Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (25 page)

And surely that was true? She had to put her night-time thoughts away from her. Doctor Brightman had shown her the way out of these dark places. Now, Marianne told herself, as the sunlight streamed through the windscreen, it was time to begin somewhere new. And perhaps Max Whittaker was the man to lead her there.

Solly lifted the green file and put it into his already bulging briefcase. Dreams, he smiled to himself. That had been one of the more successful in his series of lectures to last year’s undergraduates. Now he had updated it to include references from Shakespeare, and the Bard’s plays were still to the forefront of his mind. Last night he and Rosie had discussed possible names for the baby. Again. It was a pity, he thought, that they had not yet come to any agreement about this. His recent foray into Shakespearean literature seemed to have influenced his own preferences: Miranda, Imogen, Harry and Anthony. They all sounded fine when conjoined with his surname. But Rosie had wrinkled her nose. Her own choices had Celtic overtones: Siobhan, Mhairi,

Ruaridh and Euan. He’d smiled as usual, shrugged them off and suggested they both look at the well-thumbed book of children’s

names once more. ‘You will know what his name is when you see him,’ Ma Brightman had said when he had revealed their dilemma to his

mother. She was so sure it would be a boy, he laughed to himself: a little new Brightman to continue the family tree. Solly had dreamed about the child last night. A boy, certainly, but not a newborn. This was a little lad who had walked by his side, blonde head uncovered, shining in the sun. And although the details of that dream were now hazy, SoIly still retained the powerful feeling of paternal love towards the boy who had slipped into his unconscious mind. He smiled as he lifted the briefcase and headed towards the door of the flat. Dreams, indeed!

‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream is all about the quarrel that Oberon and Titania have over the little changeling boy,’ Maggie told her class. ‘The whole of the natural world is turned topsy-turvy as the quarrel persists, making the summer weather wet, foggy and

stormy.’ ‘Aye, jist like Glasgow durin’ the Fair,’ Jimmy Lang piped up and everyone laughed. Maggie smiled too. The two-week trades holiday was notorious for having poor weather. ‘Don’t think that’s the fault o’ the fairies,’

someone else called out and again a ripple of giggles ran through

the class. As the bell to end the period rang out, Maggie raised her hand to prevent a charge towards her classroom door. Now remember to tell your parents about the theatre trip. We need to have the forms filled in and returned no later than next week. Okay?’

She smiled as they filed out into the corridor, some of’ them grinning up at her, others saying ‘See you, miss,’ as they passed her by. This was by far the nicest group of first years she’d had in a long time, Maggie thought, closing the door behind them and settling down for a rare period of preparation. Her smile faded as she regarded the notes on Shakespeare’s well-loved play. Why had she chosen to highlight the changeling boy? Was it some subconscious desire on her part to elevate the child to a position of importance? Surely not. She smiled again, remembering the little faces that had just looked up at her. These would be her family, kids who passed through her life for five or six years. She sat, thinking about the future. Soon both she and Bill would be forty and that landmark birthday seemed to Maggie to be a kind of watershed in their lives. She could go on teaching for more than twenty years, hundreds of kids receiving the benefit of her tuition, she mused. Would she still be here, in this school? There was no ambitious streak in the policeman’s wife to go chasing promotion. Their only ambition had been to have children one day and now that possibility was fast drawing to a close. Maggie drew a sigh. She was so lucky compared to many of her friends; like her colleague, Sandy, with a messy divorce behind her and a teenage son who drove his mother demented. And if her husband worked long hours and had sometimes to cancel social engagements because of work, she could still treasure the knowledge that she was his only love and that they would always share a unique and special bond. The notion brought her back to the warring lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Maggie settled back to prepare lessons for the following weeks.

‘No he isn’t here at present. No. Would you? Oh, well, thanks for that, ma’am.’

