by Alex Gray
‘Brogan,’ he began. ‘He’s known to you?’
The Asian inclined his head a little. ‘He is known to my client,’ he said.
‘Client? What are you? Some sort of lawyer?’
The man beside him chuckled. ‘Not at all, my friend. I am what you might call a fixer. A middleman. Those from my homeland know me better as The Hundi.’
‘So you’re not the man I spoke to on the phone?’
‘No, Mr Smith. That was my client. Someone, it appears, who has a mutual interest in Mr Brogan. Now, while we drive to our meeting place, let me tell you something about this lovely city of ours,’ he said. Turning towards the window he pointed up at the buildings that swooped up on either side, their windows glittering in the sunshine. Then, as though the hit man was simply a tourist visiting Glasgow for pleasure, the Hundi began to enthuse about some of the city’s architectural gems.
Dhesi stood, hands behind his back, looking out of the window This was his home now, this city whose fine buildings were a constant reminder of past glories, Glasgow’s tobacco lords and ship owners gaining their immense wealth from their trade. It was a
city that suited him, Dhesi thought. He, too, traded in things,
though those commodities were less welcomed by the city fathers
than the bales of Virginia tobacco that had been shipped to the
docks in times past. The restaurant was his legitimate enterprise, of course, and he was proud of it. Things had become so easy in the months following Amit’s arrival, that it would be a pity if they were to be upset by these latest incidents. But his partner’s complete integration into their world here in Glasgow was of the utmost importance and it might even be to their advantage that Brogan had disappeared, leaving his sister unprotected. The Pakistani had deliberately chosen this suite of rooms in a West End hotel in which to meet Brogan’s contact. Someone calling himself Mr Smith (he’d laughed derisively at that) had insisted that he wanted to find Brogan. A mate, he’d said, from the old days. Knowing Brogan’s past as well as he did, Dhesi guessed that this was another ex-soldier. And from what he had read in the newspapers, he wondered if the man might be useful to them right now If he turned out to be just another druggie, they’d get shot of him faster than he could say chapatti. But that voice on the line had sounded intelligent and, besides, he could only have found out his number from Brogan himself. Was this a set up, perhaps? Was Brogan using this old chum for purposes of his own? Nobody in Glasgow had any idea why the dealer had disappeared, though two dead bodies in his flat might give even the least cynical person some sort of clue. The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn away from the window. His friend, the Hundi, was ushering in a man whom he judged to be about forty-five, short mid-brown hair, thinning on top and of medium height and build. Dhesi took all this in as he strode towards him. An ordinary looking man, he thought to himself, except for the face and its pale grey eyes. These were eyes that had seen terrible things, Dhesi told himself; and that face, with its sharp cheekbones and firm jaw, might have been carved out of granite. Glasgow folk had a name for someone
like this: a wee hard man. His visitor stood ramrod straight, gaze unwavering as he looked Dhesi in the eye.
This is someone you don’t want to mess with, he suddenly thought, hearing Brogan’s voice in his mind.
`Mr Smith,’ Dhesi smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand in welcome, `So good of you to come.’
‘Dead? What makes you think that?’ Joyce Rogers leaned forward in her chair, one hand clasping her chin as she considered the DCI’s idea.
Lorimer made a restless movement before he answered, immediately revealing to the deputy chief constable that he was less than comfortable with this suggestion himself.
‘She’s nowhere to be found, ma’am. No trace of her leaving the country, no records of employment, nothing in the university registry or in any other UK registry that we can find.’
‘I see,’ Rogers nodded briefly. ‘And you think we might want to investigate her as a missing person?’
Lorimer sighed. Thousands of people went missing each year, many of them at their own behest. But there would always be some who had been killed by a person or persons unknown and whose bodies would rot in their unmarked graves for generations. The police knew that from experience. And from the results of their cold case units around the country.
‘We have no idea when she was last seen, nor do we have a recent photograph of her. No marriage photographs at Scott’s house, nothing for matriculation at the college . .
‘Oh? And why is that? Isn’t it mandatory for all the students to have photo ID?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but the college doesn’t keep them for more than a year after the student leaves.’
