The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) (30 page)

‘
L
ast one for the day, Mrs Lorimer.’ The man in the navy rain jacket smiled cheerfully at Maggie as she signed the two spaces on the form headed Folkfirst Securities.

‘Glad you were able to be in at this time of the day. Not bad being a school teacher in this weather,’ he continued, nodding towards the back door that was lying open to let in the afternoon sun.

‘No,’ Maggie murmured. Had she mentioned being a teacher? She hadn’t thought so, but perhaps the engineer remembered her from a previous visit, though she could not recall his face. Malcolm Black was a handsome young fellow, well groomed and with just the right amount of charm to make a tedious visit from the alarm company that little bit more pleasurable.

‘Nice to have the long holidays to look forward to,’ Black continued. ‘The wife’s a primary teacher. Can’t wait to get away to Spain for our two weeks,’ he lied. There was no Mrs Black, though for working purposes he wore a wedding ring. It made the married ladies feel safer, he had joked to his colleagues. The comment about Spain was half true, though, a package holiday having been planned to coincide with the date of the opening ceremony so that the man known to some as Number Five would be free and clear when the mayhem began.

As she shut the front door, Maggie could hear the engineer whistling as he walked towards his bright blue van, but the sound that gave a lift to her spirits was one of triumph for the man who had so recently placed bugging devices inside the detective superintendent’s home.

Getting rid of Lorimer was a priority, but it would be easy now that they could track his movements.
Make
it
look
like
an
accident
, Petrie had told them. And as he drove away from the quiet cul-de-sac, Black gave no thought to the woman he had just left, nor to the fact that he was planning to make her a widow.

Marlene sat in the café, one foot tapping relentlessly against the metal stem of the table. She was all out of gear and needed a fix so badly that her mind was beginning to play tricks on her. The boss had been in and out again, but was it him? Or someone who just reminded her of McAlpin? The man she had seen had no thick beard or long hair straggling over his collar. It
was
him, though, she knew it was, just as she was certain that the man who had been talking to him that day was the dead man in the photograph.

Twenty
thousand
pounds
. She licked her lips as though she could already taste the drugs she craved. One phone call. That was all she needed to make. And a policeman she needed to talk to.
Lorimer
, that was the name she had overheard when the boss had been speaking to Harry. It was a name she knew. He’d got a result after those murders around Blythswood Square, hadn’t he? Murders of girls who’d been Marlene’s friends. Aye, that was who she’d call, Marlene thought as her foot suddenly stopped jiggling in mid air.

‘This caller says she wants to talk to Lorimer,’ the liaison officer in the CID room said, holding the telephone handset away from her ear.

‘It’s Alistair Wilson who’s SIO on the case,’ DC Lennox replied. ‘Why does she want Lorimer?’

‘Says she knows him.’

‘Okay.’ Lennox shrugged. ‘Put her through to his office. But record every word. You know the routine, right?’

The woman nodded. They’d been inundated with stupid calls after the latest press release had mentioned the amount of that reward. Not one had been worthwhile, though they had all been investigated, taking up more of the force’s precious resources. This agitated woman was different, though. She knew Lorimer from somewhere, needed to speak to him. They would record her call, try to put a trace on it if possible and take it from there.

In his office along the corridor, the detective superintendent picked up the ringing telephone.

‘Putting you through now, ma’am,’ the liaison officer said.

‘Lorimer.’

‘I know about that dead man,’ a woman’s breathy voice told him. ‘Charles Gilmartin. I seen him the day he was supposed to have died, didn’t I?’

‘Who am I speaking to?’

There was a lengthy pause during which Lorimer wondered if the line was about to be cut, and then, ‘Marlene. Marlene McAdam,’ she said. ‘I was a friend of Tracey-Anne Geddes.’

‘Ah.’ Lorimer let the word stretch out as he remembered the murdered prostitute. ‘What can I do for you, Marlene?’

‘’S what I can do for you, Mr Lorimer,’ the woman said slyly. ‘See, I know something. That twenty grand. That’s right, innit?’ she added.

