The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  ‘It’s been an interesting one,’ Wilson went on. ‘Saw a bit behind the scenes at a few of those theatres. Some of them are quite run-down and poky. Not like the auditoriums themselves, you know? All that fancy stuff, gold-painted and everything,’ he continued. ‘Reminded me of that saying: all fur coat and nae knickers.’ He laughed.

  ‘The recession has hit the arts especially badly.’ Lorimer reminded him.

  ‘Aye, they all told me that,’ Wilson agreed. ‘And that’s why they were especially grateful for Gilmartin’s money being poured into several of their productions.’ He looked sideways at Lorimer, who merely nodded. ‘Know what, though? They all said the same thing. Charles Gilmartin was dead keen on this African touring thing and none of them can understand why Mrs Gilmartin’s pulled the plug on it.’

  Lorimer shrugged. ‘Maybe she felt it couldn’t go on without him.’

  ‘No, that’s the odd thing,’ Wilson said. ‘The whole enterprise was ready to go. All the arrangements were in place, the London folk here like Goodfellow had it under control. At this stage Gilmartin was little more than a figurehead. The money, as one of them put it.’

  ‘So why was he up in Scotland?’

  Wilson’s eyes narrowed. ‘That was something Goodfellow wanted to know as well. Okay, Gilmartin was in talks with some of the Scottish theatres about the tour dates, and there was something about putting on a battle re-enactment in different parts of the country, but Goodfellow said all that sort of stuff could have been done by email or telephone.’

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  Wilson took a deep breath as he looked his senior officer straight in the eye. ‘Goodfellow reckons that the only reason they both went to Glasgow was because the wife wanted him to go with her. That school reunion thing you were at.’ He continued to look at Lorimer as he went on. ‘Seems that Gilmartin took a bit of persuading from his good lady an’ all,’ he said quietly. ‘Any idea why he wasn’t invited to the reunion?’

  ‘It was only for former pupils, not partners,’ Lorimer replied, remembering how Maggie had asked the same question.

  ‘What about the possibility that Gilmartin invited someone back to their flat?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems unlikely that it was anyone he knew well, if he did,’ Wilson said. ‘According to his theatre friends down here, Gilmartin wasn’t one to cross the border very often. And there were no close friends in Scotland that anyone had ever heard of. Mrs Gilmartin said just the same,’ he added.

  ‘What about his popularity? Rich folk aren’t always best liked. Any jealousy? A reason of any sort for the man to be poisoned in his bed like that?’ Lorimer’s tone was terse, showing the first signs of the exasperation he felt.

  Wilson shook his head. ‘Mr Nice Guy,’ he replied. ‘Mind you, people don’t like speaking ill of the dead. Especially superstitious types like those theatre folk.’

  ‘But you didn’t uncover any reason why someone would want him dead?’

  Wilson shook his head again. ‘It’s a mystery, and that’s saying something.’

  There was a silence between them as the train gathered speed, lights from the city receding now as the countryside approached, plunging them into inky darkness.

  Mr Nice Guy, Lorimer thought. The old cleaner had certainly been effusive in her affection for her late employer. But not for Vivien, a little voice reminded him.

  Gilmartin’s widow had been so eager to seek comfort from an old boyfriend. Was she in the habit of running into the arms of other men? Was her loyalty to her late husband something to be considered? The questions circled Lorimer’s mind, probing into places that made him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

  And for the first time, a chill settled into the detective’s bones as he considered the woman who, it seemed, would benefit most from her husband’s demise.

  Three a.m. The death hour, some called it, Maggie thought, glancing at the red numbers on the digital clock. She felt deathly cold right enough, despite the sweat making her nightdress cling to her, the duvet thrown back as she’d tried restlessly to escape from whatever had been hunting her down. The nonsensical dream that had gripped her was fading but the fear it had engendered lingered on. She remembered that cry in the darkness again. The cry for help. But there was nobody here to comfort her in the darkness; Maggie Lorimer’s husband was sleeping somewhere between London and Glasgow, a train bearing him back to where he belonged.

