Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (35 page)

M

arianne woke with a start. Somehow she had slept through the night with no dreams to disturb her for once. Was it because she was so exhausted, physically and emotionally, or had she simply found that reality was far more terrifying than all the images that had swirled uncontrollably around her brain? Max (she couldn’t stop thinking of him as Max) was not in the hotel room. The bed they had shared was neatly made, but not by one of the hotel staff. He had made sure of that, letting the Do Not Disturb notice dangle from the door knob outside. Hearing their sexual frolics night after night must have made the staff think they were newlyweds or something, Marianne realised. Had it all been a ploy, then? Had Max bedded her to make the hotel think they were on their honeymoon? He’d certainly beguiled her into imagining that all of these endearments and caresses had been real. She bit the inside of her lip, trying not to cry, but the gaffer tape caught at her skin, tightening its grip. The hit man had secured her to the only wooden chair in the room, one she’d sat on in front of the mirror to brush her hair, put on her make-up. He had set it deliberately away from a wall so that Marianne could not thump her elbows or wrists against the adjoining rooms. Nor could she tilt it over, making it crash to the

floor, he’d seen to that, too, roping the back of it firmly to the brass bed ends.

She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat. How long had it been since she had drunk anything? Hours and hours, she told herself, glancing at the television’s digital clock. Despite that, she badly needed to pee. Marianne closed her eyes and began to pray. Please, please let Billy come home. Would Billy come back, bringing the money that Max asked him for? Or would he leave her there, running away from something difficult as he usually did? That’s not fair, a little voice reminded her. He helped you to get rid of Ken, didn’t he?

Marianne shivered, remembering the nightmares and the days when she had been too scared to turn around to see Ken following her, stalking her wherever she went. She’d been terrified he’d get hold of her once again; torture her in those insidious ways he had devised. No matter how often she changed her address he had always seemed to find her. I’ll sleep like the dead once he’s gone for good, she’d told Billy once, and her brother had laughed at the phrase.

Max had killed those two men in Billy’s flat, Galbraith and Sandiman. The hit man had shrugged it off, telling her they had been an accident. But his words had chilled her. There had been no tone of remorse whatever, just a matter-of-factness that had made her wonder at the nature of a man like this. What would Doctor Brightman have made of him? she wondered. Did he fit the description of a psychopathic personality? Marianne didn’t think so. Her Max Whittaker, Billy’s Mick Stevens, was so frighteningly normal, wasn’t he? As a companion he’d been able to make her laugh. As a lover he had been able to make her swoon with pleasure. And all the time he had been planning her imprisonment, calculating Billy’s response to his threats.

She sighed, hearing her breath tremble as she exhaled. It was crazy, but she still felt something for the man she had met that day by the car park, some remnant of longing. (And of lust, though it shamed her to admit it.) What was it they called it? That odd relationship that a prisoner forged with their captor? Something to do with being in thrall to them, being a hostage, something like that? Despite the hours of sleep, Marianne felt dog tired, and her brain was unable to summon up words and phrases. Somewhere she heard the ring of a phone, far away, as if it was coming from the next room. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she could hear the guest next door speaking on his mobile? Perhaps if she made a big enough noise he would hear her and alert the hotel staff …?

But as the door opened and Max walked in, his ear to her own mobile, all thoughts of rescue faded. Over one arm he carried a plastic bag, its contents bulging. The woman’s eyes fell on a bottle top. Water! She watched as he threw the bag on to the bed, totally ignoring her as he spoke into the telephone. ‘Aye, Brogan. Just you do that,’ Stevens was saying, making Marianne’s eyes light up with sudden hope. ‘You want to speak to her?’ He turned to Marianne with a grin across his face. Not sure if she can manage conversation right now, let’s see.’

Marianne screamed as he tore the duct tape from her mouth, her head swung roughly to one side. ‘That do for you, Brogan? Hear it loud and clear?’ Stevens was saying into the phone. ‘Well, maybe you’ll not hear her voice for much longer if you don’t get your arse back here with my money. Got it?’ he tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled a bottle of water from the bag. Slowly he unscrewed the top, tilting it up to take deep gulps.

