Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (22 page)

Ken Scott would be an interesting subject if he were proved to have been a stalker. Not only was he an ex-husband whose wife had rejected him publicly by the divorce but he must have harboured the delusion that she was still in love with him. For, SoIly knew, that was the hallmark of a stalker. The person stalking was

convinced that his or her target was capable of returning the devotion that they felt. And with patience and perseverance the notion was that their victim would eventually fall into their arms, capitulating to their desires. For it was not about love, Solly reminded himself. It was all about power and powerlessness. The stalker, once a rejected lover (whether in reality or in his or her mind), regarded themselves as in a position of power while they followed their prey. Overpowering their victim became a necessary part of the game. They might tell themselves that they only wanted their loved one to return some affection, to give a smile or a kiss. But what they craved was their victim’s ultimate submission. And when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen willingly, they sometimes resorted to violence.

Frustration breeds violence was a phrase Solly remembered from his early days as a student of behavioural psychology. And he could cite many instances in the world of stalkers where that held true. Filthy messages sent through the post or by email, unwanted gifts (some of them with sinister overtones) and plain harassment were the outpourings of a rejected and frustrated stalker. Had there been any evidence of such things in Scott’s case? The photographs were all that the police had to go on so far. It was a pity that Lorimer had drawn a blank in locating any of the ex-wife’s friends or family. If he had a fuller picture of the couple’s relationship then perhaps he might be able to make some useful contribution. But, failing that, he could give his friend some general pointers about the sorts of violent stalkers whose deeds had been recorded.

Annie Irvine watched her colleague as he lifted his lunch tray off

the table and headed towards the canteen door. Omar had delib

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erately chosen to sit by himself for the last few days, she’d noticed,

facing the window that looked out on to the street, avoiding eye contact with any of his fellow officers. There was something about that figure hunched over his sandwiches that troubled Annie. Something was wrong and it wasn’t to do with the ongoing murder case, she was certain of that. Omar had been full of enthusiasm not that long ago, hadn’t he? So why this sudden change in his manner? The policewoman had been sensitive enough to know when to leave the handsome young Egyptian alone. Besides, what chance would she have of furthering their friendship if she barged in on him when it was obvious that he wanted nobody’s company? A tall dark-haired woman planked herself down next to Annie. It was Maureen, the civilian officer who was in charge of processing and recording all the productions from scenes of crime. Annie would have moved away but her lunch was barely started and she was incapable of being rude even to Maureen, whose loudmouthed comments were known to make others cringe. ‘What’s up with Omar Sharif?’ she asked, nudging Annie’s arm. The woman’s shrewd glance showed that she had been following Annie’s gaze as Omar walked out of the canteen. Annie didn’t reply, trying to focus on the salad and ham baguette that had suddenly become quite unappetising. ‘Had a tiff, then?’ Maureen gave a short laugh that sounded like a dog’s bark. Annie coloured up, watching as several heads turned their way, Maureen’s strident tones carrying right across the canteen. ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Annie mumbled, stuffing the baguette into a napkin. She opened her handbag and drew out her mobile phone. There was no message on the screen but Maureen wasn’t to know that, was she? Sometimes a wee deception had to be played out and this was one of those times. ‘Have to go. See you,’ she said, then rose from the table as fast as she could.

`Ach, he’s no worth the heartache, Annie,’ Maureen persisted. Then, catching hold of the policewoman’s arm she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘An’ I reckon he’s the wrong colour for a nice girl like you, eh?’

Annie stood stock still for a moment, shocked at the woman’s blatant racism. Had she been overheard, Maureen might well have been given notice to quit her job. She blinked then shook her head, showing the other woman that such a remark was not to be condoned.

As she turned to go, Annie kept hearing the words in her mind like a hiss of malevolence. Really she should report the woman, but there was something nasty about Maureen Kendall that gave her pause for thought. Somehow, Annie felt, there would be repercussions if she tried to put that little incident into a formal complaint. And right now she could do without the bother.

Omar was walking down the CID corridor when Annie finally caught up with him.

‘Hey, what time do we have to be at the university?’ she asked, still slightly breathless from her encounter in the canteen.

