Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (6 page)

‘Okay. We keep looking for her, but not as a top priority. Maybe

the girlfriend’s intuition is wrong,’ Lorimer said. ‘Maybe Scott hadn’t seen his ex-wife for a long time. It would certainly explain why a house he’s been living in for the last eighteen months shows no sign of her.’

‘Wanted to give himself a fresh start, probably,’ Cameron chipped in.

‘We still have several of Scott’s associates at work to interview. See if any information about Mrs Scott emerges, okay? And find out what he was doing on his week off. Ask the neighbours if he was about. Talk to the postman. You know the score, Annie.’

DC Irvine tried not to grimace as she nodded. It would be a case of grinding through family members (of whom there appeared to be none) and his workmates.

‘And you’ll continue having DC Fathy to help you,’ Lorimer added.

Annie Irvine’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile as if she were keeping her pleasure to herself.

Lorimer glanced at her, eyes twinkling for just a second, but it was enough to let her know he could see right through her.

Now, soldier, you’re going to have to make something of this,’ the hit man whispered to himself. He was sitting on an armchair that he had turned right way up, gazing at the debris littered around the room. If there was anything of value, then he was going to have it, but better than that, he might be able to find some address book or other that would give him a clue to Brogan’s whereabouts.

Outside the bay window he could hear the noise of traffic mingling with the thud of some heavy machinery from a nearby building site. It had been a while since he’d visited this godforsaken city full of mad Jocks and the hit man realised that it had

changed a lot. He’d noticed new blocks of flats that had sprung up around the riverside and more bridges spanning the Clyde’s oily waters. Across on the south bank he had glimpsed the BBC and STV buildings, their roofs sporting a mass of satellite dishes. The whole area seemed to be on the up, he thought. Maybe Brogan’s place was worth a bit of money these days.

‘Right,’ he sighed, easing himself out of the chair. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got hidden away, Billy boy.’

The bedroom was the obvious place to begin. But whoever had been here before him had well and truly gone through every drawer and cabinet, emptying the contents onto the manky carpet. The hit man wrinkled his nose. The whole place reeked of cannabis. He stopped for a minute, considering. There was no finesse in the search that had happened before his arrival. Just an angry rampage through the place, as though whoever had been here had scattered the stuff around in a furious temper. A drug fuelled temper, perhaps? Brogan was now a weaselly little Glasgow dealer, that much he knew from his enquiries about the man he remembered from the old days. And he’d obviously made himself some enemies. ‘There’s someone here who’ll do more than throw your stuff, around, Billy Boy,’ he promised the silent room.

Wearing these thick leather gloves to rake through all of this mess was a nuisance, but he did not dare leave his prints anywhere. The hit man hunkered down and patiently sifted through every piece of discarded paper, turning each bit over and reading it as he made a neat pile on the space beside the overturned bedside cabinet.

There was a reporter’s notebook, some pages ripped out and the rest blank, a plastic wallet full of old bank statements that made the man’s eyebrows rise in surprise at the last paltry amount in credit. Still, the bloke was a dealer and dealers invariably used cash

in their business transactions. Somewhere, Brogan was out there with ten grand of his, he reminded himself.

He’d given up finding anything of value when his hand slipped on the last few papers, making him lose his balance and fall sideways against the bed. It was then that he saw it: a small, black bound book lying amongst filthy clumps of dust under the top end of the bed.

Flattening his hand, the hit man reached for it, but the space was too narrow. Swearing softly to himself, he drew off the left hand glove and tried again. This time his fingertips reached the edge of the notebook and he felt its grainy surface under his fingernails. Slowly and carefully he drew it out then sat up, resting his back on the side of Brogan’s bed.

It was an old diary from a year back. The hit man flicked through it from front to back until he came to the section for addresses. None of the names meant a thing to him, but there were a few with telephone numbers against them so at least that would be a start.

What to do now? If he were to check into another hotel and Brogan came back, he might miss his chance of nailing the little bastard. On the other hand, if the dealer had had to scarper in a hurry, perhaps he had simply been unable to keep to the agreed rendezvous?

