by Alex Gray
owlishly as though he had retreated inside himself. The ticking of an old-fashioned clock on the wall seemed unnaturally loud. ‘Marianne?’ Solly said at last, swallowing as though the word stuck in his throat. ‘Marianne,’ he paused for another moment, sighing as if it were an effort to continue, ‘is one of my students. Or at least she was,’ he tailed off, eyes gazing into space at something neither of the police officers could see. ‘I’ve seen her,’ he told them at last, still looking into the distance. ‘And she was happy. Happier than she ever was last session.’ Turning to Irvine and Fathy Solomon Brightman’s face grew serious once more. ‘I would hate to think that anything bad has happened to that young woman.’
C
‘mon, doon here,’ Geordie Mitchell beckoned his pals. ‘This’ll do fine,’ he added, grinning as the other two boys picked their way carefully through the broken glass that littered what remained of the pathway. ‘Here, Rab, gonnae you gie’s a haun taste git up taste thon windae?’ ‘Ye cannae git up therr, Mitchell,’ Rab replied. `Thur’s way too much glass still in that one.’ ‘Well let’s finish it off,’ the third boy said gleefully, setting down his backpack with a clink that betrayed its contents. He was by far the smallest of the trio, a dark-haired boy, quick and otter sleek, but he had shouldered the pack manfully down the steep track that led from their village. ‘Better inside where naebody can find us, eh?’ The three boys scrabbled in the tussocky grass, finding suitable sized rocks to aim at the already Ilroken pane of glass above them. `Geronimor Rab shouted(‘See thon wee bit up taste the left? Got it a bull’s eye so ah did!’ `Ah’ll finish it off fur youse n’all,’ his pal boasted. ‘Bet ye cannae, Chick. Ye’re too wee!’ Geordie scoffed. The challenge flung out made the smaller boy’s face tighten with concentration as he pulled back his arm then let the stone fly through the air.
With a tinkling sound the remaining shard fell inwards, leaving a blank hole big enough for them to scramble through. ‘See!’ Chick yelled in triumph, offering his open hand for a high five. ‘Right, let’s get in there,’ Geordie told them. Who’s gonnae gie me a leg up?’ Geordie Mitchell heaved himself upwards from Rab’s clasped hands, scrabbling his feet to find some purchase. Then, seizing the edge of the windowsill, he thrust his body forwards into the gloom. For a moment he could see nothing, blinded by the contrast from the sun’s glare outside. Then his eyes began to register shapes beneath him. And a smell that made him wrinkle his nose in disgust.
‘Three laddies, sarge,’ the officer told the mobile phone in his hand. ‘Down at Brockenridge’s old place. Foot of Rowan Glen. Aye, that’s the place.’ The uniformed policeman turned to the boys sitting behind him in the squad car. ‘You all right, lads?’ The three boys nodded in unison, silenced by the enormity of what Geordie had found in the old factory. Thoughts of being punished for dogging off school had long vanished. Fear of something more dreadful had made them scramble up the hill to the main road where, as chance would have it, they had managed to flag down a passing patrol car. Their earlier bravado had vanished; now they were three wee laddies whose natural instincts for what was right and what was wrong had reasserted themselves. Breaking already broken windows and having a few bottles of Buckfast was nothing compared to what Geordie had found. That was wrong in anybody’s book.
‘Can you describe the man to us, Geordie?’ the officer in the front passenger seat turned to ask. Geordie Mitchell swallowed the bile that threatened to shame him before his mates. He’d never forget that sight as long as he lived. Yet trying to describe that body covered in blood with its dead, glaring eyes was beyond him. He shook his head, refusing to meet the eyes of his pals who were looking at him with unashamed curiosity. ‘It’s a deid mate he’d screamed, falling down on top of an astonished Rab.
There had been no time for discussion. Geordie had turned to run back the way they had come, the other boys following his lead, galvanised into action by the expression of horror on his chalk-white face.
Marianne wiped her mouth with the paper serviette and smiled at the man opposite. He’d been quieter than she had imagined an ex-soldier would have been, this Max Whittaker, but he had made up for that by being attentive and a good listener. She had told him lots about her first year at the university and as the meal had progressed, Marianne had even let slip her hopes for the future.
