by Alex Gray
‘Will she get bail?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘Who’s to say?’ The kernel of an idea had occurred to him, a risky idea to be sure, but then he had never been one to shy away from situations that might cause him some difficulties.
Shirley Finnegan shrugged her shoulders. ‘Can’t see why not,’ she said, feigning an indifference that was at odds with her body language. Her head was held a little higher and there was a new gleam in her eyes that Lorimer recognised. Hope. The mere chance that she might escape the law had evidently occurred to the woman. She had been given the chance to cooperate with them, help them to identify one of the traffickers; the chap that collected the laundry from her house. Would she stumble into their trap and unwittingly give away the whereabouts of her renegade son? She had intimated that they would never find him. Did that mean he was already far away? Or had Max merely put that thought into her gullible head?
Lorimer sat next to her as they drove along the short distance from Helen Street to the dingy flat that Shirley Finnegan had transformed into a laundry for the various brothels hidden in the city. The smell of body odour was strong and he felt a sudden sympathy for this enormously obese woman who had spent so many hours stuck inside a police interview room. He glanced down at her hands, fat fleshy fingers that were stained with nicotine.
‘Do you need to stop for anything, Shirley? Cigarettes?’
She shot him a venomous look but then her mouth opened a fraction as she realised he was serious and not mocking her.
‘Don’t have any money on me,’ she muttered, looking away.
‘That’s all right. I’m sure I can afford a packet of . . . what is it you smoke?’
He made a show of searching in his pockets as though to be sure that he had some change to hand.
‘Silk Cut,’ she said, turning to look him up and down.
‘Anything else? Some chocolate biscuits to go with that cup of tea you promised to make me?’
Shirley opened her mouth to protest. ‘I . . . ’ then her expression softened as she realised that Lorimer was gently teasing her while actually inviting himself into her home.
‘S’pose so.’ She nodded. ‘Aye, and while you’re at it a loaf wouldn’t go wrong. White, plain. None of your healthy stuff,’ she added.
Lorimer looked away. Did she really imagine that after today she would be free to go about her business? That was not what the Fiscal would have wanted. Twenty-four hours, that was all he had until Shirley Finnegan was back in custody; a day’s grace to identify the people behind this trafficking scheme and to land the biggest fish of them all in his net.
They were travelling in a white van, unmarked but with enough horsepower under its bonnet to outrun even the latest top of the range sports car. Lorimer had given the driver a note of what to buy then settled back beside Shirley Finnegan. Now they were almost back at her house.
‘It will be worth your while sticking to what we agreed,’ he murmured, trying to catch the woman’s eye.
‘Less time inside, you mean,’ she sniffed.
‘You don’t want a murder rap added to whatever else we can throw at you, do you?’
‘It wasn’t my idea to kill Peter,’ she muttered.
‘But you were happy enough to think you could inherit everything once he and Dorothy were dead,’ Lorimer insisted. ‘And a jury will see it that way, I can assure you.’ He turned to the woman as they rounded the corner of her street and slowed down.
‘If you help us to track down the traffickers, find the women who are being kept like slaves, then any judge is going to go easy on you,’ he insisted.
There was no mention of Max, though he was certain that Shirley Finnegan’s son was at the forefront of both their minds. Would she go through with their plan? He hoped so, otherwise what direction would they take next? Officers were scouring the city for the invisible folk who had melted away after that nail bar had closed. Areas where the immigrant population was high were being searched meticulously: Govanhill in particular since the BMW that had taken Juliana Ferenc had been caught over there on CCTV.
The van parked a few yards further along the street and Lorimer stepped out, taking the woman’s arm as though he were helping her along the street; by anyone watching them it might be construed as a random act of kindness to a big woman who found walking a little difficult.
Once inside, Shirley Finnegan made for the bathroom and Lorimer could hear the sound of water running. She was bound to be desperate to freshen up, he thought. But that was all right. Her mobile phone was in his own pocket; there was nothing she could do to contact Max without Lorimer knowing.
