Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (11 page)

Omar scrolled down until he came to the page he wanted. He read the information then sat back, frowning. Had he read that correctly? Leaning closer to the computer screen once more, he read the lines that told him of certain familial relationships. A few minutes passed while he typed in other names and dates, then his mouth fell open as he realised just what he had uncovered. He wanted to call her, say ‘Hey, Irvine, see what I’ve just found’ but something stopped him. It was vital that this went straight to Lorimer and to no other officer first. Omar Adel Fathy was not going to be upstaged if he could help it. He recalled several times in his last post when other officers had claimed the glory for work that he had done. Well it wasn’t going to happen here. He printed off the necessary sheets and slipped out of his seat, heading along the corridor to the DCI’s room.

‘Come in,’ Lorimer called out, his eyes not on the door but on the document in his hands. This ballistics report was making interesting reading.

‘Sir.’

Lorimer looked up. It was the handsome Egyptian who was making such a stir in the department. The DCI had eventually started to notice that all the single women (and several of the married ones) were paying the young man a lot of attention.

list like thae Arabian nights,’ wee Sadie from the canteen had snorted, her gravelly voice testament to a lifelong nicotine habit. ‘This place is becoming a right har-eem,’ she had added for Lorimer’s benefit. Nivver seen sae mony o’ your plain clothes lot in skirts! Mind you he’s a nice looking laddie and his manners wid pit maist o’ this lot taste shame,’ she’d growled, head nodding towards a group of male officers gathered at a nearby table. Lorimer had chuckled at Sadie’s words. The canteen lady could always be depended upon to tell things just as they were, neither glossing over nor embellishing the facts.

He gave the young officer a curious look. There was something he recognised in the man’s expression; an eagerness that reminded him of his younger self.

‘Okay, what have you found?’ he asked, swinging his chair back, one hand indicating the chair at the other side of his desk.

‘It’s about William Brogan, sir,’ Fathy told him. ‘I think you ought to see this,’ he continued, handing the sheets of printed paper across to the SIO.

They were all assembled once more in the incident room but this time there was a definite sense of anticipation.

Irvine looked across quizzically at Fathy. He was deliberately avoiding her eye and there was an air of suppressed

excitement about him. Oho, what have you been up to, pal, she thought.

‘Right,’ Lorimer began. ‘We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to Detective Constable Fathy,’ he nodded in the young man’s direction, causing a stir of murmuring from the others. Omar felt prickles of sweat on his forehead from the warmth of the room. He was the new boy being singled out for praise; whoever had put that notice in his locker wouldn’t like that one little bit. Was someone watching him at this very moment, hostile eyes boring into the back of his head? Omar itched to turn around but forced himself to concentrate on the SIO at the front of the room.

‘Is this about Brogan?’ DS Wilson wanted to know

‘Funny you should ask that. I was just going to tell you all a little story about Mr William Brogan,’ Lorimer smiled. ‘DC Fathy has discovered that our Billy’s sister is a lady we already want to question in connection with an ongoing case.’ He paused to make the moment a little more dramatic, sweeping his gaze over the assembled officers.

‘Marianne Brogan was Kenneth Scott’s ex-wife,’ he told them, nodding at the exclamations from all corners of the room. ‘And I now have some rather interesting stuff here from forensics,’ he said, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

‘Ballistics reports confirm that the weapon used to kill Kenneth Scott was the same one that shot Galbraith and Sandiman.’ He let both pieces of news sink in, then raised a hand to quieten everyone down.

‘The bullet that Doctor Fergusson retrieved from Scott’s head showed a wipe mark at its nose cone, so we can be pretty sure that means a silencer was used. Same bullet type but no wipe marks on the ones that killed Sandiman and Galbraith.’ Lorimer watched their faces. ‘I’ll distribute copies of the ballistics report

for you all,’ he continued. ‘Just want to draw your attention to the part that refers to marks caused by the extractor claw and ejector post. Seems to indicate a good match.’ He nodded at the papers. ‘I want each officer to spend what time they can afford catching up with the finer details. But not right now.’ He fixed his blue gaze on the men and women assembled around him. ‘Now more than ever it is imperative that we locate Brogan and his sister,’ he said. ‘I want every one of Brogan’s known haunts investigated.’