  Vivien Gilmartin wanted to keep him down there in London. She was certain of that, although no words had been spoken in Maggie’s presence. But she had noticed signs of the other woman’s predatory nature: the too-friendly glances directed towards her husband, the way she touched his arm whenever he did something kind or reassuring, the whispers meant only for him to hear. It had maddened Maggie, but what had upset her more was Bill’s apparent inability to see what Vivien Gilmartin was doing, luring him into her web like some thin, seductive spider. What had happened at the funeral? Had she managed to corner him somehow?

  Maggie felt the blood pulse through her ears as she shook her head.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she having such terrible thoughts, such jealous notions? It was only her imagination working overtime, wasn’t it?

  She pulled up the covers, the cold air making her shiver. She would see her husband tonight, after work. Then everything would be back to normal.

  Outside, the first signs of dawn had already arrived, with the birds singing in the garden, the clear skies presaging a fine morning, another working day ahead. Maggie had taken to sitting out of doors with her second-year classes, trying to instil something of the beauties of nature poetry into their heads. The school gardens were a poor substitute for the real countryside but they were better than nothing; at least there was grass, trees, a shrubbery and small beds of flowers, all lovingly tended by the janitor and his staff. Once she had taken them to the top of the science block, whispering that they must remain quiet, then allowing them to spend a few minutes staring out over the city skyline to the hills of the west.

  Maggie’s mind soared over the rooftops, longing for the term to end. She ached to be back in Mull, where they would rest and recover from all the stresses of their busy lives. She closed her eyes, a vision of Leiter Cottage and the Sound of Mull appearing, dark forests beyond the curve of the bay, the faraway hills of Morvern . . . With a sigh, she rolled on to her side, all previous dreams banished, and in moments she was asleep once more.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The girl had stopped crying at last. Shereen sighed deeply, her back against the wall outside Asa’s room. Since the night of her attempted escape, Okonjo, one of the Nigerian men, had been living in the flat, a suspicious look in his eye each time they had met in the kitchen or here in the hallway. Shereen had tried at first to avoid him, switching on her favourite soaps and quiz shows, but he had soon pulled the remote control out of her unresisting hand and changed the television channel to suit his own tastes: football, of course, and Formula One, the sound of cars racing around various circuits reminding the fat woman of a swarm of wasps zooming past. So Shereen had resorted to lingering beside Asa’s locked door whenever she could, hoping to reassure the girl with a look or a smile. The man took little real interest in their prisoner; so long as Shereen laid food on the table the Nigerian seemed happy enough.

  The big man had called once at the flat since that terrible night and Shereen had stood trembling in the kitchen, listening to Asa’s weeping as the white man had yelled obscenities at her. Afterwards he had tossed a rolled-up bundle of notes on to the kitchen table, Shereen’s wages for the previous month. She had tried not to snatch it up too eagerly, feigning a nonchalance that she did not feel.

  It was one more step towards paying off the loan shark, one more step towards her own freedom, the woman told herself.

  Asa lay on her side, teeth biting into her lower lip as she stared into the darkness. What had she done to deserve being here in this room with its lingering smells
of human male sweat? The heavy plaster cast on her arm had not appeared to put off any of the customers seeking her young, pliant body. On the contrary, some of the men appeared to find something satisfying about making her cry out in pain as they rolled about on the bed, one even deliberately pulling at her arm so that the scream had brought Shereen running into the room.

  The man had shouted at the dark-skinned woman, snarling monosyllables that Asa had often heard repeated over and over as a client brought himself to a shuddering climax.

  She could not bring herself to look at Shereen now. Trust no one, a little voice whispered in Asa’s ear at night. It was a voice that had once been her own, words spoken in the language she could hear only in her head. Except for that time in the hospital, before she had been brought back here. The memory of her surprise came back to Asa now as she lay thinking of the Nigerian man and how he had hustled her back into the car, speaking words she could understand; telling her in no uncertain terms what would happen if she tried to run away again.

