by Alex Gray
He saw Rashid Jaffrey the moment he stepped out into the brightly lit hall. The boy was dressed in wide-fitting jeans that had abandoned their hold on his waistline, sliding down well past the edge of a pair of black boxers and causing him to shuffle along, his trainers almost hidden by the ragged hems. It was the fashion still for some youths to wear their jeans like this, Lorimer knew, and looking at Jaffrey he suddenly felt not just old fashioned but simply old. With his fortieth birthday looming ever
closer, the policeman could not help but reflect that he was nearer in age to Jaffrey’s late father than to his son.
‘Rashid?’
The boy stopped in his tracks, letting the handle of his pull along suitcase rest against the edge of a seat.
`1DCI Lorimer. Strathclyde Police. Thought you might be able to spare us a few minutes before you go home,’ he added gravely.
Rashid looked into Lorimer’s blue gaze, his own dark eyes widening in a moment of panic but then he looked down at his feet and gave a shrug. The gesture seemed to say he wasn’t bothered one way or the other but Lorimer, who knew how to read body language better than most, saw the sagging shoulders and guessed that the lad was bowing to the inevitable. He stepped alongside the boy, ushering him out into the Glasgow night and across to a waiting police car.
‘We’ve got a family liaison officer with your mum,’ Lorimer told him as they settled back for the drive into the city. Tut I’m sure she’ll be glad to have you back home again as soon as we’re finished.’
Rashid nodded mutely and turned his face away as though to reacquaint himself with the bustling motorway and the skyline over Paisley.
‘Sorry about your dad,’ Lorimer added, touching the boy’s shoulder. Rashid flinched as though he had been stung but Lorimer affected not to notice, continuing in the same friendly tone as before.
‘How was the flight?’
Rashid half turned back towards the man at his side and looked at him for a long moment as though he were reassessing this tall policeman.
‘Okay, I suppose. The flight attendants were nice…’ he broke
off but not before Lorimer could hear the sound of a smothered sob in his voice. Being nice to the newly bereaved was almost guaranteed to bring their emotions to the surface. It was something he remembered from his own experience. He’d been younger than Rashid when his own dad had died and he could still recall the solicitude of various aunts and neighbours and his own useless efforts to remain tearless.
‘Mallorca must be great this time of year,’ Lorimer went on, deliberately making small talk to bore the lad into a semblance of calm. ‘Gala Millor, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ Rashid nodded, stifling a yawn. ‘Thought Gala d’Or might’ve been more up your street, young lad like you,’ Lorimer joked. ‘More nightlife, eh?’ he smiled conspiratorially. ‘How come you ended up in a quiet place like that, then?’
Rashid turned away once again, the shrug meaning that he wasn’t going to answer that particular question. ‘Of course, you’ve got family over there, haven’t you?’ Lorimer said, slapping his knee as if the thought had just come back into his head.
‘Aye. My uncle’s got a business and I’ve been giving him a hand over the summer,’ Rashid replied with a sigh. ‘Nice way to spend a gap year,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Lucky you, having family there. You’ll be able to go whenever you fancy, I suppose?’
‘S’pose,’ Rashid echoed.
They were entering the approach to the city now, signs from the overhead gantries advising drivers to keep a safe distance from other vehicles, rows of red tail lights twinkling ahead out of the inky blue darkness.
‘Funny running into Billy Brogan like that,’ Lorimer mused.
Rashid gave him a sharp look but the policeman’s face seemed so completely innocent of guile that the boy nodded. ‘Aye, it was. Could’ve knocked me down with a feather, like, when I saw him walking along the market. Know what I mean?’ Lorimer smiled but said nothing, giving the boy a chance to elaborate on his story. ‘My dad had been trying to phone him for ages and getting no reply so I called him and told him I’d clocked Brogan on his holidays,’ he added with just a hint of smugness. ‘Funny how a chance encounter can have such far-reaching consequences,’ Lorimer murmured.
