Sleep like the dead lab-8

by Alex Gray

  'Right, let's see what this lot have to say for themselves,' she muttered, turning into the car park of the call centre. 'See if anyone can throw a bit of light on Mr Scott.' Thoughts about Omar Fathy had to be shelved for now.

  And any thoughts about her own past would be easily forgotten in the process of this investigation.

  CHAPTER 10

  Amit drained the last of his coffee. It was the quiet part of the day when the staff had an hour to go about their own business.

  Some, like Paramsit Dhesi, drove over to the south side of the city to spend a little time with families. Others drifted away from the restaurant in twos or threes, chattering in a Punjabi dialect that reminded him all too clearly of the streets of Lahore.

  Visions of the city came to him like snapshots: the still lakes of water reflecting sun-drenched skies at noon; the market with people constantly coming and going, its smells of ripe fruit, cattle and dust wafting in the stifling air; the train cutting through the city, its open windows full of travellers staring out at the wonders of Lahore. He remembered the family house in Gulberg, its pink washed walls and curving windows: each sill and lattice detail decorated in the style of a Mughal's palace. Then there were the clubs, his father's meetings at the Moslem League, the polo matches. But these pictures in his mind were like something he had seen in a film or a dream, not part of his own history The images of bloody bodies, his mother's scream as the Inter Services Intelligence dragged his father away, these were the stuff of nightmares, locked away in some deep, dark part of his brain, never brought out willingly for examination.

  The sound of crates being delivered to the back door made Amit stir from his reverie. He was in Glasgow now, safe in the place that he was beginning to call his own.

  His mouth turned up at the corners as he recalled the first time he had sat at this very table. A coffee, that was all he had asked for, but that one request had brought him so much more.

  Dhesi had sat down beside him, his hand extended, the light of recognition in his eyes as Amit had spoken.

  'You are an Aitchisonian!' Dhesi had exclaimed, his hand ready to shake Amit's own.

  'Yes, but..

  'I could tell, my brother, I could tell!' Dhesi had clasped his hand with such warmth that Amit had suddenly heard the familiar inflection in his voice. Only a person who had attended Aitchison College, Lahore's premier educational establishment, would speak in such dignified tones. But here? In this Scottish city? It was nothing short of a miracle.

  'This is nothing short of a miracle,' he remembered Dhesi's words and how he had grinned as if he had been able to read the stranger's thoughts.

  And, for each of them it was just that. Dhesi had sat for the best part of that quiet hour, lamenting the problem he faced with his establishment. A partner who was not to be trusted any longer.

  Dhesi's desire to buy the man out. 'But what can I do?' he had shrugged, his upturned hands expressing his helplessness. 'I don't have the sum of money needed to send the rascal packing and the banks are simply unwilling to lend at this time of recession.'

  By the end of that hour, Amit and Dhesi had not just clasped their hands together in recognition of their joint past, but had shaken on a deal that would mean much to them both. Amit would buy out the other partner and invest in this business (once he had examined the books. Of murve, Dhesi had said hurriedly, that was understood.) And for Amit it had signalled a new beginning. He had a place of business now, a partnership in a thriving restaurant and a friend upon whom he could rely.

  Money had not been a problem. The Hundi, the fixer, had arranged everything just as he had promised. Trust of a different sort had been all important, of course, but Amit had been in a situation where even had he been robbed blind by the go-between, he would have given the man his hefty commission. Nonetheless his funds had been transferred to an account in a Glasgow bank and to his surprise they had not been reduced by more than the agreed fee. Honour was still intact, even in this cold, Western land.

  His rental flat was comfortable but it was time now to make another sort of investment. A place of his own, here in Glasgow's West End.

  Amit thought of the woman with the long red hair. Marianne. If he could run his fingers through those silken tresses… touch her in a way that brought a smile to her lips…

  He dismissed the sudden fantasy. She had been useful to him, wasn't that all? And Amit knew the time was approaching when his friends would expect him to be rid of her for good.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dinner'll be ready in a minute,' Maggie called out, hearing her husband closing the front door behind him. 'Salad again.' She turned and made a face. 'I've tried to go easy on the avocados but there's plenty of chicken and bacon. Okay?'

