Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (3 page)

The man laid down the gun then fiddled with the straps on the worn leather bag. He had it down to a fine art, now,

could strip down the weapon in seconds, transforming it into several parts easily stowed away in the holdall. The job had been simple enough. The guy had been sleepy, hardly registering his presence before the shot that had penetrated his skull. ‘Didn’t know what hit him,’ he muttered under his breath. It was a mantra he often whispered to himself, partly to expunge the act he had committed. He’d forget the man, his address, anything he had known about him, as soon as the money was handed over. He was just another job, that was all. The hit man preferred not to know why he had been assigned to kill this man or why the target had deserved such an end. And there was certainly no room in a mind like his for false sentiment. Sitting along the edge of the unmade bed he stuffed some balled-up clothes into the bag, tucking the bundle closely around the pieces of hardware.

A quick look around the room sufficed to seek anything that might tell of his presence, but he saw nothing; the gunman was as meticulous in his habits as he was cautious, always choosing some bland, cut-price chain of hotel where there was a large client turnover. Soon a maid would come to clean this room, put on fresh

linen and another traveller would lay their head on that pillow, oblivious to the identity of the room’s previous occupant. He tightened the final notch, slung the bag over his shoulder and headed out of the hotel room, just another tourist checking out.

‘There you are, sir. I hope you enjoyed your stay with us. Have a lovely day.’ The girl with the sleek, dark ponytail barely gave the man a glance, though she did fasten a smile on her lips before turning her attention back to her paperwork. A pleasant faced, middle-aged man of medium build, wearing a khaki-coloured jacket and washed out blue jeans, he was out of her mind even before he had left the building. Now he was ready to pick up his wages. His car’s satellite navigation system would have to take him to the meeting place, across the city. He’d never been to that particular spot before. Then he’d be heading back down the motorway, safe in the knowledge that he had completed another satisfactory assignment. The wind whipped his jacket as he walked around the corner of the building to where he had parked his car, stinging his face with a hint of rain. Looking up at a sky full of grey clouds scudding across the heavens, he muttered a curse under his breath, hoping that he wouldn’t have to wait too long for the handover.

Minutes later he was heading past Glasgow International Airport towards the city, one eye on the screen showing his route.

There were not many students about at this time of year. For most of them term did not begin for another two months though there were always those unfortunates with failed examinations to take again who pretended to themselves that physical proximity to the university buildings was going to make all the difference

next time. So, as he lounged against a pillar in the draughty Gothic portico next to the quadrangle, the gunman had little to see of comings and goings. That suited him. The fewer nosey parkers who remarked upon his presence there the better. A tall, grey-headed man strode out of a door and paused momentarily in his stride as he caught sight of the stranger. A sudden flare of nostrils at the wisp of cigarette smoke issuing from the stranger’s lips expressed his disapproval. Then he was sweeping past on his way and into another massive doorway before the gunman could blink.

‘Bang!’ he said softly, making a pistol from his fingers and pointing it in the grey man’s direction. Then he gave a low chuckle. Snooty academic! He could blow him away as soon as look at him. He’d had his fill of that type in the forces; the ones who enjoyed tormenting you because they could pull rank. He’d left a couple of them with souvenirs that they’d carry on their bodies for the rest of their lives.

A quick glance at his wristwatch made him frown. He was late. And he didn’t want to hit the rush hour traffic further down the motorway. Flicking the stub of his cigarette towards the door where the donnish looking man had gone, he took a step forward, wondering if he could stretch his legs. It didn’t do to look conspicuous. And if the tall guy reappeared and asked what he was doing, well, that wouldn’t be good, would it? Maybe he could risk a stroll around that square of grass where he could keep one eye on this place?