`Ah,’ he sighed. ‘That was good.’ The watched as she licked her lips, knowing that she was unable to take her eyes off the bottle. ‘Thirsty, are you, darlin’?’ he asked then laughed softly. ‘Want some?’

Marianne nodded, hardly daring to breathe.

He came so close to her that she could smell the familiar mixture of sweat and aftershave lotion.

‘If I give you some, you’ll have to promise to be a good girl. Okay?’ His voice was soft and low, a lover’s murmur in her ear.

‘I promise,’ she said, meeting his gaze with her own, hoping as much for his lips to brush against hers as for the bottle of water that he held aloft.

Ii

orimer moved the telephone from his ear for a moment, covering the mouthpiece with one hand as he turned to the man who sat patiently beside him.

‘It’s the British Consul in Algiers,’ he whispered. ‘They’ve got Brogan with them. He wants to talk to me.’

Solly nodded. ‘Perhaps the Ctimewatch programme has spread its …’ he fell silent as Lorimer shushed him, waving his words aside. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he said. ‘Mr Brogan?’ ‘Aye, you’ve been looking for me, Lorimer, haven’t you? Well, I jist want to say I had nothin’ taste do wi Fraz and Gubby, okay?’ ‘We know that, Mr Brogan. But I think you also know that we want to talk to you about the death of your former brother-in-law,

Mr Kenneth Scott,’ Lorimer told him, speaking as calmly as he could to temper the drug dealer’s initial belligerence.

There was a pause then Lorimer could hear the man sigh down the line.

‘Aye, well, that wasnae me, neither.’

Not directly, perhaps,’ Lorimer conceded.

‘Look, Mr Lorimer, I huvnae time taste waste wi’ all of this, right? Ye c’n charge me wance I’m hame, but meantime … ye huv taste do something fur me.’

‘I’m listening,’ Lorimer said, hearing the urgency in the man’s voice.

Brogan drew a deep breath before continuing. ‘There’s this man called Mick Stevens. He’s the one you’re looking for. He’s got my sister. And he’s going to . .

Lorimer frowned at the handset, wondering if the line had suddenly been cut off, but Brogan’s voice returned, high-pitched and nervy. ‘Mr Lorimer you’ve got to do something quick. Or Stevens is going to kill her.’

‘We have very few choices,’ Lorimer told the superintendent. ‘Either we allow this man, Stevens, to stay in the City Inn armed with God knows how many weapons, threatening the life of a young woman, or we go in after him.’ He paused then gripped the sides of Mitchison’s desk, willing the man to agree with him for once. ‘We’ve got one strategic advantage, sir. And that’s the hotel’s proximity to Anderston police station. We can call on as many of their officers as they have available right now.’

Mitchison nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a class A situation; public safety must be our primary concern. What do you suggest?’ DCI Lorimer took a deep breath and began to outline his plan.

Omar Fathy fastened on the Kevlar vest, glancing at his fellow officers as they prepared themselves for danger. It was all part of the job, he reminded himself, feeling the buzz of adrenalin shooting through his veins, nothing to get too worked up about. Omar gave a wry smile. It was just this sort of scenario that had caused his parents to have so many misgivings when their son had announced his decision to join the police force. Far too dangerous, his mother had scolded him, but Omar had simply grinned and

told her to stop watching so many TV cop shows; it wasn’t like that in real life. But now the young man was in a situation that had begun to resemble some of these celluloid adventures. And he found that it was thrilling. ‘Ready?’ Annie Irvine was not smiling as she came to stand by his side.

‘You bet,’ Omar replied. For a moment they looked at one another, two colleagues ready to face a dangerous situation. And suddenly Omar wanted it to be more than that; his fingers itching to take Annie’s hand in his, to reassure her that everything would be okay. But then a voice commanded them forwards, the moment was gone and she turned towards the police transporter van that was to take them into the city centre, leaving Omar feeling slightly dispirited.

‘Got your taser?’ Annie asked and Omar nodded, giving it a tap against the belt that contained his equipment. He had never been supplied with a weapon before and had been surprised when Lorimer had insisted that they be issued for their own safety. Still, there was to be a proper firearms unit there as well, men who were trained to shoot on command. These hand-picked officers were already on their way to the scene, the hotel’s staff having been alerted to evacuate the premises.

