’s spirits up. ‘Catherine asked me to take you through to the drawing room. She’ll be right down.’

Lorimer followed Mrs Cadell through the reception hall and into a bright airy room that looked out onto the street. He was not surprised to see cafe curtains at each pane of the bay windows, keeping any prying eyes from seeing into the Pattison’s home. His own mum had always kept her nets , as she’d called them, up at the front windows and Lorimer could still recall summer days when they had billowed from their washing line before being given a quick iron and put back onto their wires. It was a pleasant room, its walls painted pale yellow to tone with the ochre tapestry cushions on the occasional chairs surrounding a large oak coffee table. As always, Lorimer’s eyes were drawn to the paintings, his history of art training making him notice anything that was in a decent frame; two were landscapes that he recognised as the work of the Scottish artist, Tom Shanks, but the third was a full-length portrait of a young woman in a black evening dress, her long dark hair wound around one side of her neck in the manner of an old Gainsborough. She seemed to look down at him as he gazed, her eyes following him as he stood to one side then the other, trying to catch the light properly. The pale face was tinged with just a hint of pink on the cheeks and the laughing mouth was outlined in scarlet. It might have owed something to the old masters but this was certainly a modern portrait and he was curious to identify the artist: a Robert Mulhern, perhaps? Just as Lorimer was approaching to see if he could make out a signature, the door opened and the subject of the painting walked in.

‘Mrs Pattison?’ Lorimer stepped towards Edward Pattison’s widow, one hand outstretched.

Catherine Pattison glanced up at her portrait and then back at the tall policeman from Glasgow. Her long hair was tied back in an elastic band but there was no mistaking that pale face with its high cheekbones and those dark eyes. Instead of the formal black evening clothes, the woman was dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans, a navy cashmere sweater and a pair of red leather loafers.

‘Ed had it painted after we were married,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why he bothered, really,’ she added in the same clipped tones as her mother.

‘It’s a lovely picture, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said gently.

They were silent for a moment as Catherine Pattison chewed her lip and looked away from him.

‘I’m sorry to have to come today, so soon after you’ve received this terrible news,’ Lorimer said at last. Then, as she made no reply, he took her gently by the elbow and steered her towards one of the chairs. ‘Better to sit here while we talk,’ he added, hoping that she was going to be able to speak to him.

‘My husband,’ she began, turning to Lorimer. ‘He … ’ Her voice tailed off in a note of despair, then she thumped the arm of the chair, her face twisted into a mask of fury. ‘Oh God! What the hell was he doing in that wood? Can you tell me that, Superintendent? Why wasn’t my husband in his hotel room where he said he would be?’

Lorimer noticed the unshed tears in those dark brown eyes, but it was her expression of hatred that gave him pause for thought. He had been expecting grief but instead it was pent-up anger that seemed to be spilling out.

‘We’re following every possible lead, Mrs Pattison, and I can assure you that the police will do everything in their power to discover why your husband was out in Renfrewshire. That,’ he added more firmly, ‘is one reason why I’m here. To see if you can shed any light on this for us.’

‘Me?’ Catherine Pattison’s mouth fell open for a moment in genuine astonishment. ‘How on earth would I know what he’d been doing or who he’d been with? I’m only his wife,’ she added with a bitterness that made Lorimer’s eyes widen.

‘You think that your husband was with another woman?’

‘Oh, probably. Ed was one of those men who simply can’t … sorry couldn’t keep his trousers on … ’ She tutted, as though annoyed with herself. ‘God, I’ve got to get used to referring to him in the past tense, haven’t I?

‘Was there anyone he knew in that area?’

‘In Erskine? Not that I know of,’ Catherine Pattison replied. ‘Though he had been out at that hospital for the ex-servicemen once or twice and he’d stayed over at Mar Hall on several occasions. Even took me there once,’ she added.

For the first time, as she smiled at the memory, Lorimer saw the young woman through the artist’s eyes. Young, lovely and with a suppressed passion that was at once appealing and erotic. What the hell had Edward Pattison been thinking when he had abandoned his wife for casual affairs, if that was what they really had been?

‘Did you consider these other women any real threat to your marriage?’

Catherine Pattison smiled again but this time her mouth was twisted in an expression of cynicism. ‘Ed would never have left me. He was always far too aware of his public face, you know: the happily married man with three gorgeous kids who adored him. And they did, you know,’ she added, suddenly serious. ‘It’s going to be very hard for them. Ed might have been a philandering bastard but he was a good father.’

Then, as though she had held them back for too many hours, Catherine Pattison let the first tears trickle down her cheeks.

For a few minutes Lorimer let her weep, even handing her one of his own well-laundered white handkerchiefs to blow her nose.

‘I said there were several reasons why I had to speak to you, Mrs Pattison,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And I do have to ask you if you know of any reason why someone might have wanted your husband dead.’

‘Apart from me?’ She smiled through her tears, then bit her lip as she saw the policeman’s unflinching expression. ‘Shouldn’t have said that, even as a joke, should I? After all it’s usually the spouse that commits the crime, if all these TV shows are to be believed.’

‘Statistically speaking, they are correct,’ Lorimer told her. ‘And so, yes, I do need to know where you were yesterday evening.’

Catherine Pattison heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I was at home all of last night. Peter, Kim and Lucy were in bed and I read a book till after twelve o’clock. The police phoned just after breakfast. She paused. ‘And my mother came straight over, of course.’

‘But there was nobody else with you last night?’

‘No.’

‘And did you receive any telephone calls during the course of the evening?’

‘No,’ she frowned. ‘What are you asking me all this for?’

‘As you said yourself, you need to give an account of your whereabouts in order to be eliminated from our inquiries.’

She looked at him, suddenly surprised at the idea of being regarded as a possible suspect. ‘I wouldn’t have murdered him, Superintendent. Even though he might have deserved it. I know I have a temper but I couldn’t do a thing like that.’