Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (32 page)

Marianne hummed as she twisted the bath towel over her hair, tucking in the ends. Max hadn’t mentioned what they would do today, but she was already thinking of suggesting another journey away from the city, maybe to St Andrews where they could walk along the sands at Tentsmuir, a quiet estuary out of the town. She imagined the smell of the pine trees and how they might run along the beach together, hand in hand, listening to the North Sea

surf rolling in. The picture of the water’s edge and the copse of sweet scented trees was switched off abruptly as her brain commanded Marianne to take in what she was really seeing. The man lying back on the bed had a large pistol in his hand and it was pointing straight at her. ‘Max?’ she hesitated, drawing the thick bath towel more closely around her. ‘What are you doing?’ Marianne shook her head. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ She made to move towards the bed but then stopped, frozen by the expression on her lover’s face. ‘No joke, darling. No joke at all,’ the hit man drawled. ‘Now just you step over there nice and slowly,’ he added, motioning with the gun. ‘And do keep quiet like a good girl, won’t you? This little beauty is loaded,’ he told her, smiling. ‘All ready to use if you don’t do exactly as I tell you.’

Am it sat twisting his hands together below the surface of the table, feeling the dampness on his palms. He had been spoken to politely by the officers who had met him at the front of the police station, had even been called `sir’. One of them had led him into a corridor with a row of chairs that were fixed to the wall and there Amit had sat, waiting, watching the clock as it ticked through almost twenty-five interminable minutes. Had it really been necessary to make him wait all that time to see the senior officer, Lorimer? Wasn’t it all part of a strategy to unnerve him? When at last he had been ushered into this small square den of a room, Amit had felt like one of the criminals he had seen on that programme. ‘Mr Shafiq? DCI Lorimer.’

Amit stood up suddenly, the scrape of his chair on the floor sounding unnaturally loud.

The tall man who entered the room made the Pakistani feel very small as he shook his damp hand and motioned him to sit back down again. He was not what Amit had expected. There was nothing harsh about this man’s face, though the lines showed signs of worry and fatigue that Amit supposed must be inevitable given his choice of profession. As he flicked a lock of dark hair back from his brow, Amit saw a keen intelligence in the policeman’s blue eyes and something else, something that reassured him. A trace of what would he call it… sympathy, perhaps? ‘It’s good of you to come in, sir,’ Lorimer began. ‘We really appreciate it.’

Amit’s eyes flicked to the other man who had sat beside Lorimer. He was very dark, a Nubian Egyptian by the look of his beautifully sculpted face, Amit thought. And a policeman, here in Scotland?

‘Detective Constable Fathy,’ Lorimer said and the younger

man leaned across the table to shake Annit’s hand, the stiff little nod of his head serving as a bow. Amit breathed a long sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. These people were on his side, surely? They wanted to find Marianne as much as he did. And hadn’t she often told him that the British police were a different breed altogether from the kind of men who had taken his father’s life away? Besides, these men wore no intimidating uniform. Lorimer’s shirt was a little rumpled and the knot on his tie had been loosened a little as though he had been hard at work and needed to be comfortable at his desk, somewhere else in this building. ‘I will have to ask you rather a lot of questions, sir,’ Lorimer told him, ‘so please bear with me.’ He looked at Amit and smiled encouragingly. ‘I know this must be very hard for you.’ Amit nodded, taking a deep breath. He felt calmer now that this process had begun and was mildly surprised at his feeling of relief that some larger authority was taking over the burden he had been carrying around for those long days since Marianne had

disappeared. ‘It might seem like a strange question, sir, but can you give us any proof that this woman is indeed your wife?’ Amit tried a tremulous smile as he passed the folded paper

across the table. The policeman took it and frowned as he read the marriage cer tificate. ‘You were married in Las Vegas?’ Amit’s smile faltered. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘But why? I mean, why go there?’ The Asian shrugged. ‘It was her wish. And one does not deny a bride-to-be her heart’s desires.’ Lorimer gave a short laugh. ‘And what did you make of Vegas?’

Not a very nice place, sir. It was. .’ he broke off as though the memories were ones he would prefer to forget. Not what I had expected for my own nuptials, sir,’ he sighed at last. ‘It was over so quickly. But then, perhaps my bride had reasons for wishing to be married somewhere like that. Somewhere anonymous . . Amit bit his lip as though he was finding it hard to speak. ‘When did you last see your wife?’

