Dinner'll be ready in a minute,' Maggie called out, hearing her husband closing the front door behind him. 'Salad again.' She turned and made a face. 'I've tried to go easy on the avocados but there's plenty of chicken and bacon. Okay?'
Lorimer sidestepped the ginger cat that was attempting to wind itself around his trouser leg and walked across the room to where his wife was putting the finishing touches to a dressing.
The scent of oranges wafted from the breakfast bar where she was standing and he sniffed the air appreciatively.
'Smells good. New recipe?'
Maggie smiled and shook her dark curls. 'No. Just made it up as I went along. Inspired by what was in the fridge.' She looked up at the tall man who was leaning against the counter. He was, Maggie Lorimer thought, the sort of person who filled a room just by being there.
She was suddenly reminded of the first time she had seen him.
A crowd of her pals had been gossiping in the students' union, a few weeks into the beginning of term, when this tall young man had wandered in, his eyes fixed on somebody at the far end of the room. He had walked past Maggie and her girlfriends, and as he passed she had turned to follow him with her gaze. His loping stride atracted her.what had it been? A quality of stillness within, perhaps? So different from the clowning, posturing of so many of the lads trying to impress.
Maggie had gone out of her way after that to look for this one.
He told the story his own way, of course: she had been sitting alone in the crowded cafeteria and he'd given her that crooked smile of his. 'Is it all right…?' he'd asked and she'd gestured for him to sit down beside her. He'd been watching her for weeks, he said, waiting for a chance to say hello.
That same crooked smile made Maggie's heart turn over now as he put out his hand and touched her hair.
'Good to be home,' was all he said but those few words and that blue gaze spoke far more to Maggie than any earnest proclamations of love. Scotsmen didn't go in for flowery speeches and this one was no exception.
'Just as well it's salad,' was all she said, opening the refrigerator door and sliding the bowl back in.
Later, as she watched him pull on his jeans, Maggie wondered at the chemistry that had brought them together and the bond that held them now. Okay they'd had their ups and downs but each storm had been weathered: the nights of sobbing into her pillow after each miscarriage, the bereavements as sharp as if these poor half-formed babies had been family members already; the endless weeks when she hardly saw him during a difficult murder case; the months of separation when she had left him to work in America. Somehow each of these things had made their marriage more secure. Or was it that their need for one another was deeper than mere desire?
A lift of his eyebrows as he turned to look at her made Maggie's cheeks glow.
'How about some food now? Dragging a poor man off to bed before he has a chance to eat his dinner!' He gave a little laugh then, fastening his jeans, came over and bent to kiss her gently.
'Thanks for starters,' he murmured in a tone that had Maggie wanting to pull him back into bed again.
'Ow!' she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. 'Cramp in my toes!' she added.
'Come on, stand up and it'll be better.'
He lifted her out of bed, his hands warm against her naked flesh, holding her against him for a long moment.
'Right,' he slapped her bottom gently. Now I really need some food. See you downstairs.' Then, releasing her, he picked up a discarded T-shirt from the floor and was gone.
Maggie flexed her foot, willing her toes to uncurl again. She hobbled across the room, pulled her cotton dressing gown from the back of the door and slipped into the shower room, glad of the cool shower tray beneath her feet.
Minutes later she was dressed and heading back down to the kitchen, her hair wrapped in a towel. There was no sign of Bill but the open door suggested that they were eating out of doors this evening. She yanked off the towel, draping it on the back of a chair to dry then pulled her fingers through her long, dark curls. It would dry in minutes out in the garden.
'How was your day?' she asked. Her husband made a face, his mouth still full of food. `Elm, good as that, eh? Or was it murder?' she joked.
'Had a call from Solly,' Lorimer began, then, as Maggie shot him a look, he began to relate what the psychologist had told him.
'That's peculiar, surely,' Maggie said at last. 'With Solly's track record the force should be letting him know he's a part of any investigation into multiple murders. Come on,' she reasoned, 'he's been feted by the media up here, so why should another man's mistake affect our Solly?'
Lorimer shrugged and made a face. Not fair, is it? But I can't see what I can do about it other than have a wee word with Joyce Rogers. It'll have been decided at a policy meeting. Still,' he went on, 'it would have been nice to have had some prior warning. A memo from on high, at least. Solly seemed really hurt.'
