The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  ‘They were all outlawed, weren’t they? Rob Roy and all of that lot?’

  ‘Yes. And when that happened many of them changed their names or joined other clans, fearing they might be caught up in the persecution.’

  ‘And who exactly is this McAlpin?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  ‘There is a man of that name fitting the description we gave you,’ Drummond said, crossing his ankles as he sat back in the chair. ‘Big chap, tattooed, reddish hair. He is currently employed by the Clan MacGregor Society as their liaison officer. Also does battle re-enactments. But there’s more, if you read on.’ Drummond smiled and nodded at the paper in Lorimer’s hand. ‘He is on the payroll of Glasgow 2014. Quite legitimately, I might add, so you have nothing on him just yet.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the interesting bit,’ Drummond said. ‘McAlpin is one of the committee behind the opening ceremony. Big man. Former weightlifter. Won bronze at the European Championships in his time. Did a bit of chaperoning of the Scottish youth team. Well respected from all accounts. Seems to run a plumbing business now.’

  ‘And just how did he come on to your radar?’

  Drummond smiled at Lorimer and shook his head. There were some things that Police Scotland would never be told, the man’s look seemed to say.

  ‘So what do you want us to do about him?’

  ‘Usual surveillance,’ Drummond said. ‘Nothing indiscreet. If he is one of the group, then he will be looking behind him every place he goes. So far we’ve put a tap on his phone but nothing’s come of that. And his computer appears to be squeaky clean. They’re not stupid, these people,’ he added, uncrossing his legs and sitting up straighter. ‘We must assume there is some sort of system whereby they communicate with one another: dedicated cell phones, no doubt, something that cannot be traced back to their normal server.’

  ‘The Chief Constable . . .’

  ‘. . . is quite aware of the need to deploy extra men on this job,’ Drummond told him. ‘Despite the huge amount of manpower already needed to cover the Games.’ He smiled at Lorimer. ‘We’ve been recruiting more personnel ourselves recently.’ He gave the detective a quizzical look. ‘Ever thought you might fancy a change of scene?’

  Lorimer looked at the man from MI6. Was he serious?

  ‘Think I’m a bit long in the tooth to make those sorts of changes,’ he began.

  ‘Hardly,’ Drummond laughed. ‘You’re only forty-two. We sometimes bring in people much older than that. Think about it.’

  He rose from his seat, gave the detective a quick but firm handshake and was out of the room with the door closed quietly behind him, leaving Lorimer with the sheet of paper in his hand and not a few thoughts in his mind.

  The tall man stood up, biting his lip. One thing he had not shared with Drummond was the germ of an idea that this McAlpin might well be involved in a different enterprise altogether.

  Freedom, Solly had said. And that was a battle cry that several disaffected Scots wanted to shout out loud. Could this be the same person who had paid for the girls to be tattooed with that black spiral? Perhaps. But until he could prove it, he was merely to keep an eye on a man who might be part of a terrorist cell, wondering all the while if he was the brains behind the human trafficking that was plaguing his city. And what if they found that McAlpin was indeed running African girls as prostitutes? There would be absolutely nothing they could do. The lives of hundreds of people, including members of the royal family, depended on finding this cell and smashing it before the opening ceremony, just seven weeks from now. Finding the African girl’s killer and hunting out the people behind the child trafficking would have to take second place from now on. And that thought irked him more than somewhat.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  June 2014

  ‘The Centre for Social Justice is concerned about the possible increase in human trafficking during the Games,’ the journalist said.

  Gayle blinked as though she had been struck. The nerve of the woman! Coming in to Games HQ for a discussion, she’d said blithely over the phone. Pretending to want to talk about the influx of visitors to the city. Never once mentioning that amongst them might be men who wanted to pay for sex with underage girls!

  ‘I really don’t think—’ Gayle began.

  ‘Oh, but you should think,’ the journalist retorted. ‘Every eventuality must be covered, even ones you don’t want to be bothered about,’ she went on.

