Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (19 page)

Amit drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on a point ahead, wondering if he could be bothered to find another parking space. By the time he returned his own space might well be taken, legally or otherwise. It was a fairly short walk from his own place to the curving terrace that bordered the river Kelvin. As he considered his options, the sun emerged from behind a cloud into a stretch of blue. He unbuckled the seat belt, letting it fall back against the leather seat. He would walk there, he decided, getting out of the Mercedes and pointing the key towards it. The big car gave a blink and a click as though in acknowledgement as Amit strode along the pavement in the direction of Byres Road.

This was the very heartland of student life: streets full of

Victorian flats that criss-crossed all the way from Great Western Road, sweeping past many of the university buildings then bisecting Byres Road until they marched in an upward curve to meet Great Western Road once again. Amit’s present home was two floors up in a tenement flat above a delicatessen. The Mercedes he kept parked around the corner in a space designated for residents only. Despite the fact that the new term was still a month away, the place was teeming with young people. Amit watched them as he walked along; girls with long hair in earnest conversation with a group of young men or giggling in a huddle with their pals. With a pang Amit realised that he had never known such careless freedom. His own youth had been hedged about with rules, both from his family and also by the state, university life a matter of serious studying and only the occasional social engagement. He left a group of youngsters laughing in his wake, wondering if they realised just how privileged they were. Probably not, he told himself. But there was no bitterness in the thought, it was merely one of the many observations Amit allowed himself as he continued along the road. Marianne would be expecting to resume her studies soon, he told himself. A frown crossed his dark brow. Was there really any way he could make that happen? Or was her time at university coming to an abrupt end? Biting his lip, Amit walked more hurriedly until he reached the end of the road. A large church building dominated the corner, sprawling between the junction of the two main roads. Amit looked up as he waited to cross towards the botanic gardens. It was no longer a place of worship and was now known as Oran Mor. He had been inside once, climbing the staircase that was decorated in colourful murals that had somehow reminded him of many of the places in Lahore. A restaurant and

a pub took up some of the building but it was possibly best known for its basement theatre. A group of young men and women lounged outside on the steps clutching bottles of beer. Amit glanced at them. Seeing the confidence on their faces reminded him of what he was about to take away from Marianne and he experienced a moment of sadness that it had to end like this.

The lights changed and he crossed to the curving railings surrounding the park. It was not far now Once across the bridge he turned left and followed the graceful line of terraced houses until he stood outside her house, looking up at the curtained window.

She was at home, then. He breathed a sigh of relief then walked up the five steps that led to the main entrance, pressing the bell next to the name that she used, a name that made him smile.

The smile changed to a puzzled frown when no answer came. After repeated attempts Amit decided to wait. Perhaps she was in the bathroom and could not immediately come to let him in. Five minutes passed before he tried again, then ten.

Amit paced back and forth on the top step, looking around to see if anyone was watching a dark-skinned man hovering on the threshold of this house. Only a young man walking his dog passed him by but he did not give Amit a second glance, absorbed in the music coming from his iPod.

Biting his lip, the man looked up again at the curtained window His brow creased in worry. What if something was wrong? They had always agreed that he would not have a key to her flat. She required privacy and that was something that Amit understood. But now he wished that he had pressed Marianne on this point.

Taking a deep breath Amit pushed the first buzzer in the row, knowing that this ground floor flat was the home of Marianne’s

landlord, the man who owned the entire building. Fie waited then glanced to his left as a curtain was twitched to one side and a familiar face looked out at him.

‘Mr Shafiq, my friend, come in, come in,’ the Asian ushered Amit into a square, tiled hallway that had a case of wooden letterboxes set on to one wall.

‘Marianne,’ Amit began. ‘She is not responding to the bell.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a casual gesture but, seeing the worried look reflected on the landlord’s face, he knew his attempt at nonchalance had failed.

‘I have a spare key, my friend,’ the landlord waddled off to his own apartments, his cotton slippers flip-flopping across the stone flags. Amit waited politely in the inner vestibule, regarding the stairs to one side as if Marianne might descend at any moment, making a fool of him and quietening his anxious heart. `Aha!’ The landlord beamed and brandished a set of master keys in his chubby fist. Now we’ll see,’ he said, stepping up the stairs with a nimbleness that was surprising for a man of his girth. Amit followed, cursing Marianne for leaving these curtains drawn in the middle of the afternoon. But what if she were ill? He swallowed, forcing down worse images as he clattered up behind the landlord.

