by Alex Gray
At that moment the sound of the buzzer made her jump.
Someone was at the door!
Heart thumping, Asa pressed her thin body against the wall, sliding into the shadows, feet taking her silently towards the back door of the close.
As the main door opened, she stood completely still, hardly daring to breathe. Would they see her hiding in the shadow of the stairs? She closed her eyes, willing the footsteps to pass her by, hearing the door swing shut again with a bang.
As the sound of the steps receded, Asa risked opening her eyes. He was gone!
Her hand felt all around the back door, seeking a lever or a handle, anything that would open it for her. Then her fingers closed around a hard, cold ring and she tugged, hoping to feel the door open. When nothing happened, she twisted it one way, then the other.
She let out a gasp as the door opened, cold air from the night streaming in, the faint glow of orange light from nearby street lamps illuminating the patch of grass that lay between this door and what looked like a high stone wall. She let the door close behind her, holding it carefully until she heard a dull click. Then she stood still, watching as her breath made faint ghosts in the night air.
It was wise to let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. This was something the African girl had known all her life. Where she had come from, the stars lit up the sky, wheeling on their mystical courses. But here they were dimmed by that smouldering haze like a dust cloud hovering on the edge of the horizon.
At last shapes began to emerge and the girl could make out the barbed wire snaking across the top of the wall, a concrete shed containing dustbins placed at the far end of the path. There was no gate. No door leading from the back of the premises that she could see; just shrubs and trees straggling against the wall.
Asa crept on silent cat feet towards the shed, then stopped beside the wall where a tumble of ivy cascaded down to the ground. She blinked. There was a door. It had been hidden from her sight by the foliage, but now she could see the old wooden structure merging into the grey stones.
She pulled, but the door stood firm.
Once again she searched desperately for a latch, but her fingers found only an ancient keyhole set into the jamb of the door. With a sigh of despair she realised that the back gate must be locked from the outside.
Looking up, she saw that it, too, was covered in a curled strand of wire. No doubt the intention was to keep out intruders but, she realised with sinking heart, it also served to contain any prisoner trying to make an escape.
Suddenly she saw a light go on in the topmost flat and heard voices calling her name.
Shrinking back against the shed, Asa knew she had very little time to decide on a plan of action. Her feet found the lid of the first bin and she scrambled up, nails digging into the edge of the shed roof as she levered her body upwards.
Light shone from the back door.
‘She’s there!’ a man’s voice cried, and Asa saw a figure running towards her.
There was no time to think. No time to hesitate.
Biting back a cry as the barbs cut into her hands, she leapt over the wall and fell heavily to the stony path below.
Chapter Thirty-One
Glasgow Royal Infirmary was a prime example of the city’s split personality, the original hospital building with its domes and towers close to the ancient cathedral and the tourist attractions of St Mungo’s Museum and Provand’s Lordship on one side, and the modern concrete structures hugging the M8 motorway on the other, looking to the passing motorist as if a child had abandoned its building blocks, scattering them in careless heaps. Inside Accident and Emergency one might also see evidence of the city’s diversity, people from several walks of life and from different ethnic groups all demanding the same level of care and attention from the overworked medical staff.
Asa sat wedged between the black man at her side and an Asian mother whose twin boys were running around the chairs, their whoops attracting glares from the other patients sitting opposite. The night outside made no difference to this place; with its wide-open spaces and bright lights it reminded Asa of one of the air terminals she had passed through on the long journey from her home. She was as weary now as she had been then, despair settling on her like a shroud.
They had brought her here afterwards, Shereen insisting that Asa’s arm was broken and that they must take her to a doctor. As she sat beside her captor, the girl tried not to remember her scream of terror or the way the man had pulled her roughly to her feet, dragging her back up the stairs, hands bleeding, the pain searing through her arm. Instead she looked at the children running back and forth, their dark hair shining under the lights, patently ignoring their mother’s pleas to be good. For although Asa did not know the language spoken by the harassed-looking woman, it was obvious from her tone that the children were testing her patience. And as she watched their grinning smiles and heard their laughter, Asa felt a different kind of pain, a regret for her lost childhood. She had not been unique amongst the village children; the illness that had taken so many adults had spread to several families and there were lots of orphaned children who had to fend for themselves. But they had stuck together, making the best of their meagre resources. And when the man had come with promises of work in the city and a better future, Asa had followed him willingly. Now another man sat beside her, proof that those promises had been a lie, a trick to lure her away to this cold, grey place.
It had been a shock when the man at her side had spoken to her in Yoruba. They had been in the flat, preparing to leave for the hospital, the cuts on her hands bathed and covered with a sweet-smelling white cream that did not sting.
‘Keep quiet when we get there. I’ll do the talking. And if anyone does ask, I’m your husband, got it?’ he’d told her sternly, his voice low and hoarse as though it had been a long time since he had uttered any Yoruba and the words were rusty from lack of use. Shereen had produced a ring from somewhere, shoving it on Asa’s finger with a look of admonishment. Then she had been bundled into the car and driven through the city to this huge place filled with artificial light.
