Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (37 page)

‘Oh, sorry,’ Marianne said, turning to look at the recording machine.

‘I had these terrible dreams,’ she began.

Lorimer closed the door to his office with a sigh. It had been too

easy, really. Once Solly’s question had prompted her, the flood

-

gates had opened and Marianne had told them everything. How

Scott had followed her everywhere, making her change her address in a series of bedsits, until she was almost at screaming point; how the chance to earn some serious money had come her way when Billy had suggested that she help out this wealthy man from Lahore. Then she had enough money to pay for that matter. She hadn’t referred to it by any other term, Lorimer had noticed, never even calling Stevens a hit man, always referring to him as Billy’s friend. When he had at last charged her with conspiracy to murder, Lorimer had noticed no change in the woman at all, only a vague nod as though this was something she had expected to happen, part of a process she was willing to undergo. There was still so much to be done, he thought, suddenly longing for home with Maggie there, waiting as she always did. He still had to speak with Amit Shafiq and arrange for Brogan to be brought up to Glasgow once his plane touched down in Heathrow Airport. There were hours before he could see her, touch her hair, bury himself in her caresses. And all this while Maggie was worried sick about that operation, miserable because she thought it might make her somehow less than the beautiful woman he knew her to be.

Standing there in the room that had become almost a second home to him, Lorimer suddenly came to a decision. Sometimes changes were inevitable, like Maggie’s operation, but he knew right now that it was time for him to change his career, put all of today’s tragic events behind him. He would accept Joyce Rogers’ proposal, take the job in the Serious Crime Squad. There would be some conditions attached, though. First he would take the leave that he was owed, making sure that it coincided with Maggie’s time at home after her surgery. Then, he thought, with a sigh, he could make a fresh start again, seek out new challenges.

M

r and Mrs Fathy were sitting side by side in the family room when Lorimer walked in. The first thing he noticed about the mother was her resemblance to Omar. Mrs Fathy had that same angular face, smooth dark skin and natural grace that he remembered so well. He swallowed hard. This was not going to be easy. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he said, moving forward. Mr Fathy stood up and accepted the outstretched hand but his wife remained seated, tense fists clutching a large handbag on her lap. ‘Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,’ Mr Fathy said, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘It means a lot to us.’ ‘Omar was a fine officer,’ Lorimer began, then, giving a sigh, he passed a hand over his own eyes. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am …’ Mr Fathy touched his sleeve. ‘I can see that,’ he murmured. ‘It is good that you show this.’

‘He was tipped to go far in his police career,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Even those at the highest level recognised that.’ ‘That is some comfort,’ Mr Fathy replied, though it was hard for Lorimer to tell whether Omar’s father was uttering mere platitudes or whether he really meant it.

‘He should never have joined up in the first place!’ Mrs Fathy cried, looking at Lorimer, her face twisting in pain. tried to stop him. I really tried!’ Lorimer nodded, his blue eyes meeting her own dark gaze. There was something in that look, some unspoken, guilty secret. Then, as though she had said too much, she dropped her gaze and opened her bag, rustling around for a handkerchief. And at that moment it came to him, the answer to Omar’s persecution.

It was you, his own mother, Lorimer thought to himself, but he did not say the words. How she had managed it, was anyone’s guess. Bribing officers within Grampian and Strathclyde to put notes in her son’s locker, perhaps? Sending messages to his home address? Anything to try to stop him in the career that she hated.

Thank God he hadn’t had time to put anything officially into motion.

Whatever had been going on, it simply didn’t matter any more. They’d got off with it, but Lorimer hoped that somewhere in Aberdeen and Glasgow there would be officers whose consciences would weigh heavily upon them for the rest of their careers. Perhaps, though, Omar’s mother would always feel a sense of vindication. The danger she had feared for her beloved son had come to pass in the most tragic way, despite what she had seen as her best intentions.

Lorimer cleared his throat. ‘Omar is to be given the police medal for bravery,’ he said. It’s something that is often awarded posthumously,’ he added gently. ‘And, with your permission, we would like his funeral to be conducted with full police honours.’ Mr Fathy nodded. ‘He would have liked that, wouldn’t he, Mother?’ he said, turning to his wife.

But Mrs Fathy simply bent her head and wept, her racking sobs reaching into Lorimer’s heart like a knife.

