by Alex Gray
The rear doors closed again with a grind and a screech, locks crying out for oil, then the Nigerians jumped into the van. The whirr of an engine starting up, a faint plume of white from the exhaust and the van glided away from the pavement.
In seconds Lorimer found himself seated behind the two officers, the panel between the back of the vehicle and its cabin open, eyes boring along the street where the plumber’s van had disappeared.
It was going to be difficult to follow their quarry at this time of night, with so little traffic on the road, and so they kept a decent distance behind the white van as it travelled through the city towards the outskirts of Rutherglen. Several times their driver had to stop in a side street, out of sight, as McAlpin’s van came to a set of traffic lights: to be sitting on their tail was a dead giveaway.
Lorimer listened as the officer in the front passenger seat gave their location to someone back at base, through Rutherglen Main Street, along and up past the stone villas of Cambuslang, their bay windows like closed eyelids against the little drama passing them by in the night. On and up they travelled, round bends and through recently built housing schemes until the road flattened out into a junction where four roads met at oblique angles.
The dark red van sat in the shadows, its engine ticking like a patient heartbeat as they waited to see which way McAlpin was headed.
‘Cathkin Braes,’ Lorimer said as he watched the tail lights disappear across the main road and head left. They followed slowly, their own lights now switched off for fear of alerting McAlpin to their presence. It was a necessary ploy, Lorimer realised as they turned off the narrow road and headed along a farm track. Several times their vehicle lurched and bumped as its wheels found unseen potholes. It was not absolutely dark; the night sky was a velvet blue studded with stars, no sodium glow from street lamps out here in this unspoiled part of the countryside. A stand of pine trees blotted out the view for a moment, then Lorimer saw that they were approaching what might be a little village.
The shapes of farm buildings and barns loomed large on their left, rows of neat cottages flanking their right. Somewhere a dog barked as they passed, and Lorimer looked up at the cottage windows to see if anyone was aware of their presence. But all the windows looked out with covered eyes, the residents slumbering safely within.
‘He’s heading for the nature reserve,’ Lorimer said suddenly, remembering now where he was. The police had approached the low-lying pond from a different entrance, officers tramping across tussocky grass to reach the place where the African girl’s body had been found.
The driver gave him a sharp look. ‘How do you know?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘Recent crime scene,’ he replied tersely. But despite the officer’s intent stare, the detective superintendent was not ready to divulge just what the nature of that crime scene had been. MI6 might be looking at a potential terrorist, but Lorimer was beginning to believe that the men they followed along this narrow farm track were suspects in a murder investigation. And just how to extricate each of these tangled threads from the other was troubling his mind.
They came to a halt beside some scrubby bushes, well enough out of sight of the occupants of the white transit as it rolled over the track, its nose suddenly tilting forwards.
‘They’re stopping,’ Lorimer said at last, seeing the beam from the headlights suddenly cut off. ‘There’s a pond down there,’ he whispered, remembering the body that had been fished out just a few weeks before.
The surveillance officers glanced at one another before looking back at the transit, their high-definition binoculars trained on the yawning gap that was the opened rear doors, and the sudden activity of the two figures.
‘Could be a body,’ one of them suggested, as the bundle was lifted out of the van. ‘Right sort of weight,’ he murmured. ‘What do you want to do, sir?’
Lorimer bit his lip. What he wanted to do was grab these men, uncover the heavy thing they were now carrying between them and haul them back to HQ for questioning. If McAlpin was compromised now, would it drive the rest of the terrorist group underground? Or could they use this event as something totally unrelated to their search for the cell? So far Lorimer had been unwilling to involve other police units as this was an MI6 operation, but the time for such considerations was clearly over.
‘Call for back-up,’ he said, leaning across and pointing towards the passenger door. ‘I’m going after them. Don’t let that van get away. Switch on a full beam as soon as I’m close enough.’
His feet made a soft thud on the long grass, then he was heading downhill, half crouching, half running, careful to keep to the shadows of the bushes, grateful that there was no traitor moon shining overhead. As he crept closer he could hear voices. Faint at first, then louder as one of them cursed and he saw the tarpaulin-covered bundle fall to the ground. More curses came, and then the massive figure of McAlpin swung a fist at one of the others, who cried out in pain.
Lorimer hunkered down behind a row of gorse bushes, their jagged branches digging into his side, the heady coconut scent of their yellow flowers sweetening the air, watching and waiting, listening and hoping for the sound of an approaching police car.
The three men had picked up the tarpaulin again, and now he could see them heading further downhill, heads bobbing out of sight as they approached the margin of the pond.
There was a splash as something heavy hit the water, then the place was flooded with light.
Lorimer stood up and began to run, aware of the footsteps coming behind him.
‘Police! Stay where you are!’ he called, his voice ringing out across the low-lying marshes.
For a moment the three men turned and he could see their faces illuminated in the full beam of headlights shining from the surveillance van.
One of the men slipped and slithered as he tried to regain the bank; another had jumped clear and was making for the transit, McAlpin himself seeming to hesitate for a moment.
Lorimer saw the big man’s upraised arm, then heard a faint splash as something hit the water.