It was not difficult for the girl to remain silent; the shock of the fall and the dreadful pain combined with the trauma of her capture had shaken Asa badly. What would they do with her now? That had been her only thought as she had been half pushed, half carried back into the flat, tears of agony coursing down her dark cheeks. And the thought that someone could have explained her plight from the start made things even worse.
Why had the man kept speaking only in English? Why had he refrained from giving her the slightest hint that he too was from West Africa? The questions buzzed around her brain like hornets caught in a glass jar. Did the others know he could speak Yoruba? Or was this some sort of secret that he kept from the big man with the tattoos and his white friends? She had looked at him as they had sat here on the padded hospital seats, a mute appeal in her eyes, but he had continued to ignore her as though she was a complete stranger.
A nurse in a pale blue uniform came out and called the Asian woman to follow her, the twins skipping at her side, one clutching at the spangled scarf that matched the woman’s pink and beige sari. They were alone now, waiting their turn to see a medical person.
Asa felt the coat sliding from her shoulders where Shereen had slipped it on, and the man grabbed at it before it fell off the back of the chair.
‘Remember to keep your mouth shut. I do all the talking,’ he growled.
Asa nodded, torn between the thrill of hearing her native tongue spoken aloud and the feeling of hopelessness that she was still this man’s captive. They would be next, he told her. Any funny business and she wouldn’t live to see the dawn.
He’d looked at her then, eyes cold as ice, and Asa had shivered, knowing instinctively that this man had already taken somebody’s life.
Maureen Lee pinned a stray lock of hair under her starched cap and glanced at the clock. Just three more hours and she’d be off, six whole da
ys of freedom beckoning. There was a couple still in the waiting room, a man and his daughter by the looks of them. She’d seen them arrive, the girl clearly distressed and in pain. An accident in the home, the case notes said. Asa Okonjo, Maureen read, her eyebrows lifting as she continued. Wife of Mugendi Okonjo. She was wrong, then. Not his daughter after all. Maureen yawned. Suspected fracture, so they’d be shunted off to X-ray, then, all being well, the woman’s arm would be plastered and they could be sent home.
Maureen made a face at the computer; she’d wanted to use it earlier that night when an Asian kid had been admitted, but the bloody thing wasn’t working properly again. The engineer had been supposed to come to fix it and hadn’t. It would be sorted on someone else’s shift now. Story of my life, Maureen muttered under her breath. It just made everything so much more difficult. There was a program on the A&E computer that translated loads of foreign languages, making admissions smoother for both the staff and their patients. And now she couldn’t make use of the darned thing.
As Nurse Lee stepped out of the corridor and into the waiting room, she saw that there was no overnight bag lying on the floor or an adjacent chair. Hope it’s not a multiple fracture, then, she sighed to herself. Or the poor bitch will be transferred to a ward where all she’ll have is one of those washed-out hospital gowns.
Asa lay on the narrow bed, the sheets of green paper below her, one arm laid out exactly as the radiographer had shown her. The machine whirred above her and the girl closed her eyes, pretending that she was somewhere else. But try as she might, no visions of her home came to comfort her; only the sounds in this room telling of the here and now: the woman’s feet squeaking on the linoleum as she adjusted Asa’s position, the clunks and clicks as the machinery began to photograph her damaged arm.
Then the tall white woman in the green jacket and matching trousers was helping her gently to her feet, one arm guiding her from the room and to another row of chairs where her ‘husband’ awaited her.
‘A clean fracture, you’ll be glad to know,’ Maureen told them. ‘You’ll be plastered up and home in no time,’ she added, smiling at Asa.
‘She doesn’t understand English,’ the man explained. ‘I’ll tell her.’
Yet despite his assurances, no conversation began, the man seemingly eager to leave.
Maureen’s smile drooped a little as she nodded. There was something not right here, she told herself, something about the way the young woman kept a distance from the husband. If that’s what he really is, a little voice suggested. Maureen bit her lip. She could be home and in bed before Matt got up for work if she finished up here in time. And was the relationship between these two African people any business of hers anyway? She didn’t know a lot about Nigerians. Maybe they married the girls off really young?
As if she had read the nurse’s thoughts, Asa looked up, her large eyes filled not only with tears but with a mute appeal that Maureen Lee saw as a plea for help.
‘Just take a wee look, will you?’ Maureen urged. ‘I’m not happy about that pair.’
The auburn-haired woman in the white coat sighed heavily. Night shifts were hell after a holiday spent in the Bermuda sunshine, and Dr Emily Bishop only wanted to finish and go home to her bed. But there was something earnest in Maureen Lee’s expression and the psychologist recognised that, tired as she was, the nurse from A&E was genuinely bothered about this patient.
Emily sighed and pressed the save button before rising to her feet and following Maureen along the corridor to the lifts.
‘She’s in the plaster room just now,’ Maureen whispered, though there was nobody else to overhear her words. ‘He’s waiting just outside. Looks shifty to me,’ she added darkly.
Emily stifled a groan. Was Maureen’s imagination playing tricks on her? Tiredness could do that to a person, make them see things that were not really there at all. But she would have a look all the same. There were procedures to follow, after all, agencies that recommended certain steps to be taken if a patient was deemed to be at risk of any sort. And Nurse Lee clearly thought there was something fishy about this girl and her companion.
