Y 'e wantae score?'
Billy Brogan whirled around at the familiar Glasgow accent. A pair of dark eyes twinkled at him from behind a counter full of flimsy women's garments. Had he passed him by, Billy Brogan would have taken the lad for a genuine Spaniard, but now that he looked closer, that skin was too dark for even southern Spain. Asian, then, he guessed. And maybe even second or third generation Glaswegian. So what was he doing on the other side of this Mallorcan market stall? Clearly it was more than ladies' panties he was selling.
Brogan's curiosity made him hesitate. The evening market in Cala Millor was pretty crowded but he managed to squeeze his way closer to the edge of the wooden trestle table.
'You talkin taste me, pal?' Billy asked, chin up in a show of defiance.
'Aye.
You're Brogan, aren't you?' The boy was probably no more than seventeen, his thin arms protruding from the sleeves of a black shirt, its cuffs unbuttoned.
Covering himself up in this heat? thought Billy, wondering what sort of marks these loose sleeves might be concealing. Or was he just dodging the mosquitoes? 'What's it taste you, son?' he replied. The toothy grin faded for a moment. 'Ye know ma faither,' he said at last. 'Mr Jaffrey.'
'You're Sahid's boy? Whit're ye doin' out here?'
The boy's grin grew wider once more. 'Could ask you the same thing,' he replied cheekily.
'Holiday,' Brogan shrugged.
'Gap year,' the other replied. 'Dad says I have taste make myself useful.'
Brogan gave a derisive laugh. 'An ye're supplementing yer wages wi sellin' ither stuff. Eh?'
'Aye, why no? Anyroad, are ye wantin' some?'
Brogan laughed out loud this time. The? Buy stuff affa wee Jaffrey's laddie? Naw, son, whoever felt ye aboot me's given ye the wrang story. See, I buy taste sell. In bulk. Know whit ah mean? Nice try, though, pal.' He paused for a moment then turned back again, bending closer so only the boy could hear him. 'An' how did ye know who ah wis? Eh?'
That smile again, winsome and full of the desire for approval. `Ach, Mr Brogan, everybody roon ma bit knows who you are. I mean taste say, ye're famous!'
Dropping his gaze, the boy managed a convincing blush.
'Aye, well,' Brogan shook his head and gave a desultory wave of his hand. 'Keep yer nose clean, awright?'
As the older man made his way through the narrow street he was quite unaware of the pair of dark eyes following his progress.
When he was quite sure that Brogan was out of sight young Jaffrey reached into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers and pulled out his mobile phone. Stepping back from the fray, he slipped into the shadows behind a rail of hanging garments and tapped out a number.
'Hi, it's me,' he said after a few moments. 'Guess who ah've jist seen.'
Amit wandered into the back of the restaurant, mobile phone to his ear. He nodded his dark head, eyes fixed to a spot on the carefully swept floor. That morning's news on the radio had given him a real jolt.
Police are looking for the owner of a flat where two men were found shot dead. Mr William Brogan has not been seen for several days and police are keen to make contact with him.
Now Amit was being presented with a real dilemma. Alerting the authorities was totally out of the question. Not only did he owe a measure of loyalty to this man, but he had other worries. Gnawing his lip, Amit listened to the Hundi's words. If he were to be associated with Brogan, they might come after him again. But could he bring himself to sever the ties that held him to the drug dealer? 'Okay, I hear what you are saying,' he told the man. 'Of course I'll be careful. And, no, I won't leave any traces.'
The man from Lahore clicked the mobile shut and stared out of the window The morning was one of these bright days that presaged rain to come, but while it lasted there was a radiance to the streets outside, making this part of Glasgow almost continental.
Across Great Western Road a cafe had set out silver-topped tables, the blue and white striped awning above shading them from the glare. Already several women were sitting drinking their morning lattes, chattering together. They had probably dropped off their sons at Glasgow Academy and were now indulging in a post-school-run half an hour before heading back to the suburbs.
But, no, the Glasgow schools were still on holiday, weren't they?
