Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray (9 page)

`Ah mean, Brogan widnae came back efter we turned his pad ower, ah mean, wid he?’ Galbraith danced at the other man’s side, an anxious hand raised as if to ward off any blows.

Fraser Sandiman took the stairs two at a time. The shotgun held neatly against his body was a mere shadow in the dim light. ‘C’mon, Fraz, wait fur me!’ Galbraith panted up the stairs.

‘Shut it, Gubby,’ Fraz replied in a quiet but menacing tone, his face turned towards the man several steps below. ‘D’ye want the entire neighbourhood taste hear ye?’ Galbraith waited till the other man had recommenced his ascent then stuck out a childish tongue at his back. He was Gubby to his mates, not just in token of his surname but because ever since primary school he had been unable to keep his gub shut. `Cannae even say a wurd but yerr on taste me,’ he grumbled, clenching his fists, hard man style. The door was easy enough to open, but Fraz pushed it gently, just in case someone was inside.

‘Made a richt job o’ that, eh? Eh?’ Gubby laughed gleefully as he brushed a manky hand across the splintered wooden frame. ‘Aye,’ said his mate, moving cautiously into the flat. ‘He’s no in,’ Gubby rattled on. `Ah felt ye, he’s no comin’ back here. Let’s jist get onything we can and split.’ He followed the other man into the wreck of the lounge. ‘Shut it,’ Fraz snarled, raising a hand in warning. ‘Someone’s been in here. See this? He lifted a khaki-coloured kitbag that rested behind an overturned chair.

‘That no Brogan’s?’ Gubby asked doubtfully. `Cannae mind him havin’ wan like that,’ he scratched his already tousled hair then scratched a bit harder as if to stimulate his thoughts. ‘C’mon, let’s see whit’s in the kitchen. See if onybody’s bin doin’ the business,’ Fraz commanded.

Gubby followed him out of the lounge. If there had been any drug taking going on, surely they’d find traces? Crumpled tinfoil, maybe? A few roaches chucked into the dustbin? Gubby wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d never touch the stuff, nor would Fraz. They’d both seen too many dealers go the way of addicts, money slithering through shaking fingers as they dipped into

their precious goods. Fraz and he made their money out of men and women desperate for what they could sell them, and so did Billy Brogan.

Was Billy on the stuff? He’d seen him smoke a few joints at parties, but had he gone onto the hard stuff? Whatever the story was, Billy Brogan had skived off somewhere, owing them a whack.

Outside the Glasgow streets were slick with a damp rain that had begun to fall as the clouds gathered steadily, drifting from the west. The hit man locked his car and strolled across the street, not looking back. The kitbag was back at the flat and he had some spare clothes heaped inside the boot. He hoped he wouldn’t need them, though this thin rain was already soaking his jacket. Maybe Brogan would come back tonight? Then he would conclude his business with the dealer and head on home.

The man bent his head against the wind that was gusting scraps of paper and old leaves along the pavement. He rounded a corner. Two more doorways then he was back to Brogan’s pad. Looking up, he hesitated. A red car that had not been there earlier was parked outside the close. A smile crossed his mouth.

‘Welcome home, Billy boy,’ he chuckled softly.

The worn stone steps made no sound under his soles as he stepped swiftly up the two flights of stairs. Then he stopped. Voices from Brogan’s flat made him shrink against the wall, one hand curled around the gun hidden under his jacket. He grinned, anticipating the look on Billy boy’s face when he made his entry.

The front door was open just a fraction and he could hear the voices coming from a room along the far end of the flat. The kitchen, he thought.

`Yerawankerr one of them shouted out and then there was a thump.

`Gerrofff Fraz! Leausalane!’ another voice whined, obviously hurt in some way.

The hit man stopped halfway along the hall. Glasgow accents, both of them, but neither reminded him of Private William Brogan. So where was the little sod?

Before he could think of his next move, two figures rushed out of the kitchen, one of them brandishing a shotgun. ‘Whit the…?’ Fraz’s question was cut off even as he began to aim his weapon.

The sound of gunfire resonated off the walls of the flat, booming and echoing, masking any cry from the men. The impact of the shots lifted each of them off their feet, one after the other, backs curved, arms flung heavenwards before they hit the ground in two dull thumps.

The hit man listened to the silence, the sense of stillness that followed every death: the scent of gunfire drifting above those crumpled heaps on the floor a malevolent incense.

