by Alex Gray
‘You never saw me here,’ McAlpin growled, reaching out a hand to raise the old man to his feet.
‘No worries, no worries,’ Kovary agreed, relief that he was still alive making him prattle on. ‘Never saw you in my life, never did any business with you.’
‘Make sure you keep it that way,’ McAlpin told him, giving the old man a final push that sent him back into the armchair. ‘Healthier if you do,’ he added, before striding out of the flat and slamming the door behind him.
‘Grandfather?’ a timid voice enquired. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Get away,’ Kovary spat at him. ‘Follow that fattyú wherever he goes and let me know. Understand? Nobody comes in here and treats us like that,’ he added, spittle coming from his mouth as gnarled fingers felt the place on his throat where the big man had grabbed him. ‘Nobody!’
‘You need to get that taken off,’ Shereen told the girl, looking at the angry red rash that was seeping from under the plaster. ‘Cut off. Snip, snip,’ she added, making scissors of her fingers and cutting motions all along the cast.
‘We’ll go back to that hospital,’ she said, then sat down on the edge of the bed next to Asa. ‘Or maybe not.’
There would be people at the Royal Infirmary who might remember Asa and alert the authorities, take the girl away from her to some hellhole of a detention centre. Perhaps it would be better to cross the city and find a different hospital altogether. Claim that the girl was visiting and needed her plaster removed. Yes, that was a better idea.
Shereen searched in her handbag and counted out the money that remained. She had to be careful what she spent, and paying for a taxi to take them to the Southern General and back would eat into her meagre resources.
‘Come on, Asa,’ she decided. ‘We’re going out.’
The young girl’s eyes lit up. Asa had learned several English words now, and the woman could see from her expression that out had a magical ring to it. Out meant away from the room where she could see Asa beginning to feel so confined and into the busy street where there were lots of people. Shereen had taught her more than new words, however, warning the girl that danger lurked everywhere, even in a crowded street.
Buchanan Street bus station was a magnet for druggies who needed a fix, their eyes watching each and every passer-by as they held out their polystyrene cups, begging for change. They had come to this pass somehow, demeaning themselves publicly before their fellow men, yet persisting in their task, the need to put fire into their veins overwhelming any sense of shame. Asa paused, the look in those pale blue eyes something she recognised. The boy sitting under the grey blanket was just like her, a waif, a stray desperate to be shown some kindness.
‘Come on.’ Shereen pulled the girl away. ‘Haven’t time to stop and stare,’ she added.
Asa nodded, more at the gesture than the woman’s words. In truth, the young girl wanted to stare at everything, including the strange sculpture of legs running under a clock face. Were those legs trying to escape from the inevitable progress of life? Or was it something to do with catching a bus? Asa had been on a bus back home, a trip to the medical centre in a nearby village. The authorities had sent the dilapidated vehicle to take them there and she could recall being hustled on board for the return journey. ‘Come on, it’s time to go,’ the driver had shouted to the youngsters. Perhaps the legs were hurrying to catch a bus. Though to Asa’s eyes they appeared to be running away from the bus station. It was very puzzling.
Once inside the glass-walled building, the Jamaican woman seemed to relax and took Asa’s hand, guiding the girl into a small queue that was forming. The big red bus stood empty outside and the girl looked at Shereen then pointed at it.
‘Yes.’ The woman nodded. ‘That’s ours. Need to wait for the driver, and when it’s time to go we’ll get on.’
Asa caught a word or two, the yes and the nod sufficient to let her understand that they were to remain standing until a driver came to start up the bus that would take them to the hospital.
Afterwards, Asa wanted to talk to Shereen, to tell her how she had felt as the big bus trundled out of the square and into the city’s traffic. Like everyone else, she might have said, in an effort to express the way she had envisaged herself, a passenger on that seat, face up against the window, looking out. There was a sort of kinship with the other people on the bus, her fellow travellers, as well as those on different buses stopping at the pavement to disgorge their human cargo and let more come on. For a time the girl was mesmerised by the flow of figures arriving and departing, people who chatted together or were silent, eyes fixed on their destinations. It was, she might have said, a peaceful interlude in her tempestuous young life, that bus journey from Glasgow’s busy heart out to the district of Govan.
The voices around her were like a song, the shapes of the words a joyous wave of camaraderie, the accents rising and falling in a rhythm that reminded her of home. And occasionally those words made sense. The old women directly in front of her spoke about the hospital; were they going there too? Asa’s glance fell on them from time to time: one with dyed black hair and many wrinkles on her orange skin, the other a bleached blonde whose ponytail allowed the girl to see the large silver hoops dangling from her earlobes and the smudges of mascara around her watery blue eyes. And when Shereen nudged her to stand up, the bus slowing to a halt, the two women did indeed shuffle out from the aisle and into the warm day, their feet also taking them to the entrance where a huge sign proclaimed their arrival at the Southern General Hospital.
What the Nigerian girl did not see was the broad-shouldered man, face half hidden by a baseball cap, skulking along the city streets, hands in his pockets.
Kenneth Gordon McAlpin (or simply Kenneth Gordon, as the passport in his pocket now read) had alighted from the taxi and was now heading up Renfield Street as a line of buses came to a halt at the traffic lights. His eyes scanned the street for any dark face in the crowd. The anger that had risen against the Hungarian had not yet abated and McAlpin clenched his fists tightly, imagining how it would feel to grip the girl around her skinny throat till she choked.
It was a moment he would never forget. He blinked, hands falling loosely to his sides as he saw her. They might have passed one another by had he been slouching along, eyes to the ground. It was, he told himself, a miracle, seeing the girl’s dark face gazing out, blithely unaware of his presence.
In that moment all of the big man’s senses seemed to be heightened: the fresh breeze touching his naked chin, the sound of the bus as it drove away, the smell of its exhaust fumes lingering.
As long as Asa was blithely unaware of how easily her tormentor could have jumped on to that bus and grabbed her, he had a chance to do just that. But here in this busy city centre, with cameras tracking his every move, that was not such a great idea. If only he hadn’t had to ditch the van . . .
The orange lights of an approaching cab were like a beacon of hope to the big man, and in moments he was seated once again in the back of a black taxi, its destination as yet unknown.
Chapter Fifty
‘Last 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 schoolteacher 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 p
urposes 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.
Chapter Fifty-One
‘We 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 t
o 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.