Amit cleared his throat and told them about finding that deserted room. Then, without warning, he put his head in his hands and began to weep. ‘Forgive me,’ he mumbled. ‘It has been a bad time. I did not know what to think . .

‘Perhaps it would be better to start at the beginning,’ Lorimer suggested, ‘then we can build up a clearer picture, hm?’ Amit nodded, unable to speak. Then, taking a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket, he blew his nose.

Lorimer had listened patiently, never once interrupting as Amit Shafiq had told his story. It had begun in far-off Lahore with the murder of his father by political opponents and Amit’s flight to freedom in Scotland. The tale unfolded as the man spoke about the contact he had made; Dhesi, a kindly beneficent man with whom he had forged a business partnership in Glasgow. It was a stroke of luck, Amit had explained, seeing Lorimer’s eyebrows raised in a question. ‘Before that I was also introduced to a Scotsman,’ Amit went on. ‘A Mr Brogan. A good friend of the Asian community, I believed,’ he murmured.

Lorimer noted the way the man’s voice tailed off. What had happened to change that belief, he wondered? And was there something else that he wasn’t saying?

‘Go on,’ he said quietly, as Amit fell silent, his eyes cast down. With a sigh the man continued. ‘Mr Brogan said he could help me to find permanent residence in Glasgow. Said I would be able to become a British citizen. Arranged for me to meet his sister.’ Lorimer listened, understanding what it must have been like for this man, frightened and alone in a strange city, desperate for

some form of security. ‘I met Marianne one day in the park,’ Amit said softly, his eyes shining with tenderness at the memory. ‘She was a kind lady, very lovely, and I could see that she was willing to be a friend to me,’ he raised his hands and looked at the officers in expectation. ‘You see, I needed to stay here and Marianne offered me that oppor tunity,’ he said simply. ‘Yours was a marriage of convenience?’ Lorimer asked. The man nodded. ‘Yes. It could have been described as that, I suppose. Certainly it was convenient for me and I suppose the money I gave my wife made it convenient for her,’ he said, his tone suddenly cynical. ‘But we were not like a business partnership,’ he insisted. ‘You see,’ he went on, smiling a sweet sudden smile, ‘after we returned from the United States she became my friend.’ Lorimer nodded in understanding. Marianne had become his wife, had been set up in a rented flat so she could pursue her studies, then all of a sudden this man had found himself in love with her. What had begun as a means to an end had become an affair of the heart, at least on the part of Amit Shafiq. ‘So you see, I must find her,’ he went on. ‘I worry that something dreadful has happened to make her run away from me. But I did not know anything about the death of the man who had been her previous husband,’ he said quietly. Lorimer looked at him intently. He believed him though what a jury might make of his statement was another matter. He

wanted to ask about Brogan but knew it was more important to let this man tell his story first.

‘What did you think might be the longer term prospects for you and Marianne?’ he asked instead. ‘I had hoped that she might be my wife in the proper sense, not just on the paper we both signed,’ Amit said and it was not hard to hear the wistfulness in his voice. ‘Marianne was a student at the University of Glasgow when you first met, is that right?’

‘Yes. She wanted to study psychology, become a doctor of some kind. She even spoke about travelling to work in America one day. I thought…’ he shrugged as he tailed off. ‘You thought she might have gone to the US when you found her flat empty?’

Amit nodded, exhaling slowly in a sigh of resignation. ‘I wondered if I would ever see her again. Then I heard you and the lady speak about her on the programme . . Lorimer asked a few questions about the date of their marriage, where it had taken place, making scribbled notes on the pad in front of him, though there was a tape running to record the entire interview. Sometimes doing a trivial thing like note-taking brought a sense of formality to an interview situation. And right now he could see that the Pakistani needed something like this to rise above the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘And you paid her a sum for the privilege of marrying you?’ he asked, his mouth crinkling at the corners as though Amit might share in the joke. ‘Yes. Ten thousand pounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I am a wealthy man, Mr Lorimer. It was a small price to pay for my freedom. That,’ he said solemnly, ‘is something on which no man can put a price.’