As the key rattled in the lock Amit could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands. Hastily he rubbed them against the sides of his trousers. What was wrong with him? Why such anxiety for this woman?

When the door was flung open, both men stood for a long moment saying nothing. Then the landlord strode to the window and drew back the curtains. As light flooded into the room they could see why nobody had responded to these repeated rings of the bell. The bedclothes

had been left in an untidy heap and the wardrobe doors hung open, showing empty rails. The landlord screwed up his eyes and Amit knew he was looking at him to see how he was reacting. ‘So,’ Amit cleared his throat, amazed by the emotion that made speech so difficult. ‘So, she’s gone,’ the landlord said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Pity she hadn’t washed the bed linen,’ he grumbled, pulling the sheets off the bed and rolling them into a large ball. Tut at least the rent was paid up,’ he added, giving Amit a sly tap on his arm. Then, cocking his head to one side, he seemed to see the sorrow on Amit’s face. ‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ he said, putting down the bundle and grasping Amit’s arms in his hands. ‘Better off without her. Plenty more fish in the sea for a handsome young fellow like Mr Shafiq.’

‘ know where Brogan is,’ Jaffrey told the man sitting a little I apart from him on the park bench. He waited, a small smile hovering on his lips as he anticipated the next move in this game. Information like this had its value and he would not be shortchanged by this person, no matter what importance the Hundi felt that he had.

As the other man suggested a suitable figure Jaffrey’s smile changed to a frown. ‘You insult me,’ he said, then waited once more as the Hundi remonstrated with him.

‘Things are not so easy, Mr Jaffrey,’ the Hundi pouted. ‘We are in a recession still. Money is always hard to come by,’ he lied. Jaffrey knew that this would take time. Such matters always did. It was all part of the procedure; he would be given a figure, knock it back, suggest an impossibly inflated price himself until a bargain was agreed upon. There was no take-it-or-leave-it about their methods. He had something to sell and he knew the Hundi would be buying. ‘The police might want to know this,’ Jaffrey said slyly, looking to see what effect his words might have. But there was not a flicker of change in his companion’s expression.

At last an acceptable sum was offered and he could tell the man what he wanted to know. ‘Brogan was seen by my son,’ he said proudly, nodding as he eyed the Hundi’s bulky black jacket. The man had arrived not too long after Jaffrey had called him but he knew that a thick wad of notes would already be secreted about his person, ready to hand over once the information was given. Jaffrey edged a little closer along the bench. ‘He’s in Mallorca. A town called Gala Millor,’ he said, raising his hand to his mouth as though to prevent the words being overheard. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. ‘My boy is a smart one,’ he grinned. ‘Followed Brogan back to his hotel. Even found which room he was in,’ Jaffrey held the paper in the air triumphantly. In one quick movement the Hundi stood up, snatched the paper and dropped an envelope onto the bench. Then, hardly pausing to read its contents, he stuffed the paper into his wallet, slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket and walked away from the other man without a word. Jaffrey watched him go, making a rude gesture at his unseeing back. The Hundi commanded a lot of respect in the community and it would not do to openly cross this man. Still, he had what he wanted, he thought, opening the envelope and counting its contents greedily, giving absolutely no thought to what consequences this encounter might have for Billy Brogan. q[r

‘How long?’ Brogan’s mouth was an 0 of astonishment at the Spaniard sitting next to him on the jetty. He’d never been on a boat longer than the half hour that it took to travel from Wemyss bay to Rothesay. ‘The wind may alter that,’ the man shrugged, looking up at the

