by Alex Gray
Her heart beat wildly as she headed downstairs after the Jamaican woman, eyes large with terror lest they be waylaid before they had effected their escape.
For escape it was, Asa was in no doubt about that. She had seen the way Shereen had slammed the door of that room shut, recoiling from it as though the corpse might climb down from its wire and catch hold of her. Okonjo at least was absent from the flat, though where he had gone was a mystery to Asa; he seemed to be around so much of the time.
A shiny black car was waiting at the kerb and Shereen bundled the girl in, pushing their bags on to the floor then rapping out instructions to the driver.
Asa looked back as the taxi drew away from the grey pavement, the tenement buildings growing smaller as the vehicle gathered speed. Then they were absorbed into a fast-moving line of traffic, the driver skilfully weaving his way in between other vehicles.
She glanced at her companion. Shereen was holding on to a handle by the window, knuckles pale against the brown skin, her back rigid as she perched on the edge of the leather seat.
Where were they going? Asa wanted to open her mouth to ask, but there were no words for that question and she felt a well of frustration that their different languages created such a barrier between them. She was like a bird that did not sing, its silence making it vanish into the undergrowth, a lost thing prey to the dangerous creatures that sought to harm it.
He had never been slow to make decisions, but there were times when things needed a bit of thought before he handed out the tasks. And this was one of them. The surveillance report had come back about the flat in the East End and one part of him wanted to send a squad car over there. Now. Right now. He bit his lower lip as he mulled over the various consequences of this. McAlpin might be using that flat as a base where the terrorist cell hung out, but it was the first time they had seen him there, he reasoned. On the other hand, the bags of groceries might be for men who were holed up there.
‘One wrong move and the entire operation will collapse,’ Drummond had warned him. So should he send a car over there or leave well alone? Intelligence told him that McAlpin had been seen entering a detached house on the south side, an address not far from the detective’s own home, something that had made Lorimer’s eyebrows rise. Criminal activity was never somewhere else, he reminded himself; scratch the surface of any veneer of respectability and you’d find the same human weaknesses beneath.
He heaved a sigh. It was down to the surveillance team to watch and listen. He would let them keep an eye on the East End flat, but that was all he could do. His remit within Police Scotland included fighting organised crime but the man from MI6 had a greater say in this matter: the life of Her Majesty took precedence over any ongoing investigation that a mere Glasgow cop was carrying out. It was almost midsummer now and there were signs everywhere counting down to the day of the opening ceremony. The detective super thought back to the previous year, when he and Maggie had been making tentative plans to join the melee of people heading towards Parkhead. And then the bomb near Drymen had exploded, destroying any ideas he might have had about being a mere spectator at the Commonwealth Games.
‘He’s on the move again,’ Kate said, fastening her seat belt as Joe started up the Corsa once more.
The big ginger-haired man had emerged from the red-painted doorway of a 1950s bungalow overlooking Rouken Glen Park, one hand on the mobile phone pressed to his ear, the other holding the keys to his van. The video camera zoomed in on his face, capturing the expression of anxiety, the furrowed brow where beads of sweat made his pallid skin shine.
Something was up and neither officer needed to say a word to confirm this: the man’s body language told it all.
McAlpin broke off the call with a curse then gazed round him as though searching for inspiration. The two officers exchanged a glance. If McAlpin made a move, someone needed to cover his steps, and it would be down to them.
‘Grey Corsa,’ the man remarked as he twitched the net curtains, watching the car move away from the kerb and follow McAlpin’s big white van. Behind him nobody spoke.
He had anticipated something like this happening. But as the leader of the cell let his hand fall, he made sure his face showed no signs of the inner turmoil he was experiencing.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, turning to address the four men around the old-fashioned walnut dining table. ‘It seems we have to consider that one of our number has fallen.’
‘He’s in a tearing hurry,’ Kate remarked as the van sped around the roundabout and headed back into the city.
