Come in, Fathy, sit down,' Lorimer beckoned the young man who had knocked on his door and now hovered on the threshold.
'Any news of Marianne Scott?'
Fathy shook his head. Not yet, sir, but there are still a few departments we have to visit.' He cleared his throat nervously. 'It was on a personal matter that I wanted to see you, sir.'
Lorimer sat up a little straighter, looking quizzically at the detective constable. The thought came to him that Fathy had been a bit quieter than usual during team meetings. And now, seeing the younger man twisting his fingers together on his lap, Lorimer realised that there was something seriously amiss.
'I wanted to tell you why I left Grampian for Strathclyde,'
Fathy began. He looked down at his hands and clasped them together as though to keep them still and calm himself. 'I was the target of some racist incidents,' he mumbled.
'That doesn't sound so good,' Lorimer frowned. 'I suppose the persons responsible were properly dealt with?'
Fathy looked up, his eyes full of appeal. 'That's just it, sir. I never told anybody about what was going on. I just asked for a transfer and came down here.'
'Well you should have,' Lorimer insisted. 'Grampian would want to make an example of whoever targeted you.' His eyes narrowed.
'Do you want me to do something about it now?'
Fathy looked embarrassed. 'That's not what I came to say, sir.
You see,' he took a deep breath before continuing, 'it's begun to happen again.'
'What d'you mean?'
Fathy drew out the notes and laid them on Lorimer's desk. 'I found that first one in my locker here,' he said, pointing to the note. 'Then I had a series of letters through the post, all saying the same thing, see.' He lifted them one after the other, displaying the similar words.
'Good Lord,' Lorimer sat back exhaling as though he had been winded. 'I find it hard to believe that someone in this police office would do such a thing.'
'It's true, though, sir,' Fathy's mouth trembled for a moment as he met Lorimer's eyes. 'And I think it must be linked to what happened up in Aberdeen. Same sort of notes, same kind of messages.'
'Well,'
Lorimer shook his head as though finding the man's words hard to fathom, 'I'll need you to complete a proper statement about this. You do realise that, don't you?'
Fathy nodded, his shoulders slumped in what Lorimer recognised as plain misery. 'If we ever find out who was responsible for this then it'll be a matter for the procurator fiscal.' He leaned forward.
'Do you have any idea who is behind this?'
Fathy shook his head, still looking down at his hands as though he were the guilty party in this affair. Lorimer knew the signs; the man was feeling tainted by it all, dirtied.
'I don't know who would do anything like this, sir,' he said at last, looking up to meet that familiar blue gaze. 'I did try to find out up there..' he tailed off with a tired shrug that spoke more than all the words he had yet uttered.
It was hopeless to think that anyone in Grampian might be able to help Fathy now, Lorimer thought. But it was not too late to set up some sort of surveillance to catch someone at this end.
'Look, leave this with me,' Lorimer told him. 'Write me that statement but keep this completely to yourself for now. If we are to find out who's been up to this… this nonsense,' he spat out the word as though it was a bad taste in his mouth, 'then you can be sure it'll result in a disciplinary hearing for them at the very least. Okay?'
Annie Irvine stole a glance at her sidekick as he sat back at his desk. His dark face was flushed and there was something about the tilt of his head that made her continue to stare until he turned to catch her looking at him.
'What?' Fathy asked.
Annie grinned at him. 'Nothing. Just that you seem more your old self today, that's all. And here's me thinking that you were getting all worked up about not finding Marianne Brogan.'
Fathy grinned back at her. 'Well, I don't share the boss's opinion, you know that.' His smile slipped as his expression became more thoughtful. 'I think she's alive.' He turned towards Annie.
'Don't you?'
It was Annie Irvine's turn to become reticent and she mumbled an unconvincing dunno as she turned back to her computer screen.
In truth, Annie knew that she was becoming more and more engrossed in the background to this case. And she desperately wanted Marianne Brogan to be somewhere in the world, still warm and upright.