  Lorimer sidestepped the ginger cat that was attempting to wind itself around his trouser leg and walked across the room to where his wife was putting the finishing touches to a dressing.

  The scent of oranges wafted from the breakfast bar where she was standing and he sniffed the air appreciatively.

  'Smells good. New recipe?'

  Maggie smiled and shook her dark curls. 'No. Just made it up as I went along. Inspired by what was in the fridge.' She looked up at the tall man who was leaning against the counter. He was, Maggie Lorimer thought, the sort of person who filled a room just by being there.

  She was suddenly reminded of the first time she had seen him.

  A crowd of her pals had been gossiping in the students' union, a few weeks into the beginning of term, when this tall young man had wandered in, his eyes fixed on somebody at the far end of the room. He had walked past Maggie and her girlfriends, and as he passed she had turned to follow him with her gaze. His loping stride atracted her.what had it been? A quality of stillness within, perhaps? So different from the clowning, posturing of so many of the lads trying to impress.

  Maggie had gone out of her way after that to look for this one.

  He told the story his own way, of course: she had been sitting alone in the crowded cafeteria and he'd given her that crooked smile of his. 'Is it all right…?' he'd asked and she'd gestured for him to sit down beside her. He'd been watching her for weeks, he said, waiting for a chance to say hello.

  That same crooked smile made Maggie's heart turn over now as he put out his hand and touched her hair.

  'Good to be home,' was all he said but those few words and that blue gaze spoke far more to Maggie than any earnest proclamations of love. Scotsmen didn't go in for flowery speeches and this one was no exception.

  'Just as well it's salad,' was all she said, opening the refrigerator door and sliding the bowl back in.

  Later, as she watched him pull on his jeans, Maggie wondered at the chemistry that had brought them together and the bond that held them now. Okay they'd had their ups and downs but each storm had been weathered: the nights of sobbing into her pillow after each miscarriage, the bereavements as sharp as if these poor half-formed babies had been family members already; the endless weeks when she hardly saw him during a difficult murder case; the months of separation when she had left him to work in America. Somehow each of these things had made their marriage more secure. Or was it that their need for one another was deeper than mere desire?

  A lift of his eyebrows as he turned to look at her made Maggie's cheeks glow.

  'How about some food now? Dragging a poor man off to bed before he has a chance to eat his dinner!' He gave a little laugh then, fastening his jeans, came over and bent to kiss her gently.

  'Thanks for starters,' he murmured in a tone that had Maggie wanting to pull him back into bed again.

  'Ow!' she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. 'Cramp in my toes!' she added.

  'Come on, stand up and it'll be better.'

  He lifted her out of bed, his hands warm against her naked flesh, holding her against him for a long moment.

  'Right,' he slapped her bottom gently. Now I really need some food. See you downstairs.' Then, releasing her, he picked up a discarded T-s
hirt from the floor and was gone.

  Maggie flexed her foot, willing her toes to uncurl again. She hobbled across the room, pulled her cotton dressing gown from the back of the door and slipped into the shower room, glad of the cool shower tray beneath her feet.

  Minutes later she was dressed and heading back down to the kitchen, her hair wrapped in a towel. There was no sign of Bill but the open door suggested that they were eating out of doors this evening. She yanked off the towel, draping it on the back of a chair to dry then pulled her fingers through her long, dark curls. It would dry in minutes out in the garden.

  'How was your day?' she asked. Her husband made a face, his mouth still full of food. `Elm, good as that, eh? Or was it murder?' she joked.

  'Had a call from Solly,' Lorimer began, then, as Maggie shot him a look, he began to relate what the psychologist had told him.

  'That's peculiar, surely,' Maggie said at last. 'With Solly's track record the force should be letting him know he's a part of any investigation into multiple murders. Come on,' she reasoned, 'he's been feted by the media up here, so why should another man's mistake affect our Solly?'

  Lorimer shrugged and made a face. Not fair, is it? But I can't see what I can do about it other than have a wee word with Joyce Rogers. It'll have been decided at a policy meeting. Still,' he went on, 'it would have been nice to have had some prior warning. A memo from on high, at least. Solly seemed really hurt.'

