by Alex Gray
‘Doctor Brightman!’
Solly spun around as his name was called out. A woman stood at the end of the aisle, a quizzical look on her face as though she wasn’t absolutely certain that she had the correct person. Solly smiled tentatively, trying hard to recall the woman to mind. Too old to be one of his university students, and yet there was something familiar about that mane of red hair cascading down her shoulders, and those unwavering eyes.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she continued, sweeping her gaze along the row of children’s books. Then she looked at him again, as though she were aware of his discomfiture and it amused her. Head held high, she regarded him boldly, a smile playing around her mouth.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sully remarked, struggling to put a name to a face that he felt should be familiar. Was she one of his mature students? There were a few married women under his tutelage. Could he remember their names, though? His eyes fell on to her hands: no wedding ring, no help there, then. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, staring At him, ‘I’ve often imagined running into you, wondering what I would ray if I did.’ The woman
regarded him steadily, her eyes dark with an unfathomable expression.
‘I’ve got a lot to thank you for, you know,’ she said, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘See you next term.’ Then, with a brittle smile and a wave of her hand she turned on her heel, disappeared around the row of books and was gone.
SoIly stood for a moment, strangely disquieted at the enigmatic remark. She knew him. She expected to see him next term, so she must be one of his students, surely? And what had she to thank him for? Passing the exams? He frowned. Her words had been spoken in a tone of sudden gravity. So why couldn’t he conjure up her name?
A frown creased his dark brow as the psychologist stared into space, struggling to remember. Mhairi. Was that her name? Or Marie something… Hadn’t she been the one with the funny surname? Or maybe not. Names were not the psychologist’s strong point but he did have a good recall for faces. But the woman he had just seen bore little resemblance to the student he remembered. This woman seemed altogether more confident, more … alive than the person he had taught all of last session.
Solly bit his lip thoughtfully. Alive. That was the correct word to use, right enough. For the Mari something or other who had sat through his seminars and scraped a bare pass in her first year exams was a mere shadow of the woman who had spoken to him moments ago. That stream of Titian hair had been screwed up into a messy bun at the back of her head, often as not, her pale face devoid of makeup, Solly remembered, casting his mind back to the seminars in his office at Glasgow University. There was a vibrancy about this creature that was at odds with his memory of her; Mari (was it Mhairi?) had dragged herself to his classes, a permanent air of grey exhaustion about her. At one point in the
session he remembered asking if she had been unwell. Her dull eyed expression had given the lie to her assurance that she was fine.
The psychologist hadn’t expected the woman to continue her course. But she’d gained the necessary grades and now she’d be back in his orbit once again. Whatever had happened to make her change so dramatically had to be good, Solly thought to himself. Love, perhaps? Or was it merely the escape from the drudgery of constant study? Shrugging his shoulders, the psychologist gazed at the spot where the woman had stood before resuming his inspection of the rows of little books.
In the weeks to come Doctor Solomon Brightman would have cause to consider this chance encounter and just what it had revealed. But for now his disquiet remained a temporary distraction, not the thing of darkness and despair that would come to haunt his dreams.
CHAPTER 4
He was really the only person in the world she could trust. Brother Billy. Wee toerag, his da had called him often
enough before he’d been thrown out of the family home. No sweat, though. He knew his da had been right in his assessment of him. Billy Brogan, class A toerag, dealer in illegal substances, now doing a runner before all the shit caught up with him.
Billy chuckled to himself. She’d given him the 10K in used notes, dead careful not to have them traced to her bank account. Clever, she was clever all right, but not a match for her wee brother. No siree.
Billy swung the backpack onto his shoulders as he left the aircraft. The heat from the fuselage mixed with something else, a warmth that you didn’t get even in the best of Glasgow summers. Man, this would be the life all right. A wee holiday in Spain first, since he had plenty of spending money, then off again to where the action was. Morocco, natch. Marrakesh. Where it all came from. He’d be the main man in no time at all, nae pushers coming in between him and the gear, giving him a hard time.