‘If anything you tell us leads to an arrest and a conviction…’

‘Look, I gotta go. Can you meet me?’

There was a note of urgency in the woman’s voice now, as though something or someone had disturbed her.

Lorimer glanced at the clock. It was already past five in the afternoon and he still had calls to make. ‘Six thirty? Where shall I see you?’

There was another pause as though the woman had not yet decided on a meeting place.

‘Where they found Tracey-Anne, okay?’

‘But…’ Lorimer heard the click and frowned. Why would she have chosen a place with such macabre associations? The cobbled lanes that ran between the backs of office buildings had been the regular haunts of street workers once. He gave a sigh. It was not a place that he wanted to revisit, but at least it was broad daylight at this time of the year. Marlene McAdam would be waiting for him. With news about Charles Gilmartin, she had said. Meantime, there would be officers checking on the woman to see if there was anything in her own background that could give a clue as to what links she may have had with the impresario.

The security engineer removed his headphones and frowned. Who the hell was Marlene McAdam? And what, if anything, did she have to do with their cause?

He lifted the red mobile from his jacket pocket and pressed one of the keys. Petrie would know if she mattered or not, wouldn’t he?

Minutes later, Malcolm Black nodded as he listened to the voice of their leader. McAlpin was on the run and this woman was one of his employees. Black had made it his business to know about each and every one of the group’s members, even down to Number Two’s human trafficking enterprise. But until now he had not made any link between McAlpin’s shady business and Charles Gilmartin, the man whose photograph had been in all the newspapers.

Still, it was too good an opportunity to miss, Petrie had told him.
Get
Lorimer,
Black had been ordered. And even as he started up the engine of his van, Malcolm Black was forming an idea of just how he might dispose of the detective superintendent for good.

‘
W
e need to get away,’ Shereen told her, swinging the girl’s arm up and down.

Asa grinned as she held Shereen’s hand. It had not been so bad after all. The nurses had all been nice and it hadn’t taken much time for them to release her from the heavy plaster cast. Now her arm felt much better, lighter of course, though the muscles were still weak.

The sun was shining as they entered the supermarket, a pair of chrome barriers swinging open before them.
Food,
Shereen had told her,
something
for
the
journey
. And Asa had understood. They were going away now, on another bus, Shereen had explained, her hands making the shapes of turning wheels. Far from Glasgow to another city where Shereen had friends who would look after her.

‘Asa, that’s right,’ the receptionist said, consulting the case notes in front of her. ‘Left here about ten minutes ago.’ Every hospital in the city had been instructed to call the police should a Nigerian girl called Asa turn up, but it was the Southern General that she had chosen.

The receptionist glanced at the clock on the wall as the voice of the police officer asked her more questions.

‘Well we’ve got CCTV cameras everywhere, so we can track where they went,’ she replied.

A small smile of satisfaction appeared on the woman’s face as she listened to the police officer from Stewart Street. It was a bit of a thrill being able to help trace a missing girl. The hospital receptionist couldn’t wait till her late shift was over to drive home and tell her husband all about it.

‘Think we’ve found Asa.’ Kirsty Wilson stood at the doorway of Lorimer’s office.

‘Where?’

‘Southern General. She had her plaster off and she was spotted with another woman leaving the hospital and going across the road into Lidl.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

‘You want me to go and find her?’ Kirsty gasped.

‘Alert the Govan office. Tell them to send a squad car. And you and Lennox get over there as quick as you can.’

‘I thought you would…?’

‘Other fish to fry.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Just bring them back safely. Okay?’

