Alex Gray - A Pound Of Flesh

Then an agonising crash as metal hit stone. Followed only by silence.

He ran on, mouth falling open in dismay at the scene. The car had ploughed into the side of a building, its bonnet open and bent. Then the whole place seemed to come alive as police officers appeared from the darkened lanes of the drag, one car sounding its siren.

The driver of the car was slumped sideways, a neat bullet hole in his chest. But the woman had fallen forwards against the windscreen, face smashed against the glass.

Even as he looked at those wide eyes and open mouth, Lorimer could tell that she was dead.

‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’ DI Armstrong was suddenly at his side. ‘Thought it was your birthday party tonight … ’ His voice trailed off as the DI followed Lorimer’s horrified gaze.

‘Christ! Looks like we’ve got her, then, sir,’ Armstrong said, putting his radio to his lips.

‘We’ve got them both,’ Lorimer said, stepping forwards and pointing at the shining blade that had fallen between the two bodies. ‘You’ll find that the woman’s name is Claire Johnson,’ he said, reeling back slightly from the carnage inside the vehicle.

‘You okay, sir? Sir?’ Armstrong had caught his sleeve before Lorimer stumbled back onto the road. ‘And how do you know the woman’s name?’

‘That’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘But then, I expect this is going to be a long night.’

Maggie listened as the dawn chorus began. A memorable night, he had said. Well nobody in Strathclyde Police would easily forget the night of Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s fortieth, would they? He had called her, of course, let her know why he had failed to return from that trip upstairs. The dancing had continued till well after midnight, Maggie watching the door to see if he would return before the last guests departed. She had made her lonely way to the empty room, taken off her pretty clothes and slipped ruefully into the new nightdress bought specially for the occasion. He had come back when the first stirrings of life had begun in the hotel, taking off his clothes quietly so as not to disturb her. But Maggie had been awake, full of questions, and so he had talked and she had listened, hearing the parts of the story he wanted to share. Tomorrow would bring more answers, he’d promised.

Till then Maggie lay listening to her husband breathing. Two more lives had been snuffed out tonight, one a man whose intentions appeared to be as vicious as the weapon taken from the wrecked car; the other a woman who had hidden her identity behind a façade, seeking to avenge the woman she had loved.

She looked at the sky that was visible above the buildings outside the hotel window. Then, as Maggie watched, the skies began to lighten, the moon unseen now behind a bank of clouds.

Detective Superintendent William Lorimer closed the file on his desk and nodded quietly, though the bearded man gazing out of the window appeared to be unaware of his approval. Solly’s profiling of the killers had been frighteningly accurate. The one person who could have committed the crimes against those men had indeed been a person who was forensically aware, experienced in handling firearms and had been passionately motivated, just as the psychologist had suggested. Claire had not been a street woman tarted up to pull in the punters for money but rather she had hidden behind her disguise with murderous intent. It had been a double blow for Helen James. Not only had she been unable to protect all of the girls out on the street but her former colleague, her favoured officer, had become a ruthless killer, lurking in the shadowy world of the Glasgow prostitutes.

He placed the file on top of the one marked BADICA, ALEXANDER and gave a sigh. There would be no trial, no opportunity for a judge to mete out a sentence against the Romanian. Yet, he frowned, would that have actually happened? Would a man like Badica have been fit to plead?

‘He’d have gone to Carstairs Mental Hospital, wouldn’t he?’ he mused aloud, causing Solly to turn from the window.

‘I expect so,’ the psychologist nodded. ‘I imagine she knew there was a strong possibility that a violent killer like the man who had murdered Carol Kilpatrick and the other girls would never stand trial.’

Lorimer thought about the former police officer who had taken the law into her own hands. Once a cynical cop, always a cynical cop , Helen James had told him sourly. But this had not been about cynicism, he mused. This had been about love.

And what had Barbara Knox felt for the woman she had known as Diana? Had that been love? Or had she simply been beguiled by Claire at a time when she had desperately needed to prove herself to her superiors? He had written an extensive report stressing the young officer’s previous exemplary record, hoping that it might help to offset the damage she had done. There was no date fixed yet for her disciplinary hearing and Lorimer had no way of knowing whether the career of DC Barbara Knox had any chance of survival.

‘Sometimes fate takes a hand in the affairs of men,’ Solly said quietly, interrupting Lorimer’s reverie. ‘Though perhaps Claire was careless of her own fate. Finding Badica and ending his life was all she really wanted.’

‘You really think she had no plans for her own future?’

Solly shook his head. ‘I think the day that Carol Kilpatrick died was the day that Claire’s dreams for the future ended. And perhaps there was something fitting about being killed after she shot the man who had robbed her of that.’

He looked into the distance thoughtfully ‘What was it that Shakespeare said? This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice to our own lips,’ he quoted.

Lorimer looked at his friend. Perhaps there was some higher authority that decided our fate. Perhaps not. He was just a copper, someone whose job it was to bring criminals to justice. But, God help him, it was a job that he loved.

Barbara Knox laid her small posy on the grave and stood back. There was nobody there to see her action, nobody to condemn. The policewoman had heard all the evidence against Diana, or Claire as the name on her headstone proclaimed. Yet, despite the suspension and the aftermath that had followed her stay in hospital there was still something that she did not regret. Those few happy hours when she had been made to feel special might still come again, if only she had met the right person this time. Something in her was glad that her friend had fulfilled her quest to kill Alexander Badica, but Barbara could never bring herself to condone the waste of those three innocent lives.

The Romanian had been wanted for the murder of street women back in his own country and there were still questions being asked of Vladimir concerning just how much he had known and attempted to cover up. The two saunas had been his nephew’s initial source of women, but that had apparently failed to satisfy the man with a penchant for cruelty. Whether they could ever lay all the unsolved murders at Alexander Badica’s door remained to be seen, but DNA had confirmed his involvement in some of them at least.

A bitter wind sprang up from the east and Barbara wrapped her coat more closely around her, wondering if she would ever be warm again. April is the cruellest month , Eliot had written, and so it seemed, with the squad now disbanded and Mumby making noises about not wanting her back in his division.

‘Are you okay?’ Monica Proctor was waiting for her at the cemetery gates, an anxious expression on her face. Barbara nodded then let herself be led away, her hands empty now but her heart a little lighter as the spring skies opened above her and the sun came out at last.