Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘And you’ve got the driver’s name and other details?’

Lily nodded. ‘He said I was to go straight to the police but when I told him about you he said that sounded all right. Didn’t want to call you in the middle of the night,’ she added, shamefaced as though the incident were her fault.

‘The white car,’ he began at last. ‘Did you notice what type of car it was?’

Lily’s face grew doubtful. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not very good at cars. It was really big, though.’

Lorimer nodded then took out his pen and doodled on a napkin. ‘See this?’ he said, turning the paper towards her. ‘Did the car have something like that on it?’

Lily squinted at the circle he had drawn, the lines creating the three segments of the Mercedes-Benz logo, then looked up at him and nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said at last.

‘Can you describe the man, Lily?’

The girl bit her lip, looking uncertain for a moment.

‘He was very tall. Bigger even than you,’ she began. ‘And he looked different. He was kind of good-looking,’ she stopped then blushed, realising her gaffe. ‘I–I didn’t mean that,’ she stammered. ‘I mean you look nice and …’

‘Lily,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘Let’s concentrate on trying to picture exactly what he looked like, eh? Colour of hair, shape of face, that sort of thing.’

The girl nodded again. ‘Sorry. He frightened me. Like one of those vampires you see on TV. They’re dead handsome as well, aren’t they?’ Her blush deepened as she tried to extricate herself from the unintended insult.

‘Take your time, now. Remember we can always get one of our clever folk back at headquarters to create an e-fit image from anything you and the lorry driver tell us.’

‘Would I have to go there?’ A worried expression crossed her face.

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘But it might help us to trace this man.’

Lily looked into his eyes as though she were making a momentous decision.

‘There’s this woman called Doreen,’ she began. ‘She said I’d get money if I told her things.’

The morning simply flew past as DC Knox tapped away at her computer keyboard, her eyes gleaming. Andie’s Saunas were owned by a company purporting to be part of a health organisation, according to what she had found. Barbara had snickered at the blurb, wondering how healthy the punters felt after a quick shag. It was a registered company all right, but then any company that was trading had to give some account of itself for legal purposes. And the police were able to access such classified information pretty speedily if they wanted. Barbara scrolled down, wanting to see the names of the directors. She sat upright, suddenly, her lips parting in astonishment as she read the three names.

Vladimir Badica and Alexander Badica sprang out at her as though their names had been illuminated. ‘Bad Vlad!’ she exclaimed in a whisper. Then she nodded in sudden understanding as she read the first name on the list: Andrea Badica, owner.

‘Andrea. Andie’s! ’ Barbara sighed. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Put a company into the wife’s name and if anything goes pear-shaped then the real owner gets off scot free. Or, she mused, maybe Bad Vlad had put it into this woman’s name for tax purposes. But who was Alexander? The son, most probably, Barbara decided.

The owners didn’t want poor Professor Brightman snooping around. Wonder what they’ve got to hide? Barbara asked herself, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. The woman’s large face split into a grin.

A bit of nosing around the Badica place might just be in order.

Lily waited while the tall man opposite finished his telephone call. There was a way out for her, he had explained, after Lily had admitted her age.

‘They’ll put me into one of these homes,’ she’d cried. ‘And I know what happens in these places,’ she’d insisted, her eyes pleading with Lorimer. The policeman’s face had remained impassive. Then he’d made that suggestion, told Lily about a kind man, a minister, who helped girls like her.

‘If you wait here, I can ask Richard Allan to come and fetch you. He runs a place out in the country, near Stirling,’ Lorimer told her. ‘It’s on a farm and there are other girls and women there too.’

‘Is it a refuge?’ Lily asked.

Lorimer nodded. ‘It’s a special sort of refuge,’ he told her. ‘Girls go there voluntarily to get over their problems.’

‘You mean they get them to come off the drugs?’ Lily’s fifteen-year-old face was suddenly older and wiser in a way that Lorimer found disquieting.

‘Yes, that can happen,’ Lorimer said. ‘They do all sorts of things to help,’ he continued, trying hard not to look at his watch. It had taken a little while to establish trust with this girl and he was reluctant to leave her on her own now but the press pack would be assembling in Pitt Street and he needed to return there now.

‘Okay,’ Lorimer said, nodding briefly as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. ‘I’ll ask her.’ Cupping his hand over the end of his mobile, Lorimer looked at Lily.

‘Someone can be here in about an hour’s time,’ he told her. ‘Will you wait here for them?’

The girl’s face clouded. ‘Can’t you stay here with me?’ she asked in a small voice.

Lorimer bit his lip. If he were to miss the daily meeting there would be hell to pay. But, on the other hand, if Lily wouldn’t wait for Richard Allan or one of his team to arrive, then what would become of her? She was obviously still traumatised by the man twisting that scarf in his hands. Lorimer’s mind flew back to the other two street women who had been strangled. If what he thought was correct, then Lily had had a lucky escape.

There would be a crowd of reporters gathering at HQ and here he was with one young girl, dithering about what he should do.

Words came to him, then. Something Richard Allan had said. Words that echoed lessons from his past when he had been too young to rebel against being sent to Sunday School. Hadn’t the shepherd left all his flock to go and rescue one lost sheep?

He looked at the girl, her face turned up to his and made his decision. Duncan Sutherland would just love to take the press conference, wouldn’t he? And, besides, it might help to build bridges between them if he relinquished some of his responsibility to the red-haired officer.

‘Okay, Lily. Just let me make another call, will you?’

The girl brightened immediately. ‘And maybe we could go and see about that thingummy, the photo stuff you said …’

Jim Blackburn had made a careful study of page after page of faces in a pile of folders as well as looking at the database on a computer screen. As each image appeared, Jim had shaken his head.

‘That’s them all, Mr Blackburn.’

‘You mean he’s not in any of your files, then?’ Jim said, a sense of desolation sweeping over him.

The officer’s face remained impassive. ‘If he has no record then your description is all the more important for us to find him, sir.’ Jim brightened at that. The last couple of hours had seemed interminable, his head swimming with the images, all the while trying so hard to keep the picture of that brute in his mind. ‘So I can still help you, then?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. Now let me explain how this works.’

‘I hate to raise any hopes and call this a breakthrough,’ Lorimer began. ‘But I’m not one for believing in coincidences. Lily Winters was almost attacked by a man wielding a scarf, perhaps the same person who attacked and killed Miriam Lyons and Jenny Haslet. Of course, unless we find and apprehend this man we have no way of matching his DNA on our current database. But it is surely not a coincidence that he was at the end of the same lane where Carol Kirkpatrick and Tracey-Anne Geddes were both attacked. And he was driving a white Merc when he went after Lily Winters.’