Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray

by Alex Gray

  Lorimer merely smiled. Too many marriages ended unhappily nowadays and he was only grateful that his own had lasted the distance. But it would be worth finding out about the ex and asking questions.

  ‘How long ago was it that he’d been divorced?’

  ‘Sorry, haven’t a clue. He was living on his own all the time I knew him. About eighteen months, I suppose since he joined the centre. So it must have been before that.’

  ‘And you have no idea who might have wanted him dead?’ Paul Crichton shuddered visibly. ‘Hell, nor he muttered. ‘It must have been a mistake. I mean, you hear of that don’t you? Didn’t the IRA shoot folk by mistake?’ Crichton had leaned back, relaxing a little, Lorimer noted, this new idea releasing him from the shock that had gripped him. The words would flow now, a reaction after the strain that had gripped him so tightly. ‘That must be it, don’t you think? A Me of mistaken identity!’ he finished, sitting up straighter as though he’d scored a point.

  ‘That is always a possibility that the police must consider, Mr Crichton,’ Lorimer told him blandly. Yet it wasn’t something that happened often in this city. Still, if Crichton wanted a lifeline to rescue him from the awfulness of his experience, he could have it.

  ‘I take it the car sharing scheme was pretty much a regular thing?’

  Crichton nodded. ‘Week about. This was my week, Ken’s would have been next week. We always had the same shifts. We even had the same week off on holiday. This was our first day back.’

  ‘Do you know if Mr Scott was away anywhere?’ Lorimer tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. This might be leading somewhere and he didn’t want Paul Crichton becoming overexcited.

  ‘I was in the Canary Islands with my girlfriend. Fuerteventura.’ He shrugged. Ken said he might go up north to see some mates. No idea whereabouts, though.’

  but someone else from work might know?’

  ‘Suppose so. Don’t have a lot of time to chat at that place. Talk enough on the calls to IT support as it is,’ he added. There was something rather defensive about Crichton’s tone and Lorimer noticed he was digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms. He was trying to hold it all together; not show any signs of the emotions churning his stomach. There was just one last detail Lorimer needed then he’d let the poor bloke go.

  ‘Your workmates were aware that you travelled together week about?’

  Crichton’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I suppose so. It was no big deal. Loads of folk car share these days. Cost of petrol,’ he repeated in case the police officer had missed it the first time. Lorimer ignored the slight. The man was still in the aftermath of shock.

  ‘Okay, I think that’s us done for now, sir. If you can leave us your contact details that would be appreciated. Anything else you might think of, give me a ring,’ Lorimer drew a card out of the box on his desk and handed it over. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll feel like going to work now?’ Crichton shook his head. ‘Think I’ll phone in sick,’ he said. ‘Pick up my car later on.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to drive you home, sir. But I’d be grateful if you don’t mcntion the incident to anyone at the call centre until the police have had time to contact the management there first.’

  Lorimer stood up and offered Crichton his hand. It was like shaking hands with a wet fish, the young man’s hand was so sweaty and cold. A sudden vision of Ken Scott came to mind, his limbs dead and cold, rigid now with the onset of rigor.

  A nice, ordinary bloke, his mate said. Perhaps. In Lorimer’s line of work there were often hidden depths to the most ordinary appearances. Maybe there had been more to this victim than Paul Crichton could ever have imagined.

  ‘No sign of the ex-wife, sir,’ Detective Constable Annie Irvine shook her head, an expression of annoyance on her face. ‘We have her last known address but there’s no sign of any car ownership, so no joy there.’

  ‘Employer?’

  Irvine made another face. ‘Hasn’t signed on and there’s no trace of tax being paid for the last few years.’

  ‘What about full-time education?’

  `Ah,’ Annie’s mouth took a little time to close as she pondered this option. ‘She’s well into her thirties, but I suppose . .

  ‘New life after marriage? New directions?’ Lorimer suggested. ‘It happens, you know’

  ‘Oh, and talking of new things, there’s that new detective constable in with His Nibs right now, sir. Omar something,’ Annie risked a smile as she left Lorimer’s room.

