Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Blinking, he saw that he was still clutching the huge sword aloft but there was no one there in the room but himself. Slowly he lowered it once more and replaced it reverently on the wall hooks, careful to balance it perfectly between them.

Taking a step back, he bowed towards the weapon. Then, as though some sort of ceremony had ended, he stepped towards the door, switching off the lights as he left the armoury behind in its cocoon of darkness.

Zena Fraser sat obediently, mouth opened wide, while the police doctor ran the swab around the inside of her mouth.

‘That’s it,’ he said, nodding briefly. ‘Thanks for your co-operation, ma’am.’

‘Not at all,’ Zena replied, trying to suppress a shiver of disgust as she rose to leave. In truth she had not wanted to undertake this little visit to her local police office but the fact was that she had to appear as completely apart from the murder investigation as she could. One or two of the tabloids had interviewed her, of course, but her approach to them had been that of a childhood friend grieving for the man who had become no more than a colleague in the Scottish parliament. If anything other than that should leak out then her career could well be finished, Zena thought, her fair brow furrowing in sudden anxiety as she left the building.

Elsewhere in the capital the business of running the country was continuing as usual, Felicity Stewart’s well-oiled machinery of government ensuring that each department had its records up to date for the daily televised appearance within the debating chamber. As ever, questions had been asked about the murder case and, as ever, her answers had been similar to those issued by the police. Enquiries were continuing and evidence being collated but for now, no, there had not been any arrests nor had there been any mention of a particular suspect. And, if the first minister was a little brusque in dismissing any further questions on that subject she could have been forgiven, since the day’s agenda was particularly long.

Frank Hardy listened as the various questions came to the fore, watching Felicity Stewart’s face as she parried several points from the Labour benches. She was good, he thought, her replies quick as lightning, some of them witty enough to evoke a ripple of laughter from the entire assemblage. He could see why Ed had jumped ship. Hardy glanced around at his colleagues, many of whom were grey-haired now and aiming to retire at the next election. There was an atmosphere of apathy within his party at times, something that Edward Pattison had had the nous to sense long before anyone else. Still, there were die-hard types like himself who would rally the electorate to their cause, reminding them of the days gone by when men like the red Clydesiders had fought for their rights.

Perhaps that was one of the things that Cathy had found attractive about him; the old dog who still banged on about human rights and the socialist way of life. Opposites attracted, it was said, and there was no greater contrast than between a working-class type such as Frank Hardy and a woman like Catherine Pattison, whose upper-class Edinburgh background had made him believe that she was for ever out of his reach. Lorimer would make the connection eventually, he thought. And what then? Would he become a suspect in the case? Cathy had hinted as much, hadn’t she? Well, maybe it was time to cultivate as many alibis as he could. Just in case.

The forensic reports had helped to show that there had been several women travelling in Edward Pattison’s car, two at least easily identified as his wife and his old friend, Zena Fraser. The others remained a mystery for now, but questions were being asked of the Pattison family to see if they might be able to give any clues as to which other ladies could have been passengers in the white Mercedes. Pattison’s mother-in-law, Mrs Cadell, was one probability, of course, Lorimer thought, reading the forensic chemist’s report carefully once again. The chemist and biologist had been liaising on this one, careful to give cognisance to each other’s particular skills. He read on, wondering. To whom did that strand of long dark hair belong? There were no traces of narcotics so it had probably not come from a street woman after all. Would its DNA be found anywhere on their massive database? If so, then the hunt for a possible witness or even a possible killer might be nearing its end.

But why would a girl who stood around on street corners plan the deaths of three men whose only crime appeared to be that of driving a flashy big car? Most of the poor souls were totally out of it by the time they picked up their punters, something every police officer knew well, especially if they’d worked the drag at any time in their careers. The girls were usually off their heads on something to help ease the experience of having sex with some stranger or other. Still, it was going to be his mission to talk to as many of them as he could manage. At least once he had the blessing of DCI James.

It was not a good time to be seen around the city, she thought, skimming through the garments on the sale rail in John Lewis. Some of these might come in useful, the dark-haired woman thought, lifting a gauzy blouse and holding it against her body. Every officer on this case would be on the lookout for the woman who had entered Pattison’s car, Barbara had told her, another snippet that the detective constable had let slip as she had forced herself to fondle the woman’s large breasts. But the woman who was currently rummaging on the sale rail would never be mistaken for a street girl, would she? A swift glance in a nearby mirror confirmed what she had supposed: an attractive, businesslike lady smiled back at her knowingly. She might well be taken for one of those well-kept housewives whose husbands worked in the city, idling her time away. Or some career woman, like a lawyer or an accountant, an image that had fooled the policewoman from that first sighting on the train. At least that was a good cover for what the so-called journalist was doing in her spare time.

The woman who had called herself Diana amused herself as she contemplated what the neighbours would make of her. Nice lady , they’d say. (And, yes, wouldn’t they just call her a lady?) Kept herself to herself, never one to make a fuss about the children playing outside her garden . And that was true. Children had never felt afraid of her, had they? Barbara Knox had hinted that she detested children, as if that was something Diana ought to know. Was the woman trying to hint that they should get together? She had already tried to prise her address out of her and Diana had had to resort to taking a circuitous route home just in case the policewoman did anything stupid like following her like a love-crazed spaniel. Her eyes flashed in a moment of anger. There were no more cosy train journeys; that was something she simply couldn’t afford to risk.

She slid the garment back on to its rail and marched out of the store into the maelstrom of people in Buchanan galleries and the pedestrian precinct that was crowded with shoppers eager to claim a late bargain, no doubt thwarted by the bad weather earlier in the month. And, as she made her way through the crowded streets, she felt a sudden panic. Time was slipping by and still she was no further forward. But there was one thing she had in her favour, if Knox was to be believed: Detective Superintendent Lorimer had been ordered to shelve that case and so now she had free rein to find Carol Kilpatrick’s killer.

‘There’s a match,’ he stated aloud, though at that particular moment there was nobody around to hear the words uttered by the forensic scientist. It might be a small statement, but it was one that would, perhaps, help to bring a satisfactory conclusion to at least one of Strathclyde Police’s ongoing cases.