  Gayle gritted her teeth. The woman sitting opposite had the sort of glossy dark looks that made Gayle feel washed out by comparison. Michaela Sadi was utterly beautiful: half Asian, possibly, with perfect coffee-coloured skin and kohl-ringed eyes that seemed to look right through her. And she was wearing that bright yellow dress Gayle had seen in the Italian Centre, the one Cameron had laughed at when he’d seen the price tag. Gayle seethed inside, wishing she had made more of an effort before leaving for work.

  ‘Our readers have the right to know what goes on in their city,’ the journalist from the Gazette continued.

  ‘Well, yes, of course, but . . .’

  ‘Does the Games committee condone the increase of trafficking in Glasgow, then?’

  Gayle narrowed her eyes. ‘Where do you get your statistics from?’ she asked. ‘How does the Gazette know about an increase?’

  The journalist smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Let’s just say our sources are reliable,’ she replied.

  ‘Well I can give you our assurance that the 2014 Games committee is behind every action taken by the Centre for Social Justice,’ Gayle said firmly, hoping that she sounded far more positive than she felt.

  ‘And the police? Are they behind the CSJ reports?’

  Gayle forced herself to smile sweetly. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment on Police Scotland’s position,’ she said. ‘You will have to ask their press officer.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ The woman nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Gayle took the journalist’s security badge and handed it to the receptionist at the desk with a sigh. Sometimes this job had its difficult moments and this had been one of them. She had heard of the Centre for Social Justice, but only vaguely, never really connecting it with what was happening in Glasgow. And now this journalist had breezed in with the accusation that child trafficking was on the rise because of the Games! Foreign nationals would want the same level of services they found in other parts of the world, she’d said. ‘Sex is sold everywhere there is a market for it.’ The statement had fallen from the woman’s lips as if it were no big deal, despite her probing questions and the evident desire to write a big story about it. It shocked Gayle. To think that here, in her city . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. But the woman had made her think, and now Gayle wished that she could unburden herself of the facts that had been laid out coldly before her.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today,’ Gayle had told him, rolling away from his arms after half an hour of very satisfactory sex.

  She was asleep now, the baby-blonde hair fallen across her face, as Cameron lay on his back, thinking hard. Was this the sort of information that the group wanted? Was it something that could be used to discredit the police, perhaps? Bit by bit, anything that the girl told him was passed on to the five other men. Just in case. The leader had smiled encouragingly when Number Six had boasted about the possibility of being given tickets for the opening ceremony. It had been worth all the weeks of putting up with Gayle’s gushing enthusiasm about the Games. Mind you, Cameron told himself, everyone seemed to have fallen under its spell. There were banners all over the Merchant City, and Clyde, that flaming mascot, its stupid thistle face grinning everywhere you looked. ‘A sop for the plebs,’ their leader had growled when the subject of the Games mascot had been mentioned. But Gayle loved it and even had a soft toy version sitting on the chair by her bed.

  Quietly he slipped out of bed and pulled on his trousers. He’d risk a quick call on the group mobile while she was asle
ep. Moments later Cameron Gregson was pressing the button that would link him to the charismatic man who had recruited him into this adventure, hoping that the information he was about to give might be useful to the cause.

  IT HAPPENS HERE Michaela Sadi, Senior Reporter

  Not somewhere else, but here. Yes, that is the message we want to give our readers as Glasgow gears itself up for the Twentieth Commonwealth Games next month. And for once we are not talking about the sports, but activities of a very different nature. Did you know that hosting the Commonwealth Games makes Glasgow a target for organised crime? No? Well, we have recently received a report from the Centre for Social Justice suggesting that the numbers of young women being trafficked for sex in our city is very much on the increase. And all because there is a lucrative market caused by the influx of visitors to the 2014 Commonwealth Games. I spoke recently to the marketing people at Games HQ and came away with the impression that they are blithely ignoring such facts. Sure, they claim to be behind the CSJ’s initiatives, but are they really kept awake at night wondering what side effects the Games are having on the city?