Billy strode up the corridor, glancing now and again out of the tinted windows. It was still daylight but the sky had a rosy pink hue where the light met the horizon. For a moment he slowed
down, the bravado he’d been feeling lost in the realisation that he was in a different country now. Och, but it was Spain, Majorca, where Glesca folk came all the time on their holidays. They’d all speak English, eh? Billy tried to reassure himself. Then the corridor opened out into a large hall where loads of people were sitting waiting on rows of plastic seats. Waiting to go home again, he thought, seeing sun-reddened flesh and down-turned mouths. And ah’m jist arriving, he told them silently. Joining a queue to show his passport, Billy kept staring straight ahead as though fearful that his expression might give the game away. But it was a quick in and out, a Spanish hand waving him along as the man in the booth barely glanced at his picture. Further along past the luggage carousels he could see holiday reps with placards showing the names of their companies. But nobody was there to meet Billy Brogan. A shiver passed down the young man’s spine. Whit the hell wis he doin’ here onywey? The sudden panic made him want to turn straight around and get back on that plane bound for Glasgow. But that wasn’t possible any more, was it?
A familiar sign just ahead of him quickened his step. An advertisement for Burger King was plastered across the wall. That was okay, then, he sighed, letting out his breath. It was just what he’d promised himself. A wee home frae home. Then on to pastures new.
Outside the airport building Billy glanced past the rows of palm trees till he saw what he wanted. Taxi. Another international word.
‘Hey, pal. Any chance of takin’ me intae Gala Millor?’ Billy asked, pronouncing the Millor like Miller. He’d seen the place on the internet when he’d booked his ticket. Remembered a name he’d been given a long time ago.
The taxi driver seemed pleased as he slung Billy’s pack into the back seat, the price of forty euros agreed as Billy shrugged his shoulders. Forty euros? An hour’s journey. Sounded okay, he thought, settling back into the leather seats. Plenty time to chat the guy up, find a hotel he’d recommend. The driver looked the sort of person he could trust.
Billy smiled to himself, remembering what his big sister had told him.
‘You’re the only person I can trust, Billy,’ she’d said. And it was true. At least for what she had in mind. He would find out the right person, he’d promised her. No contact made with her, personally; that was guaranteed. He’d be the go-between, the middle man; wee Billy Brogan, sure of himself, cocky as you liked, living somewhere in the shades where she dare not enter. It was just a question of how much. Ten thousand pounds didn’t just drop off the trees. But luck had helped them with Amit’s timely arrival into both their lives.
Handing it over to little brother Billy seemed to be as much a relief as knowing that it would all be over soon. And hadn’t he promised her that it would be? He’d left her happy, assured that now she could sleep easy knowing that he was the only person in the world that she could trust. The flame burned low, melting the pale wood, then the wick spurted and she let the blackened matchstick fall, sizzling
into the water, before it burned her fingers.
Lying back she slid down as far as she could, hair spread out like waterweed. Eyes closed, she could sm
ell the fragrance from the scented candle: frangipani. Funny how evocative a scent could be. Memories flooded back now. Warm blue lagoons with sun umbrellas made from twists of thatch; sitting out on their own private deck at breakfast time, the mynah birds chattering; multicoloured fish darting in the reef— electric blues and stripy yellows; flower petals strewn across their beds at night by some discreet, unseen hand.
In the beginning it had all been full of promise, full of hope. He’d lavished so much on that honeymoon, hadn’t he? Seduced her into believing this would be paradise on earth, just the two of them.
She fingered the place on her neck where bruises had formed so often, so very often …
Despite the warmth of the bathwater, she shivered. Time to soap her arms, rub away the day’s sweat and dirt. Sitting up, she displaced the volume of water, hearing it swoosh around her legs.
The spent match bobbed towards her, adrift on the scummy sur
face. She scooped it up on the third attempt and flicked it on to
the floor. For a moment she let the water settle around her, trying
not to imagine what it had been like at the end. Darkness.
Gunfire. A sudden blast and then he was gone.
