Sleep Like the Dead

by Alex Gray

There was a murmur of agreement and Lorimer nodded at the policewoman briefly before addressing the team once more. ‘We’re still waiting for fingerprint results from the SCRO to establish the identity of whoever came back to Scott’s house.’ He paused. ‘Someone made up that bed. Was it the ex-wife? A neighbour who did it out of a sense of compassion? We need to find out who had a spare key to the house and I’m afraid that means going back over old ground; asking the neighbours, talking to Frances Donnelly and the human resources people at the call centre. Maybe even Paul Crichton,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘This could be nothing or it could give us more of a clue to Scott’s background and why anyone might want to have him killed.’ ‘It’s still being regarded as a hit, then?’ DS Wilson asked. ‘It looks that way,’ Lorimer replied. ‘It has all the hallmarks of a professional killing.’

  He turned to where Omar Fathy was sitting. ‘DC Fathy suggested a trawl of the students at Glasgow University,’ he began. ‘Any student in the first or second year whose Christian name is Marianne. Registry found nothing, but I suggest that for a time we bypass the red tape and begin to ask questions elsewhere and show people this photo of Marianne Scott.’ ‘Most of the students are still on holiday, sir,’ Cameron pointed out.

  ‘That’s true, but the admin staff don’t take long summer breaks, do they?’ Lorimer asked. ‘What I’m proposing is for a search to be made at departmental level. And while you’re at it, ask around at the students’ union, the clubs and societies, the list of accredited landlords who let out rooms during term time.’

  The DCI’s face hardened. ‘Somehow this woman has managed to slip through our net. What should have been a relatively simple task to find her has become hugely complex.’ Annie listened as her boss handed out new actions to members of the team.

  She wanted to shout above his voice, make herself heard, but was too afraid that everyone would see this thing that she had succeeded in hiding from them all. Detective Constable Annie Irvine had been a stalker’s victim. And she knew fine why it was proving so difficult to locate Scott’s ex-wife.

  The policewoman turned her gaze to the photographs of the red-haired woman striding along various city streets. You don’t want anyone to find you, Annie whispered to herself. But I understand. I promise you, I understand. ‘You okay?’ Fathy asked as they trooped out of the incident room. ‘Aye, fine,’ Annie replied.

  ‘Well you don’t look fine,’ Fathy persisted. ‘How about a coffee before we tackle Frances Donnelly again?’ ‘No, you’re okay. C’mon. Sooner we get this over With sooner we can give the boss something to go on, eh?’ ‘You think she had a key to his house?’ Fathy asked as they descended the stairs to the back door.

  Annie shrugged. ‘Doubt if she’ll let on until we can tell her that fingerprints have been found.’ ‘Well, maybe it was her,’ Fathy went on. ‘And another thing. We don’t know for sure that it was Scott behind that camera. Maybe it was his girlfriend?’

  Annie looked at him in disbelief then shook her head. ‘No chance,’ she said at last. ‘That was Scott all right. Anyhow, why d’you want to make it more complicated than it already is?’ Fathy opened the door and stepped aside, saying nothing. ‘Right, Sir Galahad,’ Annie grinned suddenly, her good mood restored. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Lorimer put down the phone. It was all set, then. By the end of this week he would be appearing on national television, appealing for information on the case, asking for Marianne Scott to come forward. If they hadn’t found her by then, he reminded himself. He heaved a sigh. Was she a frightened woman? And if so, who did she fear? Not her husband: he was dead. Her brother, then? But the photograph in Brogan’s flat scotched that idea. The two of them had been close. Well, was she avoiding detection because of something else? Her whereabouts had been unknown for much longer than the short time since her ex-husband’s death, he reasoned. Had she only gone into hiding since that event, then the finger of suspicion might well have fallen on her. Had she been stalked by her ex-husband? Almost certainly.

  Lorimer frowned as he remembered DC Irvine’s impassioned little speech. She was well up on the law concerning stalkers. A coincidence? Or had she been involved in something personal? Lorimer tried to recall a case that might have sparked off such outrage in the time that Irvine had been in the force — and under his command — but nothing came to him. Well, if she had a friend who had been stalked, she might tell them about it. It was her business, he reminded himself.

