by Alex Gray
Max had killed those two men in Billy’s flat, Galbraith and Sandiman. The hit man had shrugged it off, telling her they had been an accident. But his words had chilled her. There had been no tone of remorse whatever, just a matter-of-factness that had made her wonder at the nature of a man like this. What would Doctor Brightman have made of him? she wondered. Did he fit the description of a psychopathic personality? Marianne didn’t think so. Her Max Whittaker, Billy’s Mick Stevens, was so frighteningly normal, wasn’t he? As a companion he’d been able to make her laugh. As a lover he had been able to make her swoon with pleasure. And all the time he had been planning her imprisonment, calculating Billy’s response to his threats.
She sighed, hearing her breath tremble as she exhaled. It was crazy, but she still felt something for the man she had met that day by the car park, some remnant of longing. (And of lust, though it shamed her to admit it.) What was it they called it? That odd relationship that a prisoner forged with their captor? Something to do with being in thrall to them, being a hostage, something like that? Despite the hours of sleep, Marianne felt dog tired, and her brain was unable to summon up words and phrases. Somewhere she heard the ring of a phone, far away, as if it was coming from the next room. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she could hear the guest next door speaking on his mobile? Perhaps if she made a big enough noise he would hear her and alert the hotel staff …?
But as the door opened and Max walked in, his ear to her own mobile, all thoughts of rescue faded. Over one arm he carried a plastic bag, its contents bulging. The woman’s eyes fell on a bottle top. Water! She watched as he threw the bag on to the bed, totally ignoring her as he spoke into the telephone. ‘Aye, Brogan. Just you do that,’ Stevens was saying, making Marianne’s eyes light up with sudden hope. ‘You want to speak to her?’ He turned to Marianne with a grin across his face. Not sure if she can manage conversation right now, let’s see.’
Marianne screamed as he tore the duct tape from her mouth, her head swung roughly to one side. ‘That do for you, Brogan? Hear it loud and clear?’ Stevens was saying into the phone. ‘Well, maybe you’ll not hear her voice for much longer if you don’t get your arse back here with my money. Got it?’ he tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled a bottle of water from the bag. Slowly he unscrewed the top, tilting it up to take deep gulps.
`Ah,’ he sighed. ‘That was good.’ The watched as she licked her lips, knowing that she was unable to take her eyes off the bottle. ‘Thirsty, are you, darlin’?’ he asked then laughed softly. ‘Want some?’
Marianne nodded, hardly daring to breathe.
He came so close to her that she could smell the familiar mixture of sweat and aftershave lotion.
‘If I give you some, you’ll have to promise to be a good girl. Okay?’ His voice was soft and low, a lover’s murmur in her ear.
‘I promise,’ she said, meeting his gaze with her own, hoping as much for his lips to brush against hers as for the bottle of water that he held aloft.
Ii
orimer moved the telephone from his ear for a moment, covering the mouthpiece with one hand as he turned to the man who sat patiently beside him.
‘It’s the British Consul in Algiers,’ he whispered. ‘They’ve got Brogan with them. He wants to talk to me.’
Solly nodded. ‘Perhaps the Ctimewatch programme has spread its …’ he fell silent as Lorimer shushed him, waving his words aside. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he said. ‘Mr Brogan?’ ‘Aye, you’ve been looking for me, Lorimer, haven’t you? Well, I jist want to say I had nothin’ taste do wi Fraz and Gubby, okay?’ ‘We know that, Mr Brogan. But I think you also know that we want to talk to you about the death of your former brother-in-law,
Mr Kenneth Scott,’ Lorimer told him, speaking as calmly as he could to temper the drug dealer’s initial belligerence.
There was a pause then Lorimer could hear the man sigh down the line.
‘Aye, well, that wasnae me, neither.’
Not directly, perhaps,’ Lorimer conceded.
‘Look, Mr Lorimer, I huvnae time taste waste wi’ all of this, right? Ye c’n charge me wance I’m hame, but meantime … ye huv taste do something fur me.’
‘I’m listening,’ Lorimer said, hearing the urgency in the man’s voice.
