The Hundi put down the phone, nodding to himself. That was good. The man called Smith had agreed a fee for get ting rid of the girl. Brogan had been a thorn in their flesh and his sister's existence was only bringing more trouble into their world.
He screwed up his eyes. There was no room in his world for sentiment.
This was purely a matter of business. He had nothing against the red-haired woman whose compliance had allowed their new friend, Amit Shafiq, to remain here, part of his thriving business network. Brogan had had his uses too, as a way of laundering money from certain sources. But Brogan himself was a marked man now. And if he ever set foot again in Glasgow… the Hundi's grin widened. Perhaps Mr Smith would be happy to undertake that particular commission for free? The man rubbed his hands together, feeling the heavy rings on his chubby fingers.
It would all work out. Money always made everything work out.
Billy Brogan opened his eyes to see a fan spinning on the pale ceiling, its sweeping rhythm soothing his emerging senses.
Everything he saw was white: walls, ceiling, the vertical blinds keeping daylight from penetrating the room where he lay. He blinked, then felt his fingers touch the cool cotton of the sheet that was covering him. Where was he? I liming his head a fraction, Brogan saw a table against a wall with a large white jug covered in a square of cloth. Above it was a picture of Christ, hand outstretched, lines of yellow radiating from the circle above his head.
Brogan blinked again. This was weirding him out, big time. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth that made him search around it with the tip of his tongue, feeling a gap where two of his front teeth should have been. He screwed up his eyes as saliva flooded his mouth. His gums were sore and tender, throbbing as though the teeth had been wrenched from his mouth. What the hell had happened to him? He tried to sit up, but as soon as he moved a pain shot through his skull.
Then the memories began to return. That darkened alley, the man in the half-opened doorway…
Billy groaned as much from the ache in his head as from the realisation that he had been taken for a mug. Yet he was here, in a quiet place, alive. And, apart from his missing teeth, still in one piece. He turned his head slowly, fearful of another blast of pain, and saw a door with a sheet of paper attached. It was in some language that Billy couldn't understand. But the familiar symbols required no interpretation. There were little pictures, international hieroglyphics, that showed emergency exits and fire extinguishers. So, he was in some sort of an institution. A hospital, Brogan supposed, raising a hand to touch the place where the pain was worst. He felt the soft padding someone had placed under a swathe of bandage, confirming his suspicions. Somehow he had been rescued from the men who had assaulted him and patched up while he was still unconscious.
Brogan let his hand slide back under the bedclothes, feeling only skin against the sheets. 'Christ!' he exclaimed, then looked guiltily at the picture to his left as though the image had overheard and disapproved. 'Sorry,' he mumbled, reminding himself to say a proper thank you for actually waking to find himself safe from his attackers. But it was a bit of a shock to find himself stark naked, his eyes told the picture.
The room appeared to be empty of any furniture save a small bedside locker, the type that one always found in hospital rooms.
Perhaps his stuff was in there? Steeling himself, Brogan pushed himself into a sitting position, then stopped, panting with the effort, waves of agony shooting through his head. He felt the sweat running in rivulets down his chest and he was glad of the fan's blades swishing round and around, cooling his fevered body.
He had to get up, see if everything was still there.
He turned around in the bed, letting his legs fall into mid-air, feet searching for the floor. With a huge effort, Brogan slid off the bed and tried to stand up. Immediately his legs buckled under him and he slid to the floor, only saving himself from crashing down by grabbing at the sheets. Head pounding, he let himself rest for a few moments, his back against the side of the bed, trembling with a weakness that threatened to overpower him. But he had to see if his things were still there, had to know…
The locker had two compartments; a door and a drawer. Brogan tried pulling at the door but his hands were too damp with sweat and his fingers slid uselessly off the wooden handle. Wiping them on the sheet that had come off the bed, he tried again. The door opened and Brogan's mouth opened in a gasp of dismay. The compartment was completely empty. Shaking now, he pulled at the drawer, praying to any gods that might hear him.
Inside there was only one familiar object. Not his wallet stuffed with dollars, not his passport, only the cheap mobile phone he had bought before leaving Mallorca.
