The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  ‘The phials contained the poison all right,’ he began. ‘No doubt about that. Same as the substance found in the tox report. But no sign anywhere of a bottle that may have held the ginger wine.’ He gave a half-hearted grin. ‘Don’t suppose you checked your recycling bin?’

  Lorimer gave a hollow laugh. ‘It was put out while Mrs Gilmartin was there,’ he replied. ‘And if she did have a bottle of ginger wine in her possession, I never saw it.’ He shrugged. ‘She could have put it in our bin easy enough, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t have one of those cleaning guys who come around and wash your bins, do you?’ Wilson asked. ‘Betty always has to put money in a wee plastic bag at the door for our man.’

  ‘No.’ Lorimer sat up a little straighter. ‘Maybe we ought to have someone take our blue bin away for testing? See if any residue from a bottle of ginger wine happened to leak out?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll arrange for that to be done,’ Wilson said. ‘But even if we do find that, it wouldn’t be conclusive evidence.’

  ‘No?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘A prosecuting counsel might suggest you’d put the bottle there yourself,’ he said, looking his friend in the eye. ‘The former lover helping his old flame to destroy the evidence.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Why did she make such a stramash about having to stay with you and Maggie?’

  ‘She said there was nobody else.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Wilson retorted. ‘My guess is that she had it planned all along. The class reunion, the chance to reel you in again . . . I’m betting that Mrs Vivien Gilmartin had things nicely worked out.’

  ‘But she couldn’t have murdered her husband . . .’

  ‘Because she had the perfect alibi? Detective Superintendent William Lorimer?’ Wilson nodded. ‘That’s the one thing we’ve still to work out. It’s all there except for the timescale.’ He frowned. ‘But Flynn seeing her bent over that patch in the garden where he found the poison phials . . . well, there is so much circumstantial evidence here that we mustn’t rule her out. Plus,’ he nodded grimly, ‘the fact that the lady stands to inherit more than three million pounds of his estate. And,’ he wagged a finger in the air, ‘we’ve found that Gilmartin had planned to sink a huge amount of that capital into the African project. Bringing those people over and putting on a tour like that was going to cost him a fortune.’

  ‘And Vivien was less than keen that it should go ahead,’ Lorimer sighed, remembering the woman’s insistence that the entire project be cancelled.

  He looked past the man who was senior investigating officer in the hunt to find Charles Gilmartin’s killer. They had to locate his widow. And she had to tell them the truth.

  ‘We need to find the Nigerian girl,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘We believe she is still in the city and is probably terrified out of her wits. She may be accompanied by a Jamaican woman by the name of Shereen Swanson.’ He held up a blown-up picture. ‘This is Swanson. She has been on the Met’s radar but hasn’t blotted her copybook up here till now. Was involved with a Jamaican gangmaster in South Shields. We need to find out where they are.’

  ‘Sir, what will happen to Asa when she’s brought in?’

  Several heads turned to look at the rookie cop who was regarding the detective superintendent earnestly. Young Kirsty Wilson was asking the question that any soft-hearted person might want to ask. One officer gave a cynical smile as he turned back, shaking his head as if to say that Wilson’s girl would need to toughen up if she wanted to be as good a cop as her father.

  ‘That’s not up to us, Kirsty.’ Lorimer gave her a kindly smile. ‘If Asa is found she will be the responsibility of the immigration authorities. Poor girl might well want to go back home,’ he added, raising his eyebrows. ‘We have enough from Okonjo’s statement to know about this particular flat, but it seems there may well be others dotted around the city, a far bigger network of trafficking than we can imagine. And we want to nail it,’ he said firmly.

  It was all very well telling them this, Lorimer thought as he headed out of Stewart Street, but finding people like McAlpin was far from simple. They had been lucky, that was all. McAlpin had been under close surveillance and they had found one of his nests over in the East End; how on earth were they supposed to find every last brothel in Glasgow where underage girls were being held against their will?

