Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘Do you think she might be a friend of Doreen’s?’

‘Could be,’ Allan replied doubtfully. ‘I haven’t seen her here before,’ he added, peering into the blackness. ‘But I do worry about certain of the newspapers, you know, Lorimer. Always looking for a negative, sensational sort of story to print. Stuff that doesn’t do us any good at all.’

‘Want me to have a quiet word if she attends any of my press conferences again?’

‘Would you, Lorimer? Thanks, that is kind of you.’ Allan beamed once again as though his world had tilted back on course.

The woman called Doreen had walked right up to the front of the lower deck and was sitting next to a display of leaflets. She had begun to pick out one or two and was examining them as Lorimer approached.

‘May I?’ he said, taking a seat next to her across the aisle. The woman jumped and gasped.

‘God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You gied us a fright!’

Lorimer began to smile an apology; the woman’s face had turned such a sickly white.

‘We haven’t met before,’ he said, putting out a tentative hand.

‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

Doreen’s face changed so immediately that the detective superintendent wondered if his initial impression of shocked disbelief had been wrong. Just a trick of the light, perhaps?

‘Aye,’ she replied shortly, not reaching over to shake the policeman’s hand. The street woman’s dark eyes narrowed, however, as she scowled at Lorimer.

‘You came with another lady tonight, but she seemed to have changed her mind about getting on the bus,’ Lorimer began.

‘Naw, I dinna think so,’ Doreen said sourly.

‘Isn’t she a journalist, then?’ Lorimer persisted.

‘Don’t know whit ye’re on aboot,’ Doreen said sharply. Lorimer nodded. The woman’s riposte had been a touch too acerbic. There was something she didn’t want the policeman to know and he was certain it had to do with the woman who had disappeared across George Square.

‘I think she’s writing about the death of the deputy first minister,’ he ventured.

The street woman turned on him, eyes flashing.

‘She’s writing about us,’ Doreen broke in, ‘no’ that it’s ony o’ your business.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ Lorimer replied. ‘You ladies are very much my business, I’m afraid.’ And before Doreen’s scowl could deepen any further he went on. ‘I’m here concerning the death of TraceyAnne Geddes. I hoped that talking to some of the ladies who knew her might help,’ he said.

‘Oh. Well, in that case … ’ Doreen replied, her mouth open in surprise. ‘See, I thought …’ The woman bit her lip suddenly.

‘You thought I was working on the Pattison case,’ Lorimer finished for her. ‘And of course I am. But the other case is still something I take an interest in,’ he said blandly.

‘Tracey-Anne didnae deserve tae die like that. Some fu- some animal did that tae her!’ Doreen exclaimed, tempering her language as she remembered who she was talking to.

‘I know,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘But there is something I wanted to ask, Doreen. Something I’ll be asking all the girls tonight,’ he added, turning slightly as voices behind them showed that more passengers were now boarding the bus. ‘Did you ever see a man in a white sports car, a Mercedes, kerb crawling around the drag, looking for custom?’

‘Well maybe I did and maybe I didnae,’ Doreen said slyly. ‘Not always easy to make out whit types o’ car the punters are in. And ah’m not always quite masel, know whit ah mean,’ she shrugged.

‘Can I trust you to keep all of this completely confidential?’ he asked.

The woman nodded, her earrings jangling softly as she looked at him.

‘Anythin’ in it fur me?’ she asked, then, licking her lips mendaciously.

‘Possibly,’ he replied, his answer deliberately non-committal. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t talk to anyone from the newspapers, okay?’

‘Aye, fair ’nuff,’ Doreen agreed.

Lorimer gave a small sigh of relief. There was so much to think about and sudden interference from the press was something he could well do without. He was taking a risk in talking to the street women too, though. They might well sell a story about a policeman who asked them questions relating to the death of the deputy first minister of Scotland, even if those questions were couched solely in references to the white cars.

As he moved away, Lorimer recalled what Solly had told him about the two girls from the sauna. Miriam and Jenny had frequented the Big Blue Bus, hadn’t they? He turned back again for a moment.

‘Do you know a place called Andie’s Sauna?’ he asked.

Doreen shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Whit’s that tae youse?’ she muttered.

‘Two young women who worked there ended up dead,’ Lorimer said softly. ‘And we’re investigating all the places they worked prior to that.’

‘Ah’m in Andie’s noo,’ Doreen told him. ‘An’ I ken who ye mean. Thon posh lassie, Miriam and wee Jenny Haslet, in’t it?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Jenny came here and was given help,’ he said, nodding towards the rack of leaflets. ‘And that’s something Strathclyde Police want as well. Folk like my colleague, Helen James, believe that there should be no women out on the streets endangering their lives.’

‘Ye ken there’s two o’ them? No’ jist the wan in Govan where ah work,’ Doreen told him. ‘They’ve got wan ower in Partick an a’.’

Lorimer nodded. Places like that were never listed in any telephone directory but sometimes business cards would be stuck to the insides of telephone boxes, in toilets or on the walls of the underground railway. Solly had visited the one in Govan but he had not given the policeman any new information about that. Perhaps he could see if his friend would take time to explore this further.

‘Thanks, Doreen. Nice to talk to you,’ he added, nodding politely as he got up to leave. The bus had started up and was now lumbering around a corner of the square so it was time to sit with the other ladies of the night and see what they could offer in the way of information.

As he held on to the back of a seat to steady himself, Lorimer glanced behind him. Doreen Gallagher looked away swiftly, but not before he had seen an expression cross her face: one that he recognised as sheer relief.

The rest of the night passed calmly enough, the street women proving to be every bit as wary as Lorimer had expected, but his polite and quiet manner did coax a few of them into sharing some of their stories with him. So it was that he heard tales of juvenile rape and incest, stuff that was shrugged off by some of them as though these things were ordinary life experiences. What did amaze the policeman was the women’s resilience in the face of so much hardship and squalor. Early death was taken for granted, stories of girls coming out of prison to meet with their drug dealers and overdosing on the way home were not unknown. One other thing he had learned was that the Revd Richard Allan ran a centre for women up in Stirlingshire, near the village of Arnprior. It was a place of hope, the man had told him, the converted farm catering for women who had lost their way, often through drugs. Fortunately the charities and trusts that funded it had not been hit during the recession and they could continue their good work.

It was a chastened Lorimer who reached home as the birds began the dawn chorus, grateful that fate had dealt him such a good hand . There but for the grace of God… Richard Allan had murmured. And it was true. He looked at the front of his home with a sudden spurt of joy. They had this lovely house, he and his darling Maggie who was asleep upstairs. He had a job that he loved and good health to enjoy so much of life. As he stood there on his doorstep a blackbird suddenly opened its throat and filled the cold morning air with liquid notes that thrilled him through and through. He inhaled deeply then sighed, his breath making a small white cloud. Life, in all its vagaries, could still have moments of glory, he thought, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door to his home.