'Is it true what the papers are saying, then?' Maggie wondered aloud. 'Do they really think that psychological profiling has had its day?'
'I hope not,' Lorimer replied. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. `Och, I can remember when I was completely against it myself. Thought it was interference from outside.'
'But that was before you saw the great Doctor Brightman in action,' Maggie laughed.
'Aye, so it was. Though I wouldn't really say Solly had been guilty of a lot of running around. It's more the way he sits back and views a case from different sorts of angles. Working with statistics and maps and things. Almost scientific,' he added in a mumble.
Maggie gave a hoot of laughter. Now that is an admission, Detective Chief Inspector. Almost scientific.'
'Anyway, he's not likely to be involved in the murder case we're investigating just now. Unless there's a mad gunman about to hit the Glasgow streets.'
The hit man tried again to turn the key in the lock but it was no use. Whoever had been responsible for breaking into Brogan's pad had done a damned good job of wasting the front door. Chucking the key behind him into the mess of stuff lying on the floor, he pushed the door back and forwards, testing it. He considered the security of the place. A pair of bolts had been nailed to the inside, top and bottom, but neither was flush with its original hasp any more and a thorough search of the flat had failed to turn up any decent tools to fix them. It was typical of Brogan. Always had been a lazy, careless sod. He cursed him as he stepped onto the landing.
The man's boots made hollow echoing sounds as he headed down the stone steps. Okay. He'd have to risk leaving this place for a while. His own toolkit was locked inside the boot of his car.
He paused at the entrance to the close before setting foot on the Glasgow streets. There were calls to make this evening, but he could do that from the car. It was parked not too far away and it would be sensible to move it to another place before it was remarked upon by any nosey neighbours. Care and attention to detail had always been his watchwords and he wasn't going to neglect either now.
'Hello?' Marianne lifted the telephone from its hook after two rings. Never give your name, Billy had always dinned into her. After the last couple of years that advice had become second nature to the red-haired woman. And not just because her wee brother was a drug dealer, mixing with a strange assortment of folk.
The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, an English accent that Marianne couldn't place.
'Hallo. Is Billy there?' the voice asked, in a tone that was friendly enough to make Marianne relax a little.
'Sorry, no, he's not,' she answered. 'May I ask who's calling?' she added politely.
'Oh, I'm a pal of Billy's from the old days. In Glasgow for a bit.
Thought I'd look him up,' the man added.
Marianne frowned suddenly. 'How did you get this number?'
'Billy gave me it. Said to ring if he wasn't at the flat.'
'Oh,' Marianne stood for a moment, wondering. That was okay, then, wasn't it? Billy never gave out any details of her number or whatever address she was using. So this old friend must be from his army days, someone who had no earthly idea of the Brogan family or their affairs.
'Haven't seen him since we came home together on leave that last time. Man, that was some night!' the man on the other end of the line chuckled.
It was a warm, friendly sort of laugh and Marianne found herself smiling. Its very normality made her feel good.
'Well, I'm sorry I can't help you… what did you say your name was?'
There was a long pause and no reply then an unintelligible voice that faded until she could make out the words line breaking up and the connection was dead.
For a moment Marianne looked at the receiver then replaced it on its stand. Pity, she thought. He sounded nice. But not nice enough to break her promise not to give out her brother's mobile number. Then she frowned. Why wasn't Billy at home?
Curious, she lifted the telephone again and dialled. As she listened to the unfamiliar ringtone, the woman sat down suddenly.
Now she knew why that man hadn't found Billy Brogan in his flat.
And if her suspicions were correct he would not find him anywhere in Scotland, never mind Glasgow.
He put the folded handkerchief back into his pocket, thinking hard. Either this woman really didn't know where he'd gone or she was lying to protect him. She hadn't sounded too put out. A pleasant, educated voice, someone he'd enjoy talking to in another time and another place. And who was she anyway, this Marianne whose name had been written in red ink and underlined?
