Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

She flipped the mobile phone shut. Maybe the woman was busy right now. Too early for trade. Then, just as she was about to put the mobile back into her handbag the vibration that signalled an incoming text made her take it out again.

MT U ON BIG BLU BUS 2NT

The woman who had befriended the prostitute looked at the message intently. Doreen was obviously in a situation where she couldn’t talk. But she’d picked up her voicemail nonetheless. The Big Blue Bus left the centre of town at midnight. If Doreen really had something to tell her then it might be worth her while making that particular trip.

‘What about the Big Blue Bus?’ Helen James asked. ‘You might want to talk to some of the volunteers. Probably not worth your while trying to ask the girls anything. They’re either out their heids or too pissed off with us coppers to gain anything at that time of night.’

Lorimer grimaced as he listened to the DCI’s advice. She was right, of course, and it was very much DCI James’s territory, after all. And he was tired, he had to admit that too. Another night spent away from home was not what he had had in mind. Still, now that James had suggested it…

‘Okay, I’ll ring up the contact you’ve given me, see if I can meet them in George Square tonight.’

Lorimer put down the phone with a sigh. He’d go home, have dinner with Maggie and then change into different clothes, things like his old donkey jacket and jeans that wouldn’t intimidate the street women. The Big Blue Bus only went around the city on certain nights and this Tuesday was one of them. So, if he wanted to push this line of enquiry on he had to take the opportunities as they arose.

Red Square, some local folk had dubbed it, due to the red asphalt surface that had replaced the former tarmacadam and flower beds of the city’s central square. The city fathers had deemed it an improvement but Lorimer was one of many who dismissed that notion, remembering springtime outings as a boy when he had crossed the square and his senses had been assaulted by masses of pink, white and blue hyacinths wafting their heady perfume from the many raised flowerbeds dotted around the place. There was no such olfactory welcome tonight, just the leftover smell of home-made soup from the all-night van that served the down-andouts who came shuffling along for what might be their only decent meal of the day. Glasgow might have its fair share of social problems like homelessness and prostitution, Lorimer thought as he parked his car at the edge of the square, but at least there were those good folk who were willing to give up their time to help them. The thought made him feel at once guilty when he remembered his unwillingness to leave the warmth of his own home and somehow glad that he had come.

The street lights illumined the grand buildings on all four sides: the old Post Office that was still under renovation; the Millennium Hotel opposite, the Merchant’s House and of course the graceful Victorian façade of the City Chambers that dominated the whole square. Lorimer walked past the recumbent stone lions guarding the cenotaph and headed towards the Big Blue Bus whose interior lights showed that it was ready and waiting for its nightly passengers.

‘Superintendent Lorimer? Richard Allan. Pleased to meet you.’ The man with the beaming smile and outstretched hand was suddenly there as Lorimer approached the double decker bus sitting right outside the City Chambers. The Reverend Richard Allan was, like Lorimer himself, devoid of the usual signs of rank or status. No dog collar peeped from under that stripy scarf, nor, at first glance, was there anything other than the man’s bright countenance to show his Christian affiliation. However Lorimer did notice the tiny silver lapel badge in the shape of a dove — a visible reminder of the man’s faith. Allan, like so many other men of the cloth, had put his burning desire to do something for the poorer elements of society into practice. Lorimer remembered reading an article about the pastor when the project had taken off; how he had pestered the owners of bus companies into letting his organisation have the vehicle they needed and how the women had gradually responded to the facilities offered aboard the bus. Not only that, but there was something else, something Lorimer wanted to ask the man right away.

‘Didn’t I read that you’d had some success in helping the girls to come off drugs?’ he asked as Allan ushered him on board.

‘That’s quite correct,’ the pastor replied. ‘There have been a few, sadly just a very few, who have managed to kick their habits, both drugs and prostitution. Still, one lost lamb and all that. The volunteers here do a marvellous job, though. There’s always someone to listen to the women and give them advice about anything at all. Quite a number of them have served prison sentences and that can have a terrible effect on their self-esteem. That’s one of our biggest challenges, you know,’ he continued. ‘Trying to let them know that nobody is worthless.’

Lorimer made a non-committal noise in reply. He’d like to have told this kindly soul just how bad it really was when even some of Strathclyde’s finest regarded these women as less than human and undeserving of police time.

‘DCI James,’ he began.

‘Ah, Helen, she’s a wonderful lady,’ Allan enthused. ‘Knows just how to speak to the women. They like her, you know. Trust her, too. So, when I introduce you to them I’ll say that you’re a friend of hers, shall I?’

‘That’s a good idea, but I will probably have to tell them the reason I’m here,’ Lorimer reminded him.

‘Ah, yes.’ Allan frowned suddenly, his face clouding for a moment. ‘Of course. Terrible business. We used to see Tracey-Anne on a regular basis. Poor little thing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Reverend-’

‘Richard, please,’ the pastor interrupted with a smile.

‘Richard, one of the things I want to ask the women who board the bus is if they have ever seen a white Mercedes sports car cruising around the drag.’

‘Ah,’ Allan replied. ‘I read about that. Edward Pattison and these other men.’ He looked intently at Lorimer. ‘Do you have suspicions that they had been consorting with the Glasgow women, then?’

Lorimer nodded and was met with an understanding look. The Revd Richard Allan could be trusted with this intelligence. For all his spirituality there was something to this man that Lorimer liked; a sense that he was with a man whose keen intellect was matched by a burning zeal to use his time and talents to make the lives of other folk a little better. And right now that included helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.

‘Oh, here’s Doreen,’ Allan said suddenly, looking across the square at a couple of women who were approaching the bus.

Lorimer followed his gaze toward the two figures. Despite the chilly night, one of them wore a short red coat and was teetering along on high-heeled boots. The other, dressed in a long black coat, a camel scarf covering her hair, was looking around her as though this was something of a novelty. Lorimer was standing a little behind Richard Allan who waved them on board with a welcome, so it was not until he was on the bus that he saw the taller of the women had turned back and was now disappearing across the square. He frowned. Hadn’t he seen her somewhere before?

‘Have you ever had members of the press coming on board?’ Lorimer murmured to the minister.

Allan’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘That lady who was with Doreen…?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said slowly. ‘But it seems she’s changed her mind.’

‘Well.’ The minister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Perhaps she only wants to see us from the outside,’ he said.