There was no point in taking the Lexus up into town and the evening was fine, so Lorimer set off from Stewart Street on foot, his mind still on the Nigerian girl and her Jamaican-born companion. By the time he returned to the division they might both be back, ready to speak to him, a thought that gave him a sense of relief. If these women could tell him more about McAlpin’s trafficking schemes, then Glasgow could soon be well rid of the scourge that had been so rightly attacked by the press. That the Commonwealth Games should have been a catalyst for an increase in what was little more than sex slavery appalled the tall man who strode through the familiar streets. The city was full of people intent on having a good time; a group of Japanese tourists stood reading the menu outside one of the bistros near the Theatre Royal, the tables spilling on to the pavement all taken. Then, as Lorimer strode further uphill towards his destination, he saw a sleek gold-coloured coach, a crowd of passengers waiting patiently as the driver took more and yet more luggage from the cavernous hold. Glasgow was the place to be, he told himself. The Games were like a magnet drawing folk from every part of the globe, the fluttering banners welcoming the Commonwealth for what promised to be an exceptional occasion. But how many of the people he passed by were looking for something more, something illicit?

Lorimer’s face hardened as he thought about Drummond’s latest visit. It was rare that any communication came in the form of a telephone call, and never by electronic mail, he suddenly realised, pausing mid stride to check his watch. For once the sandy-haired man with the cultured voice had seemed troubled. The Nigerians knew nothing about McAlpin’s involvement with the Games other than the fact that he sometimes attended meetings over in the Albion Street headquarters. Had they got it all wrong? Lorimer had suggested. Perhaps McAlpin wasn’t part of the terrorist cell after all? He remembered how Drummond had shaken his head. No, he’d said, the intelligence was good; McAlpin was definitely one of the men they sought. His lucrative human trafficking was something entirely separate.

Blythswood Square Gardens were silent tonight, the gates shut fast against any possible intruders, and the detective superintendent walked swiftly by, hardly glancing at the starlings twittering in the treetops. It was now six twenty-seven and he had agreed to meet this woman, Marlene, at six thirty.

His feet took him across the road where so much had happened during that terrible case and into the mouth of the lane. Images from the past seemed to flicker and die as he stepped on to the cobbles.

She was waiting halfway along, past the huge dumper bins next to a shallow doorway. Slight and pale, Marlene McAdam had the look of all junkies, thin to the point of emaciation, hair dragged back from a face that was all angles like a Modigliani painting.

‘Thanks for coming to see me.’ Lorimer smiled as he drew closer, a friendly hand extended for her to shake.

‘I needed to speak to you,’ the woman said, licking her bloodless lips.

‘Well here I am,’ he said. ‘Though it’s not the sort of place I’d have chosen to meet,’ he added, waving a hand around the place.

Marlene shrugged, her eyes darting from side to side as though afraid to meet the cool blue gaze that regarded her thoughtfully.

‘’S quiet, though, in’t it?’ She shrugged again. ‘Didnae want tae come doon tae Stewart Street,’ she added. ‘Never know who’s watching you.’

The woman glanced behind her, the reflex action revealing just how nervous she really was.

What was it Marlene McAdam wanted to tell him? And who was she afraid of?

She turned back, and her entire body seemed to freeze.

The sudden look of terror in her eyes was not directed at Lorimer, but beyond him.

He turned, hearing the sudden noise of the vehicle screaming towards them. Seeing its headlights as it careered along the narrow lane.

A glimpse of a man’s face, covered by a scarf…

The woman screamed as Lorimer grabbed her round the waist, two bodies locked together, thudding against the doorway, his head striking the edge of something hard and sharp.

The blue van caught his elbow a glancing blow as it sped past and Lorimer cried out in pain. Then, releasing the woman from his grip, he began to run after the mad driver who had almost mown them down, cursing as the vehicle turned a corner, missing the chance to see its number plate.

But it was too late: the van had screeched away past the end of the square and was gone.

Lorimer limped back along the lane, his eyes on the figure slumped against the wall, one hand fumbling for his mobile to put out a call for assistance.

‘Are you all right?’ He looked at her ashen face, the eyes staring at him.

‘He tried to kill us!’ the woman whispered, her voice hoarse with shock.

It was an automatic reflex to turn and look at the lane where moments before a bright blue van had been deliberately driven at him. Or, he wondered, had it been aiming for the woman who was now whimpering by his side?