‘Why America?’ Max had asked, gesturing in the air with his fork. ‘Aren’t there enough opportunities here?’ Marianne had shaken her head, pretending to know more about that than she actually did. A gulp from her water glass had given her time to think up some spurious comment about psychologists being better paid and Max seemed to take her fantasies for the straight truth. He hadn’t said much about himself and Marianne’s curiosity had been satisfied by the few comments about travelling around
the UK as a consultant and the tedium of staying in travel lodges that looked the same no matter what city you were in. She let her fingers stray on to the table, playing absently with the pair of white ceramic ducks twined together to provide salt and pepper. Years ago a friend who had worked for British Airways cabin crew had pinched one of them and sent photographs of the duck from places all over the world. Marianne pondered for a moment whether the staff had missed the lone duck and what they had done with its partner. ‘Glad you came out with me today,’ he said gruffly, breaking into her thoughts and putting a light hand over her own. It was the nearest he had come to an intimate moment and, absurdly, Marianne found herself blushing like an awkward schoolgirl. ‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ she said truthfully, looking at him with a new
appreciation. Max Whittaker wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but there was something appealing about these regular features and his light grey eyes, especially the way they held her own as though he wanted to say more but was too shy. ‘Better get the bill,’ he mumbled and began to reach into the inside pocket of the jacket that was slung on the seat behind him. She felt a spasm of disappointment as keen as real pain. That was it, then. They’d drive back to the city and he would disappear from her life. Suddenly Marianne knew that she wanted more from this man, this stranger who had made her feel like a girl again, full of hopes and possibilities. Reaching behind her head, she unclipped the barrette and shook out her long, russet tresses, watching under her lashes for some reaction. Men had always remarked on her hair, finding something fascinating in the way it cascaded round her shoulders, falling onto her breasts. ‘Maybe we could find a movie? Or something?’ she asked,
hearing the deliberate huskiness in her voice, watching the man’s face to see if such boldness was overstepping the mark. When Max smiled and nodded, Marianne let out her breath, her cheeks glowing with a mixture of relief and pleasure. As they rose to leave, Marianne accidentally swept the two saltand-pepper ducks off the table.
‘Oh!’ she cried, her hand flying to her mouth in horror as one of the ducks shattered into bits on the stone floor.
‘Come on. Someone’ll clear that up. Don’t worry about it,’ Max told her, a slight irritation in his tone. Marianne nodded and hurried out after him, but for some reason the incident had cast a shadow over her spurt of optimism like a cloud suddenly covering the sun.
He knew that she was looking at him even in the darkness that shrouded them from all the other cinema goers. That was good. As his lips curled upwards the hit man wondered what the woman would make of the thoughts that prompted that smile. He had hardly mentioned Brogan; just a couple of questions thrown out casually Hope my old pal Billy might be around next time I’m up in Glasgow. And, later, When did you last see your bad wee brother? That had been said with a grin that was meant to tell her that Max knew the score with Billy Brogan. He’d seen something like relief in Marianne’s face: this old friend, Max Whittaker, was straight but didn’t hold Billy’s wayward lifestyle against his sister. It had been a nice little conjuring trick, letting her think that he understood how she felt. His grin widened. If only she knew what had really prompted that smile. Should she manage to make contact
with Brogan, the dealer would be happily surprised that Max Whittaker had turned up out of the blue. Billy Boy hadn’t seen or heard from Max for years, thankfully.
The hit man chuckled to himself. Private Whittaker might he dead and gone, one of the casualties of the Afghan conflict, but his name still had its uses. He laid a casual arm across the back of the seat, fingering Marianne’s long red hair, feeling her body edge closer to his own. This was a different sort of war he was involved in now, and there would doubtless be more casualties before the end, but whether this woman was to be numbered amongst them depended on his new paymasters.
