The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer)

by Alex Gray

  ‘But not so perfect that she could try to tempt another woman’s husband?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lorimer tilted his head back as he finished his glass of wine. ‘There may be more to Vivien Fox Gilmartin than meets the eye.’

  ‘But she couldn’t have killed her husband!’ Maggie protested. ‘She was at the reunion. With you. And all those other people.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Did she strike you as someone capable of taking another person’s life?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘Okay, I admit I didn’t like her much. Don’t get anyone who doesn’t like cats,’ she laughed. ‘But she didn’t seem like the murdering sort.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Lorimer said darkly. ‘Sometimes it’s the quiet ones who harbour grudges, keep their emotions too well hidden, then lash out.’

  ‘“Nursing her wrath to keep it warm”,’ Maggie said, quoting Robert Burns. ‘Anyway, how could Vivien have killed her husband? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Oh, nothing about it seems to make sense, Mags,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘But we have to explore every eventuality, even a crazy notion like Vivien hiring a hit man.’

  ‘But he was poisoned!’ Maggie protested. ‘A hit man would have had a gun, surely?’

  Lorimer shook his head, leaning back, twirling the empty wine glass by its stem. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just playing with ideas. Possibilities.’ He yawned suddenly. ‘You’re right, of course. Vivien couldn’t have done something like that. Anyway, why would she? And why put up such a big reward?’

  Maggie looked at her husband. He was slumped into his chair now, the fatigue that had shown earlier turning into exhaustion.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, rising to her feet and offering him her hand. ‘Bed. To sleep,’ she added sternly as Lorimer linked his fingers to hers, offering that familiar lazy smile.

  ‘We’ve got another one coming in tonight,’ the big man told her. ‘See that you’ve got the spare room ready for her,’ he added, flicking ash from his cigarette on to the saucer that lay on the table between them. He took the greasy paper that had held his pie supper and crumpled it in his hands, dropping it on the floor while he looked at Shereen through a haze of smoke, willing her to pick it up and bin it for him.

  The woman rose to her feet, avoiding his eyes, which followed her every move, trying not to show the disgust she felt for this white man with the lank ginger hair and swirling tattoos that covered his brawny arms. There was something feral about him tonight, Shereen decided as she pushed the polystyrene container and the ball of paper into the pedal bin; she could almost smell the taint of animal desire from his body as she came back to sit on her chair.

  ‘The girl busy tonight?’ he asked, leaning forward with a leer that made Shereen want to shudder. But she remained still, willing her face not to give away the revulsion that the man across the table evoked in her.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so!’ he exploded suddenly, thumping the tabletop so that the saucer jumped, scattering ash. ‘You. Think. So,’ he repeated slowly. ‘You’re paid to know what goes on in here and don’t you forget it,’ he snarled. ‘Now, is she busy or is she not?’

  ‘We’re expecting some fellows quite soon,’ Shereen said, eyes downcast lest he see her lie. ‘Can’t always be certain when they’ll turn up.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Well, the car will be here around one o’clock. That’s something you can be sure of,’ he snapped. ‘And I want this one kept away from the other girl. No speaking in their bloody Yoruba. Okay?’

  He had risen to his feet now and picked up his leather jacket where he had flung it on to a chair. ‘I’ll be here to see when she arrives,’ he added. ‘And I don’t want any more incidents. Understand?’

  He leaned towards her so that Shereen could smell the vinegar that lingered on his lips.

  ‘I understand,’ she replied, daring to look him in the eyes.

  He gave a grunt as he nodded, seemingly satisfied that the caretaker knew what to expect.

  When the front door slammed, Shereen gave a great sigh, not realising that she had been holding her breath. Asa was safe from the brute for now, though the woman knew there was little she could do to protect the girl if the big man decided to have his way with her another night. If only…

  The thought of going to the police, telling what she knew, was only briefly tempting. But Shereen had been told what would happen if she ever breathed a word of what went on in this place. Even if she managed to escape the consequences of such betrayal, the authorities would hold her partly responsible too. And prison was not a place that the fat woman wanted to be ever again.