Dhesi's kids had been around the restaurant with their mother, prior to being kitted out for the new term.
Amit remembered his own mother, kissing him before school each day. Their farewells had been in the garden, Father had been the one to take them to Aitchison's on his way to work. Suddenly he was back in Lahore again, in one of the public parks beside a rectangle of silken grey water; his father talking to other gentlemen, their freshly laundered white linen garments lending them a certain gravitas. As a boy, Amit and his brothers had always been dressed in proper shirts and long trousers, not the baggy shapeless T-shirts and tracksuit trousers favoured by the young around here. If he could go back… but returning there was impossible now and he had to make the best of the life he had here. As so many others had done.
Amit sighed. He would have to make contact with Marianne again. Had she heard from her brother? he wondered. And if she had, was Brogan now aware of what had taken place in his Argyle Street flat?
Marianne smiled as she waited on the bridge. The sun was out, the day was hers for the taking and soon Amit would be here. Lunch somewhere nice, he'd told her. How about The City Inn, you could meet me on Bell's Bridge, she'd answered, giving him the details of how to get there, where best to park his recently acquired Mercedes.
Marianne had arrived early, not because she was over anxious but because she wished to savour the freedom of standing out in the fresh air a while. She lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed, letting the breeze from the river wrap her cotton skirt around her bare legs.
'Hello,' he said and she started, surprised to find him standing there when there had been no sound of a footfall.
'How have you been?' she smiled, casting her eyes over the man's face. The smile faded as she saw the frown lines between his eyes, the agitated manner he had as they turned to walk side by side along the footpath.
'What's the matter?'
Amit stopped and looked at her gravely. 'You haven't heard, then? I wondered if you knew'
'Knew what? Amit, what's happened?' Marianne took a step back, clutching at the painted railing that separated the path from the waters churning below them.
'It was on the news,' Amit told her, then he stopped, his eyes looking beyond her. Marianne turned to see two joggers bearing down on them. They moved a little to one side, allowing the pair to pass, then Amit took her arm and led her around a corner of some thick shrubbery to a bench.
'Sit down,' he told her. 'I have something to tell you.'
Omar scrolled down until he came to the page he wanted. He read the information then sat back, frowning. Had he read that correctly? Leaning closer to the computer screen once more, he read the lines that told him of certain familial relationships. A few minutes passed while he typed in other names and dates, then his mouth fell open as he realised just what he had uncovered.
He wanted to call her, say 'Hey, Irvine, see what I've just found' but something stopped him. It was vital that this went straight to Lorimer and to no other officer first. Omar Adel Fathy was not going to be upstaged if he could help it. He recalled several times in his last post when other officers had claimed the glory for work that he had done. Well it wasn't going to happen here.
He printed off the necessary sheets and slipped out of his seat, heading along the corridor to the DCI's room.
'Come in,' Lorimer called out, his eyes not on the door but on the document in his hands. This ballistics report was making interesting reading.
'Sir.'
Lorimer looked up. It was the handsome Egyptian who was making such a stir in the department. The DCI had eventually started to notice that all the single women (and several of the married ones) were paying the young man a lot of attention. list like thae Arabian nights,' wee Sadie from the canteen had snorted, her gravelly voice testament to a lifelong nicotine habit.
'This place is becoming a right har-eem,' she had added for Lorimer's benefit. Nivver seen sae mony o' your plain clothes lot in skirts! Mind you he's a nice looking laddie and his manners wid pit maist o' this lot taste shame,' she'd growled, head nodding towards a group of male officers gathered at a nearby table.
Lorimer had chuckled at Sadie's words. The canteen lady could always be depended upon to tell things just as they were, neither glossing over nor embellishing the facts.
He gave the young officer a curious look. There was something he recognised in the man's expression; an eagerness that reminded him of his younger self.
'Okay, what have you found?' he asked, swinging his chair back, one hand indicating the chair at the other side of his desk.
