The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  Of course the police would have been keeping an eye on the area after finding that bitch Celia! But how the hell could anyone have known they’d found her body? McAlpin had assured them that there had been nothing in the papers about it so that Okonjo had felt totally safe taking the new girl’s body there.

  For a moment he saw the corpse hanging in that room again and cursed her silently. The sight must have freaked Shereen and the caretaker had fled, taking Asa with her. Well, that lucrative part of their lives was over now, he thought gloomily.

  No, he decided, being here with these silent men was not about the trafficking of girls. It had to be something else, something that the big tattooed man had kept hidden even from the two Nigerians.

  ‘We’ve got a match for you!’ Rosie Fergusson’s eyes glinted in triumph as the detective superintendent entered her office. The Department of Forensic Medicine was tucked away between the end of the Western Infirmary and the lane that led on to University Avenue. Rosie’s office did not appear to be very special, certainly not a place that held the mysteries of life and death, mysteries that sometimes revealed secrets about the way a person had been dispatched into the hereafter.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The DNA from the swab you took from the Nigerian, Okonjo, matches the foetus from the African girl,’ Rosie told him.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope. Clear as day.’ She bent her head and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Something you’re not telling me?’

  Lorimer looked back at his friend, her open countenance waiting for his reply. Rosie was as accustomed to the machinations of the human condition as any of his professional colleagues, and he longed to be able to tell her about why this man had been released into the custody of the MI6 officers.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he began, then bit his lip, considering what to say. ‘There is a question of national security involved,’ he went on. ‘Nothing to do with the dead girls,’ he added, raising his hand as Rosie was about to break in. ‘At least not as far as we know.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you haven’t apprehended a suspect in the girl’s murder?’

  Lorimer sighed. ‘No. I mean, yes, there is a suspect. Hell! You’ve got his DNA!’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘Oh Rosie, I wish I could tell you what was happening, but I can’t.’

  ‘A matter of national security.’ Rosie nodded. ‘The spooks are involved, then, I suppose. Does this mean that they’re taking over the investigation into human trafficking?’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Find them and deport them, I suppose?’

  ‘It’s not like that, Rosie.’ Lorimer leaned across the table. ‘And I’m still determined to find out all about the trafficking if I possibly can. This is much bigger. Much bigger.’ He leaned back, shaking his head. ‘Hopefully I’ll be able to tell you all about it one day. Make it into a story for wee Abby.’ He gave the ghost of a smile.

  ‘And meantime? What do we do about these girls’ bodies?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘That’s a matter for the Fiscal,’ he said. ‘But I think even Iain MacIntosh is taking orders from higher up the chain of command these days.’

  Asa watched the buses passing by on the street below. Sometimes they stopped to allow passengers to get on and off and she craned her neck to follow the alighting figures to see what they looked like, wondering where they were heading in this city with all its noise and glamour. They were people with lives full of purpose, Asa had decided, people with places to go, other folk to meet. Sometimes a woman struggled off with a baby buggy; often a fellow passenger would stop to lend a hand, then go their own way, a small kindness freely given. Once she had watched as a tall black woman had strolled away from the bus stop, her slim figure swaying gracefully as though she carried a burden on top of her elegant head. The pain of longing for home had swept through the girl then, a pain that was worse than the ache in her broken arm under the weight of its plaster.

  Shereen was afraid, she could tell. The older woman had hardly smiled once since they had taken refuge here in this pleasant room with its comfortable beds and pictures of gardens on the pale pink walls. Asa was not to leave; it had been made very clear to her in both words and gestures that it was not safe outside the hotel. Someone might be looking for them. To her credit, Shereen was trying hard to increase the paltry stock of English words and phrases that the Nigerian girl had amassed. And Asa was grateful for the lessons; it helped to pass the time here, waiting and wondering where they would go next. She had tried to ask that very question but had been met by a shrug that had made her shiver.

