Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (33 page)

mobile …’ she gulped, unable to continue. And he’s blocked the number, so I can’t call him.’ The hit man nodded, never taking his eyes off her. Did he believe her, then? Marianne swallowed hard. Max, or whatever his

real name was, hadn’t realised why he had been commissioned to

kill her ex-husband. She breathed fast, telling herself that she

would be okay so long as he continued to be unaware of her part in all of this. Billy must have arranged the hit, never mentioning just why it had been necessary to kill Ken. A hit man probably didn’t ask too many questions, anyway; he just carried out the deed, took his money and vanished. ‘Well the first call you have from brother Billy you just let him know how much his little sister is worth, okay?’ He grinned, then, and to Marianne’s relief, laid the gun down beside him on the bed and pulled his own mobile from his pocket. Perhaps it would be okay. Perhaps he was only trying to frighten her. Perhaps … Marianne felt the tears trickling unbidden down her cheeks… he would touch her again, gently as he had before, telling her that it was all a big mistake.

T

he Hundi put down the phone, nodding to himself. That was good. The man called Smith had agreed a fee for get ting rid of the girl. Brogan had been a thorn in their flesh and his sister’s existence was only bringing more trouble into their world. He screwed up his eyes. There was no room in his world for sentiment. This was purely a matter of business. He had nothing against the red-haired woman whose compliance had allowed their new friend, Amit Shafiq, to remain here, part of his thriving business network. Brogan had had his uses too, as a way of laundering money from certain sources. But Brogan himself was a marked man now. And if he ever set foot again in Glasgow… the Hundi’s grin widened. Perhaps Mr Smith would be happy to undertake that particular commission for free? The man rubbed his hands together, feeling the heavy rings on his chubby fingers. It would all work out. Money always made everything work out.

Billy Brogan opened his eyes to see a fan spinning on the pale ceiling, its sweeping rhythm soothing his emerging senses. Everything he saw was white: walls, ceiling, the vertical blinds keeping daylight from penetrating the room where he lay. He blinked, then felt his fingers touch the cool cotton of the sheet

that was covering him. Where was he? I liming his head a fraction, Brogan saw a table against a wall with a large white jug covered in a square of cloth. Above it was a picture of Christ, hand outstretched, lines of yellow radiating from the circle above his head. Brogan blinked again. This was weirding him out, big time. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth that made him search around it with the tip of his tongue, feeling a gap where two of his front teeth should have been. He screwed up his eyes as saliva flooded his mouth. His gums were sore and tender, throbbing as though the teeth had been wrenched from his mouth. What the hell had happened to him? He tried to sit up, but as soon as he moved a pain shot through his skull. Then the memories began to return. That darkened alley, the man in the half-opened doorway … Billy groaned as much from the ache in his head as from the realisation that he had been taken for a mug. Yet he was here, in a quiet place, alive. And, apart from his missing teeth, still in one piece. He turned his head slowly, fearful of another blast of pain, and saw a door with a sheet of paper attached. It was in some language that Billy couldn’t understand. But the familiar symbols required no interpretation. There were little pictures, international hieroglyphics, that showed emergency exits and fire extinguishers. So, he was in some sort of an institution. A hospital, Brogan supposed, raising a hand to touch the place where the pain was worst. He felt the soft padding someone had placed under a swathe of bandage, confirming his suspicions. Somehow he had been rescued from the men who had assaulted him and patched up while he was still unconscious. Brogan let his hand slide back under the bedclothes, feeling only skin against the sheets. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed, then looked guiltily at the picture to his left as though the image had overheard

and disapproved. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, reminding himself to say a proper thank you for actually waking to find himself safe from his attackers. But it was a bit of a shock to find himself stark naked, his eyes told the picture. The room appeared to be empty of any furniture save a small bedside locker, the type that one always found in hospital rooms. Perhaps his stuff was in there? Steeling himself, Brogan pushed himself into a sitting position, then stopped, panting with the effort, waves of agony shooting through his head. He felt the sweat running in rivulets down his chest and he was glad of the fan’s blades swishing round and around, cooling his fevered body. He had to get up, see if everything was still there.

