Sleep like the dead lab-8

by Alex Gray

  His sigh seemed to fill the room. 'Lorimer reckons I saw her the day after her husband was killed.' He raised his eyebrows in a mute appeal.

  'So what does that tell you?'

  'I don't know,' SoIly shook his head. 'She was so…' his eyes lost their focus as he paused to remember. 'Animated. Yes, that's the right word, I think. Quite unlike the student I recalled from our seminars,' he insisted.

  'And you think she was happy for a reason?' Rosie asked slowly.

  'If her husband had been stalking her and she knew that he was dead, maybe that would be cause enough,' she went on.

  'But why thank me? I didn't stop any of the things in her life,'

  Solly replied, though in truth he was speaking more to himself now than to Rosie.

  'No, there's more to it than this,' Solly nodded.

  'Well you've told the police all you can,' Rosie continued reasonably.

  'And it confirms that Marianne was still in Glasgow after Scott was killed.'

  'She must have been living in constant fear,' Solly went on.

  'That's why there was no trace of her name on the university register. Somehow she managed to slip through that particular net, though God knows how she did it.'

  'Well, it's in Lorimer's hands now,' Rosie said, her tone hinting that the subject ought to be closed. She looked over at her husband, noting that expression of concentration she knew only too well.

  'Come on, Solly,' she wheedled. It's not your case. Strathclyde Police aren't hiring you for this one, remember?' But as the psychologist continued to stare into space, Rosie knew that her words were falling on deaf ears. Solomon Brightman had decided that he was involved in this woman's fate and in the death of her ex-husband.

  And Rosie knew in her heart that this time it wasn't a matter of being brought in to dispassionately examine a case. This time it was personal.

  'Doctor Brightman saw her in the bookshop,' Lorimer said. He was sitting opposite Superintendent Mitchison, the afternoon sun shut out behind the vertical blinds so that what light there was made faded shadows over the room. Being in this room was like being inside one of these old sepia photographs, Lorimer decided, the furnishings were all browns and tans, even those colours being leached out by the lack of daylight.

  'A coincidence,' Mitchison said, nodding his head as though it had been Lorimer who had suggested as much and he was simply agreeing with him.

  'It places her in a specific place and time,' Lorimer went on, trying not to show the irritation that he felt. 'We believe Scott may have been stalking his wife prior to his death,' he continued.

  Mitchison smiled, his eyes narrowing. It's usually the one who is stalked that ends up dead,' he laughed mirthlessly. 'So how does this give you any more information about who killed Scott?'

  'Marianne Scott's brother disappears suddenly,' Lorimer said.

  'She goes to ground.' I le raised his hands. 'Isn't it possible that they were in it together?'

  'You think Brogan killed his former brother-in-law to stop him following his sister around?' Mitchison's voice was full of derision.

  'Come on, Lorimer. That's the most risible theory I've heard in a long time. Brogan's a known drug dealer who's been lucky enough not to have been caught. Two men dead in his flat, remember?' he sneered. 'Or have you forgotten that little matter? It's about drugs,' he added, clenching a fist and tapping it lightly on his desk as though he were reminding a foolish pupil of the correct way to do his homework. 'When the Spanish police finally bring Brogan to ground then you'll see I'm right,' he nodded again. 'Till then I don't want to hear any more nonsense about Doctor Brightman and his theories. He's not on our payroll, remember?'

  Lorimer strode out of the building and headed for his car. He was still seething after his encounter with Mitchison. The man was a total prat, he told himself. Hidebound by budgetary constraints, blinkered by his desire to see every other murder case in terms of drug dealing. Okay so the city was awash with the stuff. And there were always demands to show that the police were tackling crime of that sort. What Mitchison wanted was a difference in statistics, something to boast about. But did he really think that one less dealer on the street would equate to a drop in drug usage? Aye, right, Lorimer thought cynically. Mitchison hadn't even given consideration to the facts. There were signs that a hit man had been used to effect at least three of the killings. Okay, so Sahid Jaffrey's murder showed a different MO. But he'd had dealings with Brogan, hadn't he? Mitchison hadn't even bothered to acknowledge that connection.

