Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (31 page)

‘You’re right. This is altogether trickier. We want to see if we can locate a woman, Marianne Scott. Her brother, Billy Brogan, is somewhere overseas and we have reason to believe he’s involved somehow in the murder of Marianne’s former husband.’ Lorimer stopped, biting his lip. ‘It’s a bit complicated. Brogan was thought to be a small-time drug dealer but our current intelligence suggests that he was involved in the drug scene in a much deeper way altogether.’

‘Go on,’ Kirsty nodded, her eyes still holding his own, showing that she was genuinely interested.

‘We think the ex-husband, Kenneth Scott, had been stalking his former wife. He was found shot in his own home, he’s got no record nor has he any known association with criminals other than the fact that Brogan was his brother-in-law.’ Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘Then a couple of other Glasgow dealers are found shot dead in Brogan’s home and we get the nod that Brogan has skipped to Spain.’

‘You think Brogan killed all three men?’ Kirsty asked. Lorimer gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That’s just it. We did at first,

but we don’t think that now. Timing for the second two is all wrong and we’ve got ballistics evidence to suggest that all three were killed by the same weapon.’

Kirsty re-crossed her legs and frowned at him. ‘So why are you putting out an appeal for the sister? I don’t quite understand.’

‘She’s deliberately gone into hiding. Even made sure her name was taken off Glasgow University’s registry database while she was a student there. Something’s wrong,’ he said, leaning forward. She may even be dead, he almost told her, but stopped himself in time. Had Marianne Scott been tatgeted by the same hit man? This was a question that Lorimer did not yet want to utter aloud, his mind full of so many doubts and possibilities. But what if she were still alive?

‘If we can find her and question her, or anyone who knows her or has seen her, we may be able to locate the brother.’

‘How will that help to find the killer, though?’

‘Brogan owed a lot of money to some very dangerous people. And only he can give us their names. That isn’t the whole story, though, I’m afraid,’ he continued. ‘A man called Sahid Jaffrey was brutally killed on the south side of the city recently.’ Lorimer looked hard at the woman across the table. ‘He was the police informant who let us know that Brogan was in Spain.’

‘This gets more and more complicated,’ Kirsty said. ‘How do you suggest we put such a lot of information across to our viewers?’

‘We don’t,’ said Lorimer shortly. ‘What I want to do is to appeal for information for any sighting of this woman whose ex-husband was found dead. If we can slant the appeal to that sort of angle, suggest without actually saying that she may be a suspect, then perhaps we will have some response.’

‘And you don’t think she actually had anything to do with these killings?’ Kirsty asked, slowly. ‘They were done by a professional,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Brogan’s ex-army and we thought at first it might have been him.’ ‘But the timings were wrong,’ Kirsty said, echoing Lorimer’s earlier statement. `So what do you actually know about this woman, Marianne Scott?’

‘She was a mature student at the University of Glasgow. That’s why we asked the editors to have footage of the campus as part of the appeal,’ he said. ‘Anyone who knew her in that context might want to give us a ring.’

‘How odd that she was able to have her name taken off the registry,’ Kirsty remarked.

‘Aye,’ Lorimer replied. ‘We’re looking into that as well. And we’ll find out just how she managed it, believe me.’ ‘Well, Chief Inspector, this is certainly going to be a little bit different from our usual appeals. Still,’ her eyes twinkled at him, ‘we are accustomed to senior officers giving out only part of their case histories. Wouldn’t do to give too much information to the criminals, after all. That’s not what we’re about.’

‘Indeed,’ Lorimer nodded. `So, this is what I have drawn up.’ He handed over a slim sheaf of notes from the folder that was on his knee.

Maggie set down her empty coffee mug on a coaster and tapped in the numbers she knew off by heart. Almost immediately she heard her friend’s voice. Rosie sounded tired, Maggie thought guiltily. ‘Hi, it’s me. Hope you weren’t lying down or anything,’ she added lamely.

‘Don’t worry, the phone’s beside the sofa,’ Rosie replied. ‘Nice to hear from you. It’s been a while. Busy as always?’ she chuckled.

‘Yes, you know what it’s like,’ Maggie said vaguely, twisting a dark curled strand of hair through her fingers. ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ she said. ‘Anyway, just wanted you and SoIly to know that Bill’s on Crimewatch tonight. It’s not a reconstruction, just an appeal,’ she said.

