The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  Lorimer did not answer. He had barely slept on the train, his mind a fankle of questions that demanded answers; his first thought when arriving back in Glasgow was to seek out the one man who might possibly help untangle some of them at least.

  ‘It’s a female symbol,’ Solly continued. ‘“Maiden, wife and crone”,’ he quoted. ‘An odd sort of thing to have tattooed on girls who were little more than sex slaves.’

  ‘Costing seventy quid a time,’ Lorimer put in.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Solly stopped for a moment, turning to his friend. ‘There is another symbolic meaning that we might wish to consider,’ he said, sounding as though he were standing at a lectern delivering some sort of discourse to his students.

  Lorimer merely raised his eyebrows in expectation. And waited. Solly’s habit of creating lengthy pauses in his conversation might be irritating to some, but the detective superintendent was used to them.

  ‘Freedom,’ he declared at last. ‘That is an alternative translation, if you like to put it that way. Hm, yes, could we see it as an ironic comment, I wonder?’

  Lorimer watched the psychologist as he stroked the end of his beard. Solly’s gaze was far away now and he was talking as much to himself as to the detective.

  ‘They tattoo these girls who have no freedom. Why waste money on an irony? No.’ He shook his head once more. ‘These sorts of people are in the business of making money, not spending it without good reason. So,’ he continued, shaking a finger to emphasise his point, ‘there must be a good reason for giving them a tattoo, and not just any design. It brands them, of course, makes them identifiable as the property of their owner. Whoever he is,’ he added darkly. ‘But the freedom symbol is interesting. They tattoo it on girls who, after all, are merely commodities to them, right?’ He looked at Lorimer as though he had become aware of his presence again.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it is not merely some scribble. These women are his property and he is defining himself by using that particular symbol.’ The psychologist’s eyes gleamed as he began to smile. ‘I think that whoever has brought these poor unfortunates into the country has another agenda going on altogether. Perhaps nothing to do with his lucrative sex business,’ he said, a note of eagerness creeping into his voice.

  Lorimer cocked his head to one side, waiting for more.

  ‘Could he be making a political statement of some sort?’ Solly asked. ‘Don’t laugh,’ he added quickly, ‘but an image that keeps coming back to me is of those Highlanders in Braveheart. Remember? The blue tattoos and the battle cry of “Freedom”?’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  Solly nodded. ‘The symbol has to mean something to whoever gave the orders for it to be tattooed on to these girls. His property.’

  ‘He brands them with a sign that is a sort of trademark, do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Solly beamed at the tall man at his side. ‘Find the person who uses this symbol in a different context and you may well find your trafficker.’

  ‘And the person who killed that girl,’ Lorimer reminded the psychologist.

  ‘Possibly one and the same, though I doubt it,’ Solly said, his smile fading. ‘Those sorts of people have others to do their bidding, do they not?’

  ‘And yet he wouldn’t be so stupid as to give away his secret sign, would he? I mean, we’re hardly going to find it against a name on Wikipedia, are we?’

  ‘No,’ Solly agreed, ‘but perhaps that is his weak spot. His vanity. Putting down his marker where he thinks no one will ever see it. But you did,’ Solly spoke softly. ‘And so did Rosie.’

  Lorimer did not reply. Some of the skeins had begun to untangle themselves in his brain, but there was one particular thread that he was forbidden to share, even with the good man walking once more by his side.

  Glasgow is a village, Lorimer reminded himself. It was something that people said all the time: people had so many links and there were so many overlapping circles that made nonsense of coincidences. The intelligence services were seeking out a man whose identity included being heavily tattooed, a man who was part of some militant group seeking to overthrow the British government. There had always been such people, disaffected types who wanted to expel others from their homeland. Celtic lunatic fringe, the intelligence officer had said during the meeting with Lorimer and Clark. But his tone had not been disparaging: they had to take these secret organisations with the utmost seriousness. Might be mad as bats, but they can do one hell of a lot of damage, Lorimer remembered the man telling them. Could Professor Brightman have suggested something that would help to trace this group? Was the man they sought also involved in a sex-trafficking business here in the city?