‘Come on,’ he said, one arm around her thin shoulders, leading her out of the lane. ‘I think we both need a drink.’

Let others find the crazy driver, he thought, though the description he had given the officer on the other end of the line was minimal and there was little chance of locating him now. What he needed were answers to why on earth it had happened, and he hoped that Marlene McAdam would be able to provide them.

Asa pointed at the packs of ham in the chiller cabinet and turned to Shereen.

‘Okay, some of those too, we can make up sandwiches,’ she said, smiling at the girl as they made their way slowly along the supermarket aisle, the older woman pushing a trolley that contained a few essentials for their journey.

‘Don’t turn around, keep walking,’ a familiar voice behind her said, the sound making her freeze with horror. She felt the point of a knife against her back, pressing into her flesh, and knew a moment of despair.

How had he found them? Her thoughts whirled as she tried to think what she must have done wrong.

‘Just keep walking,’ the big man repeated. ‘Right to the exit, okay? Leave the trolley here.’ Another jab made her want to cry out, Asa’s terrified eyes boring into her own.

Shereen let go of the shopping and stumbled along the last aisle, past the checkout towards the automatic doors.

‘Take the girl’s hand… that’s good, no fuss now.’ The man’s voice was low and menacing as Shereen moved slowly along. It was like a nightmare in which her feet seemed unable to progress, fear turning her to stone.

She looked around in bewilderment. Why did nobody seem to notice what was happening to them? The girl at the checkout was putting items from the conveyor belt into a waiting trolley, the other shoppers intent on packing their goods into bags and boxes on a shelf to her right, oblivious to the drama being enacted under their very noses.

The door opened with a whoosh, then they were out on the concrete where the trolleys were stacked. A big black cab rolled up, its side door sliding open, a gaping maw intent on swallowing them whole.

Then, before the big man could push her further, Shereen saw the policewoman coming across the car park.

‘Run, Asa, run!’ she screamed, letting go of the girl’s hand and giving her a shove.

‘Get in!’

Shereen felt his hands on her, lifting her bodily into the taxi, then she fell to the floor as the vehicle began to gather speed, the door sliding shut beside them. Her head hurt where she had fallen, but her beating heart felt something other than fear.

Asa had escaped!

Shereen knew a final moment of triumph even as the foot pressed her flailing arm on to the floor of the cab.

She’d
saved
the
girl
from
this
monster.

Above her she saw the fire in the man’s eyes.

And his terrible rage as his hand rose above her.

Police Constable Kirsty Wilson’s bulky young frame was not built for speed, and she was no match for the African girl, who was flying across Govan Road, heedless of the traffic around her squealing to a halt. Too many of Mum’s cakes, she thought to herself as she panted behind the fleeing figure, the taller shape of DC Lennox overtaking her. He’d get the girl. Surely he would?

Asa jumped on to the island of concrete that was raised up from the road.

All around her horns were blaring, lights flashing as she stood mesmerised by the noise and the nearness of the cars and lorries.

The girl looked back across the road to the car park outside the shop, but Shereen had gone. And so had the man. The one who had hurt her and kept her in that terrible place.

She raised her head to the unforgiving sky, seeing the clouds moving along the heavens. Then, putting her hands to her mouth, she uttered the wailing, ululating cry that had sounded out death and despair all down the countless ages.

Kirsty watched as the young detective wrapped his jacket around the girl’s shoulders and led her through the halted traffic. She was so little, not more than a child, she realised, looking at the Nigerian girl as she came closer.

‘Asa?’

The girl turned huge black eyes to Kirsty, and the policewoman could see that they were full of tears.

‘It’s okay, Asa, you’re safe now,’ she soothed, patting the girl’s arm as they led her to the waiting car.

‘
Safe?
’ Asa whispered, looking at Kirsty in amazement. Then, swaying for a moment as though she might faint, the Nigerian girl turned her face against Lennox’s shoulder and began to sob.