  And Asa remembered, too, the look in that nurse’s eyes as she had lifted her skirt, the woman’s disgust turning to astonishment as she had spotted the strange tattoo on her inner thigh.

  Would it have meant anything to her? Or was it simply a strange happening that would be forgotten, the next patient putting that small incident out of the nurse’s mind?

  ‘Got it!’ Kirsty Wilson put down the telephone, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

  She and the CID officer had trawled each and every one of the tattoo studios around the city, not always able to speak to the proprietor, but always leaving word about what they were looking for. Now, it seemed, she had struck gold. Gathering up the jacket of her uniform from the back of her chair, she buttoned it up carefully, making sure that all her gear was properly in place. Then, grabbing her hat and jamming it on to her head, she walked purposefully across the big room to where DC Patrick Lennox sat hunched over his own laptop.

  ‘Think I’ve found it,’ she grinned. ‘Place down by the river. Skin Art, it’s called.’

  ‘What did they tell you?’ DC Lennox had swung into step with Kirsty and now they were heading downstairs and out into the foyer of the police station, past the curling posters and the row of plastic seating where a couple of young neds sat, legs stuck out, hands tucked into the pockets of their fleece jerkins. Kirsty ignored them, past experience telling her never to make eye contact with anyone waiting there; rude remarks had been thrown the way of the rookie cop before, making her blush.

  ‘They specialise in Celtic stuff. Pictish too. And they remember a Nigerian girl having that triple spiral done,’ Kirsty told him, unable to keep the sound of triumph from her voice.

  ‘Well done you,’ Lennox conceded. ‘Let’s see what they can tell us then, eh?’

  It was a fine morning as the pair drove along the banks of the river in the direction of Glasgow Green, colourful 2014 banners flying on every side. Lennox parked the pool car and Kirsty emerged into sunlight, a tiny breeze catching dark wisps of hair already escaping from the chequered hat. Across from where they stood, the water sparkled, a bluish tint gilding the brown waters, the fast-flowing currents that could pull anything down and down into the depths.

  Skin Art sounded grander than it was: a small shop with paintwork that had once been white but was now peeling and shabby, the sign ever so slightly askew as if a vagabond wind had knocked it off kilter and nobody had bothered to fix it again.

  The door opened with the ping of a bell into a tiny anteroom, barely big enough to be called a reception area. Lennox strode ahead, knocking firmly on the frosted-glass door set into the middle of a partition wall. The entire panel appeared to shake as his fist drummed against it.

  ‘Whaddyawant?’ A gum-chewing woman stood at the crack of the door. ‘Oh, it’s youse. Harry!’ she yelled, opening the door wider. ‘It’s the polis!’

  Kirsty looked at the skinny woman in the doorway. Her mane of over-bleached hair was tied back, emphasising sunken cheeks and a sharp jaw, the look of a typical junkie, Kirsty thought, her eyes travelling down the woman’s bare arms, noting old scars that were only partly hidden by the swirling tattoos.

  ‘Oh aye?’ A tall, thin man appeared and the woman seemed to melt into the background, such was the shock of Harry Temperland’s appearance. Even as Lennox was taking the man’s outstretched hand, Kirsty could not help but be fascinated by the tattooist’s long white hair and piercing blue eyes, the blue circles curving over his cheek making him seem like a druid from ancient times. He wore a loose-fitting tunic over an embroidered shirt tied at the neck, and grey linen trousers, his bare feet thrust into a pair of well-worn Birkenstocks. Kirsty blinked. He seemed like a complete throwback to the sixties; a hippy whose style had weathered several decades of sartorial change. Could he be old enough to have lived through that era? she wondered, trying to calculate the man’s age as they were ushered through the tattoo studio to a back room that doubled as office and print room. His skin was fresh and unwrinkled under the tattoos and he walked with the grace of a dancer; yet the hand that was offered to her at last was indeed that of a much older man, liver-spotted and gnarled.

  ‘You wanted to see me about that black girl?’ Temperland began. ‘I’ve been away and only just got the message,’ he explained, not offering any clue as to where he had been or why.

