The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  His feet took him across the road where so much had happened during that terrible case and into the mouth of the lane. Images from the past seemed to flicker and die as he stepped on to the cobbles.

  She was waiting halfway along, past the huge dumper bins next to a shallow doorway. Slight and pale, Marlene McAdam had the look of all junkies, thin to the point of emaciation, hair dragged back from a face that was all angles like a Modigliani painting.

  ‘Thanks for coming to see me.’ Lorimer smiled as he drew closer, a friendly hand extended for her to shake.

  ‘I needed to speak to you,’ the woman said, licking her bloodless lips.

  ‘Well here I am,’ he said. ‘Though it’s not the sort of place I’d have chosen to meet,’ he added, waving a hand around the place.

  Marlene shrugged, her eyes darting from side to side as though afraid to meet the cool blue gaze that regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘’S quiet, though, in’t it?’ She shrugged again. ‘Didnae want tae come doon tae Stewart Street,’ she added. ‘Never know who’s watching you.’

  The woman glanced behind her, the reflex action revealing just how nervous she really was.

  What was it Marlene McAdam wanted to tell him? And who was she afraid of?

  She turned back, and her entire body seemed to freeze.

  The sudden look of terror in her eyes was not directed at Lorimer, but beyond him.

  He turned, hearing the sudden noise of the vehicle screaming towards them. Seeing its headlights as it careered along the narrow lane.

  A glimpse of a man’s face, covered by a scarf . . .

  The woman screamed as Lorimer grabbed her round the waist, two bodies locked together, thudding against the doorway, his head striking the edge of something hard and sharp.

  The blue van caught his elbow a glancing blow as it sped past and Lorimer cried out in pain. Then, releasing the woman from his grip, he began to run after the mad driver who had almost mown them down, cursing as the vehicle turned a corner, missing the chance to see its number plate.

  But it was too late: the van had screeched away past the end of the square and was gone.

  Lorimer limped back along the lane, his eyes on the figure slumped against the wall, one hand fumbling for his mobile to put out a call for assistance.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He looked at her ashen face, the eyes staring at him.

  ‘He tried to kill us!’ the woman whispered, her voice hoarse with shock.

  It was an automatic reflex to turn and look at the lane where moments before a bright blue van had been deliberately driven at him. Or, he wondered, had it been aiming for the woman who was now whimpering by his side?

  ‘Come on,’ he said, one arm around her thin shoulders, leading her out of the lane. ‘I think we both need a drink.’

  Let others find the crazy driver, he thought, though the description he had given the officer on the other end of the line was minimal and there was little chance of locating him now. What he needed were answers to why on earth it had happened, and he hoped that Marlene McAdam would be able to provide them.

  Asa pointed at the packs of ham in the chiller cabinet and turned to Shereen.

  ‘Okay, some of those too, we can make up sandwiches,’ she said, smiling at the girl as they made their way slowly along the supermarket aisle, the older woman pushing a trolley that contained a few essentials for their journey.

  ‘Don’t turn around, keep walking,’ a familiar voice behind her said, the sound making her freeze with horror. She felt the point of a knife against her back, pressing into her flesh, and knew a moment of despair.

  How had he found them? Her thoughts whirled as she tried to think what she must have done wrong.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ the big man repeated. ‘Right to the exit, okay? Leave the trolley here.’ Another jab made her want to cry out, Asa’s terrified eyes boring into her own.

  Shereen let go of the shopping and stumbled along the last aisle, past the checkout towards the automatic doors.

  ‘Take the girl’s hand . . . that’s good, no fuss now.’ The man’s voice was low and menacing as Shereen moved slowly along. It was like a nightmare in which her feet seemed unable to progress, fear turning her to stone.

  She looked around in bewilderment. Why did nobody seem to notice what was happening to them? The girl at the checkout was putting items from the conveyor belt into a waiting trolley, the other shoppers intent on packing their goods into bags and boxes on a shelf to her right, oblivious to the drama being enacted under their very noses.

  The door opened with a whoosh, then they were out on the concrete where the trolleys were stacked. A big black cab rolled up, its side door sliding open, a gaping maw intent on swallowing them whole.

