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

by Alex Gray

  changed a lot. He’d noticed new blocks of flats that had sprung up around the riverside and more bridges spanning the Clyde’s oily waters. Across on the south bank he had glimpsed the BBC and STV buildings, their roofs sporting a mass of satellite dishes. The whole area seemed to be on the up, he thought. Maybe Brogan’s place was worth a bit of money these days.

  ‘Right,’ he sighed, easing himself out of the chair. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got hidden away, Billy boy.’

  The bedroom was the obvious place to begin. But whoever had been here before him had well and truly gone through every drawer and cabinet, emptying the contents onto the manky carpet. The hit man wrinkled his nose. The whole place reeked of cannabis. He stopped for a minute, considering. There was no finesse in the search that had happened before his arrival. Just an angry rampage through the place, as though whoever had been here had scattered the stuff around in a furious temper. A drug fuelled temper, perhaps? Brogan was now a weaselly little Glasgow dealer, that much he knew from his enquiries about the man he remembered from the old days. And he’d obviously made himself some enemies. ‘There’s someone here who’ll do more than throw your stuff, around, Billy Boy,’ he promised the silent room.

  Wearing these thick leather gloves to rake through all of this mess was a nuisance, but he did not dare leave his prints anywhere. The hit man hunkered down and patiently sifted through every piece of discarded paper, turning each bit over and reading it as he made a neat pile on the space beside the overturned bedside cabinet.

  There was a reporter’s notebook, some pages ripped out and the rest blank, a plastic wallet full of old bank statements that made the man’s eyebrows rise in surprise at the last paltry amount in credit. Still, the bloke was a dealer and dealers invariably used cash

  in their business transactions. Somewhere, Brogan was out there with ten grand of his, he reminded himself.

  He’d given up finding anything of value when his hand slipped on the last few papers, making him lose his balance and fall sideways against the bed. It was then that he saw it: a small, black bound book lying amongst filthy clumps of dust under the top end of the bed.

  Flattening his hand, the hit man reached for it, but the space was too narrow. Swearing softly to himself, he drew off the left hand glove and tried again. This time his fingertips reached the edge of the notebook and he felt its grainy surface under his fingernails. Slowly and carefully he drew it out then sat up, resting his back on the side of Brogan’s bed.

  It was an old diary from a year back. The hit man flicked through it from front to back until he came to the section for addresses. None of the names meant a thing to him, but there were a few with telephone numbers against them so at least that would be a start.

  What to do now? If he were to check into another hotel and Brogan came back, he might miss his chance of nailing the little bastard. On the other hand, if the dealer had had to scarper in a hurry, perhaps he had simply been unable to keep to the agreed rendezvous?

  The man closed his eyes as he considered his options. He’d been in worse places. A flash of white hot desert came to mind, the heat beating down, sweat gluing his hair to his helmet. He opened his eyes again, seeing the dust motes thick in the air as a shaft of sunlight crept into the room, smelling the rank odour of spent joints. Aye, he’d been in hellholes worse than this crummy little pad that Brogan called home.

  CHAPTER 8

  The short, dark-skinned man in the ill-fitting leather jacket whistled a tune between his teeth. It was a sunny day here

  in the city and the long shadows reminded him of home. Just for a moment, though. Home was so very different from this place where total strangers might try to engage him in conversation, just to be friendly. It had taken Amit a long, long time to become accustomed to the ‘y’all right, pal?’ a passing workman might toss over his shoulder as Amit hesitated at the margin of some busy road. But now he was safe. His papers were in order, he had a legitimate reason to be here. The dark threat of deportation had gone and in its place was the prospect of a sunny future.

  Amit rounded a corner and shrank back against the wall as two uniformed police officers strode towards him. It took all of his courage to continue walking, eyes cast downwards, praying that they would pass him.

  Sudden memories came back as the pair drew nearer: the blows from the baton raining down upon his head; yells that were accompanied by kicks in the tender parts of his body until he held himself tightly, foetus-like on the ground.