‘And I presume you supported your wife as well?’ Amit nodded, his back stiffening as though he had been offended. ‘But of course. Marianne required a place to live and I paid for the rent as well as giving her a modest allowance. It was a satisfactory arrangement.’ Tor her,’ Lorimer answered sharply. ‘And for me,’ Amit replied. ‘I had a legal reason to remain here and build a new life for myself.’ ‘How often did you see her?’ Lorimer asked. ‘Once a week, perhaps less. We met in the station sometimes for coffee. It was what she liked,’ he explained. ‘Marianne did not like being seen with me over in the West End where we both lived. Perhaps it was …’ he shrugged, glancing across at Fathy, the words unsaid. Perhaps she didn’t like to be seen with an Asian. ‘Tell me about Billy Brogan,’ Lorimer said at last.

Lorimer watched as the man walked away from the building. He had given the Detective Chief Inspector a lot to think about. Shafiq was a well-educated man, that was clear from his speech and the innate courtesies he had shown during the interview. The story about Lahore was chilling; it was not an unfamiliar scenario by any means, yet coming from this man who was riven with anxiety for his wife, it had made Lorimer flinch inwardly as the story had unfolded. It also explained why Shafiq had not called the authorities when he had found Marianne missing. He would be kept under surveillance from this moment on, hopefully unaware of the undercover officers who would dog his footsteps day and night. Had that been his father’s experience? Lorimer wondered. Had the old man been watched by these faceless people who had waited for him to make one small mistake before they had entered his home and bludgeoned him to death in front of his family?

His tale about Brogan had been nothing short of astonishing. Just how the drug dealer had become embroiled in the Asian community’s affairs was unclear, but undoubtedly he had some influence there. Marianne had offered to marry Shafiq in order to allow him to become a British citizen and stay on legally in Glasgow. What had been her motivation for that? Her brother’s influence? Lorimer shook his head, remembering the photograph of the red-haired woman. She was an educated woman and had never been in trouble with the law. Surely she was not the sort to be pushed about by Brogan. So, it all came down to money. And that, as the DCI well knew, was one of the prime motivations behind such a lot of crime.

Ten thousand pounds was a lot of money, but perhaps for Shafiq it was worth it. Besides, hadn’t he admitted his own personal wealth? Ten thousand pounds. Lorimer tapped a pencil against his teeth.

Interesting that it should equate to the price of a hit in this gun ridden city.

‘Ten thousand pounds,’ the hit man told her. ‘That’s what your brother owes me.’

Marianne sat rigid on the wooden chair, her eyes staring at the man with the gun. The last few minutes had taken on nightmare proportions, more terrifying than the worst excesses of her hateful dreams. Max had made her put on her nightdress, watching her every move, his grey eyes cold with something that she had not seen before in the man. Now, her arms fastened behind her, ankles tied tightly so that the bonds cut into her flesh if she made any movement, she was his prisoner. At first she had thought it a game, Max working out some sexual fantasy that would end up with her screaming at the height

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of their passion. And she had laughed uncertainly, moving towards him. But that gun, that gun… Marianne knew without having to ask that it was not only loaded but that she was Max’s intended victim. The room was warm, but the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades felt chilled. ‘So, just you tell him from me, babe, that his little sister gets it for free if he doesn’t pay up,’ the man-who-was-not-Max said, his voice full of a sneering tone that made Marianne shiver. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said at last. ‘Don’t give me that,’ the hit man replied, waving the gun closer to her face. ‘Brogan wouldn’t keep his whereabouts from you of all

people.’ Marianne felt her eyes begin to swim with tears. That was exactly what Billy had done. He’d run out on her, left her to face the consequences of his thieving ways. But wasn’t that how it had always been? Marianne bit her lip, willing herself not to break down. Even when they’d been little hadn’t she been the one to cover up for Billy’s misdemeanours? Her loyalty to the wee brother she’d adored had never really been rewarded, even now. Especially now, a little voice insisted. She had thought that all her nightmares would cease once Ken had been blown away. But now the nightmare had come to life, facing her with this gun, its dark eye staring at her. ‘Billy ran out on me too,’ Marianne whispered. ‘Honest. I… I didn’t know he was gone till … till I heard the tone on his