  For the caretaker to be at a loss was not good. She was safe with Shereen, she had learned to trust her again, but there was a new anxiety gnawing at Asa’s heart when she realised that the big woman did not have all the answers to her many questions.

  ‘Where is the castle?’ Joanne asked the young man who was striding across the street beside her husband, making it hard for her to keep up. The cobbled stones on this road were difficult to negotiate and the Australian was glad that she had worn a comfortable pair of sneakers this morning.

  ‘That’s it right above us,’ he replied as they ascended the steep incline and turned a corner.

  Joanne MacGregor peered past a high wall flanking the buildings to their left, and then there it was: Stirling Castle, its ancient stones rearing high above them. A flag near the entrance fluttered in the wind and Joanne pulled up her shirt collar against the sudden stream of cold air.

  ‘I’ve got your tickets,’ the young man assured them, patting his top pocket. The fleece jacket with its Commonwealth Games logo looked brand new, like the blue lanyard slung around his neck. But then Mr Gregson had been brought in to replace their original host, Joanne reminded herself. He looked so young, she thought; probably a student, one of the many volunteers involved in this year’s Games. And yet as she listened to him telling them of the castle’s history and Scotland’s bloody past, she heard an enthusiasm that endeared him to her. There was a glint in his eye as he spoke that surely showed a passionate love for his country. Joanne watched him intently as he retold the story of Scotland’s rise and fall against their English neighbours.

  Of course this was the year of the famous referendum, she remembered; by the time they were ready to set off for home, Scotland might well have voted to become an independent nation once more. She gave a silent shrug. It was no skin off their noses whatever happened, but she would be sorry if it meant they were no longer a sovereign nation. She liked the royal family, especially the Queen. And to think that they might be sitting close to Her Majesty at the opening ceremony!

  The young man’s words were lost to her as Joanne daydreamed about the big event to come, never once guessing just what part she and her husband were meant to play in the disaster that was planned, nor that one of its architects was standing only feet away, the morning sun shining on his eager face.

  The flat was situated in the East End of the city, on a quiet street that ran parallel to Alexandra Parade. It was, Lorimer estimated, only a five-minute drive away from HM Barlinnie Prison, home to some of the more notorious criminals that he had helped put away during his time on the force. Until today, the detective superintendent had been unable to gain access to the upper flat, the SOCOs having been hand-picked by Drummond and his cohorts. It had been a definite case of stay away until we’ve finished our job, something Lorimer found irksome, to say the least. And yet if they had been searching for something to do with the terrorist cell, who could blame them? But so far nothing had turned up, and the latest from Drummond was that Boro and Okonjo had still not said anything about McAlpin’s part in a plot to disrupt the Games.

  Now, at least, the detective superintendent could begin to piece together what had taken place in this flat since the body of the first Nigerian girl had been discovered. They knew about the missing girl who had been given a tattoo – Asa, the one who had attended the Royal Infirmary to have her broken arm set – and the third girl who had
only just arrived in Glasgow was in the city mortuary, hanged by her own volition, according to Boro and Okonjo. Neither of the men knew how he had watched them as they left this flat, carrying the bundle that contained the body of the young girl. The surveillance that was meant to shadow McAlpin for his possible part in a terrorist plot had produced something quite different in the end. A coincidence, they would no doubt tell him later, once the operation was complete and the Games had ended. Possibly, but then the criminal mind was a fertile source for all sorts of activities, and it was not really a surprise to find that the big ginger-haired man with the garish tattoos all over his body was responsible for human trafficking in the city. It was rife, Professor Brightman had told him solemnly. Solly’s psychiatrist friend in the detention centre had hinted at the rumours: gangmasters running brothels full of foreign girls, Vietnamese and Nigerian. And some of these gangmasters were from foreign parts themselves, she had heard, Albanians amongst them. Their discovery was only the tip of the iceberg, Solly had said with a sigh when Lorimer had revealed the latest activity out at Cathkin Country Park.

