Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘My wife,’ Solly said. ‘Yes. That’s right. I do remember Rosie telling me about that particular case. She was so sure that someone would be found and that she would have to give evidence in court.’ He shrugged. ‘But it didn’t happen.’

‘Well perhaps if we put our heads together and find some common strand in all of this then something will come of it,’ Helen James replied, but there was such doubt in her voice tinged with bitterness, that Solly Brightman wondered if the DCI was already resigned to these murders remaining unsolved, at least by her own team of officers.

Andie’s Sauna was located in a side street off Govan Road. It was less than a mile away from the BBC and STV studios and the luxury flats that had sprung up on both sides of the Clyde, but it might have been on a different planet. That, thought Solomon Brightman, was one of the more fascinating aspects of Glasgow, where those who had plenty of life’s riches rubbed shoulders geographically with those who had nothing. At first glance the sauna might have been a launderette, its double-fronted glass windows showing a couple of blonde women sitting with their backs to the street, mugs of something hot clutched in their hands looking for all the world as though they were passing time waiting for their washing to be done. But, crouching a little to peer inside, Solly saw that they were sitting reading magazines, their bare legs crossed, spangly stiletto sandals revealing garishly painted toenails.

‘Looking fur a quick ride, pal?’ A voice behind Solly said with a guffaw, making him straighten up in alarm.

A short man with grizzled grey hair and yellowing teeth leered up at him then nodded towards the door. ‘Awright if ye can afford them sort of prices, eh? Eh?’

Solly opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it as the smell of drink wafted off the old man. ‘On ye go son, dinna mind me,’ the man said, then, giving Solly a swift dig in his side, he staggered off cackling to himself.

As Solly opened the door he noticed the two women looking up at him as soon as they heard the tinkle of the door chime.

‘I’m looking for the owner of the, um, establishment,’ he said brightly. ‘Andie?’

‘S’no’ in the noo,’ one of the girls replied, looking at Solly with thinly disguised interest. ‘If ye’re wantin’ a session see an’ phone fur an’ appointment, okay?’

‘I’m Professor Brightman,’ Solly said. ‘I’m actually here on behalf of Strathclyde Police.’

The reaction was immediate. Both women sat up straight, uncrossed their legs and tugged at what passed for their skirts. If it hadn’t been part of a serious case, Solly would have burst out laughing as he observed their body language.

‘Andie’s away over at the other place, far as I know,’ the younger of the women told him. ‘We’re jist keeping things tickin’ ower, isn’t that right, Jessie?’

‘Aye,’ agreed the other, churning a wad of gum around in her mouth while looking at Solly as if she had found some new species of humanoid. ‘Yer no’ wantin’ a session then, mister?’ she asked regretfully, her eyes slipping over him in a way that made his face burn with embarrassment.

‘No thank you. Maybe you can help me, though,’ he said suddenly, squashing the urge to back out of the place at once.

‘Oh, aye, sure we can,’ the girl called Jessie giggled as she stood up.

‘Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet,’ he said quietly, looking intently at them from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles with an expression that he hoped was sufficiently professorial. Hearing the names had an immediate effect on the women whose faces both became suddenly serious.

‘Mind the names,’ one of the women said with a frown. ‘D’you ’member them, Francine?’

‘Aye,’ the younger woman said shortly. ‘Knew them from before … used to see them both down in Robertson Street.’

‘And on the Big Blue Bus, perhaps?’ Solly asked gently.

‘Aye, there ’n’ all. Whit’s with the questions, Sherlock? Jenny an’ Miriam are both deid,’ Jessie protested.

‘I know that,’ Solly said. ‘That’s why I’m here. You see, ladies, I’m a psychologist and I’m trying to create a profile of whoever killed these young women.’

The nervous glance that passed between the two women gave Solly the idea that some revelation was about to be produced. But he was wrong.

‘Better come back anither time, son,’ Jessie said, walking towards him so that Solly had to back towards the door again. ‘An’ make a proper appointment tae see the boss, okay?’

‘Aye, an’ we wisnae here when ye called, right? Got that, professor?’ Francine insisted. The timbre of her voice had heightened and Solly knew that, if he were ever asked, he would admit that he was hearing a young woman who was now under a good deal of stress.

*

The whistling stopped as soon as the man heard the door slide closed once more. Stuffing the oil-soaked rag into a pocket of his dungarees, the mechanic shuffled his body from under the Mercedes-Benz and emerged from his prone position beneath the luxury car. Anyone seeing the big man would be surprised at how nimbly he sprang to his feet, smiling as though there was a secret joke he was keeping to himself. He stretched upwards, flexing his muscles after their confinement below the car, making him appear even taller than his normal six feet and five inches. Then, looking around at the cars parked in a careful row, he nodded to himself as his glance rested on one particular model. The white Merc was due for its trade-in, Vlad had told him, in clipped tones that made the mechanic aware that the boss was less than well pleased at having to part with this particular model.

The big man shrugged. It would be one less car to wash and polish for weddings, he supposed. Pity, though. There were still a few white Mercs but there was something alluring about the sporty model that made customers want to take it out for hire. A babe magnet , he’d heard one of them call it. The mechanic turned away, still smiling as he wiped his hands on a fresh piece of paper towel. He liked that idea. A magnet attracted metal to metal, didn’t it? His grin widened as he looked in a rectangle of mirror that someone had placed by a shelf near the wooden staircase that led to the offices above the garage. A dark-haired man with deep brown eyes stared back, his finely chiselled cheekbones giving just a hint of his ethnic origin. He’d been told more than once what an attractive man he was. A throwback , Vladimir had called him once, and, though he did not fully understand what that meant, he took it to be a compliment, however grudgingly given.

As he made his way upstairs he could hear the woman in the office speaking in the tone of voice she reserved for customers. Only this was not a customer. A uniformed police officer stood patiently by the reception desk as the mechanic passed him by. There was not even the flicker of a glance towards him as he walked through reception to the small side room where he would wash and change before eating the lunch that had been prepared for him. Nobody, after all, noticed a mere mechanic in greasy overalls within the precincts of a garage, did they? Even though this particular mechanic had a handsome face that might attract attention.

‘So, let me get this right,’ the officer said. ‘You hire out these Mercedes-Benz cars for weddings and for general use?’

‘Well, general covers a lot of things, constable,’ the woman replied starchily, drawing herself up as far as her five feet two including sensible court shoes would allow.

‘These are luxury cars,’ she told him reprovingly. ‘Not the sort of vehicles available to every Tom, Dick and Harry,’ she sniffed.