by Alex Gray
Amit looked up.
Just as two figures appeared on the roof, Lorimer’s voice sounded from a nearby loudhailer.
‘Stop right where you are, Stevens. Leave the woman and come back down!’
‘Stay back or I’ll shoot her!’ the hit man yelled.
Amit took a step forward, eyes fixed on the man who was drawing closer to the edge of the roof and the woman he held in his grasp, her red hair blowing in the wind.
Then he began to run.
‘Marianne!’ he called, waving his arms at them. ‘Marianne!’
The moment he saw the little Asian, Detective Constable Omar Fathy leapt from the transporter. Where the hell had this crazy man come from?
‘Stop!’ he cried out, lunging towards the running figure. ‘Don’t go… .’ but his words failed as Stevens’ shot rang out. ‘No!’ Annie screamed, feeling other arms pulling her back as she tried to leave the van and reach her friend.
‘No,’ she whimpered, her eyes refusing to believe what she was seeing. ‘No, please God, no . .
Omar lay there, motionless, arms flung out, one dark stain bloodying his forehead.
Annie stared at him, willing the Egyptian to move. ‘Get up, Omar. Please get up . .
Then, as strong hands turned her away from the sight, she began to sob into the shoulder of the officer next to her.
There was a man dead at his feet. Amit could see that. A young man, dark-skinned. His life taken by a bullet that had been meant for him.
Amit stood there, shock rooting him to the ground. Then he heard a second crack of gunfire ripping through the air.
He watched as though in a dream, that figure tumbling from the edge of the roof, a dark shape outlined against the pure, pale sky then falling with a thud onto the concrete below
When he looked back up, Marianne was crouched on the rooftop. Her thin, eerie wail floating down to the scene below, shattering the silence.
Then, as he saw other figures come up behind her and take her in their arms, Amit sank to his knees beside the body of the young policeman and wept.
et me speak to her, first,’ Solly said quietly, his hand on j Lorimer’s sleeve.
They were back in divisional headquarters. It was hard to believe that it was barely two hours since they had left, such was the difference in the place. Before, there had been that tense anticipation when adrenalin and testosterone filled the veins of so many officers; now there was only a sullen silence.
Solly had taken his body armour off with the others, waiting to hear murmurs of regret, anything that would ease the pain of this deathly hush. That would come, he told himself. Maybe tonight when the police officers could feel safe in their own homes, maybe tomorrow when they reported for duty. Or perhaps not until they stood at the graveside watching as Omar Adel Fathy’s body was laid to rest with all the panoply that surrounded a police officer’s funeral.
Lorimer gave no sign of having heard him and Solly patted his arm, seeing the way his friend looked out of his office window. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what he was seeing. The sight of his fallen officer would be imprinted on Lorimer’s brain for a long time to come, Solly knew. But there were things that still had to be done even though the Senior Investigating Officer might wish to forget about them entirely.
‘May I talk to her, take Detective Sergeant Cameron with me, perhaps?’ Solly asked.
Lorimer gave a great sigh then wiped a hand across his eyes as though to clear that unwelcome vision.
‘It’s totally out of the question, Solly. I can’t authorise a civilian to undertake something like that.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Even you.’
Solly nodded. That was what he had expected and, though his request was genuine, it had been phrased to elicit a particular response. To shake the man back to his responsibilities.
‘I’ll go down myself,’ Lorimer said at last, straightening himself wearily from the window sill where he had been leaning. ‘But I can let you sit in on the interview Even ask some questions if you like. It’ll all be on record, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
Marianne held the polystyrene cup in her fists, feeling its warmth seep right through her bones.
She was alive. And for now that was all that seemed to matter.
Those moments when she had looked down at the greyness of the pavements way below, sick with fear, still remained, however. The uniformed policewoman who had wrapped a blanket around her as they sat in the back of the car had held on to her shoulders, murmuring soothing words. Marianne had let the tears fall, then, too choked to utter a single word.
