Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Aye, your powers of deduction are just brilliant, Detective Superintendent,’ Hardy laughed as they settled at a table by the window. ‘Wee Chloe works here during the week so she knows all the punters that come in. See that new place across the road?’ he said, pointing at a modern building that stood out against the older, more gracious architecture on either side. ‘Well there used to be one of the ugliest buildings in the city right on that spot, before they knocked it down and built this new hotel. That was where we all worked before they created that money-sponge down at Holyrood. Brodie’s was a dead handy place for members of the Scottish parliament. And I kind of like it. So,’ he shrugged and grinned, ‘I see no reason not to keep on patronising their illustrious establishment.’

Perhaps the man’s patronage was indeed pure altruism, for the upstairs restaurant was completely empty except for themselves; or was he in the habit of coming here for peace and quiet, Lorimer wondered.

‘Deacon Brodie was supposed to have been the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde , wasn’t he?’ the policeman asked.

‘Is that right?’ Hardy shrugged. ‘Not a great reader myself,’ he added.

‘My wife is an English teacher,’ Lorimer told him. ‘And a big Stevenson fan. The book was about a man who had two sides to his personality, one moral and the other evil. Wasn’t Brodie a little bit like that?’

‘Och, Brodie was a pure chancer,’ Hardy replied. ‘Oh, Chloe, right hen,’ he said as the waitress approached. ‘A couple of pints of Stella and two drams of Macallan. That okay with you, Lorimer?’

‘Just the whisky, thanks,’ Lorimer replied.

‘Are you ready to order your food, gentlemen?’ the girl asked politely, taking her little notebook and pen out of a black wraparound apron.

‘Burger and chips twice?’ Hardy asked, looking at the detective who nodded hungrily.

After the girl had gone through the usual rigmarole of sauces and sides, the two men were left alone, the only sound coming from the fire that was crackling and hissing as the rain began to pour down against the windows.

‘You were telling me about Deacon William Brodie,’ Lorimer reminded Hardy.

‘Aye, so I was. Seems he was a terrible gambling man. That’s how he got into the housebreaking game. Lost all his family’s money. They say that Brodie got off by bribing the hangman. Was supposed to have been seen alive and well in Paris.’

‘Must have been a bit of a character to have had a place like this named after him,’ Lorimer mused. ‘Wasn’t Edward Pattison rather a colourful character too?’ he asked mildly.

‘Pattison? Colourful?’ Frank Hardy looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Don’t know that I’d call him that. Bit of a chancer like Brodie, though,’ he said, leaning forward then lowering his voice. ‘You want to know what that man was really like, Lorimer? Well, you’ve come to the right man to tell you-Thanks, lass.’ Hardy sat back as the waitress placed their drinks on the table then waited until she had left the room and her feet could be heard clattering on the wooden staircase.

‘Edward Pattison was a shit of the first order,’ Hardy growled. ‘See if he’d been an Edinburgh wifie, you’d have said he was all fur coat and nae knickers. Pretended to be all lah-de-dah with that big hoose of his and the fancy sports car. The wife’s money, of course,’ he added, pausing to take a swig of his lager. ‘Pattison came from an ordinary background but that was never going to be good enough for him. He was the sort of man who had to be someone, know what I mean? A right wee social climber. Why he even joined the Labour party I cannot imagine. Didn’t have a socialist bone in his body!’ he finished in a tone of disgust.

‘Why do you think he joined the Scottish Nationalists?’ Lorimer asked.

‘So he could get ahead. That was Edward all over. He wanted to be part of whatever was successful at the time,’ Hardy snorted.

‘Politics aside,’ Lorimer said, ‘what can you tell me about Edward Pattison’s private life?’

‘His women, you mean?’ Hardy gave a lopsided grin but his eyes had narrowed and there was a sly look on his face as he regarded the policeman. ‘Oh, I can tell you plenty.’

‘I’ve already spoken to James Raeburn and Zena Fraser,’ Lorimer told him.

‘Och, James knew nothing about what Edward got up to in Glasgow. But I guess Zena may have had an inkling,’ Hardy said, lifting his glass for another mouthful of beer.

‘And what was that?’

Hardy grinned, his green eyes twinkling under his bushy eyebrows.

‘Poor wee Catherine was never enough for that big man,’ Hardy said. ‘She’d given him her family’s fortune and three nice wee weans. And in return her man went off with anything in a skirt that took his fancy.’ He looked sharply at Lorimer. ‘Paid for it too, from all accounts,’ he added quietly. ‘At least he did back in our home town.’

‘How do you know this?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Edward Pattison wasn’t always the clean-living boy he was made out to be,’ Hardy began. ‘Truth was he couldnae hold his drink, that’s why he gave it up. Terrified he’d make a fool of himself in public.’ He leaned forward again, his voice lowered. ‘See, one time when we were a lot younger, me and Edward were out on the batter and he told me some things that would make your hair curl. Things about what he did to girls, street girls, you know?’

‘When was this?’

‘Och, years ago, before either of us was married,’ Hardy admitted. ‘But I know fine he was still at it,’ he continued. ‘Saw him driving round Blythswood Square a couple of times, on the lookout, y’know?’

‘And you never told anybody about this?’

Hardy shrugged. ‘None of my business what the man got up to, was it? And I’m not the type to go bleating to the papers about another bloke’s weaknesses.’

Lorimer frowned. ‘But it was well known that you couldn’t stand the man,’ he began.

Hardy straightened up, his face reddening. ‘Now listen, Lorimer, I might have had a grudge against the wee shit, but I would never have stooped so low as that. Some of us MSPs do have principles, you know, despite what the journalists would like the public to believe. Plus,’ he mumbled, ‘what do you think that might have done to Cathy and the kids?’

The return journey to Glasgow began much more quickly, snow ploughs having cleared the earlier blizzards and a heavy rain washing the residual slush to the sides of the M8. As the afternoon closed in and darkness began to fall, Detective Superintendent William Lorimer had a lot to think about, mainly from what Frank Hardy had revealed about his erstwhile colleague. The chief constable of Strathclyde had hinted that Pattison had been a bit of a ladies’ man, but surely he had not known that he had been a regular along the drag? Perhaps, Lorimer thought to himself, it was time to see if anyone else had knowledge of Pattison’s nefarious activities.

Maggie hummed along to the Vaughan Williams variation of ‘Greensleeves’ on Classic FM as she flicked through their ancient address book. A hundred guests was not an unreasonable number, she told herself, ticking off yet another name on her list. She smiled as she thought of her husband’s reaction when she pulled the surprise on him. Turning forty was a landmark for anyone and, though she would happily settle for a week or so in Venice when it was her birthday, a party with all his old friends and former colleagues was just what her husband would most enjoy. To turn up at a restaurant when he was expecting to dine alone with her and find his best buddies was the treat that Maggie had in mind. Okay, so his work could still wreck all of her plans, but why should that stop her, she thought, a determined expression hardening her jaw.