Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘You see, giving you Frank’s name was Catherine’s way of distancing herself from him,’ the solicitor continued, but Lorimer hardly acknowledged her breathless interruption. He’d already come to that conclusion anyway and didn’t need anyone else to spell it out for him. Instead he hunkered down in front of Catherine Pattison, forcing her to look him in the eye.

‘What we need to know, Mrs Pattison, is where exactly you were with Hardy on the night Edward was killed and if you can provide alibis that place you both firmly elsewhere than Erskine woods.’

‘I … ’ The woman seemed caught in his gaze but she nodded her understanding. ‘We were together all night. Frank has a flat here in the city.’ She bit her lip once again. ‘I don’t think anyone knew we were there that night, though. You see, we try to be as discreet about going there as we can,’ she added, her face reddening.

‘Still, someone may have seen you?’ he offered.

‘I don’t know,’ she said sadly. ‘I always wear a scarf over my hair, pull my collar up, that sort of thing, you know?’

Lorimer gave her a nod. It didn’t take much imagination to see how they had conducted their clandestine affair here in this city with its watchful eyes everywhere.

‘One wrong move and the Press would have had a field day,’ Catherine muttered.

Sarah Cadell switched out the light but left Kim’s bedroom door half-open. The child was having night terrors as it was. Waking up to find her mother gone was not going to be easy. The old woman gave a sigh as she stood in the corridor, one hand against the wall as though for support. Would she be charged? That tall policeman had hinted that wasting police time was a serious offence. It had taken quite a long time for Catherine to untangle the web of deceit she had spun for herself. And, even now, Sarah Cadell was not completely sure if what she had heard earlier this evening had been the entire truth. Glancing at her daughter’s profile, Sarah had felt a frisson of fear. Was that lovely face hiding some darker, deeper secret? She’d been with the man, Hardy, Catherine had told them eventually. That much she had guessed already. Yet hearing her daughter’s words come tumbling out, Sarah Cadell had been amazed but not shocked. Little about human nature could shock her these days. And infidelity was so utterly commonplace nowadays, wasn’t it? she thought, a spasm of contempt crossing her fine features. Besides, she had known pretty much what Catherine had been up to, hadn’t she? Edward may have been a fool, but Sarah Cadell knew the sort of woman Catherine was much better than the man who had taken her daughter for better or for worse.

‘Are you coming up to Blythswood Square?’

Barbara Knox spun round to see two of the detectives standing behind her desk.

‘Everyone’s going up. It’s the rally.’

‘What rally?’ Barbara asked, puzzled, then frowned as one of them gave her a pitying look.

‘Only the start of the Monte Carlo rally, love,’ he said. ‘History in the making. Thought you were a car buff? Or is it just Mercs that turn you on?’ he laughed.

‘Oh, is it today? I’d totally forgotten,’ she said, grabbing her jacket and following the two men as they left the room.

The day was darkening as they walked briskly up away from HQ and Barbara could hear the crowds before she saw them. Already the pavements were three deep on each side of the square and she had to strain to see the rally cars all lined up along the perimeter. It was, as her colleague had pointed out, a little bit of history. Decades before, amateur rally drivers had left the front of the stately building that was now the Blythswood Square Hotel to make the journey through Britain and France; something that had captured the imagination of the entire country. In those days the hotel had been the premises of the Royal Automobile Club.

Diana had told her that there were certain bits of memorabilia still in the place, though Barbara had never been over its threshold in her life. A spurt of envy surged through her as she looked at the steps leading up to the entrance, a commissionaire in top hat and tails standing looking down on them. She ’d never get to stay in a classy place like that on her salary, would she? Yet Diana had been there. Och well, she was here to see the cars, not to hang out with the clientele over there. And so it was to the cars she turned her attention as one of the men nudged her arm.

‘Hey, check out that one, Knox!’

Barbara blinked in the gathering twilight, following his finger towards a chocolate-coloured Porsche.

‘Cool, eh?’

She smiled and nodded then her eyes widened as she saw a blue Morgan gleaming under the lamplight, its running board a graceful curve along the length of the car. The policewoman took in every detail of the bodywork, sighing over its curved chrome radiator and frog-eyed headlamps. Next to it was a black Lancia, covered in signs that showed it to be a veteran of this rallye classique as one metal plaque proclaimed. Barbara moved a little to see the car behind, a red sports car with the familiar silver wings that were, she knew, etched with the Austin Healey name. She’d been a car nut since childhood, much to the despair of parents who had once hoped to encourage her towards more gender-appropriate interests. Somehow the boys at Pitt Street must have sussed this out, she mused, wandering further along to admire the classic cars with their drivers all ready to set off on this historic rally.

Tag Heuer signs were plastered everywhere, reminders that this was big business and only the few wealthy or well sponsored owners of these fabulous cars could take part in something as prestigious as this. Nevertheless there was an atmosphere around the square that Barbara felt: this was Glasgow and these were Scottish drivers. National pride hung in the air, evident without anyone needing to say a word.

A disembodied voice from a loudspeaker was telling them all about the cars, their drivers and co-drivers, but Barbara’s attention was suddenly taken by a tall figure moving along the path inside the private park.

Pushing her way out of the crowd gathered by this side of the square was no easy matter but her bulk and her stern look made a few of them move as she tried to cross the road.

‘Sorry, miss, no one’s allowed to get closer than this,’ a man with a steward’s armband informed her, lifting his hands and directing her back.

For a moment Barbara was tempted to whip out her warrant card and say she was on official business but her colleagues might notice and, besides, it was bad form to use it like that. Instead she made her way back, pushing through the press of people, one eye on the corner of the square where she thought that Diana might emerge.

The dark silhouette flitted across the road away from the square and, just as Barbara opened her mouth to call her name, a roar went up as the first car set off, preventing any thought of following her friend.

It was no use, Barbara fumed. She was going nowhere fast and would just have to wait until all the cars had left the square. A sense of disappointment filled her and with it an unnatural disquiet. Hadn’t Diana said she was going to be out of the city tonight? But then, a small voice suggested, had it really been Diana after all? Perhaps she was becoming so besotted with the woman that she had begun to imagine seeing her wherever she went?

As she watched the line of cars drive off amid cheers to the south of France, Barbara Knox reflected gloomily that she wasn’t going anywhere glamorous any time soon. These lucky beggars would be sunning themselves in Monte Carlo while ordinary folk like her stayed home in cold, rainy Scotland. Even Diana’s hints about a holiday abroad had ceased to charm her. What she really needed was a tangible sign of the woman’s intentions when all she had to look forward to was yet another night in her lonely bed.