‘Nice to know what he’s been called away for,’ Joe replied.
‘Or from?’ Kate shrugged.
‘Ach, it could be a genuine call-out. Blocked drain or something.’
Kate nodded. The old bungalow was in the name of a Mrs Soutar, a widow in her eighties. That much they had gleaned since McAlpin had entered the house, their colleagues back at base ready with as much information as they needed. Kate watched as the transit van gathered speed. Probably a blocked drain or something right enough, she told herself. Someone would check McAlpin’s landline in any case, to see if anyone had telephoned for an emergency plumber.
Rob Worsley left the small white house and turned left. His own car was parked two streets away, hidden discreetly from any prying CCTV cameras. The explosives expert bit his lip. Having McAlpin deselected was a blow right enough, but as far as the cell was concerned the man had already done his bit. He would continue with the work, but from now on there was no way the big man could attend meetings.
Worsley cursed under his breath as he walked along the tree-lined avenue. McAlpin was just too bloody obvious: all those tattoos, and that thatch of red hair! How did he think he could have avoided detection? His thoughts turned to their leader, a mild-mannered fellow who would easily be lost in a crowd; just the sort that was needed for a game like this. Like Worsley himself, a harmless-looking white-haired pensioner. But this particular pensioner had made arrangements with Kenneth Gordon McAlpin, arrangements that he had no intention of changing once the job was done.
Okonjo was standing in the hallway when the big man burst through the door.
‘What the…?’ His oath was cut short as McAlpin followed the Nigerian’s gaze.
‘Bloody hell.’ His voice dropped as he took a step into the room where the body dangled from the ceiling. ‘Did you…’
‘Knew nothing about it, boss,’ Okonjo said, his hands spread in a gesture of innocence.
‘Where’s Shereen?’ McAlpin spun round, seeing for the first time the open door across the corridor. ‘Where’s the girl?’ He grabbed Okonjo by the shoulders, lifting the smaller man right off his feet.
‘Don’t know, boss!’ the Nigerian squeaked, flapping his hands in terror. ‘I had to go to the dentist. When I got back…’ He gave a cry as McAlpin thrust him heavily to the floor.
‘They’ve gone?’ McAlpin’s mouth opened in astonishment as he realised the enormity of the situation. ‘Where? Come on, Okonjo, think! Where could they go? Shereen doesn’t have anyone in Glasgow, does she?’
‘No, boss.’ The man picked himself up and backed away. ‘No. She only goes out to pay off her debts. Doesn’t know anyone in the city,’ he gabbled, shaking his head as he watched the big man’s face darken with fury.
‘Need to get rid of this,’ McAlpin muttered, jerking his head towards the bedroom door. ‘Cut it down and wrap it up in something.’ He paced up and down the hallway, fists clenched as though ready for a fight. Then he stopped, a gleam in his eyes.
‘There’s a tarp in the van. Get it and bring it up here. Pronto!’ he yelled, thrusting the keys into the black man’s hands.
Alone in the flat, the red-haired man stood regarding the thin body of the dark-skinned girl with disgust. Sunlight from the bedroom window streamed in, reflecting on the dead girl’s staring eyeballs, the flies on her body a shining mass of blue like spilled petrol.
It was approaching midsummer, a hellish time
to have to dump a body. They would need to wait until well after darkness fell, and that was still hours away. Meantime there was the problem of a big Jamaican woman running around the city with the Nigerian girl in tow. McAlpin gritted his teeth. Though the Games were still a few weeks away, he had begun to make a tidy sum from these girls who had been lured to Glasgow.
And he was not going to let even one of them get away if he could help it.
‘Could be doing another plumbing job,’ Kate remarked as the black man took a folded tarpaulin from the back of the van. They watched as the back doors to the van were closed and locked and the plumber’s mate (if that was what he was) hefted the bundle across his shoulders.
Joe did not reply, merely pursing his lips in consideration. ‘Let’s see which flat he’s going into, eh?’