‘How d’you mean?’ The boy’s eyes were wary. ‘Well, there you are minding your own … sorry, your uncle’s… business and along comes the very person your father had been looking for.’ ‘Yeah, coincidence, yeah,’ Rashid agreed. ‘Then someone else decides that it wasn’t such a good idea of your dad’s to tell us where to find Brogan,’ Lorimer said. His tone was light but there was a steeliness of authority in his voice that made Rashid shift uneasily in his seat. ‘It wasn’t my fault that happened!’ the boy protested. ‘I just wanted to tell Dad where he could find Brogan so’s he could tell…’ he stopped suddenly, mouth still open wide.
‘So he could tell someone else?’ Lorimer asked.
The boy nodded unhappily into his hands. ‘I think we should carry on this conversation on a more official basis, Rashid,’ Lorimer told him. ‘There’s quite a lot we’d like to know about what Brogan’s been up to lately.’
The Hundi paced up and down, glancing from time to time at the
large watch on his left wrist. The man was late in calling in and the
Hundi was not used to being kept waiting, especially for those who
were numbered (in his payroll. It wouldn’t do, he told himself, turning his well-shod foot on the thick Persian carpet, it wouldn’t do at all. Smith, or whatever his real name was, should have been in touch hours ago and his lack of contact was making the Hundi clench and unclench his fists as he made yet another circuit of the room.
Their friend, Amit, had become more and more nervous since the woman’s disappearance, thinking no doubt that she had suffered a similar fate to that of Sahid Jaffrey. No amount of reassurances from Dhesi or indeed from the Hundi himself, had helped but perhaps the company of Dhesi’s niece, newly arrived from Lahore, might help to distract the wealthy businessman. Amit was one of their own now, Dhesi had insisted, and it was important that he make a good marriage, settle down and become part of their growing community Nalini was just the tonic for a lonely man adrift in a strange land. The Hundi grinned. He remembered the girl’s luxuriant hair caught up in a net of tiny sparkling jewels, her lovely doe eyes lowered demurely as Dhesi had made the introductions. There were no parents left to arrange a marriage to a suitable man, just Uncle Dhesi with his generous dowry and his good friend, the Hundi, who would see that Nalini’s future was secured. It would be a good marriage and serve to bind Amit even closer to his new friends.
But first Marianne had to be found. He looked at his watch again, shaking his wrist impatiently as though somehow it was the fault of the Rolex that Mr Smith had failed to keep his telephone appointment. The furrow on the man’s brow deepened. Smith was a professional, anyone could see that. So why was he so late in calling in the latest news about his assignment: an assignment that would sever the tie between Amit and Marianne for good.
Rashid was tired beyond anything he had ever felt before. The
emotions that had surfaced during the journey and the unexpected
trip downtown to these police headquarters had taken their toll and now all the boy wanted was to go home, see his mum and fall into bed, hopefully to a dreamless sleep. Informing that tall policeman with the kind voice all about Brogan hadn’t been what Rashid intended at all. But those hypnotic blue eyes seemed to be telling him that the policeman already knew much more than he was letting on so it had all come tumbling out. He cursed himself softly as the tears began to flow. Maybe playing at informant was something that ran in this family. What was the point of hiding it any more, anyway? Dad was dead and, when he’d spoken to her on the phone, his mum had sounded so different from the bustling little woman she’d been when he’d left home just a few months ago. What could anyone do to him to make life worse?
Lorimer’s blue eyes seemed kindled with a pale fire as he read over Rashid’s statement. Now they were getting somewhere!
The DCI looked up, hearing a small knock on his door.
Tathy. Still here? Come in,’ Lorimer beckoned the detective constable to a seat opposite his desk.
‘Anything I can do for you or would you like to see this?’ Lorimer grinned making his face suddenly younger and less careworn. ‘It’s young Jaffrey’s account of Billy Brogan’s recent activities,’ he continued.
‘Right!’ Fathy leaned towards his boss, his own face lighting up, infected by the mood of renewed optimism. ‘I was going to … but it doesn’t matter. May I . .
Lorimer handed over the sheets of paper and folded his arms, watching to see the younger officer’s reaction.
