by Alex Gray
‘Was he a friend? Someone known to you?’
The old man shook his head as he listened to the question in his native tongue. Not a friend, a person come to offer help to us poor Romanies, was the answer, given with a pitiful look and a gesture of entreaty. He tricked us. The old man scowled.
‘And where is Max now?’
This time there was a shadow of doubt flitting across the older man’s face before he answered.
‘He says he does not know but thinks that Max returned home,’ the interpreter told him.
‘To Slovakia?’
Ferenc grinned but Lorimer noticed that he had also shrugged his shoulders, as though uncertain how to respond. Also, he was avoiding eye contact with the detective, who was beginning to think the old man knew fine what he was asking.
‘And Max was like you, Slovakian?’
The conversation between the old man and his interpreter produced frowns then scowls, accompanied by a fierce shaking of the head.
‘He says, no, Max was not from his country. He was a British citizen but spoke many different languages.’
Lorimer tried not to show his surprise. This was something new and put quite a different complexion upon things. Solly Brightman would need to know, too, as he had been profiling a mystery man they had all supposed to be from Eastern Europe, not their own shores.
‘Was it Max who paid you to look after the girls?’ Lorimer asked, knowing quite well that the Slovakian had been no more than a guard in the tenement building where they had discovered scores of young girls kept as virtual prisoners, rented out as prostitutes by night and nail-bar girls by day. He had given the name Max a tad too readily. Why? Did he want the gang boss caught? Had he a reason of his own for being in Aberdeen, playing nursemaid to a group of teenage girls? The thought began to play out a possible scenario.
‘Max,’ Ferenc nodded eagerly.
‘And did you like the work?’
Once the question was repeated, Ferenc sat back, uncertain, avoiding Lorimer’s blue gaze.
‘Why did you come to Aberdeen? Was it to find a girl you knew, perhaps?’
This time, when he had heard the question, a change came over the man’s face. His neck reddened and colour suffused his stubbled cheeks. Ferenc blinked and dashed a hand against his eyes, the sudden emotion impossible to disguise.
‘Did she get away safely, Pavol?’ Lorimer dropped his voice and the old man nodded even before the translation could be uttered.
‘She safe now,’ he nodded. ‘My Juliana safe.’
Ferenc stumbled in his heavily accented English to explain his concern for his only niece, Juliana, who had disappeared with the family’s hard-earned savings to begin a new life in Scotland. She was like a daughter to him, Ferenc told them; the parents had died in a terrible tragedy, leaving their boy and girl to be brought up by Uncle Pavol. Promises of riches that would be sent home never materialised and so Pavol and his nephew Mario had travelled to Aberdeen, the last known address of the young girl. There they had fallen in with other Slovakians in a dockside bar and by sheer luck had been offered work that had brought them into contact with Max, the Slovakian-speaking gangmaster who had evaded all of Police Scotland’s attempts to find him. Then the pair had come in contact with Juliana and it was during one of the police raids that they had managed to set her free.
‘It was you and Mario who blew the whistle, then?’ Lorimer asked and the old man had nodded, a rare smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. Both uncle and nephew had pleaded guilty to being part of the gang, but this new information would certainly help once their trial came to court, something that Detective Superintendent Lorimer would urge the Crown Prosecution to take into consideration. And now he had a name. Max.
‘Max has another name?’
Another shake of the head.
‘What does he look like, this Max?’
What followed in fit and starts became only a sketchy description of a big man, ‘a little younger than you, Inspector. Shaved head, dark eyes and a dangerous man in every way’, Ferenc shuddering violently as he gave the description. ‘His face was strange, smooth and shining like the skin was put on too tight. Gave young Mario nightmares . . . ’
Lorimer blinked, his imagination forming a picture of a man who had been subjected to intensive surgery, possibly a victim of some horrific accident. That would be something at least for the psychology professor to think upon.
‘Thank you, Pavol, I will see that you are treated well here and I hope that you might return home before too long,’ Lorimer said at last, taking the two trembling hands into his own and rising to his feet to signal that the interview was at an end.
