Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (16 page)

thing like that, doesn’t it? 1 mean, it doesn’t fit with what we know about him.’

‘And what’s that?’ Cameron asked, folding his arms and looking at the younger man with interest. ‘What sort of a person do you think he was?’

‘Frighteningly tidy, and I’m willing to bet he suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder. And he was a very private person,’ Fathy decided. ‘Doesn’t that make you wonder if there was something he wanted to hide from the outside world?’

Annie Irvine stood outside the high-rise flat, wondering how often she had been in this situation before. Send Irvine, she could hear the voice clearly. Any voice. It didn’t really matter who was in authority, they seemed to recognise that here was a woman who would be useful in keeping a veneer of calm whilst distraught relatives gave vent to their emotion. The front door that had once been some shade of red was scuffed from repeated kicks and knocks and there was a faint smell in the corridor that might have been cat pee. The whole place was redolent of despair and neglect, she thought. Lorimer had often ranted about the iniquity of the skyscraper flats, wondering why on earth these planners from the sixties had thought it a good idea to upend streets and leave them hanging in the air like this.

She looked up at DS Alistair Wilson, seeing more than the thinning dark hair and the worn leather jacket. He was a middle-aged cop, a family man whose years in the force had given him a hard bitten edge. But Annie had always known Wilson as a policeman whose humanity lay just under the surface of that outward gruffness. Too many cops became inured to the suffering of others, but, like Lorimer, Wilson wasn’t one of them.

`Whityewantini?’ A large woman had suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyeing them suspiciously. Her wild shock of grey hair looked as though several birds might have roosted in it overnight and her pink T-shirt hung loosely over a pair of unsupported breasts. Annie stared for a moment then realised that the woman had probably just got out of bed even though it was early in the afternoon.

‘Mrs Galbraith?’ Wilson was proffering his warrant card for her to examine and, as the woman peered at it short-sightedly, he took a step towards her. ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson, Detective Constable Irvine. We’re here to see you about your son.’

Three quarters of an hour and two pots of tea later Annie found herself out in the fresh air once more.

‘Christ!’ Wilson swore as they walked across to the car park. ‘How does she do it? One fag after another!’ he exclaimed. `Betty’ll create tonight when I walk in smelling like this,’ he added.

‘Never mind how she does it, how can she afford to smoke like that?’ Irvine retorted. ‘No husband around and existing on benefits,’ she exclaimed. ‘Still, maybe it’s what’s keeping her going. That and tannin.’ She grimaced. ‘How many teabags d’you reckon were in each pot?’

Wilson took a deep breath, face towards the sky. ‘Whew, that’s better. My poor lungs were fit to burst in there. Anyway, young lady, what do you think? Reckon we’re any further forward after speaking to Gubby’s old mum?’

Irvine shook her head as they approached the car. ‘No. She obviously didn’t see him much. Still hell of a shock to find your boy’s been blown away by some mad gunman, isn’t it?’

‘Aye,’ Wilson replied. ‘I know some who would say: she’ll get over it, her type always do, but here’s a thing. She’s a mother and

mothers never get over losing their kids, no matter how estranged they might have been.’

The Detective Sergeant’s words stayed with Annie on the journey to Langside where Fraser Sandiman’s father lived. In contrast to the Galbraith home, his was positively middle class. The short terrace of town houses ended in a narrow cul-de-sac, forcing Wilson to manoeuvre the car with some difficulty so that it was facing back out towards Langside Avenue. The appearance of the houses was deceptive, however, and as they drew closer to the Sandiman house, they could see that many of the properties had been split into flats. Some had annual plants brightening up the patches on either side of the steep front steps but at number eleven it looked as though its residents had lost heart long ago. Here the tiny front gardens were choked with long grass and summer weeds, rose bay willow herb blowing its feathery seeds skywards. ‘Wonder what else they’re growing down there,’ Wilson joked, motioning towards the overgrown plots. ‘If it was cannabis they’d be taking a lot more care of it,’ Irvine muttered.

There were five names on a list by the security buzzers, Sandiman being the only one properly typed and slotted into its metal plate. The rest were scribbled but legible, possibly evidence that the residents were mostly students who would have shorter tenancies.