'It's about William Brogan, sir,' Fathy told him. 'I think you ought to see this,' he continued, handing the sheets of printed paper across to the SIO.
They were all assembled once more in the incident room but this time there was a definite sense of anticipation.
Irvine looked across quizzically at Fathy. He was deliberately avoiding her eye and there was an air of suppressed excitement about him. Oho, what have you been up to, pal, she thought.
'Right,' Lorimer began. 'We've had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to Detective Constable Fathy,' he nodded in the young man's direction, causing a stir of murmuring from the others.
Omar felt prickles of sweat on his forehead from the warmth of the room. He was the new boy being singled out for praise; whoever had put that notice in his locker wouldn't like that one little bit. Was someone watching him at this very moment, hostile eyes boring into the back of his head? Omar itched to turn around but forced himself to concentrate on the SIO at the front of the room.
'Is this about Brogan?' DS Wilson wanted to know 'Funny you should ask that. I was just going to tell you all a little story about Mr William Brogan,' Lorimer smiled. 'DC Fathy has discovered that our Billy's sister is a lady we already want to question in connection with an ongoing case.' He paused to make the moment a little more dramatic, sweeping his gaze over the assembled officers.
'Marianne Brogan was Kenneth Scott's ex-wife,' he told them, nodding at the exclamations from all corners of the room. 'And I now have some rather interesting stuff here from forensics,' he said, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.
'Ballistics reports confirm that the weapon used to kill Kenneth Scott was the same one that shot Galbraith and Sandiman.' He let both pieces of news sink in, then raised a hand to quieten everyone down.
'The bullet that Doctor Fergusson retrieved from Scott's head showed a wipe mark at its nose cone, so we can be pretty sure that means a silencer was used. Same bullet type but no wipe marks on the ones that killed Sandiman and Galbraith.' Lorimer watched their faces. 'I'll distribute copies of the ballistics report for you all,' he continued. 'Just want to draw your attention to the part that refers to marks caused by the extractor claw and ejector post. Seems to indicate a good match.' He nodded at the papers.
'I want each officer to spend what time they can afford catching up with the finer details. But not right now.' He fixed his blue gaze on the men and women assembled around him.
'Now more than ever it is imperative that we locate Brogan and his sister,' he said. 'I want every one of Brogan's known haunts investigated.'
Omar opened the locker carefully, feeling the hinges grind against the metal hasps. But when he looked inside there was nothing to see, just his kit and a plastic lunch box. No racist notes, no reminders of his ethnic origin or anything that might make him reconsider his decision to become a police officer.
'Okay, Fathy?' The tall, lanky figure of DS Cameron loomed behind him and Omar felt a friendly touch on his shoulder.
'Good work that, finding out the sister was Scott's ex. We could've been running round in circles for ages without that particular snippet of information,' he smiled.
Omar Fathy ducked his head as if in embarrassment. The detective sergeant's lilting voice sounded so genuine, so why was every sinew in his body stiffening in suspicion? The man from Lewis was a nice guy. They had Asians up there who spoke the Gaelic like natives. So why would Cameron target the young Egyptian? 'You all right?'
Omar looked round to see an expression of real concern in the man's eyes.
'Yes, thanks. Just worried someone might think I'm overstepping the mark, you know?'
Cameron gave him another tap on his shoulder. 'Nobody will.
Lorimer takes notice of everyone's contribution. There's no pecking order with him,' he grinned. 'He might be a DCI but he's not forgotten what it's like for the foot soldiers. Besides,' his grin widened, 'he's not averse to getting his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.'
Omar frowned. `Och, I often think he'd rather be out and about with us than stuck in his office with all that admin,' he continued, shrugging.
'But sometimes he just does that anyway. Drives the Super nuts of course.' Cameron laughed. 'You should see Lorimer questioning a suspect. There's no one can hold a candle to him in the interview room, I promise you.' And, winking at the detective constable, Cameron moved on towards the door.
Omar stood perfectly still. If what Cameron said was true, then more than ever he believed that Lorimer was the man who would listen to his story and take it seriously.