Alex Gray: A Pound Of Flesh

Carol had woken just once, her head turned so that she knew who was sitting next to her, holding her hand. She would never forget that ghost of a smile under the dim lighting; it was as if the dying woman knew that it was only a matter of time before she would slip back into an unconsciousness from which she would never awaken.

‘Who did this to you?’ she had whispered, aware of the uniformed police officer standing just feet away from them, listening beyond the curtain.

A slight rise in her eyebrows was probably answer enough but Carol had managed to utter a few words. ‘Some punter,’ she’d said, the words hardly audible as her breath came in painful gasps. ‘Picked me up at Blythswood … ’ Tears had filled her eyes as she remembered. ‘Stranger … Not from here.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about him?’ she’d demanded, squeezing Carol’s hand as tightly as she dared, urging her to give her something, anything that would help to nail the bastard.

‘Hurt me,’ she’d whispered, her eyelids flickering. Was she sinking rapidly into that darkness? But, no, she had opened her eyes, looked straight at her, focusing on a different memory. ‘Tell my … mum … I’m sorry,’ Carol had wheezed, then that bubble of blood had appeared at her mouth and the terrible sound deep within her chest as though some subterranean creature was trying to escape from her ruined body.

Then the alarm bell had begun its insistent beeping and she had been ushered out firmly, several white-coated professionals filling that tiny space around Carol’s bed.

It was still strange to recall how quickly it had all been over. The next time she had seen Carol there was a clean white sheet drawn up to her chin, hiding those other horrific knife wounds, and she appeared to be simply asleep, her face turned slightly to one side, mouth half-open as though she still had things to say.

Later, as she sat in the Accident and Emergency waiting room clutching a cardboard cup of milky tea, she had overheard two of the uniformed policemen talking about Carol. That prostitute , one of them had said and she had seen the indifferent shrug of the shoulders by the other. That was all she had been to them: a woman from the drag, a junkie out for her next fix, the dross of society that they had to sweep away as part of their bloody job.

She’d set down the tea on the floor by the metal chair then, turned deliberately on her heel and left, a rage boiling inside her that made her want to smash her fist into someone’s face. And what had transpired afterwards? Not a hell of a lot; the senior investigating officer had made lots of noises via the press but they’d never found Carol Kilpatrick’s killer. She’d given up on the police eventually, doing her own investigation, talking to folk like Tracey-Anne who had been with Carol that night. Listening as the girl had told her things she hadn’t mentioned to the police. A white Mercedes, big sports job , Tracey-Anne had told her. Aye, that wan , she’d said, her finger jabbing on the brochure she’d picked up from the dealership in Milton Street. The SL, a sporty car that had been the rich man’s favourite for decades. Anger had energised her, made her seek out things she feared the police had overlooked.

Well, she thought, listening to the rain beat down on the skylight window; that anger was controlled now and had a direction and focus that would eventually bring Carol’s killer to the sort of justice he deserved.

‘Hell’s teeth!’

DCI Helen James grabbed her stomach and lurched forwards. The nagging pain that had resisted several packs of Rennies over the past week was now tearing into her guts with a ferocity that took the senior officer’s breath away.

‘Ma’am?’ One of her detective constables was approaching her, an expression of alarm on his face as Helen staggered from her office, one hand waving feebly to warn him off.

The projectile vomit was nothing short of spectacular, splattering a vast swathe of the floor outside her room as well as catching the unfortunate officer’s well-polished shoes.

‘Get me an ambulance,’ Helen croaked, doubling up once again as the pain creased her insides.

It was only later as she was being wheeled to the operating theatre that Helen remembered where she should have been and what she ought to have been doing, but by then the pre-med had taken effect and she could only pray that Tracey-Anne would be sensible and do what she had advised.

The drop-in centre was a haven for girls like Tracey-Anne who used it at night. The older women with more experience tended to keep to the evening hours of seven till eleven, though desperation for a fix sometimes forced them back out in the wee small hours of darkness. Tracey-Anne sat swinging her leg up and down up and down as the jitters began take hold. She shivered under her fake fur coat, wishing that she had put on a few more clothes, but hey, the punters couldn’t be bothered to unwrap layer upon layer as they searched for their honey pot.

‘You awright, hen?’ A dark-haired woman lurched towards Tracey-Anne, the mug of tea in her hand threatening to tip sideways. ‘C’n I sit here?’ the woman added, plonking herself down on the chair opposite without waiting for a reply.

‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne nodded, her leg action becoming faster and faster as her agitation increased. In truth she didn’t care if someone sat beside her. Sometimes it paid to hear what the other women said about their punters. They’d moan about ones to avoid, those who threw you out of the car as soon as they’d done the business or the big bruisers who’d had too much to drink and were little more than brute beasts by the time they’d pulled you in.

‘Ur you no’ the lassie that wis gassin’ tae that polis woman?’ The woman’s thick accent wasn’t local, reminding Tracey-Anne of a woman she knew as mad Moira. Falkirk, maybe? Or some place the other side of Edinburgh?

‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne agreed, though most of the girls who came here had talked to Helen James at one time or another. So many of her mates were dead and gone, three of them murdered; others lost to the drugs; it was no wonder the polis kept an eye on them all. Helen was there to warn them, she always insisted, wanted them to avoid dangerous situations, as she put it, so yes, she let the policewoman buy her the occasional cuppa. But she’d never spoken again about the night that Carol had been killed. Couldn’t bring herself to go over any of the details, she’d told her, crossing her fingers under the table. There were some things she’d been warned to keep entirely to herself. But, aye, the polis wifie was okay, spoke nice to you an’ that. It didn’t make you a grass or anything to have a wee blether. Not when the woman was doing her best for you, handing out leaflets about getting off the game and into a better place.

‘Och, she’s awright,’ Tracey-Anne shrugged, her eyes passing over the woman for a moment. She was older than most of the others, probably somewhere in her forties, her dark hair crimped around a thin narrow face, shards of rainbow light flashing from her dangling earrings as she shook her head uncertainly. It was odd that she had never set eyes on this one before, but then perhaps she was new to the city?

‘Are ye not from around here, then?’ Tracey-Anne asked.

‘Naw,’ the woman replied, fixing her with a gimlet stare that seemed to say that no more questions were welcome.

A tap on the window made both women turn to see who was there. A man’s pale face stared in at them, his breath fogging up the glass.

Wearily Tracey-Anne rose from her seat, picked up her handbag and headed for the door. Tam was peering at her through the window, one hand beckoning her over, making it clear that she should get out of there pronto and go and find her next punter.