Sleep Like the Dead

by Alex Gray

  ‘Hi,’ he called, closing the front door behind him.

  As soon as he saw her tense white face Lorimer knew something was wrong.

  ‘Hey. What’s happened?’ He was at her side in two long strides, arms around her shoulders as Maggie began to weep silently.

  A pot of tea and several man-sized Kleenex tissues were required before Maggie could explain her health problem.

  ‘You have to do what you think is right for you, love,’ Lorimer told her gently, stroking her hair back from the tear-stained cheeks. ‘You know we’d given up any notion of a family,’ he added quietly.

  Maggie nodded and blew her nose again. Th-huh,’ she gulped. ‘I know. It’s just …’ Her voice disappeared in another swell of emotion and Lorimer held his wife close to his chest, patting her back, noting the irony as he did: it was a gesture a father might make to comfort a child.

  ‘With Rosie … and everything… it’s hard,’ she sniffled.

  ‘It’ll always be hard, love. Other people’s bairns will be like the gifts we’ve been denied. But we’ve got a lot to be thankful for, haven’t we?’ Lorimer turned her face to his, searching her eyes for answer.

  A tremulous smile and a nod gave him what he’d wanted. They had one another. Okay, there had been periods of difficulty caused mainly by his work, but they’d weathered such storms and were still together, stronger for those times, Lorimer believed.

  ‘What did the consultant say?’ he asked eventually and Maggie told him, haltingly at first then with growing confidence as she began to see that her decision was the right one.

  ‘No date yet, then?’

  ‘Possibly just before the October break,’ Maggie said. ‘Mr Austen goes on holiday then and wants me done before that.’ She

  giggled a little at her choice of words. ‘Says I’ll be off school for about three months, depending on what he finds inside.’ ‘So, a break till the end of the year? Manson won’t like losing his favourite member of staff, will he?’ Lorimer replied, referring to Maggie’s head teacher.

  ‘Plenty of teachers on the supply list,’ she told him. ‘He’ll have no bother replacing me for a while. And I can visit Rosie and her new baby when it arrives,’ she said, looking past her husband at a point in the distance. Lorimer followed her glance but there was no indication what, if anything, his wife was seeing.

  The wee small hours of the morning found Lorimer awake, his arm around a sleeping Maggie, her drowsy body curled into his side. Thoughts of her impending surgery had been supplanted by other notions. Sometimes in the cold hours before dawn his mind was suddenly alert, full of ideas. What had happened in the days before Ken Scott had been gunned down? That he had been stalking his ex-wife seemed almost definite, Lorimer reasoned, given the host of photos taken in the streets of Glasgow. A chilling thought had taken hold of the detective and he drew back slightly from his sleeping wife as though the very idea might contaminate her.

  Stalkers had been known to become so obsessed by their victims that they eventually killed them. Nobody but the crazed killer knew just what took place on such occasions but psychologists and police officers had attempted to piece together the likely steps that had led to the stalker finally descending into that ultimate violence. Memories of high profile cases flooded back to him now; women who had been the object of someone’s fantasy and desire and whose rebuffs had led to their slaughter.

  Is that what had happened to Marianne Scott? Had she been killed by her ex-husband, a seemingly mild-mannered man who had given little indication of his obsession to those who claimed to know him best?

  Marianne Scott was certainly missing and in Lorimer’s experience that could mean one of two things. Either she was playing a very clever game at deliberately disappearing or she was dead, her body concealed somewhere. Now, as the grey light crept into his bedroom, Lorimer felt certain that the woman had been murdered. It made sense of Scott’s killing: could it have been an act of revenge for taking his ex-wife’s life? Brogan might well have undertaken a hit against his former brother-in-law if he had any reason to believe the man had killed his sister. He’d had her picture in his flat, a sign of his fondness for her, surely? The man wasn’t just a known drug dealer. He was ex-army, undoubtedly with contacts in the underworld where guns were readily available for the right money.