  And what about the people who are paid to fight organised crime? I spoke to representatives of Police Scotland, including Detective Superintendent William Lorimer, who said that ‘the police services are doing everything in their power to ensure a smooth and safe running of the Games and to investigate any allegations of human trafficking’.

  While that may be true, the CSJ has painted a dismal picture of police involvement in human trafficking up till now. The problem seems to be barely understood by forces throughout the UK and is often a low priority for the police as a whole. One serving police officer was quoted as saying that ‘there is more incentive to investigate a shed burglar . . . than there is a human trafficker’.

  Given the rise of travellers from all parts of the Commonwealth it must be borne in mind that most young women and girls are trafficked from Europe, Nigeria and Vietnam, victims who are part of a lucrative crime wave to supply sex. And it is happening here, right on our own doorstep.

  Lorimer threw down the paper in disgust. What rankled most was that it was probably true. And now that his hands were effectively being tied by an authority that exceeded their own, he and his fellow officers were being branded as people who did not care enough to take action against such organised crimes.

  Drummond had been content for surveillance to begin on Kenneth McAlpin and there were now officers following the man from his home in the north of the city wherever he went. Oddly enough, his name had checked out as being real after all. Kenneth Gordon McAlpin had been born forty-eight years ago to another Kenneth McAlpin, suggesting that the name was used to being passed down the generations. His record was clean, too, though there had been some suggestion of trouble during a visit to Russia in his younger days: a fight in a bar that had been reported to the authorities but had gone no further. Sporting heroes were often guarded from the consequences of their misdemeanours, Lorimer thought. And McAlpin was perhaps lucky to have remained free from any taint of criminal activity. Till now.

  The report on the man made interesting reading. He had been eager to leave school as soon as he could, joining the army for a spell where he had found moderate fame as a weightlifter. His army career was also unblemished, though he had eventually bought himself out. Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. McAlpin senior’s occupation was listed as bricklayer, and the mother had been a hospital cleaner; where, he wondered suddenly, had the money come from to gain their son an early discharge from the forces? And set himself up with his own plumbing business? Had his involvement with malcontents begun as early as that? He had worked with youth weightlifting teams, taking them to overseas events, not quite on the coaching staff but somewhere on the periphery. Then there had been the battle re-enactment stuff. Lorimer grinned. McAlpin actually had an Equity card and had been one of the extras for the film Highlander.

  For a moment he thought about telling Maggie, then his smile fell. Nothing about this case could be uttered outside. Security was paramount. And as he thought about such a clandestine way of life, Lorimer knew that Drummond’s offer was not one that he would want to take up. Sharing some of his working life with his wife was something that made it bearable at times; often cases would be too horrific to divulge to Maggie, but there were occasions when snippets could be passed on safely. She would listen, easing the darkness as they lay in bed, letting him talk about people he had met, places he had seen, the quirky, unexpected things that sometimes happened in the life of a policeman.

  It was usually dark by the time she made the journey across the city, but tonight the twilight was a burnished sapphire, the air warm with the promise of another hot day to come. Shereen tugged at her raincoat then slipped it off; she’d only put it on out of habit, covering up the voluminous cotton dress. Her bare feet thrust into worn leather sandals made a soft flopping noise as she walked along, the rhythm of her pace soothing the woman, making her forget for a while why she was out and where she was heading. The envelope stuffed with money was in a bum bag. It bounced over Shereen’s fat belly with each step she took towards the tenement flat in Dennistoun.

  A fluttering movement made her look up and Shereen smiled to see yet another bright banner proclaiming the Glasgow 2014 Commonwealth Games. Hers might not be a long heritage here, but Shereen felt like a Glaswegian whenever she looked around at the flags and posters everywhere. It was odd, this sense of pride in a person whose parents had sailed from Jamaica last century, settling here in the UK, hopes of a better life foundering far too quickly. Shereen had never been back home, yet she’d yelled at the TV as loudly as any native-born Jamaican when Usain Bolt had won his medals in London.