  Then, before the big man could push her further, Shereen saw the policewoman coming across the car park.

  ‘Run, Asa, run!’ she screamed, letting go of the girl’s hand and giving her a shove.

  ‘Get in!’

  Shereen felt his hands on her, lifting her bodily into the taxi, then she fell to the floor as the vehicle began to gather speed, the door sliding shut beside them. Her head hurt where she had fallen, but her beating heart felt something other than fear.

  Asa had escaped!

  Shereen knew a final moment of triumph even as the foot pressed her flailing arm on to the floor of the cab.

  She’d saved the girl from this monster.

  Above her she saw the fire in the man’s eyes.

  And his terrible rage as his hand rose above her.

  Police Constable Kirsty Wilson’s bulky young frame was not built for speed, and she was no match for the African girl, who was flying across Govan Road, heedless of the traffic around her squealing to a halt. Too many of Mum’s cakes, she thought to herself as she panted behind the fleeing figure, the taller shape of DC Lennox overtaking her. He’d get the girl. Surely he would?

  Asa jumped on to the island of concrete that was raised up from the road.

  All around her horns were blaring, lights flashing as she stood mesmerised by the noise and the nearness of the cars and lorries.

  The girl looked back across the road to the car park outside the shop, but Shereen had gone. And so had the man. The one who had hurt her and kept her in that terrible place.

  She raised her head to the unforgiving sky, seeing the clouds moving along the heavens. Then, putting her hands to her mouth, she uttered the wailing, ululating cry that had sounded out death and despair all down the countless ages.

  Kirsty watched as the young detective wrapped his jacket around the girl’s shoulders and led her through the halted traffic. She was so little, not more than a child, she realised, looking at the Nigerian girl as she came closer.

  ‘Asa?’

  The girl turned huge black eyes to Kirsty, and the policewoman could see that they were full of tears.

  ‘It’s okay, Asa, you’re safe now,’ she soothed, patting the girl’s arm as they led her to the waiting car.

  ‘Safe?’ Asa whispered, looking at Kirsty in amazement. Then, swaying for a moment as though she might faint, the Nigerian girl turned her face against Lennox’s shoulder and began to sob.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Universal Bar was probably not the best choice, dark and gloomy inside in contrast to the brightness of the evening outside, but it was the nearest place that Lorimer could think of and their passage down Sauchiehall Lane had kept them away from any prying eyes.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  The woman nodded, her fingers clutching the glass of whisky that Lorimer had ordered. Doubles, he’d demanded of the barman, noticing how his own hands shook a little as he drew out his wallet.

  ‘Know who that was, by any chance?’ He asked the question softly, though in truth their words were muffled by the beat from a rap number coming from overhead speakers.

  She shook her head, eyes fixed on his own in a manner that let him believe that Marlene was telling him the truth.
He’d seen liars enough to know the difference. Any flicker from those pale eyes or a look to one side might have made him doubt her.

  ‘Okay, let’s talk about Charles Gilmartin, shall we?’

  Was it his imagination, or was there a sudden lessening of tension in those bony shoulders?

  ‘I seen him.’ Marlene leaned in closer so that he caught a whiff of her perfume, something sharp and sweet. ‘I seen him come intae the studio where I work. Skin Art,’ she added.

  ‘When was this?’ Lorimer asked quietly.

  ‘Same day he’s meant tae have carked it,’ she told him. ‘See that reward . . . ?’ Her face looked up to his, naked hope in her eyes.

  ‘Let’s come to that a bit later,’ Lorimer said. ‘If what you tell me leads to an arrest and a conviction, then you will be given the sum that was mentioned. No tax to pay, either.’

  He smiled thinly as she gave a sigh and drank off the rest of her whisky.

  ‘Right, the man comes intae the studio and our Harry – that’s my boss, by the way – he tells me tae keep oot o’ the way. Your man Gilmartin goes intae the back room where the big man’s waiting. The owner of the place,’ Marlene explained, seeing the frown appear between the policeman’s eyes. ‘Mr McAlpin.’

