Dhesi stood, hands behind his back, looking out of the window This was his home now, this city whose fine buildings were a constant reminder of past glories, Glasgow's tobacco lords and ship owners gaining their immense wealth from their trade. It was a city that suited him, Dhesi thought. He, too, traded in things, though those commodities were less welcomed by the city fathers than the bales of Virginia tobacco that had been shipped to the docks in times past. The restaurant was his legitimate enterprise, of course, and he was proud of it. Things had become so easy in the months following Amit's arrival, that it would be a pity if they were to be upset by these latest incidents. But his partner's complete integration into their world here in Glasgow was of the utmost importance and it might even be to their advantage that Brogan had disappeared, leaving his sister unprotected.
The Pakistani had deliberately chosen this suite of rooms in a West End hotel in which to meet Brogan's contact. Someone calling himself Mr Smith (he'd laughed derisively at that) had insisted that he wanted to find Brogan. A mate, he'd said, from the old days. Knowing Brogan's past as well as he did, Dhesi guessed that this was another ex-soldier. And from what he had read in the newspapers, he wondered if the man might be useful to them right now If he turned out to be just another druggie, they'd get shot of him faster than he could say chapatti. But that voice on the line had sounded intelligent and, besides, he could only have found out his number from Brogan himself. Was this a set up, perhaps? Was Brogan using this old chum for purposes of his own? Nobody in Glasgow had any idea why the dealer had disappeared, though two dead bodies in his flat might give even the least cynical person some sort of clue.
The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn away from the window. His friend, the Hundi, was ushering in a man whom he judged to be about forty-five, short mid-brown hair, thinning on top and of medium height and build. Dhesi took all this in as he strode towards him. An ordinary looking man, he thought to himself, except for the face and its pale grey eyes.
These were eyes that had seen terrible things, Dhesi told himself; and that face, with its sharp cheekbones and firm jaw, might have been carved out of granite. Glasgow folk had a name for someone like this: a wee hard man. His visitor stood ramrod straight, gaze unwavering as he looked Dhesi in the eye.
This is someone you don't want to mess with, he suddenly thought, hearing Brogan's voice in his mind. `Mr Smith,' Dhesi smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand in welcome, `So good of you to come.'
'Dead? What makes you think that?' Joyce Rogers leaned forward in her chair, one hand clasping her chin as she considered the DCI's idea.
Lorimer made a restless movement before he answered, immediately revealing to the deputy chief constable that he was less than comfortable with this suggestion himself.
'She's nowhere to be found, ma'am. No trace of her leaving the country, no records of employment, nothing in the university registry or in any other UK registry that we can find.'
'I see,' Rogers nodded briefly. 'And you think we might want to investigate her as a missing person?'
Lorimer sighed. Thousands of people went missing each year, many of them at their own behest. But there would always be some who had been killed by a person or persons unknown and whose bodies would rot in their unmarked graves for generations.
The police knew that from experience. And from the results of their cold case units around the country.
'We have no idea when she was last seen, nor do we have a recent photograph of her. No marriage photographs at Scott's house, nothing for matriculation at the college..
'Oh? And why is that? Isn't it mandatory for all the students to have photo ID?'
'Yes, ma'am, but the college doesn't keep them for more than a year after the student leaves.'
She could be shacking up with someone, of course,' Rogers mused. 'Another drug dealer like brother Billy.'
'That's true,' Lorimer conceded. And if she is alive we might try to ask her to come forward, to speak to us in confidence.'
'Why do I have the feeling that you're about to suggest putting out a televised appeal on Crimewatch, Lorimer?'
Lorimer spread his hands open and smiled, 'Because you know me so well, ma'am?'
And you haven't been able to ask Superintendent Mitchison, I take it?'
The DCI's smile slipped a little. Not available at divisional HQ at present, ma'am,' he replied stiffly.
It was common knowledge that the superintendent and DCI Lorimer did not rub along easily together, Rogers reminded herself.
If she had had her way, it would have been Lorimer running his division, not Mark Mitchison, but her vote at the time had been only one of many, something that grated to this day.
Promotion for this man was long overdue, Joyce Rogers thought, watching Lorimer as he tried not to fidget, hands clasped but fingers rubbing each other as though unable to settle quietly. There was an opening in the Serious Crime Squad and she had thrown this man's hat into the ring, pleased to see that her other senior colleagues approved of the idea.
'I'm happy to authorise an appeal so long as a photograph of the woman can be found,' Rogers said at last. 'You will have been sent the last passport photograph from the passport record office, I take it?'
'Yes, ma'am. It was taken over nine years ago so she may well have changed in that time.' Lorimer bit his lip, considering his next request. 'Perhaps we might consider local radio stations first?' `Ah, you're thinking of Radio City? They put out regular calls for missing persons, don't they?'
