The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) (33 page)

I
t was not unusual in her job to have to meet the police, but today was different, Gayle Finnegan realised. She had arranged a rota for all the staff to be interviewed, discreetly, as instructed, and in just over fifteen minutes it would be her turn to face the plain-clothes officers who had infiltrated the building on Albion Street. Routine, her line manager had said, but there had been a hint of anxiety on the other woman’s face.

‘Ms Finnegan?’ A tall young woman with cropped black hair stood smiling at Gayle. Her summer frock was Cath Kidston, Gayle realised, looking at the floral dress and the open-toed sandals. If this was how the police dressed nowadays for work, then perhaps the interview wouldn’t be too bad after all, she told herself, sitting down in the chair that the woman had pulled out for her.

‘Just a few routine questions. Gayle, isn’t it? My name’s Kate.’

The handshake was warm, like the policewoman’s smile, and Gayle Finnegan nodded, relaxing into the chair, ready to answer whatever questions were necessary to complete this security check.

There had been the usual things: home, hobbies, people she mixed with, then her relationship with Cam.

‘Anything unusual happen to you lately, Gayle? Anything odd?’ The woman smiled. ‘Silly wee things, even they can be significant.’

The girl thought immediately of the red mobile phone covered in numbered stickers. But that wouldn’t be of any interest to them, would it?

‘Gayle?’ Kate, the nice police officer, was looking at her intently. ‘What is it? Something that bothered you?’ Her voice was kind, understanding. And at that moment, Gayle felt that Kate was just the sort of person she could confide in.

She began to tell the officer about the discovery in their bedroom, how she had worried herself sick that Cam had another woman. Or other women. But he’d said it was to do with university stuff. He was always late home these days; the dissertation seemed to cause him to stay in the university library for hours on end.

And had anything else changed? Kate had asked, and Gayle found herself confiding about how worried she was whenever her boyfriend had those terrible dreams, and yet they had never been happier together, no more fighting about how he thought the Games were a load of rubbish. Yes. He’d changed his mind about that quite suddenly, she’d agreed.

The two Aussies had been extra nice to him tonight, Cameron thought, as he sauntered through the streets of Glasgow’s Merchant City, heedless of the people around him, blind to the giant green G of Glasgow 2014 on every corner. Peter had insisted on picking up the bill for dinner, too. They’d wheedled it out of him, guessing that their tour guide was still a student, telling him how much they appreciated his services, even hinting that there would be a welcome any time he cared to venture Down Under.

It was different now, he decided. They were real people, not an abstract concept. And he bit his lip as he considered how he was going to prevent Peter and Joanne MacGregor from being part of the catastrophe that was planned for the opening ceremony. He had to do it somehow, extricate himself from the plot to which he had so readily agreed all those months ago. As his feet took him towards Gayle’s flat, a place he regarded these days almost as home, Cameron Gregson never noticed the two men slipping out of a parked car and following him.

Lorimer and two of Drummond’s men were waiting in the kitchenette, hidden from sight, as Cameron Gregson turned his key in the door of Gayle Finnegan’s flat. The girl had been taken for further questioning, her face stricken with anguish as Kate and another colleague had helped her into a waiting car.

Gregson’s professor had been helpful when Lorimer had telephoned him, concerned that his postgraduate student had failed to make contact for several weeks. The final draft of his dissertation ought to have been submitted by now. What was its subject? Lorimer had asked, and the professor had told him, unable to see the expression on the detective superintendent’s face when he had revealed that the young man had been writing about the persecution of Clan MacGregor and its effect on Scotland’s destiny.

Drummond’s eyes had lit up when the detective superintendent had relayed that particular nugget of information.

‘It fits,’ he’d said. ‘Everything his girlfriend told us points to Gregson being part of a conspiracy. How he asked her for inside information about the Games, his seeming change of heart. She’s been well and truly conned by this man,’ Drummond had declared. ‘And if we can access that mobile phone, then we may just be able to find the other members of the cell.’

There were officers positioned outside the flat too, waiting to apprehend Gregson in case he made a run for it. But there was no need.

‘Cameron Gregson?’

