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

by Alex Gray

  stormy.’ ‘Aye, jist like Glasgow durin’ the Fair,’ Jimmy Lang piped up and everyone laughed. Maggie smiled too. The two-week trades holiday was notorious for having poor weather. ‘Don’t think that’s the fault o’ the fairies,’

  someone else called out and again a ripple of giggles ran through

  the class. As the bell to end the period rang out, Maggie raised her hand to prevent a charge towards her classroom door. Now remember to tell your parents about the theatre trip. We need to have the forms filled in and returned no later than next week. Okay?’

  She smiled as they filed out into the corridor, some of’ them grinning up at her, others saying ‘See you, miss,’ as they passed her by. This was by far the nicest group of first years she’d had in a long time, Maggie thought, closing the door behind them and settling down for a rare period of preparation. Her smile faded as she regarded the notes on Shakespeare’s well-loved play. Why had she chosen to highlight the changeling boy? Was it some subconscious desire on her part to elevate the child to a position of importance? Surely not. She smiled again, remembering the little faces that had just looked up at her. These would be her family, kids who passed through her life for five or six years. She sat, thinking about the future. Soon both she and Bill would be forty and that landmark birthday seemed to Maggie to be a kind of watershed in their lives. She could go on teaching for more than twenty years, hundreds of kids receiving the benefit of her tuition, she mused. Would she still be here, in this school? There was no ambitious streak in the policeman’s wife to go chasing promotion. Their only ambition had been to have children one day and now that possibility was fast drawing to a close. Maggie drew a sigh. She was so lucky compared to many of her friends; like her colleague, Sandy, with a messy divorce behind her and a teenage son who drove his mother demented. And if her husband worked long hours and had sometimes to cancel social engagements because of work, she could still treasure the knowledge that she was his only love and that they would always share a unique and special bond. The notion brought her back to the warring lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Maggie settled back to prepare lessons for the following weeks.

  ‘No he isn’t here at present. No. Would you? Oh, well, thanks for that, ma’am.’

  DCI Lorimer put down the telephone and looked at it thoughtfully. The deputy chief constable had expressed both the horror and outrage that he himself had felt over DC Fathy’s revelation. Talking to Joyce Rogers had been a good idea since she had taken such a personal interest in their Egyptian detective constable. We need more ethnic minorities representing our forces, she’d told him more than once since Fathy had transferred from Grampian. But if there were racist elements at work within their divisions then something was seriously wrong. Lorimer wondered just how to begin to tackle this. There were known groups, football casuals among them, that were blatantly racist. It might pay to ask a few questions in those quarters. But since the first incident had actually happened here, in the locker area, just yards from the charge bar where officers came and went at all hours of the day and night, he really should begin with their own division. If it was an incident involving serious crime, then he could have used some technology, like hidden cameras, but that was completely out of the question given the number of officers using the locker area. And, since Fathy hadn’t a clue who his attacker was, they had to keep any investigation very low-key indeed. Any officer worth their salt would have taken precautions to keep his (or her) DNA off the materials sent to Fathy through the post. But he might just call up a favour from his chum in the Scottish criminal record office to have the letters and note dusted for prints. Even the most forensically aware person could still make mistakes, he reasoned. Lorimer would make enquiries, he’d promised Joyce Rogers, keep it as discreet as possible, see if he could avoid putting it through official channels just yet. The DCI pursed his lips as he thought about all the things going on right now; Fathy’s problem, the hunt for Billy Brogan, and his wife’s difficulty in coming to terms with her operation.

  Then there was Sol ly and why he was being sidelined when such skills as his were invaluable. His frown changed to the faintest of smiles. Solly would soon be immersed in fatherhood and Lorimer was certain that the psychologist would make an excellent dad. Should he be feeling a pang of envy? Or was he so wrapped up in this job that he simply never had the time to think of what he was missing?

  A

  aaaagh!’ The man’s scream bounced off the walls, tripling the sound of his agony.

  ‘No nice taste grass up yer mates, Jaffa. No nice at all,’ the man standing over Jaffrey whispered softly, chuckling as he watched the pain twist the man’s face.

