Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Then as the car slithered to the inside lane, skidding slightly on the impacted snow, Lorimer sat back, calculating how late he was going to be for his first appointment.

The tall man reached up as his scarf threatened to unwind itself, caught by a blast of icy wind that seemed to come straight from the Russian Steppes. Tucking it into his dark tweed overcoat, he stepped gingerly across the forecourt of the garage, aware that any dark patch might cause him to fall. He blinked as the snowflakes began to quicken, landing on his eyelashes and dampening his hair.

Once inside the warmth of the car showroom, he turned back his coat collar and glanced around him. Every new car gleamed in the overhead spotlights as he moved from one to the next, savouring the more conventional saloons and dismissing the Grand Editions despite their tag of more leg room more luxury . Yes he might be a big man, but he didn’t require a car with that much space.

When the inevitable ‘Can I help you, sir?’ came from the smartsuited smiling young man, he was ready with a reply.

‘I have a car that I would like to trade in. Perhaps we could discuss terms?’ he said, his voice smooth, but with an Eastern European accent that told the salesman that this customer was not from these parts.

‘Yes, of course, sir. If I could have a look at your current vehicle?’ The young man’s smile stayed glued in place as the tall man nodded to the window where the snow was now falling heavily from a leaden sky.

‘That is it there,’ the tall man replied, pointing to a white Mercedes sports car that was parked a few yards across the forecourt.

‘I’ll just grab my jacket, sir,’ the salesman said, turning into an office behind the curved reception desk.

‘White Merc. Punter here to trade it in,’ the young man hissed at the girl behind a computer screen. ‘We’ve to call the police, remember?’

‘Well, just get his name and address. What’s all the fuss about?’ the girl drawled, shrugging one shoulder as if to say that her colleague was dramatising the affair.

‘Okay, okay, I will,’ he replied sourly, pulling on a padded navy jacket emblazoned with the Mercedes logo.

‘Right,’ he said rubbing his hands and striding towards the automatic doors, not forgetting to fix his smile back on again. ‘Let’s have a look at your car, shall we?’

As the white car purred away from the forecourt, Alan Jackson grinned widely. That would take his monthly bonus up and no mistake! Making the sale of that brand new CLS Class Coupe, Champagne Silver this time, for a new customer was a success indeed. So many of their existing clients were choosing to trade in and buy second-hand in these difficult times, so a sale like this was a genuine reason for Alan Jackson to grin. The guy was in a hurry for it, right enough. Wanted the paperwork done today and could he pick up the vehicle by tomorrow. Alan’s smile had faltered just a tad as he had explained the necessity of arranging insurance and road tax as well as getting the gentleman’s bank details, necessities that would, regretfully, take a little longer than a mere twenty-four hours. But the buyer should have known that, surely?

Smoothing his hair and giving a mocking glance at Estelle, the girl with whom he shared an office, Alan sat down at his desk and pulled a card towards him. Moments later he stopped swinging his chair from side to side and sat up a little straighter as the voice from Strathclyde Police headquarters came onto the line.

‘First one!’ Detective Constable Barbara Knox crowed triumphantly, though there was in truth nobody to hear the delight in her voice. Her part of the office was empty at that moment, most of her colleagues either out on separate actions or upstairs in the canteen having lunch. But that did not matter to the stout young woman who was busily typing details into her computer.

Mr Vladimir Badica, with an address in the west end of Argyll Street, was a new client, Alan Jackson had told her.

How did he seem? Barbara had wanted to know and was gratified when Jackson had replied, in a hurry . Aye, there might be a few rich punters with white sports cars wanting to offload them as fast as they could after all the media coverage about Pattison being found shot dead in his big white Mercedes-Benz. The dealership where Jackson worked was the main one in the city but Strathclyde Police had put out the same message to Mercedes dealerships throughout the country: all possible trade-ins of white Mercedes sports cars had to be reported back here to Glasgow. As the woman shifted her gaze to the window and saw the falling snow she let her gaze linger, lulled for a few moments by the hypnotic quality of the huge snowflakes constantly falling out of a cold white sky. Then blinking as though to clear her head, she had a sudden thought: who in their right mind would want to drive to a car showroom on a day like this? Pulling her chair closer to the desk, DC Knox began to type in her own little note about Mr Vladimir Badica and why he might want to take all that trouble to get rid of his car.

‘Facts, Barbara, facts,’ she whispered to herself as unfounded suspicions began to rise to the surface. Just because the owner of this car had a foreign sounding name didn’t mean he was Russian mafia or anything, did it? No, the politically correct brigade would delight in telling them that this man deserved the same attention as any other law-abiding citizen in this part of the world, wouldn’t they? Still, she grinned to herself, it would be nice if she were to be given the role of interviewing Mr Badica, wouldn’t it? The DC gave a nod of satisfaction as she finished typing up the information.

For a moment the woman’s eyes darted to the printer next to her computer. Her finger hovered above the button then she breathed in sharply, wondering for a moment what the consequences of this small action might be. It was completely against all the regulations that had been dinned into her from the beginning of her career.

Rubbing the palms of her hands together, Barbara felt the unfamiliar sweatiness. She swallowed then glanced around the room, listening for footsteps outside. There was nobody about, she told herself, nobody to see two copies being made.

Taking a deep breath, the policewoman pressed the button. She watched as the sheets of paper shot out onto the tray then changed the command back to a single copy.

The second sheet of paper was folded twice, and once more hastily tucked into a pocket of her handbag that she zipped tightly shut. It was done. She would leave the office later today carrying information for her friend. No one would need to know. And, besides, surely it would help this investigation in the long run?

The sense of triumph was overcast by a lurking feeling of guilt, however, as DC Knox attempted to resume the task she had been given.

‘Detective Superintendent! Goodness. I really didn’t expect to see you today,’ Felicity Stewart declared, tossing a cashmere wrap across her left shoulder then offering Lorimer her right hand in a firm grasp. As before, the first minister was dressed in severely cut tweeds, her sensible flat-heeled shoes a gesture towards the weather outside the parliament building. ‘Lots of call-offs in the diary, as you might expect,’ she went on as they walked through the corridors. ‘Jimmy’s in, though.’ She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing a little. ‘I’d be interested to know how your little chat with him goes,’ she said, smiling a crocodile smile that was all teeth.

‘I think Mr Raeburn will be hoping for the same discretion that I afforded you, ma’am,’ Lorimer replied, the hint of a smile hovering around his mouth.

Felicity Stewart threw back her head and hooted with laughter. ‘Oh, you would have made a smooth politician, Lorimer,’ she chortled. ‘Telling me off but still polite with it. I could always do with a man who isn’t afraid to treat me like that,’ she added with a grin. This time her smile was genuine and she regarded the detective superintendent with an expression that made him feel both flattered and uncomfortable.