In answer to Wilson pressing the buzzer Irvine heard a crackle then a man’s voice asking, ‘Who is it now?’ There was no mistaking the irritation in that tone and the two officers exchanged a glance before Wilson answered, ‘Strathclyde Police.’

“Fop floor,’ the voice said and they stepped into a darkened hallway as the door clicked open.

Charles Sandiman was waiting for them at his door. Irvine saw a tall man with a military bearing and a small, grizzled moustache. He looked at them fiercely, eyeing them as though they were officers on parade to be inspected, then stood aside. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

‘It’s about Fraser,’ Irvine told him as they entered a large lounge that overlooked the street. She resisted the impulse to touch the man’s arm. Talking about the death of his son was surely going to be as painful for this man as it was for any mother?

It was Annie who made the tea in this home, allowing DS Wilson to fill the father in on how his son had been killed. She left the two of them sitting side by side, the father gazing unseeing out of the window as Wilson tried to engage him in some form of conversation. From the adjacent kitchen she could then hear the detective sergeant’s voice explaining why they had to come, why questions about Fraser’s background had to be asked. But until she re-entered the room, bringing a tray with mugs and a plate of digestive biscuits, the man did not say a word. As she approached, Sandiman stood up, a mark of courtesy that she recognised as belonging to gentlemen of a different generation. Or class, Annie reminded herself, thinking of Omar. But his stiff-backed stance was probably from years of that military background.

‘We’re looking for William Brogan, sir,’ Wilson said. ‘To help us with our enquiries,’ he added.

‘Never met the man. Knew he was one of ours, though,’ Sandiman said gruffly.

‘You were an army officer, sir?’ Irvine asked.

‘Black Watch,’ Sandi tnan replied, adding, ‘before they rearranged us into a battalion!’ He spat the word out as though it had a bad taste. ‘Best regiment there was. Top Brass never get it right, though,’ he added bitterly. ‘Didn’t then and aren’t doing so now,’ he shook his head angrily. ‘Brogan was a Black Watch officer?’ Irvine asked in surprise. ‘Not an officer. Private,’ Sandiman corrected her.

‘Did Fraser ever speak of Brogan to you, sir?’ Wilson wanted to know.

The man turned to face the two police officers and Irvine could detect a trace of tears in his eyes. His mouth trembled and she felt a sudden sympathy but as he began to speak she realised that he was shaking with suppressed fury. ‘My son! My son!’ His voice cracked as emotion swamped his self-control. ‘To consort with low-life like Galbraith and Brogan! What was he thinking about?’ Irvine watched, fascinated, as he clutched the mug of hot tea, his fists gripping it with such intensity that she feared he would break off the handle.

‘Fraser was educated, Sergeant,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘Brought up to respect people. To respect his country. Not to make his living from other men’s misery!’ As he bowed his head Irvine stepped forwards and took the mug from his grasp, letting her fellow officer be the one to console the man in the torrent of grief that followed. Annie stood behind them, wondering. It was bad enough to have a son who was found dead, but the shame of being found in the home of a known drug dealer was something this proud man would find hard to forgive. Fraser Sandiman had been given a decent upbringing, by all accounts; Galbraith’s background on the other hand was rooted in poverty and deprivation. But from her

limited experience Irvine knew that it was wrong to make a judgement about people based on that. She thought about the blowsy woman they had left over in Glasgow’s East End and then looked at the man weeping into his hands, Wilson’s arm around his shoulders. They were also victims of whoever had pulled that trigger. And their suffering would likely follow each of them to their graves.