Kate grinned and slipped out of the passenger seat. What would she be today? Someone from the factor’s office, perhaps? Or should she just be checking the voters’ roll?
The policewoman caught up with the man just as the door was swinging shut.
‘Thanks,’ she grinned, one foot slipping between the step and the wooden door. ‘Saved me ringing the buzzer,’ she said, looking at the startled expression on the man’s face. She pretended to stop and look into her shoulder bag, rummaging around in its contents as the black man climbed the stairs, struggling under the weight of the tarpaulin, one eye on his progress, listening for the footsteps coming to a halt.
She waited until he was out of sight before following him silently upstairs. Hidden on the landing below the top floor, Kate made a note of the man’s destination. Top left. She smiled as she crept back down to the bottom of the stone staircase: she hadn’t even needed to rap on every door to discover where he’d gone. At least now they could find out the owner of this property. And if it was let out to a tenant. All minor details in her line of work, but ones that had to be accounted for.
Cameron Gregson waited at the corner of the street; mustn’t be seen leaving together, the leader had explained, so he was just out of sight from anyone watching the bungalow. Number Two had been deselected, a phrase that the young man now understood. The big man with the tattoos would not be coming to any further meetings. Someone had compromised him and it was no longer safe for him to be seen with any member of the cell. From now on, most of their communication would be by the dedicated mobile phone network, meetings kept to an absolute minimum.
It was a pity, the leader told them, because the plumber’s van had given them some camouflage. Still, that could not be helped and everyone had to be extra vigilant as the date of the opening ceremony drew nearer. One by one he had dismissed them, until only Cameron remained behind.
‘Stand around the corner,’ the leader had told him. ‘Wait five minutes and I’ll pick you up. There’s something I want you to do.’
Cameron had nodded, trying to glean something from the man’s expression, but he had already turned away as though dismissing him.
Now Number Six stood there, waiting and wondering just what task the leader had in mind.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Strike up a conversation with any Glasgow taxi driver and he will begin to tell you his stories: stories about people who have travelled with him (dropping as many famous names as he can manage), stories about things that have happened to him, quirky or dangerous, but omitting the regular drudgery of cleaning vomit off his upholstery.
There was not much to say about the girl sitting in the back of his taxi today. She was young, had one arm in a sling and the usual expression of any teenager who’d fallen out with her mother. At least he supposed the big woman who had instructed him to wait was the mother. A quick glance via the rear-view mirror had produced nothing from the black girl, not a flicker of interest, no response to the winning smile he had darted towards her. She just sat there staring at the floor, a look on her face that he’d seen hundreds of times from his own girls. And yet… it was a lovely face, the taxi driver told himself, taking more time to study the smooth dark skin, the perfect oval shape, those high cheekbones that gave her the air of an exotic princess.
She must have sensed his stare, for she looked up and he saw her eyes, huge dark pools observing him gravely. A man could lose himself in eyes like that, he told himself, the thought making him suddenly uncomfortable.
She was just a kid, his wiser self reminded him.
But as she looked away, he wondered if there was a story here after all. What was it the big mama had hissed at him as she’d slammed the taxi door shut?
Make sure she doesn’t get out!
Lorimer listened to the officer’s report as the evening sun shone through the slatted blinds. The second shift was still outside the flat, McAlpin’s van right at the mouth of the close, and with each successive hour the likelihood that the ginger-haired man was upstairs on a plumbing job diminished. The name of the owner had been checked out: the flat was registered to an Asian landlord who had numerous properties all over the city, the current tenant being a Mrs Swanson, who paid her rent on time and was no trouble, according to the factor. So what was the big man with the tattoos doing in her flat with another man who looked vaguely Nigerian, as Hammond had put it?
Wait and see, the voice of reason whispered in his ear after he had finished the call. Something will emerge in time.