Fathy had been amazed at the speed with which Lorimer had managed to make all of these things happen, though having Anderston so close by was a huge bonus. Now, entering the white van and wedging himself next to his colleagues, he squared his shoulders, returning the nervous smiles and glances that were directed his way.

For the first time since arriving in Glasgow he felt truly part of this team. No matter what happened today or the next day or the week after that, Fathy knew that nothing would stop him being a

police officer, not even the malicious notes he was receiving with such painful regularity.

The hit man had selected his location well, thought Lorimer as they approached Glasgow’s City Inn. If he had planned to be in a siege situation, Stevens couldn’t have made a better strategic choice. The hotel was bounded on one side by the river and there was a police launch just out of firing range, in the lee of its southern bank. The Squinty Bridge and the main road to the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre had been closed to traffic with police cordons set up around the adjoining streets, the road block at the slip road to the M8 causing most of the disruption for motorists.

Looking up at the pale blue sky and a single gull floating over the river, Lorimer wondered at how calm it all seemed. There was little sound of traffic save from the distant rumble across the faraway bridges. His decision to call this operation ‘eyeball in the skyball’ had been met with curious looks from those officers too young to remember The Perishers cartoons. But it had seemed an appropriate tag for this hostage situation, especially when the new technology of the PD-100 Black Hornet was to be utilised. It might have seemed like a waste of an afternoon at the time, but now Lorimer found himself pinning a lot of hope on this new, untried device. He grinned as he remembered the superintendent’s raised eyebrows: for once Mark Mitchison had been in total accord with all of Lorimer’s proposals.

The window of Stevens’ room was at an acute angle from their present position, but they would be able to see when the Black Hornet was activated and watch its flight upwards to the hotel’s top floor then listen to what was happening inside. An additional

advantage was that this tiny helicopter could send images back to the monitor that was secreted inside the police vehicle where Lorimer sat with Wilson and Solly. ‘Lucky that Brogan knew which hotel they were in,’ DS Wilson murmured to Lorimer as they sat waiting in the patrol car opposite the hotel car park.

‘More than lucky for us,’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘Especially when his sister told him their room number into the bargain.’ Both officers kept other thoughts to themselves: that sometimes luck played a part in bringing an investigation to a satisfactory close. But it was far from being ended and much could still be played out against the backdrop of this riverside scene. It was hard to imagine that Strathclyde Police now had this place surrounded, the quiet was so intense. ‘What’s happening with Brogan?’ Wilson whispered. ‘Being flown back to the UK under escort,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Right, looks like we’ve got all our ducks in a row,’ he added, spotting the officer who was to launch the Black Hornet. ‘Radio silence, all units, please,’ he said, nodding to the members of his team who watched and waited from the confines of their vehicle.

Mick Stevens was completely oblivious to the tiny helicopter whirring silently past the window of his bedroom, hovering to a place just out of his direct line of sight. But he did know that things had begun to happen. The fire alarm had been set off half an hour ago, making him look out into the corridor. The frightened face of a porter met his as the man rushed towards the nearest exit. And in that one look, the hit man had seen something he recognised. Fear. And not just the fear of some bogus fire. It was fear of him. The hit man. Mick Stevens.

So now he knew it was happening. Everything had caught up with him yet all he felt was a strange sense of calm, as though this day had been inevitable.

When he heard the loudspeaker announcing the police presence, Stevens had been savvy enough to keep out of sight from the window There would be police marksmen all over the bloody place, ready to pick him off the moment they saw his face.

‘Let the woman go, Stevens!’ a voice commanded, its booming tones reverberating in the cold air outside his room.

‘What d’you think, darlin’? Should I let you go?’ Mick smiled sadly at Marianne whose eyes bulged with terror at the pistol pointed at her. ‘After all, Billy’s been a bad boy, bringing the cops after us, hasn’t he?’ Stevens reasoned, waving the gun at her. ‘Deserves to be punished,’ he went on. ‘And what better way,’ he brandished the weapon closer to Marianne’s face, ‘than to leave him a little message?’ he laughed softly, pulling one finger back.

Marianne shrank further into the chair, her body slick with sweat under the thin covering of her nightdress. He was going to kill her. Any minute now he was going to press that trigger… she closed her eyes, terror numbing her senses, her only prayer that it would be over quickly.