'You know about stalkers, don't you?' Fathy continued softly. 'I saw your face when these photographs came back.'
Annie gave a non-committal shrug, not daring to turn and face him.
'What do you know about stalkers, Annie?' Omar Fathy whispered gently.
There was a silence between them for several minutes as Fathy waited for a reply.
Then the policewoman turned towards him. 'That's why I joined the force,' she said, her face darkening. 'And if you knew what I'd been through, you'd understand a lot more about that poor woman,' she nodded towards a blown-up photo of Marianne.
Omar slipped his hand across their desks, covering Annie's fingers and giving her an enigmatic smile.
'Maybe I understand more than you realise,' he said, squeezing her hand gently before releasing his grip.
Marianne felt the wind on her face as the car breezed down the dual carriageway towards Loch Lomond. She had let down the window a few centimetres and now she smelled a freshness in the air as they passed green fields on either side. Sheep and fat lambs grazed amiably and for a moment Marianne envied them their simple lives of feeding, growth and reproduction, so different from the complexities of human existence. The landscape changed to overhanging cliffs on one side and soon they were slowing down at the signs for Loch Lomond Shores. She leaned back as they circled the roundabout that went on to Balloch and Gartocharn, smiling at Max as he continued to drive north.
She had suggested Duck Bay Marina for no other reason than it was scenic, a lovely day and they could be guaranteed something nice to eat. Earlier Max had asked her for directions and she saw that he had a good memory since he hadn't needed to enquire again. He was a bright man as well as good company, Marianne thought to herself. Older than he had sounded on the phone, but then she had expected someone of Billy's age, hadn't she? He had short hair, thinning a little, but his features were regular and strong, something Marianne found reassuring.
Suddenly the woman found herself thinking about the slight, dark Asian and a pang of guilt coursed through her. Should she have run out on Amit like that? Had these latest dreams been no more than fantastic shapes whirling around her brain? Shaking her head, Marianne tried to put all such things out of her mind. Lines from last year's English class flitted into her brain.
These deeds must not be thought after these ways; so, it will make us mad.
And surely that was true? She had to put her night-time thoughts away from her. Doctor Brightman had shown her the way out of these dark places. Now, Marianne told herself, as the sunlight streamed through the windscreen, it was time to begin somewhere new. And perhaps Max Whittaker was the man to lead her there.
Solly lifted the green file and put it into his already bulging briefcase.
Dreams, he smiled to himself. That had been one of the more successful in his series of lectures to last year's undergraduates.
Now he had updated it to include references from Shakespeare, and the Bard's plays were still to the forefront of his mind. Last night he and Rosie had discussed possible names for the baby. Again. It was a pity, he thought, that they had not yet come to any agreement about this. His recent foray into Shakespearean literature seemed to have influenced his own preferences: Miranda, Imogen, Harry and Anthony. They all sounded fine when conjoined with his surname. But Rosie had wrinkled her nose. Her own choices had Celtic overtones: Siobhan, Mhairi, Ruaridh and Euan. He'd smiled as usual, shrugged them off and suggested they both look at the well-thumbed book of children's names once more.
'You will know what his name is when you see him,' Ma Brightman had said when he had revealed their dilemma to his mother. She was so sure it would be a boy, he laughed to himself: a little new Brightman to continue the family tree.
Solly had dreamed about the child last night. A boy, certainly, but not a newborn. This was a little lad who had walked by his side, blonde head uncovered, shining in the sun. And although the details of that dream were now hazy, SoIly still retained the powerful feeling of paternal love towards the boy who had slipped into his unconscious mind.
He smiled as he lifted the briefcase and headed towards the door of the flat. Dreams, indeed! 'A Midsummer Night's Dream is all about the quarrel that Oberon and Titania have over the little changeling boy,' Maggie told her class. 'The whole of the natural world is turned topsy-turvy as the quarrel persists, making the summer weather wet, foggy and stormy.'