S ‘ahid Jaffrey. Aged forty-nine. Lived at 20 Maxwell Road. No
previous convictions,’ Detective Sergeant Wilson looked up at the team as he recited the dead man’s statistics. ‘And that’s just because he was good at ducking and diving,’ he continued grimly. ‘How’s that?’ DC Fathy asked, puzzled. `Ach, Jaffrey was pretty well known to us,’ Wilson explained. ‘Used to be a small-time dealer. Rumour has it his missus threatened to turn him in so he went straight. Sort of. But we know he’d maintained links with some of his old mates. Worked to our advantage and he was one of the more reliable snouts on our books. In fact,’ he sighed heavily, shaking his head as he turned to address the entire team, ‘he was the one who was instrumental in telling us about Brogan.’ ‘But I thought it was from a call box,’ Fathy frowned. ‘Aye, that was just for the record, son. See, we don’t give away our sources that easily. One trip to court and Jaffa would have been a sitting duck for the bad guys.’ ‘Well it looks as though it was one of the bad guys who found out that he’d been dealing with us,’ Lorimer broke in. ‘Those knife injuries to his knees suggest a very personal sort of punishment.’ It was two days since the discovery of Jaffrey’s body. The
officers from K Division had sent in a forensic team to the Gleniffer Braes where the body had been examined then taken to Glasgow City mortuary. The SIO on the case, DI James Martin, had been astute enough to recognise DS Wilson’s name from the stack of cards inside the dead man’s wallet. Now the two divisions were collaborating on the man’s death since it could very well have some link to Scott and the men in Brogan’s flat. ‘DI Martin’s Family Liaison Officer has told us something else that might be of interest,’ Wilson went on. ‘Seems like Jaffrey junior’s been doing his gap year over in Spain.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘A place in Mallorca called Cala Millor.’ ‘So that’s the link with Brogan!’ DS Cameron exclaimed. ‘I wondered how on earth he had that sort of information.’ ‘We need to speak to the boy as soon as possible. Family Liaison have advised us of his return flight,’ Lorimer nodded to Wilson. ‘We have to lift him the moment he steps off that plane. Okay?’ Thomson Holidays had asked their passengers returning from Palma if any of them would give up their seat to a young man whose father had died suddenly. The airlines had a special budget for such acts of compassion and an obliging lone traveller could sometimes find himself with an extra day’s holiday plus a few hundred quid to spend. Such a person had not been hard to find and Jaffrey junior was now booked to fly home, arriving at Glasgow International Airport later that evening. ‘What about Mrs Jaffrey?’ DC Irvine asked. ‘Do we know what she’s told Family Liaison so far?’ Wilson shrugged and spread his hands in a who knows gesture. ‘She certainly didn’t report him as a missing person. And the pathologist reckons he’s been dead for several days.’ ‘I think it’s a good idea to speak to her before the boy gets
home. Otherwise he’ll maybe do all the talking for her,’ Lorimer said.
There was a murmur of agreement in the room. It was well known that many Asian families continued the tradition of the male being head of the family, the woman often choosing to be subservient to him. With the death of her husband, Mrs Jaffrey might well look to her teenage son to speak on her behalf.
Annie Irvine made a face. There weren’t many women nowadays who’d let their men folk get off with that sort of behaviour. She thought back to Mrs Galbraith. There was one mother who hadn’t minced her words. Would Mrs Jaffrey have the courage to tell the police anything she knew about her dead husband and his secrets?
She was suddenly aware that the DCI was looking in her direction.
‘Irvine. You and DC Fathy go and see her,’ Lorimer told them. ‘See what you can find out.’
Mrs Jaffrey opened the door just wide enough to let the chain tighten. DC Irvine saw a tiny woman, caught sight of a dark purple sari banded with a design of red and gold, a matching scarf covering her head. But it was the expression of fear in the woman’s eyes that caught the policewoman’s attention.
‘DC Fathy, DC Irvine, Strathclyde Police, ma’am,’ Fathy said, holding his warrant card out in front of him.
The woman was silent as she fiddled with the chain, hands visibly shaking. The two officers exchanged glances. She was still in a state of shock and no wonder. A missing husband who had turned up brutally murdered was enough to numb the mind of any anxious spouse. The door was pulled back as though by a tremendous effort and as they stepped in, Mrs Jaffrey swayed where she stood.