Omar opened the locker carefully, feeling the hinges grind against the metal hasps. But when he looked inside there was nothing to see, just his kit and a plastic lunch box. No racist notes, no reminders of his ethnic origin or anything that might make him reconsider his decision to become a police officer. ‘Okay, Fathy?’ The tall, lanky figure of DS Cameron loomed behind him and Omar felt a friendly touch on his shoulder. ‘Good work that, finding out the sister was Scott’s ex. We could’ve been running round in circles for ages without that particular snippet of information,’ he smiled. Omar Fathy ducked his head as if in embarrassment. The detective sergeant’s lilting voice sounded so genuine, so why was every sinew in his body stiffening in suspicion? The man from Lewis was a nice guy. They had Asians up there who spoke the Gaelic like natives. So why would Cameron target the young Egyptian?

‘You all right?’ Omar looked round to see an expression of real concern in the man’s eyes. ‘Yes, thanks. Just worried someone might think I’m overstepping the mark, you know?’

Cameron gave him another tap on his shoulder. ‘Nobody will. Lorimer takes notice of everyone’s contribution. There’s no pecking order with him,’ he grinned. ‘He might be a DCI but he’s not forgotten what it’s like for the foot soldiers. Besides,’ his grin widened, ‘he’s not averse to getting his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.’

Omar frowned.

`Och, I often think he’d rather be out and about with us than stuck in his office with all that admin,’ he continued, shrugging. ‘But sometimes he just does that anyway. Drives the Super nuts of course.’ Cameron laughed. ‘You should see Lorimer questioning a suspect. There’s no one can hold a candle to him in the interview room, I promise you.’ And, winking at the detective constable, Cameron moved on towards the door.

Omar stood perfectly still. If what Cameron said was true, then more than ever he believed that Lorimer was the man who would listen to his story and take it seriously.

orimer listened to the liquid notes of the thrush. How any bird could sing its heart out like that in the middle of this

city, was something akin to a miracle. It was a sound he associated with the countryside, reminding him of deep, green swards of grass under shady stands of trees. But why this fellow had chosen to compete with the constant din of Glasgow’s traffic was anyone’s guess. He had heard the bird several times now, from its perch on top of a lamp post just outside his window. For a moment the detective forgot all about the bodies lying in Glasgow City mortuary and the ever-growing files upon his desk. It was the thrush’s total innocence that moved him, its unconcern for anything except filling the whole of its small body with that song.

The shrill, peremptory ring of the telephone broke the spell and Lorimer turned back to the world of crime and criminals.

‘Lorimer,’ he said, a slight frown upon his brow But as he heard the woman’s voice at the other end of the line, he straightened up as though she were with him in this very room.

‘Ma’am,’ Lorimer said, listening as the deputy chief constable, Joyce Rogers, took time to explain the meetings and discussions that had preceded the letter that had gone out to Doctor Solomon Brightman. Lorimer’s email to her might well have been a little on

the terse side, but now she was being fulsome in her praise of the psychologist, assuring Lorimer that it was nothing personal, simply a slight shift in policy. ‘A temporary shift, perhaps, ma’am?’ he enquired.

‘We’ll see about that, Lorimer,’ Rogers replied. ‘And, talking about shifts, have you had any thought about my proposal?’

‘Not yet, ma’am. Still thinking it over,’ Lorimer replied. He bit his lip. Being asked to head up the Serious Crimes Squad with promotion to detective superintendent ought to be a no-brainer, but he had put it to the back of his mind, not even mentioning the matter to Maggie.

`Hm, well, don’t take too long about it, will you? There are always plenty of other officers hungry for a chance like that. Meantime,’ she continued briskly, ‘any joy with those two men who were shot?’

Lorimer spent the next five minutes filling the deputy chief constable in on the recent progress, even going so far as to mention DC Fathy’s part in the investigation.

‘Good man, that. Lots of potential. See that we keep him in Strathclyde, won’t you, Lorimer. Don’t want his feet to become itchy again. Besides,’ she continued in a tone that made Lorimer imagine her eyes twinkling, ‘We need all the diversity we can muster within the force in these modern times.’