'Aye, jist like Glasgow durin' the Fair,' Jimmy Lang piped up and everyone laughed.
Maggie smiled too. The two-week trades holiday was notorious for having poor weather. 'Don't think that's the fault o' the fairies,' someone else called out and again a ripple of giggles ran through the class.
As the bell to end the period rang out, Maggie raised her hand to prevent a charge towards her classroom door. Now remember to tell your parents about the theatre trip. We need to have the forms filled in and returned no later than next week. Okay?'
She smiled as they filed out into the corridor, some of' them grinning up at her, others saying 'See you, miss,' as they passed her by. This was by far the nicest group of first years she'd had in a long time, Maggie thought, closing the door behind them and settling down for a rare period of preparation.
Her smile faded as she regarded the notes on Shakespeare's well-loved play. Why had she chosen to highlight the changeling boy? Was it some subconscious desire on her part to elevate the child to a position of importance? Surely not. She smiled again, remembering the little faces that had just looked up at her. These would be her family, kids who passed through her life for five or six years. She sat, thinking about the future. Soon both she and Bill would be forty and that landmark birthday seemed to Maggie to be a kind of watershed in their lives. She could go on teaching for more than twenty years, hundreds of kids receiving the benefit of her tuition, she mused. Would she still be here, in this school? There was no ambitious streak in the policeman's wife to go chasing promotion. Their only ambition had been to have children one day and now that possibility was fast drawing to a close.
Maggie drew a sigh. She was so lucky compared to many of her friends; like her colleague, Sandy, with a messy divorce behind her and a teenage son who drove his mother demented. And if her husband worked long hours and had sometimes to cancel social engagements because of work, she could still treasure the knowledge that she was his only love and that they would always share a unique and special bond. The notion brought her back to the warring lovers in A Midsummer Night's Dream and Maggie settled back to prepare lessons for the following weeks.
'No he isn't here at present. No. Would you? Oh, well, thanks for that, ma'am.'
DCI Lorimer put down the telephone and looked at it thoughtfully.
The deputy chief constable had expressed both the horror and outrage that he himself had felt over DC Fathy's revelation.
Talking to Joyce Rogers had been a good idea since she had taken such a personal interest in their Egyptian detective constable. We need more ethnic minorities representing our forces, she'd told him more than once since Fathy had transferred from Grampian. But if there were racist elements at work within their divisions then something was seriously wrong.
Lorimer wondered just how to begin to tackle this. There were known groups, football casuals among them, that were blatantly racist. It might pay to ask a few questions in those quarters. But since the first incident had actually happened here, in the locker area, just yards from the charge bar where officers came and went at all hours of the day and night, he really should begin with their own division. If it was an incident involving serious crime, then he could have used some technology, like hidden cameras, but that was completely out of the question given the number of officers using the locker area. And, since Fathy hadn't a clue who his attacker was, they had to keep any investigation very low-key indeed. Any officer worth their salt would have taken precautions to keep his (or her) DNA off the materials sent to Fathy through the post. But he might just call up a favour from his chum in the Scottish criminal record office to have the letters and note dusted for prints. Even the most forensically aware person could still make mistakes, he reasoned. Lorimer would make enquiries, he'd promised Joyce Rogers, keep it as discreet as possible, see if he could avoid putting it through official channels just yet.
The DCI pursed his lips as he thought about all the things going on right now; Fathy's problem, the hunt for Billy Brogan, and his wife's difficulty in coming to terms with her operation.
Then there was Sol ly and why he was being sidelined when such skills as his were invaluable. His frown changed to the faintest of smiles. Solly would soon be immersed in fatherhood and Lorimer was certain that the psychologist would make an excellent dad.
Should he be feeling a pang of envy? Or was he so wrapped up in this job that he simply never had the time to think of what he was missing?