  Would Shereen Swanson be able to tell them more if they located her? That had been his unspoken hope as he’d pinned the Jamaican woman’s picture on the whiteboard at the meeting. No other tattoo artists had come back with reports of the triple spiral being given to any young woman in their studios. So perhaps Okonjo’s story that he had brought over only three Nigerian girls had been true. Lorimer’s expression was set as he started the big car and drove out of Stewart Street car park, wondering just what awaited him at the detention centre.

  While Cameron Gregson was doing a reasonable impression of tour guide to the Australian visitors in the city of Stirling, two men were approaching an upper cottage flat in Croftfoot.

  ‘We’re not meant to arrive together,’ the white-haired man reminded his companion.

  ‘Couldn’t help it this time,’ Number Five replied with an easy shrug. ‘Had to get petrol and there was a queue like an execution.’

  ‘He won’t like it,’ the explosives expert pointed out, nodding towards the house.

  ‘Too many things he doesn’t like, if you ask me.’

  ‘You still take his money, though, don’t you?’

  The other man laughed. ‘Why not? He’s rolling in it. Who d’you think owns all these houses we’ve been meeting in? He’s one of the biggest buy-to-let merchants in this godforsaken city.’ He pushed open the small metal gate, then turned to Worsley. ‘Our little capitalist wants to start his own private army once this is over. Did you know that?’ He gave the older man a keen look.

  ‘No,’ Worsley replied. ‘An’ how come you know so much about him, eh?’

  The other man stopped for a moment and tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Part of my profession, isn’t it? Finding things out about people.’

  Rob Worsley gave the ghost of a smile as he took in his colleague’s words. They had all been selected for their varied attributes and he had long suspected that Number Five had some inside knowledge that involved the security services or the police. Maybe even both.

  The six men knew little of one another outside the group, or so it had appeared. Worsley had been recruited by McAlpin early on, their association having been forged by a mutual understanding over time spent in the forces. But he had only been able to guess at the background of the other men in the group. His plans to skip the country as soon as the stadium was blown to kingdom come had changed with the disappearance of McAlpin. The big tattooed man had given him assurances that he would be safe in Nigeria. He knew people, he’d told Worsley. He’d arrange everything.

  Well, McAlpin was out of the picture now, though why he had not answered his personal call Worsley did not know, and the older man chewed his lip anxiously as they ascended the inner staircase to the room where two men already sat waiting for them.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ the leader commanded, staring hard at Worsley and Number Five as they entered the room.

  It was, Worsley realised, typical of so many of the rooms where they had met before. The decor was bland and the furniture old-fashioned, as though it had come from a saleroom. Why it had never dawned on him before, he did not know, but he could see now that this was exactly the sort of place that would be rented out. The more modern flats in the city had confused him; they had all looked so much the same and now he knew why: they’d probably been kitted out from the same IKEA job lots.

  ‘There are some serious developments to discuss, gentlemen,’ the leader began, fixing them in turn with his gimlet stare, bringing Worsley’s attention back to the meeting.

  He paused for effect before leaning forward and proclaiming,
‘We have lost one of our number.’

  There ought to have been a gasp of alarm, the explosives expert thought. That was what the wee man wanted, after all. But there was a stubborn silence as they waited for the leader to continue.

  ‘The police tried to apprehend our friend,’ he began. ‘But happily they have failed. However, two of his colleagues have been arrested and they are being questioned by . . . ?’

  The man who had walked in by Worsley’s side took up the thread. ‘Spooks have got them,’ he said shortly. ‘According to my sources, the Nigerians were taken from Stewart Street during the night. That’s as much as they could tell me.’ He shrugged. ‘But they haven’t been taken to any Scottish prison.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Worsley blurted out suddenly.

  ‘Got the ear of the folk who arrange transportation, haven’t I?’ He grinned.

  ‘We do not need to ask such questions.’ The leader glared at Worsley, who spread his hands in mute apology. ‘What we need to determine now is how much Number Two may have told his Nigerian friends.’