The man closed his eyes as he considered his options. He’d been in worse places. A flash of white hot desert came to mind, the heat beating down, sweat gluing his hair to his helmet. He opened his eyes again, seeing the dust motes thick in the air as a shaft of sunlight crept into the room, smelling the rank odour of spent joints. Aye, he’d been in hellholes worse than this crummy little pad that Brogan called home.

The short, dark-skinned man in the ill-fitting leather jacket whistled a tune between his teeth. It was a sunny day here

in the city and the long shadows reminded him of home. Just for a moment, though. Home was so very different from this place where total strangers might try to engage him in conversation, just to be friendly. It had taken Amit a long, long time to become accustomed to the ‘y’all right, pal?’ a passing workman might toss over his shoulder as Amit hesitated at the margin of some busy road. But now he was safe. His papers were in order, he had a legitimate reason to be here. The dark threat of deportation had gone and in its place was the prospect of a sunny future.

Amit rounded a corner and shrank back against the wall as two uniformed police officers strode towards him. It took all of his courage to continue walking, eyes cast downwards, praying that they would pass him.

Sudden memories came back as the pair drew nearer: the blows from the baton raining down upon his head; yells that were accompanied by kicks in the tender parts of his body until he held himself tightly, foetus-like on the ground.

When the police officers had passed him by and crossed at the traffic lights, Amit let out his breath and wiped the sweat from his

palms onto his trouser legs, trembling uncontrollably. If they should find out …

So far Amit had been lucky. The Scottish p0is, as his friend Dhesi in the restaurant called them, were no’ sae bad. But they were policemen and where Amit came from that meant fear and suffering, sudden visits in the night and brothers taken away, never to be seen again. He dragged his feet along the street that led to Glasgow Central station, the shadows from the railway bridge a comfort after the brightness of this summer sunlight. The Hielandman’s Umbrella,’ his friend had called it the first time they had walked together along this darkened stretch of road. ‘Where all the Teuchters came to meet their pals when they’d come down from the Hielands; It seemed a strange sort of meeting place, this gloomy space below the massive railway overhead, but Amit supposed it had at least served to keep these Northerners dry. Hence its nickname.

Amit recalled days of monsoon rains when everybody laughed and danced to feel the warm drops cascading down, the welcoming waters breaking the thunderclouds that had built up such terrible tension for weeks on end.

Then the rivers of his homeland had run red with the blood of family and friends.

It was better to forget such a past if he could. Scotland was his home now. Some days Amit found himself welcoming the strange, fine mist that enveloped the city; and he had been here long enough now to find that the sunshine could break through at any time.

‘Wait five minutes an’ the weather’ll change,’ an old lady had cackled in his ear one day. This city was full of them, little old ladies who bustled about, crossing the busy roads fearlessly, too impatient to wait at the designated traffic lights. Amit always waited for

the green figure before moving off the pavement, more afraid of drawing attention to himself than of the traffic that criss-crossed the city.

The station suddenly loomed ahead and Amit turned into its noisy, echoing entrance, eyes searching for the escalator that would take him up to the higher level above the street. Their agreed rendezvous was a better meeting place than that dingy street, a bustling coffee shop whose very anonymity Amit found reassuring. Strangers came for a time, drank coffee, their lives suspended between where they had been and where they were heading, coffee filling the gap. Was that what he had with Marianne? A gap between his past and his future? The sudden longing that came to him was tinged with a sense of hopelessness. As he entered the coffee bar he could hear music being played in the background, the tune and lyrics masked by the barista banging coffee grounds into a bin and the hissing of steam as milk was frothed up for the waiting customers. In one corner a bald, bespectacled man carried on a one-way conversation with his mobile phone. Nobody cared any more about discretion, Amit thought, overhearing snatches of the man’s words; business was regularly conducted in such public places.

She had arrived before him and was sitting with her back to the window. There was no mistaking that cascade of red hair tumbling down her back. Marianne looked up sharply as Amit approached her table. Her large black handbag had been placed on the seat next to her as if reserving a place for him and, as she removed it, he bent over to kiss her cheek.