Whatever it was, the man now running towards the white van had wanted rid of it. He had caught up with the other African now, and Lorimer’s mouth opened in astonishment as McAlpin struck out at the man, felling him to the ground.
Lorimer sped across the last few yards, intending to throw himself at the bulky figure. If he caught hold of his leg they would crash together to the ground, he thought, imagining the man’s yell.
It happened so quickly. His quarry stopped and turned, so close now that he could see the naked hatred in those eyes.
Then, with an animal cry, McAlpin lashed out with both fists.
Lorimer heard the sickening blow to his head, felt a blinding pain. The last thing he saw were tufts of grass as the ground came up to hit him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
He had two choices: to charge the Nigerians with disposing of the dead girl’s body or to hold them as suspects in her murder. There was no possibility of questioning these men about a potential threat to Glasgow 2014. Whatever nefarious activities McAlpin had been up to in his spare time, Lorimer guessed they had nothing to do with his involvement in the terrorist plot.
His head still throbbed from the big man’s blow. That he had let their chief suspect escape hurt more, though, despite the assurances from the surveillance officers that he had never stood a chance against the former weightlifter. They had seen his white van career across the parkland and out of sight, and now there were officers everywhere on the lookout for the fugitive.
Lorimer watched as the doctor took a swab from the Nigerian’s mouth, noting the look of terror in the man’s dark eyes. The other Nigerian was being questioned in an adjacent room, the whereabouts of McAlpin being only one of the things that the interviewing officers were keen to ascertain.
Now he could see that Okonjo was visibly trembling as he faced the tall policeman across the table. The duty solicitor sat tiredly by his side, a necessary figure in t
he small drama unfolding as the dawn came up on another Glasgow day.
‘There is the body of a young girl of African origin in the city mortuary,’ Lorimer began, shuffling the notes in front of him. ‘This was found in the same pond where you and your colleagues dumped the body of another girl last night,’ he continued, his voice deliberately flat as though he were reading out a shopping list. ‘Cathkin Country Park has been kept under some scrutiny since we discovered Celia,’ he went on, noting the alarm in the black man’s face as he spoke the girl’s name. It was a half-truth masked to let Okonjo believe that they had been spotted far from the city, not followed all the way from that tenement building in the East End.
Okonjo’s eyes flickered, his back straightening a little. And was that a look of relief? Whom did he fear more, Lorimer wondered: the policeman sitting asking questions or the big man with the tattoos? Lorimer looked down, his own feeling of satisfaction at having successfully dissembled hidden behind the stack of papers that he held up in front of him for a moment. He tapped them on the tabletop then laid them down again, smoothing their surface as though he needed to have everything neat and tidy.
‘Your client is being considered in relation to this other girl’s murder,’ he explained, looking past Okonjo to the lawyer. ‘The cause of her death was thought by the consultant pathologist who carried out the post-mortem to be strangulation,’ he continued. Nodding as though this was an everyday occurrence, not worthy of any great dramatic flourish. From the corner of his keen blue eye he could see Okonjo relax, Lorimer’s voice lulling their suspect into a false sense of security.
‘There have been several attempts to identify the victim,’ Lorimer continued, ‘and we are fairly certain that, like the girl who was thrown into the pond tonight by your client, she is of Nigerian origin.’
Okonjo looked at the man by his side as the lawyer gave an involuntary gasp. He clearly hadn’t been expecting this. ‘I would like to speak to my client alone,’ he said, rising from his chair.
‘All in good time, sir,’ Lorimer replied smoothly. ‘First we have to determine whether your client has a case to answer at all.’ He looked at Okonjo through narrowed eyes.
‘Where were you on the fourth of April, Mr Okonjo?’ Lorimer spoke quietly. Diffident, that was the way he wanted to seem. He was good at disguising his real feelings, like an actor… The thought brought him a sudden memory of Foxy, her sad eyes turned to his. But that had been real, hadn’t it? He banished the image of her; it had no place here inside this interview room where so many criminals had sat trying to lie their way out of future imprisonment.
‘I… I can’t re-remember,’ the man stuttered.
‘It was a Friday night,’ Lorimer said helpfully, wondering if the man across the table was replaying a murder in his mind.
It was an evening he himself would never forget. That crowd of people in the old school hall, Foxy in her slim black dress, then the aftermath of it all when he had gone to her aid, Charles Gilmartin lying poisoned in his bed.
It might be a long shot, but by Rosie’s reckoning that was one possible date for the Nigerian girl’s death. And he had to begin somewhere.
‘Ever seen this before, Mr Okonjo?’
Lorimer’s voice was hard now, his blue eyes fixed on the man opposite as he slid the blown-up photograph of the triple spiral tattoo across the table.
Okonjo’s reaction was immediate. He jerked backwards, hands sliding off the table as though the swirling pattern might actually burn his fingers.
‘Is that an affirmative answer?’
Okonjo stared at him, then nodded slowly.
‘Please speak for the tape.’
‘Yes,’ the Nigerian choked as if the word had been drawn out of his throat.
‘Yes, you have seen this before,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘We have traced the tattoo artist who was commissioned to do this particular design and he remembers the girl who came into his salon. Celia, wasn’t it? The girl you dumped in the pond on Friday, April the fourth.’