Billy Brogan twisted uncomfortably against the handcuffs that were pinioning him to the metal walls of the prison transporter. The journey from North Africa hadn’t been so bad. He’d managed to chat to the stiff-looking English officer who had met him from the consulate and taken him back by plane. Being cuffed to the man had been okay, except when he’d had to go to the tiny onboard toilet. How did couples manage to join the Mile High club? he’d joked, but that had cut no ice with his poker-faced com panion.

Now he was almost back in dear old Glesca Toon, but whether Billy Brogan would see much of the city was doubtful. Barlinnie prison was his destination and, as far as Brogan knew, that high walled institution gave no views of the surrounding landscape. The transporter rumbled along, giving Brogan no clue as to whereabouts they were and he suddenly realised that this was how it was going to be. No matter what sentence was handed down to him for conspiracy to murder, he’d lost control of his own destiny for a long time to come. And Marianne? What of her? Nobody had let him know a thing about his sister. Perhaps once he was incarcerated and part of the system he could find out what was going on from his brief. Brogan shrugged. Stupid thing to do, really, hiring Stevens to get rid of Ken Scott. Seemed to make sense at the time. Surely helping his only sister get rid of a filthy stalker would cut some ice with a jury? he told himself, trying to justify his actions.

The vehicle slowed down and Brogan felt his body sway as it turned a corner. Instinctively he knew they had arrived. He took

a deep breath. ‘Right, Billy boy,’ Brogan murmured to himself. ‘Time to turn on the charm.’

Amit was walking beside the Hundi. It was autumn now and the

city had wrapped itself in a mistiness that chilled him to the bone. ‘We have to be careful, my friend,’ the Hundi told Amit. ‘There are many who would wish us to perish like our friend, Jaffrey.’ Amit nodded sagely. This Hundi had been good to him, hadn’t he? Introducing him to Brogan and Marianne so that he could stay in this country, ensuring that his financial needs were taken care of and now, giving him the sort of fatherly advice that the younger man respected. Instinct had warned him to say nothing about the Hundi to that tall policeman, only mentioning Brogan’s part in the transaction. And that was good, wasn’t it? Amit felt the big man’s hand rest upon his shoulder as they strolled through Kelvingrove Park, past the pond where a heron stood motionless, waiting to strike.

‘Everything is fine with Dhesi?’ the Hundi asked and Amit nodded.

‘He is a good friend to me,’ he said simply. ‘And an honest business partner.’ The Hundi smiled to himself. Just so long as Amit Shafiq thought along these lines then all was well. It was unlikely that Brogan or his sister would mention him to the police. After all, what could they say? That a nameless Pakistani gentleman had fixed things for them? Where was this man? the police would want to know. And that was a question that they would be unable to answer. No. Their community had closed ranks against the likes of Brogan and even young Jaffrey would be too afraid to talk. `Dhesi is a good man,’ the Hundi continued. ‘And he is concerned for your welfare.’

Amit nodded again, his eyes fixed upon the path. ‘Once your … matYiage . is terminated perhaps you might think of taking another wife?’ Amit swallowed hard as a sudden vision of the laughing red haired woman came into his mind.

‘You’ve met his niece, the lovely Nalini?’ he said, patting Amit’s shoulder once more. ‘She would make a man like you very happy, don’t you think?’ Amit looked up at the man. What did he see? A large Asian dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat, cut to hide his immense girth; a man whose very presence dominated this narrow path.

No, that was not all that Amit Shafiq could see. He had learned to look past those outward trappings. Now he could see those little piggy eyes sunk in layers of flesh glittering with a hint of malice. And, as he saw the Hundi looking back at him, Amit felt an overwhelming sense of despair. Had he come so far only to meet a different kind of evil? Was it the same everywhere, after all? And was there never going to be any escape for someone like him? ‘Perhaps,’ Amit said at last with a sigh of resignation. ‘Perhaps.’

S’

oily, wake up!’ Rosie nudged her husband. ‘Things have started to happen!’

Professor Solomon Brightman sat up in bed, hearing the note of excitement in his wife’s voice. It was dark still. But what was it his mother had told him? Babies have a way of beginning in the night ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. ‘The baby isn’t due for another two weeks,’ he protested. Rosie chuckled. ‘Tell that to this little critter,’ she said. ‘Oh! That was a big one!’ she exclaimed as a painful contraction seized her. ‘Come on, Solly,’ she urged, sweeping the bedclothes aside. ‘Time to get me over to the hospital.’ ‘Maybe you’ll meet Maggie Lorimer there,’ Solly mumbled. ‘What? Why will she be there?’ Rosie frowned.

