Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Oh we are all in it together,’ she agreed, ‘even those do-gooder types,’ she added, though there was something in her voice that sounded a tad cynical, Lorimer thought.

‘Yes?’ Lorimer raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

‘Och, you get a few religious nuts who only want to save their souls. But there are other ones who know the score. Like that minister, Mr Allan, he goes around helping the girls, you know,’ she added.

‘Did you ever meet with Edward Pattison?’

For the first time since his arrival at the drop-in centre Mattie Watson gave a smile. ‘Such a lovely man,’ she said, dropping her gaze for a moment.

‘He came here?’

‘Oh, no,’ Mattie replied in shocked tones. ‘We met at a reception given by the SNP. That was before he made his visit to the Big Blue Bus,’ she added.

‘Nice man, then?’ Lorimer asked casually. ‘Never met him myself.’

‘Oh, yes. Such perfect manners. He listened to everything I told him about the centre. Promised he’d bring up the subject of funding at government level, you know.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

‘Well, didn’t get the chance to, did he, poor man,’ she said brusquely. ‘That awful serial killer … ’ She broke off then glared at Lorimer. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there finding out who killed him?’

‘Actually,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘That’s why I’m here. I hoped you might be able to help.’

Mattie Watson listened to the door closing behind the tall policeman then headed to the ladies’ toilets. A glance in the mirror was enough to show that the warden was badly shaken. It took quite a lot to disturb Mattie Watson’s composure but what Lorimer had told her had drained her face of colour. The possibility that Mr Pattison had been consorting with some of the girls had never occurred to her till now. But those CCTV images did not tell a lie, did they? Mattie’s mouth pursed: it was just as she had often heard the girls say about men; when it came down to it, weren’t they all exactly the same?

‘Andie’s?’ The woman cocked her head to one side, mobile phone pressed close to her ear, making the silver hooped earrings jangle against her dark hair. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

She pulled her raincoat closer to her body as though to hide anything that might reveal who or what she was, a raddled street woman who was fighting for her place amongst a lot of younger and more attractive girls. Doreen Gallagher blew out a line of smoke as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The money sounded okay and it would be great to be off the streets and into a nice warm place like the sauna. ‘How’d you get my name?’ she asked suddenly but the pause that returned her question lengthened, then all she heard was a click.

Doreen raised her eyebrows. Cheeky beggar. Wouldn’t’ve hurt tae give her an answer now, would it? Still, she was to present herself at the Govan shop tomorrow afternoon for an interview with the manager. Dropping her cigarette, Doreen ground it under the toe of her patent leather boot then stepped off the pavement to cross the road without a backward glance at the drop-in centre behind her. Mattie had hauled her into the office to quiz her about that bloke who’d got killed, the one from the Scottish parliament whose face had been plastered all across the papers. Aye, she’d seen him around a few times, no’ very often, mind, but she’d remembered seeing him leering out of that big white car of his.

The memory had stung the woman. He’d never given her the time of day, had he? Taken one o’ the younger lassies instead. Naw, she couldnae mind which wan, she’d told Mattie. Anywise, stuff like that wouldn’t bother her if she were taken on at the Govan place, would it? She had told that wumman, thon journalist, though, hadn’t she? Been paid no’ bad an’ all. Cash in her hand and no questions asked. No’ like the polis. Naw, Doreen told herself, she wasnae goin’ tae get messed up wi’ speaking tae ony polis. Mattie had been given the information she had wanted and that wis that. Mattie wis owed. She wis a’ right was Mattie Watson. Butch as they came but wi’ a hert of gold. Such were the thoughts of Doreen Gallagher as she made her way to the subway station in town, her heels click-clacking against the frozen pavements.

‘Doreen? Och aye, I know her fine,’ Helen James said as she heard Lorimer’s voice on the telephone. The DCI listened carefully as Lorimer outlined the morning’s events. Mattie had turned up trumps with Doreen Gallagher, letting Lorimer know later that, yes, Pattison was one of the punters who turned up occasionally on the drag. No, she hadn’t managed to find a girl who had actually been with him, but she was working on it. Things like that took time, were a bit delicate to handle.

‘What’s she like? Is she reliable?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

‘Doreen? Well, hard as nails like so many of them. Have to be in their profession,’ Helen reminded him. ‘Been on the game as long as I’ve been in the force, I expect. She’ll know all the girls, believe me.’

‘Would she be able to make a statement to the effect that Pattison picked up prostitutes?’ he asked baldly.

‘She’d be able but I doubt she’d be willing. Had too many runins with our boys in blue.’

‘What if it was to help find Tracey-Anne’s killer?’

There was a pause as Helen James digested the detective superintendent’s words. She’d been pleased at first that Lorimer was still keen to give some of his time to the case he’d had to abandon, but now she wondered if he was overstepping the mark.

‘Does anybody else know what you’re up to?’ she asked softly.

The answering silence was enough.

‘And what if the top brass find out you’re moonlighting on a job you were supposed to drop?’

‘They won’t,’ he assured her, but a seasoned cop like Helen James could pick a certain amount of doubt in his voice.

‘Be careful, Lorimer,’ she told him, suddenly serious. ‘It’s not just your neck that’s on the line, remember.’

The white Mercedes rounded the corner of the street and disappeared, leaving him feeling slightly bereft. It had been fun driving it around, the tall man thought, turning back to the concrete walls and metal doors that comprised the garage space where Vladimir kept his fleet of luxury vehicles. Still, there was a need to have a few other classic cars in virgin white, wasn’t there? He grinned for a moment, doubting whether any of the brides in their frothy dresses whom he had driven to churches or hotels had actually been virgins on the day of their weddings. They were all the same, he told himself, tossing a grubby rag into the air and catching it again. When it came down to it all women were the same. And he should know better than most, shouldn’t he? The massive metal doors shut behind him with an echoing clang and he twisted the lever to lock the premises from the inside. Vlad was taking the car to trade it in, returning later with something that he had promised would make his eyes water. Well, maybe it would, the tall man thought, scrunching the rag into a ball and chucking it so that it fell neatly into an empty waste bin.

He pulled off the dungarees and slid them down over his thighs, feeling the cool air rush at his midriff as he bent over to release the garment now at his ankles. Maybe he would go into town, see what he could pick up in the sales. It was his birthday soon and he deserved a treat. A new Armani suit, perhaps? Something sharp and sleek to make these Glasgow people look at him with appreciation in their eyes. There was no shortage of money, after all. Vlad saw to that, didn’t he? A crafty look came into the man’s face as he ascended the stairs, the dungarees slung across his shoulders. He had plenty saved up now, easily enough for a holiday in Bucharest if he felt like it. Though whether it would be possible to enter his home country again was a problem that even money might not be able to solve. There were people who could sell you different passports, however. Clever people whose skills in fakery made their prices fairly steep. Could he go along that route, the tall man wondered? Perhaps it was time for a new name and a new identity. Sacha, his uncle still called him, a silly little name for a silly little boy. Alexander had always suited him so much better. It was a warrior’s name, after all; a name for heroes.