Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Solly shook his head, smiling once again. No. He was being fanciful, seeing things that simply weren’t there. Coincidences did happen and, sadly, murders took place all over the city and its environs. For now his remit was to examine everything he could about the possible type of mind that had planned and carried out the killings of these three men. Heaving a sigh that Lorimer would have recognised as pity for the women whose cases were being regarded as of secondary importance, Solly continued his work, frowning in concentration as the words continued to grow on the computer screen.

Images of these lonely places loomed up in his mind as Solly tried to visualise the cars and the bodies that had been left for some unsuspecting person to discover. A frown formed as he pictured each scene. The men had been sitting in the driver’s seat, hadn’t they? So, he wondered, what had taken place before the shots that had killed them? Had they been coerced into driving to these outof-the-way spots, a gun forced against their sides, perhaps? Or had they known their assailant? Trusted them, even? Solly removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes as though that small action would aid his thought processes. If each of these men had been abducted, he reasoned, it would have taken at least one strong man to have overpowered them. But that did not make sense if he was looking for someone who fitted an obsessive disorder of this sort of magnitude. The assassinations had to have been carried out by a single killer. Someone who had cowed the men into meekly obeying orders to drive into a quiet and dangerous location. Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully. All three victims had been big men, physically, and surely strong enough to have at least tried to fight back against a dangerous gunman? Solly only had photographs and written descriptions of the first two victims but since his death images of the deputy first minister had been plastered over every newspaper and television screen until he could conjure up his face at will.

For a long moment the psychologist stared at his computer screen, not seeing the paragraphs he had already written but a vision of Edward Pattison sitting at the wheel of his white Mercedes, his familiar smile directed at an unseen companion.

‘Aye, I kent her,’ Doreen Gallagher nodded, her dangly earrings bouncing off each pale cheek as she took the cigarette from the other woman. They were standing on the pavement outside the drop-in centre in Robertson Street, having a friendly chat as the woman who had identified herself as a journalist had put it. ‘Ta,’ she grunted, leaning forwards to get a light. ‘Aye, Tracey-Anne wis a regular here a’right. Pair lassie didnae ken whit time o’ day it wis half the time, mind.’ Doreen blew the cigarette smoke upwards then fixed the other woman with a stare. ‘Whit’s it tae youse anyhow? Thought ye’d be all ower that ither murder. Big cheese in the Scottish parliament.’

‘Someone else is dealing with that,’ the dark-haired woman told her. ‘I’ve been assigned to this one. So,’ she continued, ‘what else can you tell me about poor Tracey-Anne Geddes?’

Barbara Knox smiled wryly at the report in front of her. Detective Superintendent Lorimer had not been wrong on this one, she thought, reading the statistics that told of several white Mercedes sports cars suddenly being offered as trade-ins around the country. Her smile widened as she remembered how the SIO had asked her directly to take on this particular action. Working here in the Serious Crimes Squad was not only better than being at Mumby’s beck and call, it would surely look good on her CV and improve her chances of promotion. Okay, it was only temporary but Barbara was relishing the chance to work on this case, particularly with Lorimer in charge. He had … how could she describe it? The kind of authority that made you want to do your best for him. And he cared, he really cared about the victims of crime, something that DI Sutherland seemed to have forgotten how to do, she thought darkly.

She pressed the print button, telling herself that she needed to re-read hard copy before she forwarded this information to the rest of the team. It had to be good, to read well, and, most important of all, it had to impress that tall man with the piercing blue eyes. Two copies of the information slid onto the feed tray and DC Knox pulled them off, separating them quickly. One copy she shuffled into a card file, the other she folded twice then, hesitating for just a fraction, stuffed it into a pocket of her handbag.

‘Gentlemen,’ Lorimer said, turning slightly to one side and smiling, ‘and ladies,’ he added, nodding to the female journalists who were present for this press conference. ‘Thank you all for coming to police headquarters. I intend to give a short statement regarding the progress of this case after which I can give you all time to ask questions.’

A murmur of appreciation rose from the men and women facing Lorimer in Pitt Street’s assembly hall. The detective superintendent wanted nothing more than to be left to get on with the case right now, but he acknowledged that this time with the press pack was invaluable if he were to get them onto his side.

‘There is as yet no suspect for the murder of the deputy first minister or the two men who were killed in sports cars identical to Mr Pattison’s. We are throwing massive resources at this case, however, and hope to have reports from the forensic services very soon. Officers from each of the divisions investigating Mr Wardlaw’s and Mr Littlejohn’s deaths have been seconded to this squad meantime.’ He paused and looked out directly at them all before continuing. This next point might prove controversial but it mattered to him.

‘Serious Crimes have enlisted the expertise of Professor Brightman from the University of Glasgow,’ he said slowly. ‘We hope that he might throw some light on the personality of the killer. Professor Brightman has assisted Strathclyde Police most successfully in previous cases and we are very lucky to have someone of his calibre working with us.’

Several of the people in front of him turned to their neighbours, a questioning look on their faces. Solomon Brightman’s services had been suspended for a time following a debacle south of the border when an experienced psychologist had made a colossal error, throwing the entire science of criminal profiling into doubt. Lorimer realised, however, that this was his chance to reinstate Solly in the most public of ways.

‘I would be pleased to take any questions for the next thirty minutes,’ Lorimer said firmly.

It was in fact considerably more than half an hour later that Lorimer was walking hurriedly across the street to where his driver was waiting. Once again he had to make the trip across to the east of the country, this time to talk to Pattison’s colleagues and friends. Thinking back to the way both Felicity Stewart and Catherine Pattison had described the dead man, Lorimer wondered if in fact the late deputy first minister had had anyone who might recognise themselves as his friend.

A thin sleet had begun to cover the city rooftops as they made their way from Glasgow past the tall forbidding chimneys of the Royal Infirmary and out along the motorway. Sitting in the rear of the big car, Lorimer had time to think over the press conference. There had been, inevitably, questions asked about the wisdom of using a profiler, particularly at a time when police budgets had been so severely constrained. His reassurances about Solly and reminders of his past successes had hopefully served to assuage any lingering doubts about his friend’s abilities. But it had been the questions about Edward Pattison that had troubled him most.

Not being one to follow gossip columns in the tabloids, Lorimer had never really picked up on details of Pattison’s personal life as portrayed by such papers. It had come as a surprise then, to find that his teetotal lifestyle had once been overshadowed by a predilection for cannabis in his student days. One older reporter had quizzed Lorimer about a possible drug connection in Pattison’s death but Lorimer had replied blandly that inquiries were still ongoing whilst furiously trying to recall anything that Rita Livingstone had turned up about the deputy first minister. His former boss, Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison, had always been one for trying to link sudden deaths with drug abuse. Sure, the prevalence of drugs in their city meant that many incidents had them at their source but statistics showed that drunkenness was a far greater contributing factor to a fatal stabbing or the like. His gut feeling was that Pattison had been squeaky clean, especially in the light of Felicity Stewart’s comments . He doesn’t drink, do drugs or drive over the speed limit, she’d told Lorimer with more than a hint of disgust, as though a real man should at least be able to incorporate one of these vices into his lifestyle. Ms Stewart’s own liking for a tipple was well documented, though, and she had hinted that Pattison had been using that to bring her down.