Sleep Like the Dead

by Alex Gray

  ‘Great,’ Rosie said. ‘Well, thanks for letting us know. If I’m off to bed before it’s on I’ll get SoIly to record it. He’s up at the uni just now,’ she added.

  `Oh,’ Maggie replied. There was a silence between the two women as Maggie struggled to put her thoughts into words. She couldn’t tell Rosie why she hadn’t been in touch, she simply couldn’t.

  ‘Well,’ Rosie said at last in a tone that Maggie realised was forced brightness. ‘Maybe we’ll see you pair up here one of these days when life’s calmed down, eh?’

  `Mm. That would be nice. Maybe once Bill’s less busy with this horrible case,’ she added.

  ‘You’re welcome to come up on your own, you know,’ Rosie said briskly, ‘if you have the time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Maggie replied. ‘I’ll do my best, honest. But, listen I’ve got to go, someone’s at the door. Bye.’

  Clicking the phone shut, Maggie Lorimer bit her lip at the sudden deception. It wasn’t in her nature to tell such lies, especially to a friend like Rosie. There was no knock at the front door, no sound at all, only Chancer who had somehow found her lap when she wasn’t looking and was now purring happily. Maggie stroked his soft fur absently, feeling more wretched than before. If

  only she could tell someone how she felt: how the prospect of this operation was making her feel that she would be diminished as a woman. It was bad enough to be barren, but to lose that part of her …

  At any other time Maggie would have sought comfort and advice from Rosie, but not now. Not when the pathologist was about to give birth to a child of her own.

  Amit turned on the television and flicked through the channels. There was nothing much on that he really wanted to see. Maybe the radio would be a better option, with some music to soothe his troubled spirits. He flicked back to BBC1, intending to switch off but then something stopped him.

  It was not the woman’s low, seductive voice that halted the Pakistani, but that familiar name on her lips. Amit froze. He knew this programme, Crimewatch, and had seen bits of reconstructions of some violent crimes that reminded him far too much of things that he preferred to forget. Suddenly there were scenes he recognised; the dark red sandstone of the university, its spires against a cloudless blue sky, the quadrangles with their gothic arches, then the scene changed to the streets around the library and Wellington church, students thronging the pavements. He’d walked there often with Marianne in these first days, tentatively finding his bearings around the campus and the streets that comprised Glasgow’s West End. And she had been kind to him, hadn’t she? Always making sure he could find his way back to the flat he had rented for her.

  Amit listened to the presenter’s voice and watched as she turned to the dark-haired man at her side. It was a police officer from Strathclyde, Amit realised, hearing the man’s accent; some

  senior officer called Lorimer. And now he, too, was talking about Marianne.

  Amit clutched the edge of his seat, fingers trembling. What had happened to her? He listened as the officer recounted the facts. Marianne’s ex-husband had been shot dead in his own home and the woman appeared to be deliberately trying to hide from the authorities.

  What was the man saying? That Marianne, his Marianne, had killed this man? This Kenneth Scott? Amit blinked as though to clear his vision. But the policeman’s face was drawing closer to the television screen as a camera zoomed in on him, filling Amit’s head with all sorts of ideas.

  ‘We would especially ask any of her friends from Glasgow University or anyone who was close to her to make contact with us,’ Lorimer was saying. ‘No matter when you last saw Marianne Scott, please get in touch.’

  Then he paused and Amit saw his blue eyes staring intently as if he were speaking directly to him.

  ‘If you are watching this yourself, Marianne, please call us or go to your nearest police office. We very much want to speak to you.’

  Amit sat very still as the numbers appeared on the TV screen. A faint ringing sounded in his ears and he licked his lips, feeling how dry they were.

  He knew what he could do. More than that, he knew what he should do.

  But there was only one question drumming a beat in his brain: had he the courage to give up everything he had gained since his arrival in this city?