‘Hello, Marianne,’ he murmured.

‘Okay, that’ll do. No need for any of that stuff, Amit,’ she said. But there was a smile upon her lips as she looked up at him. `How’re you doin’ anyway?’

The small dark man shrugged his bony shoulders, making the leather jacket seem even more shapeless than usual. ‘I have a day off today,’ he replied, carefully. His English was perfect, that of an educated man and better than most of the people who lived in this city, but sometimes even that made him feel set apart. ‘Sunday the restaurant is closed.’ He shrugged again. ‘So I can buy you lunch, perhaps?’

Marianne smiled again. ‘That would be lovely, thanks. D’you want to go out of town since it’s a nice day? We could get a train to Ayr, if you liked. See the seaside. Eh? How about it?’

Amit looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head. ‘I am sorry’ he said. ‘I need to see somebody later today’ He gave a stiff little nod that might have been a gesture of apology or even a little bow.

Marianne raked her fingers through her hair then let it fall over her cheeks. `Och, well, never mind. It’s good to keep in touch, though. See you’re doing all right.’ She looked around, noticing a group of travellers with pull along luggage trolleys enter the coffee shop. ‘Come on, it’s getting too busy here. Let’s go and get some sandwiches and sit in George Square.’

As they came back into the main concourse of the station, the woman sensed her companion slow down and move closer to her side. Marianne looked up to see two British Transport Police officers standing talking together outside the entrance to the disabled toilet. She took Amit’s hand and pulled him towards the middle of the station where streams of people were walking to and from the platforms. The intimate gesture reminded her suddenly of another man whose hand she had once held. But that hand was cold now, cold and gone. The woman squeezed Amit’s hand, suppressing her shiver.

‘It’s okay,’ she urged him. ‘You’re just part of Glasgow’s rich and varied landscape now. There’s no need to worry any more. I promise. Nobody’s going to send you back.’ Yet, as they headed for the Gordon Street exit, something made the woman turn her head, just to see if the policemen were watching them.

etective Chief Inspector Lorimer frowned at the papers on his desk. The ballistics report was complete and Rosie’s

pathology results were all there, including the toxicology report. Some background information about Kenneth Scott had been written up by his officers and so far it made pretty boring reading. There was nothing there. Not a thing to show why a supposedly upright member of the community had been gunned down in the hallway of his own home. And it had all the hallmarks of a professional hit, the gunman even taking time to remove the cartridge case from the scene of crime.

Perhaps Cameron and Scott’s mate, Paul, were right. Perhaps this had been a case of mistaken identity. If so, he reasoned, would there be another killing soon? Finding the correct target this time? His mouth hardened. Trust something like this to come up just when he had planned his summer leave. Usually Lorimer and his wife, Maggie, took a break at the beginning of July but this year it hadn’t happened. Instead he had allowed the roster to be filled up by fellow officers who had young families and needed to fit their plans in with the Scottish school terms. Having no kids of their own, the Lorimers had decided to let the holidays drift, even though Maggie was similarly constrained in her teaching

profession. Next week was the final week of her summer vacation, then it would be back for a couple of in-service days at M uirpark Secondary School before the kids came streaming into the playground once again. This last week had been earmarked by the DCI, however. One of the officers in the division had cancelled his leave and Lorimer had jumped at the chance to take Maggie away to their favourite hideout, a cottage miles from anywhere on the isle of Mull. Now, he reflected gloomily, even that small respite might be denied them. The telephone rang out twice before he yanked it off its cradle. ‘Lorimer,’ he said. There was a pause before the voice on the line identified itself as Doctor Solomon Brightman. ‘Um,’ Solly said, then paused again. ‘I have a problem. Not quite sure what to do about it.’

Lorimer leaned back in his chair, letting it swivel around from side to side as he smiled at the sound of his friend’s voice. Despite his years in Glasgow, Solly’s accent was still one hundred per cent that of a Londoner. A well-educated, Jewish Londoner who had the annoying habit of filling a conversation with lengthy blanks. ‘Okay. Shoot,’ Lorimer told him.