Brogan drew a deep breath before continuing. ‘There’s this man called Mick Stevens. He’s the one you’re looking for. He’s got my sister. And he’s going to . .
Lorimer frowned at the handset, wondering if the line had suddenly been cut off, but Brogan’s voice returned, high-pitched and nervy. ‘Mr Lorimer you’ve got to do something quick. Or Stevens is going to kill her.’
‘We have very few choices,’ Lorimer told the superintendent. ‘Either we allow this man, Stevens, to stay in the City Inn armed with God knows how many weapons, threatening the life of a young woman, or we go in after him.’ He paused then gripped the sides of Mitchison’s desk, willing the man to agree with him for once. ‘We’ve got one strategic advantage, sir. And that’s the hotel’s proximity to Anderston police station. We can call on as many of their officers as they have available right now.’
Mitchison nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a class A situation; public safety must be our primary concern. What do you suggest?’ DCI Lorimer took a deep breath and began to outline his plan.
Omar Fathy fastened on the Kevlar vest, glancing at his fellow officers as they prepared themselves for danger. It was all part of the job, he reminded himself, feeling the buzz of adrenalin shooting through his veins, nothing to get too worked up about. Omar gave a wry smile. It was just this sort of scenario that had caused his parents to have so many misgivings when their son had announced his decision to join the police force. Far too dangerous, his mother had scolded him, but Omar had simply grinned and
told her to stop watching so many TV cop shows; it wasn’t like that in real life. But now the young man was in a situation that had begun to resemble some of these celluloid adventures. And he found that it was thrilling. ‘Ready?’ Annie Irvine was not smiling as she came to stand by his side.
‘You bet,’ Omar replied. For a moment they looked at one another, two colleagues ready to face a dangerous situation. And suddenly Omar wanted it to be more than that; his fingers itching to take Annie’s hand in his, to reassure her that everything would be okay. But then a voice commanded them forwards, the moment was gone and she turned towards the police transporter van that was to take them into the city centre, leaving Omar feeling slightly dispirited.
‘Got your taser?’ Annie asked and Omar nodded, giving it a tap against the belt that contained his equipment. He had never been supplied with a weapon before and had been surprised when Lorimer had insisted that they be issued for their own safety. Still, there was to be a proper firearms unit there as well, men who were trained to shoot on command. These hand-picked officers were already on their way to the scene, the hotel’s staff having been alerted to evacuate the premises.
Fathy had been amazed at the speed with which Lorimer had managed to make all of these things happen, though having Anderston so close by was a huge bonus. Now, entering the white van and wedging himself next to his colleagues, he squared his shoulders, returning the nervous smiles and glances that were directed his way.
For the first time since arriving in Glasgow he felt truly part of this team. No matter what happened today or the next day or the week after that, Fathy knew that nothing would stop him being a
police officer, not even the malicious notes he was receiving with such painful regularity.
The hit man had selected his location well, thought Lorimer as they approached Glasgow’s City Inn. If he had planned to be in a siege situation, Stevens couldn’t have made a better strategic choice. The hotel was bounded on one side by the river and there was a police launch just out of firing range, in the lee of its southern bank. The Squinty Bridge and the main road to the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre had been closed to traffic with police cordons set
up around the adjoining streets, the road block at the slip road to the M8 causing most of the disruption for motorists.
Looking up at the pale blue sky and a single gull floating over the river, Lorimer wondered at how calm it all seemed. There was little sound of traffic save from the distant rumble across the faraway bridges. His decision to call this operation ‘eyeball in the skyball’ had been met with curious looks from those officers too young to remember The Perishers cartoons. But it had seemed an appropriate tag for this hostage situation, especially when the new technology of the PD-100 Black Hornet was to be utilised. It might have seemed like a waste of an afternoon at the time, but now Lorimer found himself pinning a lot of hope on this new, untried device. He grinned as he remembered the superintendent’s raised eyebrows: for once Mark Mitchison had been in total accord with all of Lorimer’s proposals.