  Lorimer sat staring at the screen in front of him, his fist closed

  over the handset. All over the country phones would be dialling

  the Ctimetwatth number, texting or emailing messages. A lot of them would be a complete waste of time, many simply hoaxes by stupid people who got a kick out of sending duff information. The police were used to that sort of behaviour, though. The Yorkshire Ripper case had been dogged by bogus intelligence to the extent that Peter Sutcliffe had managed to select another victim before he had eventually been apprehended and shut away for good. ‘Thanks for calling,’ Lorimer said, putting down the phone on a woman whose voice had betrayed her genuine eagerness to help. She’d been a fellow student at Anniesland College and now her details were to hand should she be needed again. The day seemed to be going on for ever, he thought, glancing up at a clock on the wall. Since their arrival that afternoon, Lorimer and the members of his team had been briefed about the programme, undertaken a preliminary rehearsal, had dinner (which seemed like hours ago) followed by a dress rehearsal for the nine p.m. live programme. Now each of his hand-picked officers was responding to the calls that were coming in, urged on by Kirsty Young’s usual polished performance. But, as yet, nothing had come through that would give any clue as to Marianne’s whereabouts and the DCI began to gnaw his lower lip anxiously. Just what had become of Ken Scott’s ex-wife?

  Amit looked around the room and saw all the things he had accumulated since his arrival. Nice things, expensive things, that he had hoped would delight Marianne. And the part ownership of the restaurant, the car outside, his very future… all these things would be taken from him if he lifted the telephone and made that call.

  Suddenly he remembered the night that they had come for his

  father. Now he could vividly recall the stern, unyielding faces of the officials who had beaten the old man until he was senseless; he could remember the wailing cries of the women who begged them to stop; remembered his own tears running down his face. They had left Papa Shafiq there at last, a crumpled heap surrounded by his weeping family. That battered and bleeding body with unseeing eyes staring heavenwards was a sight that Amit had tried so hard to banish to the darkest parts of his mind. But now it was as if it had come back to tell him something.

  His father had led an exemplary life, had enjoyed wealth and the respect of many of his peers. But in the end everything had been taken from him.

  What was it all about, this little life that was rounded by a sleep? Amit shook his head, wondering. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he lifted the telephone and dialled.

  He listened to the instructions on the line then a voice asked him to speak.

  ‘My name is Amit Shafiq.’ He paused to clear his throat, amazed to hear the sound of his own voice and how strong it sounded. ‘I’m calling about the Crimewatch programme,’ he said at last. It’s about the woman they are calling Marianne Scott,’ he continued.

  ‘That’s right,’ the operator said. ‘Do you have information about her?’

  Amit swallowed, then licked his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘she’s my wife.’

  Pamela tiptoed around the tall policeman from Glasgow, trying to

  catch his eye. He was speaking into the telephone right now and

  didn’t look as though he would want to be interrupted. But it was part of the girl’s remit to brief this man on what was happening elsewhere in the studios, and really, he would want to know about this call in particular, wouldn’t he?

  T

  he hit man picked up the passport and flicked the pages until he came to a reasonable likeness of himself. Stern and

  unsmiling, Michael Stevens, aged
forty-two, glared back at him from the square of plastic. It was a name he rarely used when he was working but sometimes it became necessary to be himself again for overseas business where the pickings were richer. Here in the UK he could make plenty though. If the punters hiring him paid up, he reminded himself sourly, remembering Billy Brogan. But for now he was Max Whittaker to the woman and Smith to his Asian paymasters. Only someone like Brogan himself would be able to tell the real story about Mick Stevens, the sniper who had made such a name for himself in the Iraq conflict. He laughed silently. The army had taught him plenty, hadn’t it? How to kill being one of its main lessons.

  Stevens listened to the rush of water from the bathroom next door. Marianne was taking a shower, washing away their night of pleasure. The hit man grinned to himself. She had been so easy to beguile, he could hardly believe it. Ripe for picking. In a way he could almost imagine someone pitying the woman for setting her cap at him. But pity was not an emotion that a man like Stevens ever allowed himself to feel. He slipped the passport into the

  duffle bag beside the items he would need for the journey back

  down south. Being ready to leave at a moment’s notice was some thing else he had learned in the forces. Sitting back on the bed he fondled the gun, its familiar shape fitting snugly in his hand. His eyes moved from the Glock to the bathroom door, anticipating the look on her face when she emerged, naked and utterly vulnerable.