‘All right?’ he asked as Shirley emerged, her face looking a little pink from being rubbed with a flannel, hair combed back and tucked behind her ears.
‘Tea first,’ she grunted and waddled off in the direction of the kitchen.
Ten minutes later Shirley Finnegan sat back, fag in hand, regarding Lorimer with a baleful expression in her eyes.
‘It’s time, Shirley. Just do it, okay?’
She put out her hand as he offered her the mobile.
‘The speaker’s turned on so we can both hear him,’ Lorimer reminded her.
Heaving a sigh, she flicked the ash onto a saucer and laid down her cigarette, Lorimer watching her every move.
‘Danny? It’s me, Shirley. You need to send someone round to get the laundry. It’s bloody piling up here. Cannae move for the stuff. Need to be right now, d’you hear me?’
There was a pause as they both listened to the voice on the other end.
‘What d’you mean right now? There’s nobody here to take care of the girls except me. Raynor and Gid haven’t appeared and there’s been no sign of Max. What’s going on?’
‘Just do as I’m telling you, Danny,’ Shirley sighed. ‘Just turn the key in the door and come over in the van, okay?’ She looked at Lorimer as though for reassurance that she was acting well and he gave her a nod.
‘That’s an order,’ she added sternly.
‘Okay, okay, I hear you. I’ll come over as fast as I can. Twenty minutes tops,’ he replied, then the line went dead.
‘Wee scruff,’ Shirley muttered, looking at her mobile as though it were enabling her to see the man called Danny.
Lorimer stretched out a hand as Shirley made to put the phone into her cardigan pocket.
‘I’ll take that, thanks,’ he said and, with a sigh, she handed it over.
It was less than twenty minutes when the officer across the road alerted Lorimer that a van with Guilford Vehicle Hire emblazoned across its side was drawing in to the kerb.
‘That’s him, Shirley. Right. You know what to do,’ Lorimer told her, slipping into the kitchen. ‘I’ll be listening to every word you say, mind.’
Shirley Finnegan nodded, her mouth a small hard line. The wire she’d been fitted with back at HQ allowed them to hear her at all times and record the conversation she was to have with the delivery man.
The door was knocked a rat-a-tat then she walked as fast has her heavy legs would carry her along the corridor.
‘You took your time,’ she huffed at the driver.
‘Gie’s a break, missus,’ the man retorted. ‘Came as fast as I could. Right, gimme they boxes and I’ll be oot o’ here in double quick time, so ah will.’
There was much heaving and shoving as Danny lifted the boxes full of linen and transported them from the house to the open doors of his van outside.
Back and forward he went, lifting and shoving them into the van, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched by a police officer from across the road, listened to by Lorimer and other members of the MIT.
At last he had carried every black plastic bag and cardboard carton and with a slam the van doors were shut.
Lorimer heard the front door close and emerged from the kitchen where he had been viewing the business from a crack in the door.
‘Well done, Shirley,’ he told her, putting a hand on her shoulder that sh
e immediately brushed off with a glare.
‘What now?’ she muttered, preparing to pick up her handbag.
‘Tea and toast and a smoke before we head back to Helen Street?’ he suggested.
Shirley raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Okay, fine with me,’ she agreed.
Lorimer watched as she entered her kitchen for what was probably the last in a long time. Shirley Finnegan wasn’t to know that the white van they’d arrived in was at this moment tailing Guilford’s vehicle back to wherever the captive women and girls were hidden, nor that a different form of transport would be arriving to take her back to Helen Street police office.
CHAPTER FIFTY
It was all over by the time he arrived in Govanhill, reinforcements lining the street, scores of women and girls being ushered into the waiting vans. The Guilford vehicle was parked there as well as the white van that had tailed Danny from the Finnegan home. But his eye was caught by another car; a BMW. Surely this was the one that Juliana had told them about? And did this mean that Max Warnock was somewhere close by?