The window of Stevens’ room was at an acute angle from their present position, but they would be able to see when the Black Hornet was activated and watch its flight upwards to the hotel’s top floor then listen to what was happening inside. An additional
advantage was that this tiny helicopter could send images back to the monitor that was secreted inside the police vehicle where Lorimer sat with Wilson and Solly. ‘Lucky that Brogan knew which hotel they were in,’ DS Wilson murmured to Lorimer as they sat waiting in the patrol car opposite the hotel car park.
‘More than lucky for us,’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘Especially when his sister told him their room number into the bargain.’ Both officers kept other thoughts to themselves: that sometimes luck played a part in bringing an investigation to a satisfactory close. But it was far from being ended and much could still be played out against the backdrop of this riverside scene. It was hard to imagine that Strathclyde Police now had this place surrounded, the quiet was so intense. ‘What’s happening with Brogan?’ Wilson whispered. ‘Being flown back to the UK under escort,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Right, looks like we’ve got all our ducks in a row,’ he added, spotting the officer who was to launch the Black Hornet. ‘Radio silence, all units, please,’ he said, nodding to the members of his team who watched and waited from the confines of their vehicle.
Mick Stevens was completely oblivious to the tiny helicopter whirring silently past the window of his bedroom, hovering to a place just out of his direct line of sight. But he did know that things had begun to happen. The fire alarm had been set off half an hour ago, making him look out into the corridor. The frightened face of a porter met his as the man rushed towards the nearest exit. And in that one look, the hit man had seen something he recognised. Fear. And not just the fear of some bogus fire. It was fear of him. The hit man. Mick Stevens.
So now he knew it was happening. Everything had caught up with him yet all he felt was a strange sense of calm, as though this day had been inevitable.
When he heard the loudspeaker announcing the police presence, Stevens had been savvy enough to keep out of sight from the window There would be police marksmen all over the bloody place, ready to pick him off the moment they saw his face.
‘Let the woman go, Stevens!’ a voice commanded, its booming tones reverberating in the cold air outside his room.
‘What d’you think, darlin’? Should I let you go?’ Mick smiled sadly at Marianne whose eyes bulged with terror at the pistol pointed at her. ‘After all, Billy’s been a bad boy, bringing the cops after us, hasn’t he?’ Stevens reasoned, waving the gun at her. ‘Deserves to be punished,’ he went on. ‘And what better way,’ he brandished the weapon closer to Marianne’s face, ‘than to leave him a little message?’ he laughed softly, pulling one finger back.
Marianne shrank further into the chair, her body slick with sweat under the thin covering of her nightdress. He was going to kill her. Any minute now he was going to press that trigger… she closed her eyes, terror numbing her senses, her only prayer that it would be over quickly.
‘Right, you’re coming with me, darlin’,’ Mick crooned softly. ‘A little walk upstairs. See if you’d like to fly instead.’
Lorimer and Wilson exchanged glances as the couple left the hotel bedroom and disappeared. The Black Hornet’s microphone had picked up the hit man’s words perfectly but it was unable to do any more unless he appeared by that window.
‘The roof,’ Lorimer said, shortly. ‘He’s taking her up onto the roof.’
The DCI shifted his position to get a better view of the upper
level of the hotel, then spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Attention all
units. No firing until you are absolutely sure that the girl is out of Stevens’ way. And as soon as we have sight of them get the Hornet up to their level!’ ‘Oh my God,’ Wilson whispered. `D’you think. . Lorimer’s face was grim as he replied. ‘I think he may be going to jump,’ he said. ‘And take Marianne with him.’
Amit had watched the men following him, aware of their presence at every street corner. Didn’t they know how adept he had become in those frightened weeks after his father’s death when spies had dogged his every footstep? Here in this strange city he might have been considered an easy target, but Amit Shafiq knew all about the art of surveillance.
Hiding from these undercover officers was not an option, so the man from Lahore had decided to adopt a different strategy altogether.