'Yes, ma'am, they do,' Lorimer replied. It had been DS Cameron who had suggested this at their last meeting. The Lewisman was involved in church work in the city and knew the presenter of one of City's evening programmes. The sound of a telephone ringing on the deputy chief constable's desk was the cue for Lorimer to take his leave.
'Keep in touch,' she told him as he stood up.
The DCI had just emerged into the daylight outside Pitt Street when his own mobile rang.
'Lorimer,' he said.
'Sir, it's DS Cameron. There's something we think you should see. Are you coming back right now?'
Fathy and Cameron were waiting for Lorimer in the incident room, an expression of excitement on both of their faces.
'Sir, it's the scene of crime file from Kenneth Scott's house.
They've sent over prints of photographs that were taken from a camera that was logged at the scene.'
Lorimer nodded, taking the large A4 manila envelope from his detective sergeant. It was usual for items like cameras and computers to be taken from a crime scene for forensic examination.
'Anything interesting?'
'Oh, yes, sir,' Cameron replied, sharing a quick glance with Fathy. 'Wait till you see…' he tailed off as Lorimer strode towards the window and sat beside a low table.
Opening the envelope the DCI saw that there were four packets of prints within clear plastic packets, labels denoting the dates on which the various photographs had been taken.
He looked up at the two officers. 'There must be over one hundred pictures here,' he said then looked back at the dates on the labels. 'Taken from more than six months previously to the week before Scott was killed,' he murmured.
'Right, let's begin with you lot,' Lorimer said, lifting the pack of photos that had been taken most recently and laying the others on a low table. 'Maybe we'll find out where Scott went for his holiday.'
The DCI's eyebrows rose in astonishment as he drew out the first photograph. It was of a Glasgow street with a young woman walking along, her red hair blowing in the wind.
'Good Lord, it's her,' he whispered, recognising the same woman whose framed photograph he had found in Brogan's flat.
'Did you realise?' he asked, looking up at Fathy and Cameron.
The two men shook their heads, coming around to have another look at the pictures for themselves.
'This is the woman whose photograph was found in Billy Brogan's place.' He looked back, studying the picture for confirmation.
'Thought it might be one of Brogan's fancy women,' he muttered.
Then, as he picked up the next photo and the next, he saw that the subject was the same. 'It's her,' he said again, flicking through the entire pack. 'You've seen what's been happening, eh?' he said, looking at his two officers. 'Whoever the photographer was he's shot the same woman from different angles and in various locations around the city.'
'We assumed it must be Kenneth Scott who took them, sir,'
Cameron said.
'Mm,' Lorimer's reply was non-committal as he turned his attention back to the remaining photographs. The other three packs showed an identical subject – the red-haired woman.
'Look,' Lorimer pointed at the array of photographs laid out upon the table. 'She's not looking up at the camera, or even smiling towards the lens for the benefit of the photographer, is she?'
Suddenly Lorimer rose from his place by the window and motioned for his officers to follow him back across the corridor to his office.
Cameron and Fathy watched as Lorimer stepped towards his desk and lifted the file on top of a mass of other papers. In seconds he had found the passport image of Marianne Scott nйe Brogan. Nodding to himself, Lorimer gave a sigh. 'It is her,' he said, glancing across at the bundle of photographs.
'Who do you think it is, sir?' Cameron asked.
'It's Marianne Brogan. Marianne Scott,' he corrected himself.
'Look at this,' Lorimer handed over the small square of passport photograph. 'Same face, same hair colour. A lot younger but it's her all right.'
'It's weird that he took all these photos of his ex-wife,' Fathy began, indicating the pile strewn across the table beside the window. 'Well, more sinister than weird really, isn't it, sir?' he said, as they looked at the images of the woman.
'Very strange, Fathy,' Lorimer agreed. 'It would be interesting to know just why this man took so many pictures of her. Suggests an unhealthy obsession, doesn't it? And we have to see if this has any relevance to his death.'
Before the day was out Lorimer had obtained the necessary authorisation to have Marianne Scott's image spread across the media. The press office had agreed to release her picture to the press as soon as the Crimewatch programme went out.
This was not the first time that Lorimer had appeared on national television. One of his earlier cases had included an appeal for-information and the results had been crucial in following up their initial leads.
And it had been down to Doctor Solomon Brightman that good use had been made of that programme, hadn't it? Lorimer thought to himself, remembering. A flicker of irritation crossed his mouth.
Solly's expertise was something he had come to appreciate, admire even at times, and now it was to be consigned to oblivion because another psychologist had got things spectacularly wrong.
Still, he reminded himself, this was a pretty straightforward case.
Everything now pointed to Brogan being the killer, didn't it? He'd done a runner, leaving three men dead behind him, men who had been well known to the drug dealer. And he'd been ex-army, had handled firearms.
Lorimer nodded. Solly's skills in profiling a potential serial killer simply wouldn't be needed in this case.