The interpreter spoke softly, though there was perhaps no need for translation, both men watching as tears began to fall down Pavol Ferenc’s sunken cheeks.
‘Ďakujem. Thank you, sir,’ the old man said as he was helped to his feet by the prison officer and led back out of the room.
Mario Ferenc, the younger Slovakian, had sat on his hands throughout the interview, eyes flicking between the interpreter and the tall detective superintendent, evidently scared to death. But after questioning Juliana’s brother about the time of the attack on Guilford, Lorimer found that the young man had been with the prison psychologist for a counselling session. Through the interpreter and from what McSherry had been able to tell him, Lorimer realised that Mario was under the additional stress of being unable to communicate with his fellow inmates, his English practically non-existent.
Satisfied that the attack on Peter Guilford had not been at the hands of either of those men, Lorimer knew it might still have been carried out on the orders of someone within the illicit organisation. Had Guilford been a knowing part of this trafficking scheme? And had he been targeted on the orders of the gang boss, this Max? Whoever had beaten Guilford had meant him to die. And there was every chance of that happening still. But if Guilford survived and could identify his attacker . . . well they might just be in with a chance to nail the bloke as well as ferret out the mysterious Max.
It was lunch hour by the time Lorimer drove away from HMP Barlinnie, a frown creasing his brow. Neither of the Slovakians had been able to give coherent statements regarding any knowledge of Peter Guilford and he was certain that the man lying in the Royal Infirmary had never laid eyes on them. They were small fry, each of them too far down the line of command to have had anything to do with Guilford or hiring his vehicles. No, that would have been left to a local man, someone with a good command of English, more likely. Their main concern had been to find Juliana and set her free from the clutches of those traffickers. Or so they said. But he had instinctively believed the two men. His respect for them rose as he drove through heavy traffic along the M8. To keep their true identity hidden and still manage to sneak into the operation had been a mixture of luck and sheer bravado.
One thing he could not get from either of them, however, was the present whereabouts of the girl and he could only hope that she was indeed safe from the menaces that had imprisoned her in that den in Aberdeen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘He said what?’ Alan McCauley bunched his fists by his side as he faced the detective constable.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer said that he doesn’t think the men he interviewed had anything to do with the attack on Guilford,’ Kirsty told him.
‘Two Slovakians locked up in the Bar L and he doesn’t think they had anything to do with it? Come on, who’s he kidding?’
Kirsty handed her boss the email she had printed off and he scrutinised it, his face creasing in a frown.
‘Okay, I can see what he’s saying. Right,’ McCauley sighed. ‘Any word from the hospital? Can he be questioned yet?’
‘No word yet, sir.’
‘Best get back over there, Wilson, and see what’s happening. Don’t want him dying on our hands, even if it would save our precious courts a lot of bother in trying him for murder.’
There was no change, the
nurse told her, shaking her head and giving Kirsty a sympathetic look. She sat in the same chair as before, watching the drip, listening to the machines as they ticked and hummed, the sounds so hypnotic that Kirsty found her eyelids drooping several times, jerking herself awake to stare at the inert figure under the crisp white sheet. A half-finished cup of tea lay at her feet, one of several that a kindly auxiliary had brought the detective constable as she waited and watched, watched and waited, the afternoon slipping by.
Now it was dusk and well into her overtime. Problems with staffing were particularly bad during the summer months as officers sought holiday leave, but she had hopes that someone would come and relieve her before too much longer.
At last a familiar figure stepped into the room and DS Geary gave her a nod.
‘I’m doing the night shift tonight, lass, you get on home now,’ he told her quietly, tapping the paperback in his hand. ‘Plenty to keep me going till the morning.’ He grinned.
Kirsty stood up and stretched then glanced back at the bed.
