Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘And their deaths happened not long after Carol Kilpatrick was killed and just before the attack on Tracey-Anne,’ she said slowly. ‘You really think there’s something behind these poor lassies’ deaths to do with the car killings?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to continue my own investigation into this. I’d thought I might take a trip on the Big Blue Bus, ask some of the girls there if they know anything about Pattison or the other men.’

Joyce Rogers smiled. ‘I can’t stop you, of course, but see if you can confine your nocturnal wanderings a little, hmm? Otherwise tongues will wag and I’d hate to see you castigated for something as stupid as this.’

The meeting with the deputy chief constable was a lot easier, Lorimer decided later, than the one with his squad of handpicked detectives, who were not afraid to criticise Solly’s theory. However, with the exception of Duncan Sutherland who had stood with a leering grin on his face throughout, all hands had been raised when Lorimer had asked for their support in tackling the case from a different angle. Barbara Knox, in particular, had shown her enthusiasm, her hand shooting straight up in a manner that made Lorimer fear the big woman actually had a crush on him. Some of the actions would be going over old ground, like visiting the owners of several white Mercedes cars.

Solly had not voiced any explanation about why such a person might have sparked off a killer’s intent, but it was there all the same: somebody had deserved to die. That was the thinking of this mystery killer, wasn’t it? And from there the next logical step was to ask what it was they had done to provoke such a desperate chain of events.

She woke with a cry, sitting up in bed, staring into the empty darkness. Carol’s face had come floating towards her, hair lapping on the endless waves as though they were both deep underwater, drowning together, helpless as each sought to clutch the other’s hand. Then, that noiseless cry as she felt the tug of the current pulling her under.

It was only a dream, a fantasy bred in the subconscious mind. Everyone had dreams that impinged on their waking thoughts, didn’t they? But it had been Miriam, not Carol, whose body had been washed up from the river. Dreams, like newspaper reports, they always got things a bit muddled, she told herself, rolling onto her side and tucking the duvet around her shivering body. Reality, now that was a different thing altogether. In real life she was capable of shooting her gun and killing a man. But this time she would find the right target, thanks to dear little Barbara.

The woman’s smile faded as she thought of the lesbian officer. It was as if she had prostituted herself with the girl. But then, perhaps she now had an inkling of what it had been like for Carol, having to give her body in return for something she wanted.

The cold, long month of January was drawing to its close, she thought, clenching her fists and drumming them together in a determined beat. And soon there would be a new month and a new opportunity to seek out and destroy the man who had robbed her of everything she had held most dear in this sorry world.

Barbara Knox grinned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The cost of that stylist had made a pretty big hole in her budget but the result was well worth it, she told herself, turning her head this way and that to admire the sharp cut and flecks of deep red that tipped each spiky lock. A quick dab of gel and fingers raking through was all that was required now to make her look the part. Her smile faded as she moved away from the mirror; that ever-present muffin top revealed above the elastic of her pyjama trousers. Scowling now, Barbara turned from the glaring truth of her image and began to pull her clothes out of the walk-in cupboard that served as a makeshift dressing room. Okay, so she was fat. All the women in her family had been the same. It was a hereditary thing. Something she simply couldn’t help. But some folk liked a bit to cuddle, didn’t they? And Diana didn’t seem to mind.

Cheered by that thought, Barbara began to hum tunelessly to the music on her radio. Today might be just another working day for most folk but for Barbara Knox it was something much more exciting. Being part of the Serious Crimes Unit, however temporary that might prove, was a hell of a lot better than being dogsbody to Mumby, wasn’t it? Now that the case had taken this strange twist there might well be an end in sight. Detective Superintendent Lorimer had spoken with such conviction yesterday, though the line of enquiry was pretty surprising. He’d been fairly impassioned and DC Knox had listened to all that he’d said, nodding her approval even though that tosser, Sutherland, had had a face on him like a fried egg. They’d all discussed it afterwards, of course, and Barbara had been gratified to hear that most of them had taken Lorimer’s side.

Her work on the cars had come in for a wee mention too, Barbara remembered, smiling in satisfaction as she recalled the titbit of praise the boss had handed out. He was fair minded, that man, but oh how driven! Sutherland had been passing round rumours that Lorimer had been mooching around the drag, but that one had been nipped in the bud by the man himself when he revealed that he had spent time talking to the street women on his own. Crazy! Some of them had said, Imagine getting up in the middle of a bleak January night. But it was his devotion to duty that had prompted him, though Lorimer hadn’t said that himself. He didn’t need to, Barbara thought as she pulled on her trousers. It was there for anyone to see and if Duncan Sutherland thought he could sully that good man’s reputation, well, he’d have the entire squad down on him like a ton of bricks. The actions had been given out and Barbara had not been at all surprised to learn that she had more stuff to do with contacting the owners of these white Mercs once again.

A name flashed into her mind as she switched off the bedroom light and made her way into the kitchen. Vladimir Badica. A Romanian garage dealer. ‘Bad Vlad,’ she said aloud then raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. Would Diana be interested in this new line of enquiry? Or had she chanced her arm enough for the dark-haired woman, the very thought of whom made her pulse beat faster?

Frank Hardy sat quite still, watching the woman opposite weep silently into her hands. It was odd this sudden urge to take her into his arms, comfort her, tell her it had all been a terrible mistake. He had expected screams of recrimination, Jill throwing things at him, crashing plates off the wall; all the classic stuff he’d seen in films. But Frank Hardy had not been prepared for this display of genuine grief. Had Jill had no inkling at all of his infidelity, then? Even when he’d asked her to lie to the police, hadn’t she suspected a thing? And now, seeing her so broken, it was not just guilt that Hardy felt but a stronger emotion, something that he might once have called love.

‘Jilly,’ he began, ‘I’m so sorry, truly I am.’ Then, when she made no reply, Frank Hardy drew his wife’s hand away from her face and held it in his own. Jill’s shoulders heaved but she did not attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp as he had expected. Instead she raised her tear-filled eyes to his and spoke just one word.

‘Why?’

The lump in his throat made speech suddenly impossible and he leaned towards her, arms around her shoulders, holding her close and patting her back gently the way he had when her mother had died. Why had he let himself be beguiled by Cathy Pattison? Had her allure been something to do with a subconscious desire to cuckold a man he despised? Or had it been nothing more than an episode of male lust? In the cold light of dawn Frank Hardy saw his affair now for what it was. A stupid act of bravado. Stupid and thoughtless, he reminded himself, stroking Jill’s back. Had he ever really given his wife a second thought? Well, he would have to do that now, wouldn’t he? The whole sordid affair would come out as part of the investigation into Ed Pattison’s murder.