  Lorimer nodded. His day was so full of distractions from the important matters like the sudden death of an ordinary man; he’d clean forgotten that this was the starting date for a new member of his department. Detective Constable Omar Adel Fathy had come with the highest recommendations from his previous division in Grampian Region. He’d passed out of Tulliallan with the best results of his initial training too, Lorimer remembered from reading the fellow’s CV. A fast tracker, Detective Superintendent Mitchison had told him, pointedly. It was a matter of pride to the Superintendent that his CID team were mostly university graduates; and a matter for scorn that DCI Lorimer had chosen to drop out of his own university course to join the police force. He’d have to see Fathy sooner or later, he supposed, but he hoped Mitchison would keep him for now.

  Lorimer’s hopes were short-lived.

  `Ah, Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ the nasal tones of the Detective Superintendent greeted him from the doorway and Lorimer gave an inward groan even as he stood up to receive his visitors.

  Detective Superintendent Mark Mitchison strode into the room, ushering in the man by his side.

  Lorimer’s first impression of Fathy was how much of a contrast he presented to the super. DC Omar Adel Fathy was a slightly built young man, bright and quick in his movements as he came forward to shake the DCI’s hand. Northern Egyptian, Lorimer guessed, from the darkness of the man’s skin. Nubian blood somewhere judging by that gracefully sculpted head, he thought, recalling the statuary he had seen during his history of art years,

  though this particular man lacked the height he associated with those elegant people. Beside him Mark Mitchison looked washed out, his conventional handsomeness faded by contrast. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,’ Fathy told him, giving the merest hint of a bow as he spoke. But it was not an obsequious sort of gesture, more an innate courtesy. The direct way he looked Lorimer in the eye, a smile hovering around his mouth, was instantly appealing to the DCI. Here was someone he could work with, he thought. Someone who’d not suffer the sort of bullshit that Mitchison doled out on a daily basis. ‘Detective Constable Fathy comes with a glowing report,’ Mitchison drawled and Lorimer was heartened to see that this utterance had the effect of making the Egyptian frown slightly in embarrassment. ‘Good,’ Lorimer said. ‘You’ll be ready for anything then? Like a new murder case, hm?’

  Fathy’s grin was answer enough. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen, then, must press on,’ Mitchison nodded to them both. ‘Door’s always open if you need to talk, Fathy.’ Then he was gone. Lorimer exhaled in relief. His immediate boss was the only thorn in his flesh in a job that he loved. When his previous super had retired the word on the grapevine was that Lorimer himself would step into his shoes, but that hadn’t happened, and, apart from a couple of secondments as acting superintendent, Lorimer still hadn’t gained the expected promotion. It was only a matter of time, his wife Maggie had reassured him. But Lorimer wasn’t so sure. The fast trackers with university degrees like the man before him were the ones destined for greater things, he believed. ‘Sit down, Fathy. That’s the correct pronunciation, is it? Fa-thy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The TH is hard, almost like a V sound. Of course many will call me fatty,’ he grinned, showing perfect white teeth. Lorimer returned the smile. The officer’s spare frame gave the lie to that. ‘This murder inquiry, sir?’ Fathy continued. ‘May I be included in the investigation team?’ ‘Possibly,’ Lorimer told him. ‘The actions have already been given out but I thi
nk you might be able to accompany DC Irvine, at least for today. Hopefully we’ll have it wrapped up soon,’ he raised his eyebrows in a rueful gesture. It was every officer’s hope that a murder case would be quickly solved. The longer it took, the harder it was to find the perpetrator. Fathy’s answering nod seemed to indicate that he understood exactly what the DCI meant and Lorimer wondered just what sort of cases this young man had tackled in his brief career. Later, on his own, Lorimer had the opportunity to check on DC Fathy’s past experience. It was just as Mitchison had said. A bright and able police officer who had taken part in some fairly high profile investigations. Yet he had asked especially for a transfer to Strathclyde Police. No particular reason had been given and Lorimer had a sudden uneasy feeling that it might not have been just to enhance the young man’s promotion prospects. Had he been unhappy in Grampian? And if so, why? There were often jealousies within the police force, officers jockeying for the few senior positions available. Had someone resented Fathy’s obvious potential? Or had he been too pushy? He was very keen to play a part in the new case. But perhaps as the new boy he should be trying to keep his head down for a bit and settle in. Lorimer stared out of the window, wondering. He’d taken an instant liking to the handsome Egyptian. It would be a pity if he failed to fit comfortably into his team.