  ‘He wouldn’t . . .’ Number Three, the thin man who sat nervously beside the leader, raked his hair with one hand.

  ‘One never can tell,’ the leader said darkly. ‘And it may be a problem for us now that our deselected member has disappeared so effectively.’

  ‘Number Two can take care of himself,’ Worsley declared, already tired of the histrionic note that was creeping into the meeting. This was a serious matter, not the stuff of a schoolboy’s fantasy, though it did occur to him to wonder what sort of things the leader dreamed about at night. ‘We’ve got a job to do and we need to decide how we’re going to carry it out if the original plan has to be scrapped,’ he declared firmly. ‘I have to know,’ he added, as if they needed any reminding that the explosives expert was key to the entire plot.

  ‘Yes,’ the leader agreed, nodding. ‘And this is what I have to propose to you. Number Six has taken over the duties concerning the two Australians. He will be told to accompany them to the opening ceremony and stay with them until he is given the signal.’

  There was a faint smile on the man’s face, a shark’s smile; white teeth showing between thin lips.

  ‘But there will be no signal.’

  ‘You’re going to let him be blown up?’ Number Three looked incredulous and Worsley saw him glance at the man who had come in with him to gauge his reaction. But Number Five remained impassive, making Worsley wonder if he had known already what was coming. He seemed to know quite a lot else.

  ‘He’s expendable,’ the leader said, nodding. ‘Besides, he’s getting far too cosy with that girl for my liking. And,’ he looked at each of them in turn, ‘I think he may have begun to develop what he would call a conscience.’

  Gayle turned the key in the door, her heart beating faster. She had raced up the stairs, eager to break the news to him. Letting the bunch of keys drop on to the side table by the telephone, she took her handbag into the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. Her smile broadened as she unzipped the front pocket and drew out the two tickets. It was like winning the lottery, she told herself, holding the tickets out and staring at them. To be selected as guests at the opening ceremony was an honour that the young woman had never dreamed of. Okay, so she had applied for the tickets; they all had. And just today she had been given two! ‘One for your young man,’ the senior committee member had murmured. ‘He’s been quite supportive of you, hasn’t he?’

  Gazing at the tickets, Gayle had to agree that Cameron Gregson had indeed been supportive of late. Something had changed in his manner, too. He was softer, less abrasive, more solicitous towards her. And for Gayle, that meant only one thing: Cam was in love with her!

  It was then that she remembered. He was going to be in late. Something to do with a meeting. She stood up, finding it hard to settle, wanting her boyfriend to walk in the door now, not later on once he had done whatever he had to do up in . . . where was it? Stirling. That was it. She recalled his words now. University stuff, he’d said vaguely.

  The young woman opened the windows of the bedroom, letting in the noise of the city, breathing in the air. She was restless and wanted Cam here. Wanted to have him in bed beside her, murmuring endearments. Wanted to show him the tickets with a grin of triumph. Wait till you see what I’ve got for you, she longed to tell him. She could always text him, but that wasn’t the same as seeing his expression when she had her ta-da moment. She tucked the tickets carefully back into her handbag, wondering if she ought to tidy the place up a bit before Cam came back. His side of the bed was cluttered with books and bits of paper. An odd sock lay half hidden under the bed and the wire for his iPhone adapter snaked out from behind the bedside cabinet. She had begun to pick things up, a desultory attempt at making the place a little smarter, when she saw it.

  The mobile phone was a cheap red thing, not like the expensive white iPhone her boyfriend carried everywhere. She had joked that he had to be surgically removed from it; he was always checking for messages, sending texts or googling something or other. Turning the mobile over, the girl was surprised to see a small sticker on the back placed neatly over the battery compartment. And on it, in red ink, the number 6. Did this belong to Cam? Or had someone left it here? She bit her lip, imagining another woman here in her flat. He wouldn’t . . . would he?

  Several times lately she had woken to hear him muttering in his sleep, a restlessness that he had laughed off as bad dreams. But what if he had been cheating on her and these nocturnal ramblings were the result of a guilty conscience?