  'Is it true what the papers are saying, then?' Maggie wondered aloud. 'Do they really think that psychological profiling has had its day?'

  'I hope not,' Lorimer replied. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. `Och, I can remember when I was completely against it myself. Thought it was interference from outside.'

  'But that was before you saw the great Doctor Brightman in action,' Maggie laughed.

  'Aye, so it was. Though I wouldn't really say Solly had been guilty of a lot of running around. It's more the way he sits back and views a case from different sorts of angles. Working with statistics and maps and things. Almost scientific,' he added in a mumble.

  Maggie gave a hoot of laughter. Now that is an admission, Detective Chief Inspector. Almost scientific.'

  'Anyway, he's not likely to be involved in the murder case we're investigating just now. Unless there's a mad gunman about to hit the Glasgow streets.'

  The hit man tried again to turn the key in the lock but it was no use. Whoever had been responsible for breaking into Brogan's pad had done a damned good job of wasting the front door. Chucking the key behind him into the mess of stuff lying on the floor, he pushed the door back and forwards, testing it. He considered the security of the place. A pair of bolts had been nailed to the inside, top and bottom, but neither was flush with its original hasp any more and a thorough search of the flat had failed to turn up any decent tools to fix them. It was typical of Brogan. Always had been a lazy, careless sod. He cursed him as he stepped onto the landing.

  The man's boots made hollow echoing sounds as he headed down the stone steps. Okay. He'd have to risk leaving this place for a while. His own toolkit was locked inside the boot of his car.

  He paused at the entrance to the close before setting foot on the Glasgow streets. There were calls to make this evening, but he could do that from the car. It was parked not too far away and it would be sensible to move it to another place before it was remarked upon by any nosey neighbours. Care and attention to detail had always been his watchwords and he wasn't going to neglect either now.

  'Hello?' Marianne lifted the telephone from its hook after two rings. Never give your name, Billy had always dinned into her. After the last couple of years that advice had become second nature to the red-haired woman. And not just because her wee brother was a drug dealer, mixing with a strange assortment of folk.

  The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, an English accent that Marianne couldn't place.

  'Hallo. Is Billy there?' the voice asked, in a tone that was friendly enough to make Marianne relax a little.

  'Sorry, no, he's not,' she answered. 'May I ask who's calling?' she added politely.

  'Oh, I'm a pal of Billy's from the old days. In Glasgow for a bit.

  Thought I'd look him up,' the man added.

  Marianne frowned suddenly. 'How did you get this number?'

  'Billy gave me it. Said to ring if he wasn't at the flat.'

  'Oh,' Marianne stood for a moment, wondering. That was okay, then, wasn't it? Billy never gave out any details of her number or whatever address she was using. So this old friend must be from his army days, someone who had no earthly idea of the Brogan family or their affairs.

  'Haven't seen him since we came home together on leave that last time. Man, that was some night!' the man on the other end of the line chuckled.

  It was a warm, friendly sort of laugh and Marianne found herself smiling. Its very normality made her feel good.

  'Well, I'm sorry I can't help you… what did you say your name was?'

  There was a long pause and no reply then an unintelligible voice that faded until she could make out the words line breaking up and the connection was dead.

  For a moment Marianne looked at the receiver then replaced it on its stand. Pity, she thought. He sounded nice. But not nice enough to break her promise not to give out her brother's mobile number. Then she frowned. Why wasn't Billy at home?

  Curious, she lifted the telephone again and dialled. As she listened to the unfamiliar ringtone, the woman sat down suddenly.

  Now she knew why that man hadn't found Billy Brogan in his flat.

  And if her suspicions were correct he would not find him anywhere in Scotland, never mind Glasgow.

  He put the folded handkerchief back into his pocket, thinking hard. Either this woman really didn't know where he'd gone or she was lying to protect him. She hadn't sounded too put out. A pleasant, educated voice, someone he'd enjoy talking to in another time and another place. And who was she anyway, this Marianne whose name had been written in red ink and underlined?