  But even as he drove out of the car park, Lorimer realised that the two senior officers were at loggerheads for a very different reason. The superintendent wanted the figures to add up while all that Lorimer wanted right now was to find a dangerous killer and justice for his victims.

  CHAPTER 33

  Marianne woke from a dreamless sleep. Her eyelids flickered, their grittiness making her blink. The room was bathed in sunlight, fine cotton curtains blowing gently at an open window. She looked around, wondering for a moment where she was, feeling more relaxed than she had for years. As her eyes registered the rumpled sheets Marianne saw the hollow in the pillow where his head had rested next to hers.

  'Max,' she said aloud, savouring the name. It was a word redolent with possibilities: maximise, maximum… surely it mirrored that feeling of complete satisfaction that flowed over her right now? Their coupling had surprised her, mainly because it had happened at all.

  Somehow he dispelled all her fearfulness, treating her like an ordinary woman whose desires matched his own. Her hunger for his body had shown how starved she had been for the merest affection.

  Marianne frowned. Amit had been kind to her, shown her an innate courtesy, hinted that he, too, might release that pent-up need that had been locked inside her for so long. But they had made a pact, hadn't they? The tiny creases on her brow smoothed out as a smile appeared on her lips, in her eyes. Amit was almost history now. Max, she thought, hugging her arms around her cold shoulders, was her future.

  There had been no restless night punctuated by smothering dreams, a good omen surely? Even Amit had featured in her nightmares, encouraging her to distrust the gentle Asian whose destiny had become entwined with her own.

  A faint peeping sound from the handbag across the room made her stiffen. Someone was trying to call her mobile. She laughed as she remembered; Max had her number. Perhaps he'd gone out for some food and was wondering what she would like. Drawing a sheet around her naked body, Marianne tiptoed across the room, fishing the mobile from her bag.

  'Hi,' she said, waiting to hear Max's English accent. But it was a voice far more familiar than her new lover's.

  'Billy?' Marianne clutched the phone closer to her ear. 'Where the hell are you?'

  Billy Brogan was sitting in a small pool of shade under a tree, watching as an army of ants circled madly beside his feet. He shifted his bottom then swept the frenzied insects away with his foot, sending them tumbling down in a small cloud of grey dust.

  'I'm in trouble, Marianne,' he said solemnly.

  'You can say that again,' his sister answered tartly.

  'No, I mean real trouble. The police are after me. They think I had something to do with Fraz and Gubby… I mean, come on… would I do anything like that?'

  There was a pause and he began to fidget, watching the ants regroup to return their assault. Did she really think he had anything to do with these killings? 'I know,' Marianne said at last and he heard her sigh. 'Things haven't been exactly fine here either,' she said dryly. 'Anyhow, where are you? Why haven't you been in touch?'

  Brogan sniffed, putting out a foot to bar the ants' progress. 'I'm in Algeria,' he said at last.

  'What? 'Algeria. It's a long story. Remind me to tell you some time if I ever get out of this godforsaken place. Anyway, I need your help. Are you listening?'

  'Aye, go on,' Marianne replied, a trace of wonder in her tone.

  'See if you can find the Hundi for me. He'll fix things
.'

  'Like he fixed things for Amit?'

  'Look, that was okay, wasn't it? You did no' too bad out of that arrangement, eh?'

  'And how am I supposed to find him? Look up directory enquiries?' the sarcasm in his sister's voice made Billy sigh.

  'Ach, okay, I know he plays this hard-to-get act. See if you can locate him through Amit.'

  There was another pause then Marianne said quietly, 'I'm not seeing Amit any more, Billy. That's all over now.'

  'Oh, well.' He stopped to think then said, `Go and find Jaffa.

  You know where he lives, don't you? He'll arrange for you to see the Hundi.'

  'How can I contact you again?' Marianne asked anxiously. 'You left without even telling me what was going on,' she added. 'I know you've changed your mobile. C'mon, Billy. What's your new number? I need to know,' she insisted, angry with him now that the shock was subsiding. 'What if we get cut off?'

  'I'll call you, okay?'

