Alex Gray: A Pound Of Flesh

‘C’mon, hen. C’mon. Whit’s keeping’ ye?’ he demanded, jerking her from the doorway so that her coat fell open revealing the thin blouse and short lycra skirt. Tracey-Anne hardly had time to pull it back around her before he was urging her along Robertson Street.

Tracey-Anne just kept her head down and let him lead her up through the city to her pitch. It was better not to cross Tam when he needed to score. Usually he was too out of his head to be a threat, but sometimes, like tonight, she’d glimpse a mean streak that gave her the feeling he might turn nasty. Just get him the money and he’d leave her alone for the rest of the night. She’d be back at the flat some time, hoping he’d left enough for her. What was it Helen had told her? A vicious circle or something. Well that was right enough, Tracey-Anne thought as they headed up the hill towards Blythswood Square. There was never a good time to come off this drug that held her in its grasp. Never a good time to leave Tam either. Besides, where would she go? Helen’s other warnings faded from her mind as she tried to concentrate on the here and now.

The red lights from that fancy hotel twinkled as they approached. Funny how so many posh folk in their big cars came after the likes of her, Tracey-Anne often thought. But then punters were men and men all had that desire between their legs that needed to be satisfied. She felt a jab on her back through the fur coat as Tam staggered suddenly, pushing her against the railing.

‘See and get back tae me within the next hour, d’ye hear me? Ah’m jist aboot ready tae top myself,’ he warned her, releasing his grasp on her arm at last.

Then, slouching off into the night, Tam left her to shiver once more as she stepped to the edge of this pavement that had become more familiar to her than any home Tracey-Anne really knew.

Be careful , Helen had warned her. Remember what happened to Carol and the others . The policewoman’s voice came back to her now in the silence of the night.

Tracey-Anne had listened and nodded, hoping that Helen would stop going on about the dangers that certain predatory men posed for a vulnerable woman like herself. Och, but who really cared? So what if someone was to end it all tonight? Nobody would miss her, would they? Not even Tam, who would just find another junkie woman to scrounge off, she thought wearily. Her thoughts were interrupted as the big car rounded one side of the square and slowed almost to a standstill.

Tracey-Anne was at the door, her best smile directed towards the driver, before she had time to consider any of the consequences. It was a punter. He was asking How much? And she was already getting into the car, thinking about how easy this was, how soon she could be back at the flat and how marvellous she would feel again when this deadly cold was stopped for a while by the fire rushing through her veins.

The woman standing on the steps of the hotel wrapped her black cashmere coat around her more closely as she watched the car’s tail lights vanish over the hill. She had recognised the prostitute, known that she might be recognised herself had she stepped further into her orbit. Maybe it was a good thing that poor, junked-up Tracey-Anne was now using Carol’s old pitch. Any punter comparing her to the attractive dark-haired woman who sometimes stood across from her on Blythswood Square would find it easy to choose between them, wouldn’t they? But that other woman was not coming out to play tonight, she thought, turning back into the warmth of the hotel. She was biding her time. And it paid to be patient, didn’t it? The police inquiries were simply all over the place, officers at a loss as to who had despatched those two men in their fancy white cars.

She smiled as the duty manager nodded at her. She hadn’t been here often enough to have become a familiar figure, a businesswoman who patronised their establishment, sometimes staying over, coming and going at odd hours of the night when different members of staff would simply glance as she went past. Had they ever noticed the changes that she went through? The sleek night clubber returning as an insomniac jogger? Possibly not. But perhaps she might think of shifting her custom a little way down the hill to the Malmaison. After all, it paid to be cautious.

Tracey-Anne stood with her back to the road, wiping her hands furiously with the antiseptic wipes she kept in the bag at her feet. Just a hand job. Only a measly tenner, not enough for either Tam or herself to score a bag of gear. And she needed that fix. Oh, dear God how she needed it!

The white car rounded the corner of the square as she straightened up. Could her luck be in this time?

For a moment she froze, striving to remember something Helen had told her. Or was it something she had meant to tell Helen? A fugginess like the mist around the lamp post swirled in the young woman’s brain. The white car. She should step back and wave it off, shouldn’t she? Make that phone call, like she’d promised. But the thought of a whole bag of gear and being back at the flat instead of standing here for hours in the cold made her shake her head as if to dispel any residual fears.

Stepping forward, Tracey-Anne saw the tinted window being rolled down, the shape of a man’s head leaning towards her, an arm being raised to open the door.

‘Want tae do the business?’ she asked, trying to make eye contact with the driver.

‘Get in,’ a heavily accented voice told her. ‘I pay double your usual. Okay?’

It was hard to keep the grin off her face as she climbed into the car, taking in its warmth, the rich leathery scent of its interior. She knew a classy car didn’t always mean a nice punter, but this one didn’t even look at her as she buckled on the seat belt.

‘White female. No vital signs. Request doctor at scene and mortuary van.’ The officer who stood at the edge of the pavement tried not to look back into the cobbled lane as he spoke into his radio. Finding the woman’s body had not been part of his plans for tonight’s shift. All he’d expected was a quick recce round the drag, shining his torch into the pends and back courts, then down to the chippie to chat up that new bird, Patricia, who’d been allocated as his neighbour on the beat. Now he was virtually on his own as the rookie cried her eyes out over the road, the victim his responsibility until the duty doctor and the scene of crime officers arrived.

‘Sooner the better,’ Fraser MacDonald whispered under his breath as he listened to the voice from the control room.

The ground glistened under an early morning frost as PC MacDonald turned back to the lane. His boots slipped on the shining cobblestones and he put out one leather gloved hand to the wall beside him to steady himself. They’d almost passed her by, he thought, glancing at the bundle in the corner beside the red industrial garbage bins. A heap of rags, he’d presumed at first, seeing the curled shape, not recognising it as anything human.

What the heck’s that? Patricia had asked, waving her torch at it.

Fraser had been on the point of hurrying her on when something had stopped him; some instinct that told him to take a second look. He’d only seen the coat at first; a discarded old furry thing thrown over a heap of other rubbish.

Only it hadn’t been a litter dump. When Fraser had lifted the coat he had seen the woman’s naked body curled, foetus-like, underneath, the stab wounds livid even in the weak lamplight, blood darkening the ground where she lay. He’d felt for a pulse, knowing as he did that it was a waste of time. Poor bitch was as dead as a doornail. She wasn’t anyone he knew, but then, Fraser had reasoned, it was only the second night shift he’d done on this particular beat.