He turned around in the bed, letting his legs fall into mid-air, feet searching for the floor. With a huge effort, Brogan slid off the bed and tried to stand up. Immediately his legs buckled under him and he slid to the floor, only saving himself from crashing down by grabbing at the sheets. Head pounding, he let himself rest for a few moments, his back against the side of the bed, trembling with a weakness that threatened to overpower him. But he had to see if his things were still there, had to know … The locker had two compartments; a door and a drawer. Brogan tried pulling at the door but his hands were too damp with sweat and his fingers slid uselessly off the wooden handle. Wiping them on the sheet that had come off the bed, he tried again. The door opened and Brogan’s mouth opened in a gasp of dismay. The compartment was completely empty. Shaking now, he pulled at the drawer, praying to any gods that might hear him. Inside there was only one familiar object. Not his wallet stuffed with dollars, not his passport, only the cheap mobile phone he had bought before leaving Mallorca.

Hands still trembling, Brogan lifted it out and flicked the

device open. The battery still showed full. Brogan flicked a gaze at the Christ on the wall. That was something to be thankful for, at least. He tapped out her number then pressed the green button and waited. For a few moments Brogan listened as the ringing tone pounded in his head, biting his lips, willing his sister to pick up her phone and answer it. She wasn’t there, he thought, dismay making him shiver as he sat there on the tiled floor. Then the ringing stopped and his face creased in a smile as he anticipated Marianne’s hello. ‘Who’s this?’ a voice asked suddenly, making Brogan frown. Did he know that accent? A shudder went through his body. No. It couldn’t be … ‘It’s me. It’s Billy,’ he said slowly, hoping that his instincts about that voice were wrong. `Will you put Marianne on?’ He heard his own words come out, thin and reedy, like an old man’s. A chuckle sounded from the line. ‘Oh, she’s been hoping to speak to you,’ the man told him. ‘Haven’t you, Marianne?’ Brogan heard his sister’s muffled reply but he was unable to make out her words. ‘Is that you, Stevens?’ he asked, suspiciously. ‘Who did you think it was, Brogan?’ the hit man replied. ‘Santa

Claus?’ The dealer sat, stunned into silence. How had Stevens managed to find Marianne, of all people? After the pains she had taken to ensure that nobody could find her; these repeated changes of address, her name deleted from that registry file. Nobody but Amit, Brogan reminded himself. Was that how Stevens had located her? ‘Hello?’ Stevens said, and Brogan heard the man’s fingers tapping against the plastic casing of his mobile.

‘I’m still here,’ Brogan said, resisting the temptation to add ‘only just.’

‘Well, listen to me, pal, and listen good,’ Stevens told him. Brogan nodded then wished he hadn’t, the throbbing in his skull making him feel as though he might pass out if he moved again. Stevens’ voice continued, telling Brogan what he expected him to do, telling him what would happen to Marianne if he failed to comply with his demands. Warning him to keep the police out of it.

Then the man stopped speaking and Brogan heard a small cry in the background. He winced, trying to imagine what was happening to his sister at the hands of this man, a man he knew to be capable of unimaginable horrors.

‘Billy? Billy?’ Marianne was sobbing into the phone, her breath coming in short bursts. ‘Aye, I’m here,’ Brogan said, pulling the crumpled sheet around his shivering form.

‘Please,’ she cried. ‘Please do as he says, Billy,’ Marianne begged. ‘He … he’s got a gun. And he says …’ her voice tailed off then returned in a whisper. ‘He says he’ll kill me if you don’t get him that money.’ ‘Where are you?’ Brogan asked, urgently. ‘Just tell me where. And I’ll fix everything.’ Marianne had just given him the name of a city centre hotel and their room number when Brogan flinched, hearing her let out a yelp. As he heard Stevens shouting at her Brogan stiffened, wanting to square up to the hit man, sudden rage boiling up inside him. ‘You heard what she said, Brogan. You get that money to me by tomorrow or she’s dead meat. Understood?’

‘I’ll need more time,’ Brogan protested, hearing the blood pound in his head. But the connection had been cut and he sat there looking at the phone in his hand, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get out of this mess.