Omar turned round and when he saw Annie he stopped and gave her a smile. Was there really nothing worrying him behind that nice polite face? she wondered. Was she seeing things that weren’t there? None of her business, anyway, Annie reminded herself.

‘Remember we’ve to get our tails up to Gilmorehill and start quizzing the departmental secretaries,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, of course,’ Omar replied, the faintest of frowns producing a crease between his dark eyebrows. ‘Would you like me to drive?’

The spire of the University of Glasgow could be seen for miles

around, dominating the skyline as it stood proudly on the heights

of Gilmore Hill. It was a strange piece of architecture, harsh spikes emanating from that narrow spire, reminiscent of a knight’s mace. What the story was behind that particular feature, Annie didn’t know. But it always held a sense of foreboding when she looked up from University Avenue at the dark points outlined against the sky. ‘No problem getting parked today,’ she remarked as Omar slipped the pool car into a space not far from the main gate. In term time it would be a different story, parking spaces close to the university buildings becoming as rare as hens’ teeth. ‘Wonder if she ever did apply for a course here,’ Annie mused as they walked over the hill towards University Gardens. ‘Lorimer thinks she’s dead,’ Omar replied shortly. Annie stopped and looked at him. ‘Well what on earth are we doing here? It’s just a waste of our time, surely?’ Omar gave a faint grin. ‘Your DCI isn’t right all the time, is he? Besides, he has to cover all the possibilities.’ Annie kicked a stone that appeared on the pavement. It skittered onto the railings with a metallic ping. ‘In my experience Lorimer’s hunches usually turn out to be spot on,’ she said gloomily. ‘That’s funny,’ Omar said. ‘I feel certain that she’s alive.’ He turned to face Annie. ‘Don’t ask me why. It’s just this gut feeling I have. Maybe I’m totally wrong. But then again,’ he grinned wickedly, ‘maybe it’s Lorimer who’s got it wrong.’ ‘Well, let’s see if anyone can remember Marianne Scott or Brogan or whatever damned name she was using, shall we?’ Annie raised her eyebrows as they continued down towards the rows of departmental offices that were tucked away from the main road. She glanced at Omar’s profile. He was smiling still, happier than she had seen him in days. Was that all that had been bothering

him: worried that his own ideas about Marianne Scott were clashing —with Lorimer’s? He’d certainly spent loads of time trying to trace the missing woman. Maybe that had made her all the more real to him. And if it transpired that Marianne was actually found dead how would this young policeman react? Annie wanted to reach out and touch Omar’s hand, warn him not to become too involved.

But then she thought of the tall brooding figure of their DCI. Lorimer felt things deeply, too. Didn’t say much, but you always knew that he cared for the victims of crime. Would Omar Fathy become like that? She stole another glance at the Egyptian and nodded silently to herself. He’d go far, she realised. Not because he was ambitious but because he shared the same qualities as their boss.

Marianne was not dead but sometimes she felt as though her life was ebbing away from her. The nights she had spent in this hotel had not been free from the recurrent dreams she had so longed to escape. Certainly the constant noise of traffic had kept her awake for long spells until exhaustion had forced her into a troubled sleep. Waking to a morning that was bright behind the heavy hotel curtains made her realise that another day must be faced and decisions made.

The truth was that Marianne had no real idea what to do. The telephone calls she had tried to make to Billy were left unanswered, the first foreign ringtone telling her that his mobile, at any rate, was somewhere across the Channel. Why hadn’t he called her? Was he somehow involved in these deaths? Marianne shook her head slowly as she sat on the edge of the great white bed. That ringtone had preceded the events in his flat. Billy had left Glasgow before all these things had happened, hadn’t he? But

why? They trusted one another, didn’t they? Surely Billy would have let her know if something was wrong. Amit had broken the news of the two dead men to her solemnly, as though she was one of their family, one of the bereaved. Remembering his grave tones, Marianne realised what the Pakistani had been thinking: Billy Brogan, her brother, had killed two known drug dealers and had fled the scene. Marianne knew better, but it galled her to realise how Billy would be being perceived by Amit, a man who had been helped by her brother in the not-so-distant past. Besides, she knew Billy Brogan better than anybody. Including Joan, that daft wee girl in the registry who fancied him so much. Marianne gave a sigh. Billy Brogan simply didn’t have it in him to kill another human being in cold blood. Wasn’t that why he’d quit the army, after all? Lifting her mobile phone from the bedside cabinet, Marianne scrolled down until she came to one particular number. Should she try to see if Billy’s army pal was still in town? Maybe they could meet up for a bite to eat? He’d sounded nice and uncomplicated. He was a friend of Billy’s from the old days, she told herself. And if there was anything she needed right now it was the company of someone outside all of the tangled web that was threatening to close in on her.