‘Oh, dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell you in your delicate state, was I?’ Solly bit his lip. ‘Maggie’s had a hysterectomy,’ he replied. ‘Lorimer told me.’

‘Och, the poor thing,’ Rosie said. `So that’s why she’s been avoiding me,’ she nodded then her face twisted in pain once more. ‘Ooh, come on Solly, shift yourself. This wee one’s not going to wait much longer.’

Maggie sat up in her bed, feeling the whirr of the fan that was wafting cool air over her sticky body. The first thing she had felt after waking up was a wonderful sense of euphoria that had taken her completely by surprise. She was still here, maybe not exactly in one piece, but alive and full of a calm acceptance that she had never expected to feel. Was it the aftermath of a general anaesthetic, perhaps? Or the human spirit’s way of adjusting to change?

‘Mrs Lorimer,’ the nurse came into Maggie’s room, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

Who was here to see her? Not her husband, surely, for it was not visiting time yet.

Maggie looked towards the open door and the nurse’s smiling face then gasped as she saw Rosie being wheeled into the room by Solly, a tiny bundle held in her arms. ‘Oh,’ she said at last, her eyes searching hungrily at the folds of cloth surrounding the newborn. ‘Oh, I didn’t know . .

‘Meet your god-daughter,’ Rosie said, grinning up at her. ‘Abigail Margaret Brightman.’ ‘Abigail!’ Maggie gasped. ‘It’s a wee girl!’ Solly gave a boyish smile. ‘Her name means father rejoiced,’ he said, his voice full of pride. Then, as Solly lifted the tiny bundle from his wife and placed Abigail into her arms, Maggie’s tears began to flow. ‘You will be her godmother, won’t you?’ Rosie asked, her eyes bright with anticipation. Maggie nodded, too full to speak, as she gazed down at the little face with its tiny button nose and feathery eyelids against closed eyes. ‘She’s perfect,’ Maggie whispered, cradling the baby against her breasts. She watched as Abigail gave a sigh and nuzzled against her, the little bow mouth opening expectantly.

Then everybody laughed. ‘Come on, lady, back to your mum. Looks like it might be feeding time,’ Maggie said tenderly, looking back at her friends. Then, as Solly carried his daughter back to Rosie, Maggie put out a hand to touch his arm.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Once they were gone, Maggie lay back against her bank of pillows, a radiant smile on her face. She had a god-daughter. Little Abigail Brightman would be a very special person in her life from now on.

Things never stayed the same, did they? Maggie thought, gazing out at the blue sky and the clouds that drifted past her window SoIly was a professor now, Rosie a mother; Bill was leaving his old job for that new promoted post at Pitt Street. And she had become a godmother. Life had a way of surprising you in all its vagaries, twists and turnings, she told herself. Then, closing her eyes, Maggie Lorimer settled down to enjoy the peace of a dreamless sleep.

I would like to thank the following people for their help during the research and writing of this book. Professor Willie Maley for a nice afternoon at Glasgow Uni and for allowing SoIly to pinch his office and set the department of psychology where I wished it was! Detective Inspector Bob Frew and DC Mhairi Milne fig their willingness to answer all my questions concerning police procedure; Alistair Paton for being such a whizz at keeping me right with all things ballistic; Doctor Marjorie Black for casting an expert eye over Rosie’s postmortems; Asif Ali of the Shish Mahal Restaurant (still Glasgow’s best!) for inspiring me and letting me know more about the Asian community; my dear friend Shafiq of the Shimla Cottage, Bridge of Weir (best restaurant in Renfrewshire, ever!) for allowing me to borrow his name; June and George McKenzie for their expertise in nautical matters and for the fun we had deciding to send Billy Brogan to North Africa; Alex Loughran and Kirsty Young for allowing me to use them as themselves in the Crimewatch episode; Helen MacKellar for some notable Spanish phrases; my agent, the one and only Jenny Brown, for her unstinting encouragement; my lovely editor, Caroline Hogg, who is such a blessing to me and keeps me right on all the details; Kirsteen, Moira (what would I do without you?)

and all the fabulous folk at I ,ittle, Brown (never forgetting the wonderful David Shelley) who work so hard on my behalf to make it all happen; my family for putting up with me through it all, especially Donnie whose patience with me (if nothing else) should gain him sainthood.,