‘Who the…?’ The young man’s face paled and he began to back away, bumping into a chair then sinking into it as though his legs had given way.

‘We need to ask you some questions,’ Lorimer said, bending over Gregson, pinning him with his blue glare.

‘Let’s begin with a certain red mobile phone that we believe is in your possession…’

‘
I
swear I never seen him!’ Harry Temperland spread his skinny fingers in a pleading gesture.

‘That’s not what Marlene McAdam tells us,’ Lorimer replied, one eyebrow raised in a sceptical gesture.

The ageing tattoo artist’s head sank, his grey hair falling in straggles across the edge of the table. Lorimer waited. The man’s demeanour spoke of defeat already, and it simply required patience to bring out all the information he needed.

‘Said he’d kill me if I spoke to youse. Always banging on about a singing bird.’ He raised watery eyes to the detective superintendent. ‘Know what that means?’

Lorimer nodded. To sing like a bird was to tell on your mates, and in some criminal quarters that carried a heavy penalty.

There was a sigh, then Temperland pulled the chair a little closer to the table, his feet shuffling on the linoleum floor.

‘Met up with him some years back. We were doing a re-enactment up at Bannockburn. Took a shine to me, or so I thought at the time,’ he said darkly. ‘Then one day he appears at the studio. Talked about buying the place. Seemed to know an awful lot more about me and the business than I had let on.’ He glanced up at the detective. ‘Debts were crippling me.’ He shrugged. ‘Had a dealer who wasn’t prepared to give me any more credit, so I’d remortgaged it.’ He licked his lips, then stretched out a hand to take the plastic beaker of water that he’d been given earlier. A couple of sips and he was ready to continue.

‘Bought me out and kept me on as manager. Paid me properly too, I’ll give him that,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Wanted me to do all these tattoos for him, special things, Pictish mostly. Things that had meanings.’ His pale eyes looked beyond Lorimer for a moment as though he were imagining a time in pre-history when the swirling designs had been created.

‘Aye, and he wanted me to have a particular design tattooed on that black girl.’ He nodded, still avoiding Lorimer’s stare. ‘Said he’d be bringing in more nearer the time of the Games. Then Gilmartin arrived.’ He took another sip of water.

‘Seemed a nice man,’ Temperland mused. ‘Would never have thought he’d have had dealings with someone like McAlpin. Specially not in
that
line o’ business.’ He sighed again. ‘They’d met on the set of some film or other. Don’t know which one.’ He looked up at Lorimer. ‘Does it matter?’

The detective shook his head. Let him just carry on talking, he thought.

‘Anyway, seems they cooked up this scheme between them. Gilmartin supplied the cash, McAlpin did the rest.’ He shrugged. ‘Never knew much about how they got the girls over here, but I did know that Gilmartin was planning to bring more over from Nigeria with a theatrical group. Then he died.’ He looked at Lorimer again.

‘I saw him that afternoon.’ He nodded. ‘Like Marlene said. McAlpin seemed happy enough afterwards. Nothing that would suggest he was about to do the man any harm. I mean, why would he? Kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?’

‘Where is he now, Harry?’ Lorimer spoke so quietly that for a moment the tattoo artist seemed not to have heard him.

‘Never knew much about his private life. Never seen him with a woman in tow.’ He shook his head. ‘If he isn’t at his house or that flat where he kept his girls, then I don’t know where he’d be.’ He looked straight at Lorimer. ‘Really I don’t,’ he added.

‘We can safely assume that McAlpin was dropped from the cell and that these five remaining numbers are used for contact purposes,’ Drummond told him.

They were walking together in Kelvingrove Park, along a path that lay directly in front of Solly and Rosie’s house. Lorimer glanced upwards at the bay windows shining in the afternoon sun. He had kept so much of this case from his friends, and from Maggie, the need for absolute security precluding even those whom he knew he could trust.

‘What we don’t want is for any of them to go to ground, especially Petrie. He’s a slippery customer, good at covering his tracks, never in the same place twice,’ Drummond said, matching Lorimer stride for stride as they walked downhill towards the river.