  And why had the girl been murdered up in the wilderness of the Cathkin Braes? The cycle track for the Games was less than a mile from the marshy pond where her body had been discovered. Was there another sort of link? Did the man they sought have some legitimate presence within Glasgow 2014? Drummond had suggested this, but Lorimer was still disturbed by the thought.

  The meeting was taking place in an upstairs flat in the Merchant City, less than five minutes’ walk from the Commonwealth Games headquarters in Albion Street, a fact that had not escaped Cameron Gregson. Isn’t it a bit risky? he wanted to demand, but the grim faces of the other five men made the words die on his lips.

  ‘We have new intelligence that a senior police officer has been drafted in to find us,’ their leader told them.

  He was standing above them, his eyes glaring, hands spread on the table in front of him.

  The other men exchanged glances, Number Five’s eyes resting a fraction too long on his own for Cameron’s liking.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ the leader added. ‘Anyone know him?’

  Cameron looked at the faces of the other men but there was nothing. No recognition of any sort. So it came as a surprise when Number Five nodded.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Works out of Stewart Street at the moment. Or so I’m informed.’

  Cameron Gregson’s eyes narrowed. Was this man a police officer himself, then, as he had suspected? Or did he have another inroad into organised crime?

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Number Five offered.

  ‘Do it discreetly,’ their leader said. ‘We don’t want to have to deselect you, do we?’ He grinned. The others laughed and Cameron joined in, though he was uncertain just what the joke had meant. Deselect? What on earth was he talking about?

  ‘Number Two, what new information have you to share with us?’ the leader continued, turning his attention to the big ginger-haired man whose shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing the swirling patterns of tattoos.

  ‘Meeting with the Aussie next week,’ the man declared. ‘I’ll brief him on what he has to do. Not that he will be any the wiser, of course. He thinks it’s a great honour to be part of the opening ceremony. Might even be his last thought!’

  The laugh that went up was louder now, though for the first time since joining the group, Cameron Gregson experienced a sick feeling in his stomach at the idea of the immense explosion they were planning and the innocent lives that would be lost, including those of some elderly couple from Melbourne. While it had been about unnamed crowds of people he had felt nothing, but now, by personalising two of the victims, the young man felt a bit uneasy.

  ‘Freedom!’ Number Two raised his arm, fist clenched, and each man copied his action, the word resounding in this room with its locked door and windows closed to the street below.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  He was home. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the front door open.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous.’

  And there he was, holding her around the waist, nuzzling her cheek with a chin that had more than a day’s stubble, making Maggie pull back suddenly with a grimace.

  ‘Sorry, need to shave, don’t I?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She slid back into his arms, head against his shoulder, letting he
r body relax as he held her, breathing in the smell of him: the faint hint of lemon drops he kept in the car and something else, a whiff that was acrid and sooty, as though the city still clung to his clothes.

  ‘Missed you,’ he murmured, though whether he meant the absence overnight or the long weeks when Vivien had intruded into their home, Maggie wasn’t certain.

  ‘Missed you too,’ she replied, knowing quite well what she was trying to say. ‘Hungry?’

  Lorimer smiled and nodded. ‘Starving. Quite a long day. Didn’t have time to eat much either,’ he admitted.

  ‘There’s some lasagne in the fridge. Just needs heating up. And salad. That sound okay?’

  ‘Wonderful. Shall I open a bottle of red?’

  Maggie nodded. Was this homecoming different? Something to celebrate?

  ‘Why not?’ she answered lightly. Then, stepping closer to him, she saw the dark circles under his eyes, the sheer weariness of those slumped shoulders. ‘You’ll be asleep after one glass, though,’ she warned.

