Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Tommy Carmichael drew into the lay-by, cutting the white van’s engine. Giving a cough, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and put one into his mouth, fishing in the other pocket for his lighter. The snap then flare was followed by a contented sigh as he inhaled and felt the nicotine reach his lungs. The rain had stopped pattering down against the windscreen and the clouds had shifted enough for Tommy to see the hazy outline of the moon. He sat back, smoking contentedly. There was no hurry to shift the mattress in the back and let it fall down into the gully. The man sniffed. Was he starting a cold? He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so daft taking off his strip and waving it aloft at that last Rangers game. Tommy grinned. Och but he’d been blootered out of his heid, hadnae noticed the cold a bit.

The cigarette finished, Tommy rolled down the window and flicked the stub away, watching the glow describe an arc in the cold night air. Then he stopped. What the hell was that? A faint yet discernible sound that could only be the ring from a mobile phone reached Tommy’s ears.

Curious, the man slipped from the cab of the van, his feet touching the gravel with a crunch. The noise was coming from his left, below the edge of the road. As Tommy peered into the darkness, the moon came out from behind its wisp of cloud and shone down, making the dark shapes suddenly brighter.

‘Name o’ God!’ he gasped, his hand across his brow as he saw the figure slumped at the foot of the tree. The ringing stopped and Tommy stood there, biting his lip, unsure of what he wanted to do. A deid body was a deid body, wasn’t it? He couldnae do onything to help. Could he?

The sudden bark of the unseen fox made him start. Time tae get oot o’ here. Yet he hesitated still. That wis somebody’s kin doon there. Wouldnae hurt tae make wan call, would it?

Reaching for his own mobile, Tommy dialled 999.

‘Ah’m up on the Braes, so ah ah’m,’ he explained when he was finally connected to the police. ‘Stopped fur a fag at the lay-by up the top. Think there’s a deid boady doon in the gully, so ah do.’

But when asked to give his name, Tommy Carmichael shook his head. Enough was enough. Snapping the phone shut he turned and climbed into the van once more. He’d done his duty, hadn’t he? Wasn’t goin tae be there when the polis rolled up, asking questions and wantin tae see what was in the back o’ the van.

‘They’ve found her.’ Lorimer put down the phone with a sigh, Maggie’s anxious face looking up at his.

‘Is she…?’ Maggie left the words unspoken but her husband smiled wearily, shaking his head.

‘She’s been taken to hospital. Suffering from hypothermia and concussion at the very least, the paramedics reckoned. We’ll see,’ he added, pulling Maggie into his arms and sending up a fervent prayer that his over-zealous detective constable would survive the next few hours. Proctor and Armstrong had hinted that the DC might have been moonlighting, but it was hard to know just where she had been and who had done this to her.

‘Come on, back to bed,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll know more in the morning.’

Maggie yawned suddenly, shivering in her thin nightdress. She had wanted to give him his card first thing, but when that phone call had shattered the night, bringing such awful news, all thoughts of her husband’s birthday had been pushed to the back of her mind.

As they slipped under the duvet, Bill’s arms encircled her, his hand rubbing her back. Still shivering, Maggie tried not to think too hard about the woman who had been discovered on that lonely spot or how the cold must have gnawed into her very bones.

The telephone ringing at 6.30 next morning made Lorimer sit up in bed and snatch it quickly. Maggie sat up sleepily, watching her husband’s face for any signs that might tell her what was happening. When it lit up with a smile she let out a sigh of relief, unaware that she had been holding her breath.

‘She’s going to be all right,’ he said as he put down the phone at last. ‘Still hasn’t regained consciousness and they’re taking her in to theatre first thing but she’s out of danger, they say.’

Maggie reached out and clung to his arm. ‘Happy birthday,’ she whispered, finding his cheek and kissing it.

‘Good grief! I’d forgotten all about that,’ he smiled, turning to her and taking her into his arms. ‘Well, that news is the best present I could’ve had,’ he added softly.

Tucked against his chest, Maggie gave a grin that she knew he could not see: there were more surprises in store later on. Just wait and see if this day didn’t get better and better, she thought happily.

Rita Livingstone sat nursing her coffee cup as Lorimer outlined the plans for the squad. It had been a long morning so far. The news about Barbara Knox had spread like wildfire throughout the department, speculation running high about who had abducted the police officer and why. It had been a stroke of sheer luck that she had been located way up in Glennifer Braes. Whoever had made that 999 call deserved a medal. Although a cynical part of Rita wondered if the caller might have been instrumental in throwing the woman down that gully in the first place. Some villains simply baulked at the idea of doing in another human being and this was, after all, a police officer. But now there was a different sort of news to consider, something that would affect them all.

‘What will you do yourself, sir?’ she asked quietly.

‘That hasn’t been decided yet, Rita,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘But it was hinted that I might be transferred to a divisional HQ somewhere.’

‘In Strathclyde?’

Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Better be. My wife works in Muirpark Secondary and I don’t think she’d be too happy to have to relocate.’

Rita Livingstone noticed a softness in her superior’s eyes at the mention of his wife but she did not change her own expression. There was something there that caused her a sudden pang. This man, childless though he might be, had that rare thing: a loving marriage. It was his fortieth birthday today, Rita knew. She had noticed the date on his personnel file way before Christmas and made a note of it. His wife had sworn her to secrecy about the party this evening and Rita was gratified to have been the only one in the squad to have received an invitation. He hasn’t had much time to get to know his new colleagues , Maggie Lorimer had told her, but he speaks so warmly of you that I thought you’d like to come along.

This afternoon she had planned a wee surprise for the boss: a cake from Asda with the Strathclyde Police logo on top and two chunky wax candles shaped in a 4 and a 0. Not everybody would be able to be there, given the workload, but enough to wish this man well on his special day.

‘I’ve hardly had time to get to know any of you,’ Lorimer said, unconsciously echoing his wife’s words.

‘It happens,’ Rita shrugged. ‘But we did think the squad might have lasted a good bit longer or been transformed into something else. You know, same thing but under another name.’

Lorimer remained silent. The squad was being streamlined, Joyce Rogers had told him, but there had been a hint that a similar unit might emerge elsewhere, possibly out at Govan. Yet there had been no mention of the Pitt Street officers being deployed there. Had the Pattison case come to a satisfactory conclusion would he be looking forward to commanding a new squad over on the south side of the city? Perhaps. He hadn’t asked that particular question, though, preferring to await whatever fate had in store.

As the final bell of the day rang out, Maggie packed up the last of her papers into a well-worn satchel and headed out after her class. The day had remained clear and crisp and the sun was still above the rooftops as she left the school, the sky blue beyond the lines of leafless trees that ran along the adjacent cricket grounds. It looked like being a fine night for the party. She had plenty of time to get ready at home, call anyone who might have left messages and leave out packs of food for Chancer. Jean, their wonderful cleaning lady who came in twice a week, had offered to pop in and feed the cat so that they could enjoy their overnight stay in the Malmaison. As she drove home, Maggie found herself humming along to an old Joni Mitchell song that she’d put on the CD player.