Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

It was only a week until her husband’s birthday, Maggie realised with a slight sensation of alarm. One week to finalise all the arrangements. Mentally she ticked off what had already been done. The cake had been ordered from the Malmaison hotel and they were also providing champagne for a toast before the meal. All the invitations had gone out by email from her school address so that there could be no reply coming to the house. That had been underlined with SURPRISE PARTY put into bold lettering. Solly’s mother was due to arrive this coming weekend and Ma Brightman would be looking after baby Abigail while Solly and Rosie attended the celebrations. Maggie smiled to herself as she remembered Rosie’s words on the telephone.

‘What on earth am I going to wear? My boobs are still enormous from feeding her ladyship and my pre-baby clothes are way too tight,’ she’d cried.

‘Sounds like an excuse to go shopping,’ Maggie had suggested with a laugh. And Rosie had cheered up almost immediately.

Her own outfit was not such a problem. After all, she was supposed to be taking her husband out for a posh meal for his fortieth birthday so a new dress would not arouse any suspicions on Bill’s part. In fact Maggie had splashed out on a red and black two-piece, the silky pencil skirt hugging her figure in all the right places, the top belted in matching fabric to show off her tiny waist. She’d even purchased some nice costume jewellery from a case at the counter, no doubt positioned to tempt customers into a spur-of-the-moment decision to complete their outfit. There was something a little naughty about the feeling of spending so much money in that exclusive west end boutique, watching the garments being folded carefully between layers of tissue, brazenly adding the jewellery to her credit card as if money was no object. And the shop assistant calling her Madam all the time! Such deferential attention was so at odds with how Maggie Lorimer was normally treated. Miss or Missus Lorimer , the kids called her, sometimes even Mum by a new first-year pupil in a moment of unself-conscious affection before the hoots of fellow classmates made him redden and correct himself. (It was always a wee boy who made that mistake, Maggie reminded herself. The girls were far too streetwise for any of that.)

Maggie put all thoughts of the impending party aside as she drew a new pile of marking towards her. Fifth-year prelims required to be marked and handed back by the end of this week so she’d have her work cut out to finish them in time. Sometimes it was good having a policeman husband who worked late hours. And, with no family demanding she be home at a certain time, Maggie could stay behind and do her marking and preparation hours after many of her colleagues had gone home.

Barbara Knox frowned as she logged into SID, the Scottish Intelligence Database. Access to this was given to police officers wishing to know secrets about investigations across the country. Every enquiry was electronically tagged so her efforts to find information were like sitting naked in a glass box for all to see. But there would be nobody to see her passing on bits of news to Diana when they were alone together, would there? Her face darkened as she saw that there was absolutely nothing on Vladimir Badica. She’d been so sure that the Romanian had to be shady, somehow, a xenophobic prejudice that was, she realised, unworthy of her. Some folk were still bolshy about gays, after all. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge another sort of minority within Scottish society. But it was her police training that made her perennially suspicious, Barbara told herself; that and the staffroom gossip. Older officers were forever making cynical remarks about suspects who came within their orbit and the new wave of immigrant businessmen was fair game for their comments.

Anyway Bad Vlad, as she had termed him, appeared to be as pure as the driven snow. Or else he just hadn’t been caught yet, she grumbled to herself, still wishing that some dirt had attached itself to the wealthy Romanian. All of the garage franchises south of the border had been checked out once and now it seemed they had to be checked out again in case a car had been shipped up here to Scotland. Someone was the target for these three killings, someone, Lorimer had insisted, who was still at large. But would they still have their white Merc? one of the officers had asked, a fair question after all. And so the movement of all these models within the last eighteen months had to be carefully checked and rechecked, a task that had fallen to DC Knox. She was only a third of the way through the list of Mercedes dealers to see if there were any cars for sale but at least the guy she’d spoken to at the vehicle licensing office was doing plenty on her behalf.

‘Hey, nice hair,’ a voice behind her remarked and Barbara swung round to see DI Monica Proctor smiling at her.

‘Thanks,’ Barbara replied, reddening slightly as the DI passed through the office, then she looked back once more at the computer screen. Barbara Knox gave a sigh. Oh, to be a DI like Monica, always out and about! She loved her job but sometimes the public simply didn’t understand all the work that went on behind the scenes, some of it frankly tedious. Not their fault. It was all action man stuff to them, wasn’t it, like the cop shows on the telly.

Diana understood, though, and that was one big consolation in the detective constable’s life right now. She passed her fingers through the spiky haircut. Would the journalist like it? she wondered anxiously. Well, they had a date tomorrow night so she’d find out then. And if she could offer her friend something a bit more concrete to help her research then all to the good.

There was, she thought to herself, no need to carry on. She could quit right now, leave the country even, forget all about the killings and start a new life for herself where nobody knew who she was or what she had done. There was plenty of money in her bank account after all. The insurance claim and a keen-eyed lawyer had seen to that. Besides, she was tired of waiting for one of these street women to tell her if another white car had been seen around the drag. Often as not it was a Skoda, since a private taxi firm in the area seemed to have loads of them cruising around at night. Some nights she’d prepared for hours in the hotel room then emerged into the street, dressed to kill. And, if the punters thought it strange that a hooker was ignoring their overtures, well, that was just too bad for them. The other women didn’t seem to notice, probably glad to get the custom that came their way.

Yet there was something that would not let her go. A memory of Carol, perhaps, laughing as they’d run along that beach in Cyprus. Or the night she’d died, hearing her described by that uniformed officer as though she was less than human, just a bit of society’s flotsam washed up on the shore of the city’s streets. Whatever it was, she could not leave this task unfinished. Soon, surely it would be soon, she would find the man who had murdered Carol and bring him to justice.

She looked at the date on the digital clock by her bed. Tomorrow was the first of February. She would be meeting Barbara after the girl had finished work. But would the policewoman have anything worthwhile to tell her? She had kept one step ahead of Detective Superintendent Lorimer, thanks to her inside information, but she needed more than that. Perhaps it might be worth seeing if that woman called Doreen was around today? A couple of folded twenties could do wonders if you knew the right questions to ask. She keyed in the woman’s number and waited but there was no answer, just the usual recorded message.

‘Hey. It’s your friend here,’ she said as Doreen’s answering machine kicked in. ‘Can you text me if there’s anything interesting going on?’