Fathy looked up, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Brogan was dealing with big, big money,’ he said at last. And young Jaffrey reckons he’s scarpered off to the continent owing… how
much?’ he looked at the paper again as though unable to believe his eyes. ‘That’s not possible, surely?’ Lorimer nodded. ‘We think Brogan’s been acting for certain members of the Asian community as a conduit for the proceeds of some VAT fraud. And yes, these figures are probably correct. We’re talking huge sums, here.’ He leaned forward again, steepling his fingers against his chin. ‘Brogan buys and sells drugs in quantity. We’ve suspected for a long time that much of the heroin coming into the city was down to a middleman like him but till now Brogan was thought of as fairly small beer, a dealer in hashish, mainly.’
‘Rashid Jaffrey says he was responsible for all of the drugs coming into Pollokshields. How would he know that?’ Fathy asked. ‘He’s probably exaggerating. I can’t see one man having such a grip on the supply. But go on, read what Jaffrey tells us about why Brogan left in such a hurry.’ Fathy bent his head obediently and skimmed the rest of the young man’s statement. He handed it back to Lorimer in silence.
‘Galbraith and Sandiman were owed money, as well as members of the Asian community that young Jaffrey has refused to name,’ Lorimer said. ‘According to the boy, Brogan siphoned off all of the profits of his trade into some scheme that went wrong. You can see how he was either genuinely hazy on the details or he’s keeping something back. I’m inclined to think he really doesn’t know what happened to Brogan’s money.’ ‘So Brogan skips to avoid paying his debts . . `. . and just happens to have the bad luck to run into young Rashid when he’s over in Mallorca.’
‘But where does that leave us with Galbraith and Sandiman?’ Lorimer nodded and gave a sigh. ‘Aye, that’s one thing we know now Given the timing it’s pretty certain that Brogan couldn’t have
killed them. And it probably means he didn’t pull the trigger that killed Scott.’
‘So, what…?’ Fathy spread his hands in a questioning gesture.
‘What it means,’ Lorimer said slowly, ‘is that we’re looking for a professional hit man. Assuming Brogan was the killer, given his experience from his ex-army days, may have thrown us off on completely the wrong direction.’
‘So, hunting for Marianne Brogan was all a waste of time?’ Disappointment sounded in the young man’s voice.
‘No, I don’t think that at all,’ Lorimer countered. ‘She may well hold the key to her ex-husband’s death. And to her brother’s present whereabouts. Electing to vanish as effectively as she has shows that she has plenty to hide,’ he nodded. ‘And so continuing to locate her is still one of our top priorities.’
Fathy listened, noting his boss’s words. It was almost as though Lorimer were rehearsing what to say to his own superior, choosing his words for maximum effect.
‘Anyway,’ Lorimer said suddenly, ‘what did you want to see me about?’
Fathy smiled a tired smile and shrugged. ‘Nothing that can’t wait, sir. Thanks.’
The Hundi tipped back his head and swallowed the last of the whisky then set down the heavy crystal glass. He was sitting on the pale beige leather settee that was squashed to one side under the man’s bulk, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
There had been no phone call. And now the Asian was beginning to wonder whose side this man called Smith was really on.
I
‘m worried,’ Solly said, turning away from the window, the brightness from the setting sun’s last rays making him blink owlishly behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘It’s that girl, Marianne, isn’t it?’ asked Rosie, shifting her position on the easy chair. Despite the cushions wedged at her back the discomfort from the Braxton Hicks had continued all afternoon. Her mouth twisted in a small grimace; nobody told you about the minutiae of pregnancy, did they? Until you read up on the baby manuals, it was all a bit of a mystery, even for a qualified medic like herself.
Solly stood with his back to the window, his face now in shadow. Sometimes, Rosie thought, he was too concerned about the frailties of human suffering for his own good. She smiled at him, a sudden tenderness welling up inside her. He was so generous and kind to her, caring for her every need. And he’d be a splendid father — anyone could see that. She reached out a hand and Solly came over to where she sat, cuddling in at her side, his fingers lacing in her own.
‘I keep wondering if it was something I did. Or said,’ he murmured.
‘What d’you mean?’ Rosie asked.
‘She said she was grateful to me … no… what were her exact words?’ Solly broke off, frowning. A minute passed then his brow cleared and he sat up, his eyes bright. He turned to Rosie, and as he spoke she could hear the edge of excitement in his voice.