  ‘Kenneth McAlpin,’ Lorimer said, savouring the words as he spoke them aloud. ‘That’s a name from the distant past.’ He gave a faint grin as he looked from the paper in his hand to the man sitting beside his desk. Connor Drummond, the MI6 agent, had appeared without any appointment, slipping quietly into Lorimer’s office as though he had simply come from an adjacent room. ‘What do we know about this one?’

  ‘Nothing bad about anyone of that name,’ Drummond began. ‘But we must assume it’s not his real name. Any more than Robert Bruce Petrie is a name on the voters’ roll.’

  ‘Certainly smacks of the Celtic fringe,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘McAlpin was another Scottish king, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not what we think they have in common,’ Drummond said. ‘It’s the surnames, McAlpin and Petrie. They’re both linked to Clan MacGregor. The MacGregors are descendants of Kenneth McAlpin and the name Petrie is a sept of the MacGregor clan.’

  ‘They were all outlawed, weren’t they? Rob Roy and all of that lot?’

  ‘Yes. And when that happened many of them changed their names or joined other clans, fearing they might be caught up in the persecution.’

  ‘And who exactly is this McAlpin?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  ‘There is a man of that name fitting the description we gave you,’ Drummond said, crossing his ankles as he sat back in the chair. ‘Big chap, tattooed, reddish hair. He is currently employed by the Clan MacGregor Society as their liaison officer. Also does battle re-enactments. But there’s more, if you read on.’ Drummond smiled and nodded at the paper in Lorimer’s hand. ‘He is on the payroll of Glasgow 2014. Quite legitimately, I might add, so you have nothing on him just yet.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the interesting bit,’ Drummond said. ‘McAlpin is one of the committee behind the opening ceremony. Big man. Former weightlifter. Won bronze at the European Championships in his time. Did a bit of chaperoning of the Scottish youth team. Well respected from all accounts. Seems to run a plumbing business now.’

  ‘And just how did he come on to your radar?’

  Drummond smiled at Lorimer and shook his head. There were some things that Police Scotland would never be told, the man’s look seemed to say.

  ‘So what do you want us to do about him?’

  ‘Usual surveillance,’ Drummond said. ‘Nothing indiscreet. If he is one of the group, then he will be looking behind him every place he goes. So far we’ve put a tap on his phone but nothing’s come of that. And his computer appears to be squeaky clean. They’re not stupid, these people,’ he added, uncrossing his legs and sitting up straighter. ‘We must assume there is some sort of system whereby they communicate with one another: dedicated cell phones, no doubt, something that cannot be traced back to their normal server.’

  ‘The Chief Constable…’

  ‘… is quite aware of the need to deploy extra men on this job,’ Drummond told him. ‘Despite the huge amount of manpower already needed to cover the Games.’ He smiled at Lorimer. ‘We’ve been recruiting more personnel ourselves recently.’ He gave the detective a quizzical look. ‘Ever thought you might fancy a change of scene?’

  Lorimer looked at the man from MI6. Was he serious?

  ‘Think I’m a bit long in the tooth to make those sorts of changes,’ he began.

&n
bsp; ‘Hardly,’ Drummond laughed. ‘You’re only forty-two. We sometimes bring in people much older than that. Think about it.’

  He rose from his seat, gave the detective a quick but firm handshake and was out of the room with the door closed quietly behind him, leaving Lorimer with the sheet of paper in his hand and not a few thoughts in his mind.

  The tall man stood up, biting his lip. One thing he had not shared with Drummond was the germ of an idea that this McAlpin might well be involved in a different enterprise altogether.