Hands still trembling, Brogan lifted it out and flicked the device open. The battery still showed full. Brogan flicked a gaze at the Christ on the wall. That was something to be thankful for, at least.
He tapped out her number then pressed the green button and waited.
For a few moments Brogan listened as the ringing tone pounded in his head, biting his lips, willing his sister to pick up her phone and answer it. She wasn't there, he thought, dismay making him shiver as he sat there on the tiled floor.
Then the ringing stopped and his face creased in a smile as he anticipated Marianne's hello.
'Who's this?' a voice asked suddenly, making Brogan frown.
Did he know that accent? A shudder went through his body.
No. It couldn't be…
'It's me. It's Billy,' he said slowly, hoping that his instincts about that voice were wrong. `Will you put Marianne on?' He heard his own words come out, thin and reedy, like an old man's.
A chuckle sounded from the line. 'Oh, she's been hoping to speak to you,' the man told him. 'Haven't you, Marianne?'
Brogan heard his sister's muffled reply but he was unable to make out her words.
'Is that you, Stevens?' he asked, suspiciously.
'Who did you think it was, Brogan?' the hit man replied. 'Santa Claus?'
The dealer sat, stunned into silence. How had Stevens managed to find Marianne, of all people? After the pains she had taken to ensure that nobody could find her; these repeated changes of address, her name deleted from that registry file. Nobody but Amit, Brogan reminded himself. Was that how Stevens had located her? 'Hello?' Stevens said, and Brogan heard the man's fingers tapping against the plastic casing of his mobile.
'I'm still here,' Brogan said, resisting the temptation to add 'only just.'
'Well, listen to me, pal, and listen good,' Stevens told him.
Brogan nodded then wished he hadn't, the throbbing in his skull making him feel as though he might pass out if he moved again.
Stevens' voice continued, telling Brogan what he expected him to do, telling him what would happen to Marianne if he failed to comply with his demands. Warning him to keep the police out of it.
Then the man stopped speaking and Brogan heard a small cry in the background.
He winced, trying to imagine what was happening to his sister at the hands of this man, a man he knew to be capable of unimaginable horrors.
'Billy? Billy?' Marianne was sobbing into the phone, her breath coming in short bursts.
'Aye, I'm here,' Brogan said, pulling the crumpled sheet around his shivering form.
'Please,' she cried. 'Please do as he says, Billy,' Marianne begged. 'He… he's got a gun. And he says…' her voice tailed off then returned in a whisper. 'He says he'll kill me if you don't get him that money.'
'Where are you?' Brogan asked, urgently. 'Just tell me where.
And I'll fix everything.'
Marianne had just given him the name of a city centre hotel and their room number when Brogan flinched, hearing her let out a yelp. As he heard Stevens shouting at her Brogan stiffened, wanting to square up to the hit man, sudden rage boiling up inside him.
'You heard what she said, Brogan. You get that money to me by tomorrow or she's dead meat. Understood?'
'I'll need more time,' Brogan protested, hearing the blood pound in his head.
But the connection had been cut and he sat there looking at the phone in his hand, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get out of this mess.
The leaves were falling in swirls, withered and brown, as Solly watched from the window of his new office. Summer was past and the new session was beginning. Already students had arrived back in the city, many of them looking for accommodation or books from their lists, trying to prepare for the autumn term that lay ahead. His postgraduate students had never really left though, working on dissertations that never seemed to be curtailed by the familiar markers of the academic year.
Marianne's name had not appeared in his class lists so far.
Where was she? Solly had watched the recorded Crimewatch programme with Rosie, his concern for the woman growing as he had listened to Lorimer's appeal. He had sat through to the end, seeing pictures of criminals who had slipped out of the reach of police in several different parts of the country. Many of them went by aliases, Solly noticed. And that had given him something to think about. What if Marianne had changed her name, too?
So far he had not made much progress with his own investigation but today there was one thing that he thought he might do.
He turned around, his eye falling upon the many boxes of textbooks laid neatly below his bookshelves. Among them were several from the library that he had borrowed and must now be returned. SoIly bent down, taking the books out of their boxes, opening every one to check its return date before placing them in a tidy pile. Perhaps, like him, Marianne had had to visit the library, to take back books? It was worth a try, Solly thought as he gathered up the textbooks into a hessian shopping bag.