  As he rolled onto his other side, Lorimer became more and more convinced that his theory would stand up in the light of day. Why had Brogan done a runner? He grinned to himself. Maybe they’d find out today. The Spanish police might even have the man in their custody by now, he thought. And once they had Brogan extradited back home he might supply answers to all of these questions.

  As the night clouds rolled away and a thin line of scarlet bled onto the horizon, Billy Brogan groaned with relief. Only half a day more and they would be free of this tumbling sea and the endless heave and swell that had turned his stomach inside out. He shivered, rubbing his arms in a vain attempt at making them warm again. He’d been awake most of the night, only dozing fitfully on

  the bench by the window. Carlos had thrown a blanket over him some time during the night and he had heard voices, speaking in Spanish, as he’d drifted in and out of sleep. Now, fully awake, Brogan knew that there were two men on board, not just the old man. It made sense, he supposed. Carlos had to rest some time during this voyage and he’d taken one of his crew with him. The Spaniard had never said they were sailing alone, had he? The other guy must have been down below when Billy had set foot on board the boat, doing whatever sailors did. But it had been done in a furtive sort of way that made Brogan uneasy. Why had Carlos not simply introduced the other man when he’d stepped down the gangway? Brogan tried not to let his ideas go any further. He was at the mercy of these Spanish seamen and sitting tight and not asking any questions until they had completed the journey was probably for the best.

  Another massive wave made the boat rise high in the air and descend with a crash, sea spray flying past the window where Brogan was clutching the edge of his seat. All he could think about was his present condition; the bucket on the floor beside him skittering away from his hand as he reached out to grab it. Whatever was going on up on deck or in the wheelhouse wasn’t his affair. So long as the sun continued to rise and the boat was heading for land, that was all he cared about right now

  CHAPTER 27

  F

  ‘ax from the Spanish police, sir,’ the duty officer handed a sheet of paper to Lorimer as he walked along the corridor to his office. ‘No sign of Brogan. He didn’t return to his hotel room last night. And he wasn’t on any of the flights leaving Palma yesterday.’ Lorimer nodded and took the fax into his room. Brogan would still be somewhere in Mallorca, then. And shouldn’t be too hard to locate. The fax added that no hire car had been taken out in his name. And he’d have needed a valid driving licence for that, wouldn’t he? Lorimer wasn’t too worried. The local police would pick him up pretty soon, he reckoned. It was an island, after all, with few places for a Glasgow drug dealer to hide. Then a frown crossed Lorimer’s face. They’d had that tip-off from this end. Did that mean Brogan had friends in Mallorca? But why check into a hotel if that were the case? No. The caller had mentioned that Brogan had been spotted by someone from back home. That had been unlucky for the drug dealer. And Lorimer hoped that was a sign that Brogan’s luck was rapidly running out. Meantime he had a pile of paperwork that would take most of the morning to sift through. He was quietly confident that by midday they’d have had news of Brogan’s arrest.

  But there was something else he wanted to do first. Opening up his laptop, he composed the message in his head. It wasn’t anything official, nor something that could be seen as contravening the present command about using the services of a psychological profiler. It was just a friendly enquiry from his personal address, Lorimer reasoned, as he typed in the email for Doctor Solomon Brightman.

  ‘Stalking,’ SoIly said the word aloud as he read the heading on Lorimer’s email message.
A slight frown creased the man’s brow. He’d been hurt by the police decision to withdraw from his services and now here was Lorimer asking him questions that would take up some of his time. In one way it was gratifying that his friend continued to have faith in him but in another way it was just plain annoying. Had he let any pettiness creep into his soul, SoIly Brightman might have told himself that if his services were not required by Strathclyde Police then he’d simply ignore the email. But such ignoble thoughts were not part of the psychologist’s make-up and, as he rose from his desk, he was already thinking of well known cases like that of TV presenter, Jill Dando. There had been good evidence at the start of that investigation for supposing that Dando had been gunned down by a stalker, though what had actually taken place might always remain a mystery.