The plaster room was halfway down a corridor. Emily could see an African man waiting on a chair outside the door, arms folded as though he had been kept waiting longer than he wished. He was, Emily supposed, around mid forties, fifty even, pretty old to be the husband of a young girl.
‘Mr Okonjo? Dr Bishop.’ Emily smiled and extended her hand, making the man jump suddenly.
‘We wondered if you would like to have a chat about Mrs Okonjo?’ she continued, watching him carefully.
The psychologist saw the man stiffening, hands now gripping the edges of his seat, shoulders raised in tension; all clear signs that he was afraid of something, afraid of her, no doubt.
‘She nearly finished?’ he asked, glancing nervously at the open door to the plaster room. ‘We need to get home. No time to talk to you people,’ he said, his eyes darting at Emily and then to the nurse and back again to the woman in the white coat.
‘There you are, Asa, all done,’ a voice from the plaster room proclaimed.
At once the man was on his feet, grabbing the grey coat from the chair beside him.
Was this a solicitous gesture for his young wife? Or was he simply in a hurry to be off? Emily wondered, standing back a little and watching the African girl being escorted from the room by a nurse.
Even had she not seen the expression of abject fear in the girl’s eyes as the man came towards her, the coat in his hands, Emily Bishop would have understood Asa’s body language, something that overcame all the barriers of speech. The way that she slunk away from him, keeping as much distance as she dared, head bowed in complete resignation, made the psychologist give a nod in Nurse Lee’s direction. Yes, she was saying silently. Make that telephone call. Report your misgivings. Someone will follow this up.
‘A little word before you go?’ Emily asked the man as he strode away from them. She had to quicken her pace as he hurried towards the exit.
But there was no answer from either the African man or the terrified girl by his side, and as she watched them disappear into the Glasgow night, Dr Emily Bishop hoped that whatever details were written on their case notes would be followed up by the proper authorities.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Police Sergeant Patsy Clark had been up since five, washing and setting her hair, putting her make-up on far more carefully than the usual slap of foundation and quick brush of mascara. Today merited the sort of attention to detail that Patsy had shown her reflection in the dressing table mirror. There was little she could do about the uniform, but that didn’t matter: people who met you for the first time always looked at your face, and she wanted to be remembered by the man from MI6 as Clark, that bright woman from Glasgow.
She knocked on the detective superintendent’s office door, glad that she was ready for this meeting, hoping that her eagerness would not show, like the lacy edge of a fancy slip peeping below her hemline. The image made the police officer frown for a moment, tugging at her skirt just in case.
‘Ah, Sergeant Clark.’ Lorimer rose from where he had been sitting next to his desk, a dark-suited man half turning to see who had entered the room. Then he too was on his feet, examining the new arrival with a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
‘Connor Drummond,’ the man said, extending his hand towards Patsy. It felt warm to her touch and strong, the sort of handshake she liked, but then he was back in his seat and Patsy was being ushered into the chair next to Lorimer.
Was that his real name? Patsy thought, wishing she could utter the question, fearful that to do something so inane would brand her as a complete idiot.
‘We’ll bring you up to speed, Sergeant Clark,’ Lorimer was saying. ‘Connor, why don’t you give our colleague an outline of what you told me?’ he offered.
‘Sergeant Clark,’ Drummond began.
‘Patsy,’ she blurted out suddenly, then blushed.
Drummond smiled at her and for a moment the woman was struck by the notion that he could read her mind, see the dreams she cherished of a life like his: secret, undercover, making the world a better place while the world slept on, unknowing.
‘Well, Patsy,’ he continued, and as he spoke about the cell that had been identified in Glasgow and the need for total discretion, she realised that Drummond’s accent was Scottish. Perthshire maybe? An educated voice, clear and with overtones of the city about it, but a softness too, though not with the lilt of the Highlander or the measured tones of the Outer Isles.
‘So you see,’ Drummond said at last, ‘we need to be aware of the potential for disaster on a massive scale. There is absolutely no doubt in our minds that the Games are their target,’ he went on, though how that opinion had been reached Patsy would never be told. ‘Our intelligence suggests that there are at least five of them working together. An explosives person, obviously, and at least one member of the Games personnel.’
‘Really?’ Patsy exclaimed. ‘But surely Disclosure would have picked up any aberration there?’
Drummond’s smile faded. ‘You would hope so. But we are beginning to be of the opinion that one of the group has been recruited from the higher ranks of the Games committee.’
‘But don’t they all need to go through a vetting procedure?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘Not if they are someone already in the public domain,’ he said quietly.
‘That’s right,’ Drummond agreed. ‘And in our business we have to make sure that each and every person who comes close to members of the royal family is checked out very, very carefully.’
‘So will all the high heid yins go through this process?’ Patsy asked.
Drummond smiled at her lapse into Glasgow slang. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Everyone who is to be at the reception before the opening ceremony and the event itself will be carefully scrutinised. Background checks, the lot.’