skies as though to see what the weather might tell him, ‘but, yes, I think it will take at least fifteen hours.’ Brogan followed the man’s gaze. The skies had little whippets of cloud scudding across an expanse of searing blue. Sailors knew all about such things, he supposed. This man had the expertise he needed — he could set off from Mallorca at dusk and be on the African mainland by noon tomorrow. Marrakesh! The very name conjured up mountains of hashish, just waiting for someone like him to come and buy. Brogan licked his lips, tasting a saltiness borne on the incoming breeze. They had discussed a price and he’d agreed to it, mentally talculating how much money he would have left. ‘You come tonight?’ the Spanish captain asked, his small dark Seyes never wavering as he looked at the Scottish man beside him. Brogan had spun him a tale about needing to leave Mallorca in hurry, not being able to buy a plane ticket in time for an important meeting in Marrakesh, but he knew fine the Spaniard had en through his lies. That nut-brown face criss-crossed with Wrinkles had seen enough of life to know what was going on. The rice he’d asked reflected that, too, Brogan guessed. ‘I will take you to a village. Near to where you wish to go,’ the paniard told him. ‘I know a harbour,’ he nodded and turned way, looking out to sea as if their destination was clearly imagined in his mind’s eye. ‘The harbour master is a friend. He will not ask questions.’ The Spaniard turned back to look at Brogan, smiling a knowing smile. ‘Or ask to see passports,’ he added. Brogan nodded, trying not to seem too relieved by this. He’d keep up the pretence as long as he was with this man, but he was
cutely aware that the Spaniard had a good idea of his fugitive status. ‘Okay. I’m cool with that,’ he said, nodding his head. Tut how o I get to Marrakesh after that?’

The man shrugged. Plenty of buses. Not difficult. You’ll see.’ ‘Right, I’ll be here at seven o’clock, then,’ Brogan said, proffering his hand for the man to shake. ‘If I am not here, remember to ask for Carlos,’ he told Brogan. ‘One of my sons will be preparing the boat for departure. Adios,’ he nodded. As the drug dealer walked back along the esplanade he failed to see the expression on the Spaniard’s face or see him chuckling to himself. Carlos smiled as he shook his grizzled head, watching the Scotsman head back to his hotel. Such fools as this could make him a wealthy man, he thought. Marrakesh! He laughed silently imagining Brogan’s face when he found out his true destination.

nnie Irvine sat perched on the edge of a desk, listening as Lorimer updated them all on the case. ‘You’ve all had a chance to see the images and as you can see m those I have selected,’ the DCI turned to indicate the wn-up photographs on the board behind him, ‘there was defihely something going on between Scott and his ex-wife.’ Annie took a deep breath. The pictures spoke for themselves: was a clear case of stalking as far as she was concerned. ‘Why would he stalk his ex-wife?’ someone asked, putting nie’s thoughts into words. ‘What motivates any stalker?’ Lorimer returned. ‘The profile re building up of Scott is of someone who led a very private of existence. According to the girlfriend she says she had ver been to his house.’

‘Someone had,’ Cameron interjected. ‘What about that bed?’ ‘We’ll come to that in a bit,’ Lorimer said, acknowledging the tective sergeant’s point. Tut I think it may be very pertinent to our to see what sort of man Scott really was. He had a casual relanship with Frances Donnelly, was friends with his work colleagues t he doesn’t seem to have given anything away to any of them ut himself, does he? And stalkers are notoriously private people.’

Annie shuddered, remembering the disgusting letters, the used condoms and filthy underpants deposited in her parents’ garden and the shadow that had seemed to follow her every day on her way to university. Derek had been too clever for them to pin him down, to find enough evidence to link him to the stalking campaign that had lasted for more than three years. But it had given Annie one thing: her resolution to join the police force had sprung from a determination to see that other women were given more protection by the law. ‘Did she know she was being stalked?’ DC Fathy asked. ‘Now,’ replied Lorimer, ‘that’s a good question. None of the photographs indicate that she was aware of him. But the dates on the photographs show that he was following her on a regular basis, so, perhaps she knew what was going on.’ Too bloody right she did, thought Annie bitterly, edging herself off the desk and leaning against it, arms folded. But she kept her thoughts to herself, waiting for another officer to suggest as much. ‘If she did know, why not contact the police?’ Fathy asked. ‘It’s not an offence yet,’ Annie couldn’t stop herself blurting out. ‘The proposed amendment to the Criminal Justice and Licensing Bill hasn’t been put through our Scottish parliament. So the laws around stalking on this side of the border are still the same. Stalkers can only be charged with a breach of the peace. If you can make it stick!’ she added passionately. There was a sudden silence in the incident room and Annie listened, hearing her own breathing come thick and fast. It was the nearest she had ever come to admitting these horrible things from her own past and she reddened as she imagined what her colleagues might be thinking. ‘Thank you for that DC Irvine,’ she heard Lorimer say at last. ‘And it is good to be reminded of the way such matters are currently !IIII