Alex Gray: A Pound Of Flesh

Everyone in the force knew that Serious Crimes existed to conduct investigations into a range of criminal activity throughout Strathclyde region. Their caseload at present included a drug cartel and an investigation into money laundering activities as well as an internal inquiry into possible sabotage at the Ministry of Defence at Gairloch.

The first day into the job and murder was already knocking on his door, he thought wryly, acknowledging that his own time in the force had brought him investigations into several high-profile serial killings.

‘There’s no apparent reason for these men’s deaths,’ Mumby began slowly and Lorimer could hear a wheeze in the DCI’s voice, suggesting he was suffering from a bad cold. ‘One of my officers suggested that a night-time watch be made on railway bridges across the city, but of course that’s out of the question given the current budgetary constraints,’ he continued, pausing to cough away from the telephone.

‘And there’s no connection at all between Wardlaw and Littlejohn?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

‘None that we can find, sir,’ Mumby replied. ‘My officers have been over all of that ground with a fine toothcomb, believe me,’ he said firmly.

Lorimer thought for a minute. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Send the files over and we’ll have a look at them.’

He put down the telephone. There had been no promises made to the officer and no decisions taken. Whether this particular pair of shootings found its way under the auspices of the Serious Crimes Squad remained to be seen.

DCI Mumby reached into his desk for a honey and lemon pastille. It was as much as he could reasonably expect from Lorimer. Could twice amount to more than a coincidence? he asked himself, echoing the words of DC Knox who had wanted officers posted at a series of railway bridges just in case . A third time would look like sheer carelessness on the part of the police, the young woman had insisted. She had enthused about local squads making detours from their routes to look out for any parked cars under the bridges’ shadowed arches. Far too time-consuming and expensive, Mumby had snorted, and he knew he was right.

What neither the detective constable nor the DCI could have known, however, was that the killer’s next location would be well away from the echoing embrace of those curving stones below a railway line.

The garage was situated near St George’s Cross, a five-minute drive from Pitt Street. Lorimer parked his old Lexus by the edge of the MOT bay, feeling the driver’s seat give a little, and hearing a creak, as he got out. A new car would take a while to become as familiar as this old friend, he thought, shaking his head at his foolish sentimentality. The midnight blue car had received its fair share of scrapes and scratches over the years and had recently developed a taste for oil on an alarming scale. It was time, long past time, Lorimer told himself, to trade it in for a newer model with a lower mileage.

He walked through the showroom, admiring the huge four by fours and wondering what Maggie would say if he rolled up in one of those. The price tags were far beyond what he wanted to pay anyway, he told himself, moving out into the yard where there were rows of second-hand saloons and hatchbacks. A black Mercedes caught his eye and he walked around, admiring it, wondering if he wanted a complete change. It was a chunky beast, built for durability rather than the good looks of the S class, he thought, wandering along the rows, looking out for the familiar Lexus logo.

He found it at the very end of the row, parked slightly at an angle from the rest of the cars as though someone had recently driven it there. Lorimer nodded, a smile forming on his lips. The silver car had the sleek lines that he liked and, peering into the interior his smile broadened into a grin as he caught sight of the walnut fascia and polished metal gear stick. It was lust at first sight, Lorimer knew and any misgiving he might have had about relinquishing his old faithful vanished as he was filled with a sudden desire to drive, no, to own this car.

There was no sticker across the windscreen and for a moment his heart sank. If you have to ask how much it is you can’t afford it , his old dad used to tell him sternly. But that was when he was a boy, wasn’t it? Now as a man of almost forty, recently promoted to a senior position in Strathclyde Police, he might well be able to afford this lovely set of wheels.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ A young man was suddenly at his side and Lorimer smiled, recognising him as one of the fellows who sometimes booked his Lexus in for its service.

‘DCI Lorimer, isn’t it?’ the man smiled, putting out a hand.

‘Detective Superintendent since the beginning of this year,’ Lorimer smiled, shaking his hand.

‘Congratulations, sir,’ the salesman said. ‘Thinking of trading the old girl in?’

Lorimer sighed. ‘Aye, it’s well past time I did that. Been too busy,’ he shrugged. ‘But since I had a little time to spare this morning …’ He tailed off, looking back at the silver Lexus, his expression betraying naked longing.

‘That’s a lovely car,’ the salesman said, walking around and nodding in admiration. ‘Just came in last night on a trade-in and we haven’t even had it valeted yet.’

‘Any notion how much …?’

‘Depends on what we give you for yours, of course, but tell you what. Why don’t I get the keys and some trade plates and we can go for a test drive. If you have time, of course.’

Less than half an hour later Lorimer found himself seated in front of the salesman’s desk, his signature already on several different documents.

‘Should be able to collect it by the end of this week,’ the salesman said, smiling happily. ‘And we’ll have it taxed for a full year as discussed.’

‘What about the old car? Do you think you’ll be able to find a buyer for it?’

The salesman shook his head. ‘It’ll most likely go to one of the car auctions.’ He shrugged and gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Big mileage like that. We wouldn’t be able to sell it on from it here, I’m afraid.’

Lorimer sat at a set of traffic lights, his eyes wandering over the old car. Somehow the things that had spelled familiarity now looked simply dusty and worn and his mind shot back to the silver 300 series that he had just purchased. It was the start of a new year and a new job. Time for a change, he decided, accelerating across the junction and heading back to work.

Maggie Lorimer pulled the handbrake and sat back against the driver’s seat with a sigh. A few moments of stillness were what she wanted, just a few moments sitting there, letting the noise and tension of the journey drift away as she listened to music. The CD had been played to death but Nicola Benedetti’s recording of the Mendelssohn concerto still had the power to make her feel that life was good and some things worth the effort. As the rain streamed down the windscreen, she could see a blur of yellow amidst the green; winter jasmine cascading across her doorway, its tiny star-shaped flowers winking beyond this downpour, sheltered by the roofline.

As the last strains of the violin ceased, Maggie smiled and leaned forwards to press the off button then thrust open the door, ready to make a dash for the house. Shaking the water off her raincoat, she hung it across the line of hooks in the hall before turning into the open-plan room that led to her kitchen. A cup of decaf and a wee scone, she thought, her eyes flicking towards the blue flowered tin where she kept her home baking.

Inside everything was just as she had left it that morning, with one exception. Curled into a round ginger ball, Chancer the cat was asleep on top of the pile of fresh laundry that Maggie had taken out of the tumble dryer that morning.