Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (7 page)

‘I have had a letter from the Assistant Chief Constable,’ Solly began. There was another pause and this time Lorimer stopped swinging in his chair and sat up, listening. ‘It seems that there has been a change in policy and that my services may no longer be required by Strathclyde Police,’ Solly said quietly.

‘Good Lord! What else did it say? Does she give any reasons for that?’

‘Only that there has been a change in policy regarding the use of criminal profiling,’ Solly said. Lorimer could hear the hurt and disappointment in the man’s

voice. Doctor Solomon Brightman had been instrumental in helping to solve various murder cases in which Lorimer had been the Senior Investigating Officer and the policeman had learned to value his insights.

‘Did she hint at budgetary constraints?’ Lorimer asked, wondering if the credit crunch had been to blame.

‘No,’ Solly said. There was a silence then the psychologist blurted out, ‘Is it me? Are they not happy with something I’ve done?’ ‘Hey, don’t even consider that for a minute,’ Lorimer told him.

‘You’re well thought of around here, surely you know that!’ ‘Then why…?’ Solly left his question unfinished.

‘I really don’t know, Solly. But leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Anyway, you’ve got enough to do right now, haven’t you? A book almost ready for publication and a new baby on its way. Got that spare room made into a nursery yet?’

The psychologist’s voice brightened up as he took Lorimer’s lead and chatted about the changes he had made to the spacious top floor flat that overlooked Kelvingrove Park.

Lorimer put down the phone and looked at it, thoughtfully. Why had Solly been so summarily dismissed from the police service? Was it money? Or was it something to do with that case south of the border where an eminent criminal profiler had got things spectacularly wrong? Lorimer thought about the case for a few minutes.

Doctor Richard Thackeray (Doctor Dick, the less salubrious newspapers had taken to calling him) had profiled a young man with some pretty serious mental health issues as being the perpetrator of six prostitute murders. The man had been taken into custody, the southern police force thoroughly relieved to have found their killer. Or so they had thought. After being brutalised by his cellmate, the young man had committed suicide. The press

had been less than charitable, hinting at justice being snatched out of the hands of the courts.

Then the whole shebang had collapsed with the killing of a seventh victim and the apprehension of another man, one who appeared to be, ironically, completely sane. The man’s DNA was all over the other victims and so a confession of sorts had been obtained.

Yet again a furore had broken out, the redtops changing their stance once more, this time baying for the blood of Doctor Richard Thackeray. This had all taken place last year but now the killer was due for sentencing. Alongside the media fuss, the future career of Thackeray was being mooted. Several of the better papers had run features on criminal profiling, not always portraying it in a positive light. Was that it, then? Had police forces around the country decided that profiling had had its day? As a mere DCI, Lorimer was not party to the sort of policing politics that determined things like that.

Perhaps he might have a word with Her Nibs, as they all called Joyce Rogers, the Assistant Chief Constable. She was a fair minded individual and would at least give Lorimer a chance to put forward Solly’s case.

Omar was staring at the open door of his locker. Instead of the clean grey metal interior there was a piece of A4 paper fixed with Blu-Tack. The scrawl of words jumped out at him.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BLACK BASTARD

The officer felt the sweat prickle under his collar. Giving a quick

glance to see if anyone was watching, he tore the page off the door

and crumpled it into a ball then thrust it right at the back of the

locker, behind his gym kit and the rest of his stuff. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy as he tried to shut the locker and, as he turned the key, Omar noticed that the doorframe now sat at a slight angle. Someone had clearly broken into his locker. You didn’t need to be a CID officer to work that one out. But that wasn’t why the young Egyptian was having difficulty in controlling his trembling hands. It wasn’t the first time.

Racist slurs like this had been the officer’s main reason for quitting Grampian region’s police force. He’d thought to have put it all behind him now. But, unless this was some sort of fiendish coincidence, it seemed as if his unknown tormentor had followed him all the way down from Aberdeen.

‘Okay?’ Annie Irvine smiled at the young man who approached her, his eyes looking everywhere except in her direction. DC Irvine groaned inwardly. Had she come on to him too strongly? Embarrassed the poor guy? She sighed. Och well, better get on with the job in hand, pretend it never happened. Like it was ever going to, a small voice whispered into her ear. Why imagine that he’d fancy you?

