Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (23 page)

The door swung open as he rang the bell as if Rosie had been waiting for him.

‘How are you?’ Lorimer stepped forward, kissing her on the cheek.

‘Great,’ she smiled. ‘Never better. In fact if it goes on like this I might just decide to be the Old Woman who lived in a shoe.’ She chuckled as they moved into the spacious lounge, a room that Lorimer loved with its huge bay windows overlooking Kelvingrove Park and the swirling abstract paintings that SoIly had acquired from a local gallery. ‘Thought you might be contemplating a move to suburbia,’ Lorimer said.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rosie said, settling herself on a couch with the help of a couple of squashy cushions at her back. ‘We can leave the pram in the downstairs hall. Besides, I’m really looking forward to walks in the park.’ She gave another smile that softened her features,

gazing out towards the window where the afternoon sunlight was streaming in. There was a new vulnerability to the pathologist that Lorimer had never seen before, a fragility that surprised him. With her halo of blonde hair shining in the light, she looked much younger than her thirty-five years. No one seeing her right now would imagine her in scrubs, scalpel in hand, exploring the mysteries of a corpse on her clinical metal table back in the mortuary. The tough, resilient woman he had come to visit dissolved in an instant and Lorimer knew at that moment he could not bring himself to discuss Maggie’s predicament. It had been selfish of him to think that Rosie might give his wife some friendly medical advice, reassuring her that all would be well. How could he talk about a matter like Maggie’s hysterectomy when Rosie’s baby was filling its mother’s womb? ‘Nice to see you,’ Rosie began and Lorimer found that she was looking at him quizzically. ‘I was just passing. Had a meeting nearby. Thought I’d come and see how my favourite pathologist was faring,’ he lied, smiling his most charming smile and fixing her with his blue eyes.

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ ‘No, you’re fine, thanks. Just wanted to have a blether, see what you’re up to. Missing the day job yet?’ he grinned. ‘As if,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Can’t perform any surgery now but I do have plenty of paperwork to keep me going before I hand the university work over to my locum. Things to do before term starts,’ she added. ‘So you’re not wanting to hear what we’ve found in the Kenneth Scott case?’ Rosie shook her head but she was smiling. ‘Suppose you’re going to tell me anyway,’ she said giving a theatrically exaggerated sigh.

‘Well, the answer is, not a lot, I’m afraid,’ Lorimer replied, suddenly serious. ‘We can’t locate either Brogan or his sister, though word has it that Billy boy was in Spain recently. As for the woman, well,’ he shrugged and turned away from Rosie’s gaze. Suddenly he was reluctant to talk about the case. How could he begin to relate his thoughts that Marianne Scott was dead when his friend was sitting there, blossoming with that new life inside her? ‘We’re still working on that,’ he said instead. ‘Doesn’t look as though we’re getting anywhere fast, though.’ ‘Can’t win them all,’ Rosie replied in an indifferent tone that Lorimer read as distancing herself from his world. ‘So, what else have you been up to?’

‘Watching the bird man. Do you know him?’ Rosie asked.

Lorimer got up and moved to the window. `Ah, that man,’ he nodded. ‘Aye, he’s one of the RSPB volunteers from Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Sometimes takes visitors around the park to tell them about the local wildlife. Can’t remember his name offhand. But we’ve spoken a few times.’ ‘And not about low-life hidden in the undergrowth,’ Rosie commented dryly. Lorimer chuckled. ‘No. More about the goosanders and whether a kingfisher has been sighted.’ ‘I like to watch him,’ Rosie said dreamily. He stands so still, so patiently, waiting for the little birds to come.’

Lorimer recognised the note of longing in her voice. Hadn’t he heard that over and over whenever his own wife had raised her hopes for the child she had been carrying. ‘Maggie sends her love,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch but she’s pretty busy with school stuff right now. Curriculum for something or other,’ he added vaguely. ‘Sure,’ Rosie said, heaving herself out of the sofa and standing

beside the tall policeman. In her flat shoes she barely came up to Lorimer’s chest and had to stand on tiptoes as he put his arms round her for a farewell hug.

What had that all been about? Rosie wondered as she closed the door. With her swirling hormones heightening her perception of everything around her Rosie could see that something was troubling the DCI. And it wasn’t anything to do with the murder case they’d both been involved in.

‘Someone told the police,’ the Hundi said, watching for Dhesi’s reaction. ‘They know Brogan’s in Mallorca.’ ‘Not our friend? Not Amit?’