Lorimer stretched his arm out and pulled on the blind cord, letting the stream of brightness into the room, particles of dust dancing in the air. He was not good at sitting in the director’s chair, waiting and wondering, planning the next move of a team who were only half aware of all that was transpiring in their city.
The tall man might have been telling that little voice to sod off as he gathered up his jacket and strode purposefully out of the room, leaving only a sense of the aerial motes being disturbed by his passing.
Asa stretched out on the bed, feeling the tingle in her bare toes. It was safe up here, high above the city, its traffic only a dim sound, like the rumble of thunder across the veldt. Shereen had brought a brown paper bag with some food: a hamburger in a roll with bits of slippery lettuce and a carton of thin chips that were already cold. But the girl had wolfed them down, realising that the pain gnawing in her belly was actually hunger.
‘Food,’ Shereen had said, waving the bags in the air as she entered the hotel room. Asa had grinned then, knowing that word. Food was after all a basic for all humankind, like water, the latter appearing in the form of a six-pack of Highland Spring, the label sporting the same logo that Asa had seen displayed as they had journeyed across the city.
She had pointed to the bottle and nudged the woman who sat beside her devouring her own burger.
‘Thistle,’ Shereen had told her. ‘Thi-ssil. Okay?’
‘Thiss-ill,’ Asa repeated, looking at the green and purple emblem flowering on the top of the label.
Shereen squashed the empty carton and pushed it back into the paper carrier bag. Then she looked at Asa.
‘Listen,’ she told the girl. ‘You’re safe now, understand?’
‘Safe?’ Asa’s puzzled face made the older woman give an exasperated sigh. Opening her arms and coming closer, she enveloped the girl gently in her arms, rocking her back and forth.
‘Safe,’ she murmured. ‘Safe.’
For the first time in many weeks, Asa allowed her body to relax against the woman’s warm bulk. The word had a gentle sibilant sound, like the trickle of a breeze through the thorn trees. It meant that they had escaped danger together. And that now she might finally trust one other person with her life.
When the detective superintendent eased himself into the back of the van, neither of the officers made any comment. It was for Lorimer to explain his unexpected presence, not for them to question why he was there. The night-time vehicle of choice was a dark burgundy van with an engine under its bonnet that did not match its ageing number plates. Anybody passing by would see a dilapidated-looking vehicle with an ancient roof rack. To outside eyes the van appeared em
pty. Several attempts to break into it had been made by opportunistic neds, but the sudden flashing lights caused by their efforts had always scared them off. Happily there had never been a need for either of the officers to leave their post and deal with the intruders.
Hidden in the back of the van, where they had a clear view of the outside world aided by an infrared camera lens, the two watchers sat quietly, well used to the strictures imposed by the job they had chosen to do.
‘Any change?’ Lorimer asked.
The man closest to him on the padded bench shook his head. ‘Not much. A few other folk coming and going; one of the arrivals looked like another Nigerian. No lights on this side. Probably both gone to bed,’ he said. Beside him, his partner had the camera trained on the top floor of the building, waiting, seeking, praying perhaps for some form of activity.
It was nearing midnight and the place was completely deserted apart from the white transit van, that glowed like a shabby ghost under the yellow street lamp, and their own vehicle, parked several metres along on the opposite side of the road.
It was a tiny movement, a small beam of light flittering like a moth along the ground, that made each of the men in the back of the surveillance van look towards the lane that ran between the houses. Then shadows loomed against the gable end of the building, followed by two black-skinned men carrying something between them. As they passed under the street lamp, there was a faint sheen from the rolled-up tarpaulin, the criss-crossed rope holding its contents securely.
The three watchers saw the men place their burden on the ground, heard the hinges of the van’s rear door protest as the taller of the men pulled them open and the thud as the bundle hit the floor.
Just then a third figure emerged from the close, taller and heavier than the others.
‘That’s McAlpin,’ one of the officers whispered as they watched him slip into the driver’s side of the van.