  ‘Stalking,’ he said again, this time standing by his filing cabinet and leafing through his notes.

  Ken Scott would be an interesting subject if he were proved to have been a stalker. Not only was he an ex-husband whose wife had rejected him publicly by the divorce but he must have harboured the delusion that she was still in love with him. For, SoIly knew, that was the hallmark of a stalker. The person stalking was

  convinced that his or her target was capable of returning the devotion that they felt. And with patience and perseverance the notion was that their victim would eventually fall into their arms, capitulating to their desires. For it was not about love, Solly reminded himself. It was all about power and powerlessness. The stalker, once a rejected lover (whether in reality or in his or her mind), regarded themselves as in a position of power while they followed their prey. Overpowering their victim became a necessary part of the game. They might tell themselves that they only wanted their loved one to return some affection, to give a smile or a kiss. But what they craved was their victim’s ultimate submission. And when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen willingly, they sometimes resorted to violence.

  Frustration breeds violence was a phrase Solly remembered from his early days as a student of behavioural psychology. And he could cite many instances in the world of stalkers where that held true. Filthy messages sent through the post or by email, unwanted gifts (some of them with sinister overtones) and plain harassment were the outpourings of a rejected and frustrated stalker. Had there been any evidence of such things in Scott’s case? The photographs were all that the police had to go on so far. It was a pity that Lorimer had drawn a blank in locating any of the ex-wife’s friends or family. If he had a fuller picture of the couple’s relationship then perhaps he might be able to make some useful contribution. But, failing that, he could give his friend some general pointers about the sorts of violent stalkers whose deeds had been recorded.

  Annie Irvine watched her colleague as he lifted his lunch tray off

  the table and headed towards the canteen door. Omar had delib

  -

  erately chosen to sit by himself for the last few days, she’d noticed,

  facing the window that looked out on to the street, avoiding eye contact with any of his fellow officers. There was something about that figure hunched over his sandwiches that troubled Annie. Something was wrong and it wasn’t to do with the ongoing murder case, she was certain of that. Omar had been full of enthusiasm not that long ago, hadn’t he? So why this sudden change in his manner? The policewoman had been sensitive enough to know when to leave the handsome young Egyptian alone. Besides, what chance would she have of furthering their friendship if she barged in on him when it was obvious that he wanted nobody’s company? A tall dark-haired woman planked herself down next to Annie. It was Maureen, the civilian officer who was in charge of processing and recording all the productions from scenes of crime. Annie would have moved away but her lunch was barely started and she was incapable of being rude even to Maureen, whose loudmouthed comments were known to make others cringe. ‘What’s up with Omar Sharif?’ she asked, nudging Annie’s arm. The woman’s shrewd glance showed that she had been following Annie’s gaze as Omar walked out of the canteen. Annie didn’t reply, trying to focus on the salad and ham baguette that had suddenly become quite unappetising. ‘Had a tiff, then?’ Maureen gave a short laugh that sounded like a dog’s bark. Annie coloured up, watching as several heads turned their way, Maureen’s strident tones carrying right across the canteen. ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Annie mumbled, stuffing the baguette into a napkin. She opened her handbag and drew out her mobile phone. There was no message on the screen but Maureen wasn’t to know that, was she? Sometimes a wee deception had to be played out and this was one of those times. ‘Have to go. See you,’ she said, then rose from the table as fast as she could.

  `Ach, he’s no worth the heartache, Annie,’ Maureen persisted. Then, catching hold of the policewoman’s arm she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘An’ I reckon he’s the wrong colour for a nice girl like you, eh?’

  Annie stood stock still for a moment, shocked at the woman’s blatant racism. Had she been overheard, Maureen might well have been given notice to quit her job. She blinked then shook her head, showing the other woman that such a remark was not to be condoned.

  As she turned to go, Annie kept hearing the words in her mind like a hiss of malevolence. Really she should report the woman, but there was something nasty about Maureen Kendall that gave her pause for thought. Somehow, Annie felt, there would be repercussions if she tried to put that little incident into a formal complaint. And right now she could do without the bother.