‘Don’t know if he’ll wake up again . . . just that once and he couldn’t speak properly . . . Oh well.’ The sigh turned into a yawn as she gathered up her jacket and bag then crept out of the room, glad to be leaving the confines of the place and to be heading homewards at last.
Across the city Lorimer was sitting on his favourite armchair, Chancer the marmalade cat on his knee, purring softly.
‘That man’s still in a coma?’ Maggie asked.
‘He woke once but slipped back into some sort of deep sleep,’ Lorimer told her. ‘They suspect brain injury, that’s why he’s in the Queen Elizabeth and not the Royal, so even if he does wake up there’s no guarantee that he will remember anything at all about his attacker.’
‘I don’t suppose there was anyone in Barlinnie who would have been trying to avenge his wife’s death?’ Maggie mused.
‘Who knows? It’s unlikely. No one in Dorothy Guilford’s family appears to have a criminal record.’
‘Not family, then, but maybe a friend? Someone who liked her?’
Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s a thought,’ he agreed. ‘But so far nobody has mentioned Dorothy Guilford having any friends.’ He stopped and considered his words. What a bleak epitaph for anyone to have! But someone had attacked the husband and he had to admit that Maggie’s question raised the possibility that this was revenge for Dorothy’s death. Maybe someone had been close enough to the woman to care about her. But if that was the case, what would they be doing in Barlinnie Prison?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘He isn’t dead.’
‘Not yet. Rumour here says just a matter of time.’
‘You told me he’d be finished . . . ’
‘Shh. Watch what you’re saying.’ The big man standing at the telephone cubicle shuffled his feet uneasily, aware of a shadow passing behind him. Several inmates were waiting, impatiently, for their turn at the payphone. It was an added nuisance, but no mobiles were permitted inside a prison, the discovery of one resulting in severe consequences for the user.
‘Thought you said they don’t listen in . . . ?’
‘Who knows what they do in here,’ the reply came, a bitter edge to its tone.
‘Well, keep your head down and say nothing.’
There was a pause before the man leaned further towards the wall and whispered, ‘What about your part of the bargain? Remember you still owe me, big time.’
The sound of a person clearing their throat made him fidget. Was the call about to be cut?
‘I can make things difficult for you,’ he warned. ‘Remember that.’
‘Sure you can, sure.’ Was there a hint of mockery in that voice? Was he being reassured or laughed at?
Then, as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear, the faint sound of traffic in the background filled his head, reminding him of a different world where people walked along city streets while the men waiting behind him were in this hell-hole day in, day out.
‘Might have another job for you if you’re interested. Money will be where you want it. Once we know he’s finally gone,’ the voice told him at last.
This time he heard a definite click, all sounds of the outside world vanishing in an instant. The big man hung up with a sigh, staring at the grey painted wall, wondering if he’d been played for a fool.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Solomon Brightman was an expert in the study of human behaviour. Nevertheless, he had some qualms about applying his own theories when it came closer to home. There was no doubt in his mind that Rosie’s job was causing her stress and that this latest case had caused her blood pressure to rise significantly. Bed rest, he’d told her, knowing even as he’d spoken that this would fall on deaf ears. Rosie could be described as ‘thrawn’, one of his favourite Scots words – far more powerful to Solly’s mind than simply ‘stubborn’. She went her own way despite loving him to the ends of the earth. But it was not just his wife he had to think about but also their unborn child. If she could only relinquish this case to someone else, but, no, she had carried out the initial checks and the post-mortem examination so she would see it through to the trial, should one be forthcoming.
Perhaps the man in the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital would not survive. And, if he did, would he be fit to plead? Solly was not the type of man to wish another person’s life away but the thought that this could help his wife crept into his mind right now. McCauley had made it quite clear that he was set against the consultant pathologist’s interpretation of the case and so she would be acting for the defence if Peter Guilford ever stood trial for murdering his wife.