‘Oh, right. That wouldn’t be anything to do with these three chaps whose PMs I did recently, would it?’

‘Yes, same case. The one that involves a man called Brogan, I think. Bill hasn’t told me too much about it,’ she replied.

‘Great,’ Rosie said. ‘Well, thanks for letting us know. If I’m off to bed before it’s on I’ll get SoIly to record it. He’s up at the uni just now,’ she added.

`Oh,’ Maggie replied. There was a silence between the two women as Maggie struggled to put her thoughts into words. She couldn’t tell Rosie why she hadn’t been in touch, she simply couldn’t.

‘Well,’ Rosie said at last in a tone that Maggie realised was forced brightness. ‘Maybe we’ll see you pair up here one of these days when life’s calmed down, eh?’

`Mm. That would be nice. Maybe once Bill’s less busy with this horrible case,’ she added.

‘You’re welcome to come up on your own, you know,’ Rosie said briskly, ‘if you have the time.’

‘Thanks,’ Maggie replied. ‘I’ll do my best, honest. But, listen I’ve got to go, someone’s at the door. Bye.’

Clicking the phone shut, Maggie Lorimer bit her lip at the sudden deception. It wasn’t in her nature to tell such lies, especially to a friend like Rosie. There was no knock at the front door, no sound at all, only Chancer who had somehow found her lap when she wasn’t looking and was now purring happily. Maggie stroked his soft fur absently, feeling more wretched than before. If

only she could tell someone how she felt: how the prospect of this operation was making her feel that she would be diminished as a woman. It was bad enough to be barren, but to lose that part of her …

At any other time Maggie would have sought comfort and advice from Rosie, but not now. Not when the pathologist was about to give birth to a child of her own.

Amit turned on the television and flicked through the channels. There was nothing much on that he really wanted to see. Maybe the radio would be a better option, with some music to soothe his troubled spirits. He flicked back to BBC1, intending to switch off but then something stopped him.

It was not the woman’s low, seductive voice that halted the Pakistani, but that familiar name on her lips. Amit froze. He knew this programme, Crimewatch, and had seen bits of reconstructions of some violent crimes that reminded him far too much of things that he preferred to forget. Suddenly there were scenes he recognised; the dark red sandstone of the university, its spires against a cloudless blue sky, the quadrangles with their gothic arches, then the scene changed to the streets around the library and Wellington church, students thronging the pavements. He’d walked there often with Marianne in these first days, tentatively finding his bearings around the campus and the streets that comprised Glasgow’s West End. And she had been kind to him, hadn’t she? Always making sure he could find his way back to the flat he had rented for her.

Amit listened to the presenter’s voice and watched as she turned to the dark-haired man at her side. It was a police officer from Strathclyde, Amit realised, hearing the man’s accent; some

senior officer called Lorimer. And now he, too, was talking about Marianne.

Amit clutched the edge of his seat, fingers trembling. What had happened to her? He listened as the officer recounted the facts. Marianne’s ex-husband had been shot dead in his own home and the woman appeared to be deliberately trying to hide from the authorities.

What was the man saying? That Marianne, his Marianne, had killed this man? This Kenneth Scott? Amit blinked as though to clear his vision. But the policeman’s face was drawing closer to the television screen as a camera zoomed in on him, filling Amit’s head with all sorts of ideas.

‘We would especially ask any of her friends from Glasgow University or anyone who was close to her to make contact with us,’ Lorimer was saying. ‘No matter when you last saw Marianne Scott, please get in touch.’

Then he paused and Amit saw his blue eyes staring intently as if he were speaking directly to him.

‘If you are watching this yourself, Marianne, please call us or go to your nearest police office. We very much want to speak to you.’

Amit sat very still as the numbers appeared on the TV screen. A faint ringing sounded in his ears and he licked his lips, feeling how dry they were.

He knew what he could do. More than that, he knew what he should do.

But there was only one question drumming a beat in his brain: had he the courage to give up everything he had gained since his arrival in this city?