DCI Lorimer put down the telephone and looked at it thoughtfully. The deputy chief constable had expressed both the horror and outrage that he himself had felt over DC Fathy’s revelation. Talking to Joyce Rogers had been a good idea since she had taken such a personal interest in their Egyptian detective constable. We need more ethnic minorities representing our forces, she’d told him more than once since Fathy had transferred from Grampian. But if there were racist elements at work within their divisions then something was seriously wrong. Lorimer wondered just how to begin to tackle this. There were known groups, football casuals among them, that were blatantly racist. It might pay to ask a few questions in those quarters. But since the first incident had actually happened here, in the locker area, just yards from the charge bar where officers came and went at all hours of the day and night, he really should begin with their own division. If it was an incident involving serious crime, then he could have used some technology, like hidden cameras, but that was completely out of the question given the number of officers using the locker area. And, since Fathy hadn’t a clue who his attacker was, they had to keep any investigation very low-key indeed. Any officer worth their salt would have taken precautions to keep his (or her) DNA off the materials sent to Fathy through the post. But he might just call up a favour from his chum in the Scottish criminal record office to have the letters and note dusted for prints. Even the most forensically aware person could still make mistakes, he reasoned. Lorimer would make enquiries, he’d promised Joyce Rogers, keep it as discreet as possible, see if he could avoid putting it through official channels just yet. The DCI pursed his lips as he thought about all the things going on right now; Fathy’s problem, the hunt for Billy Brogan, and his wife’s difficulty in coming to terms with her operation.

Then there was Sol ly and why he was being sidelined when such skills as his were invaluable. His frown changed to the faintest of smiles. Solly would soon be immersed in fatherhood and Lorimer was certain that the psychologist would make an excellent dad. Should he be feeling a pang of envy? Or was he so wrapped up in this job that he simply never had the time to think of what he was missing?

A

aaaagh!’ The man’s scream bounced off the walls, tripling the sound of his agony.

‘No nice taste grass up yer mates, Jaffa. No nice at all,’ the man standing over Jaffrey whispered softly, chuckling as he watched the pain twist the man’s face.

‘C’mon Raj, let’s git oot o’ here,’ a voice behind him insisted. ‘He’s grassed wance, he’ll mibbe grass us up anither time.’ ‘No, Vik,’ Raj replied. ‘Jaffa won’t do that, will you, son?’ Jaffrey’s frightened face looked up and he shook his head, opening his mouth to beseech his tormentors.

But Raj had already raised his knife, plunging down hard, cutting off any coherent words.

The high-pitched scream of pain ended in barely a whimper. Then the two men turned and walked away from the shadows of the deserted factory into the bright afternoon sunlight. Raj heaved the metal door shut then secured it with the large padlock that had dangled from its hasp. The derelict building had a row of windows set high up on one side, all of them broken like stars from a toddler’s drawing book. Weeds grew up against the ruins of a pathway around the place, feathery willow herb and

thistles, their fluffy seed heads floating skywards. He let his eyes roam over the area round about. Several dark brown bottles that had been kicked into the undergrowth glinted in the afternoon light, evidence that people had been here. Probably jakeys from up in the village over that nearby hill, he told himself, then grinned. Nobody would find Jaffa any time soon. And by the time they did, he would be past telling anything. He swaggered to where Vikram was waiting by his Beamer, nodding to himself in satisfaction. ‘Hey, dinna mess the car, man,’ Vikram whined, stepping in front of Raj, who still clutched the bloodstained knife in his left hand. ‘Aye, nae sweat,’ Raj replied, bending down to push the blade into the tussocky ground beside the black BMW before wiping it on the grass. ‘Now, c’mon. let’s split before onybody clocks us.’ The big car accelerated from the patch of rough ground and sped off around a bend past a copse of mottled sycamores. Somewhere, unseen, a blackbird began to call; an insistent warning cry, signalling danger. But all that could be seen on that September afternoon was a swirl of dust settling back onto the dried-up earth. The bird flew out of the thorn bush, its dark shape a swift arrow against the fading blue sky. And no sound issued from behind the wooden doors, where a man lay bleeding quietly to death.

‘e’s not come home,’ the woman said, her voice breaking H into the threat of a sob. ‘What should I do?’ Young Jaffrey looked around him as a crowd of tourists passed by the pavement cafe. The sun that shone down on the busy Mallorcan street made the boy resentful as he listened to his mother and that plea in her tone that suggested he should pack up now and return home. His mouth drooped into a sulk as he thought how to reply. ‘Well, don’t do anything foolish, will you?’ he said at last. ‘That’s not what Dad would want, now, is it?’ ‘Oh, I was hoping …’ the woman’s sentence tailed off but there was no need for her to finish it. Young Jaffrey knew fine what she was wanting him to say: that he’d come home, sort things out. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll probably have a good reason for staying out.’ He bit his lip, wondering as he spoke just what such a reason might be. ‘Ring me when Dad comes back. All right? Have to go now. Bye.’ The boy clicked his mobile off, looking thoughtful. Was this something to do with that murder case back home? He’d let Dad know about Brogan, after all. And his own snooping had produced results. That gossipy girl behind the hotel desk had let slip that

