Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (10 page)

‘Sir,’ Fathy said, straightening up and looking guiltily at his senior investigating officer. ‘It’s all right, Fathy. Watching this one will teach you plenty,’ he chuckled.

‘That you, Lorimer?’ Rosie turned her head a fraction, trying not to overbalance.

‘Aye, and shouldn’t you be the note taker these days?’ he answered, smiling at the woman below him whose figure was now quite altered by her pregnancy. `Och, just this last one… well two … then I’ll leave the nasty stuff to the rest of them,’ Rosie replied. ‘Dedication to duty,’ Lorimer explained to Fathy in a loud whisper behind his hand that Doctor Rosie Fergusson was meant to hear.

Any idea when the PMs will be done?’

‘Well, seeing this is the first murder since your pal Kenneth Scott, we might just be able to fit them in today. That all right for you?’ Rosie asked waspishly. DC Fathy looked from one to the other, mystified by the bantering between his SIO and the consultant pathologist. ‘No worries, son, Rosie and me, we’re old pals,’ Lorimer explained. ‘She just likes to give me a hard time of it.’ ‘Aye, and that’s because you want everything done yesterday,’ Rosie shot back. ‘Right, give me a hand up, that’s us all done for now.’

Lorimer reached down and helped the pathologist to her feet, allowing the detective constable to see a fresh faced woman with curly blonde hair escaping from her white hood. Despite the voluminous overalls, Rosie’s pregnancy was evident for all to see and Fathy noticed her eyes crinkle in a friendly smile as she regarded his boss. For a petite and pretty young woman like this to be

involved in something as harsh as the examination and dissection of dead bodies was a novelty to the detective constable, whose experience of such folk had so far been limited to much older and much less attractive practitioners.

It was well after noon when the team reassembled at divisional headquarters. The rain that had earlier washed the streets had eventually disappeared in a haze of rainbow colours and now a glaring sun was shining through the dusty windows. ‘The car’s registered in the name of Fraser Sandiman,’ Irvine told the officers assembled in the muster room. `Ah, dear old Fraz, wondered what kind of a sticky end he’d come to,’ murmured DS Wilson. ‘Known drug dealer,’ he added for DC Fathy’s benefit, giving the young man a wink. There was a murmur amongst the other officers, some of whom were only now being brought up to speed on the latest murder case. Stuff like this happened not infrequently within the Strathclyde area. Drug dealers falling out, men gunned down for reasons that only became partly known, if ever, in a court of

law. ‘Galbraith was identified from his credit cards and Brogan’s not been seen in his flat for a wee while, according to the neighbour who called us,’ Irvine continued, her voice rising above the noise. ‘His place was really trashed when we saw it this morning,’ DC Fathy put in. ‘Someone doesn’t like Mr Brogan very much.’ Naw, son, he’s no very well liked by a lot of folk,’ Wilson explained as a ripple of laughter rang out, leaving the young officer red faced. ‘Okay,’ Lorimer raised a hand and immediately all talk ceased as they turned to look at the senior investigating officer. ‘The postmortems have still to take place but our initial impression is

of a professional who knew what he was doing all right. There was a shotgun inside the flat, registered to Sandiman, and I believe we will find that victim’s prints on it.’ The word victim served to remind the officers that, yes, these were Glasgow dealers who may have made hundreds of lives miserable through the supply of drugs, but they were still citizens whose murders deserved to be investigated. Some mother’s son, DS Wilson was fond of saying, whenever a fellow officer became cynical about such deaths.

‘The injuries to their chests and heads suggest a marksman, maybe a trained sniper. So one immediate line of investigation has to be into any known associates of the deceased who are or were regular army. Alistair, you knew Sandiman from the past, can you take on this action?’ Lorimer nodded to DS Wilson. ‘We’ve still to get the ballistics report as well as other forensics from the scene of crime, but until then it’s a case of asking questions of neighbours like Bernardini, local shopkeepers and,’ he fixed Irvine and Fathy with a stern eye, ‘relatives of the deceased.’ Annie Irvine swallowed. This was becoming a habit. She was accustomed to being picked for this sort of action: dealing with the victims’ families fell to a female officer all too often. You’ve got that sympathetic touch, she’d been told. But this was a little different from giving bad news to the relatives of an accident victim. Sandiman and Galbraith’s families might well be a tough lot, not easy to handle.