  ‘C’mon Raj, let’s git oot o’ here,’ a voice behind him insisted. ‘He’s grassed wance, he’ll mibbe grass us up anither time.’ ‘No, Vik,’ Raj replied. ‘Jaffa won’t do that, will you, son?’ Jaffrey’s frightened face looked up and he shook his head, opening his mouth to beseech his tormentors.

  But Raj had already raised his knife, plunging down hard, cutting off any coherent words.

  The high-pitched scream of pain ended in barely a whimper. Then the two men turned and walked away from the shadows of the deserted factory into the bright afternoon sunlight. Raj heaved the metal door shut then secured it with the large padlock that had dangled from its hasp. The derelict building had a row of windows set high up on one side, all of them broken like stars from a toddler’s drawing book. Weeds grew up against the ruins of a pathway around the place, feathery willow herb and

  thistles, their fluffy seed heads floating skywards. He let his eyes roam over the area round about. Several dark brown bottles that had been kicked into the undergrowth glinted in the afternoon light, evidence that people had been here. Probably jakeys from up in the village over that nearby hill, he told himself, then grinned. Nobody would find Jaffa any time soon. And by the time they did, he would be past telling anything. He swaggered to where Vikram was waiting by his Beamer, nodding to himself in satisfaction. ‘Hey, dinna mess the car, man,’ Vikram whined, stepping in front of Raj, who still clutched the bloodstained knife in his left hand. ‘Aye, nae sweat,’ Raj replied, bending down to push the blade into the tussocky ground beside the black BMW before wiping it on the grass. ‘Now, c’mon. let’s split before onybody clocks us.’ The big car accelerated from the patch of rough ground and sped off around a bend past a copse of mottled sycamores. Somewhere, unseen, a blackbird began to call; an insistent warning cry, signalling danger. But all that could be seen on that September afternoon was a swirl of dust settling back onto the dried-up earth. The bird flew out of the thorn bush, its dark shape a swift arrow against the fading blue sky. And no sound issued from behind the wooden doors, where a man lay bleeding quietly to death.

  ‘e’s not come home,’ the woman said, her voice breaking H into the threat of a sob. ‘What should I do?’ Young Jaffrey looked around him as a crowd of tourists passed by the pavement cafe. The sun that shone down on the busy Mallorcan street made the boy resentful as he listened to his mother and that plea in her tone that suggested he should pack up now and return home. His mouth drooped into a sulk as he thought how to reply. ‘Well, don’t do anything foolish, will you?’ he said at last. ‘That’s not what Dad would want, now, is it?’ ‘Oh, I was hoping …’ the woman’s sentence tailed off but there was no need for her to finish it. Young Jaffrey knew fine what she was wanting him to say: that he’d come home, sort things out. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll probably have a good reason for staying out.’ He bit his lip, wondering as he spoke just what such a reason might be. ‘Ring me when Dad comes back. All right? Have to go now. Bye.’ The boy clicked his mobile off, looking thoughtful. Was this something to do with that murder case back home? He’d let Dad know about Brogan, after all. And his own snooping had produced results. That gossipy girl behind the hotel desk had let slip that

  the Spanish police were trying to find Brogan. But the trail here had gone cold, neither the police nor his own fu
rtive enquiries were producing any sign of the Glasgow dealer. It was all wrong, the boy told himself. Their kind should stick together, not mix with guys like Brogan. The dealer had many friends within the Asian community, though, didn’t he? And rumour had it that he was well in with the Hundi, a personage who commanded huge respect from everyone young Jaffrey knew. He frowned. Would Dad have done anything stupid to upset the fragile balance that existed between families like their own and the powerful men who controlled the ebb and flow of drugs in the city? The thought made him blanch under his tanned skin. Whatever was going on back home, he was better off right here away from it all.

