world,’ Jeremy Lyons mused as he set down his mug on the floor by his chair. ‘There’s that politician been shot and I was only talking to him on the bus about three weeks ago.’
‘Edward Pattison?’ Solly asked, trying to conceal his amazement.
‘Yes, the SNP man. I’d had a meeting with him at Holyrood to discuss the possibility of government funding for a women’s refuge. He asked if he could come over to Glasgow and see what the project was doing.’
‘Pattison visited the Big Blue Bus when it was doing its rounds?’ Solly asked.
Lyons nodded. ‘He was great with the girls. Chatted away to them quite happily.’ He shook his head. ‘What a waste,’ he said, ‘a man with gifts like that. He had such charm, what is it they call it? Charisma, that’s the word. He had these girls quite enthralled, you know.’
‘You liked him?’ Solly asked.
Lyons frowned suddenly. ‘Funny you should ask that. I feel that I should have liked him but … ’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘He was a bit overwhelming for me, professor. A bit too charming, if that’s possible.’
Jeremy Lyons looked up at Solly and his dark eyes widened. ‘He was the sort of man you and I might have warned our daughter to avoid,’ he said slowly as though the idea had only just occurred to him.
Later, after his second class of the morning had trooped out of the lecture theatre, Solly had time to think over his meeting with the lawyer. Not only had Edward Pattison had contact with prostitutes but he had also been invited to assist the project that was designed to help these women come off drugs and leave the streets for good. Solly did not believe in coincidences any more than his friend, Lorimer, up at Pitt Street: Edward Pattison’s death seemed to be linked with more than those of the other two businessmen whose bodies had been found in their white Mercedes cars.
Had Solly now found a link between the two major cases that had been taken over by the Serious Crimes Squad? The chief constable had issued a command to Lorimer to concentrate on the senior politician’s murder. So, Solly mused, perhaps it was time to talk to someone who knew more about the deaths of these street girls than anyone else.
CHAPTER 21
Helen James put down the phone with a sigh. The days since her operation had merged into one, with sleep and more sleep as the combination of anaesthetic and the recent punishing regime at work took their toll. He sounded nice, this professor. She’d heard of him, of course. Who in Strathclyde hadn’t? ‘Solomon Brightman,’ Helen said aloud, relishing the psychologist’s name. ‘Solomon the Wise.’ She smiled as she thought of the Old Testament king whose sagacity had earned him universal fame. Well, it would certainly be a diversion for the DCI in her enforced recuperation. She had nobody now in her division that she really wanted to see. Fairbairn had given her a ring, right enough, she admitted grudgingly, but that was out of courtesy, not friendship. And right now she would have welcomed visits from some old friends.
A sudden sigh came as Helen James recalled one of her favourite detective sergeants, a blonde lass with a sharp wit who had been hounded out of the force some time back by the antigay brigade. A high-profile case had resulted and Helen had been unable to do anything but watch helplessly from the sidelines. Claire had won it hands down but had then left in disgust. Such a waste of a good polis, she thought, shaking her head. Claire would have made senior rank no bother. Och, well, at least some of her officers were being usefully deployed with Lorimer. And being introduced to Solomon Brightman. Helen smiled suddenly. Perhaps being at home wasn’t such a bad thing if it brought the opportunity to discuss a case with the celebrated professor.
Vladimir Badica slammed the metal door behind him, creating a draught of frozen air in the vast space that housed his fleet of cars. The weather had brought a spate of cancellations and as a result this side of his business was deathly quiet. Not so the concrete garage that lay beneath the Glasgow streets: the sound of metal banging against metal and rap music from a transistor radio drew his eyes to the mechanic under one of the luxury cars. All Badica could see was a pair of stout black boots