  Freedom, Solly had said. And that was a battle cry that several disaffected Scots wanted to shout out loud. Could this be the same person who had paid for the girls to be tattooed with that black spiral? Perhaps. But until he could prove it, he was merely to keep an eye on a man who might be part of a terrorist cell, wondering all the while if he was the brains behind the human trafficking that was plaguing his city. And what if they found that McAlpin was indeed running African girls as prostitutes? There would be absolutely nothing they could do. The lives of hundreds of people, including members of the royal family, depended on finding this cell and smashing it before the opening ceremony, just seven weeks from now. Finding the African girl’s killer and hunting out the people behind the child trafficking would have to take second place from now on. And that thought irked him more than somewhat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  June 2014

  ‘The Centre for Social Justice is concerned about the possible increase in human trafficking during the Games,’ the journalist said.

  Gayle blinked as though she had been struck. The nerve of the woman! Coming in to Games HQ for a discussion, she’d said blithely over the phone. Pretending to want to talk about the influx of visitors to the city. Never once mentioning that amongst them might be men who wanted to pay for sex with underage girls!

  ‘I really don’t think —’ Gayle began.

  ‘Oh, but you should think,’ the journalist retorted. ‘Every eventuality must be covered, even ones you don’t want to be bothered about,’ she went on.

  Gayle gritted her teeth. The woman sitting opposite had the sort of glossy dark looks that made Gayle feel washed out by comparison. Michaela Sadi was utterly beautiful: half Asian, possibly, with perfect coffee-coloured skin and kohl-ringed eyes that seemed to look right through her. And she was wearing that bright yellow dress Gayle had seen in the Italian Centre, the one Cameron had laughed at when he’d seen the price tag. Gayle seethed inside, wishing she had made more of an effort before leaving for work.

  ‘Our readers have the right to know what goes on in their city,’ the journalist from the Gazette continued.

  ‘Well, yes, of course, but…’

  ‘Does the Games committee condone the increase of trafficking in Glasgow, then?’

  Gayle narrowed her eyes. ‘Where do you get your statistics from?’ she asked. ‘How does the Gazette know about an increase?’

  The journalist smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Let’s just say our sources are reliable,’ she replied.

  ‘Well I can give you our assurance that the 2014 Games committee is behind every action taken by the Centre for Social Justice,’ Gayle said firmly, hoping that she sounded far more positive than she felt.

  ‘And the police? Are they behind the CSJ reports?’

  Gayle forced herself to smile sweetly. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment on Police Scotland’s position,’ she said. ‘You will have to ask their press officer.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ The woman nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Gayle took the journalist’s security badge and handed it to the receptionist at the desk with a sigh. Sometimes this job had its difficult moments and this had been one of them. She had heard of the Centre for Social Justice, but only vaguely, never really connecting it with what was happening in Glasgow. And now this journalist had breezed in with the accusation that child trafficking was on the rise because of the Games! Foreign nationals would want the same level of services they found in other parts of the world, she’d said. ‘Sex is sold everywhere there is a market for it.’ The statement had fallen from the woman’s lips as if it were no big deal, despite her probing questions and the evident desire to write a big story about it. It shocked Gayle. To think that here, in her city… It didn’t bear thinking about. But the woman had made her think, and now Gayle wished that she could unburden herself of the facts that had been laid out coldly before her.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today,’ Gayle had told him, rolling away from his arms after half an hour of very satisfactory sex.

  She was asleep now, the baby-blonde hair fallen across her face, as Cameron lay on his back, thinking hard. Was this the sort of information that the group wanted? Was it something that could be used to discredit the police, perhaps? Bit by bit, anything that the girl told him was passed on to the five other men. Just in case. The leader had smiled encouragingly when Number Six had boasted about the possibility of being given tickets for the opening ceremony. It had been worth all the weeks of putting up with Gayle’s gushing enthusiasm about the Games. Mind you, Cameron told himself, everyone seemed to have fallen under its spell. There were banners all over the Merchant City, and Clyde, that flaming mascot, its stupid thistle face grinning everywhere you looked. ‘A sop for the plebs,’ their leader had growled when the subject of the Games mascot had been mentioned. But Gayle loved it and even had a soft toy version sitting on the chair by her bed.

