The hit man drained the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a thoughtful look in his eyes. The name Brogan had opened a particularly interesting door for him. He had not mentioned anything about his reason for being in Glasgow, preferring instead to continue the fabrication about being an old army mate. Had that washed with the man calling himself Dhesi? He doubted it. There had been something in the man's expression as they had discussed their mutual friend, as the Pakistani had insisted on calling Brogan, that implied friendship was in fact the last thing involved. And how could he forget the man's words, directed at him in that soft, suggestive tone of voice?
A lot of money might be made for anyone who was willing to assist in disposing of troublesome elements from their part of the city.
A steely glint had entered these dark eyes as he'd dropped that bombshell into the conversation. Did he know? Or was he simply guessing that he'd blown these three men away?
The pub was busy at this time of the evening, a crowd of customers around the bar, calling to one another in loud voices that competed with the football match being shown on the television, a Manchester derby. He'd thought it safe enough to mingle with the populace here, knowing so many would be crammed into the place to see the widescreen 'I'V. And so it had transpired. Nobody gave him a second glance as most eyes were fixed on the players.
It was, he had to admit, a cracking match: there were players of international standing whose skill commanded that sort of attention.
The hit man could not give it his full concentration, having an habitual tendency to glance around him, his gaze often straying towards the door, just in case.
Part of him wanted to get out of Glasgow and head back south but a sense of caution stopped him. He hadn't committed himself to anything more than an agreement to meet up again with the Pakistani. He'd been treated with respect, he thought, remembering the tray of coffee and cakes ordered in that upper room, the dignified way in which Dhesi had handed him his cup and saucer.
And that other chap, who called himself the Hundi, he'd been graciousness itself. They needed something from him and he had guessed what that might be. Also, he wanted to know what it was he was being offered. Money, certainly, but perhaps the security of a bigger organisation within this city that might provide him with a better way out.
They wanted Brogan, that was clear. But there was more to it than this. A subtle hint that another job might be in the offing. Elements, Dhesi had said. The man sitting in a corner of the pub, nursing his glass, was oblivious to the sudden roar from the punters around him as Manchester City scored a goal. His grey eyes narrowed in thought.
Licking his lips, he savoured the taste of whisky in his mouth.
There was money to be made, a lot of money. Well, perhaps he'd hang about and see what was on offer.
Marianne imagined that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, hot and moist as she ran. The street was in total darkness, the slippery cobbles under her feet threatening to trip her up. If she could just make it to the corner where the amber light from a street lamp spilled onto the pavement, then she'd be safe.
Her chest hurt and she could hear the footsteps behind her, pounding along in a purposeful rhythm.
She could tell without looking around that her pursuer meant her harm. If she didn't escape, she knew she would be killed.
With one almighty effort, Marianne lunged forward towards the light then felt herself falling, falling, falling through space.
'No!' She sat up, heart thumping.
It had been a dream, only a dream.
Turning, she looked at the illuminated digits on the clock by her bedside. Almost three, the dead hour.
Marianne forced herself to take a few deep breaths. The chill night air crept across her skin making her shiver. With one movement she stripped off her nightdress, rolling the sweat-sodden garment into a ball and hurling it away from her. What did it mean? tier dreams had always been imbued with some meaning before, hadn't they? Some people were visionaries, their dreams prophetic of things to come. Doctor Brightman had told her as much in his lectures, hadn't he? She frowned, unable to recall everything that the psychologist had said. Maybe she had read that somewhere instead? That other dream was past now, the terror gone for good. But this? What was this dream trying to tell her?
Marianne threw back the damp covers and scrabbled in the darkness for her clothes. She had to get out of here, she thought, the rising panic making her breathless.
That figure in the street last night, had he been following her?
Just like Ken used to. She shivered suddenly, the memory of his shadowy footsteps, his obscene whispers as he walked behind her vivid in her mind.
And these wrong numbers on the telephone. Wasn't that proof that something bad was happening? They were coming for her, that was the significance of this latest dream, surely?