He was not going to be hunted all of his life. No, he would turn this to his own advantage. Now, whenever he saw them, Amit simply turned and walked back towards them, across busy roads, in and out of the subways, smiling to himself as they moved away, shiftily, as though they hoped their cover was still intact. So it was that the hunters became the hunted and Amit Shafiq had let several of them pick up his trail, hoping that they might eventually lead him to where Marianne was hiding. Practising that U-turn, he had followed different men and women all over the city until this morning. One of them, a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt, ostensibly out jogging on Byres Road, had put one hand to her ear as if she was adjusting her iPod. But it was the expression on her face as she stopped mid-stride, rather than the tell-tale action, that immediately alerted Amit. Something was happening.
Suddenly ignoring the Asian, she broke into a run, fled across Great Western Road, one hand waving frantically as she hailed a taxi.
Amit was not far behind her.
He grinned as he got into his own cab, feeling almost like a boy again as he told the taxi driver, ‘Follow that cab!’
The road at Houldsworth Street had been closed to traffic but the woman’s taxi stopped a little beyond the police tape and Amit saw her get out, brandishing what he took to be a warrant card at the officer who bent towards the taxi driver.
‘Here,’ Amit whispered to his own driver. ‘You never saw me. All right?’ Then thrusting a couple of twenties into the man’s hand, he slipped out of the cab and walked cautiously past the empty car park at PC World, and the deserted forecourt of the Citroen garage.
‘Sorry, you can’t go past here, sir,’ the uniformed officer told Amit.
`DCI Lorimer needs me,’ Amit told him firmly. ‘I’m with that other officer but we got split up back there,’ he lied, pointing to the woman in running gear who was now quite far ahead, almost at the corner where the road forked right towards the City Inn. ‘Need to see your ID, sir,’ the man replied firmly. ‘Of course,’ Amit said, putting a hand to his inside pocket. Then, as though he had spotted someone behind the policeman, he smiled and waved. As the officer turned, Amit broke into a run, arms pumping hard by his sides, heart thudding at his own audacity.
Marianne felt her legs buckle beneath her as Max pulled her off the chair, her bonds cut free by a knife he had produced from somewhere.
‘Come on,’ he told her, flicking her hair back from her face with the blade of the knife. ‘Get going.’ As the hit man pocketed the knife and picked up the gun again, Marianne bit her lip. She had to go, she just had to … Too terrified to reach out and touch his arm, the woman watched his every move until finally she caught his eye. ‘Pl
ease,’ she begged. Van I go to the toilet?’ He seemed to hesitate for a moment then shrugged. ‘Okay, but make it quick.’
With a sigh, Marianne sat on the pan and closed her eyes. It was humiliating to have him standing there, watching, but the relief as her bladder finally gave up its contents overcame any residual embarrassment.
‘Right, move it,’ the hit man told her. Somehow she managed to stumble towards the doorway and out into the darkened corridor. All the lights were out, she noticed. Had the hotel staff cut off the power? A flicker of hope entered the woman’s heart. Maybe the police outside would save her from the man who was pushing her steadily along, that gun pressed into her back, urging her towards the end of the corridor. Or would Max relent? Tell her it was all a mistake? That he never intended to harm her?
The fresh air made her gasp as the door was thrust open and Marianne was bundled onto the roof. Her nightdress billowed upwards, exposing her bare legs and for a moment Marianne feared that she would be blown straight off into the river below ‘I can’t…’ she said, holding back, her eyes pleading with the gunman.
‘Move,’ he said, twisting her arm painfully so that now she was in front of him, a human shield, protection from whoever tried to fire on them.
‘Please,’ Marianne whimpered, her bare feet taking steps against their will. Sharp bits of gravel cut into the soles, making her wince.
The edge of the roof began to come so close. Too close … ‘No!’ she said, struggling in his grip. ‘Don’t make me! Please!’ But her words blew away in the wind as he forced her nearer
and nearer to that dizzying drop.
Amit walked slowly around the corner of the street, aware at any minute that he might be made to return. The undercover policewoman had disappeared and there were several police vehicles parked around the outside of the hotel.
He stopped, lingering in the shadow of a building, wondering what was going on. Ahead of him, crouched low beside a white van, was a police marksman, his rifle trained on something he could not see.