Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Lorimer, hello.’ Solly had turned back into the room and the smile lit up his face when he saw his friend. ‘I was just thinking about … ’ He paused and shook his head as though his thoughts were irrelevant to this visit. ‘Cup of tea? And there might still be some scones in that paper bag over there,’ he murmured as he walked the length of the room to the table that housed a kettle and an assortment of mugs. He picked one up and frowned. ‘Hmm, must get them washed. No worries, here’s a couple of clean ones,’ he added cheerfully, selecting a Celtic Football Club mug with its green shamrock logo and a pretty porcelain one with flowers that had been overlooked by the last lot of students who had been treated to afternoon tea with the prof.

‘Aye, tea’s fine, So long as it isn’t any of your herbal stuff,’ Lorimer said, taking off his coat and hanging it on the old-fashioned coat stand that stood in a corner of the room.

He sat on a chair next to the window, sinking gratefully into its cracked brown leather and stretching his long legs in front of him. It was, he thought, the sort of room where he could easily relax, so unlike the office he had been given at Pitt Street. There were books everywhere, of course, not only in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases but scattered across the immense table that dominated the room and in small piles against chair legs and corners as if Solly had been looking for material on a variety of topics throughout the day.

‘You’ve got new information?’ Solly asked, pulling out a small side table and setting down the mugs of tea. The promised scones were now on a clean plate, buttered and cut in half. Lorimer picked one up, his fingers becoming satisfyingly floury, realising that he had in fact missed lunch and was suddenly quite hungry.

‘Yes,’ he replied, taking a bite of the scone.

Solly waited patiently, watching as the policeman wolfed down the food.

‘I had a thought about Pattison,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘Why did he take a car to Glasgow that night when it would have been much easier to travel by train? I asked myself. Then I remembered what you had said about a woman.’

‘Go on,’ Solly nodded.

‘CCTV footage has caught him in the car, probably picking up a prostitute in Blythswood Square,’ Lorimer told him, watching for the psychologist’s reaction. There was only a nod of that dark head and a thoughtful look in those fathomless brown eyes. Had Solomon Brightman got there before him? Lorimer wondered.

‘I think,’ said Solly slowly, ‘that it might be helpful to look into the background of the first two murdered men to see if they were in the habit of soliciting prostitutes back in their own home towns.’

‘What about a possible link between the murdered women and those three men?’

Again that sage nod from the psychologist. ‘Perhaps,’ he began. ‘But is there anything to suggest that there is a killer out there targeting both sets of people? Professional men and street women?’

Lorimer frowned. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Solly raised his eyebrows in an expression of incredulity. ‘I really do not believe that the person who pulled a gun and killed those men is the same one who butchered these girls. Look,’ he continued, leaning forward to emphasise his point. ‘These men were killed at point-blank range, execution-style, whereas someone else has killed at least two of the women in a complete frenzy. The others may well have been strangled in a moment of rage. Or even frustration,’ he added.

‘But you still think there may be some kind of link between the two cases, don’t you?’ Lorimer’s mouth twitched at the corners as he regarded the psychologist. He knew this man so well now and could sense that there was more to come.

‘Murdering three men who have nothing in common, apart from the make of cars they drive, simply for soliciting girls in a city centre area would be a little extreme, don’t you think?’ Solly asked. ‘And the last known movements of Mr Wardlaw and Mr Littlejohn might well suggest that was what they were doing out so late at night. Hmm,’ he said, stroking his beard as though that helped him to process his thoughts. ‘And I would want to look for a much more serious motive, wouldn’t you?’ He looked into Lorimer’s steely blue gaze without flinching.

*

Lorimer knew his next step would mean an even greater workload for his growing team of officers but at least they would have some help from the forces down south where Matthew Wardlaw and Thomas Littlejohn had originated. Their cars were already being taken apart to see if any of the forensic material was a match for Edward Pattison’s white Mercedes; now it remained to be seen if the police could come up with proof that each of the English businessmen were regular clients of the women in their own cities.

Meanwhile it seemed as though he and Professor Brightman might have to spend a bit of time moonlighting on their own before he could dole out actions to his crew that involved trawling through the lives of the women who patrolled the drag night after night. He would create a file on his computer to show all of his movements and give an explanation for them, of course. A detective superintendent out in the drag might raise a few eyebrows, or even jeopardise his career, if it was to be taken the wrong way. Especially if the press were to get wind of his private investigations.

He reached out his hand to feel the cold surface of the blade shining against its velvet casing on the wall. Where it had come from he did not know but it looked like something from an oriental fairy story, one where heroes fought against dark-skinned warriors, overcoming them despite unequal odds. His lips parted slightly and he ran his tongue across the edge of his teeth, savouring the remembered taste of blood in his mouth. The other weapons shone dimly from their places on this wall, the only illumination coming from a few well-positioned lights set into the ceiling.

The big man turned slightly to glance at the wall next to the half-opened door. These dark wooden cases contained guns, he knew that, but such mechanical weapons would never give him the same thrill as these ceremonial swords. Guns were part of different stories; shoot-outs in the Wild West or duels between foppish men with lace at their wrists and haughty demeanours. But these blades shaped and chased with delicate traceries, some with fine bone handles, created for him a magic all of their own. These were a real man’s weapons; scimitars, cutlasses and broad-swords that could subdue an enemy or hack to pieces anyone who tried to thwart his desires.

A sound from the next room alerted him to the presence of other people. It was not forbidden, his coming here to stare at the collection arrayed on the walls of this room, but there was a feeling of unease within the big man as he stood there, hands by his side now like a guilty child who fears being caught for a misdeed he had committed only in thought. Taking a step back, he waited for the inevitable entry of the man who was the owner of these wonderful things.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the man said as he entered the room. ‘Thought I’d heard something. Everything all right?’

The big man gave a grunt in reply, nodding his head vigorously.

‘Okay, don’t be too long in there, will you? There’s plenty of work to be done in the morning, remember.’

As the door closed behind the owner of these magical swords, the big man sighed deeply then frowned as he regarded the wall once more. That broadsword hanging up there above the others was not quite flush with the horizontal line of its scabbard so he took a step towards the wall, reached up and removed it from the twin display hooks.

His fist closed around the hilt and he brandished it once, twice, hearing a faint swish as the blade cut through nothing but dusty air. Closing his eyes, the big man imagined the chain mail protecting his body and head, heard the sound of battle cries as his men charged against the foe then raised his arm, ready to enter the fray.