Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

The first minister’s laughter had alerted the occupant of the office where they stood; the open-plan offices were like a visual metaphor for political transparency, Lorimer thought. Nobody in this place apart from the first minister had the luxury of a wooden door that was closed to prying eyes. Every one of the small offices was identical; a minuscule glass fronted area where the secretarial staff worked leading to a narrow room ending in the famous pod by the window. The detective superintendent saw a short, stout man approaching and as he drew closer Lorimer noticed that he was wearing a tartan bow tie and a mustard-coloured checked suit. The effect of his choice of garments could have made the man appear clownish, but there was nothing in the least comical in his grave expression as he regarded the man and woman outside his office.

‘Jimmy, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer from Strathclyde Police,’ Ms Stewart said. ‘I’ll be in my office should you need me, Lorimer,’ she added then, giving them both a perfunctory wave of her hand, she turned on her heel and left the two men together.

‘Amazed you made it across here today,’ Raeburn began, then stepped aside and ushered Lorimer into his office. ‘Come in, come in. It’s not very big in here, more of a den, really, but at least it’s warm.’

Lorimer walked into the room, surprised by how tiny it was, but then perhaps the clutter of books and files spread across the strip of mottled carpet made the place appear smaller than it really was. As Raeburn bustled about, attempting to tidy things away, Lorimer had time to absorb the man who had been, if one believed the media reports, Edward Pattison’s closest friend and political ally. Raeburn was a man in his late fifties, his soft white curls around a balding pate giving him a scholarly look. Lorimer had seen the politician on television but here, in the flesh, he was different somehow. It was odd, almost ironic, Lorimer told himself with a puzzled frown, that here in real life Raeburn seemed more like someone acting the part than the man he recalled from several late night TV programmes.

At last the politician appeared to have cleared away sufficient documents to create a space on two modern-looking chairs around a small wooden table. For a moment Lorimer was nonplussed. Had James Raeburn really been so busy all morning, sorting out paperwork? He had been expected, after all, Lorimer reasoned, telephoning to alert the people he had arranged to meet that he might be a little late, that was all. Perhaps Raeburn lived in a perpetual state of chaos? Or had he been looking for something in particular, Lorimer wondered: something to do with the death of his friend?

‘Sorry about that, Lorimer,’ Raeburn said, pulling one softlooking earlobe as though it were an unconscious habit. ‘Now,’ he said, pulling his chair sideways so that he was facing the policeman. ‘What can I do for you?’

Lorimer crossed then uncrossed his legs, feeling the dampness from the melted snow that had seeped onto the edges of his trousers. ‘I’m here about Edward Pattison, of course,’ he began.

‘In any murder inquiry there is a need to clarify much about a victim’s personality and social habits,’ he said carefully. ‘So I may have to ask you some rather personal questions. He was your best friend, was he not?’ He paused, seeing the nod of agreement and that unwavering stare in the other man’s eyes. Whatever he suspected about Pattison, Raeburn’s body language was not giving much away.

‘You were with Mr Pattison in Glasgow at the delegation on the night he died, I believe?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Raeburn. ‘But I left to catch the late train back to Edinburgh. It’ll be in the diary if you need to verify that,’ he commented dryly, indicating the lady sitting with her back to them, her tiny workspace practically out in the corridor. He shrugged and smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t help you very much. You see,’ he added, ‘as far as I knew Ed was going back to his hotel for the night.’ The smile slipped as he blinked, as though remembering. ‘The last I saw of him was when we were putting on our coats before I left to catch the train from Queen Street station.’

‘Did Mr Pattison have any particular friends in the Glasgow area he might have decided to see that night?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.

Raeburn’s eyes flickered and Lorimer could see that the implication behind his words was not lost to him.

‘Had Edward Pattison been seeing some woman behind his wife’s back? Is that what you’re really asking me, Lorimer?’ Raeburn bit his lip suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps he had been. But if that was the case, nobody knew about it. Not even me!’ He looked straight at Lorimer, meeting the policeman’s blue gaze with a stare of his own. ‘If Ed had been seeing someone then it was done so discreetly that no mention of it would ever have come out. No matter how thoroughly the press pack raked in various middens,’ he added sourly.

‘But he did have friends in the Glasgow area, surely?’ Lorimer persisted. He was aware that the man’s feathers had been ruffled. The detective superintendent, however, was determined to remain as impassive as possible. ‘Didn’t he used to visit Mar Hall sometimes for dinner?’

‘Perhaps he did,’ Raeburn countered, looking at Lorimer with suspicion. ‘But not with me. I’m an Edinburgh man, myself,’ he added. ‘Most of my socialising is done here in the capital,’ he went on. ‘And I can tell you,’ Raeburn lifted one finger and began to wag it as though he were giving the policeman a lecture, ‘Edward Pattison enjoyed this city more than any other in Scotland. Glasgow is all very fine, I suppose,’ he conceded, the finger still raised, ‘but unless he had a reason to go there, Ed was happy to spend his leisure time here among his friends and family.’

‘What do you think he was doing out in his sports car in the woods of West Renfrewshire, Mr Raeburn?’ Lorimer asked suddenly, sitting forward a little so that the smaller man shrank back, clasping his hands tightly.

‘I don’t know.’ Raeburn shook his white curls sorrowfully. ‘Truly I don’t. And,’ he continued, rubbing his thumbs together, ‘it pains me to think that there might have been some area of Ed’s life that he kept secret from me.’

The silence that followed this remark was probably his cue to get up and leave, Lorimer thought, but, as he bent forward to rise, his eyes were caught by one of a pile of books that lay askew on the carpet.

‘A hobby of yours?’ he asked, pointing towards the 2010 edition of The Standard Catalogue of Firearms: The Collector’s Price and Reference Guide.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m a collector,’ Raeburn told him, straightening his back. ‘Not a passion that Ed shared, I’m afraid, and before you ask, no, I have nothing missing from the locked case where my guns are kept. Lost quite a lot of them after Dunblane,’ he said ruefully. ‘And the ones that remain are all licensed. You can do a check on me if you like,’ he added testily, lifting up the book and placing it into his desk drawer. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

There was little more to be had from Raeburn after that and Lorimer had left the MSP at the door of his office, wondering at that tone of regret. Did Raeburn suspect that his friend had had a secret that he had chosen not to share with him? And, Lorimer thought, what sort of secret would a man in Pattison’s position wish to keep from his closest friend? Somehow the idea of a sexual liaison as suggested by Solly seemed more and more likely. Cherchez la femme , the psychologist had written in his text message. Well, perhaps his team would begin to do just that. And, he smiled grimly to himself, maybe the next person he was going to see would have a different sort of slant on this particular theory.