Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (17 page)

‘You lookin’ to score, sefior?’ he asked Brogan nervously. ‘Well, now I’m lookin’ for something, that’s true, but you can keep your weed, son. What I’m after is a bit bigger.’ Shifting from one foot to the other, the boy eyed him suspiciously. ‘That your boat out there?’ Brogan pointed to a large craft bobbing at anchor. `Si,’ the boy answered sullenly.

‘No custom today?’ The boy shook his head and nodded towards the sea. ‘Too much waves. No go out today.’

‘How about tomorrow?’ Brogan persisted. ‘No tomorrow Maybe day after,’ the boy shrugged. ‘You wanna book a ticket?’

Brogan grinned and sidled up to the boy. ‘Maybe I want to take a private trip,’ he said, slipping one hand into his pocket. ‘Just me and the captain,’ he continued, watching as the boy’s eyes fell greedily on the bundle of folded notes he had produced. ‘How about it? Where can I speak to your boss?’ he whispered, lowering his sunglasses in a way that made the boy look at him more closely.

Marianne handed over the application form to the librarian, watching to see her reaction when she read the name on the piece of paper. It came, just as she had thought it would, a surprised lift of the eyebrows and a swift once-over of the red-haired woman standing on the other side of the desk. Marianne waited, unsmiling, for the card to be printed out and reissued. If anyone were to question her…? But it was only minutes before the girl returned and handed back her renewed library card, staring at Marianne with blatant curiosity. Dropping her gaze, Marianne saw that the librarian’s hands were carefully manicured, pale pink shiny polish

on_perfect ovals, all the better to display the two rings, one gold,

the other a single diamond that sparkled under the artificial light. ‘Thanks,’ Marianne mumbled, then, deliberately avoiding the girl’s curious stare and pushing the card into the depths of her shoulder bag, she turned on her heel to head for the barrier that would take her into the heart of Glasgow University’s library Well, she thought, letting out a sigh of relief, that was that, then. A new name and a new term ahead. Between Billy’s young friend in registry and this latest twist to her life, Marianne could breathe more easily knowing that the secrets of her identity were safe.

There were more than five weeks now until the start of the session but this time she was determined to be ahead of the game. Plenty of time for all the required texts on this year’s reading list. A little smile played about her mouth. She was one of the fortunate students who did not need to work at part-time bar jobs in order to fund their courses. Marianne sighed. Another couple of years, or more if she were lucky enough to make honours, then the world of work could beckon once more. A new beginning somewhere else, the States, perhaps, where a degree in psychology might be the necessary passport to a job of some kind. Glancing behind her at the librarian who was now busy with another student, Marianne’s face took on a wistful expression. She hadn’t appreciated how much fun she’d had all those years ago having colleagues to gossip with, girls’ nights out. The girl back there at the desk looked as though she had it all: a steady job, decent salary, nice place to work, a husband and maybe even kids… Well, times had changed and she had changed with them. Be careful what you wish for, she told herself. It might just come true.

rogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. That’s it. Billy Brogan. How did I get your number? Well that’s for me to know and you to find out, pal.’ He looked back at the notebook in his hand with its list of names and telephone numbers. ‘Right now I want to find our friend, okay?’

The hit man waited, listening to a rumble of voices in the background, straining to make out what language was being spoken. It was more than a minute before the man he had called made any reply. Then it was to apologise. He was busy, had a business to run. Not convenient to talk right now. ‘So when would it be convenient, mate? I think we might have something to discuss about Billy Boy,’ the hit man said slowly, his voice full of steel.

‘I’ll call you back,’ the man replied. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not possible. Arrange to meet up now Give me a time and a place and I’ll be there.’ There was more hesitation and a spluttering of excuses but eventually a rendezvous was suggested. ‘Okay by me. Today suit you?’ Again there was some humming and hawing, until a time was fixed for the following day. ‘I have meetings, many meetings. I am

a very busy man, you know,’ the voice on the line insisted. ‘I will send someone to meet you.’

The hit man listened, hearing just a hint of anxiety, understanding that the very mention of Brogan’s name held a lot of significance for the man who was listed in Brogan’s notebook simply as Dhesi.