Now that he had time to consider it, Solly sat at his desk in the bay window overlooking University Avenue, pondering the big question. Was Rosie right to think that Dorothy Guilford had taken her own life when there was evidence to suggest murder? Might her judgement be impaired by the effect of hormonal surges caused by the pregnancy? This was something he had tried to discuss but she would have none of it, outraged at the very suggestion, and he didn’t blame her. It was not as if he was being dismissive of his wife in any way, but Solly had the tendency to look at things from every angle, playing devil’s advocate when the need arose. And he suspected that McCauley would not be backward at making similar hints to the Crown Prosecution about her capabilities. Even in these enlightened times the knife could be pushed in and turned to a counsel’s advantage.
With a sigh, Solly reread the paper he had printed off from a recent medical article on the subject. Really, there was nothing to worry about. Rosie had shown no signs of depression or over-anxiousness; her job involved stressful situations all the time and he had seen at first hand how well she coped with even the most terrible crime scenes. The one in St Andrew’s Drive was almost run-of-the mill compared to some others she had attended. True, she did weep easily, but over silly, sentimental things and if he were to be honest, his wife had become more whimsical as her pregnancy progressed, taking time to sit with Abby and read her stories. It was as if she relished these moments with her little girl. Was she afraid that their new baby would take her away from Abby’s attention? Did Rosie have underlying worries she had failed to communicate to him? It was hard to say but one thing Solly was sure of was that Dr Rosie Fergusson took her work extremely seriously and would be furious if she did not have his support over this matter.
But could he promise that? Was Rosie correct to make the assumption that she had? And, if she were proved wrong in a court of law, how would that affect her self-belief? Rosie had wept into his shoulder the other night as she’d recalled that old case where she’d made such a mistake, something that had happened long before they had met. It had obviously made a huge impact on her and now the raw pain she’d felt all that time ago was back. Solomon Brightman was wise enough in the ways of the world to know that it was useless to try to shield the woman he loved from any mistakes that might be of her own making. To do so would be to belittle her professional ability,
something he knew could cause a rift between them. And yet, his instinct was to love, to protect, to be a good husband, all the things he knew that Rosie valued. Still, he was a psychologist, too, with a psychologist’s awareness of how certain human behaviour might be played out. So, he told himself, let’s examine the facts and see where they might lead.
Peter Guilford seemed to be guilty of murdering his wife. And someone in Barlinnie Prison had tried to kill him, Lorimer had said. Why? Was this an avenging angel? Some man who had been close to Dorothy Guilford? Solly sat stroking his beard thoughtfully, wondering about the sort of passion and strength that had been required to batter the man senseless. And yet and yet . . . if Rosie was correct, why would anyone target an innocent man?
There were two possibilities, perhaps three if he were to include a random act of violence from some crazy inmate. Perhaps Guilford had an enemy within the prison who felt sufficiently vengeful about Dorothy’s death to want to eliminate her murderer. He paused and sat back, tapping his beard with one forefinger. Was it possible to find out if one out of more than a thousand prisoners had been known to the dead woman? That was surely something the police would be asking right now. He sighed and shook his head. What if . . . He closed his eyes for a moment, considering the other option. Here was a scenario that was far murkier, someone wanted rid of Peter Guilford because of what he knew or had seen up in Aberdeen. There was the renegade gangmaster, Max, a man who was not, after all, Slovakian, a person of interest to Police Scotland. And it was Guilford’s vehicles that had been rented by his henchmen.
Max. Solly savoured the name, wondering if it was an alias or the man’s real name. A man with a face that could have been burned in an accident, disfiguring him for the rest of his life. The psychological implications of that were interesting in themselves, of course. Fury at what had happened, pain and suffering, having to look in the mirror at a different image from the one he’d known till then . . . what sort of changes might these things have wrought in a personality? He’d terrified not just the illegal immigrants whose lives he had wasted but also the men who had been on his payroll. Only the older Slovakian on remand in Barlinnie had let the name Max slip from his eager tongue. The others in the remand wing had nothing to say at all. Fear did strange things to people, as Professor Brightman well knew, the most frequent being the tendency to keep their mouths clamped shut.