Lorimer looked up at the tenement building, the clear blue sky above a contrast with the dark red sandstone and the grey pavement where he stood. It was a rerun of the raid in Aberdeen, he thought, without the seagulls screeching and the bitter wind racing along from the sea. He gave a brief nod to the DC from the MIT who was standing guard at the close mouth and left the brightness of the day as he entered the building.
The old stone stairs were worn, some cracked in places, the handrail at the top of the second flight of stairs held together with binder twine. As he climbed higher the smell of curry wafted upwards, reminding Lorimer of the melting pot that was Glasgow; its ethnic diversity something he had grown up with and taken for granted. Nowadays the Asian community was well established, the more recent newcomers Eastern Europeans. The women he had glimpsed down at street level, many looking hardly older than teenage girls, could well be Slovakian, though that was still to be confirmed.
He passed a female officer escorting a youngster who was weeping and holding a bundle of clothes close to her chest; one more story to be told, one more child to be cared for by the Scottish services. At last he was at the topmost landing where yet another of his DCs stood at the open door.
‘All done here?’ he asked.
‘Not quite, sir,’ the man replied. ‘One more to come. She’s gathering things up in the kitchen. DCI Cameron’s with her.’
Lorimer walked down the dingy hallway. His feet felt sticky against the faded linoleum and the bare walls on either side were grubby with countless fingermarks. It smelled bad, as if too many unwashed bodies had congregated in this flat. A breeding ground for germs, he thought grimly, putting a hand up to his nose.
The kitchen was barely more than a scullery with a walk-in larder, an ancient stone sink, some dark wood cabinets and one four ring electric stove, blackened with grease and grime. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling but most of the light came from a single window, barred like a prison cell.
A dark-haired woman turned with a start when she saw him.
‘It’s all right, this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ Niall Cameron assured her. ‘He’s here to help you all.’
The woman bobbed her head in a sort of bow, large dark eyes looking at him solemnly.
‘This is Elena,’ Cameron said, by way of introduction.
‘You’ll be safe now,’ Lorimer told her. Then, as she made to move away, he caught her eye.
‘Elena,’ he began, ‘can you help me? I want to find Max. Do you know where he is?’
The woman froze at the sound of the name. Then, without a word, her eyes drifted upwards to the ceiling and she nodded.
Lorimer pointed and she nodded again then scuttled out of the room like a frightened rabbit, Cameron following.
Lorimer stared at the square shape above his head. It was the top flat, of course, and so any attic space would be accessed from here. Was this woman, Elena, actually telling him that Max Warnock was holed up there?
Lorimer saw the metal ring and the fresh scratch marks against the faded paintwork of the trapdoor, signs of recent use. He looked around for a pole of some sort to open it up but at first could see nothing. It was an instinct to open the larder and find the hooked pole placed firmly between two metal clips fixed to the back of the door.
In moments he had inserted the hook into the metal ring and was pulling hard against the trapdoor. With a sudden heave, the wooden square opened and a set of metal steps was revealed above his head. Lorimer stepped to one side, looking up and listening but there was no sound at all.
Taking the pole once more, he fixed it into a hole on the metal stair and pulled hard. The staircase came down with a metallic screech, and stopped in mid-air, its steps doubled up for storage. One more pull brought the entire thing down to the floor with a thump.
Lorimer looked up at the dust motes swirling in the fetid air. If Warnock was up there then the detective superintendent had announced his arrival, all right. He began to climb, aware of the darkness above him, wondering already what sort of space he would find in this tenement attic.
Each step took him further into the gloom and he blinked as the gritty air smote his eyelids.
It was impossible to see much except the beams above his head, the dim light from the kitchen giving a little indication of head height. He would be on his hands and knees, crawling, that much was evident.
Taking a deep breath, Lorimer plunged into the shadows like a swimmer launching himself forward. His hands felt wooden boards and he knew a moment’s relief that the roof space was floored at least. There would be no danger of falling through a ceiling.