‘Hello,’ Fathy’s smile was strained but he was still being the polite foreigner, Irvine thought, waiting for her so he could open the car door.

‘Right,’ Irvine said brusquely. ‘Boss’s orders. Let’s get gitting, partner,’ she attempted a smile to lighten the atmosphere but the man beside her seemed occupied in thoughts of his own, turning away and looking out of the window as she drove away from headquarters.

By the time they had reached the motorway Irvine had reconciled herself to a merely platonic friendship with this particularly attractive male specimen of the human race.

‘Been to Glasgow befine?’ she asked brightly.

Fathy turned as if he had forgotten there was another person in the car beside him. ‘What? Oh. Glasgow. Yes, loads of times. We came here for quite a few cultural visits when I was at school.’

‘You went to school in Scotland?’ Annie’s eyebrows shot up, her notions of the man as an exotic stranger suddenly disappearing. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you don’t sound all that Scottish.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Fathy replied, his mouth twisted into a strange little grimace of a smile. ‘Both my parents are Egyptian but I was born here. Went to boarding school in Perthshire. Father was insistent that his sons all had the best education possible,’ he continued. ‘And St Andrews University was the natural choice after that,’ he shrugged.

‘What did you study?’ Irvine glanced away from the road ahead for a split second, curious to see his expression.

‘Philosophy and maths,’ Fathy told her. ‘Perfect degree for anyone wanting to be a copper.’

His tone held just a trace of irony and Irvine wanted to push a wee bit harder, to nosy in to the Egyptian’s past to find out more, but something stopped her. Be cool, she told herself. Keep to neutral ground. It was something she’d learned from watching Lorimer with people in interview situations.

‘Did you not go on to do honours, then?’

‘Yes, actually. Got a first as it happens.’ He shrugged again as if it was no great shakes or else he was shy of being seen as a brainy type.

Irvine kept her eyes on the road as she digested this snippet of information. ‘Och, I just did an ordinary at Strathclyde,’ she told him. ‘Never could do maths.’ She gave him a wicked grin. ‘I’ll get you to do my time sheets if I ever get stuck, eh?’ She moved her elbow as if to dig him in the ribs, a gesture that said at once that she was only being a pal, a mate, nothing more.

Irvine drove on, her thoughts taking a different turn. Fathy’s well-educated voice had made her think he’d received his education abroad, at an international school perhaps. Or maybe that he’d been sent to the UK by his family. It had never once dawned on her that he might actually consider himself Scottish. Don’t be so small-minded, woman, she scolded herself.

What made you join the polis? she wanted to ask. But again, something prevented the words from being uttered. He might well ask her the same question. And Annie Irvine knew that her standard answer to such a question, to help the community, might not fool this man as it had fooled so many. No, better to keep these things to herself. She was doing okay now, wasn’t she? CID might be a sideways move but it felt like progress. Annie Irvine could be proud of her career path so far. Joining up, for her, had been purely cathartic; a move to signal that she could face her fears head on, maybe even be rid of them for good, one day.

‘Right, let’s see what this lot have to say for themselves,’ she muttered, turning into the car park of the call centre. ‘See if anyone can throw a bit of light on Mr Scott.’ Thoughts about Omar Fathy had to be shelved for now.

And any thoughts about her own past would be easily forgotten in the process of this investigation.

Amit drained the last of his coffee. It was the quiet part of the day when the staff had an hour to go about their own business. Some, like Paramsit Dhesi, drove over to the south side of the city to spend a little time with families. Others drifted away from the restaurant in twos or threes, chattering in a Punjabi dialect that reminded him all too clearly of the streets of Lahore. Visions of the city came to him like snapshots: the still lakes of water reflecting sun-drenched skies at noon; the market with people constantly coming and going, its smells of ripe fruit, cattle and dust wafting in the stifling air; the train cutting through the city, its open windows full of travellers staring out at the wonders of Lahore. He remembered the family house in Gulberg, its pink washed walls and curving windows: each sill and lattice detail decorated in the style of a Mughal’s palace. Then there were the clubs, his father’s meetings at the Moslem League, the polo matches. But these pictures in his mind were like something he had seen in a film or a dream, not part of his own history The images of bloody bodies, his mother’s scream as the Inter Services Intelligence dragged his father away, these were the stuff of nightmares, locked away in some deep, dark part of his brain, never brought out willingly for examination.