T

he leaves were falling in swirls, withered and brown, as Solly watched from the window of his new office. Summer was

past and the new session was beginning. Already students had arrived back in the city, many of them looking for accommodation or books from their lists, trying to prepare for the autumn term that lay ahead. His postgraduate students had never really left though, working on dissertations that never seemed to be curtailed by the familiar markers of the academic year. Marianne’s name had not appeared in his class lists so far. Where was she? Solly had watched the recorded Crimewatch programme with Rosie, his concern for the woman growing as he had listened to Lorimer’s appeal. He had sat through to the end, seeing pictures of criminals who had slipped out of the reach of police in several different parts of the country. Many of them went by aliases, Solly noticed. And that had given him something to think about. What if Marianne had changed her name, too? So far he had not made much progress with his own investigation but today there was one thing that he thought he might do. He turned around, his eye falling upon the many boxes of textbooks laid neatly below his bookshelves. Among them were several from the library that he had borrowed and must now be

returned. SoIly bent down, taking the books out of their boxes, opening every one to check its return date before placing them in a tidy pile. Perhaps, like him, Marianne had had to visit the library, to take back books? It was worth a try, Solly thought as he gathered up the textbooks into a hessian shopping bag. Several students were walking down the path towards the students’ union as Solly emerged from the door of the psychology department and he smiled at their laughter, hearing the sound of enthusiasm in their voices. Freshers, he thought, nodding to himself. Their lives were on the threshold of something new and wonderful and on this windy day when the air tossed the leaves skywards, Solly found their eagerness quite infectious. Quickening his stride, Solly turned left, following the path to the library, a modern building that was tucked between the Hunterian Museum and the curve of University Gardens. The library was already busy with students sitting at tables, poring over books or laptops. As ever, Solly found himself relaxing in this place where quiet study was carried out day after day. He handed over the books, watching as the librarian checked to see that the dates tallied as they should then he cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you might do something for me?’ he asked, smiling hopefully. ‘Of course, Doctor Brightman,’ the librarian replied. ‘Is there a book you want us to reserve for you?’ Solly shook his head. ‘No, no, nothing like that. I’d like you to do a little detective work,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘It’s one of my students. She seems to have changed her name.’ He shrugged as if this was a matter of little import. ‘It was Marianne Scott, but perhaps you don’t have it on record?’ ‘Oh, we have everything on record, Doctor Brightman,’ the woman replied briskly. ‘Now, what year is she in?’

SoIly told her and waited as the woman worked at the keyboard, her eyes on the computer screen. `Ah, yes. Marianne Scott. She was in here less than a fortnight ago,’ the woman told him. ‘Told us she had changed her name from Scott to Shafiq. Must have married a foreigner,’ the woman said, her eyebrows raised in mild surprise. ‘Well, thanks for that. I’m sure she’ll let us know the details in due course but our secretaries will be glad to put it right for now. For class lists, you know?’ he murmured. Gathering up the empty bag, Solly left the library and made his way back down to the main road, his heart beating a little faster. She had married! Rosie was right, then. Her woman’s intuition had suggested that Marianne’s personality change was down to that old black magic, after all. Plus she had alerted the library to that change of name. So, he reasoned, Marianne had intended to resume her studies here.

The television programme had suggested that she might be involved in her ex-husband’s death, but how could that be? If Marianne had hoped to continue at university as normal surely she would be afraid of detection in such a public place as this? The psychologist stopped at the edge of the pavement across from the main university gates and stood still, staring into the sky, quite unaware of the curious glances he was receiving from passers-by. Motivation was everything in a crime, he told himself. Why a person chose to commit an evil deed said so much more about them than the deed itself. If Marianne had killed her own husband then what could her motive have been? She had been legally divorced from Scott so she did not need to be rid of him to marry this Shafiq, whoever he was. Yet, she had thanked Solly for … for what? Suggesting that she rid herself of some bad

dreams? In the clear light of this autumn day such a notion seemed absurd, but, until he knew more, Doctor Solomon Brightman could only theorise about the reason behind Marianne’s change from the timid student she had been into the vibrant woman he remembered from the bookshop. And was that simply down to finding the right man to love? SoIly noticed the orange lights of an approaching taxi and he stepped forwards on to the road, one arm raised. Perhaps it was a little rash of him, a little presumptuous, but it had to be done. ‘Into town, please,’ he told the driver. Then, stepping into the cab, he gave him the address of Lorimer’s divisional headquarters. Sitting back, SoIly stroked his beard thoughtfully, wondering what sort of reaction his unexpected appearance would provoke.