  ‘The PD-100 Black Hornet has the advantage of almost total

  silence,’ the man said, turning his head to make eye contact with

  his audience. Lorimer tried hard not to fidget. The man’s presentation at the Pitt Street assembly hall was going quite well so far and he had that knack of every good speaker for engaging his audience with humorous anecdotes. Most of these had been relevant to his subject which was what their attention was focussed upon: a tiny helicopter smaller than a cricket ball. So far the man had shown the senior officers some video footage of the device at work. Powered by an electric motor, the helicopter had rotor blades that measured a mere ten centimetres in diameter. Lorimer had been a little sceptical at first, especially when his neighbour had nudged him, remarking that they were being shown a clip from a Harry Potter film and that the PD whatshisname was really the Snitch in disguise. Now Lorimer was paying a bit more attention as the speaker began to demonstrate the little machine’s other facilities.

  “The microphone has now been fully tested and it can “eavesdrop” on conversations at a range determined by its controllers. This adds to the benefits of it being used in situations that call for extra care like the hostage situation I mentioned earlier.’ The DCI was sitting up straighter now taking notice of all the pictures being shown on the screen. A close-up of the device made it look far too simple but in the videos he had seen how it could whirr silently, unnoticed by the men inside the building who had been part of the mock-up incident. It looked good, he had to admit. One more tool for the box, he could almost hear his old super saying. And it was right that the force should be looking to technological developments to help in fighting crime. If a wee helicopter like that could film a crime scene that was under surveillance then perhaps it should be given a place in their budget. ‘More toys for the boys,’ Helen James remarked wearily as they filed out of the hall afterwards. Lorimer smiled at her politely, not wanting to get into an argument about it. He recognised the woman as a DCI from another division who had been up to her ears with the press lately on a series of missing girls who were known prostitutes. Helen’s dough-coloured pallor on a skin that was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones was something that every one of her fellow officers could recognise — too much work and too little sleep. That she had taken time to attend this presentation surprised Lorimer. Perhaps she was simply escaping for an hour? He knew how that could work. A brief respite that was still within the description of work could always help to focus back on a difficult case like the one she was on. Nodding to her as they walked out into the daylight again, Lorimer hoped that it might do the same for himself.

  Solly turned the key of his office, smiling in appreciation as he

  entered the room. It was a different office from the one he had

  occupied for much of his tenure at the university and reflected his status as professor designate. He nodded approvingly at the light that flooded in from the two tall windows, art deco ovals etched onto the upper parts of their frames. It was, Solly told himself, a handsome room. Yes, handsome was certainly the correct word to choose. Putting down his briefcase, Solly wandered around the room, touching the edge of a huge rectangular table that sat in the centre of the room. It was easily big enough for any of his seminars and as Solly stood there he imagined a group of young faces laughing and chatting as he encouraged their developing thoughts. The bookcases that lined almost every wall had begun to fill up with his books; the summer had seen him make lots of trips between his old, modern office and this large airy room. He strolled across to the window, looking down the length of University Avenue, past the line of parked cars next to black painted railings. A small smile of satisfaction hovered on the psychologist’s lips. Down there on the left was the department of forensic medicine, its sand-blasted walls a honey tone just visible behind the trees. In winter he would be able to look out and imagine Rosie when she was in her office; her time being divided between the campus and the city mortuary. His eyes drifted across to the buildings opposite, the crow-stepped gables jutting out from moss-covered roofs. Funny how this place felt so much like home to him. London was part of his past now, though he would surely continue to make family visits. Solly moved away from the window, checking the small desk where his new computer lay ready to be switched on. The departmental website would soon have his title changed from doctor to professor. How would he feel seeing that every time he logged on? Or came around the turn of the stair to see it emblazoned upon his door?