  The telephone ringing cut off his thoughts, as it so often did, and he picked it up, giving his head a shake as though to clear his mind.

  ‘Lorimer.’

  ‘Call for you, sir. From a call box. Putting you through, now,’ the operator said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer? I have some lovely news for you, sir.’ The voice on the line was definitely that of an Asian, Lorimer realised. Second generation, perhaps, but still with echoes of another tongue. Hindi? Urdu?

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’ he asked, but the voice on the other end simply chuckled.

  ‘You know who this is. Just listen, Chief Inspector. You want to find Billy Brogan?’ Lorimer picked up a pencil ready to jot down the information as the man continued.

  ‘Here is where he has been seen,’ the Asian said. ‘Someone from Glasgow spotted him.’

  Lorimer listened carefully, his eyebrows rising in surprise as the details were given. Lovely news, his informant had said. Well, maybe it would be if he

  could verify that it was true, his more cautious self reminded him.

  ‘Jaffrey? Is that you? How did you get this information?’

  Lorimer asked. But the click at the other end told him the question was destined to go unanswered. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Hello …?’ but even as he spoke, Lorimer knew that the call had been terminated and he was left with a feeling of frustration that whoever had been in touch knew an awful lot more than he was letting on. ‘Call box from the south side of the city, sir. Pollokshields. We’re pinpointing the location as I speak,’ the operator informed him. ‘Okay. And we’ll need to run a check to see if there are any CCTV cameras nearby. But I have a feeling this chap’s been taking no chances,’ Lorimer sighed. What was Jaffrey hiding? And how on earth did he know about Brogan? They might well find out which particular call box had been used. But by the time they did their caller would have slipped away into the area that had been largely taken over by the Asian community, mingling with his own folk. Glasgow had become home to many different races, some fleeing oppression in their homelands, many integrating well alongside the Glasgow people. And certain areas had become enclaves for them. But this man might well be on the shady side of society, Lorimer told himself. How would he have been able to supply this kind of information? Why else would he have failed to give his name? Surely that had been Sahid Jaffrey, one of his occasional informants? Who else could it be?

  He studied his computer screen; in a couple of minutes he would have the number of the hotel he had just been given, then he could verify this information. And if it was correct, his next call could be to the Spanish police.

  ‘Billy Brogan’s been seen in Spain,’ Lorimer was standing opposite Superintendent Mitchison who was leaning back in his chair, regarding the DCI with only a faint interest.

  ‘We have his hotel room number and an officer from the local police who is going to see if they can apprehend him on our behalf.’ And the caller was anonymous,’ Mitchison drawled. ‘Yes, sir, Asian. Educated voice. Spoke clearly. Asked to be put through to me so he obviously knew who was in charge of the case.’ Lorimer crossed his fingers behind his back. There was no way he was going to reveal his sources to Mitchison. ‘Reads the Gazette, then. Or watches the evening news on television,’ Mitchison said in a dismissive tone that set Lorimer’s teeth on edge. ‘Well, Brogan can’t get very far on an island, I suppose,’ the superintendent continued. ‘And if he’s your prime suspect, then perhaps you’ll have this case wrapped up before the week’s out.’ He smiled, baring a set of perfec
tly capped teeth. ‘Once Brogan is extradited from Spain there will be no need for your little performance on Crimezoatch, will there?’ Lorimer refrained from answering. The man’s dislike of him was palpable and the less fuel he gave him for stoking the flames of his enmity, the better. As he left the superintendent’s room, Lorimer managed to smile. Brogan was almost in their clutches! Perhaps by this time tomorrow he would be facing the drug dealer in one of the interview rooms, asking questions about the deaths of three men. His eyes narrowed as he recalled that Asian voice. Someone in the city knew all about Brogan and was grassing him up. And if it was Jaffrey, why was he doing this? Somehow that question took the edge off his present excitement. There was more to this than he could read right now But would Brogan be able to supply the

  full story?