  Lorimer turned the key in the door of the flat, wondering about the people who had been living here. There was no echo of the despairing cries that the imprisoned girls might have uttered, nor did he hear a sepulchral moan from any dark ghost lingering in this place. And yet his imagination could recreate some of what had happened here as he entered the flat and stood in the long hallway. The carpet was slightly rucked, possibly from the girl’s body being dragged along in that tarpaulin sheet.

  His gloved hand pushed open a door to his right. This was where the girl had been found suspended from the ceiling. Or so the two Nigerians had insisted. Lorimer stood on the threshold, taking in the room. It was small and poorly lit, overshadowed by tenements in the neighbouring street. There was a single bed, a dresser, and a small chest of drawers, but as he opened and closed each one, Lorimer could see that they were empty. A clothes rail stood against one wall; had they meant to bring her some things to wear? There was no sign whatsoever that anyone had prepared for the African girl’s arrival. It was as if she had simply been thrust into this room and left alone without so much as a spare pair of knickers.

  Looking up, he saw the end of an electric flex, cut close to the ceiling. The lampshade still lay on its side, rolled across the floor. She must have stood here on this dresser, Lorimer thought, imagining the girl’s bare feet on its empty surface, tying the flex around her neck, willing herself to make that leap into the darkness. How had she felt? The utter despair that had led the unnamed African girl to take her own life rather than be subjected to the horrors of a ravished body was something he tried to contemplate. But all he could think about was the complete blackness in her mind.

  She would have felt that it was the only way to gain her freedom, Solly had suggested. And perhaps he was right. But the very idea was so grim that the tall man standing alone in the room wanted to weep.

  The kitchen and the other two bedrooms were a shambles: cupboards still open, their contents ransacked. The SOCOs were not responsible for that, he had been assured; this was how they had found the flat and they had at least endeavoured to leave it the way it had been on the night of Okonjo and Boro’s arrest. Someone had left in a hurry, that was plain, Lorimer thought as he wandered from room to room. Across from the bathroom was a small room with locks on the outside of the door, like the one where the girl had been hanged. But whoever had been imprisoned here had been luckier. The opened drawers revealed some skimpy nighties and several flimsy pairs of underwear in garish colours: tarts’ knickers, purchased no doubt as a turn-on for the girl’s numerous clients.

  In the corner of the room was a narrow cupboard, its door ajar. And there, suspended from its rail, was a pretty blue dress, its ruffled neckline reminding him suddenly of the sort of frocks Maggie would buy for Abigail Brightman, his little goddaughter.

  This had been Asa’s room, Lorimer told himself. A young girl, scared to death by what she had seen, fearful that her own life was in danger. And somewhere in this city she was hiding from the men who had brought her here.

  She had tried to explain it to the girl, really she had, but her words had been met only by a blank, uncomprehending stare.

  ‘I am the bird who cannot sing,’ Shereen sighed, flopping back on to the bed at last.

  ‘Bird.’ Asa smiled, making her hand flap like the wings of one of the sparrows she saw from the window.

  ‘I wish we were as free as the birds, girl,’ Shereen said. ‘Then we could fly away and never come back.’ She bent towards the girl lying on the bed next to her own. ‘They told me they’d kill me if I let on. And they’ll kill you too, little one,’ she said sadly, looking at Asa. The girl had started to smile, but her lips closed as she caught the older woman’s tone.

