Still Midnight (28 page)

He cleared his throat testily and looked again at the file. “Very good, able, hardworking.”

“And your subject is…?”

He blinked long and hard. “Civil law. Roman law.”

“Why would he study Roman law?”

MacLeòid drew a long breath, tipped his beard at them, and launched into a stale speech he had given many times: “Civil law is studied at honors level for one of two reasons. Either the student is hoping to become an advocate and, potentially, a judge, or else they have an abiding interest in the history of law. It is, as it were, a more arts-based approach to the study of law. Less black-letter law, more interpretative. In”—he glanced at the file again—“
Omar’s
case, he wished to study with a view to advocacy. At least that was my understanding at the time of accepting him at the commencement of the course.”

“And yet he decided not to go into practice. Not even to be a solicitor.”

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

“No idea. You’d have to ask him.”

“Did you help organize any of the extracurricular activities Omar was involved in?”

He looked blank and glanced at his sheet for a prompt. “The mooting competition?”

“What’s that?”

“The mooting competition is just a debating society, really, but with a legal emphasis. Role play.” He sounded dismissive.

“Omar was involved in that?”

“Says so here.”

“You’re not involved in it?”

“No.”

“Do they get credits for it?”

“Certainly not. Time-consuming, though.”

“Suggests he was keen when he started the course, doesn’t it?” She kept her face neutral but he heard the veiled reproach. Slowly his lip curled with disdain.

Morrow stood up abruptly. “Thank you very much,” she said and pulled her coat from the back of the chair. Gobby leapt to his feet.

MacLeòid almost stood up to see them out but then thought better of it and sat down again. “I trust you can see yourselves out,” he said briskly.

Morrow pointed to the door Gobby was halfway through. “D’ye mean ye trust us to find the door here, in the wall?”

He looked sulky and she realized he was just the sort to complain to someone senior at a golf club dinner, so she thanked him for his time and all the help he had been and then slammed the door behind her. If she had been an Asian kid studying under Tormod MacLeòid she’d have thought twice about going into practice too.

Gobby was sweating as they walked down the stairs. The building was overheated and he didn’t feel comfortable enough to take his coat off. He couldn’t wait to get outside but Morrow stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. “No, wait.” She was looking at a group of students gathering around the fourth-year notice board. “Come on over here…”

Gobby was almost moved to speak, but caught himself and followed her over. She picked the biggest, most confident-looking boy in the group and Gobby stood behind her, outside the cluster of students, sweating.

The boy was tall and as healthy-looking as any mother could wish, dressed in expensive casual clothes with brand names up and down the arms, a thick leather bag, and a sharp haircut.

“Excuse me?” He smiled at Morrow through perfect teeth. “I wonder if you could help me. We’re looking for someone who knows Omar Anwar, he graduated last June. He was involved in the mooting competition?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, Omar. Yeah, Omar, everyone knows Omar.”

“Do you know him?”

He frowned and touched his hair. “Yeah. Why?”

“Are you involved in the mooting? What year are you?”

“You’re the police, aren’t you?”

“What are you, a fourth year?” she said quietly. “We’re trying to find out who knows Omar.”

“God, it
was
him. On the news, the kidnap? Did his wee sister get shot?”

She dropped her eyes. “Look, could we go somewhere to talk?”

“Sure, come on.”

He checked to see she was following him as he walked off through a doorway to the next building. They took the stairs up to the second floor and he opened the door to a large room with two long windows that flooded it with light. A coffee machine as tall as a man stood next to a small table with a bowl of loose change. By the wall a corridor of purple leather chesterfield chairs sat looking at one another.

“This used to be the smoking room,” he said.

In front of the windows a ten-foot-long mahogany table was strewn with notepads and stacks of law books. All of the seats were empty, but claimed with jumpers and jackets. The students were all missing.

“Lecture?” asked Morrow.

“Lunch,” he said, dumping his bag behind the door. He pointed at the coffee machine. “Drink?”

Gobby shook his head and Morrow wrinkled her nose. “Got one of them at our work. Leaves your tongue all gritty.”

“Shall we sit, then?” asked their host.