  'Right,' she said, then there was another pause that her brother took to mean that the conversation was over.

  Billy grinned and clicked off his mobile, standing up and shaking a few ants from the hem of his trousers.

  He never heard her last words telling him about his old friend or that Max Whittaker had been asking after him. Stepping out into the blazing African sun, he adjusted his shades and sauntered towards a group of dark-skinned boys who were lying in wait for him. One of them held the rope tether of a sleepy-looking donkey in his small fist.

  'Taxi,' they yelled as he strode past their outstretched hands, 'air-conditioned taxi!'

  Brogan grinned as their yells surrounded him. The donkey was the only air-conditioned taxi they possessed, but he appreciated their sense of humour all the same.

  It was not long past midday and the streets were thronging with people. Entering the narrow bazaar was like running the gauntlet, hands tugging at his loose sleeves, eager faces turned his way, voices shouting as the vendors tried to entice Brogan to sample their wares. The noise was deafening, donkeys braying, tuk-tuks puttering round the adjacent streets and the occasional camel train sauntering past, the animals looking disdainfully down their rounded noses. His feet were sore and dusty from the long days walking since he had been abandoned at the village, and all that Billy Brogan wanted now was a bottle of cold mineral water, preferably one with its cap still intact. Above him the daylight was obscured by goods hanging high on wooden rails that crossed from one side of the alleyway to the other, a selection ofgalabayas floating like headless dolls, their hems richly bordered in designs of golden thread. Vendors in white robes or European dress sat at the entrances to their tiny shops, every inch of space crammed full of goods, selections of garishly printed T-shirts suspended from unseen hooks. Some shops had windows made of glass behind which Brogan could see large brass lamps, hexagonal tables and cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jewellery twinkling against velvet stands, too expensive to risk being at the mercy of passers-by, too enticing for the tourists to ignore. Most, though, were open to prospective purchasers, three sides of a small, high space stacked high with linens, basket works, vegetables and spices.

  Brogan paused for a moment beside a tea and spice vendor who was relaxing with a sheesha, its red and gold pipes connected to the bubbling pot beside him. Packets of warm spices were stacked into the shelves of a wooden cart behind him; saffron, fenugreek, cinnamon and chilli next to less familiar packets of bright blue and muddy green, fragrant smells tickling his nostrils, making him suddenly homesick for a curry in dear old Glasgow. A large basket sat on the ground at the vendor's side, full of some dried flowers the colour of old blood. Herbs of every hue packed in clear plastic dominated an entire wall of the shop and several feet above them was a rail of the ubiquitous cotton T-shirts and signs in Arabic that Brogan could not understand.

  'Water?' he asked, shuffling to one side away from a group of men who were coming towards them down the narrow street, one of them so fat that he was like a huge ship in full sail under his galabaya.

  The vendor followed Brogan's eyes as the men passed them by.

  'Water?' Brogan repeated.

  The man grinned at him, showing a set of stained and cracked teeth, then handed over the sheesha as he rose.

  Brogan looked at the pipe suspiciously. He wouldn't half mind a wee puff of the old sheesh, but the buzz of flies rising from a stain on the ground made him wary. His stomach was still delicate from the boat trip and the unfamiliar food he had eaten over the last few days, so he wiped the end of the pipe with the hem of his shirt before he took it between his lips.

  The vendor returned, a bottle of ice cold water in his hands, its plastic surface dewed with droplets as though he had just taken it from a cooler in the back of the shop.

  'How much?' Brogan asked, offering a handful of cents.

  The vendor's grin widened as he selected some of the coins.

  'American?' he asked.

  Naw, pal, Scottish,' Brogan replied. Then, seeing the puzzled look on the other man's face he laid down the bottle and sketched an impromptu Highland Fling, miming a set of bagpipes under his armpit.

  The vendor giggled and clapped. `Scoteesh!' he said, then nodded as Brogan took the water and headed back into the crush of bodies.

  Other eyes followed the Scotsman's progress as he made his way through the bazaar, wondering if a man who didn't haggle over the price was worth the bother of chasing for a few yards to offer their bargains.