Lorimer put down the phone, grinning. For two pins he would bet that even Joyce Rogers would apply her lipstick if she anticipated a visit from DC Fathy. He had them all around his little finger, he chuckled, storing up this little nugget to share with Maggie when he got home.

But it did not alter the situation with Solly. Not that this case required the psychologist’s input. There was nothing remotely resembling a serial killer on the loose. No, it was a case of drug

dealers falling out, if he was not mistaken. Yet there was something odd about it, too. Scott had seemed a decent citizen to all intents and purposes. Yet he had been married to the sister of a known dealer. Had been, a voice reminded Lorimer. Perhaps Scott had wanted to sever links with the Brogans. But the man’s divorce had been effective for over two years now So why had he been targeted by that marksman? Had there been bad blood between Billy Brogan and Kenneth Scott?

Lorimer chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. Scott had no family to talk to and they had already spoken to his workmates. But surely there were others in his life who had known the man more intimately? If only he could speak to Marianne Brogan, or whatever she was calling herself these days. But the woman seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, suggesting that she had in fact relocated to somewhere overseas. They would have to continue their inquiries to see if that was indeed the case. Or did her disappearance give a hint that she had something to hide? Lorimer asked himself, his suspicions shifting his thoughts down a different route entirely. One way or the other he was going to be working flat out, he realised with a grimace. The prospect of a holiday during Maggie’s summer break was becoming more and more unlikely as the days went by. It wouldn’t be the first time they had had to cancel something due to the pressure of his work, Lorimer thought. Perhaps they could have a last-minute break during the school October week, he told himself, ruefully.

The detective leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the Van Gogh print that he had placed across on the far wall. There was something alive about the painting: the art dealer seated on that rush-covered chair, bright splashes of colour behind him, depicting some of the paintings in his shop. And that timeless quality in

the man’s wizened face appealed to him too; he could have been a Tibetan monk about to deliver some piece of ancient wisdom. It was as if the subject might turn his head and speak from the frame at any moment. He could do with some words of wisdom right now, that was for sure, he thought, standing up suddenly and pacing the room.

It was something he simply could not help; an anxiety to be up and about, searching for the next clue in a puzzle about human life. A restless spirit, Maggie had called him once, a tinge of regret in her voice. But it was how he was made, he reflected now, his mind roaming into dark avenues where other people might fear to venture. Being a policeman was not just a job, it was a way of life. And hadn’t he just recently told that to some new recruits in his lecture at the police training college in Tulliallan? And Maggie knew that. Had he opted for a life of academia, like Solly, would life be very different now? Would he be traipsing across the globe lecturing on fine art, as he had once imagined?

The telephone ringing once again took Lorimer’s thoughts back to the present and the portrait of Pere Tanguy seemed to diminish as he let his eyes slide away, focussing on the papers on his desk instead.

Several minutes later, Lorimer was tapping words into his BlackBerry, fixing a date to speak at a course in the University of Glasgow. Rosie had wheedled in such a convincing way that he had found himself agreeing almost immediately to her request. It might take a bit of time to prepare, though, he frowned, wondering if he could wing it in front of an audience of medics, legal folk and fellow police officers. No, he thought, glancing up at the painting once again and noting Pere Tanguy’s calm gaze. This was something that would demand a proper amount of thought and effort.

He stood up once more and strode to the open window but the thrush had flown away and all that he could hear was the noise of traffic rumbling around this great city’s beating heart.

‘We’ve already tried Martha Street and The Department for Work and Pensions,’ DC Irvine moaned. ‘What more can we do?’

‘She went to Anniesland College to take the necessary qualifications for entrance to university. What name did she use when she registered there?’ Fathy asked. ‘Scott. But that doesn’t get us anywhere. We’ve eliminated all the Scotts as well. The registry office at the uni confirmed there are no Marianne Scotts or Marianne Brogans currently attending any courses.’

‘And she would have needed to register under the name that was on her SEE certificates, wouldn’t she?’ ‘Of course.’ Irvine narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you getting at? You’ve got that look again,’ she said. ‘What look?’