Like that spent match. All his fires out. “The wife’s last address, sir,’ DC Irvine laid the paper on
Lorimer’s desk. ‘You were spot on about further education. She did a course at Anniesland College two years ago so she could apply for Glasgow University.’
Lorimer’s raised eyebrows showed his unspoken question: What then?
Annie Irvine blushed. ‘No trace of her after that so we don’t even know if she’s still in the country. But we’re working on it. Sir,’ she added earnestly.
Lorimer made a face. ‘Tracing Mrs Kenneth Scott is becoming a nuisance. Maybe the current girlfriend, Frances Donnelly, can fill us in better anyway,’ he raised a questioning eyebrow at his detective constable. ‘Women like knowing things about their lovers, especially the other women in their lives,’ he smiled wickedly.
Annie shook her head, giving Lorimer a mock smile. Did he think the divisional headquarters was a hotbed of sexual intrigue or something? If only.
‘Take Fathy with you to the call centre, will you? We want to know all that the girlfriend can tell us about Scott, especially where he was the week before he was killed. Okay?’
‘Sir,’ Irvine backed out of the doorway and breathed a sigh of relief. The Scott woman had vanished into thin air, apparently. And that made it all the more suspicious, didn’t it? Why would someone disappear like that, not want to be found, unless they had something to hide?
Annie Irvine gave a little skip as she crossed the corridor to the room inhabited by lesser mortals like detective constables. Out with Omar. That was a lucky chance. She ran fingers through her short dark hair then paused. A quick visit to the loo and a touch of lippy wouldn’t go amiss before she called the handsome Egyptian to heel.
The call centre sat cheek by jowl beside a roundabout overlooking the MN motorway on one side and a huddle of fifties terraced
housing on the other. Its tinted glass windows caught the sunlight a moment is Irvine parked the pool car, making her glance up quickly. “it’s an okay place to work,’ she remarked to the man in the pommor mut. ‘Better then your division?’ Fathy asked, a crooked smile on his face.
‘Oeh, I’m happy where I am,’ Irvine told him. ‘It’s not everyone who gets to stay put when you change from uniform to CID. And I’ve always liked working with Lorimer. He can be a moody beggar at times, right enough, but he’s dead fair. What about yourself? Did Grampian not suit you or were you looking to see what this big, bad city had to offer?’ She winked at him, then before he could reply, ‘C’mon then, let’s be having you. Or the boss’ll have our guts for garters.’
Irvine watched as the young man slid out of his seat then brushed himself down. There was something both elegant and
effete in the gesture, making her heart plummet. Was he gay? And if so, were the lascivious thoughts she’d been having about the new DC utterly pointless? She jerked her head towards the doorway. ‘Right. You’ve been briefed about the girlfriend, but let me do the talking, okay?’
He was at the doorway of the call centre in two strides, holding it open for her with a twinkle in his eye as if her misgivings about his sexuality had been completely transparent.
Inside there was a curved reception desk made of blonde wood that took up a quarter of the floor space, its polished counter decorated with a stark display of white arum lilies. Irvine flinched. Was this a blatant show of sympathy for a deceased member of staff or did they just go for the minimalist effect? A glance around the hallway made her suspect the latter; the floor was a grey, polished stone and the walls were painted stark white between the huge glass windows.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ The ponytailed girl behind the desk looked up at them, her glance resting upon the Egyptian, her smile widening just for him. Irvine cursed inwardly, wishing she’d put on smarter stuff today instead of the jacket and trousers that were her staple work clothes. The collar of Miss Ponytail’s white shirt was sharp enough to cut her, Irvine thought. And she would bet that sleek, black suit wasn’t out of Top Shop.
‘Detective Constables Irvine and Fathy,’ she said sharply, commanding the girl’s attention, her warrant card up close so the girl could read it if she wanted to. ‘We’re here to see Miss Donnelly in connection with the death of Mr Kenneth Scott.’