‘She said she had a lot to thank me for. That was it!’ he beamed, wagging his head. ‘I thought she meant that I’d been a good teacher, or something like that. But there was… how can I put it? So much more. It was as though she was saying that I had helped her personally.’ He stopped, a faint expression of embarrassment on his face. ‘That sounds rather egotistical, doesn’t it?’
‘Go on,’ Rosie urged. ‘If you don’t probe more deeply into this encounter you’ll never arrive at the truth.’
Solly smiled at her fondly. His wife’s words were an echo of what he himself had said on many occasions and hearing them coming back was an affirmation of just how close they had become as husband and wife.
‘I remember Marianne as a faded, sad sort of young woman. So much so, that I hardly recognised her in the bookshop. She was …’ he tailed off, trying again for the right word to describe the memory in his mind’s eye. ‘She was so alive,’ he said at last. ‘It was as though something wonderful had happened to change her from that nervy creature who sat through my seminars last session into a lovely, confident young woman.’
Vas it just an emotional change or was there something different about her appearance?’ Rosie asked.
‘Her hair,’ Solly said simply. ‘She has long red hair and it used to be scrunched up in a tight knot as if she didn’t care about how she looked,’ he said slowly. ‘But that day it was loose and flowing, like some PreRaphaelite figure. Even her clothes had more colour,’ he murmured, remembering.
‘Sounds like she’d found a man,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Love does
that to a woman, you know,’ she said, snuggling closer to Solly’s side.
‘But was not that man,’ Solly said. And she told me she had a lot to thank me for . .
‘Didn’t you lecture on love, maybe?’ Rosie asked. ‘Yes, the usual one I trot out on St Valentine’s day,’ Solly replied. ‘But she was such a mouse-like creature all the way through the session. I don’t think it could have been that.’
‘What, then?’ Rosie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Solly said slowly, ‘but I’m determined to find out.’ He looked at his wife who was beginning to yawn. ‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘Bed time for you. That child of ours is taking its toll tonight, isn’t he?’
Marianne rolled over onto her side, listening. Max was breathing deeply and she watched him sleeping as his chest rose and fell. The fain
t veining on his eyelids began to flicker and Marianne could tell he was dreaming. Rapid eye movement, she thought, remembering Doctor Brightman’s lectures. What was her lover dreaming about? Was it something from his past? Or simply a collage of the day’s events? She smiled, thinking about their day away from the city. Max had told her his business could take a rest for a few days and that he needed a holiday, but Marianne suspected that he simply wanted to be with her.
Yesterday they had stood on deck as the ferry crossed from Wemyss Bay to the Isle of Bute, wind blowing her hair into a tangle until Max had told her she was a wild woman. He had drawn her closer to his side, murmuring that he liked wild women. Her heart had beaten faster at that and Marianne had felt such a sense of abandonment and freedom as she had never known before. This man would take her away from all the things
that held her to the city, just like this ship sailing to the misty island. Wouldn’t he?
She gazed at Max’s sleeping form, noting the twitching eyelids. Perhaps, she thought fondly, he was dreaming of her?
Lorimer heard the tiny sigh that escaped his wife’s lips and, though he knew she was sleeping, the sound made his heart ache for her. It was hard to think she would be undergoing major surgery so soon and his mouth narrowed as he began to imagine all the things that Maggie had not told him. She’d made light of the operation, telling him it was one of the most common procedures nowadays. But though she’d pasted on a smile, he had heard the fear in her voice. And not just fear, a despair that finally their hopes of having a family of their own would be gone for good. ‘I’m too old anyway,’ she’d joked, not saying what both of them knew, that mothers were becoming older and older these days as more women postponed the start of bearing children.
He’d wanted her to talk to Rosie but that suggestion had been met with a definite shake of Maggie’s head. Seeing a friend who was carrying a longed-for child of her own was simply too much for Maggie to bear. Besides, his wife had reminded him sadly, Rosie should not be concerning herself with thoughts of the surgery to remove a womb; not when her own was doing what it was meant to do.