  Marianne hummed as she twisted the bath towel over her hair, tucking in the ends. Max hadn’t mentioned what they would do today, but she was already thinking of suggesting another journey away from the city, maybe to St Andrews where they could walk along the sands at Tentsmuir, a quiet estuary out of the town. She imagined the smell of the pine trees and how they might run along the beach together, hand in hand, listening to the North Sea

  surf rolling in. The picture of the water’s edge and the copse of sweet scented trees was switched off abruptly as her brain commanded Marianne to take in what she was really seeing. The man lying back on the bed had a large pistol in his hand and it was pointing straight at her. ‘Max?’ she hesitated, drawing the thick bath towel more closely around her. ‘What are you doing?’ Marianne shook her head. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ She made to move towards the bed but then stopped, frozen by the expression on her lover’s face. ‘No joke, darling. No joke at all,’ the hit man drawled. ‘Now just you step over there nice and slowly,’ he added, motioning with the gun. ‘And do keep quiet like a good girl, won’t you? This little beauty is loaded,’ he told her, smiling. ‘All ready to use if you don’t do exactly as I tell you.’

  Am it sat twisting his hands together below the surface of the table, feeling the dampness on his palms. He had been spoken to politely by the officers who had met him at the front of the police station, had even been called `sir’. One of them had led him into a corridor with a row of chairs that were fixed to the wall and there Amit had sat, waiting, watching the clock as it ticked through almost twenty-five interminable minutes. Had it really been necessary to make him wait all that time to see the senior officer, Lorimer? Wasn’t it all part of a strategy to unnerve him? When at last he had been ushered into this small square den of a room, Amit had felt like one of the criminals he had seen on that programme. ‘Mr Shafiq? DCI Lorimer.’

  Amit stood up suddenly, the scrape of his chair on the floor sounding unnaturally loud.

  The tall man who entered the room made the Pakistani feel very small as he shook his damp hand and motioned him to sit back down again. He was not what Amit had expected. There was nothing harsh about this man’s face, though the lines showed signs of worry and fatigue that Amit supposed must be inevitable given his choice of profession. As he flicked a lock of dark hair back from his brow, Amit saw a keen intelligence in the policeman’s blue eyes and something else, something that reassured him. A trace of what would he call it… sympathy, perhaps? ‘It’s good of you to come in, sir,’ Lorimer began. ‘We really appreciate it.’

  Amit’s eyes flicked to the other man who had sat beside Lorimer. He was very dark, a Nubian Egyptian by the look of his beautifully sculpted face, Amit thought. And a policeman, here in Scotland?

  ‘Detective Constable Fathy,’ Lorimer said and the younger

  man leaned across the table to shake Annit’s hand, the stiff little nod of his head serving as a bow. Amit breathed a long sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. These people were on his side, surely? They wanted to find Marianne as much as he did. And hadn’t she often told him that the British police were a different breed altogether from the kind of men who had taken his father’s life away? Besides, these men wore no intimidating uniform. Lorimer’s shirt was a little rumpled and the knot on his tie had been loosened a little as though he had been hard at work and needed to be comfortable at his desk, somewhere else in this building. ‘I will have to ask you rather a lot of questions, sir,’ Lorimer told him, ‘so please bear with me.’ He looked at Amit and smiled encouragingly. ‘I know this must be very hard for you.’ Amit nodded, taking a deep breath. He felt calmer now that this process had begun and was mildly surprised at his feeling of relief that some larger authority was taking over the burden he had been carrying around for those long days since Marianne had

  disappeared. ‘It might seem like a strange question, sir, but can you give us any proof that this woman is indeed your wife?’ Amit tried a tremulous smile as he passed the folded paper

  across the table. The policeman took it and frowned as he read the marriage cer tificate. ‘You were married in Las Vegas?’ Amit’s smile faltered. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘But why? I mean, why go there?’ The Asian shrugged. ‘It was her wish. And one does not deny a bride-to-be her heart’s desires.’ Lorimer gave a short laugh. ‘And what did you make of Vegas?’

  Not a very nice place, sir. It was. .’ he broke off as though the memories were ones he would prefer to forget. Not what I had expected for my own nuptials, sir,’ he sighed at last. ‘It was over so quickly. But then, perhaps my bride had reasons for wishing to be married somewhere like that. Somewhere anonymous . . Amit bit his lip as though he was finding it hard to speak. ‘When did you last see your wife?’