  When the police officers had passed him by and crossed at the traffic lights, Amit let out his breath and wiped the sweat from his

  palms onto his trouser legs, trembling uncontrollably. If they should find out …

  So far Amit had been lucky. The Scottish p0is, as his friend Dhesi in the restaurant called them, were no’ sae bad. But they were policemen and where Amit came from that meant fear and suffering, sudden visits in the night and brothers taken away, never to be seen again. He dragged his feet along the street that led to Glasgow Central station, the shadows from the railway bridge a comfort after the brightness of this summer sunlight. The Hielandman’s Umbrella,’ his friend had called it the first time they had walked together along this darkened stretch of road. ‘Where all the Teuchters came to meet their pals when they’d come down from the Hielands; It seemed a strange sort of meeting place, this gloomy space below the massive railway overhead, but Amit supposed it had at least served to keep these Northerners dry. Hence its nickname.

  Amit recalled days of monsoon rains when everybody laughed and danced to feel the warm drops cascading down, the welcoming waters breaking the thunderclouds that had built up such terrible tension for weeks on end.

  Then the rivers of his homeland had run red with the blood of family and friends.

  It was better to forget such a past if he could. Scotland was his home now. Some days Amit found himself welcoming the strange, fine mist that enveloped the city; and he had been here long enough now to find that the sunshine could break through at any time.

  ‘Wait five minutes an’ the weather’ll change,’ an old lady had cackled in his ear one day. This city was full of them, little old ladies who bustled about, crossing the busy roads fearlessly, too impatient to wait at the designated traffic lights. Amit always waited for

  the green figure before moving off the pavement, more afraid of drawing attention to himself than of the traffic that criss-crossed the city.

  The station suddenly loomed ahead and Amit turned into its noisy, echoing entrance, eyes searching for the escalator that would take him up to the higher level above the street. Their agreed rendezvous was a better meeting place than that dingy street, a bustling coffee shop whose very anonymity Amit found reassuring. Strangers came for a time, drank coffee, their lives suspended between where they had been and where they were heading, coffee filling the gap. Was that what he had with Marianne? A gap between his past and his future? The sudden longing that came to him was tinged with a sense of hopelessness. As he entered the coffee bar he could hear music being played in the background, the tune and lyrics masked by the barista banging coffee grounds into a bin and the hissing of steam as milk was frothed up for the waiting customers. In one corner a bald, bespectacled man carried on a one-way conversation with his mobile phone. Nobody cared any more about discretion, Amit thought, overhearing snatches of the man’s words; business was regularly conducted in such public places.

  She had arrived before him and was sitting with her back to the window. There was no mistaking that cascade of red hair tumbling down her back. Marianne looked up sharply as Amit approached her table. Her large black handbag had been placed on the seat next to her as if reserving a place for him and, as she removed it, he bent over to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Hello, Marianne,’ he murmured.

  ‘Okay, that’ll do. No need for any of that stuff, Amit,’ she said. But there was a smile upon her lips as she looked up at him. `How’re you doin’ anyway?’

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sp; The small dark man shrugged his bony shoulders, making the leather jacket seem even more shapeless than usual. ‘I have a day off today,’ he replied, carefully. His English was perfect, that of an educated man and better than most of the people who lived in this city, but sometimes even that made him feel set apart. ‘Sunday the restaurant is closed.’ He shrugged again. ‘So I can buy you lunch, perhaps?’

  Marianne smiled again. ‘That would be lovely, thanks. D’you want to go out of town since it’s a nice day? We could get a train to Ayr, if you liked. See the seaside. Eh? How about it?’

  Amit looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head. ‘I am sorry’ he said. ‘I need to see somebody later today’ He gave a stiff little nod that might have been a gesture of apology or even a little bow.