Lorimer sat staring at the screen in front of him, his fist closed

over the handset. All over the country phones would be dialling

the Ctimetwatth number, texting or emailing messages. A lot of them would be a complete waste of time, many simply hoaxes by stupid people who got a kick out of sending duff information. The police were used to that sort of behaviour, though. The Yorkshire Ripper case had been dogged by bogus intelligence to the extent that Peter Sutcliffe had managed to select another victim before he had eventually been apprehended and shut away for good. ‘Thanks for calling,’ Lorimer said, putting down the phone on a woman whose voice had betrayed her genuine eagerness to help. She’d been a fellow student at Anniesland College and now her details were to hand should she be needed again. The day seemed to be going on for ever, he thought, glancing up at a clock on the wall. Since their arrival that afternoon, Lorimer and the members of his team had been briefed about the programme, undertaken a preliminary rehearsal, had dinner (which seemed like hours ago) followed by a dress rehearsal for the nine p.m. live programme. Now each of his hand-picked officers was responding to the calls that were coming in, urged on by Kirsty Young’s usual polished performance. But, as yet, nothing had come through that would give any clue as to Marianne’s whereabouts and the DCI began to gnaw his lower lip anxiously. Just what had become of Ken Scott’s ex-wife?

Amit looked around the room and saw all the things he had accumulated since his arrival. Nice things, expensive things, that he had hoped would delight Marianne. And the part ownership of the restaurant, the car outside, his very future… all these things would be taken from him if he lifted the telephone and made that call.

Suddenly he remembered the night that they had come for his

father. Now he could vividly recall the stern, unyielding faces of the officials who had beaten the old man until he was senseless; he could remember the wailing cries of the women who begged them to stop; remembered his own tears running down his face. They had left Papa Shafiq there at last, a crumpled heap surrounded by his weeping family. That battered and bleeding body with unseeing eyes staring heavenwards was a sight that Amit had tried so hard to banish to the darkest parts of his mind. But now it was as if it had come back to tell him something.

His father had led an exemplary life, had enjoyed wealth and the respect of many of his peers. But in the end everything had been taken from him.

What was it all about, this little life that was rounded by a sleep? Amit shook his head, wondering. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he lifted the telephone and dialled.

He listened to the instructions on the line then a voice asked him to speak.

‘My name is Amit Shafiq.’ He paused to clear his throat, amazed to hear the sound of his own voice and how strong it sounded. ‘I’m calling about the Crimewatch programme,’ he said at last. It’s about the woman they are calling Marianne Scott,’ he continued.

‘That’s right,’ the operator said. ‘Do you have information about her?’

Amit swallowed, then licked his lips.

‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘she’s my wife.’

Pamela tiptoed around the tall policeman from Glasgow, trying to

catch his eye. He was speaking into the telephone right now and

didn’t look as though he would want to be interrupted. But it was part of the girl’s remit to brief this man on what was happening elsewhere in the studios, and really, he would want to know about this call in particular, wouldn’t he?

T

he hit man picked up the passport and flicked the pages until he came to a reasonable likeness of himself. Stern and

unsmiling, Michael Stevens, aged forty-two, glared back at him from the square of plastic. It was a name he rarely used when he was working but sometimes it became necessary to be himself again for overseas business where the pickings were richer. Here in the UK he could make plenty though. If the punters hiring him paid up, he reminded himself sourly, remembering Billy Brogan. But for now he was Max Whittaker to the woman and Smith to his Asian paymasters. Only someone like Brogan himself would be able to tell the real story about Mick Stevens, the sniper who had made such a name for himself in the Iraq conflict. He laughed silently. The army had taught him plenty, hadn’t it? How to kill being one of its main lessons.

Stevens listened to the rush of water from the bathroom next door. Marianne was taking a shower, washing away their night of pleasure. The hit man grinned to himself. She had been so easy to beguile, he could hardly believe it. Ripe for picking. In a way he could almost imagine someone pitying the woman for setting her cap at him. But pity was not an emotion that a man like Stevens ever allowed himself to feel. He slipped the passport into the

duffle bag beside the items he would need for the journey back

down south. Being ready to leave at a moment’s notice was some thing else he had learned in the forces. Sitting back on the bed he fondled the gun, its familiar shape fitting snugly in his hand. His eyes moved from the Glock to the bathroom door, anticipating the look on her face when she emerged, naked and utterly vulnerable.