  There was one way of finding out, wasn’t there?

  A few minutes later Gayle replaced the mobile phone where she had found it beneath the pile of papers, no wiser as to the owner of the device, knowing only that there were four other numbers listed under the headings 1, 3, 4 and 5.

  ‘Something to do with uni,’ she said aloud, not really believing her own hollow-sounding words, but refusing to contemplate any alternative that might have to do with Cameron Gregson seeing four other women. And trying to suppress the idea that she might only be number two in his life.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Lorimer sat opposite the young Nigerian girl, watching as she turned the box of sweets over and over in her hands.

  ‘They’re for you.’ He smiled. ‘A present.’

  She looked at him warily, then laid the box on her knees, still unopened.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You like sweets?’

  She looked away then and murmured something that he did not catch.

  ‘Leila’s never been given a present like this before without having to give something in return,’ the psychiatrist explained.

  Lorimer nodded, saddened that his gesture might have been misinterpreted. And yet in a way, Dr Jones was right. He did want something from this young girl, though it was unlike any of the sexual favours that she had been forced to yield to a host of men willing to pay for them.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me things that will help me to find a lost girl,’ he began, leaning forward so that he was not towering over her. ‘Her name is Asa and we are anxious for her safety,’ he continued, watching as Leila turned her large liquid eyes on him, eyes that were wary still.

  ‘I do not know anyone called Asa,’ she replied at last.

  ‘She is Nigerian, like you,’ Lorimer told her. ‘And she has been badly treated by some bad men. We have caught two of them and they are in prison.’

  The girl sat up at that, her expression less fearful.

  ‘These are pictures of the men,’ Lorimer added, taking the photographs of Abezola Boro and Odunlami Okonjo from his pocketbook and laying them on top of the box of sweets.

  Leila’s recoil was instant and the photographs dropped to the floor as she let out an eerie wail of anguish.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the psychiatrist soothed. ‘Mr Lorimer here has put them in prison. They can’t hurt you any more.’

  �
��Are there any other men with tattoos like this, Leila?’ the detective superintendent asked, taking out a photograph of McAlpin.

  The girl shook her dark head and Lorimer could see that both hands were clutched around the box of sweets, not because she wanted the gift but rather for something to hold on to in her anxiety.

  ‘Was that the man who hurt you, Leila?’ Dr Jones asked, putting a kindly hand on the girl’s arm.

  A nod of the head was answer enough.

  ‘Where did she come from?’ Lorimer turned to ask the psychiatrist quietly.

  ‘She was found by a Big Issue seller wandering around the streets one night,’ Dr Jones told him. ‘She was brought to me by the man and his lady friend,’ the grey-haired woman added.

  ‘Here?’ Lorimer frowned, puzzled.

  ‘To my home,’ Dr Jones said shortly. ‘These people happen to be patients of mine,’ she continued. ‘I don’t wish to give you their names,’ she added with a thin smile.

  ‘Patient confidentiality,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘That’s okay.’ He turned to the girl once again. ‘Leila, can I tell you how you might be able to help us find this girl?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Asa,’ Leila said again. ‘But I did have another friend. She was called Celia.’ She looked hopefully from Dr Jones to the tall man, who was bending down to meet her gaze. ‘They gave her a tattoo. The one you showed me,’ she said, turning to the psychiatrist. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Rosie clicked CLOSE and the report on the girl disappeared into the ether. Was she ever to have closure on this case? The tiny form that had been taken from the dead girl’s womb had saddened her more than she had expected. To have been carrying another human life only to have her own snuffed out so cruelly made the whole thing much worse. And yet what sort of life could a baby like that have enjoyed? The mother entrapped in a life of prostitution, the father imprisoned somewhere . . . Rosie sighed. Lorimer would tell her about it some day. He had promised that at least. For now she had to leave the victim’s body where it lay in its refrigerated cabinet. She had already attached a label with the name Celia, the only name they had for the dead girl; her unborn child would remain forever nameless.