The man took a step back, regarding the dead men. If he turned them over he would see patches of crimson staining their chests, dark bullet holes piercing their pale, northern brows.

Heart, head. That was how he had been trained to kill in the service of Her Majesty. It was second nature to him now, that sudden reflex action. Not like the deliberate hit of a commission where he simply fired into the middle of a man’s (or, occasionally, a woman’s) skull.

Taking a piece of worn cloth from his pocket, he wrapped the gun carefully before replacing it in his jacket. Had he been a wild west cowboy he’d have blown into the barrel, he thought. The image made him smile.

‘Right, Billy boy, what have we here?’ he murmured, hunkering down to have a closer look at the men on the ground. But his examination was to be short-lived. He stood up almost immediately, tensing as he heard noises coming from the stone staircase outside. Time to get out of here, he told himself, thinking rapidly as he grabbed his backpack; no wasting precious seconds scrabbling around on hands and knees trying to retrieve four cartridge cases.

Mary Murphy turned up the television a fraction more. Maybe it had been a car backfiring. Did a car backfire in a series of bangs like that? But even as she listened to the canned laughter from the comedy show, she shivered, knowing instinctively what it was that she had heard downstairs. A bad lot, that Brogan. People always coming and going, pushing past her on the stairs as if she was so much rubbish, some of them queer-looking folk with eyes rolling in their heads from all the stuff they took. The old woman shuddered again. If Alec had been here… But Mary knew that Alec would have told her the same thing: keep out of it, hen, ye cannae change that sort. So, even as she sat shivering in her chair, Mary Murphy decided that she had heard nothing at all.

The hit man pulled the baseball cap lower as he left the shadow of the close mouth and walked out into the damp Glasgow night. Keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, he knew that nobody could see his features, nobody would be able to identify him as the man who had emerged shortly after eleven-thirty that particular evening. The wet pavements muffled his footsteps as one stride after another took him to the street where he had parked the car less than an hour before. Gloved fingers reached down for the key

in his trouser pocket and, as his hand slid down, he was aware of the hard shape nestling in his jacket. A small smile of satisfaction spread across the man’s face. That would show anyone who knew Brogan that he meant business. Then the smile faded into a frown. He had to find somewhere else in this city to hide out now. This whole business was becoming more and more complicated. But until he had that money in his hand, Billy Brogan could consider himself a marked man.

Mario stopped by the open door, pursing his lips thoughtfully. The man who lived across the landing hadn’t been around for a little while now. So why was his door lying open like that? He sniffed the air, smelling an unfamiliar, acrid sort of scent. Was something burning? A human instinct to help overcame Mario’s reluctance to intrude on another man’s privacy. Pushing the door a little wider, he began to step forward then stopped at the sight before him. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he whispered, crossing himself before backing out of the hallway once more. Trembling fingers reached for his mobile phone. Three buttons were pressed then there was a pause before a female voice asked him a question. ‘Police,’ Mario said, swallowing as the words stuck in his throat. ‘There’s these two men… I think they’re dead. .

Long before a squad car arrived to investigate Mario Bernardini’s call, the hit man had driven for several miles, seeking somewhere safe on the margins of the city. The bright lights of the cinema made him glance up briefly, letting him catch a glimpse of a neon Marilyn, her white skirts fluttering in a permanent arc above the parking bays. Maybe a nosey around there would help to establish an alibi, should he require one? A discarded ticket was easy enough to find. It was no more than a passing thought. Nobody was going to associate him with the carnage he’d left behind in Brogan’s flat. The Travel Inn loomed closer and he turned the car into its dimly lit forecourt. It was one more anonymous place to rest his head. A place where nobody would see anything other than one more stranger passing through.

Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer stood by the bay window, looking down into the busy Glasgow street. Normality reigned here with cars, taxis and trucks moving slowly between sets of traffic lights, their collective aim to arrive at a destination before the nine a.m. cut off. However, the vehicles parked below and the lines of blue and white tape were making things more difficult for the steady stream and the policeman could imagine the swearing

and dirty looks that were being directed towards this particular tenement. The entire flat was being picked over by scene of crime officers, a horrible task given the state of the place. Had the killer ransacked Brogan’s home before shooting these two men? Flashes of light behind him made him turn away from the view The photographers were taking pictures of the scene of crime, particularly the two corpses lying in the middle of the hall, before the on duty pathologist arrived. A shotgun lying near the bodies had also attracted their attention; it was not the murder weapon, though, Lorimer knew. Those neat holes through the heads of each man had been made by something like an automatic pistol. Sadly such types of gun were all too easily available nowadays, the market from eastern Europe having flooded the country with a variety of ex-military hardware. Once ballistics had identified the bullet they could begin to build up a picture of the assailant, but meanwhile the policeman had to content himself with finding out what he could from the drug dealer’s flat. At least this time they had found the cartridge cases, something that would help to pinpoint what kind of weapon had been used. For the moment Lorimer was keeping out of the way, not just to avoid any contamination of the scene but also to have a closer look at Brogan’s home. A man could disguise himself, wear clothes to try and hide his real personality, but one of the things that gave him away was his own personal space. So often Lorimer drew knowledge about a person from the way that he lived. It was a big flat for one person. Three bedrooms lay off the long narrow hallway, two with single beds that were now turned on their sides. There had been no bedclothes in either of the smaller rooms and one of them was full of empty cardboard cartons, their lids turned neatly in as if someone had stacked them like nesting

boxes before the rampage had begun and they had been tossed around. But it was such small details that Lorimer had learned to see; did it indicate that Brogan was a methodical sort of fellow? It was going to be a tough job to read these surroundings, given the mess in most of the rooms. Only the bathroom seemed to have avoided the onslaught of an enraged punter. Was that it? Had Brogan’s flat been targeted by one of his customers? The man was a known drug dealer, one that had slipped and slithered out of the reach of Strathclyde CID for far too long. But his name and those of his associates was certainly on their files. Lorimer’s eyes roamed over the bright room that overlooked the west end of Argyle Street. Narrow twin shelves above the massive plasma television looked as though they had been built to hold compact discs; the charcoal-coloured carpet beneath them was now littered with dozens of broken plastic boxes. In his mind’s eye Lorimer saw angry feet stamping on them, destroying things that might have given Brogan some pleasure. With one gloved hand, he picked up the cases. Brogan’s taste was mainly for hard rock music but Lorimer did raise an approving eyebrow at a boxed set of Rolling Stones Greatest Hits and a David Bowie reissue. The films were a mixture of horror and soft porn but there was one copy of Lost in Austen, still in its original wrapping. A gift for a girlfriend, maybe? If so, its choice showed a more thoughtful side to the owner of this flat. And who was the intended recipient? Lorimer wondered.

As he looked around he saw a bronze-coloured sculpture that was supposed to represent grasses blowing in the wind. It had been partly wrenched off the cream painted wall and was swinging loose, a pathetic piece of junk now rather than an attempt at modern art. Had Brogan fancied himself as a Mr Big? His taste in decor was reasonably muted; a dark carpet with matching grey tweed curtains

(that had been professionally lined) against clean cream walls. The red leather settee was the only brash colour in the room. It looked as if it had been expensive, Lorimer thought, eyeing the slashes made by someone’s spiteful knife, and for a moment he wondered if drug dealers bothered to insure their possessions. Voices outside indicated the arrival of a newcomer, but before he left the room, Lorimer walked carefully around the debris, seeking something more personal. So far he had little clue as to how Brogan had lived, other than his penchant for rock music and tacky films. And a woman somewhere, he thought, remembering that brand new DVD. He found it in one corner under a pile of scattered magazines, shards of glass sticking out from the splayed pages of FHM and GQ. A framed picture of a woman, smiling back at the camera. She was in her late twenties, perhaps, with a distinctive sort of pallor, her alabaster skin tone reminding him of some of the PreRaphaelite paintings. That long red hair cascading down upon one bare shoulder might have come from any era. But the background to the picture was entirely modern and Lorimer recognised the building at once: it was the library of Glasgow University, a place he had frequented during his time as a student. Dusting away the remaining fragments of glass, he let his finger linger on the glossy photograph. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered softly. ‘Probably between nine and midnight,’ a familiar voice intoned, making Lorimer straighten up, pocket the photograph and step into the hallway once more. The white-suited figure crouching beside the bodies paid him no attention, looking instead at her colleague who was busily taking notes. ‘Never one to give us an exact time of death,’ he said, shaking his head in mock despair as he noticed DC Fathy who was evidently absorbed in the pathologist’s examination.