  Marianne raked her fingers through her hair then let it fall over her cheeks. `Och, well, never mind. It’s good to keep in touch, though. See you’re doing all right.’ She looked around, noticing a group of travellers with pull along luggage trolleys enter the coffee shop. ‘Come on, it’s getting too busy here. Let’s go and get some sandwiches and sit in George Square.’

  As they came back into the main concourse of the station, the woman sensed her companion slow down and move closer to her side. Marianne looked up to see two British Transport Police officers standing talking together outside the entrance to the disabled toilet. She took Amit’s hand and pulled him towards the middle of the station where streams of people were walking to and from the platforms. The intimate gesture reminded her suddenly of another man whose hand she had once held. But that hand was cold now, cold and gone. The woman squeezed Amit’s hand, suppressing her shiver.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she urged him. ‘You’re just part of Glasgow’s rich and varied landscape now. There’s no need to worry any more. I promise. Nobody’s going to send you back.’ Yet, as they headed for the Gordon Street exit, something made the woman turn her head, just to see if the policemen were watching them.

  CHAPTER 9

  D

  etective Chief Inspector Lorimer frowned at the papers on his desk. The ballistics report was complete and Rosie’s

  pathology results were all there, including the toxicology report. Some background information about Kenneth Scott had been written up by his officers and so far it made pretty boring reading. There was nothing there. Not a thing to show why a supposedly upright member of the community had been gunned down in the hallway of his own home. And it had all the hallmarks of a professional hit, the gunman even taking time to remove the cartridge case from the scene of crime.

  Perhaps Cameron and Scott’s mate, Paul, were right. Perhaps this had been a case of mistaken identity. If so, he reasoned, would there be another killing soon? Finding the correct target this time? His mouth hardened. Trust something like this to come up just when he had planned his summer leave. Usually Lorimer and his wife, Maggie, took a break at the beginning of July but this year it hadn’t happened. Instead he had allowed the roster to be filled up by fellow officers who had young families and needed to fit their plans in with the Scottish school terms. Having no kids of their own, the Lorimers had decided to let the holidays drift, even though Maggie was similarly constrained in her teaching

  profession. Next week was the final week of her summer vacation, then it would be back for a couple of in-service days at M uirpark Secondary School before the kids came streaming into the playground once again. This last week had been earmarked by the DCI, however. One of the officers in the division had cancelled his leave and Lorimer had jumped at the chance to take Maggie away to their favourite hideout, a cottage miles from anywhere on the isle of Mull. Now, he reflected gloomily, even that small respite might be denied them. The telephone rang out twice before he yanked it off its cradle. ‘Lorimer,’ he said. There was a pause before the voice on the line identified itself as Doctor Solomon Brightman. ‘Um,’ Solly said, then paused again. ‘I have a problem. Not quite sure what to do about it.’

  Lorimer leaned back in his chair, letting it swivel around from side to side as he smiled at the sound of his friend’s voice. Despite his years in Glasgow, Solly’s accent was still one hundred per cent that of a Londoner. A well-educated, Jewish Londoner who had the annoying habit of filling a conversation with lengthy blanks. ‘Okay. Shoot,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘I have had a letter from the Assistant Chief Constable,’ Solly began. There was another pause and this time Lorimer stopped swinging in his chair and sat up, listening. ‘It seems that there has been a change in policy and that my services may no longer be required by Strathclyde Police,’ Solly said quietly.

  ‘Good Lord! What else did it say? Does she give any reasons for that?’

  ‘Only that there has been a change in policy regarding the use of criminal profiling,’ Solly said. Lorimer could hear the hurt and disappointment in the man’s

  voice. Doctor Solomon Brightman had been instrumental in helping to solve various murder cases in which Lorimer had been the Senior Investigating Officer and the policeman had learned to value his insights.

  ‘Did she hint at budgetary constraints?’ Lorimer asked, wondering if the credit crunch had been to blame.

  ‘No,’ Solly said. There was a silence then the psychologist blurted out, ‘Is it me? Are they not happy with something I’ve done?’ ‘Hey, don’t even consider that for a minute,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘You’re well thought of around here, surely you know that!’ ‘Then why…?’ Solly left his question unfinished.