The hit man smiled as he put down the phone. Sometimes luck simply came your way. He had suggested meeting the woman in the entrance of the NCP car park in Cambridge Street, the idea being that they take a trip out of town. She’d sounded keen. His smile widened into a grin. And no wonder. With both the police and the Asians looking for her, Marianne Brogan would do well to keep out of the city as much as possible. He whistled as he opened the wardrobe door, wondering what to wear for his next performance.

eptember wasn’t Rosie’s favourite month of the year and she was glad her baby would be born later, once the nights had

really drawn in and the darkness settled. Now she fretted as the summer drew to a close, the warmth making a mockery of the shorter days and fading leaves. Down in the park the dust was blowing in swirling clouds as though some unseen force was changing everything. Girls and boys still strolled slowly along the paths, their sleeveless Tshirts paying homage to the fact that it was still officially vacation time and the good spell of weather had lasted.

The bird man was there again, she noticed, standing stock still beside a line of bushes, outstretched hand resting on the railing. She had seen him often over the last few months, his little packet of seeds scattered onto his palm. Sometimes, if he stood quietly, a blue tit would come down from branch to branch, peck at the offering then fly off. From this upper window Rosie couldn’t see if he had a bird on his hand or not, but she recognised him all the same: his shock of dark hair falling over a pale face, the same khaki jacket that he always wore, camouflage for the purpose of feeding the wee birds, she supposed. One day, she mused, she would push her pram along the path and stand to watch the bird

man, his quiet patience usually rewarded by a tiny visitor to his hand.

Rosie was not aware that she had begun to smile. The expression on her face was one of calm serenity, all the lines that so furrowed her pale brow when she was bent over a cadaver in the mortuary had disappeared with this pregnancy. Instead of being in pain or discomfort, the pathologist was at that enviable stage in her third trimester when all seemed well with the world and she could revel in her swelling body. A first baby could arrive early or late, Em had warned her. Two weeks either way, her technician had said, wagging a finger at Rosie. ‘If you do come early it’ll be nice to get to know you,’ Rosie whispered, circling the bump gently with her fingers. ‘See who you look like,’ she added fondly. If it were a boy, she would love him to have Solly’s dark looks, but she’d prefer a wee girl to have her own fair hair. ‘Maybe one of each,’ she said dreamily. ‘In time.’ Solly’s mum fretted whenever she called from London, asking if Rosie was all right, reminding her to eat properly; she was eating for two, remember. The pathologist hadn’t the heart to remind Ma Brightman that she was a qualified doctor and knew exactly what was going on inside her own body. Let her motherin-law have her say. After all, Ma Brightman had given birth to her beloved SoIly, hadn’t she? And she couldn’t fault the job she’d done in bringing him up. The street buzzer sounded in the hallway, cutting short Rosie’s thoughts. Waddling through to the hall, she picked up the handset and listened.

It’s me, Lorimer. Can I come up and see you?’ ‘Sure, come on up,’ Rosie said, pressing the entry button. She was surprised to hear the policeman’s voice. What was he doing

over in this neck of the woods in the middle of the afternoon? Well, that was something she was about to find out, wasn’t she?

Lorimer climbed the winding staircase, admiring the banister’s graceful sweep and the delicate plasterwork coving picked out in creamy white against the russet walls. This had once been a gentleman’s town house but was now divided into high-ceilinged flats. The builder had made a fine job of it, whoever he was, thought Lorimer as he reached the top floor. He’d kept all the original features within the hallway and landings including one Art Nouveau stained glass window that reflected lozenges of blue and green light onto the carpeted stairs. Solly had bought his top floor flat at just the right time, he mused; before house prices had rocketed in this part of the city. But would they stay here once a baby arrived?