  ‘Stool pigeons, that’s what they’d call us. Grasses.’ Shereen shook her head. ‘You don’t know what on earth I’m talking about, do you, darling?’ she said softly, stretching out a podgy hand to pat the girl’s good arm. ‘It’s a bad old world they’ve brought you into, Asa, and I don’t know how I’m going to get you out of it.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Mrs Porter folded the clothes that were still warm from the tumble dryer. The skimpy silk panties and matching bras that Vivi kept buying were ranged along the clothes horse to dry: no way would the cleaner risk that lady’s wrath by shrinking her expensive undies! She heaved the laundry basket on to her hip and left the utility room. The towels were to be stacked in the airing cupboard, then she could begin to put away the rest of Vivi’s things. Ironing next, she told herself with a sigh. There would be no more of Mr Gilly’s shirts to smooth under her caring steam iron, she thought sadly. Vivi had packed the whole lot up and sent them to a charity shop already.

  Funny that that nice tall man from Scotland should turn out to be a copper, Mrs Porter mused as she opened the door to the linen cupboard. And what an odd question to ask her! Did Mr Gilmartin wear pyjamas in bed? She shook her head, baffled by the ways of policemen. No doubt there was something significant to be had from her answer. ‘No,’ she’d told him tartly, ‘Mr Gilly never wore night things; always in the buff he was. Gave me a shock more’n once, I c’n tell you!’ The old lady smiled, remembering the silence on the other end of the telephone, then that discreet cough. Well, that Mr Lorimer had seemed happy enough at what she’d told him. And she’d been able to let on about Vivi’s sudden trip to the South of France an’ all.

  ‘Lovely time of year,’ she’d told her cleaning lady. ‘The lavender will be a mass of purple all over the fields in Provence.’

  Then she’d upped and went, hadn’t she? Place was always safe with Old Porter to see to things, that was for certain. And she’d given her a nice fat envelope.

  No, she didn’t ’ave any address for Mrs Gilly over there. And she hadn’t said ’ow long she’d be gone, neither.

  The detective superintendent sat looking out of the window of his room. Southern France in June. The hills would be a hazy blue stretching all the way to the Mediterranean, a sight he and Maggie had enjoyed from the plateau of Les Baux-de-Provence with its ancient instruments of war. And they’d enjoyed a memorable alfresco dinner in that exclusive restaurant that had cost as much as their entire holiday. Would Vivien Gilmartin make herself known in that sort of place? Or would she be holed up somewhere in a tiny French village where life rolled by ever so slowly, the locals minding their own business even when a ravishing red-haired actress appeared amongst them? Had she gone to France at all? Lorimer wondered. It was a bit rich, he thought, taking off like that while her husband’s murder was still being investigated. Hadn’t she been told to stay put? Well, the passport control office would soon be able to let them know if she had left the country. But after that? Was Vivien Gilmartin already out of his reach?

  His ringing telephone broke into his reverie.

  ‘Lorimer.’

  The furrows on his brow cleared as he heard the
psychiatrist’s voice.

  ‘Dr Jones, what can I do for you?’

  Lorimer listened as the woman explained the reason for her call. Leila, the Nigerian girl at the detention centre, had been having strange dreams, dreams that involved the tattooed man, and she had begged the psychiatrist to use her magic to make them go away.

  ‘Sadly there is no magic to do that,’ Dr Jones told him. ‘But I listened to her and suggested that she let you come here. Can you do that? She seems to want to unburden herself of whatever has been haunting her. You don’t have a lot of time, I’m afraid. She’s due to leave here within the next week or so.’

  ‘I can come over later this afternoon,’ Lorimer told the psychiatrist. ‘And I might even be able to help her feel better. We’ve arrested two men for human trafficking,’ he added.

  ‘Good,’ she replied. But there was a congratulatory note in that single syllable that made him feel absurdly pleased. Dr Jones had struck him as a person who did not waste her words in lavish praise.

  ‘See you later then,’ he told her, and rang off.

  A knock on his door made him look up.

  ‘Alistair,’ he said, nodding at the entrance of his colleague. ‘What news?’

  DS Wilson sat down opposite the detective superintendent without waiting to be asked; old friends, they only stood on formalities if one of the top brass was present. He ran a hand across his thinning hair, the dark widow’s peak that had once been so prominent now threaded with grey.