Doctor Solomon Brightman emerged from the door opposite the quad clutching an overflowing briefcase tightly to his side. It was still a while until the new term began but for Solly and his colleagues the work was already well underway. Still, he’d done

enough for today and now he wanted to drop this lot off before going into town to visit his favourite bookshop. As the psychology lecturer stepped onto the grass he was aware of a figure strolling towards him. A stranger, dressed in casual clothes, a cigarette palmed in his right hand. A tourist, probably, visiting the University of Glasgow on the hop-on, hop-off bus that took visitors around the city. As they passed one another, Solly prepared to smile and nod, a common enough courtesy, but the man turned his head away, almost deliberately, as though avoiding Solly’s glance. It was enough to make the psychologist curious. He was peren

nially curious about human behaviour, of course, and looking at the departing figure of the man, he couldn’t help but feel that here was a person who wanted to remain anonymous. And he began to wonder why.

An hour later the gunman realised that nobody was going to arrive. The wind that had threatened rain whipped through the cloisters with a ferocity that made the dried leaves scurry into the shelter of doorways. With one last look at the green square beyond the chilly pillars, he turned his heel, grinding the stub of a cigarette before moving into the warmth of a nearby corridor. It had happened before and might well happen again. Sometimes it just took a little more time and not-so-gentle per statNion to get the money out of whoever had hired him. He

clenched his teeth as he strode through the building, eyes alert for

the nearest exit. Soon he was out and heading over the hill

towards his car. He’d have to make a couple of phone calls then

key in another address to the sat-nay. He swore as the blast of rain drove into his face. What he wanted was a few hours on the motor way then home, not hanging around this godforsaken city. The

piece of plastic fluttering madly against the windscreen made him stop and swear again. Bloody parking ticket! With one swipe he tore it free from the wiper blades and stuffed it into his pocket. They could whistle for their fine. It was just one more aggravation added to the inconvenience of having to remain here a while. A grim smile hovered across his mouth. Someone was going to pay dearly for this.

Once upon a time,’ that was how stories ought to begin, Solly

mused, walking slowly past the rows of books for the third time. Hadn’t his own childhood reading been like that? Well, perhaps not, he smiled, recognising The House at Pooh Corner and a couple of familiar Roald Dahls. It was an interesting idea, though, that traditional phrases like ‘Once upon a time’ were somehow rooted in one’s own consciousness. Perhaps he could use that in one of his seminar meetings for the second year students next term. The smile above the dark beard continued as Doctor Solomon Brightman, psychologist and expectant father, stopped beside a shelf of brightly coloured books for very small children.

Little blue men and flowers with grinning faces peered up at him. Shaking his head slightly, Solly picked out a cloth book that rustled as he touched its pages. Ah, this was more like it. He remembered a conference in Sweden where he had been in conversation with a fellow psychologist when the subject of tactile stimulation had been under discussion. Flipping the first page in his hands, Solly saw the black and white shapes, like petals, some large and some repeating a pattern. A young baby would receive visual information while being attracted by the sensual feel of its soft pages, crackling plastic portions cleverly concealed within.

Quite without warning he blinked away a sudden tear. A baby. His baby. His and Rosie’s. Standing still in that bookshop, oblivious to other people moving past him, Solly experienced a moment of revelation. He was well aware that fatherhood could produce such feelings in an individual. Hadn’t he been teaching that for some considerable time now? His rational self might well be able to identify each chemical and hormonal surge producing a physical sensation having no name other than the abstract: joy. But that he should have such feelings in his own breast was nothing short of a miracle. Wasn’t that what he’d heard grandmothers call a newborn? A little miracle.

‘Doctor Brightman!’

Solly spun around as his name was called out. A woman stood at the end of the aisle, a quizzical look on her face as though she wasn’t absolutely certain that she had the correct person. Solly smiled tentatively, trying hard to recall the woman to mind. Too old to be one of his university students, and yet there was something familiar about that mane of red hair cascading down her shoulders, and those unwavering eyes.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she continued, sweeping her gaze along the row of children’s books. Then she looked at him again, as though she were aware of his discomfiture and it amused her. Head held high, she regarded him boldly, a smile playing around her mouth.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Sully remarked, struggling to put a name to a face that he felt should be familiar. Was she one of his mature students? There were a few married women under his tutelage. Could he remember their names, though? His eyes fell on to her hands: no wedding ring, no help there, then. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, staring At him, ‘I’ve often imagined running into you, wondering what I would ray if I did.’ The woman

regarded him steadily, her eyes dark with an unfathomable expression.