  Lorimer clutched his glass a little tighter, swallowing hard, willing himself not to react to the name.

  ‘How long did they spend in that room, Marlene?’

  ‘Oh, I cannae right remember . . . em, let’s see. Ah wis doin’ a butterfly fur a lassie. Wan mair tae join the ithers oan her back, like. Takes more’n half an hour for that kindae thing. Maybe nearer fifty minutes. Anyway, I wis still at the last wee bit when they baith came oot. McAlpin wis shakin’ the man’s hand like he wis richt please aboot somethin’.’

  Lorimer nodded, trying to imagine the impresario in the run-down tattoo studio by the Clyde. It isn’t like Terry’s, he remembered Kirsty telling him. Stuart Wrigley’s place was a palace compared to that other dump, the girl had said.

  ‘And did you hear them say anything?’

  Marlene frowned. ‘Had the machine on, remember, no’ sae easy tae overhear stuff. But I did hear the older man telling McAlpin something before he went out the door.’

  There was a pause as the woman seemed to be trying to collect her thoughts.

  ‘They’ll come in with our lot. Aye, that’s whit he said.’

  ‘And did you know what that meant?’

  Marlene looked crestfallen. ‘Naw,’ she said at last. ‘Does that mean ah cannae have the reward?’

  Lorimer laid a hand on top of the woman’s skinny fingers.

  ‘You may well have told me enough to help convict somebody,’ he whispered. ‘And that reward will be yours if it happens, I promise.

  She gave him a tremulous smile. ‘Oh, and by the way, there’s something else,’ she said, eyes glinting. ‘Ah seen him since then. The boss man, ah mean, no the wan that got killed.’

  ‘When was this?’ Lorimer sat up a little straighter.

  ‘Yesterday? Day before? Cannae mind. Sorry. Not always on the ball, my wee brain, is it?’ She tapped the side of her head ruefully. ‘Onywye, it’s the big man, like ah says. He comes in tae see Harry late on wan efternoon.’ She paused. ‘Naw, wasnae yesterday. Day afore?’ She shook her head and sighed.

  ‘He goes intae the back shop, like, stays in fur aboot three quarters of an hour then comes oot again.’ She grinned at Lorimer. ‘’N guess what? Harry’s just shaved aff the hale o’ Mr McAlpin’s beard and given him a buzz cut, hasn’t he? Had tae sweep up a’ his curly hair aff the flair, didn’t I?’

  Lorimer sat back, taking in this new information, already mentally passing it on to the investigating officers who were out looking for the fugitive.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The boy looked around to see if there was anybody else on the patch of waste ground, but he was quite alone. The big black car sat slightly to one side, the ground sloping away under its wheels. It had a long open doorway like that minibus with sliding doors for wheelchairs he’d seen when old Mr Thomson along the street was taken away to the day centre. Only this was a kind of taxi, he saw as he drew nearer. And the driver was slumped across the steering wheel. Funny place to choose for a nap, the boy thought, the driver’s still form emboldening him to creep forward for a closer look.

  In a few moments the boy had tiptoed up to the door.

  He peered in, shading his eyes with one hand against the setting sun streaming in from the west.

  There was something on the floor. He squinted, his brain suggesting that someone had left a big bag of rags in the back. Whatever it was must be smelly for all these flies to be buzzing on top of it.

  Then the boy spotted the shoe. And something else, something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the thing was still there and wouldn’t go away; a dark red puddle that glistened under the sun’s rays.

  He began to back away, a small whimpering sound coming from his throat.

  Then he turned and ran across the beaten earth, screaming for his mammy, desperate to find someone, anyone who would take away the sight of all that blood.

  ‘Shereen Swanson was knifed to death by person or persons unknown,’ Lorimer told the assembled officers. ‘The taxi driver, Richard Bryce, sustained one slash to his throat.’ He looked around at each of them in turn. ‘He would have died immediately. It was an injury inflicted by someone big and strong who knew how to slit another person’s throat. Maybe someone ex-military.’