  Omar was walking down the CID corridor when Annie finally caught up with him.

  ‘Hey, what time do we have to be at the university?’ she asked, still slightly breathless from her encounter in the canteen.

  Omar turned round and when he saw Annie he stopped and gave her a smile. Was there really nothing worrying him behind that nice polite face? she wondered. Was she seeing things that weren’t there? None of her business, anyway, Annie reminded herself.

  ‘Remember we’ve to get our tails up to Gilmorehill and start quizzing the departmental secretaries,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Omar replied, the faintest of frowns producing a crease between his dark eyebrows. ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  The spire of the University of Glasgow could be seen for miles

  around, dominating the skyline as it stood proudly on the heights

  of Gilmore Hill. It was a strange piece of architecture, harsh spikes emanating from that narrow spire, reminiscent of a knight’s mace. What the story was behind that particular feature, Annie didn’t know. But it always held a sense of foreboding when she looked up from University Avenue at the dark points outlined against the sky. ‘No problem getting parked today,’ she remarked as Omar slipped the pool car into a space not far from the main gate. In term time it would be a different story, parking spaces close to the university buildings becoming as rare as hens’ teeth. ‘Wonder if she ever did apply for a course here,’ Annie mused as they walked over the hill towards University Gardens. ‘Lorimer thinks she’s dead,’ Omar replied shortly. Annie stopped and looked at him. ‘Well what on earth are we doing here? It’s just a waste of our time, surely?’ Omar gave a faint grin. ‘Your DCI isn’t right all the time, is he? Besides, he has to cover all the possibilities.’ Annie kicked a stone that appeared on the pavement. It skittered onto the railings with a metallic ping. ‘In my experience Lorimer’s hunches usually turn out to be spot on,’ she said gloomily. ‘That’s funny,’ Omar said. ‘I feel certain that she’s alive.’ He turned to face Annie. ‘Don’t ask me why. It’s just this gut feeling I have. Maybe I’m totally wrong. But then again,’ he grinned wickedly, ‘maybe it’s Lorimer who’s got it wrong.’ ‘Well, let’s see if anyone can remember Marianne Scott or Brogan or whatever damned name she was using, shall we?’ Annie raised her eyebrows as they continued down towards the rows of departmental offices that were tucked away from the main road. She glanced at Omar’s profile. He was smiling still, happier than she had seen him in days
. Was that all that had been bothering

  him: worried that his own ideas about Marianne Scott were clashing —with Lorimer’s? He’d certainly spent loads of time trying to trace the missing woman. Maybe that had made her all the more real to him. And if it transpired that Marianne was actually found dead how would this young policeman react? Annie wanted to reach out and touch Omar’s hand, warn him not to become too involved.

  But then she thought of the tall brooding figure of their DCI. Lorimer felt things deeply, too. Didn’t say much, but you always knew that he cared for the victims of crime. Would Omar Fathy become like that? She stole another glance at the Egyptian and nodded silently to herself. He’d go far, she realised. Not because he was ambitious but because he shared the same qualities as their boss.

  Marianne was not dead but sometimes she felt as though her life was ebbing away from her. The nights she had spent in this hotel had not been free from the recurrent dreams she had so longed to escape. Certainly the constant noise of traffic had kept her awake for long spells until exhaustion had forced her into a troubled sleep. Waking to a morning that was bright behind the heavy hotel curtains made her realise that another day must be faced and decisions made.

  The truth was that Marianne had no real idea what to do. The telephone calls she had tried to make to Billy were left unanswered, the first foreign ringtone telling her that his mobile, at any rate, was somewhere across the Channel. Why hadn’t he called her? Was he somehow involved in these deaths? Marianne shook her head slowly as she sat on the edge of the great white bed. That ringtone had preceded the events in his flat. Billy had left Glasgow before all these things had happened, hadn’t he? But