  A girlfriend? He didn't think so. There had been an absence of any sort of proprietorial tone to her voice. Maybe she was an ex? Hadn't seen Billy boy for a while. One way or another he had to find her, make her tell him what he wanted to know – the whereabouts of Billy Brogan. And his ten thousand pounds. CHAPTER 12 The slate blue sky was streaked with salmon pink clouds when Annie Irvine stood looking out from the balcony of her top-storey flat, a glass of wine in her hand. The Glasgow cityscape twinkled before her, though how long she might enjoy gazing at it was anybody's guess. Planning consent had been given for a multistorey building that would be constructed right in front of her block of flats but so far there was no sign of any start to the project.

  So Annie was determined to enjoy the view while she could. Far ahead was the dark spire of the university, just visible on the edge of the skyline. The roads between were a blur of dark shapes punctuated by lozenges of lit windows, reminders of other lives out there, other people with hopes, dreams and fears like her own.

  Once Annie's fears had included the monthly mortgage payment.

  She'd bought her flat when property had been at a premium, worried sick by how far she had extended herself. But the credit crunch had taken the sting out of that, with interest rates tumbling down so that now the policewoman could enjoy a reasonable standard of living. She swirled the red wine round and round, though she doubted whether it made any difference to aerate a bottle of stuff this price. Probably not, she told herself, taking another mouthful. Ach, it tasted fine to her, anyway. For a moment she wondered what sort of fine wines Omar Fathy was used to drinking. With his expensive schooling and posh accent (not fair, Irvine, he's just a nicely spoken man! she scolded herself) he was probably accustomed to the sort of bottles that came all cobwebby from a real vintner's, not cheap supermarket plonk like this. The woman gave a sigh then leaned forward, resting one arm on the railing. She'd never fancied a fellow officer like this before. Maybe it was
because Omar was a bit different. Well, a ot different, she admitted, giggling a little at her thoughts. Certainly he was drop-dead gorgeous and she was sure she wasn't the only female officer who couldn't take her eyes off him. But it was more than that. Annie had felt at ease with him, as if they could be good friends. Or more, a little voice whispered in her ear.

  So far DC Annie Irvine had managed to work happily with her colleagues without being asked out on dates. Maybe her manner had been a trifle wary, giving out the signal that she wasn't up for that sort of stuff? Annie grinned. Doctor Brightman would no doubt be able to suss out that one, wouldn't he?

  But would the good doctor be able to plumb the depths of her heart? A heart that had been sorely tried and that even now fluttered uncertainly as she contemplated a situation where she might be able to trust a man in her life again. Annie tipped her head back, letting the last of the wine slide down her throat, determined to blot out any glimpse of threatening memories.

  Omar Adel Fathy flicked the remote until the programme reached his chosen channel. He had eaten a chicken ready meal out of the hoard that he kept in his tall fridge freezer, a stack of meals supplied by M and S. Fridge to oven, to plate to stomach. He sighed, watching the football teams run all over the green space on his plasma screen. It wasn't like the old days when he had been at home, cosseted by loving parents, given choice dishes by their resident cook. But then rebellion on his part had put an end to that sort of lifestyle, hadn't it? Joining the police force and making his own way in life had been his way of escape. `Ahr he cried aloud as someone missed a sitter, the ball ricocheting off the crossbar and back into the defence. His eyes were glued to the game but Omar's mind was half on his past and the ties he had chosen to cut. Nepotism had not been a dirty word in his family. On the contrary, it was expected that the children would follow their father's steps in his multi-million business. He could have been ensconced in a nice office job with a fantastic salary if he had toed the family line. Instead here he was in a bog standard flat eating the same dinner as hundreds of other single men as they watched television. And it felt great! 'Come on!!' he urged the striker who had gathered up the ball at his feet and was now running towards an open goal. `Yes!!' Omar stood up, still clutching his dinner plate, then sat down again, grinning. Here he was, free to pursue his own life, doing a job he loved. What happened tomorrow was unpredictable and that was one of the things he enjoyed about being a police officer. Would there be a development in the case he was on, perhaps? There was something strange about this murder, he mused. Why would an innocent man be gunned down on his doorstep in the middle of the night?