It was not until she had drawn the bedroom curtains against the night that she dared switch on the lamp beside her bed. No one must know that she had gone until she was well away. Nor must anyone know where she was going. She gave a rueful smile. Even she didn't know where that would be, yet. Silently the woman dressed, aware of every creak as her feet hit the wooden floor.
Everything seemed unnaturally loud at this early hour, as if the room was holding its breath, listening.
She reached under the bed and drew out a well-worn suitcase then stood up to open the single wardrobe that contained most of her clothes.
The first coathanger clanged against the metal rail, making her jump. It was imperative that she made as little noise as possible. The other tenants in this service flat might be light sleepers. She didn't know if that was the case but every nerve in her body cautioned her to take the utmost care. Slowly she drew her clothes off the hangers, folding them into the case with an expertise born of much practice. Soon the wardrobe was empty and she turned her attention to the chest of drawers. Ken had trained her well, demanding that she be fastidious in her habits so all of her other garments were already folded neatly and it was a matter of seconds to place them in the suitcase.
Marianne looked frantically around the room. What else must she take? Books, of course, and her laptop. And toilet stuff. She tiptoed into the adjacent bathroom, picking items off shelves and cramming them into a plastic carrier bag. They would go into the rucksack along with the books.
In less than an hour she was ready. Her hand was still trembling as she tapped out a number on her mobile phone.
'Taxi, please,' she said, her mind already focussing on her destination.
She gave the driver the name of a hotel. It was in a busy part of the city, close to a railway station with an ever present line of taxis, convenient for the next step in her escape. It would do for a few nights until she could find another place to stay, somewhere near the university, she hoped, though by this time in the summer lots of student accommodation would already be taken.
Once or twice the driver tried to engage her in conversation but she remained silent, head turned towards the window, watching as the city drew closer. Blue lights in the trees shimmered, caught like stars in a web of foliage as they drove through the night. Her head turned from one side to the other as they entered an underpass, its shape outlined in dazzling purple. Glasgow at night was a myriad of colours, the city fathers having brought brightness into the inky dark. Marianne smiled, thinking of the different bridges that spanned the river. At this time of night a traveller might see lines of red, blue and violet reflected across the water's surface.
The journey from the West End into the heart of the city took only minutes. But in that short time Marianne had regained some of the calm that had deserted her. The woman who alighted from the cab straightened her back, head held high as she took a deep breath of night air.
'Okay, miss?' the driver asked and she turned, seeing him take her bags and lead the way into the foyer of the hotel. She gave him a handful of silver, noticing the gap toothed grin as he made a mental count of her generous tip.
'Have a good night, miss,' he said, nodding at her. Marianne pretended not to see the expression of curiosity that flicked across the taxi driver's face. What was a woman doing out at this time of night and checking into a hotel? Instead, she walked towards the reception desk to another man whose eyes were already full of questions.
Amit drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on a point ahead, wondering if he could be bothered to find another parking space. By the time he returned his own space might well be taken, legally or otherwise. It was a fairly short walk from his own place to the curving terrace that bordered the river Kelvin. As he considered his options, the sun emerged from behind a cloud into a stretch of blue. He unbuckled the seat belt, letting it fall back against the leather seat. He would walk there, he decided, getting out of the Mercedes and pointing the key towards it. The big car gave a blink and a click as though in acknowledgement as Amit strode along the pavement in the direction of Byres Road.
This was the very heartland of student life: streets full of Victorian flats that criss-crossed all the way from Great Western Road, sweeping past many of the university buildings then bisecting Byres Road until they marched in an upward curve to meet Great Western Road once again. Amit's present home was two floors up in a tenement flat above a delicatessen. The Mercedes he kept parked around the corner in a space designated for residents only.
Despite the fact that the new term was still a month away, the place was teeming with young people. Amit watched them as he walked along; girls with long hair in earnest conversation with a group of young men or giggling in a huddle with their pals. With a pang Amit realised that he had never known such careless freedom.
His own youth had been hedged about with rules, both from his family and also by the state, university life a matter of serious studying and only the occasional social engagement.
He left a group of youngsters laughing in his wake, wondering if they realised just how privileged they were. Probably not, he told himself. But there was no bitterness in the thought, it was merely one of the many observations Amit allowed himself as he continued along the road.