  While Maggie slid the dish of pasta into the microwave she could hear her husband as he busied himself with setting out place mats and cutlery.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, not so bad. A bit quieter still with the seniors off on exam leave. That all stops next week when we begin the new timetable, though. Hard to think it’s almost June already.’

  ‘Any good?’ Lorimer reached into the wine rack to select a bottle of Italian red.

  ‘Okay-ish. I’ve still got the Sixth Years, thank goodness, but there are some classes I’d rather not have been given, to tell you the truth. One Third Year lot that have been making their presence felt all through the school. And not in a good way,’ she added gloomily.

  ‘Here.’ Lorimer uncorked the bottle of Chianti Classico and poured her a glass. ‘This’ll make you forget all about work for a while.’

  As they sat together at the table, there were so many questions Maggie longed to ask. How was Vivien? seemed a little lame. And anything else would be making dull and unnecessary conversation, something simply to fill the silence.

  At last her husband laid down his fork with a sigh and reached out to touch her fingertips.

  ‘That was excellent. Thank you,’ he said, looking at her intently. ‘Don’t deserve a wife like you,’ he added quietly.

  Maggie smiled. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, basking in the sudden warmth of his gaze.

  Then he drew his fingers away, letting his eyes fall.

  ‘She came on to me,’ he said. ‘Down there. At the funeral. Would you believe it?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I would.’

  There was a silence, then he looked at her again.

  ‘What did you make of her, Mags? Really?’

  Maggie Lorimer paused for a moment before replying. ‘She didn’t always seem consistent in her grief,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes I wondered how much was real and how much was . . .’

  ‘. . . an act?’ Lorimer finished her sentence for her.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Did you really think I was completely taken in by her overtures?’

  It was Maggie’s turn to look away now and she took refuge in the Chianti, draining her wine glass then holding it out for a refill, wondering what to say without sounding like a jealous wife.

  ‘She always was a bit of a drama queen,’ Lorimer continued, pouring more wine into Maggie’s glass. ‘But that was to be expected, I suppose, when she wanted a stage career. Still,’ he went on, ‘she had every reason to be upset when her husband died like that.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie sighed. ‘I tried to be nice, I really did, but . . .’

  ‘She wasn’t the easiest of house guests, was she?’

  ‘Odd circumstances,’ Maggie murmured. ‘Having a stranger under your roof who just happens to be your husband’s old girlfriend.’

  ‘And whose husband has been murdered,’ Lorimer added.

  ‘Did Alistair find anything in London?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. And that troubles me more than a little. So far we’ve got nothing that resembles a motive for the man’s murder. He was well thought of, happy in his profession, even expected a knighthood if the rumours are to be believed.’

  ‘No skeletons in his closet, then?’

  ‘None that we can find. And none that Vivien is admitting to either. They had the perfect marriage, so she said.’

  ‘But not so perfect that she could try to tempt another woman’s husband?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lorimer tilted his head back as he finished his glass of wine. ‘There may be more to Vivien Fox Gilmartin than meets the eye.’

  ‘But she couldn’t have killed her husband!’ Maggie protested. ‘She was at the reunion. With you. And all those other people.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Did she strike you as someone capable of taking another person’s life?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘Okay, I admit I didn’t like her much. Don’t get anyone who doesn’t like cats,’ she laughed. ‘But she didn’t seem like the murdering sort.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Lorimer said darkly. ‘Sometimes it’s the quiet ones who harbour grudges, keep their emotions too well hidden, then lash out.’

  ‘“Nursing her wrath to keep it warm”,’ Maggie said, quoting Robert Burns. ‘Anyway, how could Vivien have killed her husband? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Oh, nothing about it seems to make sense, Mags,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘But we have to explore every eventuality, even a crazy notion like Vivien hiring a hit man.’

  ‘But he was poisoned!’ Maggie protested. ‘A hit man would have had a gun, surely?’