  ‘I really don’t know, Solly. But leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Anyway, you’ve got enough to do right now, haven’t you? A book almost ready for publication and a new baby on its way. Got that spare room made into a nursery yet?’

  The psychologist’s voice brightened up as he took Lorimer’s lead and chatted about the changes he had made to the spacious top floor flat that overlooked Kelvingrove Park.

  Lorimer put down the phone and looked at it, thoughtfully. Why had Solly been so summarily dismissed from the police service? Was it money? Or was it something to do with that case south of the border where an eminent criminal profiler had got things spectacularly wrong? Lorimer thought about the case for a few minutes.

  Doctor Richard Thackeray (Doctor Dick, the less salubrious newspapers had taken to calling him) had profiled a young man with some pretty serious mental health issues as being the perpetrator of six prostitute murders. The man had been taken into custody, the southern police force thoroughly relieved to have found their killer. Or so they had thought. After being brutalised by his cellmate, the young man had committed suicide. The press

  had been less than charitable, hinting at justice being snatched out of the hands of the courts.

  Then the whole shebang had collapsed with the killing of a seventh victim and the apprehension of another man, one who appeared to be, ironically, completely sane. The man’s DNA was all over the other victims and so a confession of sorts had been obtained.

  Yet again a furore had broken out, the redtops changing their stance once more, this time baying for the blood of Doctor Richard Thackeray. This had all taken place last year but now the killer was due for sentencing. Alongside the media fuss, the future career of Thackeray was being mooted. Several of the better papers had run features on criminal profiling, not always portraying it in a positive light. Was that it, then? Had police forces around the country decided that profiling had had its day? As a mere DCI, Lorimer was not party to the sort of policing politics that determined things like that.

  Perhaps he might have a word with Her Nibs, as they all called Joyce Rogers, the Assistant Chief Constable. She was a fair minded individual and would at least give Lorimer a chance to put forward Solly’s case.

  Omar was staring at the open door of his locker. Instead of the clean grey metal interior there was a piece of A4 paper fixed with Blu-Tack. The scrawl of words jumped out at him.

  GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BLACK BASTARD

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bsp; The officer felt the sweat prickle under his collar. Giving a quick

  glance to see if anyone was watching, he tore the page off the door

  and crumpled it into a ball then thrust it right at the back of the

  locker, behind his gym kit and the rest of his stuff. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy as he tried to shut the locker and, as he turned the key, Omar noticed that the doorframe now sat at a slight angle. Someone had clearly broken into his locker. You didn’t need to be a CID officer to work that one out. But that wasn’t why the young Egyptian was having difficulty in controlling his trembling hands. It wasn’t the first time.

  Racist slurs like this had been the officer’s main reason for quitting Grampian region’s police force. He’d thought to have put it all behind him now. But, unless this was some sort of fiendish coincidence, it seemed as if his unknown tormentor had followed him all the way down from Aberdeen.

  ‘Okay?’ Annie Irvine smiled at the young man who approached her, his eyes looking everywhere except in her direction. DC Irvine groaned inwardly. Had she come on to him too strongly? Embarrassed the poor guy? She sighed. Och well, better get on with the job in hand, pretend it never happened. Like it was ever going to, a small voice whispered into her ear. Why imagine that he’d fancy you?

  ‘Hello,’ Fathy’s smile was strained but he was still being the polite foreigner, Irvine thought, waiting for her so he could open the car door.

  ‘Right,’ Irvine said brusquely. ‘Boss’s orders. Let’s get gitting, partner,’ she attempted a smile to lighten the atmosphere but the man beside her seemed occupied in thoughts of his own, turning away and looking out of the window as she drove away from headquarters.

  By the time they had reached the motorway Irvine had reconciled herself to a merely platonic friendship with this particularly attractive male specimen of the human race.