  CHAPTER 2

  The man laid down the gun then fiddled with the straps on the worn leather bag. He had it down to a fine art, now,

  could strip down the weapon in seconds, transforming it into several parts easily stowed away in the holdall. The job had been simple enough. The guy had been sleepy, hardly registering his presence before the shot that had penetrated his skull. ‘Didn’t know what hit him,’ he muttered under his breath. It was a mantra he often whispered to himself, partly to expunge the act he had committed. He’d forget the man, his address, anything he had known about him, as soon as the money was handed over. He was just another job, that was all. The hit man preferred not to know why he had been assigned to kill this man or why the target had deserved such an end. And there was certainly no room in a mind like his for false sentiment. Sitting along the edge of the unmade bed he stuffed some balled-up clothes into the bag, tucking the bundle closely around the pieces of hardware.

  A quick look around the room sufficed to seek anything that might tell of his presence, but he saw nothing; the gunman was as meticulous in his habits as he was cautious, always choosing some bland, cut-price chain of hotel where there was a large client turnover. Soon a maid would come to clean this room, put on fresh

  linen and another traveller would lay their head on that pillow, oblivious to the identity of the room’s previous occupant. He tightened the final notch, slung the bag over his shoulder and headed out of the hotel room, just another tourist checking out.

  ‘There you are, sir. I hope you enjoyed your stay with us. Have a lovely day.’ The girl with the sleek, dark ponytail barely gave the man a glance, though she did fasten a smile on her lips before turning her attention back to her paperwork. A pleasant faced, middle-aged man of medium build, wearing a khaki-coloured jacket and washed out blue jeans, he was out of her mind even before he had left the building. Now he was ready to pick up his wages. His car’s satellite navigation system would have to take him to the meeting place, across the city. He’d never been to that particular spot before. Then he’d be heading back down the motorway, safe in the knowledge that he had completed another satisfactory assignment. The wind whipped his jacket as he walked around the corner of the building to where he had parked his car, stinging his face with a hint of rain. Looking up at a sky full of grey clouds scudding across the heavens, he muttered a curse under his breath, hoping that he wouldn’t have to wait too long for the handover.

  Minutes later he was heading past Glasgow International Airport towards the city, one eye on the screen showing his route.

  There were not many students about at this time of year. For most of them term did not begin for another two months though there were always those unfortunates with failed examinations to take again who pretended to themselves that physical proximity to the university buildings was going to make all the difference

  next time. So, as he lounged against a pillar in the draughty Gothic portico next to the quadrangle, the gunman had little to see of comings and goings. That suited him. The fewer nosey parkers who remarked upon his presence there the better. A tall, grey-headed man strode out of a door and paused momentarily in his stride as he caught sight of the stranger. A sudden flare of nostrils at the wisp of cigarette smoke issuing from the stranger’s lips expressed his disapproval. Then he was sweeping past on his way and into another massive doorway before the gunman could blink.

  ‘Bang!’ he said softly, making a pistol from his fingers and pointing it in the grey man’s direction. Then he gave a low chuckle. Snooty academic! He could blow him away as soon as look at him. He’d had his fill of that type in the forces; the ones who enjoyed tormenting you because they could pull rank. He’d left a couple of them with souvenirs that they’d carry on their bodies for the rest of their lives.