A girlfriend? He didn't think so. There had been an absence of any sort of proprietorial tone to her voice. Maybe she was an ex? Hadn't seen Billy boy for a while. One way or another he had to find her, make her tell him what he wanted to know – the whereabouts of Billy Brogan. And his ten thousand pounds. CHAPTER 12 The slate blue sky was streaked with salmon pink clouds when Annie Irvine stood looking out from the balcony of her top-storey flat, a glass of wine in her hand. The Glasgow cityscape twinkled before her, though how long she might enjoy gazing at it was anybody's guess. Planning consent had been given for a multistorey building that would be constructed right in front of her block of flats but so far there was no sign of any start to the project.
So Annie was determined to enjoy the view while she could. Far ahead was the dark spire of the university, just visible on the edge of the skyline. The roads between were a blur of dark shapes punctuated by lozenges of lit windows, reminders of other lives out there, other people with hopes, dreams and fears like her own.
Once Annie's fears had included the monthly mortgage payment.
She'd bought her flat when property had been at a premium, worried sick by how far she had extended herself. But the credit crunch had taken the sting out of that, with interest rates tumbling down so that now the policewoman could enjoy a reasonable standard of living. She swirled the red wine round and round, though she doubted whether it made any difference to aerate a bottle of stuff this price. Probably not, she told herself, taking another mouthful. Ach, it tasted fine to her, anyway. For a moment she wondered what sort of fine wines Omar Fathy was used to drinking. With his expensive schooling and posh accent (not fair, Irvine, he's just a nicely spoken man! she scolded herself) he was probably accustomed to the sort of bottles that came all cobwebby from a real vintner's, not cheap supermarket plonk like this. The woman gave a sigh then leaned forward, resting one arm on the railing. She'd never fancied a fellow officer like this before. Maybe it was because Omar was a bit different. Well, a ot different, she admitted, giggling a little at her thoughts. Certainly he was drop-dead gorgeous and she was sure she wasn't the only female officer who couldn't take her eyes off him. But it was more than that. Annie had felt at ease with him, as if they could be good friends. Or more, a little voice whispered in her ear.
So far DC Annie Irvine had managed to work happily with her colleagues without being asked out on dates. Maybe her manner had been a trifle wary, giving out the signal that she wasn't up for that sort of stuff? Annie grinned. Doctor Brightman would no doubt be able to suss out that one, wouldn't he?
But would the good doctor be able to plumb the depths of her heart? A heart that had been sorely tried and that even now fluttered uncertainly as she contemplated a situation where she might be able to trust a man in her life again. Annie tipped her head back, letting the last of the wine slide down her throat, determined to blot out any glimpse of threatening memories.
Omar Adel Fathy flicked the remote until the programme reached his chosen channel. He had eaten a chicken ready meal out of the hoard that he kept in his tall fridge freezer, a stack of meals supplied by M and S. Fridge to oven, to plate to stomach. He sighed, watching the football teams run all over the green space on his plasma screen. It wasn't like the old days when he had been at home, cosseted by loving parents, given choice dishes by their resident cook. But then rebellion on his part had put an end to that sort of lifestyle, hadn't it? Joining the police force and making his own way in life had been his way of escape. `Ahr he cried aloud as someone missed a sitter, the ball ricocheting off the crossbar and back into the defence. His eyes were glued to the game but Omar's mind was half on his past and the ties he had chosen to cut. Nepotism had not been a dirty word in his family. On the contrary, it was expected that the children would follow their father's steps in his multi-million business. He could have been ensconced in a nice office job with a fantastic salary if he had toed the family line. Instead here he was in a bog standard flat eating the same dinner as hundreds of other single men as they watched television. And it felt great! 'Come on!!' he urged the striker who had gathered up the ball at his feet and was now running towards an open goal. `Yes!!' Omar stood up, still clutching his dinner plate, then sat down again, grinning. Here he was, free to pursue his own life, doing a job he loved. What happened tomorrow was unpredictable and that was one of the things he enjoyed about being a police officer. Would there be a development in the case he was on, perhaps? There was something strange about this murder, he mused. Why would an innocent man be gunned down on his doorstep in the middle of the night?
His partner had given a cynical reply to that question, hadn't she?
Irvine had smiled at him in that funny way she had and tapped a finger against the side of her nose, 'More to this than meets the eye. Wait and see what we dig up, pal,' she had told him. And Omar had felt something stirring in him, an excitement about being part of this Glasgow team, a thrill at having DCI Lorimer as his boss.