Now, though, her mind was full of questions. How had Amit got there? Who had been shot? (She had seen the stretcher and the shape of a body beneath that white sheet.) And was Billy safe?
Marianne had stopped considering her own fate. What would come to pass was surely something that she deserved, after all? That she would be sentenced to a lengthy stretch in prison was inevitable. But somehow that wasn’t important.
‘Mrs Shafiq?’ A tall man had entered the small room where Marianne was sitting on a bench seat, the same female officer sitting near her.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ the man told her. ‘Please would you come with me?’
Marianne met his eyes for a second, light blue, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul. Then she nodded, rising from the bench, feeling the woman’s hand on her arm, helping her up. They had been quietly kind in that first police station, providing some clothes for her to wear; jeans that were too big at the waist, a navy fleece and a pair of socks and trainers. Where did they get all of these things? she had wondered, too afraid to ask, just grateful to have that stinking nightdress taken away with the promise of a shower once everything had been sorted out. A vague phrase that she had accepted, too numb to look ahead. Now, though, following this man with these broad shoulders under that dark suit, Marianne felt grubby. Raking fingers through her hair, she felt the knots and tangles and was suddenly ashamed. ‘In here, please,’ Lorimer ushered them through a door marked Interview Room 2.
The room they entered held a surprise.
‘Doctor Brightman!’
‘Marianne,’ he replied, rising politely from a chair in the corner of the room. He gave her a stiff little nod, but did not come forward to take her by the hand. She glanced back at the two police officers, the tall man and the kindly woman, suddenly at a loss.
‘What. .?’ she began.
‘Sit here please,’ Lorimer told her, indicating a place to one side of a formica-topped table. She sat on the plastic-covered chair, hearing its metal legs scrape along the floor, frowning at her surroundings. Surely this was where criminals came to be questioned?
Marianne watched as Lorimer switched on a recording machine then gave his name, rank and the date and time then she blinked as the enormity of the situation began to dawn on her. She was the criminal about to be questioned.
Solly’s face was grave as he watched the changing emotions flit across the woman’s face. She’ll still be in shock, he had advised Lorimer. But that had not seemed to concern the policeman. Was Fathy’s death making him vengeful? Could he really have no consideration for this young woman’s sensibilities? All of the psychologist’s questions had been swept aside as Lorimer had taken the decision to interview Marianne himself, with Solly in attendance. Yet now he could understand why. This woman was vulnerable, certainly, but she might be far more compliant as a result of that, yielding up such information as they needed to know in order to make total sense of the case.
‘Marianne,’ Solly said, making her look at him. ‘There’s something I would like to know. The seminar about dreams,’ he paused as her eyes widened. ‘Was it my fault, giving you that idea?’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seemed so simple really. If I could have him taken away, out of my life somehow. Then you said, why not have him killed?’
‘Please explain the background to this fo
r the record,’ Solly heard Lorimer say, his voice stiff with disapproval.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Marianne said, turning to look at the recording machine.
‘I had these terrible dreams,’ she began.
Lorimer closed the door to his office with a sigh. It had been too
easy, really. Once Solly’s question had prompted her, the flood
-
gates had opened and Marianne had told them everything. How
Scott had followed her everywhere, making her change her address in a series of bedsits, until she was almost at screaming point; how the chance to earn some serious money had come her way when Billy had suggested that she help out this wealthy man from Lahore. Then she had enough money to pay for that matter. She hadn’t referred to it by any other term, Lorimer had noticed, never even calling Stevens a hit man, always referring to him as Billy’s friend. When he had at last charged her with conspiracy to murder, Lorimer had noticed no change in the woman at all, only a vague nod as though this was something she had expected to happen, part of a process she was willing to undergo. There was still so much to be done, he thought, suddenly longing for home with Maggie there, waiting as she always did. He still had to speak with Amit Shafiq and arrange for Brogan to be brought up to Glasgow once his plane touched down in Heathrow Airport. There were hours before he could see her, touch her hair, bury himself in her caresses. And all this while Maggie was worried sick about that operation, miserable because she thought it might make her somehow less than the beautiful woman he knew her to be.