DCI Lorimer looked at the report from Irvine and Fathy. He’d read it and reread it but there was still something that didn’t add up. Marianne Scott seemed to have vanished. There was no trace of her after her course at Anniesland College though they now had her list of SEE Higher passes. She had certainly gained enough for entry to the University of Glasgow. But had she gone elsewhere? Abroad, perhaps? Frances Donnelly’s statement contained the idea that Scott had still been seeing his ex-wife, though there was no concrete evidence for this. It was only the girlfriend’s impression. But what if the Donnelly woman had been wrong? What if Scott hadn’t seen his ex-wife for one very good reason? And for the first time the DCI had the chilling thought that perhaps there was another body still to be found.

he August sun beat down on his back as Billy Brogan strode along the path towards Gala Bona. The Catalan name meant the good bay, one of the hotel waiters had told him. And Gala Millor meant the better bay, the man had added, smirking as well he might. The hotel was possibly the most expensive in the area and its guests would be pleased to know how well they had chosen their holiday destination, his expression had seemed to suggest. That wasn’t an issue with Brogan right now as he headed towards the small fishing port that lay a few miles along the curving coastline. The morning was already stifling hot and he had nearly finished the bottle of mineral water that he’d taken from the refrigerator in his room. Brogan winced as he walked along, feeling a blister begin where his toes were being rubbed by these cheap flip-flops he’d bought at the market. He glanced at a couple of older men who passed him by, bare chests showing enviable suntans; both sported sensible panama hats and each carried a large bottle of chilled water as they headed towards the miles of silver sand. His T-shirt was probably showing large patches of sweat, he thought, wiping his brow for the hundredth time as the perspiration trickled into his eyes. Not a pretty sight for any of the yachties he was hoping to cajole into giving him passage.

Brogan paused for a moment under the shade of an awning that jutted out from one of the many restaurants. Maybe he should nick around to the shopping area in the street that ran parallel to this one? Buy a clean shirt, freshen up a bit? The thought seemed to lead his weary feet back into a shaded side street and past the blocks of apartments where women hung out of their windows talking loudly to neighbours in the street below. Brogan watched them, not understanding a single word as they called to one another, waving their hands in the air as though to emphasise whatever it was that they were discussing. The sunlight cut across the openings between the buildings, making him blink even behind the shade of his sunglasses, then a noise just behind him made Brogan turn and he stepped quickly to one side as a motorbike roared past, a pair of Spanish men on board. Neither of them were youngsters, Brogan noticed; both of them were dressed extravagantly in cowboy gear, even sporting colourful boots with fancy patterns cut into the leather. He looked down at his own clothes, a grey sweat-stained cotton shirt and a pair of shabby cut-off jeans. No, he thought, this wouldn’t do at all. Lengthening his stride, Brogan emerged into the main shopping thoroughfare and began searching for a half-decent men’s outfitters amongst all the outlets laden with tourist tat. Twenty minutes later he was back on the esplanade and heading on to Cala Bona looking for a waste bin to ditch his old clothes. Catching sight of his reflection in a window he saw a man wearing a fine linen shirt hanging loose over cream-coloured chinos, his bare feet thrust into a pair of comfortable tan leather sandals. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in spikes, a fashion look that made him grin in appreciation. It was better up here, he thought, as the path twisted through high sided buildings that created some shade from the late morning

sun, The two towns simply ran into one another and only a large notice proclaiming that this was now the town of Gala Bona allowed a stranger to know where one stopped and the other began. Then suddenly he was out in the sunlight once again, the path taking him straight to a picture postcard harbour where several large boats were moored.

Brogan strolled around the harbour side, glancing at the fishing boats and yachts as any tourist might, all the while taking note of the names on the hulls and the various countries of origin. Among the craft were a couple of glass-bottomed boats, their crew nowhere to be seen. But from the placards fluttering from the booms, Brogan could see that they were pleasure craft for taking tourists on trips around the area. Retracing his steps back around the harbour, he took a path back up to the edge of the esplanade and found himself looking out at the water. It was choppy today, the waves rolling in more fiercely after the thunderstorms of previous nights. Would these pleasure boats put out to sea in conditions like this? He glanced behind him and saw a small booth set against a wall, the names of the boats displayed brightly against the desk. A bored looking lad of about eighteen lounged in the shade of the booth, gazing at the folk who constantly passed him by. Then, as another man approached him, Brogan smiled. The furtive exchange between the two Spaniards was something Brogan had seen a thousand times on the street corners back in Glasgow. This was a wee glimpse into his own world, he told himself, moving towards the lad with increasing confidence. `Doin’ the business, pal?’ Brogan grinned, giving the Spanish boy a slap on his shoulder. The way the lad gave a quick look to his left then his right told Brogan all he needed to know.