  198

  CHAPTER 25

  T

  he thin linen shirt was sticking to his skin as Brogan made his way back along the esplanade towards Gala Bona. He’d left some of his stuff back in the hotel room; dirty clothes and a few toiletries, just so it looked as if he was going to return. He shouldered the new backpack that contained his possessions. All he needed was in here. He gave a grin remembering the mantra that his pals recited before they left for holiday: money, tickets, passport. Well he still had enough money to keep him going, some of it already changed into American dollars, the favoured currency in North Africa, he’d been told. His passport was tucked inside his trouser pocket and as for his ticket? Well he’d paid his new mate, Carlos, for that trip, hadn’t he?

  The sun was a red ball in the sky, sinking towards the edge of the sea when the receptionist looked up to see two officers from the local police.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl smiled at them. But as they motioned her to a back room out of the hearing of several guests who were gazing at them with unashamed curiosity, the receptionist’s face became grave. ‘A Setior Brogan. Englishman,’ one of the officers began.

  ‘tic is un Estods,’ the girl corrected him primly. ‘Not Ingle’s.’ ‘Where is he?’ the other officer demanded, clearly quite uninterested in the distinction. ‘He left his key in reception,’ the girl nodded to the desk. ‘Went out hours ago. Probably gone for dinner by this time.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Almost nine. He’ll likely be in one of the tavernas, I would say. What d’you want with him, anyway?’ ‘Where’s his room?’ the first policeman asked. ‘We need to look at it.’ ‘Has he done something wrong?’ the girl’s hand rose to her mouth in alarm. ‘Key to his room, please, senorita,’ the other officer said, holding out his hand in a manner that brooked no argument. The glass doors to the balcony were open, thin muslin curtains blowing upwards, letting in a draught of the night air when the two Spanish officers entered Brogan’s room. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s gone for good,’ one of them remarked. ‘No,’ the other agreed. And see here,’ he opened the wardrobe to show the clothes still hanging upon their rails. ‘Look in the bathroom. See if he’s taken his razor and stuff.’ Moments later the other man returned. ‘All there. He’s not done a runner by the looks of things.’ ‘So he doesn’t know anyone is looking for him,’ the first officer said, nodding. ‘And he will not be expecting us to visit him when he returns.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ ‘Park the car round the back. We don’t want to warn him off. Remember what our instructions were.’ ‘To keep a low profile,’ the other officer said as though he were repeating someone else’s words. ‘But what are we actually supposed to do?’

  ‘We’ll wait here for him to come back, won’t we? I could do with a couple of San Miguels,’ he grinned at his companion. ‘How about phoning down for a little room service while we cool our heels up here?’

  The boat had slipped quietly out of the harbour, unnoticed by the mass of tourists seeking their evening’s pleasure onshore. It was a good time to leave the island, thought Brogan, as he watched the twinkling lights recede. Taking a deep breath full of salty air, he stood on deck, watching as the old sailor guided his boat out into the choppy waters. This was it, then. A new adventure! Billy Brogan laughed softly to himself: he’d done it! They could look high and low for him all over the damned island but they’d be chasing shadows. He was off and running with this tide, evading anyone who might try to takes him back to Scotland to face a mess that was not of his own making. Brogan frowned. Was he in any way responsible for what had happened to Fraz and Gubby? He sniffed. Och, they’d run close to the edge, that pair. Not his fault if they’d come to a bad end. And Marianne? Och, she’d be fine. Amit would be looking out for her, he reasoned. But the creases on his brow persisted and he chewed a guilty lip, wondering just what was going on back in the place he had once called home. A full moon made a track across the waves as though leading them onwards into the dark seas. Brogan shivered, rubbing his arms. Carlos had advised him to wear something warm but he had ignored the man, choosing instead to wear this thin linen shirt that now flapped in the gathering wind. As the lights from the shore grew smaller and smaller, the island appeared as a large brooding mass, frowning across at the boat bobbing uncertainly on the rising waves. Brogan staggered

  from the deck to the safety of the large inside cabin, sliding open the door, feeling unbalanced in the heaving swell that made the timbers beneath his feet rise and fall.

  His stomach gave a queasy flip and he caught hold of a wooden rail to steady himself. Fifteen hours, the Spaniard had told him.