Omar put down the half-eaten chicken and sat back, arms folded as the teams regrouped on the pitch. Superintendent Mitchison had said to come to him for anything he wanted. And so he could. But if he was going to share the knowledge of that note inside his locker it would have to be with someone he could really trust. DC Irvine? he wondered. Or would she think him a wimp for having left Grampian? Her opinion mattered, somehow Did she fancy him? If so, she hadn't been pushy with it and he found himself admitting that he liked this policewoman with her quirky smile and sense of humour.
Who, then? The image of a tall man with dark hair flopping over his forehead came clearly back to Omar. His was a face that had seen too much suffering and pain, too many dead bodies and grieving relations. But there was an inner strength about this man, a core of toughness that was tempered, Omar felt sure, with a genuine kindness. He'd be able to talk to Lorimer. But not yet, not till he was ready. `Och, Fraz, he'll no be back therr again, he'll have gone taste crash at anither pad. Know whit ah mean?' whined Andy Galbraith. The taller of the two men outside Brogan's flat did not deign to reply, simply shouldering his way into the close mouth with a swagger that betokened his superiority. `Ah mean, Brogan widnae came back efter we turned his pad ower, ah mean, wid he?' Galbraith danced at the other man's side, an anxious hand raised as if to ward off any blows.
Fraser Sandiman took the stairs two at a time. The shotgun held neatly against his body was a mere shadow in the dim light.
'C'mon, Fraz, wait fur me!' Galbraith panted up the stairs. 'Shut it, Gubby,' Fraz replied in a quiet but menacing tone, his face turned towards the man several steps below. 'D'ye want the entire neighbourhood taste hear ye?'
Galbraith waited till the other man had recommenced his ascent then stuck out a childish tongue at his back. He was Gubby to his mates, not just in token of his surname but because ever since primary school he had been unable to keep his gub shut. `Cannae even say a wurd but yerr on taste me,' he grumbled, clenching his fists, hard man style.
The door was easy enough to open, but Fraz pushed it gently, just in case someone was inside.
'Made a richt job o' that, eh? Eh?' Gubby laughed gleefully as he brushed a manky hand across the splintered wooden frame.
'Aye,' said his mate, moving cautiously into the flat.
'He's no in,' Gubby rattled on. `Ah felt ye, he's no comin' back here. Let's jist get onything we can and split.' He followed the other man into the wreck of the lounge.
'Shut it,' Fraz snarled, raising a hand in warning. 'Someone's been in here. See this? He lifted a khaki-coloured kitbag that rested behind an overturned chair.
'That no Brogan's?' Gubby asked doubtfully. `Cannae mind him havin' wan like that,' he scratched his already tousled hair then scratched a bit harder as if to stimulate his thoughts.
'C'mon, let's see whit's in the kitchen. See if onybody's bin doin' the business,' Fraz commanded.
Gubby followed him out of the lounge. If there had been any drug taking going on, surely they'd find traces? Crumpled tinfoil, maybe? A few roaches chucked into the dustbin? Gubby wrinkled his nose in disgust. He'd never touch the stuff, nor would Fraz. They'd both seen too many dealers go the way of addicts, money slithering through shaking fingers as they dipped into their precious goods. Fraz and he made their money out of men and women desperate for what they could sell them, and so did Billy Brogan.
Was Billy on the stuff? He'd seen him smoke a few joints at parties, but had he gone onto the hard stuff? Whatever the story was, Billy Brogan had skived off somewhere, owing them a whack.
Outside the Glasgow streets were slick with a damp rain that had begun to fall as the clouds gathered steadily, drifting from the west. The hit man locked his car and strolled across the street, not looking back. The kitbag was back at the flat and he had some spare clothes heaped inside the boot. He hoped he wouldn't need them, though this thin rain was already soaking his jacket. Maybe Brogan would come back tonight? Then he would conclude his business with the dealer and head on home.
The man bent his head against the wind that was gusting scraps of paper and old leaves along the pavement. He rounded a corner. Two more doorways then he was back to Brogan's pad.
Looking up, he hesitated. A red car that had not been there earlier was parked outside the close. A smile crossed his mouth.
'Welcome home, Billy boy,' he chuckled softly.
