Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Did you have a nice time, yourself? I love Christmas, don’t you?’ she rattled on, eyeing him all the time as though she were here to take the measure of this tall man who had been appointed head of their department.

‘Yes, thanks. Probably quieter than for most folk,’ he told her.

‘We have no children,’ he added. Better to get that out in the open from the start, he thought, Maggie’s recent hysterectomy having sounded the knell on any fleeting hopes they might once have had.

‘They’re a mixed blessing,’ Rita told him with a canny look in her eye. ‘Better none than ones who go astray,’ she added in a certain tone that gave Lorimer the impression that his IO’s home life might not be picture perfect, despite her comments about loving the festive season.

‘I was thinking of having the entire team in tomorrow evening,’ he said, deciding that this was a woman he could confide in.

‘Good idea,’ Rita answered. ‘Tom and Duncan are away on that case down at Gairloch but most of the others should be able to make it for, what time did you have in mind? Seven-thirty, maybe?’

Later, once she had left, Lorimer drew out the personnel file from his desk drawer. Tom Armstrong was one of three detective inspectors on the team. Lorimer had met him , at any rate, he remembered, casting his mind back to a thick-set man with receding hair. Armstrong had greeted him in a friendly enough manner, he thought, recalling the day they had met. The others were DI Duncan Sutherland and DI Monica Proctor. His memory of Proctor was of a sharp-suited blonde who had seemed pretty young to be already at that rank. Sutherland he had yet to meet. Four detective sergeants and the same number of detective constables, plus the IO and several civilian staff that they shared with other departments brought the total of his working colleagues to more than a dozen.

He flipped over the pages, reading their résumés and wondering about the different skills each had brought to the job. It was interesting to note how few of them had been fast tracked after university. Most had chosen the police as a career in their twenties, having had different jobs elsewhere. Martin Gray, one of his detective sergeants, had been a PE teacher in Ross-shire before educational spending cuts had forced him to choose between leaving the area and finding an alternative career.

Lorimer sighed. There was something disquieting in having all of these officers off on cases while he was here inside this building, waiting for something to happen. Be careful what you wish for was a cliché with some modicum of truth, he reminded himself. Hadn’t he wished for promotion before now? Stepping into his old boss’s shoes had once been the height of Lorimer’s ambition, and he’d seen his chance when George had retired. But it had been Mark Mitchison, a man with whom Lorimer had never rubbed along, who had been granted that particular appointment. Now he was here, with several high-profile cases to his name, not just having attained the rank of detective superintendent but with this prestigious department under his control. And yet he was restless already.

Slipping the file back into his desk drawer, Lorimer spotted a hard backed black notebook. It was a brand new diary with the crest of Strathclyde Police embossed on its cover. A slip of paper fluttered towards the floor. Swiping it with the toe of his shoe, Lorimer retrieved the bit of paper and saw immediately that it had his name on it. Someone had probably put them into all the desk drawers of senior officers before the year’s end. The book had clearly not been opened so there was probably nothing yet written into his day. Lorimer flicked the thin pages just in case. No. Today’s date was still pristine. He leaned back, wondering how to spend the rest of his first day when there had been no commands from on high nor even any need for him to remain in the office.

After tomorrow he would be getting to know his new colleagues, though over his term of leave he had already familiarised himself with the current cases in which Serious Crimes were involved. But perhaps this might just be the opportunity he had been looking for, he thought. Could he take a wee trip over to the Lexus dealership, see what they had on offer? Maybe he could surprise his wife with the news that he had at last decided to trade in the ancient dark blue car that had taken him on so many investigations.

Today Maggie was finally returning to work, her GP having advised that she take several weeks off to recover from her surgery. Lorimer wondered how she was coping after so much time away from school. Perfectly well, most likely, he told himself. Maggie Lorimer was well thought of in the secondary school where she taught English and well liked by her colleagues. There had been a flurry of Christmas cards from staff and pupils alike, many of the latter expressing how much they missed their favourite teacher.

Lorimer’s smile widened as he remembered Christmas Day. They had spent the afternoon with Rosie, Solly and baby Abigail in their large, airy flat overlooking Kelvingrove Park. It had been a day quite unlike any other Christmas that he and Maggie could remember, Abigail being passed from one to the other, her little face lighting up in a grin as he dandled her over his knees. It was something of a privilege to have this little girl in their lives, especially as they knew now they would never have a child of their own. He and Maggie had spent a fortune buying baby clothes and gifts, but that was okay; godparents were allowed to indulge their little ones, weren’t they? Rosie was still on maternity leave but had warned him that she intended to return to her post as consultant forensic pathologist by the summer. Jacqui White was doing a reasonable job of covering for her but Rosie fretted that too much of that young woman’s time was being taken up in front of the television cameras. And not for the right reasons.

When the telephone rang, Lorimer blinked away the vision of Professor Solomon Brightman’s flat with its massive Christmas tree and returned to the room he must call his own as head of Serious Crimes.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer speaking,’ he said, realising suddenly that he was not completely accustomed to stating his new rank.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to DCI Mumby from K Division out in Paisley. Lorimer listened carefully as the man outlined a recent murder case and the parallel with one from Dumbarton that still remained unsolved.

‘Certainly sounds like the same MO,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘What does DI Preston make of it?’ He listened, doodling on a pad in front of him as Mumby explained that Preston had requested that both cases be assigned to him as SIO. Yet, as his senior, Mumby felt that he should be taking control of a case that fell within his own jurisdiction.

‘Quite a while apart, though, aren’t they?’ Lorimer told him, playing devil’s advocate to see how Mumby would react as much as anything. ‘Late summer and now the middle of winter.’

He could hear the exasperation in Mumby’s voice as the DCI strove to explain just how many parallels there were in the two murders: both men came from south of the border on business, had driven the same make of car (a white Mercedes SL); and had parked below railway bridges several miles from the city centre where they had booked into hotels. And, of course, there was the MO, a shot at close range to the heart. So far there had been no forensic evidence to give a clue as to the perpetrator of either killing, suggesting that they had been carried out by someone who was forensically aware.

‘So, what are you looking for?’ Lorimer asked. ‘A mediator between yourself and DI Preston, or someone to take the entire investigation off your hands?’