Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

‘What will happen to you when they wind up the unit?’ he asked, but Lorimer was in full song now and did not hear the psychologist’s question.

The hotel was eerily quiet tonight, most of the staff having left earlier in the evening, as the woman in the darkened booth sat drinking her second glass of Pinot Grigio. The food had been exquisite, the room where she slept becoming almost like home, but it would soon be time to leave here for good and as she contemplated her uncertain future, the woman who had called herself Diana Yeats wondered just what would happen four nights from now. She would check out on Wednesday morning, she decided, and return home to pack. A new beginning was called for, somewhere far from Scotland, far from all the memories that had haunted her for too long now. She had played with Barbara, hinting at a trip to Mauritius, so perhaps that thought could be translated into a plan of action. Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow she would take her passport and buy tickets, but only for herself. There would be no lady in her company this time, she knew, just the shadow of a girl whose murder she was destined to avenge.

The barman had glanced her way a few times already, waiting to see if she wanted anything else, but Diana had studiously avoided his eye, contenting herself with the dark green bottle that sat at an angle in its ice bucket. If only he knew, the woman smiled to herself. How had she appeared to them? A sophisticated businesswoman, probably? Certainly not a person who posed any sort of threat.

On Tuesday she would dress in her trashy clothes for the very last time, take her silvery-blue pistol, and gun down the monster who had taken away the only love of her life.

She had been surprised and annoyed that it had taken the policewoman to point out the dates of the women’s deaths to her: four full moons suggesting some maddened creature fulfilling his bloodlust in the dark. How could she, who was so meticulous in other ways, have failed to notice that piece of information? How could they have failed to see that until now? Her grip tightened on the stem of her wine glass as she cursed the police and their ineptitude. Well, she was forewarned now and had also been given the nod that several of the street women would be officers in disguise. But it was something else that Barbara Knox had told her that made the woman twirl her glass around and around, smiling as though she was still one step ahead of the police. If what she thought was true, then no white Mercedes would circle the drag on the next full moon. Its driver would have no need to drive round and round the square when she would be ready and waiting for him.

Sacha stood in the doorway, listening hard. The house seemed to be listening back, waiting for him to make the slightest sound. His uncle and aunt had gone to bed hours ago and Sacha had heard them snoring as he’d passed their room. Light from the moon shone down through the landing window, a cold brightness that flooded across the stair carpet, silvering the metal stair rods as he crept down to the hall.

They had no idea about his nocturnal wanderings, though he knew that his uncle Vladimir had kept a watchful eye on him for the first few weeks after his arrival in the city. That was more than two years ago and Sacha was one of the family now, though sometimes he felt that they treated him more like a family pet that had a wayward disposition and had to be guarded with care.

The big man padded across the remaining length of hallway and pushed open the door of the lounge. The armoury was located through a panelled archway at the far end of the room and through another door, but first he had to make his way across this place without knocking into any of the furniture or sending one of Andrea’s precious ornaments tumbling to the floor. One small sound and his aunt might come pattering down the stairs, her fear of burglars no doubt fuelled by his uncle’s refusal to insure all her stupid china figurines. Once he had asked about the antique weapons: did Uncle Vlad have any idea of their worth? But Vladimir Badica had shaken his head as if such a question was not to be asked. They were, he told Sacha coldly, of historic value, as though any mention of a price tag on his collection was somehow vulgar.

To Sacha, the weapons meant more than money or history. As he stood before the glass case he peered through the gloom to make out each and every different sword and scimitar: each piece was endowed with a magic that only one who had held and wielded the weapon could understand. After each of the executions, he had wiped the blades clean, careful to ensure that there was not a single mark left on blade or heft, before returning them to the display case. It was almost time to choose again, he thought, reaching up to unfasten the catch that held them behind the glass. It would be the third time he had chosen one of these special instruments of death. Three was a significant number, he knew, though what it truly meant was hidden somewhere beyond his understanding. And if he succeeded in vanquishing another of these females, then his blood count would have risen to ten, a number that made him tingle with apprehension and delight.

They were easy prey, these feeble creatures waiting for him in the darkness, standing on the edge of pavements, teetering in their thin-heeled shoes. He remembered how their heads would bend forwards like anxious birds to peer into his wonderful car, willing him to stop for them and barter their stricken bodies for his hard-earned cash.

It gleamed out at him as the case door swung open, a blade so magnificent that for a moment Sacha wondered why he had not chosen it before. As his fingers closed over the hilt, he realised that it was something he had not seen before. Uncle Vlad must have made a recent purchase, possibly in the wake of trading in the one that had been his very favourite of all the white sports cars. The sabre was heavy as he lifted it from its place against the velvet back cloth and he weighed it carefully in both hands. A cavalry sword, he decided, a Hungarian szablya , perhaps, gazing at all that intricate tooling on its heft. The curved blade had a single cutting edge, designed to cut a swathe through the enemy as the weapon was raised above the head of a galloping horse. Sacha could hear the screams of his adversaries as he sliced through them, the whinnying of his steed as he surged against the tide of bodies coming at him.

Then the moment passed and he was stood there in the darkness, the sabre in his right hand, no sounds but his own breath and the blood ringing in his ears.

Carefully, reverently, he replaced the weapon and nodded his approbation. His choice was made. Now all he needed was a new victim.

It might be her day off, but Barbara Knox was up bright and early, slicking fingers through her gelled hair after a quick shower. The radio was playing some old cheesy pop tune and Barbara found herself singing along, her mood lighter now that her decision had been made. She’d checked and Sundays were days when the car hire place would be open to the public. And why not pay it a little visit, just on the off-chance that she might stumble across some new information. Her smile broadened as she imagined Lorimer’s face when she presented him with the facts and figures on Monday morning. Wouldn’t that just make Sutherland’s eyes water! She’d sensed from the off that the DI had her down as no more than a filing clerk. Now she’d show him and all the rest that DC Knox was a force to be reckoned with.

Barbara’s smile dropped a little as she checked her mobile for any text messages but there were none. She flipped the phone shut and made a mental note to delete Diana’s number. Perhaps it was time to admit that she was finished with playing the woman’s games. In the clear light of day it was easier to see how she had allowed her judgement to be clouded by a collision of fantasy and reality. Today she would begin afresh, putting the job first.