Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

It was not until Hardy had disappeared out of sight and Lorimer was standing at the entrance to the first minister’s private lift that he recognised it as Burns’ own ‘Oh whistle and I’ll come tae ye, my lad’. Was the Glasgow MSP insinuating that the detective superintendent was some kind of government lackey? Lorimer bristled at the thought. Yet perhaps that was just what he had become in this case, running back and forth from Glasgow to Edinburgh at the woman’s bidding when, if truth be told, he would have preferred to delve more deeply into the case of the street girls’ murders.

Lorimer’s knuckles were white from gripping the file that lay across his knees as he sat in the back of the police car. To bring him all the way over here simply to enquire about the progress of the case was unforgivable and the detective vowed that he would ignore any further such requests from Ms Stewart. Bloody waste of my time! He’d wanted to shout as he got into the car, but caught sight of his driver. Instead he fumed inwardly and waited for the next vibrant ring on his BlackBerry that would doubtless keep him company all the way back along the M8. He could just imagine the conversation Felicity Stewart might be having any time now with her colleagues or the gentlemen of the press: Oh yes, Lorimer keeps me informed of ever ything. Comes here to brief me on what’s going on. No wonder Hardy had whistled that tune.

Frank Hardy had been right, too, about an invitation to the Burns Supper, for himself and Maggie. His icily polite refusal had included the excuse that his wife already had plans made for her school’s event and he had just stopped himself in time from telling the woman where she could stuff her Burns Supper when he had two separate cases of multiple murder to deal with. What the hell was she playing at? He was a working cop, not a social butterfly. And for the next few evenings he expected to be putting more hours in with his team in Pitt Street while the rest of the country was eating its haggis, neeps and tatties.

As he read his text messages, Lorimer put the wasted morning behind him and tried to concentrate on what his next plan of action should be. His eyebrows rose as he saw that there was a forensic report waiting for him back at headquarters; the results of the extensive examination of Pattison’s Mercedes were now complete and Lorimer was keen to know what had been found. A huge amount of work had been going on behind the scenes by several experts: the forensic chemist would have been examining the Mercedes for firearms discharge residue, taping surfaces that might hold such traces. Then the firearms officer himself would be the one to examine the vehicle to determine the angle of the shot as well as trying to determine the type of weapon used. Surfaces inside and outside the car had been taped to search for DNA and fingerprints as well as hairs and fibres, especially from places like the seats and headrests.

As the scenery rushed past him Lorimer found his eyes closing on the grey day outside but his thoughts were still very much alive as to what was happening in Glasgow . Every contact leaves a trace , Locard had said, establishing once and for all the principle by which all forensic work was done. Even the tiniest samples of hair, fibres or materials that might have been stuck to the sole of a shoe or boot could be of use in tracing Edward Pattison’s murderer. The initial lots of fingerprints that had been taken from the car had so far been matched against family members and of course Pattison himself. Yet even if the geniuses at Pitt Street could amass a wealth of trace evidence it was only worthwhile when matched against the clothing or hair of a suspect. And so far, as Detective Superintendent Lorimer was woefully aware, he was short of even one person to fit that frame.

And it was not just the press but the first minister of Scotland who kept reminding him of that particular fact.

Suddenly the car stopped, making Lorimer open his eyes. There were flashing lights ahead, signalling some sort of accident on the motorway. His driver glanced just once behind him and Lorimer gave a nod. Before long the big police car had manoeuvred its way onto the hard shoulder and was at the scene of the crash, Lorimer letting down the window.

‘What happened?’ he asked the uniformed officer who had approached his car. He could see a blue Fiat that was on its side, a white van askew across one lane.

‘Probably a poor judgement on overtaking,’ the officer said. ‘Driver must have copped it on impact,’ he added shortly. ‘The other one’s too far gone to tell us anything,’ he added.

Lorimer nodded. There had been several fatal accidents all during this long hard winter but sometimes it was sheer idiocy rather than icy conditions which brought such lasting grief to the victims’ families.

The siren sound of an ambulance from the Edinburgh direction gave Lorimer all the excuse he needed. One more vehicle here was only going to cause more problems.

‘Well, you won’t want us hanging around, officer. We’ll be on our way,’ he said, giving only a cursory glance towards the blue car. A quick nod from the yellow-jacketed policeman soon saw Lorimer’s driver ease his way past the wreckage and head towards Glasgow, no doubt leaving behind a trail of frustrated motorists in their wake.

Sitting back in the car, Lorimer’s mouth was a grim line. The driver of the Fiat was a definite fatality, the passenger unconscious and in pretty poor shape. Why did people take such foolish risks in this weather?

Why take a car at all if you don’t have to? a little voice asked him. Yes, he thought. Why had Edward Pattison driven from Murrayfield to Glasgow in his Mercedes when he was staying overnight in the Central Hotel and could easily have taken the train back to Edinburgh next morning? The service between Glasgow Queen Street and Edinburgh Waverley ran every quarter of an hour and only took fifty minutes, whereas the journey on the M8 was always an hour and usually more, with tailbacks and delays a common occurrence, especially at peak times. Why had Pattison bothered to drive at all? After all, Raeburn had returned to Edinburgh by train, hadn’t he? Ordinarily it didn’t make sense but, if Solomon Brightman was correct, the murdered man had needed his own car to pick up some woman or other after the meeting in the City Chambers. Some woman who couldn’t or daren’t come into Glasgow to meet Pattison? Was the location of Erskine woods closer to the mystery woman’s own home, then? Had Pattison been driving to a romantic rendezvous of some sort? Then who had been with him in that car, gun ready to kill the deputy first minister just as he had killed two other men already? And why would Pattison have given anyone a lift if he was off on a secret assignation?

Lorimer’s brows were drawn down as he frowned, puzzling out the problem. It simply didn’t make sense. Unless…

He tried to imagine the politician cruising around the darkened streets in his big white car, peering out to see what he might pick up from the choices on street corners. The idea that had been relegated to the back of his mind was brought out and re-examined. Was it possible that the politician had been on the hunt for a prostitute? Certainly someone as high profile as Pattison had been could not afford to risk a call girl coming to his hotel room. Lorimer picked up his BlackBerry again. It was time to translate this particular thought into action.

‘Check all the CCTV camera footage round the drag on the night of Pattison’s death, will you?’ he asked the person on the other end of the line.

This wouldn’t take too long, Lorimer thought. By the time he was back in his office the information he had just requested might well be on his desk, such was the efficiency of modern technology.