The Hundi shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. We’ve been keeping a close eye on that one. I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that Jaffrey has been a greedy man. Not content with just giving his information to us.’ He raised one shoulder in a shrug of resignation. ‘Not much we can do about it now. Though we may be able to put feelers out to his boy. See just what he knows about Brogan.’ ‘If the police do find Brogan, if he tells them about us …’ Dhesi’s voice rose in alarm. ‘We’ll find him first, don’t worry,’ the Hundi reassured him. ‘Remember we’ve got Mr Smith now,’ he added with a crocodile smile that made his lips curve but failed to reach his narrowing eyes.

Mr Smith had decided to be Max Whittaker today. Of the several names by which he was known it was the one he liked best. Besides, it was the name on his driving licence and on one of his collection of passports. Marianne would be expecting an ex-army chum so he kept to his faded denim jacket and combat trousers

with a clean white ‘llshirt making the outfit both respectable and authentic. He slicked a handful of gel across his hair, spiking it up. Turning his head this way and that, he grinned at the effect it had, making him look a lot younger than his forty-two years. A quick spray of lemon-scented cologne and he was ready. Max Whittaker was prepared to enjoy this outing. He had a feeling that the outcome would be far beyond the imaginings of Brogan’s sister.

Marianne stepped out into the sunlight, glad of the excuse to hide behind these large sunglasses. She had twisted her hair into a russet knot, impaling it with a single clip at the back of her head. It was not perfect as a disguise, but anyone on the lookout for a woman with long red hair would be unlikely to give her a second glance. She’d chosen to wear a shorter skirt today, dark blue and tailored rather than the trademark Gypsy style that she normally favoured. A red top and a cream linen jacket completed her outfit. Swinging her handbag, Marianne felt a sense of freedom that she had long forgotten; a girlish smile made her look in a nearby window to see an attractive young woman smiling back at her, head held high. The sunlight flitted between the tall buildings as she crossed from West Regent Street to Bath Street, heading for the pedestrian precinct.

On a day like this, anything was possible, she thought, glancing at the shops as she made her way up Sauchiehall Street. She might even be able to have a normal day out like those other women who lingered by the windows, pondering the selection of clothes and shoes. Some of them, like Marianne, were dressed smartly as though they too were meeting a friend for lunch. There was a carnival feel to the city today, she thought, listening to an old woman playing the violin, her nut-brown face turned up to catch the glances of passers-by. On impulse, Marianne took out

her purse and selected a handful of silver, placing it in the musician’s open music case. A Romanian Gypsy, by the look of her, Marianne thought; a fugitive from some story that was now behind her. Was that why she had given her the money? Had she felt a common bond between them? For a moment she hesitated, not sure whether she should be seeking out this stranger, Billy’s old friend. What if he were to pester her? Come on to her with lascivious intent? Then, remembering his voice and his name, she quickened her pace. Max. It was a good name, a safe name and suddenly the shadow that had crossed her mind had disappeared in the brightness of this

September day. She knew it was him right away, standing, hands in his pockets, looking up and down the street. He was a man of average height and build, nothing outstanding but, as Marianne drew closer and their eyes met, she could see from his smile and outstretched hand that there was a kindness and strength about Max Whittaker, traits she needed in a friend right now. ‘Marianne,’ Max said, stepping forward and taking her hand

lightly in his own. ‘At last.’ He smiled and she noticed the tiny flecks of gold in his light grey eyes. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you so

much.’

illy Brogan sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever god might be listening. All night he had begged the powers that con

trolled the wind and waves for mercy, his head bent over a foul-smelling bucket. Now that line on the horizon gave him the first sign of hope. Hands clutching the post beside his wooden bench, Billy glanced up to see Carlos coming towards him, the Spaniard’s grin splitting his weather-beaten face.

‘You see? Land ahead. Not long now and we will have reached the shore,’ Carlos told him, slapping his back in a friendly manner. ‘One night we stay with family of Juan,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of the wheelhouse where the other sailor sat, navigating the boat through the choppy waters. ‘Then back home again.’ The old man gazed back across seas that seemed just endless lines of crested surf to Brogan. The man from Glasgow couldn’t get his head around it: why would someone actually want to make a living from being constantly tossed up and down on this rotten boat? But he kept such thoughts to himself.

‘How long . .

Carlos shrugged. ‘An hour, maybe a little more, depending on the tide. We have to anchor in a small cove that I know, then we take the little boat ashore.’