She could be shacking up with someone, of course,’ Rogers mused. ‘Another drug dealer like brother Billy.’ ‘That’s true,’ Lorimer conceded. And if she is alive we might try to ask her to come forward, to speak to us in confidence.’ ‘Why do I have the feeling that you’re about to suggest putting out a televised appeal on Crimewatch, Lorimer?’ Lorimer spread his hands open and smiled, ‘Because you know me so well, ma’am?’
And you haven’t been able to ask Superintendent Mitchison, I take it?’
The DCI’s smile slipped a little. Not available at divisional HQ at present, ma’am,’ he replied stiffly. It was common knowledge that the superintendent and DCI Lorimer did not rub along easily together, Rogers reminded herself. If she had had her way, it would have been Lorimer running his division, not Mark Mitchison, but her vote at the time had been only one of many, something that grated to this day. Promotion for this man was long overdue, Joyce Rogers thought, watching Lorimer as he tried not to fidget, hands clasped but fingers rubbing each other as though unable to settle quietly. There was an opening in the Serious Crime Squad and she had thrown this man’s hat into the ring, pleased to see that her other senior colleagues approved of the idea. ‘I’m happy to authorise an appeal so long as a photograph of the woman can be found,’ Rogers said at last. ‘You will have been sent the last passport photograph from the passport record office, I take it?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It was taken over nine years ago so she may well have changed in that time.’ Lorimer bit his lip, considering his next request. ‘Perhaps we might consider local radio stations first?’
`Ah, you’re thinking of Radio City? They put out regular calls for missing persons, don’t they?’ ‘Yes, ma’am, they do,’ Lorimer replied. It had been DS Cameron who had suggested this at their last meeting. The Lewisman was involved in church work in the city and knew the presenter of one of City’s evening programmes. The sound of a telephone ringing on the deputy chief constable’s desk was the cue for Lorimer to take his leave.
‘Keep in touch,’ she told him as he stood up. The DCI had just emerged into the daylight outside Pitt Street when his own mobile rang.
‘Lorimer,’ he said.
‘Sir, it’s DS Cameron. There’s something we think you should see. Are you coming back right now?’
Fathy and Cameron were waiting for Lorimer in the incident room, an expression of excitement on both of their faces. ‘Sir, it’s the scene of crime file from Kenneth Scott’s house. They’ve sent over prints of photographs that were taken from a camera that was logged at the scene.’ Lorimer nodded, taking the large A4 manila envelope from his detective sergeant. It was usual for items like cameras and computers to be taken from a crime scene for forensic examination.
‘Anything interesting?’ ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Cameron replied, sharing a quick glance with Fathy. ‘Wait till you see …’ he tailed off as Lorimer strode towards the window and sat beside a low table.
Opening the envelope the DCI saw that there were four packets of prints within clear plastic packets, labels denoting the dates on which the various photographs had been taken.
He looked up at the two officers. ‘There must be over one
hundred pictures here,’ he said then l
ooked back at the dates on the labels. ‘Taken from more than six months previously to the week before Scott was killed,’ he murmured.
‘Right, let’s begin with you lot,’ Lorimer said, lifting the pack of photos that had been taken most recently and laying the others on a low table. ‘Maybe we’ll find out where Scott went for his holiday.’
The DCI’s eyebrows rose in astonishment as he drew out the first photograph. It was of a Glasgow street with a young woman walking along, her red hair blowing in the wind. ‘Good Lord, it’s her,’ he whispered, recognising the same woman whose framed photograph he had found in Brogan’s flat. ‘Did you realise?’ he asked, looking up at Fathy and Cameron. The two men shook their heads, coming around to have another look at the pictures for themselves.
‘This is the woman whose photograph was found in Billy Brogan’s place.’ He looked back, studying the picture for confirmation. ‘Thought it might be one of Brogan’s fancy women,’ he muttered.