He began to crawl away from the trapdoorway, inching forward, listening for any sounds that might indicate that there was another person up here. But so far there was nothing, just the sound of his own breathing and a dull ringing in his ears as the old sense of claustrophobia began to grip him.
The feel of warm metal told Lorimer that he was passing the water tank then, still on hands and knees, he moved into the inky blackness. For a few moments all he could sense was the hard flooring against his fingers then he felt something soft, the edge of a blanket, perhaps?
He sensed the presence of the other man without actually seeing him. Was it the exhalation of a breath? Or an impression of something defiant ahead, a belligerent force that was waiting in the darkness? Lorimer put one hand into his pocket, drawing out his mobile phone.
He crouched beneath the oppressive beams and then clicked it open.
The light showed him a face, just feet from his own. But it was the face from a nightmare. Smooth, without texture, its eyes blinking in the sudden glare from the tiny screen, it was a hairless creature staring at him, one hand raised to ward off the light.
‘Max?’
The word was scarcely out of his mouth when the creature lunged at him, hands scrabbling at Lorimer’s throat.
He felt fingers pressing hard and struggled in the confined space to get a grip of his own.
Then, with a mighty effort, he shook his assailant free and made a grab for his leg as it kicked out.
Suddenly Lorimer had the advantage, his greater weight pulling Warnock along the floor and backwards towards the open space.
It was only as his back met the edge of the opening that Lorimer realised his danger.
With one great effort, the man pulled back then heaved at the policeman with all of his strength. One push would see Lorimer tumble down the ladder.
In the attic space there was no room to duck but here, by the door, he moved sideways, twisting his body away from the metal ridge.
It was the man’s own momentum that made him leap into the void, but Lorimer made a grab, clutching at Warnock’s clothes, feeling the weight pulling him down.
He heard the scream, a thin eerie sound as Warnock’s face hit the metal treads, then Lorimer was pulling him back up and shouting out for help.
But no
one seemed to hear.
Warnock was slipping from his grasp now as Lorimer tried to find a foothold on the lower steps. Then, with an unearthly cry, the man slithered to the floor with a thump.
Lorimer scrambled down the staircase just as Warnock got to his feet.
He saw the flash of the blade in Warnock’s hand, heard the snarl as he rushed forward.
It was a split second instinct to make a grab of his wrist but even so, Lorimer felt a sharp pain score against his forearm.
Then the sound of feet running. And the cry of a wounded man as Warnock was grappled to the floor and cuffed by two of Lorimer’s men.
‘You all right, sir?’ Niall Cameron asked, pointing to the blood trickling from Lorimer’s arm.
‘Aye, just a scratch. Get him up,’ he demanded, turning to the man struggling on the ground. ‘Max Warnock, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Peter Guilford—’ he began.
‘Attempted?’ The man’s first words came out as he stood there, mouth open in shock.
‘Aye, he’s not dead yet,’ Lorimer answered grimly. ‘And there will be several more things to add to this charge. Get him out of here,’ he said wearily, the desire to leave this stinking place and breathe fresh air suddenly paramount.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Maggie Lorimer smiled at the man sleeping by her side. Exhaustion had overtaken him at last as well as a desperate need to recover his strength. It had been months ago now that her beloved husband had succumbed to a depression that had threatened to take him away from the job that he loved. More and more was being written in the newspapers about the difficulties police officers faced in the line of duty and she, more than anyone, knew all about this. Living with a man who was driven to seek justice above all else had taken its toll on her, too. But that time had passed and she had found a certain solace in writing her little story.
When the time was right she would tell him her news.
Bill had talked all evening about the case, about Molly and the Slovakian girl turning up in some farmhouse out by Fintry. Forensics had been too late to do anything about the burned-out building but the fire service had recovered two charred corpses, burned beyond recognition. Maggie shuddered. Real life was pretty gruesome so perhaps it was no surprise that she had found refuge in writing tales about an imaginary ghost, a little fellow who was beyond any harm and who could look down on the world with compassion.