‘What about Brogan?’ someone asked. Lorimer’s face creased in a grim smile. ‘Finding Billy Brogan is our top priority. It’s looking likely that he’s the man who can answer all of our questions. Billy’s ex-army remember,’ he added, raising one eyebrow suggestively. ‘There’s plenty of reasons for thinking he could have been the one behind these deaths.

Something tells me he’s in for more trouble than a fight with his insurance company.’

Marianne spread out the books on her bed. She had enough to keep her busy until the beginning of the new term. One by one she lifted the volumes, reading the back covers where the various psychologists had been given their accreditations by the marketing departments of different publishers. Some were written in a more academic style than others. The last book she looked at was the one she wanted to read most. A slim black volume with the author’s name picked out in silver: Doctor Solomon Brightman. The woman smiled. The psychologist would never know just how much he had turned her life around, would he? When the phone rang she paused before rising to answer it, almost as if she had an instinct of bad news. Marianne’s stomach lurched. Something had happened to Billy! But when she lifted the handset and said hello, the voice on the other end was not that of her brother at all. ‘Yes?’ she asked, leaning back on the bed. ‘Still no sign of my pal Billy,’ the voice said ruefully. ‘And here I am all on my lonesome, no one to hang out with. Thought we could at least have a pint in that place he likes so much, what’s it

called? The Scotia?’ Marianne suppressed a laugh. If that wasn’t an invitation to meet up, then she didn’t know what was. ‘Well…’ she began, then paused, listening. The woman frowned, sitting up suddenly. He was waiting for her to make a mistake, she thought, her intuition sharpened by the intensity of the silence between them. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said at last then added, ‘sorry,’

before ringing off. She stared at the telephone in her hand. What was wrong with

her? The guy seemed okay. Knew Billy’s regular bar, as well. Was every approach from a stranger going to make her turn and run like a frightened rabbit? Amit had been a stranger once, she thought. But then Billy had arranged that for her too and now she felt perfectly safe with the man from Lahore.

Billy. Where was he? And why was this innocent call from one of his old army mates making her so nervous? Marianne looked at the telephone thoughtfully, deciding to store that number so she could call him back whenever she wanted. If she wanted, the voice of caution reminded her. She gave a sigh and rolled onto her back. She was tired of this constant running, moving from place to place. Surely now she could find somewhere to settle down for good? Her dreams were changing after all and there was no longer any darkness taking her down into the place from which she could never escape.

li’

y ‘e wantae score?’

Billy Brogan whirled around at the familiar Glasgow accent. A pair of dark eyes twinkled at him from behind a counter full of flimsy women’s garments. Had he passed him by, Billy Brogan would have taken the lad for a genuine Spaniard, but now that he looked closer, that skin was too dark for even southern Spain. Asian, then, he guessed. And maybe even second or third generation Glaswegian. So what was he doing on the other side of this Mallorcan market stall? Clearly it was more than ladies’ panties he was selling.

Brogan’s curiosity made him hesitate. The evening market in Cala Millor was pretty crowded but he managed to squeeze his way closer to the edge of the wooden trestle table.

‘You talkin taste me, pal?’ Billy asked, chin up in a show of defiance.

‘Aye. You’re Brogan, aren’t you?’ The boy was probably no more than seventeen, his thin arms protruding from the sleeves of a black shirt, its cuffs unbuttoned.

Covering himself up in this heat? thought Billy, wondering what sort of marks these loose sleeves might be concealing. Or was he just dodging the mosquitoes? ‘What’s it taste you, son?’ he replied.