Glasgow in late August was better than he had expected. The weather was clear and sunny, the summer heat intensifying just as the school term had ushered the population of Scottish schoolchildren back indoors for a new session. The hit man grinned as he sat on a bench in the middle of the city watching the lanes of traffic circulate around George Square. It was not unpleasant sitting here watching the world go by but he did not expect to be in Glasgow for much longer. He glanced at his wristwatch. Soon he would be joined by another man, someone who could help him to recover the money he was owed; someone who had an interest, like himself, in finding Billy Brogan.

The chosen rendezvous had been easy to find and he had arrived early, wandering around the square for a while, admiring the City Chambers, a pale grey building that dominated one entire side of the square. It was impressive by anyone’s standards, even someone like himself who knew nothing about architecture, its towers leading the eye upward. A pair of stone carved lions flanked the white cenotaph, a few yards from the building, reminding him of lives lost in a duty to Queen and country that he himself had once followed.

The hit man watched as a large black Daimler glided to a halt right outside the entrance to the City Chambers. From a professional point of view the security was spot on. Darkened windows hid the passenger from view and he caught only a brief glimpse of

a woman’s figure as she alighted from the big car and entered the main door with some lackeys in tow. He cocked his head to one side. Now, if he had been positioned up on that rooftop, belly down, rifle in his grasp, that would have been an entirely different matter.

`Mr Smith?’ A voice behind him broke the reverie, making the hit man stand up immediately. ‘Aye, maybe,’ he replied evasively. ‘Who wants to know?’ A dark-skinned man who may have been Indian or Pakistani stood smiling at him then gave a small bow, one hand across his corpulent stomach. ‘I come to you as an intermediary, Mr Smith. I believe that was understood by our mutual friend?’ The hit man sniffed and threw the man a sideways glance. `So what are we waiting for?’ he asked. ‘I take it he’s ready to begin discussions?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. If you’d like to follow me, we have a car parked just along the road,’ the Asian motioned with one hand, willing the other man to accompany him. ‘I suppose you’ve got a name, pal?’ In reply his companion tapped one side of his nose, an age-old gesture that signified that it was not wise to ask too many questions.

The hit man frowned suddenly. This man’s voice sounded so like the one he had spoken to on the telephone yesterday. Was he actually Dhesi? And had it all been a bit of nonsense about sending someone else? The hit man walked just a little behind the stranger, cautious in case he had to make a sudden run for it. He touched his pocket, feeling the gun’s reassuring hardness. But it wasn’t something he could make use of here, in the city centre, if things suddenly went wrong.

The Mercedes was parked outside a large pub just past the

square. As he was ushered into the back seat, the hit man glanced at the driver, a middle-aged white man with rolls of fat coming over his collar, clearly sweating under his smart black uniform. Not in good shape, he told himself, dismissing the driver as posing no potential threat, then turned to face the Asian who had climbed into the back to join him.

‘Brogan,’ he began. ‘He’s known to you?’

The Asian inclined his head a little. ‘He is known to my client,’ he said.

‘Client? What are you? Some sort of lawyer?’

The man beside him chuckled. ‘Not at all, my friend. I am what you might call a fixer. A middleman. Those from my homeland know me better as The Hundi.’

‘So you’re not the man I spoke to on the phone?’

‘No, Mr Smith. That was my client. Someone, it appears, who has a mutual interest in Mr Brogan. Now, while we drive to our meeting place, let me tell you something about this lovely city of ours,’ he said. Turning towards the window he pointed up at the buildings that swooped up on either side, their windows glittering in the sunshine. Then, as though the hit man was simply a tourist visiting Glasgow for pleasure, the Hundi began to enthuse about some of the city’s architectural gems.

