Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

What the hell was he to tell the press pack this time, Lorimer asked himself, watching the footage that had been emailed to his computer.

There it was, the big white car, its registration number showing as it moved slowly around Blythswood Square. The shadowy figure of Pattison in the driver’s seat might be anyone, but once the boys in the lab had hold of this they would be able to work their magic and bring that blurry image into a sharper focus to enable better identification.

Lorimer could anticipate the sort of headlines in tomorrow’s papers: Pattison found seeking prostitutes. Deputy first minister in sleazy street.

Oh, they were going to have a field day, weren’t they? That is, if he decided to spill the beans. Then again … he drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking hard. Perhaps it was time to summon the troops, alert only the officers who were dealing with this case, keeping from more senior members of this establishment the new information he now had?

Detective Superintendent Lorimer regarded the men and women assembled in the muster room. Some of them were slouched by radiators or bent over their chairs, obviously pretty weary, having spent hours on this case already. But there was that keen light in every pair of eyes that looked his way; for, with every meeting, there was the hope that the boss might have come up with something that could push things to a good conclusion.

‘Good news and bad news,’ Lorimer began, looking at them to see the effect of his words. Some sat up a little straighter, others simply stared.

‘Good news first,’ he continued. ‘New CCTV footage of Pattison has been found from the night that he was killed.’

There was an immediate reaction from the officers; not yet a full-blooded cheer but a loud enough sound of appreciation that at last this case was getting somewhere.

‘Now for the bad news,’ Lorimer told them, his hand up to quieten them. ‘Pattison was last seen in Blythswood Square and it was pretty obvious from the way he was driving what he was up to.’

‘Looking for a whore!’ Sutherland’s voice came loud and clear.

‘Yes, that’s the most likely explanation,’ Lorimer said. ‘We don’t have any footage of him actually picking a woman up but the time on the film shows that it was well after he had left his meeting in George Square.’ He turned to Barbara Knox who was standing beside a laptop that was connected to a screen behind him.

‘Okay, DC Knox, let’s see it.’

Soon the entire room was silent, peering at the images of a pale car cruising around the drag, the different shades of grey picking out skeletal trees and darkened basements.

Then there was a collective gasp as one of the images showed the face of the murdered man leaning forwards as though he needed to see something or someone that was out of the camera’s view. As the car disappeared off the screen for a moment the officers’ murmurs became louder but the next image silenced them all.

The tail lights of the Mercedes could be seen as the car accelerated over the hill and it was just possible to make out a second figure seated in the passenger seat.

There was a moment’s silence as they digested what they had seen, then Rita Livingstone’s voice piped up, ‘What are you going to tell the press?’

The team had seen the sense in keeping a lid on this new piece of evidence, even Duncan Sutherland had nodded his approval as Lorimer had outlined the need to keep the press away from the possibility that Pattison had been out looking for a prostitute on the night he had died.

What would not have gone down so well would have been any suggestion that the three men who had been killed might somehow be linked to the ongoing prostitute murder case. That was something that Lorimer kept to himself for now but it was a matter he felt needed urgent discussion with the one man he knew would not rubbish the idea.

Solly rubbed his eyes then replaced the round horn-rimmed spectacles that gave him the appearance of a wise old owl; at least that had been the caricature some wag of a student had drawn in the Glasgow Guardian and somehow the perception had stuck. For once the psychologist was looking forward to the weekend and the chance to catch up on some much needed sleep. Baby Abigail was his heart’s delight but after yet another broken night, Solly wished that his little daughter would not wake quite so often between midnight and six in the morning. So it was that he arrived in his large office overlooking University Avenue each morning almost glad of the peace and quiet that pervaded this part of the building. And, if he did have to stifle a few yawns by late afternoon, these were shared by many of Solly’s students whose lives were bound by the frantic need to cram as much activity into each of the twenty-four hours in a day as they could possibly manage.

It was fortunate for the psychologist that he was in between classes when the call came from Pitt Street.

‘Solly, I need to talk to you about this case. Something’s come up. Are you free any time later this afternoon?’

Solly glanced at the clock on his wall. There were two classes left today: a lecture and a seminar. He had planned to leave right after the latter and walk home through the park, but he recognised a quality of urgency in Lorimer’s voice and his curiosity was aroused.

‘Do you want me to come into town?’

‘No. I’d rather we met somewhere outside headquarters. This is really big stuff, Solly, and I don’t want the press to get wind of it.’

‘Come up here, then,’ Solly said with a smile. ‘It is as private as you could wish for, my friend. Say a little after four o’clock? Gives me time to shoo any earnest young things out of my office.’

Lorimer studied the forensic report that ran to several pages. There were plenty of pieces of fibre, hair and other materials that had been taken from Pattison’s car, all listed according to their chemistry as well as giving their possible sources. The most interesting ones were the hairs taken from the passenger seat, five different types in all. These could be DNA tested and matched against family members and Pattison himself, just like the fingerprints had been. If there were any rogues among them then that would prove to be very interesting indeed, Lorimer thought. The image of a smart, blonde woman came into Lorimer’s head. He would bet a month’s salary that Zena Fraser had sat in the Mercedes passenger seat plenty of times and that one of these hair samples belonged to her. Was it worth asking her to give a DNA sample for elimination purposes? She could easily arrange to go along to her local police station and have it done.

The thought was no sooner in his mind than Lorimer was lifting the phone off its cradle and dialling the number at Holyrood that he now knew off by heart.

‘Zena Fraser, please,’ he asked the voice on the switchboard. ‘It’s Detective Superintendent Lorimer calling.’

By the time Lorimer arrived in the west end of the city, darkness had begun to cover the skyline with leaden clouds and a light rain was falling. Parking the Lexus was not a problem, for once, as there were now several empty bays along the avenue, most lectures being over for the day. Pulling up his coat collar, the detective hurried across the road and looked up at the double windows on the first floor where Solly had his domain. Since becoming a professor, the psychologist had enjoyed the luxury of one of the university’s most coveted rooms. Several departments were housed in this terrace that hugged the avenue, curving around a row of trees between the library block and the Students’ Union.

Solly was standing with his hands clasped behind his back gazing out of the window when Lorimer walked into the room and for a moment the detective had a rare glimpse of the professor of psychology in contemplative pose. Just what went on in that brain of his? And how could a man who was utterly squeamish about the carnage at a crime scene begin to fathom what went on in the depraved mind of a criminal? He cast his mind back to the time when he had mistrusted this man and all that he had been prepared to offer. He’d learned a lot since those days, however, and now Solly was one of the first he turned to for advice. Forensic profiling had enjoyed a mixed reception from the public but it was still a tool that many forces throughout the UK used when faced with difficult cases.