Morrow took a chesterfield and the boy sat opposite her. Gobby slid into a chair next to her, still keeping his coat on, self-consciously yanking the edges of it around his belly as she took her notebook out.

“OK, what’s your name?”

“Lamont, James.”

“Lamont, like the judge?”

He tipped his head in embarrassment and looked away quickly. She smiled kindly at him. The two great sources of shame: privilege and penury.

“So, you know Omar?”

“Not a bad word to say about him. Brilliant bloke.”

“Who does he hang about with?”

“His best mate’s Mo. He did science, physics or something. Graduated at the same time. Those guys hung about together all the time.”

“No real friends in law school?”

“Loads, but you know, towards the end of your degree everyone’s thinking about the next step and Omar didn’t want to go into practice—”

“Even though he got a first?”

“It’s not for everyone.”

“What did he want to do?”

“He started a business, I think, went into business. You know, like his dad.”

“His dad owns a corner shop.”

He seemed surprised by that, and pleased as well, as if they had been a little competitive with each other and this was a point in James’s favor. “Really? I thought he had a few shops, that’s what Omar said.”

“Hmm, no, just one shop.”

“Still, his dad must’ve done pretty well with it.” She could see him struggle, overlaying his win with more noble thoughts. “He’d seen the two boys through private school, didn’t he?”

“Not his sister?”

James jerked his head sideways as if he’d just remembered. “Um, no. The sister went to Shawlands Academy.”

“A comprehensive?”

“Yeah, but I always thought that wasn’t about money. Omar thought it wasn’t about money.”

“Was it because she was a girl?”

He shrugged, blushing a little at his implied membership in the patriarchy. She liked him more and more. “I dunno, I think she was the brightest of them, Omar said, I never met her. Really sharp, he said. Said she was a bit wild. So wild he wouldn’t introduce her to any of us.”

“Wild in what way? Bad boyfriends? Drinking?”

“No, no, just… I dunno… I got the impression she was contrary. He expected her to run off on her sixteenth birthday ‘like a greased rat,’ he said.” James smiled at that. “I remembered because of the phrase.”

She nodded, made a note to inquire at Shawlands about Aleesha. “Did Omar say his dad had a few shops?”

“No. No, now that I think about it, he just seemed to have money. His business had been doing well. Had cash. He’s certainly got money now.”

“What sort of business?”

James looked as if he’d never really thought about it. “I don’t know, I don’t think he said.”

She smiled warmly. “But he’s doing well?”

He reciprocated the smile. “God yeah, he showed me a picture of this car he’s buying. A fucking Lamborghini.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s blue, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I thought it was yellow.” He glanced at Gobby. “Banana yellow, I think.”

“Oh yeah, where did he get it?”

“Um…” His brow had dropped. If Morrow had been the sort to give advice she’d have told him not to take up poker.

“From the place in Glasgow?”

“Out by the motorway…”

“So, you’ve met recently?”

“Yeah, we met a month ago.” He kept glancing at Gobby, troubled by the sight of him sweating so heavily in his overcoat.

Morrow could see James withdrawing. Gobby looked like a policeman straight from central casting: pudgy, big, out of place in his formal overcoat and ill-fitting suit. She saw James realizing suddenly that this wasn’t an innocent chat, that it was official.

A chasm opened up between them, and James sat back in his armchair, crossing his legs. He caught her eye and smiled politely.

Warmth wouldn’t work now, she knew that from experience. “He told you about this car when you met a month ago?”

“Um, I dunno, I think so…” He was giving himself time to think.

“Where was that?”

“Um… where?”

She looked at her knees, straightening her skirt. She hadn’t slept for thirty hours and felt suddenly weak and sick. “Do you suspect Omar of something?”

“What?”

“You seem defensive. Do you suspect him of something?”

“God,” he spluttered, sitting forward. “No, no, I don’t
at all
. Not
at all
.”

“Hmm.” She smiled. “Right, well just tell us the truth, then. Where did you meet him a month ago?”

“At the Tunnel Club.”

“The Tunnel Club?”

“Outside, having a fag. He took out his wallet and showed us a photo of the car.”

“Did he tell you how much it cost?”