  As he spoke, Lorimer had a vision of a big red-headed man, the one who had felled him to the ground in Cathkin. He himself might have been a victim that night, like the unfortunate taxi driver, had McAlpin not been in such a tearing hurry to escape.

  The SOCOs called to the country park had taken traces from Lorimer’s clothes. McAlpin might have escaped that night, but at least they had his DNA profile on record, something that might well prove a match with samples taken from the two victims of the taxi murders.

  The detective superintendent’s head was beginning to swim. Everywhere he went McAlpin seemed to emerge like some latter-day bogeyman. MI6 wanted to question him about being in a terrorist cell here in Glasgow. So far he had eluded them. That he was wanted for murder was in no doubt, the two young Nigerian girls lying in the mortuary having died because of his fiendish trafficking business. And now there was a link with Charles Gilmartin. It could only be to do with the influx of Africans into the country. Was that why Vivien had been so adamant that the theatre project was to stop? Did she know a lot more about this other business than she was willing to admit? And – Lorimer blinked against the throbbing pain in his head – was Charles Gilmartin’s involvement with McAlpin the reason he was poisoned?

  ‘Sir?’

  A voice seemed to come from far away, and Lorimer felt arms supporting him as he was helped into a chair.

  ‘Think you should go home, sir,’ DI Grant said. ‘He’s maybe concussed,’ she said, turning to the men and women who were now crowded around their senior officer. ‘Who’s got the doc’s number?’

  Maggie pulled the curtains, then glanced down at her husband’s sleeping form. His face, even in repose, looked strained and there were deep lines etched between his eyebrows and creases beside his eyelids. Laughter lines, but when had he last laughed? She bit her lip. Ever since the night of that school reunion back in April, he had been working long hours. Some days they hardly spoke, Maggie already in bed by the time he returned home. It was little wonder that so many senior officers’ marriages ended in failure, she thought, slipping into bed beside him. They were luckier than most, perhaps, without the added strain of children to accommodate into their busy lives. And she had her special friends, other women to spend an evening with at the theatre or a favourite author’s book launch.

  It was a pity about Mull, she thought with a sigh, but there was something going on behind the scenes of Glasgow 2014 that was so se
cret that she suspected there might be some sort of terrorist threat.

  Maggie’s mind went back to their last holiday. Hadn’t it been cut short on the day before Bill had been due to return to work? That explosion outside Drymen, she remembered, and her husband giving out a reassuring message to the media. Had that all been some sort of camouflage? And had Detective Superintendent Lorimer become involved in a highly secure investigation into something much more dangerous than the usual crimes washed up on Glasgow’s shores?

  Suddenly her eyes flew open. That security alarm man from Folkfirst! How had he known that Mrs Lorimer was a schoolteacher? Was he some sort of surveillance man under her husband’s authority? Or – and a cold shiver went down Maggie’s spine at the thought – had he visited this house for some more sinister reason?

  ‘Mags?’ Lorimer whispered. ‘Are you awake, love?’

  Maggie curled on to her side, snuggling her body against her husband’s.

  ‘Yes. How d’you feel?’

  ‘Still a bit drowsy. But I’m okay. How about you?’

  Maggie thought for a moment. ‘Can I run something past you?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘You know that alarm company, Folkfirst?’

  ‘Yeah, we use them at work.’

  ‘Well, someone came to test the system. Didn’t know you’d asked them to . . .’

  Lorimer sat up, propping himself on his good elbow.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, but he said . . .’

  ‘When was this?’ Lorimer was fully awake now.

  ‘Yesterday. Just about teatime. Arrived in a blue van.’

  ‘What sort of blue?’

  ‘Bright blue. Rangers blue.’

  ‘Any lettering on the side?’

  ‘No, come to think of it . . .’

  ‘Whereabouts did he go in the house?’

  ‘Well, everywhere, I suppose. The doors are alarmed upstairs as well as downstairs . . .’

  ‘And did he check the telephones?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Maggie frowned. ‘But there was something funny,’ she said slowly. ‘He seemed to know that I was a teacher. But I hadn’t said anything that might have made him—’