  Professor Brightman sounded quite right to his ears and probably preferable to Doctor once his child had grown up and talked about him to his friends. (His again, SoIly grinned above his dark beard. Surely a subliminal wish?) Being mistaken for a doctor of medicine was simply not on, especially when Rosie already had that distinction. Anyway, his new title would be conferred during this coming session. The Senate would be sitting soon and Solly was not sure that he would actually enjoy the little ceremony that was to confirm his new status. It would not alter very much except a title and the welcome increase in salary that went with it; his research and teaching would remain pretty much as normal since this professorship was an internal, personal chair. And it would not affect the two weeks’ paternity leave that he had ahead of him. That would be something of a watershed in his life. Once the baby was here and Rosie was settled into her period of new motherhood then he could return to the department and resume his teaching life. The new post was not something he had mentioned to Lorimer, nor to anyone outside of his family or academic circle. Perhaps it might have given him a little more cachet in his dealings with Strathclyde Police, he mused. Having a professor of psychology to assist them might have been hard to resist. He knew how human nature worked, after all. But perhaps it could also have been counter-productive in his quest to remain on their payroll: might having a Prof for profiler be seen as way outside their budget?

  When the telephone rang, Solly blinked, shaken from his thoughts back to the present. ‘Doctor Brightman,’ he said. As the familiar voice of the departmental secretary spoke to him, the psychologist’s eyebrows rose in a speculative expression.

  ‘And they’d like to see me?’ he asked. Putting down the phone, Solly stroked his dark beard thoughtfully. Officers from Strathclyde Police were in the departmental office and wondered if he could spare a minute to see them. Curiosity and his own better judgement overcame a sudden childish notion to say that he was too busy. The name of the officer was unknown to him, not one of Lorimer’s team, he decided, walking along towards the main office. But as he opened the door and saw DC Irvine standing beside a slim, dark young man, Solly had to revise his first thought. The other detective’s elegant features marked him out as North African, the psychologist decided, and his body language told Solly that the man was both respectful and ill at ease. Had he heard about Solly’s dismissal as a profiler? That could certainly cause a slight sense of embarrassment, he told himself as Annie Irvine made the introductions. ‘Sorry to bother you, Doctor Brightman,’ Irvine began. ‘But we wanted, that is, wanted, to let you know what we were doing here,’ she began. Solly smiled at the woman. He liked this officer. She had been one of Lorimer’s team on several of the cases he had been a part of and it was sensitive of her to go out of her way to keep him in the loop. ‘Good of you,’ Solly murmured. ‘Perhaps we can talk in my office?’ he suggested, leading
them back along to the bright and airy room that overlooked a delicate row of silver birches swaying in the afternoon breeze.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Kenneth Scott and the double shooting in the West End,’ Irvine told him, sitting down on the chair that he had pulled out for her. ‘But you know that of course, sir,’ she gave a rueful grin. ‘Mrs Brightman did the postmortems,’ she added, turning to address Fathy.

  ‘We’re looking for the sister of the drug dealer who’s disappeared,’ she went on. ‘Seems she applied to the university a couple of years back and was given an unconditional acceptance. Only thing is, we haven’t been able to find her name in any of the registration lists so far. So we’re trawling through all the departmental records instead.’

  ‘That’s a lot of work for you,’ Solly nodded then, looking at them both in turn, he asked, ‘What does my good friend think?’ Irvine made a face. ‘Lorimer thinks she’s dead,’ she told the psychologist.

  And you don’t?’ Solly said, looking from one officer to the other.

  Irvine shook her head. ‘But he isn’t being pig-headed about that, either.’

  ‘Which is why you have come to talk to the secretarial staff?’ `Yes, sir,’ Fathy answered for them both. ‘I just have this feeling… .’ the young Egyptian broke off. And feelings are important,’ Solly replied immediately, encouraging the officer. ‘They can tell us things that are not on the surface but are of value nonetheless,’ he continued, wagging his head sagely. Omar Fathy sat opposite the psychologist seeing eyes that twinkled behind their horn-rimmed spectacles. So this was the legendary Solomon Brightman? Solomon the wise, Fathy thought, noting the man’s keen intelligence. Here was a man he felt he could trust. On impulse he blurted out, ‘We’re looking for a woman who called herself Marianne Scott. Was Marianne Brogan before her marriage,’ he said, pulling the well-thumbed photograph from his inside pocket. He stopped suddenly, aware of the change that had come over the psychologist’s face. For a long moment none of them spoke, Solly staring at them