Okonjo stared at him, speechless, his lips parted.
‘The tattoo artist remembers the girl who came into his salon. And the Nigerian uncles who accompanied her. Perhaps you can give us more details. Starting with her real name.’
Okonjo had lowered his eyes and was looking at his hands clasped on his lap instead.
‘Don’t know anything about it,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh, I think you do, Mr Okonjo,’ Lorimer shot back. ‘Right now we have several things in motion. A post-mortem to determine the nature of this second girl’s death. Looks like the first victim’s cause of death. Strangulation,’ he added, nodding at the lawyer, whose mouth was hanging open like a fish out of water. ‘And there will be test results back soon to see if any DNA from either girl’s body matches the sample we took from you tonight.’ Soon was probably pushing it, but the threat was real enough to make the Nigerian feel under pressure.
Lorimer looked from one man to the other. ‘So in my opinion, gentlemen, you had better tell us the truth, because one way or another, facts are quickly emerging that place Mr Okonjo at both crime scenes.’
He pulled the photograph back and replaced it with one from the post-mortem showing the Nigerian girl with her neck to one side, the wires cutting deeply into her dark throat.
He could feel the lawyer recoil as he glanced at the photo, but Okonjo stared at it, anger burning in his eyes as though he wanted to kill the dead girl all over again.
The detective superintendent put the original photo of the triple spiral back on top.
‘The girl whose body you disposed of tonight has no such tattoo,’ he went on. ‘Which brings me to another question.’ He looked long and hard at Okonjo, leaning forward so that the man had to meet his steely blue gaze.
‘Where is Asa?’
It was the first night that the girl had slept on clean sheets and without the fear that some man would enter her room looking for sex. Asa had no inkling that the hotel was considered low-budget by Western standards. Nor had she questioned the Jamaican woman’s choice as she had been bundled in from the taxi. Here in this quiet room, its curtains blocking out the city’s light if not its constant noise, Asa felt something that she had thought to have lost: a sense of peace. It was like the stillness before dawn; before the birds in the bush began to sing, before the chattering weavers awoke to fill the trees with their constant twittering. Sometimes Asa would lie on her sleeping mat and think about the way her life had unfolded: the loss of her family, the hard grind of daily survival. But mostly she would look ahead to the demands of each day and what she needed to do in order to bring food and water to the village.
Now there was no way of knowing what lay ahead when the morning sun finally rose on this grey city with its heaps of buildings blotting out the yellow light. And yet she had escaped. Escaped the imprisonment of that terrible place, escaped the constant intrusion into her young body, and as she recalled the awful sight in that other room, there was no doubt in Asa’s mind that she had escaped death.
The girl smiled as she heard the soft snores coming from the bed next to hers. Shereen was sleeping peacefully too. They had both escaped, though she wondered what the older woman had been escaping from. She had watched her at times, laughing and joking with the men in the kitchen, but seeing something like sadness in the big woman’s face whenever she turned away. Shereen had worn a mask, Asa thought to herself, a thing to hide behind so that the men never guessed her real feelings.
But in the moment when she had come to the doorway, hearing Shereen’s scream of terror, she had seen that mask slip for good.
‘Four-thirty a.m. DI Grant entering the room,’ Lorimer said aloud for the benefit of the tape.
Jo Grant motioned that he should come to the door, glancing meaningfully at the paper in her hand. There was an expression on her face that he recognised. Gotcha. And as Grant had been interviewing Boro, the other Nigerian, it looked as if that suspect had given the DI exactly what th
ey wanted.
Lorimer looked at the signed statement. It was all there. The address where they had kept the girls as prostitutes, the identity of both dead girls, McAlpin’s role as trafficker clearly outlined.
Now was the time when he could really be dramatic, Lorimer thought, walking back to the table, a swagger in his step. He sat down brandishing Boro’s statement in his hand.
‘Odunlami Okonjo, I am charging you with the murder of a minor known as Celia. You are also being charged with trafficking and imprisoning underage girls, helping to run a brothel and falsifying documents.’
He paused to look at the Nigerian, whose dark skin had taken on a sheen of sweat.
‘It will be easier for you to admit this,’ Lorimer said. ‘No fuss with a trial. Shorter time inside.’ He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Okonjo. I’m more than happy for you to talk to your solicitor meantime. Get your facts together.’ He grinned at the pair opposite.
The duty solicitor’s eyebrows were drawn up, waiting for Okonjo’s response. Then the Nigerian nodded glumly.
‘My client requires a few minutes to prepare his statement,’ the solicitor sighed. It was a sigh of defeat, though in truth he had done little during the course of the interview to assist Okonjo, the revelations about the Nigerian’s crimes coming as something of a shock to the man who had been summoned to Stewart Street during the wee small hours.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It seemed to the young man standing on the street corner that something momentous was about to happen, and so it was with no little disappointment that he found himself being taken for a walk in the park.
‘Thanks for hanging back,’ the leader said, smiling politely, as if he was a different person from the one who had been mouthing all those clichés about freedom from tyranny and the need to rid the country of undesirable elements.