Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Standing up, he wandered over to his window and looked down on the snowy street below. There were a few people about and he could see their figures walking gingerly on the filthy pavements where ice had formed under layers of compacted snow. Suddenly the room was too warm, too confined and Lorimer felt that old sensation of claustrophobia that had dogged him from childhood. He had to get out, even if it was only to walk around the block for ten minutes. Looking at his watch (a Christmas gift from Maggie) he saw that his next meeting with the press was not for another half an hour, plenty of time to breathe in the cold air and clear his head.

The road outside led upwards to Blythswood Square and its patch of gardens surrounded by elegant Georgian buildings. As he approached this city centre oasis of greenery he looked up at the façade of the Blythswood Square Hotel, a luxury establishment that dominated one entire side of the square. Perhaps he could take Maggie there some evening for a meal, he thought idly; she might enjoy a bit of high living.

The sound of birdsong made the policeman stop suddenly at one corner of the gardens and look up. He blinked then blinked again, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. There, fluttering from one bare branched tree to the next, were several small buff-coloured birds, their tiny crests making them easily identifiable. Lorimer stood gazing upwards as the high pitched notes floated down, the little birds hopping from branch to branch before taking flight, displaying the blobs of red on their open wings, and making for the original tree once more. Waxwings! Here in the city centre, he thought. The severe weather must have made them rest there to feed on the plentiful berries in the trees and bushes, he told himself. Slowly he walked to the opening where a path led around the interior of the gardens, taking care not to slip on the patches of ice. Overhead the grey skies had begun to clear and there were swathes of blue making a backdrop for the silhouettes of leafless trees. He stood still, watching the birds, then inhaled a deep draught of frosty air, his warm breath forming a cloud around his face.

The walk back to Pitt Street took only minutes but it seemed to Lorimer that he had been away from his office for far longer, such was his feeling of liberation. As he entered the building he reminded himself that his tenure here was not for ever. Serious Crimes would be shelved eventually, and then he would be looking for a new challenge, something that would hopefully take him back to a more hands-on role in policing. Smiling at the thought, Lorimer took the stairs two at a time, ready for the more imminent daily task of facing the journalists, this time expecting their endless questions about the murder of Edward Pattison.

The idea had been growing slowly in her mind ever since Barbara had mentioned the daily press conference. Watching from behind a parked car, she saw them entering the red brick building, some singly, some in pairs, as though they were familiar with each other; the press pack, gaining entrance to this place and ready to question the man who had all knowledge of the ongoing investigation. Drawing a deep breath, she willed herself to follow them, fingering the laminated badge in her pocket . Diana Yeats, freelance journalist , had made a good job of faking the ID, but just how good a job was about to be tested. Would anybody recognise her? Hopefully not. The fluffy blonde that she had been all those years ago had been transformed dramatically into someone entirely different. Besides, there was something else, a feeling that she had carried with her ever since that first shot had been fired; it was as though she was invulnerable, safe from discovery.

The dark-skinned man behind the desk looked enquiringly at her as she stepped towards him.

‘Press,’ she said as brightly as she could, her confident smile belying the nerves that were making her stomach turn over. What did this police officer see? A woman smartly dressed in a black, fur-trimmed coat carrying a leather briefcase as she waited for the plastic pass that would allow her to follow the others down to the press room.

‘First time here?’ the officer said, taking her business card and turning to his computer to type her name onto a piece of card.

‘Yes,’ she replied, watching as he slipped the card into its clipon holder and handed it to her.

‘Just go downstairs and you’ll see them all gathering in the main hall,’ he said, leaning forwards and indicating the staircase opposite.

‘Thanks,’ she said, still forcing herself to smile as she clipped on the badge and headed towards the darkened stairwell.

There were perhaps forty people assembled in the hall waiting for the detective superintendent to make his entrance. Someone had failed to put on all of the lights and the large room was shadowy and cold as Lorimer walked on to the stage. The murmurs of talk from the assembled journalists ceased immediately as all eyes turned towards the tall figure spreading his notes upon the lectern.

To someone who had never seen him before, Detective Superintendent Lorimer was an imposing man. He might have been a sportsman, had in fact played rugby rather well as a young man, but the strength of his physique was more than matched by a different sort of power; those unsmiling eyes and that granite jaw came from a man whose experience of life had hardened him into a formidable opponent of the worst sort of criminal. When he began to speak it came as no surprise to hear a clear, deep voice in an accent that was securely rooted in his native Glasgow. And, as he spoke about Edward Pattison, the ongoing investigation and the need for journalism to help and not impede the case, his eyes were roving over each and every member of the pack. Yet some of the seated figures had deliberately chosen corners that were in shadow, watching while not being watched in turn.

When the question and answer session began it surprised the woman sitting at the back to hear how polite most of the journalists were to this man who was now gripping the lectern and leaning forward slightly as though to catch every word that was being said. There were none of the recriminations that might have been expected in a case that had not seen much progress. That, she thought, was some relief. Having Barbara as her deepthroat was one thing, but she was never completely sure if she was being fed useless titbits by the detective constable or not. Glancing round the room, the dark-haired woman knew that was an added risk of coming here. Okay, Barbara believed her story about being a freelance journo, but she still didn’t want to run into the girl.

As she listened it was all about the deputy first minister. Pattison, Pattison, Pattison. She could have told them all they ever wanted to know, couldn’t she? But why was there never a mention of Tracey-Anne? And what about these other victims? The sensation in her chest that she had thought to be nerves deepened into a pain as she fought the desire to stand up and demand that the officers in this place get off their backsides and find these women’s killer. The rage inside her screamed so hard to be released that she turned her head a fraction, wondering if the man next to her had sensed it.

Then suddenly the meeting was over and Lorimer was striding off the stage, as if to demonstrate that he was eager to be off to some other area of the investigation. The babble of talk resumed as they filed out, lining up at the front desk to leave their security passes.

Once outside she walked smartly away from the building, not even turning to look behind her, and headed up towards the Malmaison. The hotel was becoming something of a refuge, she thought, as the twin bay trees flanking the main door came into sight. It was not until she was settled in the brasserie with a coffee that the woman who called herself Diana took out her reporter’s notebook and flipped it open.