‘Having Gregson’s mobile will enable us to pinpoint their location easily enough, though.’ He exchanged a grin with the detective superintendent. ‘We expect to have them all in custody by the end of today,’ he added.

Lorimer did not reply. It was a strange thing to be part of such an important case and yet not to be in at the capture of these men. That would be carried out by MI6 operatives with the utmost discretion and without any assistance from Police Scotland. They had done their bit and Lorimer must be satisfied with that.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’ Drummond stopped and turned to the tall man by his side. ‘Wondered if you had thought any more about my proposal?’

‘Joining MI6?’ Lorimer smiled. ‘I’m flattered that you’d want me,’ he said.

Drummond looked at him shrewdly. ‘You are exactly the sort of man we want, Lorimer. But I’m guessing you’ve made your decision. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’ Lorimer looked back at the man and nodded. ‘I’ve already got the best job in the world,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t want to change that for anything.’

‘That’s the leader’s call.’ Rob Worsley picked up the red mobile telephone and looked across the room at McAlpin.

‘Don’t tell him I’m here,’ the big man hissed.

Worsley glared back at him, the phone already pressed to his ear. ‘Number Four,’ he said. Then, with a puzzled look, he took the mobile away and looked at it. ‘Died on me. Bloody battery must’ve gone,’ he said. ‘He’ll not be happy with that.’

The explosives expert chewed his fingernail. None of them would be happy if they’d seen him last night, showing McAlpin his handiwork. Showing off after one too many whiskies, he thought guiltily. He’d allowed his pride to take over as he’d explained how the device worked, demonstrating the technical intricacies while thinking that a big bear like McAlpin was incapable of that sort of delicate work, no matter how interested he seemed to be.

‘Are you expecting a meeting, then?’ McAlpin asked.

Worsley shrugged. ‘Yeah, sometime this morning. Never know where, though, do we? They’ll begin to wonder where I am when I don’t turn up,’ he said, gnawing his lip anxiously.

A knock at the door made both men turn in alarm, exchanging worried looks.

‘Answer it, I’ll be in the kitchen,’ McAlpin commanded.

The young woman at the door smiled sweetly, holding out a collecting tin for the Sick Children’s Hospital. ‘Care to help?’ she asked, looking up at the white-haired man on the doorstep.

‘Just a wee minute,’ Worsley replied. ‘Need to find some change.’ He’d turned to go back inside, ready to rummage in the pocket of a jacket that was hanging on the back of a chair, when he felt the gun in his back.

‘Turn around slowly and don’t make a sound,’ the young woman said quietly, her tone suddenly different. ‘There’s a car waiting outside. Walk slowly towards it and get into the back, understand?’

Worsley nodded, his head spinning. The explosives were all in the back room, McAlpin in the kitchen. He cursed himself. McAlpin! It had to be him they were looking for, and now the big man had screwed the entire operation!

For a moment he thought about making a run for it as the door opened wider, then, as two fit-looking men strolled towards him, one on either side, Rob Worsley knew it was time to admit defeat.

As he was bundled into the car, he caught sight of a woman in the front passenger seat, holding up her hand to catch the men’s attention as she listened to the mobile phone pressed against her ear.

‘It’s Drummond,’ the female officer said, looking up at the men now on either side of their prisoner. ‘There’s an unidentified package in the Emirates Stadium. We’ve to pass this one over and get our backsides across there now!’

‘What about the house?’

‘Later,’ she said shortly. ‘Get a move on.’

McAlpin stood motionless, watching and listening through the crack in the kitchen door, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. They’d be back to clear out this place in no time. He waited until he heard the sound of the car drive off from the kerb, then let out a long sigh, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Worsley’s kit was in the back room. But was there time to retrieve it?

The big man crept through the flat and turned the key in the door. The room was in darkness, a blackout blind keeping it safe from prying eyes, but he did not dare turn on a light in case one of them was lurking out there still.

He bent down and felt under the spare bed, fingers touching a long metal box that contained enough explosives to blow up the entire Commonwealth Games village and the stadiums around it. He pulled it gently, unsure just how volatile its contents might be.

If they’d got Worsley then had they managed to locate the others? His bull head rose as he listened, but there was no sound to make him suppose that there was anyone else in the flat.