Annie caught the woman’s sleeve before she could collapse. ‘Come on, dear, through here,’ she whispered, guiding her back along the corridor to where she could see a glint of light under a door. Under Annie’s grip, the woman felt like a thin bundle of bones hidden beneath the swathes of clothing. There was no one else in the house and Annie wondered when this woman had last eaten anything. The brightly lit room turned out to be the woman’s bedroom and Annie reckoned from the state of the place that Sara Jaffrey had been lying in her bed, fully clothed, when they’d rung the doorbell. ‘Here, sit down, are you okay?’ Annie asked, helping the Asian woman into a chair beside her unmade bed. A tumbler of water lay on the bedside cabinet and Annie picked it up, setting its rim to the woman’s lips, letting her swallow until she began to splutter. Mrs Jaffrey gave a little cough then murmured something that Annie couldn’t catch. As though exhausted, she leaned back, her eyes staring wildly at the two officers. ‘Have you got him?’ she asked, clasping her hands to her chin in a gesture that was so pitiful that it made Annie bite her lip. ‘Have you found my husband?’ Annie looked up at Fathy. This was going to be a hard one, his expression said. ‘Make some tea,’ she hissed at him, then, taking the other woman’s hands in her own, Annie knelt down beside her.
‘Mr Jaffrey’s been found, Sara. He’s not coming back, though. You know that, don’t you?’ The black eyes full of tears stared at Annie uncomprehendingly. ‘You’ll find him, yes?’
Annie shook her head. ‘He’s not coming back, Sara,’ she repeated gently. ‘The other officers who came here, they told you that, didn’t they?’
Sara Jaffrey continued to look at DC Irvine, eyes wide with disbelief then the first tears brimmed over and a quiet keening noise issued from her lips.
‘We have to ask you things about your husband, Sara,’ Annie continued gently. Tut if it’s too much we can always come back?’
The woman looked blank for a moment then gave a ripple of sobs that ended in a long sigh.
‘What can I tell you?’ she replied, her voice thick with emotion. ‘When did Mr Jaffrey disappear?’ Annie asked.
There was a short pause and Annie realised that Sara Jaffrey was probably struggling to remember what day of the week it was.
‘He didn’t come home on Friday night,’ she said at last. ‘My son …’ she broke off as Fathy entered bearing a tray of steaming mugs. ‘No, thank you,’ she said, a tremulous smile directed at the handsome young Egyptian. ‘Perhaps later . .
Fathy set the tray down on a small table next to the chair and stood beside the door, nodding his compliance at the two women. With Fathy in the room a small change had come over Jaffrey’s widow; a man commanded respect and she should comply with that, her straightening back and folded hands seemed to say.
‘You were telling us when you saw your husband?’ Annie prompted the woman once more.
Sara Jaffrey drew
her scarf a little closer to her face in a gesture that both officers recognised: there was something she wanted to keep from them.
‘My son thought his daddy would come home soon,’ she said at last, casting her eyes downwards.
Perhaps that was half a truth, Annie thought. More likely she’d been told not to contact the police.
`So you didn’t worry?’
Sara Jaffrey’s eyes flashed and they caught a flicker of indignation. ‘Of course, I worried!’ she told them. ‘What am I? A wife without feelings?’
‘But your son told you not to worry, surely? Didn’t he, Sara?’ Fathy said, adopting an utterly reasonable tone.
‘Yes, he did,’ Sara agreed.
‘What was he doing out in Mallorca, Sara?’ Fathy asked.
‘Oh, he was on his gap year,’ the woman told them, her voice more confident now that she thought they were on safer ground. ‘My Rashid will be going to Caledonian University,’ she added proudly.
‘And he bumped into an old family friend while he was there, didn’t he?’ Annie said.
Sara Jaffrey gave a little frown as though she were unable to remember.
‘Billy Brogan, Mr Jaffrey’s good friend,’ Annie prompted, smiling.
The woman’s face cleared. `Ah, yes. Mr Brogan is big family friend,’ she nodded. ‘Well liked by many of our neighbours, here in Pollokshields.’
‘Just a coincidence that he was taking a wee holiday while Rashid was there, then?’
Sara frowned again, looking from one to the other. But whatever she saw in the two officers’ faces must have reassured her. ‘Yes, of course. Rashid had no idea that he was there. We thought …’ she put her hand to her mouth as though she had already said too much.