the Spanish police were trying to find Brogan. But the trail here had gone cold, neither the police nor his own furtive enquiries were producing any sign of the Glasgow dealer. It was all wrong, the boy told himself. Their kind should stick together, not mix with guys like Brogan. The dealer had many friends within the Asian community, though, didn’t he? And rumour had it that he was well in with the Hundi, a personage who commanded huge respect from everyone young Jaffrey knew. He frowned. Would Dad have done anything stupid to upset the fragile balance that existed between families like their own and the powerful men who controlled the ebb and flow of drugs in the city? The thought made him blanch under his tanned skin. Whatever was going on back home, he was better off right here away from it all.

‘The PD-100 Black Hornet has the advantage of almost total

silence,’ the man said, turning his head to make eye contact with

his audience. Lorimer tried hard not to fidget. The man’s presentation at the Pitt Street assembly hall was going quite well so far and he had that knack of every good speaker for engaging his audience with humorous anecdotes. Most of these had been relevant to his subject which was what their attention was focussed upon: a tiny helicopter smaller than a cricket ball. So far the man had shown the senior officers some video footage of the device at work. Powered by an electric motor, the helicopter had rotor blades that measured a mere ten centimetres in diameter. Lorimer had been a little sceptical at first, especially when his neighbour had nudged him, remarking that they were being shown a clip from a Harry Potter film and that the PD whatshisname was really the Snitch in disguise. Now Lorimer was paying a bit more attention as the speaker began to demonstrate the little machine’s other facilities.

“The microphone has now been fully tested and it can “eavesdrop” on conversations at a range determined by its controllers. This adds to the benefits of it being used in situations that call for extra care like the hostage situation I mentioned earlier.’ The DCI was sitting up straighter now taking notice of all the pictures being shown on the screen. A close-up of the device made it look far too simple but in the videos he had seen how it could whirr silently, unnoticed by the men inside the building who had been part of the mock-up incident. It looked good, he had to admit. One more tool for the box, he could almost hear his old super saying. And it was right that the force should be looking to technological developments to help in fighting crime. If a wee helicopter like that could film a crime scene that was under surveillance then perhaps it should be given a place in their budget. ‘More toys for the boys,’ Helen James remarked wearily as they filed out of the hall afterwards. Lorimer smiled at her politely, not wanting to get into an argument about it. He recognised the woman as a DCI from another division who had been up to her ears with the press lately on a series of missing girls who were known prostitutes. Helen’s dough-coloured pallor on a skin that was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones was something that every one of her fellow officers could recognise — too much work and too little sleep. That she had taken time to attend this presentation surprised Lorimer. Perhaps she was simply escaping for an hour? He knew how that could work. A brief respite that was still within the description of work could always help to focus back on a difficult case like the one she was on. Nodding to her as they walked out into the daylight again, Lorimer hoped that it might do the same for himself.

Solly turned the key of his office, smiling in appreciation as he

entered the room. It was a different office from the one he had

occupied for much of his tenure at the university and reflected his status as professor designate. He nodded approvingly at the light that flooded in from the two tall windows, art deco ovals etched onto the upper parts of their frames. It was, Solly told himself, a handsome room. Yes, handsome was certainly the correct word to choose. Putting down his briefcase, Solly wandered around the room, touching the edge of a huge rectangular table that sat in the centre of the room. It was easily big enough for any of his seminars and as Solly stood there he imagined a group of young faces laughing and chatting as he encouraged their developing thoughts. The bookcases that lined almost every wall had begun to fill up with his books; the summer had seen him make lots of trips between his old, modern office and this large airy room. He strolled across to the window, looking down the length of University Avenue, past the line of parked cars next to black painted railings. A small smile of satisfaction hovered on the psychologist’s lips. Down there on the left was the department of forensic medicine, its sand-blasted walls a honey tone just visible behind the trees. In winter he would be able to look out and imagine Rosie when she was in her office; her time being divided between the campus and the city mortuary. His eyes drifted across to the buildings opposite, the crow-stepped gables jutting out from moss-covered roofs. Funny how this place felt so much like home to him. London was part of his past now, though he would surely continue to make family visits. Solly moved away from the window, checking the small desk where his new computer lay ready to be switched on. The departmental website would soon have his title changed from doctor to professor. How would he feel seeing that every time he logged on? Or came around the turn of the stair to see it emblazoned upon his door?