  Amit cleared his throat and told them about finding that deserted room. Then, without warning, he put his head in his hands and began to weep. ‘Forgive me,’ he mumbled. ‘It has been a bad time. I did not know what to think . .

  ‘Perhaps it would be better to start at the beginning,’ Lorimer suggested, ‘then we can build up a clearer picture, hm?’ Amit nodded, unable to speak. Then, taking a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket, he blew his nose.

  Lorimer had listened patiently, never once interrupting as Amit Shafiq had told his story. It had begun in far-off Lahore with the murder of his father by political opponents and Amit’s flight to freedom in Scotland. The tale unfolded as the man spoke about the contact he had made; Dhesi, a kindly beneficent man with whom he had forged a business partnership in Glasgow. It was a stroke of luck, Amit had explained, seeing Lorimer’s eyebrows raised in a question. ‘Before that I was also introduced to a Scotsman,’ Amit went on. ‘A Mr Brogan. A good friend of the Asian community, I believed,’ he murmured.

  Lorimer noted the way the man’s voice tailed off. What had happened to change that belief, he wondered? And was there something else that he wasn’t saying?

  ‘Go on,’ he said quietly, as Amit fell silent, his eyes cast down. With a sigh the man continued. ‘Mr Brogan said he could help me to find permanent residence in Glasgow. Said I would be able to become a British citizen. Arranged for me to meet his sister.’ Lorimer listened, understanding what it must have been like for this man, frightened and alone in a strange city, desperate for

  some form of security. ‘I met Marianne one day in the park,’ Amit said softly, his eyes shining with tenderness at the memory. ‘She was a kind lady, very lovely, and I could see that she was willing to be a friend to me,’ he raised his hands and looked at the officers
in expectation. ‘You see, I needed to stay here and Marianne offered me that oppor tunity,’ he said simply. ‘Yours was a marriage of convenience?’ Lorimer asked. The man nodded. ‘Yes. It could have been described as that, I suppose. Certainly it was convenient for me and I suppose the money I gave my wife made it convenient for her,’ he said, his tone suddenly cynical. ‘But we were not like a business partnership,’ he insisted. ‘You see,’ he went on, smiling a sweet sudden smile, ‘after we returned from the United States she became my friend.’ Lorimer nodded in understanding. Marianne had become his wife, had been set up in a rented flat so she could pursue her studies, then all of a sudden this man had found himself in love with her. What had begun as a means to an end had become an affair of the heart, at least on the part of Amit Shafiq. ‘So you see, I must find her,’ he went on. ‘I worry that something dreadful has happened to make her run away from me. But I did not know anything about the death of the man who had been her previous husband,’ he said quietly. Lorimer looked at him intently. He believed him though what a jury might make of his statement was another matter. He

  wanted to ask about Brogan but knew it was more important to let this man tell his story first.

  ‘What did you think might be the longer term prospects for you and Marianne?’ he asked instead. ‘I had hoped that she might be my wife in the proper sense, not just on the paper we both signed,’ Amit said and it was not hard to hear the wistfulness in his voice. ‘Marianne was a student at the University of Glasgow when you first met, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to study psychology, become a doctor of some kind. She even spoke about travelling to work in America one day. I thought…’ he shrugged as he tailed off. ‘You thought she might have gone to the US when you found her flat empty?’

  Amit nodded, exhaling slowly in a sigh of resignation. ‘I wondered if I would ever see her again. Then I heard you and the lady speak about her on the programme . . Lorimer asked a few questions about the date of their marriage, where it had taken place, making scribbled notes on the pad in front of him, though there was a tape running to record the entire interview. Sometimes doing a trivial thing like note-taking brought a sense of formality to an interview situation. And right now he could see that the Pakistani needed something like this to rise above the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘And you paid her a sum for the privilege of marrying you?’ he asked, his mouth crinkling at the corners as though Amit might share in the joke. ‘Yes. Ten thousand pounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I am a wealthy man, Mr Lorimer. It was a small price to pay for my freedom. That,’ he said solemnly, ‘is something on which no man can put a price.’