Billy twisted round, looking for another boat. Carlos laughed. ‘Maybe you help me find it, Meester?’ He pulled out a box from under the rows of wooden seats and opened it, turning to Billy with a grin. ‘See? My leetle boat!’ he exclaimed proudly, showing off the folds of grey rubber concealed inside the box. Billy gave a sickly grin. An inflatable. That was all he needed, he thought, imagining it bouncing high across the open sea. ‘I have a pump,’ Carlos was saying. ‘You help me, yes?’ So it was that Brogan was too occupied with the foot pump to notice that the dark smudge against the horizon had taken shape and become a curve of ochre hills against a pale sky that looked bleached of colour in the midday sun. But it had also kept his mind off the constant nausea and by the time the inflatable was ready, he felt restored to his normal optimism. ‘That Marrakesh over there?’ he asked, leaning on the rail behind Juan. The sailor gave him a grin that showed several missing teeth, shook his head and giggled. ‘Ay amigo mio, estos tan atontado. Te estamos tomando el pelo y no te enteras,’ Juan told him, giggling again as he saw Brogan’s face.
Ah my friend, you are such a moron. You have no idea we are totally taking the piss out of you. ‘Oh, aye?’ Brogan said, his face creasing in a smile as he turned to look at the approaching land. Mirate sonriendo, pensando que somos tus amigos. No te das cuenta que te vamos a engaliar,’
Juan said, tipping a wink at the Scotsman.
Look at you grinning away, thinking we are friends. You don’t realise that we are going to fool you. ‘Amigo, aye sure, amigo,’ Brogan replied, putting an arm on

Juan’s shoulder. `But what’s the name of that place we’re coming to?’ he asked.

Juan merely shrugged and spread his hands as though he didn’t understand.

Maybe it was just a wee village not on the big maps, Brogan told himself consolingly. He shrugged. Wouldn’t be long now anyway, he thought, watching as the flecks of white on shore became visible as houses and the darker green shapes turned into palm trees lining a muddy looking shoreline. As the boat entered quieter waters, Brogan heard the change in engine note and knew that Carlos was looking for a good anchorage. Soon they were rocking gently in a dark lagoon, small darting fish appearing in the clear waters, and Juan beckoned to Brogan to help him carry the inflatable to the stern of the boat.

The small craft entered the bay with a single splash, its rope still fastened to the larger boat.

‘How do I…?’ Billy looked down into the water, trying to estimate its depth, wondering how they would make that leap from one boat to another.

Juan giggled at his expression then pointed to what looked like a bundle of rope. With a flourish, the Spaniard tossed it over the side and Brogan saw that it was in fact a length of ladder made from thick strands of rope.

‘Baggage?’ Juan asked, miming the backpack that Brogan had taken on board.

‘Oh, aye, be with you in a mo,’ he said, then headed back to the spot where he had spent all these hours of misery. He heaved the pack onto his back and returned to where Juan stood above the inflatable.

‘No carry,’ the man said, pulling at the pack. ‘Baggage go first.’ Then, before Brogan had time to protest, the Spaniard had taken

the pack and flung it into the stern of the dinghy, climbing as nimbly as a monkey after it. ‘Now, come,’ Juan told him, beckoning with his sun-darkened hand.

Brogan hesitated for a moment then, with a deep breath, swung his leg over the side, clinging to the rope ladder with two white knuckled fists. He breathed hard as he made the descent, feeling his feet slip against the rounded rungs, fearful of letting go. At last he reached the dinghy and the sailor’s outstretched hand then with one leap he was in the boat, making it rock violently. ‘Sit!’ Juan commanded and Brogan sat where he was told, next to his luggage, shifting to make room for Carlos who was suddenly there as if by magic. Brogan clung on to the rubber handles on each side as the outboard motor roared into life, bucketing them across the final strip of water towards the shore. For once the motion did not make his stomach heave and he felt a mixture of relief and exhilaration as salt spray was flung across his face. Brogan looked at the strange houses that were built just above the shoreline, their flat roofs showing cables and masonry as though each of them was in the process of being constructed. Had he known it, this was a traditional method of building: each new storey ready and prepared for an expanding family that included the older generation, something that typified the culture of North Africa. But Billy Brogan knew nothing of this, and even less about the village beside which they were now landing. Near Marrakesh, he had supposed, not knowing that Carlos had actually sailed his boat many hundreds of miles away from Brogan’s desired destination.