“No, but it was on the picture, the brochure, he’d cut it out so you could see the price. I thought it was weird, him leaving the price on. I mean, he’d cut it out, why leave that on? It was a hundred and forty grand, about.”

“About?”

“Well, you know, hundred and thirty-nine ninety-nine or something like that. About a hundred and forty grand.”

“Have you ever known him by any name other than Omar?”

“Like what?”

“Does he go to the Tunnel Club often?”

“No.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not recently?”

“Yeah, I was there last week.”

She stood up and James rose to meet her. He looked frightened.

“Omar’s a good guy…,” he said.

“You seem to suspect him of something.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“In what?”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“What do you suspect him of, James?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you being careful with what you say about him, then?”

“Am I?”

Morrow let him squirm for a minute and then nodded sympathetically. “It’s a hell of a lot of money for a car.”

“It’s shitloads of money for a car,” he agreed. “I mean, if he already had a car and was getting a slightly better car I could understand that, but to go from no car to
that
car, I mean, you’ve come into a lot of money really quickly, haven’t you? And you don’t care who knows it either, I mean, you’re not exactly being discreet buying a car like that, are you? Stands to reason you’ve got nothing to hide if you’re buying a car like that…”

“Yeah,” she said, picked up her coat and stood up.

His face was panicky. “Sorry. For rambling.”

“This is my card.” She gave him one from her handbag. “Would you ring me if you think of anything else?”

James’s eyes skirted around the floor, retracing the conversation, trying, she thought, to work out where it had gotten away from him. She made him shake her hand, showed him her teeth. Gobby brushed past him without saying anything.

Gobby walked taller as they made their way back down the hill to the car. He kept his chin up now, meeting the curious look of students, taking up his space on the pavement without apologizing.

“He was a bit of a prick, wasn’t he?” he said, suddenly cocky now that it was over.

“You’re fuck-all use, Gobby. You look so much like a polis, Jesus’d be cagey around you.”

Gobby seemed hurt. Her phone rang, denying him the right to even a silent appeal. Bannerman was a warm relief in her ear. “They did the fingerprint analysis on the tinfoil in the trees, they’ve managed to get a match. A certain Malki Tait. They’re calling his records down from Central right now.”

Morrow grinned and checked her watch: three ten. “Back soon.”

“OK.” She could hear that Bannerman was grinning too. “But listen, hurry up. We need to go back to the Anwar house. Pick Omar up. D’you get anything?”

“Rumors that he’s got money. We’ve got probable.”

She heard Bannerman give a long heartfelt sigh. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Aamir had been waiting for a change, a passage to somewhere else, for nothingness, nothingness would have done. He waited a long time in the dark, hearing no change and seeing no change.

Slowly, as the urgent pain in his wrist throbbed and the blood gathered in his cupped hand, drip-dripping between his fingers and soaking into the dusty rust on the floor, slowly, despite himself, he began to feel hope. He resisted, reminding himself of the betrayal, of the certainty he’d had a moment ago that nothing meant anything and he had wasted his efforts. But the absolute conviction that he should die had evaporated.

Suddenly the balance tipped and he could see it up ahead, like a pinpoint of light in the darkness, the moment when he would not be able to remember clearly why this was definitely a good idea.

Suicide should be sudden, he decided. Slow suicides could struggle, forget, change their minds. He saw himself in a misty plastic bag strugging wildly against the masking tape at his neck. He saw himself in a dark garage, jumping from a chair with a rope around his neck and fighting hard against it, scrabbling for purchase on a shelving unit. Too slow. Himself sleepy in an exhaust-filled car, slowly lifting a regretful hand to the lock. Too slow.

Slow. He wondered if he was hoping hard or the bleeding had slowed. He opened his fingers. Thick gummy blood fell softly onto the spongy rust below and he swept his hand beneath the cut on his wrist. It had stopped. A trickle was running down his arm but the gush of blood had stopped. He looked around the blackness, feeling ridiculous, embarrassed at his previous outburst. Ashamed before God. He imagined his sons watching him in the dark and cleared his throat authoritatively, holding his clean hand to his mouth, making the slash on his wrist gape. It hurt.