Then, as he picked up the next photo and the next, he saw that the subject was the same. ‘It’s her,’ he said again, flicking through the entire pack. ‘You’ve seen what’s been happening, eh?’ he said, looking at his two officers. ‘Whoever the photographer was he’s shot the same woman from different angles and in various locations around the city.’
‘We assumed it must be Kenneth Scott who took them, sir,’ Cameron said.
‘Mm,’ Lorimer’s reply was non-committal as he turned his attention back to the remaining photographs. The other three packs showed an identical subject — the red-haired woman.
‘Look,’ Lorimer pointed at the array of photographs laid out
upon the table. ‘She’s not looking up at the camera, or even smiling towards the lens for the benefit of the photographer, is she?’
Suddenly Lorimer rose from his place by the window and motioned for his officers to follow him back across the corridor to his office.
Cameron and Fathy watched as Lorimer stepped towards his desk and lifted the file on top of a mass of other papers. In seconds he had found the passport image of Marianne Scott née Brogan. Nodding to himself, Lorimer gave a sigh. ‘It is her,’ he said, glancing across at the bundle of photographs.
‘Who do you think it is, sir?’ Cameron asked. ‘It’s Marianne Brogan. Marianne Scott,’ he corrected himself. ‘Look at this,’ Lorimer handed over the small square of passport photograph. ‘Same face, same hair colour. A lot younger but it’s her all right.’
‘It’s weird that he took all these photos of his ex-wife,’ Fathy began, indicating the pile strewn across the table beside the window. ‘Well, more sinister than weird really, isn’t it, sir?’ he said, as they looked at the images of the woman. ‘Very strange, Fathy,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘It would be interesting to know just why this man took so many pictures of her. Suggests an unhealthy obsession, doesn’t it? And we have to see if this has any relevance to his death.’
Before the day was out Lorimer had obtained the necessary authorisation to have Marianne Scott’s image spread across the media. The press office had agreed to release her picture to the press as soon as the Crimewatch programme went out. This was not the first time that Lorimer had appeared on national television. One of his earlier cases had included an appeal
for—information and the results had been crucial in following up their initial leads.
And it had been down to Doctor Solomon Brightman that good use had been made of that programme, hadn’t it? Lorimer thought to himself, remembering. A flicker of irritation crossed his mouth. Solly’s expertise was something he had come to appreciate, admire even at times, and now it was to be consigned to oblivion because another psychologist had got things spectacularly wrong. Still, he reminded himself, this was a pretty straightforward case. Everything now pointed to Brogan being the killer, didn’t it? He’d done a runner, leaving three men dead behind him, men who had been well known to the drug dealer. And he’d been ex-army, had handled firearms.
Lorimer nodded. Solly’s skills in profiling a potential serial killer simply wouldn’t be needed in this case.
ij
T
he hit man drained the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a thoughtful look in his eyes. The name Brogan had opened a particularly interesting door for him. He had not mentioned anything about his reason for being in Glasgow, preferring instead to continue the fabrication about being an old army mate. Had that washed with the man calling himself Dhesi? He doubted it. There had been something in the man’s expression as they had discussed their mutual friend, as the Pakistani had insisted on calling Brogan, that implied friendship was in fact the last thing involved. And how could he forget the man’s words, directed at him in that soft, suggestive tone of voice? A lot of money might be made for anyone who was willing to assist in disposing of troublesome elements from their part of the city. A steely glint had entered these dark eyes as he’d dropped that bombshell into the conversation. Did he know? Or was he simply guessing that he’d blown these three men away? The pub was busy at this time of the evening, a crowd of customers around the bar, calling to one another in loud voices that competed with the football match being shown on the television, a Manchester derby. He’d thought it safe enough to mingle with the populace here, knowing so many would be crammed into the
place to see the widescreen ‘I’V. And so it had transpired. Nobody gave him a second glance as most eyes were fixed on the players. It was, he had to admit, a cracking match: there were players of international standing whose skill commanded that sort of attention. The hit man could not give it his full concentration, having an habitual tendency to glance around him, his gaze often straying towards the door, just in case.