  ‘You did her tattoo?’ Lennox asked.

  ‘Oh aye. That was my work.’ The tattoo artist nodded. ‘Quite a difficult part of the body to work on. Thin skin,’ he explained. ‘I do all the tricky ones. Marlene does the regular stuff.’ He jerked his head towards the main tattoo studio, where they had passed the skinny woman seated at her workbench.

  ‘Did the client come back for any reason?’ Lennox wanted to know.

  Temperland shook his head, sweeping back the wisps of hair falling across his face. ‘Never. Are you thinking she should have?’ The blue eyes regarded the two officers shrewdly.

  ‘We have reason to believe that the tattoo became infected,’ Lennox answered.

  Temperland shrugged. ‘Well they’re all given the fact sheet about aftercare. Part of health and safety regulations.’

  ‘Who owns the studio?’ Lennox said, suddenly changing tack.

  Temperland’s grey eyebrows rose in surprise and he hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s owned by a businessman in Glasgow,’ he said at last.

  ‘Not by you, then?’

  Temperland shook his head, the brightness fading from his face. ‘I used to own it . . .’ he mumbled. Again no explanation was forthcoming, merely a shrug and a downward cast of those eyes.

  ‘Does the owner carry out any of the art work?’

  Temperland’s smile reappeared. ‘No way, man!’ He gave a short laugh. ‘We carry it out on him, though,’ he said. Then he stopped, mouth still open as if he had said too much.

  ‘We’d like the documentation from the girl’s visit, please,’ Lennox said crisply. ‘And a full account of exactly what took place during her time at this studio.’

  Clouds had obscured the morning sun by the time Lennox and Kirsty left the place, the river turning slate grey, a dampness in the air that presaged rain to come. As they walked along Clyde Street to the parked car, Kirsty wondered what Lennox was thinking. Perhaps, like her, he was silently processing the information that Temperland had given them. The details on the girl’s form were fake. They’d already expected that, but it was still a shock to see Yoruba Street written in the space for an address. But now at least she had a name: Celia. Temperland had not remembered anything about the girl’s personality, just that she had been very quiet. The black man with her had done all the talking. Her uncle? Could have been, Temperland had shrugged again, unable (or unwilling?) to remember such details. It had been a small but tricky job, he had told them. Needing a careful hand. Sometimes these little tattoos were harder than the big ones, especially on a place like an inner thigh. Was that a normal place for girls to ask for tattoos? Lennox
had asked, and Temperland had pursed his thin lips. Not really, he’d agreed.

  Kirsty pondered the meeting as they reached the car, easing herself into the passenger seat and fastening the seat belt over her bulky uniform.

  ‘Well,’ Lennox said at last, breaking the silence. ‘What d’you make of him?’

  ‘Bit of a weirdo,’ Kirsty replied. ‘But I thought he was telling us the truth about the girl. If she was being trafficked, then her minder wouldn’t give anything away, would he?’

  ‘And at least we’ve got a date when the work was done on her thigh,’ Lennox said, putting the car into gear and heading off into the traffic.

  Kirsty nodded, staring out of the window at the trees blossoming by the river walkway. She felt a sense of anticlimax now; they’d achieved so little from that visit, interesting though the tattoo artist had been. The people behind the human trafficking had not been stupid enough to return to the same studio, but why, she asked herself, had they asked for that same Pictish design?

  Marlene shifted the wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other. The folded newspaper was still in the back pocket of her jeans and the woman felt it every time she bent over to pick something up, a reminder of possibilities. Could she have followed those two coppers out of the shop? Spoken to them about the man she had seen? Charles Gilmartin’s photograph was still there, a grainy image on the section of the paper that Marlene had cut out of the Gazette. She still didn’t understand it; Harry kept her out here in the main studio, never in the back, especially when the big boss man was around. And the question was troubling her. Why had that nice, handsome-looking man spent time secreted in the back of the shop on the very day that he was supposed to have died?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘Why a triple spiral?’ Solly asked, nodding his dark head as they walked along the path that bordered the river Kelvin.