  A crack in the pavement made her stumble and for a moment Shereen gasped, expecting her large body to tilt forward and crash on to the stone slabs. But she righted herself in time, one arm flung out for balance. Heart beating wildly, she leaned against a wall and checked her watch. There was plenty of time before she needed to be there. She would catch her breath for a moment. The woman fingered the leather bag at her waist. She had been making this journey for many months now, paying off the loan shark with regular amounts. But business had been good lately, Asa’s young body becoming more and more popular with the men who came to visit. And though it hurt her to see the girl’s cowed demeanour every morning and the way she now avoided her glance, Shereen’s purse had grown bigger from these visitors. The other flats would remain empty, however, the stream of girls that the big man had been promising cut off abruptly by that Englishman’s death.

  The light from the street lamps obscured any stars that might be overhead as the woman turned into the mouth of a close. She barely gave a glance at the buzzer as she pressed it, the familiar blank space against the topmost number giving nothing away. Anybody coming to make payments knew the person they were going to see; there was no need for a name.

  Her breathing was laboured as she climbed the three flights of stairs, her leg muscles protesting under the weight of her huge body, left hand grasping the banister as she hauled herself upwards. She took a few moments to let the pain in her chest subside before knocking on the door.

  There was a rattle as a chain was removed, then the door swung open to reveal a slightly built lad who stood aside to let her in. Angular jaws masticated the wad of gum in his mouth as he flicked his head to indicate that the woman should proceed along the dusty hallway.

  Shereen did not give him a second glance, knowing that the youth would curl his lip at her, a disdainful sneer for yet another victim of his grandfather’s moneylending.

  When Shereen entered the room, the man was slumped in front of an enormous plasma television, cigarette in one hand, a cut-glass tumbler of whisky in the other, his eyes fixed on the screen, where figures in white and dark blue were chasing a yellow football around a grassy pitch.

  She waited patiently, standing to one side so that he knew she was there, but not so close as to make a nuisance
of herself. At last the thin sound of a whistle blew, a cheer arose from the unseen crowd, and the man stirred from his position on the leather couch.

  ‘It’s you,’ he grunted, half turning to look at Shereen. ‘Same as usual, I suppose,’ he sighed, feeling down the side of the settee for the hardbacked notebook that he had jammed between the seat cushion and the arm.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Shereen began nervously.

  ‘What?’ The man started in surprise, half rising from the couch.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got it all right,’ Shereen assured him, unzipping the bag at her waist. ‘I just wanted to pay it all off, though. Is that all right?’ she asked anxiously, biting her lower lip.

  ‘Hm, pay off the lot, eh? Well, it’ll cost you,’ the man told her, his eyes drawn to the book that was now balanced on his knees.

  ‘How much?’ she asked. And he told her, the glint from a gold tooth shining as he grinned.

  Shereen nodded. It was more than she had calculated but she had it all here. Slowly she counted out the notes into his open palm, a sense of excitement growing in her breast.

  ‘Right. That’s it, then.’ The man seemed slightly disappointed as he drew a line under the rows of figures. ‘You can come back any time you need to, though. You know that, eh?’ He leered at her. ‘Good customer like you!’ He laughed, then, to Shereen’s surprise, thrust out a gnarled hand to shake her own.

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly. She rezipped the empty bag, and even before she had turned to leave, the man who had held her in such thrall was once more slumped in front of the television, grasping the remote control and turning up the sound.

  She had intended taking a taxi back to the flat, but now, with no money left in her purse, Shereen resigned herself to the long walk home. Heaving the raincoat back on, she strode away from the grey stone tenement, a new feeling of lightness in her step. She was free! It was difficult to believe after all this time and all these visits to the man at the top of the stairs, but the Jamaican woman nodded to herself as she walked, lips moving as she repeated the word over and over.