The toothy grin faded for a moment. ‘Ye know ma faither,’ he said at last. ‘Mr Jaffrey.’ ‘You’re Sahid’s boy? Whit’re ye doin’ out here?’ The boy’s grin grew wider once more. ‘Could ask you the same thing,’ he replied cheekily. ‘Holiday,’ Brogan shrugged. ‘Gap year,’ the other replied. ‘Dad says I have taste make myself useful.’ Brogan gave a derisive laugh. ‘An ye’re supplementing yer wages wi sellin’ ither stuff. Eh?’ ‘Aye, why no? Anyroad, are ye wantin’ some?’ Brogan laughed out loud this time. The? Buy stuff affa wee Jaffrey’s laddie? Naw, son, whoever felt ye aboot me’s given ye the wrang story. See, I buy taste sell. In bulk. Know whit ah mean? Nice try, though, pal.’ He paused for a moment then turned back again, bending closer so only the boy could hear him. ‘An’ how did ye know who ah wis? Eh?’ That smile again, winsome and full of the desire for approval. `Ach, Mr Brogan, everybody roon ma bit knows who you are. I mean taste say, ye’re famous!’ Dropping his gaze, the boy managed a convincing blush. ‘Aye, well,’ Brogan shook his head and gave a desultory wave of his hand. ‘Keep yer nose clean, awright?’ As the older man made his way through the narrow street he was quite unaware of the pair of dark eyes following his progress. When he was quite sure that Brogan was out of sight young Jaffrey reached into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers and pulled out his mobile phone. Stepping back from the fray, he slipped into the shadows behind a rail of hanging garments and tapped out a number.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Guess who ah’ve jist seen.’

Amit wandered into the back of the restaurant, mobile phone to his ear. He nodded his dark head, eyes fixed to a spot on the carefully swept floor. That morning’s news on the radio had given him a real jolt. Police are looking for the owner of a flat where two men were found shot dead. Mr William Brogan has not been seen for several days and police are keen to make contact with him.

Now Amit was being presented with a real dilemma. Alerting the authorities was totally out of the question. Not only did he owe a measure of loyalty to this man, but he had other worries. Gnawing his lip, Amit listened to the Hundi’s words. If he were to be associated with Brogan, they might come after him again. But could he bring himself to sever the ties that held him to the drug dealer? ‘Okay, I hear what you are saying,’ he told the man. ‘Of course I’ll be careful. And, no, I won’t leave any traces.’ The man from Lahore clicked the mobile shut and stared out of the window The morning was one of these bright days that presaged rain to come, but while it lasted there was a radiance to the streets outside, making this part of Glasgow almost continental. Across Great Western Road a cafe had set out silver-topped tables, the blue and white striped awning above shading them from the glare. Already several women were sitting drinking their morning lattes, chattering together. They had probably dropped off their sons at Glasgow Academy and were now indulging in a post-school-run half an hour before heading back to the suburbs. But, no, the Glasgow schools were still on holiday, weren’t they? Dhesi’s kids had been around the restaurant with their mother, prior to being kitted out for the new term.

Amit remembered his own mother, kissing him before school each day. Their farewells had been in the garden, Father had been the one to take them to Aitchison’s on his way to work. Suddenly he was back in Lahore again, in one of the public parks beside a rectangle of silken grey water; his father talking to other gentlemen, their freshly laundered white linen garments lending them a certain gravitas. As a boy, Amit and his brothers had always been dressed in proper shirts and long trousers, not the baggy shapeless Tshirts and tracksuit trousers favoured by the young around here. If he could go back … but returning there was impossible now and he had to make the best of the life he had here. As so many others had done. Amit sighed. He would have to make contact with Marianne again. Had she heard from her brother? he wondered. And if she had, was Brogan now aware of what had taken place in his Argyle Street flat?

Marianne smiled as she waited on the bridge. The sun was out, the day was hers for the taking and soon Amit would be here. Lunch somewhere nice, he’d told her. How about The City Inn, you could meet me on Bell’s Bridge, she’d answered, giving him the details of how to get there, where best to park his recently acquired Mercedes. Marianne had arrived early, not because she was over anxious but because she wished to savour the freedom of standing out in the fresh air a while. She lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed, letting the breeze from the river wrap her cotton skirt around her bare legs. ‘Hello,’ he said and she started, surprised to find him standing there when there had been no sound of a footfall. ‘How have you been?’ she smiled, casting her eyes over the

man’s face. The smile faded as she saw the frown lines between

his eyes, the agitated manner he had as they turned to walk side by side along the footpath.

‘What’s the matter?’

Amit stopped and looked at her gravely. ‘You haven’t heard, then? I wondered if you knew’

‘Knew what? Amit, what’s happened?’ Marianne took a step back, clutching at the painted railing that separated the path from the waters churning below them.

‘It was on the news,’ Amit told her, then he stopped, his eyes looking beyond her. Marianne turned to see two joggers bearing down on them. They moved a little to one side, allowing the pair to pass, then Amit took her arm and led her around a corner of some thick shrubbery to a bench. ‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘I have something to tell you.’