‘Oh,’ Ponytail gasped, one perfectly manicured hand covering her mouth for a moment. ‘That was so awful, wasn’t it?’ she whispered, her eyes sliding back to Fathy, her voice so breathless and solemn that it made Irvine want to put a couple of fingers down
her throat. The sympathy was so obviously fake. She probably didn’t even remember what Ken Scott had looked like.
‘Frances Donnelly?’ Irvine reminded her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped, wrenching her gaze away from DC Fathy as though it were something of an effort. ‘I’ll just call up and let them know you’re here. Someone will be down in a minute. If you’d like to take a seat…?’ Ponytail gestured to a row of seats upholstered in a bland grey fabric.
‘Maybe you should do the talking after all,’ Irvine whispered to her neighbour.
Omar Fathy laughed. ‘Work some of my dusky charm, you mean?’ he gave her a nudge with his elbow, dark eyes glinting with mirth. Irvine grinned back suddenly feeling loads better. As the lift door sighed open both Irvine and Fathy stood up. Despite the fact that Frances Donnelly had obviously clocked them the moment she stepped into the reception area her eyes were everywhere but on the two police officers, betraying her nervousness. Irvine’s first impression was of an attractive girl, taller than average, dark red hair (not out of a bottle, the detective constable surmised) but with the air of someone who didn’t know how nice looking she really was.
‘Frances Donnelly,’ she said, extending her hand to Irvine with a smile hovering hesitantly around her wide-lipped mouth. `DC Irvine. We spoke on the phone,’ Irvine told her, `My colleague, Detective Constable Fathy.’ ‘Hello,’ Frances smiled shyly at Omar Fathy who gave her his customary little bow.
Irvine suppressed a grin. She was becoming used to the young man’s courtesies now and it was amusing to see their effect on other women.
‘Is there somewhere we can go and talk that’s a little more
private than here?’ Irvine asked, making an almost imperceptible nod towards the receptionist who was probably ear-wigging like mad.
‘Not really, it’s all open plan upstairs,’ Frances began. ‘Could we maybe just go out somewhere?’
‘Got anywhere in mind?’ Irvine asked.
‘There’s a wee coffee bar I know near Elderpark. It’s just a few minutes’ drive from here. It should be fairly quiet this time of day,’ Frances told them, her eyes darting from one to the other as though she were being a little too bold in offering her advice.
‘Okay. W
e can talk on the way as well. Just a chat,’ Irvine gave the girl her best smile, willing her to drop the shoulders that were up around her ears with tension. It couldn’t be very nice for this girl, though, could it? she reminded herself. Having to see two complete strangers and talk about your dead boyfriend.
Frances Donnelly glanced at DC Irvine, a flustered expression on her face, as Fathy opened the main door, stepping back with a flourish to allow the two women to leave before him.
‘Egyptian manners,’ Irvine whispered to the girl. ‘We call him Omar Sharif back at the ranch.’
Frances Donnelly gave a silent giggle and Irvine was gratified to see her relax as they walked across to the pool car, Fathy quickening his pace to do his chauffeur impression.
‘He’s new to Glasgow,’ Irvine confided. ‘We’ve all got bets on that this sort of stuff won’t last the month.’
She was glad to see her colleague opening the front passenger door for Frances, edging himself into the rear seat so that the women could talk more easily.
‘Suppose you’re all pretty shocked about Mr Scott,’ Irvine began.
‘Oh, yes. I mean, things like that just don’t happen to ordinary
people, do they? His friend, Paul, the one who. . Frances bit her lip, not able to complete the sentence; the one who found him.
‘The guy who car shared with him?’ Irvine offered helpfully.
‘Aye, Paul. He reckons it was a case of mistaken identity. You know he might be right,’ Frances continued in a rush of words. ‘I knew this couple who were away on holiday and came back to find their cars had been covered with paint stripper. Police said it was the action of someone who held a grudge. But the couple thought it must be a mistake. There was this bent lawyer lived behind them; same sort of position in the next cul-de-sac. Probably meant for him. It cost them a fortune to get their cars fixed as well.’
Irvine let her rattle on. Get the nerves away with a load of blethering and she’d maybe be calm enough to answer the questions that were really important.