Rising to his feet, he slipped out of the room and looked around. The rucksack he had made Worsley buy was lying behind the settee, still in its plastic carrier bag. It was a matter of a few minutes to stuff his new clothes into it, the metal box snugly wrapped inside. Then, with only a backward glance at the empty room, the big man closed the door behind him and began to stride down the street towards the nearest bus stop.

Kenneth Gordon McAlpin would be heading out to Glasgow Airport to finish this job, one that other terrorists had failed to complete years before; and not before time either.

Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sound of Drummond’s voice. He hadn’t expected to hear from the MI6 man again so soon.

‘We’ve got them,’ he said shortly. ‘Thank God! All of them except McAlpin.’

Lorimer could hear the strain in the man’s voice. They were only days away from the opening ceremony.

‘You’d better get your officers out there now. Their explosives man told us he was harbouring McAlpin. False alarm out at the Emirates Stadium held us up,’ he grumbled. ‘By the time we searched Worsley’s place there was no sign of McAlpin. But he can’t be far away.
And
he’s carrying the makings of the bomb they were about to use.’

Lorimer opened his mouth to thank him, but the call had already been ended. Now it was a matter for the police to apprehend this fugitive, a man who was not only a dangerous killer but was also suspected of carrying some lethal explosives on his person.

In a matter of minutes he had alerted several units, emergency services and firearms amongst them, plus their own anti-explosives team. Every train station, bus depot and airport was on alert through the British Transport Police, and many eyes were watching screens linked to the hundreds of CCTV cameras in and around the city. Thanks to Marlene McAdam, they also had a photofit of McAlpin’s current appearance: a big thickset man with a mere fuzz of ginger on his newly shaven head, the tattoos more than likely hidden from sight.

Lorimer recalled the night on the Cathkin Braes when McAlpin had felled him to the ground. His fingers curled into fists as he thought about where the man would go. Would he have an alias of some sort by now? More than likely these groups were well prepared, with false names on a variety of passports.

His mind worked furiously, trying to put himself into McAlpin’s shoes.

If he were trying to make an escape armed with a box of highly dangerous explosives, where would he go to inflict maximum damage? The thought was no sooner in his head than he had grabbed his jacket and was heading for the car park.

‘Drummond, I think I know where he could be heading,’ he said, the security service’s mobile pressed to his ear as he hurried towards the Lexus. ‘Can you meet me there?’

He was probably going to be booked for speeding, though that was the last thing on his mind as the Lexus raced along the outside lane towards Glasgow Airport. There would be no time to park anywhere properly. Barely enough time for Drummond to alert the Transport Police about their intentions. And the detective superintendent knew that it might be only a matter of minutes before they intercepted their quarry.

The bus rolled to a halt beside the concrete island, its door sighing open to allow the passengers to climb down and wait for the driver to take their luggage from the hold. Only a few moved away from the crowd, those with backpacks or briefcases, who headed towards the entrance of the airport. Destinations awaited them all, places where the sun shone more brightly or where home beckoned after time spent in Bonny Scotland. The mood was subdued, the passengers in that nowhere time between bus and plane, a feeling of patience building up for the procedures of passport control and body searches that were part of travelling in a world where terrorism held sway.

One, a tall, burly man with a black baseball cap emblazoned with the Glasgow 2014 logo, took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, hardly breaking his stride. He had broken away from his fellow passengers and now he was crossing the last strip of tarmac that separated him from the entrance to the airport.

Once inside, he would merge in with the crowd, set down his rucksack beside a line of waiting passengers and saunter back out again into the sunshine. As the door to the airport grew closer, his fingers inched towards his pocket, feeling the bulge of the hidden device that would detonate the bomb.

A silver Lexus screeched to a halt yards from the man hurrying towards the door marked
Departures
. McAlpin caught sight of a familiar figure running towards him, followed closely by a sandy-haired man who was looking straight at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then stopped, raising the backpack in both hands.

‘Come on then,’ he sneered, waving the bag above his head. ‘One more step and I’ll blow your brains out!’

The tall man continued to walk towards him as though unconcerned for his own safety, the other retreating, waving people back.