Dhesi stood, hands behind his back, looking out of the window This was his home now, this city whose fine buildings were a constant reminder of past glories, Glasgow’s tobacco lords and ship owners gaining their immense wealth from their trade. It was a

city that suited him, Dhesi thought. He, too, traded in things,

though those commodities were less welcomed by the city fathers

than the bales of Virginia tobacco that had been shipped to the

docks in times past. The restaurant was his legitimate enterprise, of course, and he was proud of it. Things had become so easy in the months following Amit’s arrival, that it would be a pity if they were to be upset by these latest incidents. But his partner’s complete integration into their world here in Glasgow was of the utmost importance and it might even be to their advantage that Brogan had disappeared, leaving his sister unprotected. The Pakistani had deliberately chosen this suite of rooms in a West End hotel in which to meet Brogan’s contact. Someone calling himself Mr Smith (he’d laughed derisively at that) had insisted that he wanted to find Brogan. A mate, he’d said, from the old days. Knowing Brogan’s past as well as he did, Dhesi guessed that this was another ex-soldier. And from what he had read in the newspapers, he wondered if the man might be useful to them right now If he turned out to be just another druggie, they’d get shot of him faster than he could say chapatti. But that voice on the line had sounded intelligent and, besides, he could only have found out his number from Brogan himself. Was this a set up, perhaps? Was Brogan using this old chum for purposes of his own? Nobody in Glasgow had any idea why the dealer had disappeared, though two dead bodies in his flat might give even the least cynical person some sort of clue. The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn away from the window. His friend, the Hundi, was ushering in a man whom he judged to be about forty-five, short mid-brown hair, thinning on top and of medium height and build. Dhesi took all this in as he strode towards him. An ordinary looking man, he thought to himself, except for the face and its pale grey eyes. These were eyes that had seen terrible things, Dhesi told himself; and that face, with its sharp cheekbones and firm jaw, might have been carved out of granite. Glasgow folk had a name for someone

like this: a wee hard man. His visitor stood ramrod straight, gaze unwavering as he looked Dhesi in the eye.

This is someone you don’t want to mess with, he suddenly thought, hearing Brogan’s voice in his mind.

`Mr Smith,’ Dhesi smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand in welcome, `So good of you to come.’

‘Dead? What makes you think that?’ Joyce Rogers leaned forward in her chair, one hand clasping her chin as she considered the DCI’s idea.

Lorimer made a restless movement before he answered, immediately revealing to the deputy chief constable that he was less than comfortable with this suggestion himself.

‘She’s nowhere to be found, ma’am. No trace of her leaving the country, no records of employment, nothing in the university registry or in any other UK registry that we can find.’

‘I see,’ Rogers nodded briefly. ‘And you think we might want to investigate her as a missing person?’

Lorimer sighed. Thousands of people went missing each year, many of them at their own behest. But there would always be some who had been killed by a person or persons unknown and whose bodies would rot in their unmarked graves for generations. The police knew that from experience. And from the results of their cold case units around the country.

‘We have no idea when she was last seen, nor do we have a recent photograph of her. No marriage photographs at Scott’s house, nothing for matriculation at the college . .

‘Oh? And why is that? Isn’t it mandatory for all the students to have photo ID?’

‘Yes, ma’am, but the college doesn’t keep them for more than a year after the student leaves.’

She could be shacking up with someone, of course,’ Rogers mused. ‘Another drug dealer like brother Billy.’ ‘That’s true,’ Lorimer conceded. And if she is alive we might try to ask her to come forward, to speak to us in confidence.’ ‘Why do I have the feeling that you’re about to suggest putting out a televised appeal on Crimewatch, Lorimer?’ Lorimer spread his hands open and smiled, ‘Because you know me so well, ma’am?’

And you haven’t been able to ask Superintendent Mitchison, I take it?’

The DCI’s smile slipped a little. Not available at divisional HQ at present, ma’am,’ he replied stiffly. It was common knowledge that the superintendent and DCI Lorimer did not rub along easily together, Rogers reminded herself. If she had had her way, it would have been Lorimer running his division, not Mark Mitchison, but her vote at the time had been only one of many, something that grated to this day. Promotion for this man was long overdue, Joyce Rogers thought, watching Lorimer as he tried not to fidget, hands clasped but fingers rubbing each other as though unable to settle quietly. There was an opening in the Serious Crime Squad and she had thrown this man’s hat into the ring, pleased to see that her other senior colleagues approved of the idea. ‘I’m happy to authorise an appeal so long as a photograph of the woman can be found,’ Rogers said at last. ‘You will have been sent the last passport photograph from the passport record office, I take it?’