  Brogan tightened his grip on the pack. He had swung it to the front of his body before entering the street, fearing any light fingers that might slip under its straps. It contained everything he owned, though his money and passport were carefully secreted about his person, his mobile shoved to the bottom of his hip pocket. The man in the hotel had told him to look for a sign at the far end of the bazaar. He would see a goldsmith's shop then an opening into another street. That was where he would find the travel agent's office.

  Sure enough, the familiar green sign loomed ahead, advising passers-by that here was the agency of American Express.

  'My son works there,' the hotel manager had told him. 'He will be able to help you with tickets,' he had nodded, looking at Brogan suspiciously as though the request to purchase rail tickets was something illicit. But a couple of dollar hills had changed the man's expression to one of ineffable sweetness and he had been only too eager to give Brogan directions to someone who might escort him to the ticket office as his translator.

  The city of Algiers was not somewhere that Brogan wanted to stay in for much longer. Too many foreign faces made the Scotsman uneasy, too many jabbering voices talking in a tongue he would never understand. Even the French words were beyond him; Billy Brogan's limited experience at school hardly progressing beyond parlez-vous franfais? So it was with some relief that the dealer passed the swinging sign into the travel bureau, the young man grinning as he came forward, hand outstretched.

  'Train ticket to Marrakesh?' the guy was asking as he ushered Billy into the back shop. 'You got a passport?'

  'Aye,' Brogan replied and the young man nodded his approval.

  'Come,' he said, beckoning towards a door that led out into a narrow alley. 'Quicker this way.' He grinned again, his dark skin complementing a set of fine white teeth. 'No crowds here,' he explained.

  Brogan followed him out along the shaded street. Piles of wooden pallets were stacked at several of the closed doors, bags of rubbish at others, colonies of flies buzzing madly at every untidy heap. A small yellow cat darted past, making Brogan jump: it was little bigger than some of the rats Billy had seen in the Glasgow slums when he'd been peddling gear to junkies. A thin trickle of something that might be water ran down the slope towards them and Brogan stepped over it, shuddering; the smells here were sour and fetid, no doubt wafting up from the rubbish discarded in these bin bags.

  'Here,' the hotel manager's son motioned to Brogan as they stopped outside the back door of yet another shop. It looked li
ke all the others save for the fact that its entry was not obscured by any garbage.

  The lad knocked the door and they waited for what seemed like several minutes until a grating sound showed the door being opened. Brogan peered into the dim interior, his eyes trying to focus. Gradually he made out three steps below him and a figure who stood at their foot, waiting.

  'Ticket office,' the young man encouraged him, smiling and waving his hands to usher Brogan forwards.

  But in the split second that it took Brogan to sense that something was wrong here, the man below had leapt forwards, grasping Brogan's arm and dragging him into the darkness.

  DCI Lorimer stood in the arrivals hall of Glasgow International Airport watching the automatic doors as the trickle of passengers became a steady stream. Young Jaffrey's flight had landed some time ago and many of his fellow passengers had already made their way from the baggage carousels to this inauspicious part of the airport. To one side was a small coffee shop, its chairs probably occupied by folk waiting for family and friends, their gaze shifting from the arrivals board to these frosted glass doors. An avenue of sorts had been created between rows of seating on one side and the bookshop on the other for the passengers to wheel their luggage out, families hovering as close as they dared to the doors that were now constantly opening and closing with a sibilant swish.

  He saw Rashid Jaffrey the moment he stepped out into the brightly lit hall. The boy was dressed in wide-fitting jeans that had abandoned their hold on his waistline, sliding down well past the edge of a pair of black boxers and causing him to shuffle along, his trainers almost hidden by the ragged hems. It was the fashion still for some youths to wear their jeans like this, Lorimer knew, and looking at Jaffrey he suddenly felt not just old fashioned but simply old. With his fortieth birthday looming ever closer, the policeman could not help but reflect that he was nearer in age to Jaffrey's late father than to his son.

  'Rashid?'

  The boy stopped in his tracks, letting the handle of his pull along suitcase rest against the edge of a seat. `1DCI Lorimer. Strathclyde Police. Thought you might be able to spare us a few minutes before you go home,' he added gravely.