  Quietly he slipped out of bed and pulled on his trousers. He’d risk a quick call on the group mobile while she was asleep. Moments later Cameron Gregson was pressing the button that would link him to the charismatic man who had recruited him into this adventure, hoping that the information he was about to give might be useful to the cause.

  IT HAPPENS HERE

  Michaela Sadi, Senior Reporter

  Not somewhere else, but here. Yes, that is the message we want to give our readers as Glasgow gears itself up for the Twentieth Commonwealth Games next month. And for once we are not talking about the sports, but activities of a very different nature. Did you know that hosting the Commonwealth Games makes Glasgow a target for organised crime? No? Well, we have recently received a report from the Centre for Social Justice suggesting that the numbers of young women being trafficked for sex in our city is very much on the increase. And all because there is a lucrative market caused by the influx of visitors to the 2014 Commonwealth Games. I spoke recently to the marketing people at Games HQ and came away with the impression that they are blithely ignoring such facts. Sure, they claim to be behind the CSJ’s initiatives, but are they really kept awake at night wondering what side effects the Games are having on the city?

  And what about the people who are paid to fight organised crime? I spoke to representatives of Police Scotland, including Detective Superintendent William Lorimer, who said that ‘the police services are doing everything in their power to ensure a smooth and safe running of the Games and to investigate any allegations of human trafficking’.

  While that may be true, the CSJ has painted a dismal picture of police involvement in human trafficking up till now. The problem seems to be barely understood by forces throughout the UK and is often a low priority for the police as a whole. One serving police officer was quoted as saying that ‘there is more incentive to investigate a shed burglar… than there is a human trafficker’.

  Given the rise of travellers from all parts of the Commonwealth it must be borne in mind that most young women and girls are trafficked from Europe, Nigeria and Vietnam, victims who are part of a lucrative crime wave to supply sex. And it is happening here, right on our own doorstep.

  Lorimer threw down the paper in disgust. What rankled most was that it was probably true. And now that his hands were effectively being tied by an authority that exceeded their own, he and his fellow officers were being branded as people who did not care enough to take action against such organised crimes.

  Drummond had been content for surv
elliance to begin on Kenneth McAlpin and there were now officers following the man from his home in the north of the city wherever he went. Oddly enough, his name had checked out as being real after all. Kenneth Gordon McAlpin had been born forty-eight years ago to another Kenneth McAlpin, suggesting that the name was used to being passed down the generations. His record was clean, too, though there had been some suggestion of trouble during a visit to Russia in his younger days: a fight in a bar that had been reported to the authorities but had gone no further. Sporting heroes were often guarded from the consequences of their misdemeanours, Lorimer thought. And McAlpin was perhaps lucky to have remained free from any taint of criminal activity. Till now.

  The report on the man made interesting reading. He had been eager to leave school as soon as he could, joining the army for a spell where he had found moderate fame as a weightlifter. His army career was also unblemished, though he had eventually bought himself out. Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. McAlpin senior’s occupation was listed as bricklayer, and the mother had been a hospital cleaner; where, he wondered suddenly, had the money come from to gain their son an early discharge from the forces? And set himself up with his own plumbing business? Had his involvement with malcontents begun as early as that? He had worked with youth weightlifting teams, taking them to overseas events, not quite on the coaching staff but somewhere on the periphery. Then there had been the battle re-enactment stuff. Lorimer grinned. McAlpin actually had an Equity card and had been one of the extras for the film Highlander.

  For a moment he thought about telling Maggie, then his smile fell. Nothing about this case could be uttered outside. Security was paramount. And as he thought about such a clandestine way of life, Lorimer knew that Drummond’s offer was not one that he would want to take up. Sharing some of his working life with his wife was something that made it bearable at times; often cases would be too horrific to divulge to Maggie, but there were occasions when snippets could be passed on safely. She would listen, easing the darkness as they lay in bed, letting him talk about people he had met, places he had seen, the quirky, unexpected things that sometimes happened in the life of a policeman.