‘I’ve got a lot to thank you for, you know,’ she said, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘See you next term.’ Then, with a brittle smile and a wave of her hand she turned on her heel, disappeared around the row of books and was gone.

SoIly stood for a moment, strangely disquieted at the enigmatic remark. She knew him. She expected to see him next term, so she must be one of his students, surely? And what had she to thank him for? Passing the exams? He frowned. Her words had been spoken in a tone of sudden gravity. So why couldn’t he conjure up her name?

A frown creased his dark brow as the psychologist stared into space, struggling to remember. Mhairi. Was that her name? Or Marie something… Hadn’t she been the one with the funny surname? Or maybe not. Names were not the psychologist’s strong point but he did have a good recall for faces. But the woman he had just seen bore little resemblance to the student he remembered. This woman seemed altogether more confident, more … alive than the person he had taught all of last session.

Solly bit his lip thoughtfully. Alive. That was the correct word to use, right enough. For the Mari something or other who had sat through his seminars and scraped a bare pass in her first year exams was a mere shadow of the woman who had spoken to him moments ago. That stream of Titian hair had been screwed up into a messy bun at the back of her head, often as not, her pale face devoid of makeup, Solly remembered, casting his mind back to the seminars in his office at Glasgow University. There was a vibrancy about this creature that was at odds with his memory of her; Mari (was it Mhairi?) had dragged herself to his classes, a permanent air of grey exhaustion about her. At one point in the

session he remembered asking if she had been unwell. Her dull eyed expression had given the lie to her assurance that she was fine.

The psychologist hadn’t expected the woman to continue her course. But she’d gained the necessary grades and now she’d be back in his orbit once again. Whatever had happened to make her change so dramatically had to be good, Solly thought to himself. Love, perhaps? Or was it merely the escape from the drudgery of constant study? Shrugging his shoulders, the psychologist gazed at the spot where the woman had stood before resuming his inspection of the rows of little books.

In the weeks to come Doctor Solomon Brightman would have cause to consider this chance encounter and just what it had revealed. But for now his disquiet remained a temporary distraction, not the thing of darkness and despair that would come to haunt his dreams.

He was really the only person in the world she could trust. Brother Billy. Wee toerag, his da had called him often

enough before he’d been thrown out of the family home. No sweat, though. He knew his da had been right in his assessment of him. Billy Brogan, class A toerag, dealer in illegal substances, now doing a runner before all the shit caught up with him.

Billy chuckled to himself. She’d given him the 10K in used notes, dead careful not to have them traced to her bank account. Clever, she was clever all right, but not a match for her wee brother. No siree.

Billy swung the backpack onto his shoulders as he left the aircraft. The heat from the fuselage mixed with something else, a warmth that you didn’t get even in the best of Glasgow summers. Man, this would be the life all right. A wee holiday in Spain first, since he had plenty of spending money, then off again to where the action was. Morocco, natch. Marrakesh. Where it all came from. He’d be the main man in no time at all, nae pushers coming in between him and the gear, giving him a hard time.

Billy strode up the corridor, glancing now and again out of the tinted windows. It was still daylight but the sky had a rosy pink hue where the light met the horizon. For a moment he slowed

down, the bravado he’d been feeling lost in the realisation that he was in a different country now. Och, but it was Spain, Majorca, where Glesca folk came all the time on their holidays. They’d all speak English, eh? Billy tried to reassure himself. Then the corridor opened out into a large hall where loads of people were sitting waiting on rows of plastic seats. Waiting to go home again, he thought, seeing sun-reddened flesh and down-turned mouths. And ah’m jist arriving, he told them silently. Joining a queue to show his passport, Billy kept staring straight ahead as though fearful that his expression might give the game away. But it was a quick in and out, a Spanish hand waving him along as the man in the booth barely glanced at his picture. Further along past the luggage carousels he could see holiday reps with placards showing the names of their companies. But nobody was there to meet Billy Brogan. A shiver passed down the young man’s spine. Whit the hell wis he doin’ here onywey? The sudden panic made him want to turn straight around and get back on that plane bound for Glasgow. But that wasn’t possible any more, was it?