Alex Gray: A Pound Of Flesh

It wasn’t always easy to see the moon or the stars. This city’s sodium glow rose like yellow fog from its streets, blotting out any chance of star gazing. But she knew it was there. That cold white face dominated her thoughts tonight and she shivered as though it already saw her flesh naked and exposed to its unblinking watchfulness. Perhaps it was because she was trying to be seen that she felt such awareness. The red jersey pencil skirt folded over to create a too-short mini, those agonisingly highheeled sandals cutting into her bare toes; spread across the bed back in the hotel they had seemed the garb of an adventuress. Now, revealed in the glare of the street lamp on this corner she felt a sense of … what? Shame? Perhaps. Self-consciousness, certainly. But such feelings must be overcome if her plan was to work.

She had already overcome the blank indifference of the girls down in Waterloo Street, their body language both defiant and compelling. Her hips shifted, one slender foot thrust forwards, as she remembered how they had stood, languidly chewing gum, waiting for their punters. Their desperation drove them to return night after night, the price of a wrap of drugs equating to an hour with some stranger.

Her own need was just as strong, fuelled by a passion that would not be spent until she had fulfilled her desire.

It was warm in this Glasgow summer’s night and her black nylon blouse clung to her back, making her uncomfortably aware of her own flesh. The thin cotton coat she’d worn to conceal these trashy clothes as she’d tapped her way across the marble foyer of the hotel was now folded into the black bag at her feet, along with her more sober court shoes. When it was over she would slip them on and return the way she had come, hair clipped in a businesslike pleat. She smiled thinly. Being a woman had some advantages; the facility for disguise was just one of them. Her carefully made-up face was stripped of colour in the unforgiving lamplight, leaving only an impression of dark eyes, darker hair tossed back to reveal a long, determined mouth. She recalled what Tracey-Anne, one of the girls at the drop-in centre, had told her: I get through it by pretending to be someone else for a few hours, then I can be myself again.

Tracey-Anne was lucky, though.

After tonight she could never again be the person that she used to be.

Glancing at the elegant façades around the square, the darkhaired woman suddenly saw these city streets through different eyes: the shadows seemed blacker, the corners harbouring ill intent. Her chin tilted upwards, defying those inner demons tempting her to turn back.

After tonight things would change for ever.

When the car slowed down at the kerb her heart quickened in a moment of anticipation that astonished her. She had expected the thrill of fear, not this rush of excitement sweeping through her blood.

The man behind the wheel had bent his head and she could see his eyes flicking over her hungrily, appraising his choice. He gave a brief nod as if to say he was pleased with his first instinct to stop. Her lip-glossed mouth drawn up in a smile, she stepped forward, willing him to reach across and open the window, ask her price. For a moment he seemed to hesitate and she could see tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip, glistening in the light. Then the door of the big car swung open noiselessly and she lowered herself inside, swinging her legs neatly together to show as much thigh as she could. But the gestures were still ladylike, almost reserved, as if she knew that would quicken his senses.

‘How much?’ he asked. And she told him, one shoulder moving insouciantly as if to declare that she wasn’t bothered whether he could afford her or not: someone else would pay that price if he wouldn’t. She glanced at him briefly, catching sight of the tip of his tongue flicking at his lips like a nervous lizard, then he made a gruff noise of assent, looking at her again, as though to be sure of his purchase, before accelerating into the night.

Detective Inspector Keith Preston listened patiently as the scene of crime manager took him through the morning’s work. A patrol car had found the Mercedes abandoned beside a train station half an hour’s drive outside the city. The white car had been parked just under the railway bridge well away from the prying eyes of any CCTV camera. The victim’s body was still where they had found it, slumped over the steering wheel, a gathering posse of flies buzzing around the dark stain on the man’s shirt.

‘Matthew Wardlaw,’ the DS told him, ‘lived in Solihull. From the contents of his briefcase it seems he’d been staying up here on some sort of legal business. Was booked into the Crown Plaza hotel.’

‘Pathologist on his way?’

‘ Her way. Doctor White.’ The DS grinned.

Preston nodded. Jacqui White was one of Glasgow’s more recent celebrities, due to her part in a documentary series about facial reconstruction. Forensic anthropology had been her initial career choice before she had switched to medicine and so the pathologist had been selected to appear in a series of programmes around the country featuring universities like Dundee and Teesside. Preston guessed that the programme’s ratings success was probably down to her milk chocolate voice and a face that the camera just loved. Whatever, Under their Skin had made Jacqui White a household name on both sides of the border as she travelled around talking to the forensic anthropologists whose work was an integral part of criminal investigations. Today, though, she was here in her capacity of consultant forensic pathologist.

Both men looked up as the charcoal grey Porsche Carrera parked behind the two police vehicles. One door was pushed open and in a matter of minutes the pathologist had donned her white boiler suit, picked up her medical bag and was heading towards them. She would examine the corpse, estimate the time of death and tell them what they already knew: that the victim had been shot through the heart, the scorch marks around the entry wound testifying to the fact that the bullet had been fired at close range. Finding out why he’d been there and who had reason to kill him were not within Dr White’s remit, however. She would examine him more fully down at the city mortuary, leaving Preston as Senior Investigating Officer to work out these sorts of problems.

‘Someone knew what they were doing,’ Jacqui White commented as she snapped off her surgical gloves at last. ‘Bull’s eye, in fact,’ she added with a fleeting smile.

‘Or they just got lucky,’ the DS suggested.

‘Well, he didn’t,’ Preston pointed out, nodding back towards the Mercedes. They watched as the scene of crime photographer prowled around the car, leaning in to take shots from various angles, one more stage in the piecing together of just what had taken place under this railway bridge. Matthew Wardlaw’s body would soon be zipped into a body bag and transferred to the waiting van. But for a time this cordoned off area would continue to be forbidden territory to any curious eyes.

Overhead a train rumbled on the tracks, its brakes suddenly shrieking as it drew closer to the platform. Preston looked up and nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps this wasn’t such a random location after all, then. Whoever had pulled that trigger might have waited for such a moment, the deafening noise on the bridge obliterating the sound of gunfire. Well, they would have to wait for forensics results before anything could really push this one forward. It was an isolated spot, far from any domestic habitation, just a couple of shops and a post office-cum-general store nearby. Still, the station would have CCTV that could be looked at, though Preston had a bad feeling it would be of little use to them.