  He let out a yelp as the boat rose and fell over a particularly high wave. Oh. That wasn’t funny. A feeling of nausea came over the man as he clutched the rail harder then shuffled to the nearest seat. Fifteen hours of this? Brogan groaned aloud. Just what had he let himself in for?

  Frill11.11

  111

  ‘111‘1;11

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘ t’s entirely your decision,’ the man told her, sitting back in his I swivel chair, watching her face. Maggie Lorimer nodded, too unhappy to give a verbal reply. It was her body, her cramps brought on by the endometriosis that was filling her womb with knots of fibrous tissue. And that persistent pain, she reminded herself. Yesterday she had been quite certain of the way forward. Abandoning a classroom full of kids halfway through a lesson to stumble along to the ladies’ toilet was just not on. She’d have the damned operation, she’d told herself then, splashing water on her face, cursing the weakness that was dragging her down. But now, in the cold light of day, faced with the surgeon who would open her up and remove that poor part of her, Maggie was not so sure.

  Babies had been started there, nascent little creatures whose forms never developed to term. Such hopes each of them had brought! And such grief when they had aborted from her unwilling body. There was no hope left, one gynaecologist had insisted. Better to face up to the facts. But Maggie Lorimer had clung to shreds of longing, waiting for a time that might come. Now that time seemed to have run out and she was making herself ill by delaying what was surely inevitable.

  Mr Austen’s voice had sounded quite calm but a small frown furrowing the consultant’s brow showed Maggie that he was genuinely concerned. ‘If it was your wife…?’ she asked, hearing the breathy catch in her words.

  He smiled then, a sympathetic smile. ‘I’d tell her to go ahead and have the surgery,’ he said, his eyes full of pity for her dilemma. ‘But then, we already have two boys,’ he shrugged.

  Maggie nodded again, glad of the man’s honesty. He hadn’t just told her what to do: he had understood the turmoil in her heart and mind. Probably used to women like me, she reminded herself. ‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘When can you do it?’ Omar lifted the bundle of mail from the dark space by the door. Most of it consisted of flyers — for a local grocery store, someone offering car insurance and a tree surgeon. He smiled at that last one. There were no trees in this block of flats: he supposed that the sorting office was given loads of that sort of stuff to thrust through letterboxes in a wide area, irrespective of how appropriate it was to the householder. The rest of the mail
consisted of a bill from his electricity provider and one handwritten envelope that looked as if it might be an invitation to someone’s birthday party. Omar opened this one first, hopeful of adding a date to his somewhat empty calendar. He drew out a plain piece of card, neatly folded down the middle, then turned it over, expecting some sort of picture on the front. There was nothing and its stark whiteness made him grit his teeth, anticipating the contents. GET OUT BLACK BASTARD

  The words, scrawled in dark felt pen, jumped at him, making Omar flinch. So. They had found his address already. That was bad. Heaving a sigh, Omar Fathy nodded to himself as though he had come to a decision. He had endured so much up in Grampian and had thought that this move would mean a fresh start. But someone must have followed him here. Picking up the envelope, Omar examined the stamp to see if the franking mark might give him any information: it did. The card had been posted locally, here in Glasgow.

  It was time to do something about this. His dark face hardened as he dropped the junk mail into a recycling box. Taking the card carefully between his fingers, he walked through to his kitchen, looking for a clean plastic bag.

  DCI Lorimer turned slowly into his street, willing the old car to roll into the driveway. He came to a stop and turned off the engine, sensing the sigh of relief from the Lexus as it began to cool down. Pressing a button, Lorimer saw that he’d clocked up the best part of two hundred thousand miles now, surely more than could be expected from even the trustiest workhorse. The old girl was losing oil at an astonishing rate these days and he knew in his heart that it was time for a change of car. The detective was surprised at his attachment to what was, after all, a heap of metal. A fondness for this machine that had carried him to so many destinations was surely bordering on a sentimentality that was unworthy of his calling? But he sat still, fingering the worn leather on the driver’s seat, feeling as much at home here as he did in his own front room. He’d miss driving this car but there was no denying it was time to trade it in for something newer. His fortieth birthday was a few months away now, Lorimer reminded himself. Perhaps he could justify the purchase of another Lexus?