Marianne would be expecting to resume her studies soon, he told himself. A frown crossed his dark brow. Was there really any way he could make that happen? Or was her time at university coming to an abrupt end? Biting his lip, Amit walked more hurriedly until he reached the end of the road. A large church building dominated the corner, sprawling between the junction of the two main roads. Amit looked up as he waited to cross towards the botanic gardens. It was no longer a place of worship and was now known as Oran Mor. He had been inside once, climbing the staircase that was decorated in colourful murals that had somehow reminded him of many of the places in Lahore. A restaurant and a pub took up some of the building but it was possibly best known for its basement theatre. A group of young men and women lounged outside on the steps clutching bottles of beer. Amit glanced at them. Seeing the confidence on their faces reminded him of what he was about to take away from Marianne and he experienced a moment of sadness that it had to end like this.
The lights changed and he crossed to the curving railings surrounding the park. It was not far now Once across the bridge he turned left and followed the graceful line of terraced houses until he stood outside her house, looking up at the curtained window.
She was at home, then. He breathed a sigh of relief then walked up the five steps that led to the main entrance, pressing the bell next to the name that she used, a name that made him smile.
The smile changed to a puzzled frown when no answer came.
After repeated attempts Amit decided to wait. Perhaps she was in the bathroom and could not immediately come to let him in. Five minutes passed before he tried again, then ten.
Amit paced back and forth on the top step, looking around to see if anyone was watching a dark-skinned man hovering on the threshold of this house. Only a young man walking his dog passed him by but he did not give Amit a second glance, absorbed in the music coming from his iPod.
Biting his lip, the man looked up again at the curtained window His brow creased in worry. What if something was wrong?
They had always agreed that he would not have a key to her flat.
She required privacy and that was something that Amit understood.
But now he wished that he had pressed Marianne on this point.
Taking a deep breath Amit pushed the first buzzer in the row, knowing that this ground floor flat was the home of Marianne's landlord, the man who owned the entire building. Fie waited then glanced to his left as a curtain was twitched to one side and a familiar face looked out at him.
'Mr Shafiq, my friend, come in, come in,' the Asian ushered Amit into a square, tiled hallway that had a case of wooden letterboxes set on to one wall.
'Marianne,' Amit began. 'She is not responding to the bell.' He shrugged his shoulders in a casual gesture but, seeing the worried look reflected on the landlord's face, he knew his attempt at nonchalance had failed.
'I have a spare key, my friend,' the landlord waddled off to his own apartments, his cotton slippers flip-flopping across the stone flags. Amit waited politely in the inner vestibule, regarding the stairs to one side as if Marianne might descend at any moment, making a fool of him and quietening his anxious heart. `Aha!' The landlord beamed and brandished a set of master keys in his chubby fist. Now we'll see,' he said, stepping up the stairs with a nimbleness that was surprising for a man of his girth.
Amit followed, cursing Marianne for leaving these curtains drawn in the middle of the afternoon. But what if she were ill? He swallowed, forcing down worse images as he clattered up behind the landlord.
As the key rattled in the lock Amit could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands. Hastily he rubbed them against the sides of his trousers. What was wrong with him? Why such anxiety for this woman?
When the door was flung open, both men stood for a long moment saying nothing.
Then the landlord strode to the window and drew back the curtains.
As light flooded into the room they could see why nobody had responded to these repeated rings of the bell. The bedclothes had been left in an untidy heap and the wardrobe doors hung open, showing empty rails.
The landlord screwed up his eyes and Amit knew he was looking at him to see how he was reacting.
'So,' Amit cleared his throat, amazed by the emotion that made speech so difficult.
'So, she's gone,' the landlord said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of dismissal. 'Pity she hadn't washed the bed linen,' he grumbled, pulling the sheets off the bed and rolling them into a large ball. Tut at least the rent was paid up,' he added, giving Amit a sly tap on his arm. Then, cocking his head to one side, he seemed to see the sorrow on Amit's face.
'Don't worry, my friend,' he said, putting down the bundle and grasping Amit's arms in his hands. 'Better off without her. Plenty more fish in the sea for a handsome young fellow like Mr Shafiq.'