Part of him wanted to get out of Glasgow and head back south but a sense of caution stopped him. He hadn’t committed himself to anything more than an agreement to meet up again with the Pakistani. He’d been treated with respect, he thought, remembering the tray of coffee and cakes ordered in that upper room, the dignified way in which Dhesi had handed him his cup and saucer. And that other chap, who called himself the Hundi, he’d been graciousness itself. They needed something from him and he had guessed what that might be. Also, he wanted to know what it was he was being offered. Money, certainly, but perhaps the security of a bigger organisation within this city that might provide him with a better way out.
They wanted Brogan, that was clear. But there was more to it than this. A subtle hint that another job might be in the offing. Elements, Dhesi had said. The man sitting in a corner of the pub, nursing his glass, was oblivious to the sudden roar from the punters around him as Manchester City scored a goal. His grey eyes narrowed in thought.
Licking his lips, he savoured the taste of whisky in his mouth. There was money to be made, a lot of money. Well, perhaps he’d hang about and see what was on offer.
M
arianne imagined that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, hot and moist as she ran. The street was in total darkness, the slippery cobbles under her feet threatening to trip her up. If she could just make it to the corner where the amber light from a street lamp spilled onto the pavement, then she’d be safe.
Her chest hurt and she could hear the footsteps behind her, pounding along in a purposeful rhythm. She could tell without looking around that her pursuer meant her harm. If she didn’t escape, she knew she would be killed. With one almighty effort, Marianne lunged forward towards the light then felt herself falling, falling, falling through space.
‘No!’ She sat up, heart thumping. It had been a dream, only a dream. Turning, she looked at the illuminated digits on the clock by her bedside. Almost three, the dead hour. Marianne forced herself to take a few deep breaths. The chill night air crept across her skin making her shiver. With one movement she stripped off her nightdress, rolling the sweat-sodden garment into a ball and hurling it away from her.
What did it mean? tier dreams had always been imbued with some meaning before, hadn’t they? Some
people were visionaries, their dreams prophetic of things to come. Doctor Brightman had told her as much in his lectures, hadn’t he? She frowned, unable to recall everything that the psychologist had said. Maybe she had read that somewhere instead? That other dream was past now, the terror gone for good. But this? What was this dream trying to tell her?
Marianne threw back the damp covers and scrabbled in the darkness for her clothes. She had to get out of here, she thought, the rising panic making her breathless.
That figure in the street last night, had he been following her? Just like Ken used to. She shivered suddenly, the memory of his shadowy footsteps, his obscene whispers as he walked behind her vivid in her mind.
And these wrong numbers on the telephone. Wasn’t that proof that something bad was happening? They were coming for her, that was the significance of this latest dream, surely?
It was not until she had drawn the bedroom curtains against the night that she dared switch on the lamp beside her bed. No one must know that she had gone until she was well away. Nor must anyone know where she was going. She gave a rueful smile. Even she didn’t know where that would be, yet. Silently the woman dressed, aware of every creak as her feet hit the wooden floor. Everything seemed unnaturally loud at this early hour, as if the room was holding its breath, listening.
She reached under the bed and drew out a well-worn suitcase then stood up to open the single wardrobe that contained most of her clothes.
The first coathanger clanged against the metal rail, making her jump. It was imperative that she made as little noise as possible.
The other tenants in this service flat might be light sleepers. She didn’t know if that was the case but every nerve in her body cautioned her to take the utmost care. Slowly she drew her clothes off the hangers, folding them into the case with an expertise born of much practice. Soon the wardrobe was empty and she turned her attention to the chest of drawers. Ken had trained her well, demanding that she be fastidious in her habits so all of her other garments were already folded neatly and it was a matter of seconds to place them in the suitcase. Marianne looked frantically around the room. What else must she take? Books, of course, and her laptop. And toilet stuff. She tiptoed into the adjacent bathroom, picking items off shelves and cramming them into a plastic carrier bag. They would go into the rucksack along with the books. In less than an hour she was ready. Her hand was still trembling as she tapped out a number on her mobile phone. ‘Taxi, please,’ she said, her mind already focussing on her destination.