  A quick glance at his wristwatch made him frown. He was late. And he didn’t want to hit the rush hour traffic further down the motorway. Flicking the stub of his cigarette towards the door where the donnish looking man had gone, he took a step forward, wondering if he could stretch his legs. It didn’t do to look conspicuous. And if the tall guy reappeared and asked what he was doing, well, that wouldn’t be good, would it? Maybe he could risk a stroll around that square of grass where he could keep one eye on this place?

  Doctor Solomon Brightman emerged from the door opposite the quad clutching an overflowing briefcase tightly to his side. It was still a while until the new term began but for Solly and his colleagues the work was already well underway. Still, he’d done

  enough for today and now he wanted to drop this lot off before going into town to visit his favourite bookshop. As the psychology lecturer stepped onto the grass he was aware of a figure strolling towards him. A stranger, dressed in casual clothes, a cigarette palmed in his right hand. A tourist, probably, visiting the University of Glasgow on the hop-on, hop-off bus that took visitors around the city. As they passed one another, Solly prepared to smile and nod, a common enough courtesy, but the man turned his head away, almost deliberately, as though avoiding Solly’s glance. It was enough to make the psychologist curious. He was peren

  nially curious about human behaviour, of course, and looking at the departing figure of the man, he couldn’t help but feel that here was a person who wanted to remain anonymous. And he began to wonder why.

  An hour later the gunman realised that nobody was going to arrive. The wind that had threatened rain whipped through the cloisters with a ferocity that made the dried leaves scurry into the shelter of doorways. With one last look at the green square beyond the chilly pillars, he turned his heel, grinding the stub of a cigarette before moving into the warmth of a nearby corridor. It had happened before and might well happen again. Sometimes it just took a little more time and not-so-gentle per statNion to get the money out of whoever had hired him. He

  clenched his teeth as he strode through the building, eyes alert for

  the nearest exit. Soon he was out and heading over the hill

  towards his car. He’d have to make a couple of phone calls then

  key in another address to the sat-nay. He swore as the blast of rain drove into his face. What he wanted was a few hours on the motor way then home, not hanging around this godforsaken city. The

  piece of plastic fluttering madly against the windscreen made him stop and swear again. Bloody parking ticket! With one swipe he tore it free from the wiper blades and stuffed it into his pocket. They could whistle for their fine. It was just one more aggravation added to the inconvenience of having to remain here a while. A grim smile hovered across his mouth. Someone was going to pay dearly for this.

  CHAPTER 3

  Once upon a time,’ that w
as how stories ought to begin, Solly

  mused, walking slowly past the rows of books for the third time. Hadn’t his own childhood reading been like that? Well, perhaps not, he smiled, recognising The House at Pooh Corner and a couple of familiar Roald Dahls. It was an interesting idea, though, that traditional phrases like ‘Once upon a time’ were somehow rooted in one’s own consciousness. Perhaps he could use that in one of his seminar meetings for the second year students next term. The smile above the dark beard continued as Doctor Solomon Brightman, psychologist and expectant father, stopped beside a shelf of brightly coloured books for very small children.

  Little blue men and flowers with grinning faces peered up at him. Shaking his head slightly, Solly picked out a cloth book that rustled as he touched its pages. Ah, this was more like it. He remembered a conference in Sweden where he had been in conversation with a fellow psychologist when the subject of tactile stimulation had been under discussion. Flipping the first page in his hands, Solly saw the black and white shapes, like petals, some large and some repeating a pattern. A young baby would receive visual information while being attracted by the sensual feel of its soft pages, crackling plastic portions cleverly concealed within.

  Quite without warning he blinked away a sudden tear. A baby. His baby. His and Rosie’s. Standing still in that bookshop, oblivious to other people moving past him, Solly experienced a moment of revelation. He was well aware that fatherhood could produce such feelings in an individual. Hadn’t he been teaching that for some considerable time now? His rational self might well be able to identify each chemical and hormonal surge producing a physical sensation having no name other than the abstract: joy. But that he should have such feelings in his own breast was nothing short of a miracle. Wasn’t that what he’d heard grandmothers call a newborn? A little miracle.