  Lorimer shook his head, leaning back, twirling the empty wine glass by its stem. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just playing with ideas. Possibilities.’ He yawned suddenly. ‘You’re right, of course. Vivien couldn’t have done something like that. Anyway, why would she? And why put up such a big reward?’

  Maggie looked at her husband. He was slumped into his chair now, the fatigue that had shown earlier turning into exhaustion.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, rising to her feet and offering him her hand. ‘Bed. To sleep,’ she added sternly as Lorimer linked his fingers to hers, offering that familiar lazy smile.

  ‘We’ve got another one coming in tonight,’ the big man told her. ‘See that you’ve got the spare room ready for her,’ he added, flicking ash from his cigarette on to the saucer that lay on the table between them. He took the greasy paper that had held his pie supper and crumpled it in his hands, dropping it on the floor while he looked at Shereen through a haze of smoke, willing her to pick it up and bin it for him.

  The woman rose to her feet, avoiding his eyes, which followed her every move, trying not to show the disgust she felt for this white man with the lank ginger hair and swirling tattoos that covered his brawny arms. There was something feral about him tonight, Shereen decided as she pushed the polystyrene container and the ball of paper into the pedal bin; she could almost smell the taint of animal desire from his body as she came back to sit on her chair.

  ‘The girl busy tonight?’ he asked, leaning forward with a leer that made Shereen want to shudder. But she remained still, willing her face not to give away the revulsion that the man across the table evoked in her.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so!’ he exploded suddenly, thumping the tabletop so that the saucer jumped, scattering ash. ‘You. Think. So,’ he repeated slowly. ‘You’re paid to know what goes on in here and don’t you forget it,’ he snarled. ‘Now, is she busy or is she not?’

  ‘We’re expecting some fellows quite soon,’ Shereen said, eyes downcast lest he see her lie. ‘Can’t always be certain when they’ll turn up.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Well, the car will be here around one o’clock. That’s something you can be sure of,’ he snapped. ‘And I want this one kept away from the other girl. No speaking in their
bloody Yoruba. Okay?’

  He had risen to his feet now and picked up his leather jacket where he had flung it on to a chair. ‘I’ll be here to see when she arrives,’ he added. ‘And I don’t want any more incidents. Understand?’

  He leaned towards her so that Shereen could smell the vinegar that lingered on his lips.

  ‘I understand,’ she replied, daring to look him in the eyes.

  He gave a grunt as he nodded, seemingly satisfied that the caretaker knew what to expect.

  When the front door slammed, Shereen gave a great sigh, not realising that she had been holding her breath. Asa was safe from the brute for now, though the woman knew there was little she could do to protect the girl if the big man decided to have his way with her another night. If only . . .

  The thought of going to the police, telling what she knew, was only briefly tempting. But Shereen had been told what would happen if she ever breathed a word of what went on in this place. Even if she managed to escape the consequences of such betrayal, the authorities would hold her partly responsible too. And prison was not a place that the fat woman wanted to be ever again.

  ‘Kenneth McAlpin,’ Lorimer said, savouring the words as he spoke them aloud. ‘That’s a name from the distant past.’ He gave a faint grin as he looked from the paper in his hand to the man sitting beside his desk. Connor Drummond, the MI6 agent, had appeared without any appointment, slipping quietly into Lorimer’s office as though he had simply come from an adjacent room. ‘What do we know about this one?’

  ‘Nothing bad about anyone of that name,’ Drummond began. ‘But we must assume it’s not his real name. Any more than Robert Bruce Petrie is a name on the voters’ roll.’

  ‘Certainly smacks of the Celtic fringe,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘McAlpin was another Scottish king, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not what we think they have in common,’ Drummond said. ‘It’s the surnames, McAlpin and Petrie. They’re both linked to Clan MacGregor. The MacGregors are descendants of Kenneth McAlpin and the name Petrie is a sept of the MacGregor clan.’