Standing there in the room that had become almost a second home to him, Lorimer suddenly came to a decision. Sometimes changes were inevitable, like Maggie’s operation, but he knew right now that it was time for him to change his career, put all of today’s tragic events behind him. He would accept Joyce Rogers’ proposal, take the job in the Serious Crime Squad. There would be some conditions attached, though. First he would take the leave that he was owed, making sure that it coincided with Maggie’s time at home after her surgery. Then, he thought, with a sigh, he could make a fresh start again, seek out new challenges.
M
r and Mrs Fathy were sitting side by side in the family room when Lorimer walked in. The first thing he noticed about the mother was her resemblance to Omar. Mrs Fathy had that same angular face, smooth dark skin and natural grace that he remembered so well. He swallowed hard. This was not going to be easy. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he said, moving forward. Mr Fathy stood up and accepted the outstretched hand but his wife remained seated, tense fists clutching a large handbag on her lap. ‘Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,’ Mr Fathy said, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘It means a lot to us.’ ‘Omar was a fine officer,’ Lorimer began, then, giving a sigh, he passed a hand over his own eyes. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am …’ Mr Fathy touched his sleeve. ‘I can see that,’ he murmured. ‘It is good that you show this.’
‘He was tipped to go far in his police career,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Even those at the highest level recognised that.’ ‘That is some comfort,’ Mr Fathy replied, though it was hard for Lorimer to tell whether Omar’s father was uttering mere platitudes or whether he really meant it.
‘He should never have joined up in the first place!’ Mrs Fathy cried, looking at Lorimer, her face twisting in pain. tried to stop him. I really tried!’ Lorimer nodded, his blue eyes meeting her own dark gaze. There was something in that look, some unspoken, guilty secret. Then, as though she had said too much, she dropped her gaze and opened her bag, rustling around for a handkerchief. And at that moment it came to him, the answer to Omar’s persecution.
It was you, his own mother, Lorimer thought to himself, but he did not say the words. How she had managed it, was anyone’s guess. Bribing officers within Grampian and Strathclyde to put notes in her son’s locker, perhaps? Sending messages to his home address? Anything to try to stop him in the career that she hated.
Thank God he hadn’t had time to put anything officially into motion.
Whatever had been going on, it simply didn’t matter any more. They’d got off with it, but Lorimer hoped that somewhere in Aberdeen and Glasgow there would be officers whose consciences would weigh heavily upon them for the rest of their careers. Perhaps, though, Omar’s mother would always feel a sense of vindication. The danger she had feared for her beloved son had come to pass in the most tragic way, despite what she had seen as her best intentions.
Lorimer cleared his throat. ‘Omar is to be given the police medal for bravery,’ he said. It’s something that is often awarded posthumously,’ he added gently. ‘And, with your permission, we would like his funeral to be conducted with full police honours.’ Mr Fathy nodded. ‘He would have liked that, wouldn’t he, Mother?’ he said, turning to his wife.
But Mrs Fathy simply bent her head and wept, her racking sobs reaching into Lorimer’s heart like a knife.
Billy Brogan twisted uncomfortably against the handcuffs that were pinioning him to the metal walls of the prison transporter. The journey from North Africa hadn’t been so bad. He’d managed to chat to the stiff-looking English officer who had met him from the consulate and taken him back by plane. Being cuffed to the man had been okay, except when he’d had to go to the tiny onboard toilet. How did couples manage to join the Mile High club? he’d joked, but that had cut no ice with his poker-faced com panion.