The sound of crates being delivered to the back door made Amit stir from his reverie. He was in Glasgow now, safe in the place that he was beginning to call his own.

His mouth turned up at the corners as he recalled the first time he had sat at this very table. A coffee, that was all he had asked for, but that one request had brought him so much more.

Dhesi had sat down beside him, his hand extended, the light of recognition in his eyes as Amit had spoken.

‘You are an Aitchisonian!’ Dhesi had exclaimed, his hand ready to shake Amit’s own.

‘Yes, but . .

‘I could tell, my brother, I could tell!’ Dhesi had clasped his hand with such warmth that Amit had suddenly heard the familiar inflection in his voice. Only a person who had attended Aitchison College, Lahore’s premier educational establishment, would speak in such dignified tones. But here? In this Scottish city? It was nothing short of a miracle.

‘This is nothing short of a miracle,’ he remembered Dhesi’s words and how he had grinned as if he had been able to read the stranger’s thoughts.

And, for each of them it was just that. Dhesi had sat for the best part of that quiet hour, lamenting the problem he faced with his establishment. A partner who was not to be trusted any longer. Dhesi’s desire to buy the man out. ‘But what can I do?’ he had shrugged, his upturned hands expressing his helplessness. ‘I don’t have the sum of money needed to send the rascal packing and the banks are simply unwilling to lend at this time of recession.’

By the end of that hour, Amit and Dhesi had not just clasped their hands together in recognition of their joint past, but had shaken on a deal that would mean much to them both. Amit would buy out the other partner and invest in this business (once

he had examined the books. Of murve, Dhesi had said hurriedly, that was understood.)

And for Amit it had signalled a new beginning. He had a place of business now, a partnership in a thriving restaurant and a friend upon whom he could rely.

Money had not been a problem. The Hundi, the fixer, had arranged everything just as he had promised. Trust of a different sort had been all important, of course, but Amit had been in a situation where even had he been robbed blind by the go-between, he would have given the man his hefty commission. Nonetheless his funds had been transferred to an account in a Glasgow bank and to his surprise they had not been reduced by more than the agreed fee. Honour was still intact, even in this cold, Western land.

His rental flat was comfortable but it was time now to make another sort of investment. A place of his own, here in Glasgow’s West End.

Amit thought of the woman with the long red hair. Marianne. If he could run his fingers through those silken tresses… touch her in a way that brought a smile to her lips … He dismissed the sudden fantasy. She had been useful to him, wasn’t that all? And Amit knew the time was approaching when his friends would expect him to be rid of her for good.

D’inner’ll be ready in a minute,’ Maggie called out, hearing

her husband closing the front door behind him. ‘Salad again.’ She turned and made a face. ‘I’ve tried to go easy on the avocados but there’s plenty of chicken and bacon. Okay?’

Lorimer sidestepped the ginger cat that was attempting to wind itself around his trouser leg and walked across the room to where his wife was putting the finishing touches to a dressing. The scent of oranges wafted from the breakfast bar where she was standing and he sniffed the air appreciatively.

‘Smells good. New recipe?’

Maggie smiled and shook her dark curls. ‘No. Just made it up as I went along. Inspired by what was in the fridge.’ She looked up at the tall man who was leaning against the counter. He was, Maggie Lorimer thought, the sort of person who filled a room just by being there.

She was suddenly reminded of the first time she had seen him. A crowd of her pals had been gossiping in the students’ union, a few weeks into the beginning of term, when this tall young man had wandered in, his eyes fixed on somebody at the far end of the room. He had walked past Maggie and her girlfriends, and as he passed she had turned to follow him with her gaze. His loping stride atracted her.what had it been? A quality of stillness within, perhaps? So different from the clowning, posturing of so many of the lads trying to impress. Maggie had gone out of her way after that to look for this one. He told the story his own way, of course: she had been sitting alone in the crowded cafeteria and he’d given her that crooked smile of his. ‘Is it all right…?’ he’d asked and she’d gestured for him to sit down beside her. He’d been watching her for weeks, he said, waiting for a chance to say hello.