The worn stone steps made no sound under his soles as he stepped swiftly up the two flights of stairs.
Then he stopped. Voices from Brogan's flat made him shrink against the wall, one hand curled around the gun hidden under his jacket. He grinned, anticipating the look on Billy boy's face when he made his entry.
The front door was open just a fraction and he could hear the voices coming from a room along the far end of the flat. The kitchen, he thought. `Yerawankerr one of them shouted out and then there was a thump. `Gerrofff Fraz! Leausalane!' another voice whined, obviously hurt in some way.
The hit man stopped halfway along the hall. Glasgow accents, both of them, but neither reminded him of Private William Brogan. So where was the little sod?
Before he could think of his next move, two figures rushed out of the kitchen, one of them brandishing a shotgun.
'Whit the…?' Fraz's question was cut off even as he began to aim his weapon.
The sound of gunfire resonated off the walls of the flat, booming and echoing, masking any cry from the men. The impact of the shots lifted each of them off their feet, one after the other, backs curved, arms flung heavenwards before they hit the ground in two dull thumps.
The hit man listened to the silence, the sense of stillness that followed every death: the scent of gunfire drifting above those crumpled heaps on the floor a malevolent incense.
The man took a step back, regarding the dead men. If he turned them over he would see patches of crimson staining their chests, dark bullet holes piercing their pale, northern brows.
Heart, head. That was how he had been trained to kill in the service of Her Majesty. It was second nature to him now, that sudden reflex action. Not like the deliberate hit of a commission where he simply fired into the middle of a man's (or, occasionally, a woman's) skull.
Taking a piece of worn cloth from his pocket, he wrapped the gun carefully before replacing it in his jacket. Had he been a wild west cowboy he'd have blown into the barrel, he thought. The image made him smile.
'Right, Billy boy, what have we here?' he murmured, hunkering down to have a closer look at the men on the ground. But his examination was to be short-lived.
He stood up almost immediately, tensing as he heard noises coming from the stone staircase outside. Time to get out of here, he told himself, thinking rapidly as he grabbed his backpack; no wasting precious seconds scrabbling around on hands and knees trying to retrieve four cartridge cases.
Mary Murphy turned up the television a fraction more. Maybe it had been a car backfiring. Did a car backfire in a series of bangs like that? But even as she listened to the canned laughter from the comedy show, she shivered, knowing instinctively what it was that she had heard downstairs.
A bad lot, that Brogan. People always coming and going, pushing past her on the stairs as if she was so much rubbish, some of them queer-looking folk with eyes rolling in their heads from all the stuff they took. The old woman shuddered again. If Alec had been here… But Mary knew that Alec would have told her the same thing: keep out of it, hen, ye cannae change that sort.
So, even as she sat shivering in her chair, Mary Murphy decided that she had heard nothing at all.
The hit man pulled the baseball cap lower as he left the shadow of the close mouth and walked out into the damp Glasgow night.
Keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, he knew that nobody could see his features, nobody would be able to identify him as the man who had emerged shortly after eleven-thirty that particular evening. The wet pavements muffled his footsteps as one stride after another took him to the street where he had parked the car less than an hour before. Gloved fingers reached down for the key in his trouser pocket and, as his hand slid down, he was aware of the hard shape nestling in his jacket.
A small smile of satisfaction spread across the man's face. That would show anyone who knew Brogan that he meant business.
Then the smile faded into a frown. He had to find somewhere else in this city to hide out now. This whole business was becoming more and more complicated. But until he had that money in his hand, Billy Brogan could consider himself a marked man.
Mario stopped by the open door, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
The man who lived across the landing hadn't been around for a little while now. So why was his door lying open like that? He sniffed the air, smelling an unfamiliar, acrid sort of scent. Was something burning? A human instinct to help overcame Mario's reluctance to intrude on another man's privacy.
Pushing the door a little wider, he began to step forward then stopped at the sight before him.
'Holy Mother of God,' he whispered, crossing himself before backing out of the hallway once more. Trembling fingers reached for his mobile phone. Three buttons were pressed then there was a pause before a female voice asked him a question.
'Police,' Mario said, swallowing as the words stuck in his throat.
'There's these two men… I think they're dead..