Now he was almost back in dear old Glesca Toon, but whether Billy Brogan would see much of the city was doubtful. Barlinnie prison was his destination and, as far as Brogan knew, that high walled institution gave no views of the surrounding landscape. The transporter rumbled along, giving Brogan no clue as to whereabouts they were and he suddenly realised that this was how it was going to be. No matter what sentence was handed down to him for conspiracy to murder, he’d lost control of his own destiny for a long time to come. And Marianne? What of her? Nobody had let him know a thing about his sister. Perhaps once he was incarcerated and part of the system he could find out what was going on from his brief. Brogan shrugged. Stupid thing to do, really, hiring Stevens to get rid of Ken Scott. Seemed to make sense at the time. Surely helping his only sister get rid of a filthy stalker would cut some ice with a jury? he told himself, trying to justify his actions.
The vehicle slowed down and Brogan felt his body sway as it turned a corner. Instinctively he knew they had arrived. He took
a deep breath. ‘Right, Billy boy,’ Brogan murmured to himself. ‘Time to turn on the charm.’
Amit was walking beside the Hundi. It was autumn now and the
city had wrapped itself in a mistiness that chilled him to the bone. ‘We have to be careful, my friend,’ the Hundi told Amit. ‘There are many who would wish us to perish like our friend, Jaffrey.’ Amit nodded sagely. This Hundi had been good to him, hadn’t he? Introducing him to Brogan and Marianne so that he could stay in this country, ensuring that his financial needs were taken care of and now, giving him the sort of fatherly advice that the younger man respected. Instinct had warned him to say nothing about the Hundi to that tall policeman, only mentioning Brogan’s part in the transaction. And that was good, wasn’t it? Amit felt the big man’s hand rest upon his shoulder as they strolled through Kelvingrove Park, past the pond where a heron stood motionless, waiting to strike.
‘Everything is fine with Dhesi?’ the Hundi asked and Amit nodded.
‘He is a good friend to me,’ he said simply. ‘And an honest business partner.’ The Hundi smiled to himself. Just so long as Amit Shafiq thought along these lines then all was well. It was unlikely that Brogan or his sister would mention him to the police. After all, what could they say? That a nameless Pakistani gentleman had fixed things for them? Where was this man? the police would want to know. And that was a question that they would be unable to answer. No. Their community had closed ranks against the likes of Brogan and even young Jaffrey would be too afraid to talk. `Dhesi is a good man,’ the Hundi continued. ‘And he is concerned f
or your welfare.’
Amit nodded again, his eyes fixed upon the path. ‘Once your … matYiage . is terminated perhaps you might think of taking another wife?’ Amit swallowed hard as a sudden vision of the laughing red haired woman came into his mind.
‘You’ve met his niece, the lovely Nalini?’ he said, patting Amit’s shoulder once more. ‘She would make a man like you very happy, don’t you think?’ Amit looked up at the man. What did he see? A large Asian dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat, cut to hide his immense girth; a man whose very presence dominated this narrow path.
No, that was not all that Amit Shafiq could see. He had learned to look past those outward trappings. Now he could see those little piggy eyes sunk in layers of flesh glittering with a hint of malice. And, as he saw the Hundi looking back at him, Amit felt an overwhelming sense of despair. Had he come so far only to meet a different kind of evil? Was it the same everywhere, after all? And was there never going to be any escape for someone like him? ‘Perhaps,’ Amit said at last with a sigh of resignation. ‘Perhaps.’
S’
oily, wake up!’ Rosie nudged her husband. ‘Things have started to happen!’
Professor Solomon Brightman sat up in bed, hearing the note of excitement in his wife’s voice. It was dark still. But what was it his mother had told him? Babies have a way of beginning in the night ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. ‘The baby isn’t due for another two weeks,’ he protested. Rosie chuckled. ‘Tell that to this little critter,’ she said. ‘Oh! That was a big one!’ she exclaimed as a painful contraction seized her. ‘Come on, Solly,’ she urged, sweeping the bedclothes aside. ‘Time to get me over to the hospital.’ ‘Maybe you’ll meet Maggie Lorimer there,’ Solly mumbled. ‘What? Why will she be there?’ Rosie frowned.
‘Oh, dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell you in your delicate state, was I?’ Solly bit his lip. ‘Maggie’s had a hysterectomy,’ he replied. ‘Lorimer told me.’