Several students were walking down the path towards the students' union as Solly emerged from the door of the psychology department and he smiled at their laughter, hearing the sound of enthusiasm in their voices. Freshers, he thought, nodding to himself.
Their lives were on the threshold of something new and wonderful and on this windy day when the air tossed the leaves skywards, Solly found their eagerness quite infectious. Quickening his stride, Solly turned left, following the path to the library, a modern building that was tucked between the Hunterian Museum and the curve of University Gardens.
The library was already busy with students sitting at tables, poring over books or laptops. As ever, Solly found himself relaxing in this place where quiet study was carried out day after day. He handed over the books, watching as the librarian checked to see that the dates tallied as they should then he cleared his throat.
'Perhaps you might do something for me?' he asked, smiling hopefully.
'Of course, Doctor Brightman,' the librarian replied. 'Is there a book you want us to reserve for you?'
Solly shook his head. 'No, no, nothing like that. I'd like you to do a little detective work,' he said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially.
'It's one of my students. She seems to have changed her name.' He shrugged as if this was a matter of little import. 'It was Marianne Scott, but perhaps you don't have it on record?'
'Oh, we have everything on record, Doctor Brightman,' the woman replied briskly. 'Now, what year is she in?'
SoIly told her and waited as the woman worked at the keyboard, her eyes on the computer screen. `Ah, yes. Marianne Scott. She was in here less than a fortnight ago,' the woman told him. 'Told us she had changed her name from Scott to Shafiq. Must have married a foreigner,' the woman said, her eyebrows raised in mild surprise.
'Well, thanks for that. I'm sure she'll let us know the details in due course but our secretaries will be glad to put it right for now.
For class lists, you know?' he murmured.
Gathering up the empty bag, Solly left the library and made his way back down to the main road, his heart beating a little faster.
She had married! Rosie was right, then. Her woman's intuition had suggested that Marianne's personality change was down to that old black magic, after all. Plus she had alerted the library to that change of name. So, he reasoned, Marianne had intended to resume her studies here.
The television programme had suggested that she might be involved in her ex-husband's death, but how could that be? If Marianne had hoped to continue at university as normal surely she would be afraid of detection in such a public place as this?
The psychologist stopped at the edge of the pavement across from the main university gates and stood still, staring into the sky, quite unaware of the curious glances he was receiving from passers-by.
Motivation was everything in a crime, he told himself. Why a person chose to commit an evil deed said so much more about them than the deed itself. If Marianne had killed her own husband then what could her motive have been? She had been legally divorced from Scott so she did not need to be rid of him to marry this Shafiq, whoever he was. Yet, she had thanked Solly for… for what? Suggesting that she rid herself of some bad dreams? In the clear light of this autumn day such a notion seemed absurd, but, until he knew more, Doctor Solomon Brightman could only theorise about the reason behind Marianne's change from the timid student she had been into the vibrant woman he remembered from the bookshop. And was that simply down to finding the right man to love?
SoIly noticed the orange lights of an approaching taxi and he stepped forwards on to the road, one arm raised. Perhaps it was a little rash of him, a little presumptuous, but it had to be done.
'Into town, please,' he told the driver. Then, stepping into the cab, he gave him the address of Lorimer's divisional headquarters.
Sitting back, SoIly stroked his beard thoughtfully, wondering what sort of reaction his unexpected appearance would provoke.
Lorimer sat on the edge of a desk, facing the members of his team. All of them had been brought up to date with the Crimewatch results. There had been some tuts of disapproval as the team learned that one of Scott's neighbours had phoned in, distraught yet full of apologies, telling them that she had gone into the house to tidy up, as she had put it. Hadn't meant to cause any bother. The mystery of the neatly made bed was a mystery no longer. That was one box at least that could be ticked. But the best result had been the Asian's call and now Lorimer was relating Amit Shafiq's part in the investigation.
'We've got him under surveillance partly for his own protection,' he explained. 'After what happened to Jaffrey we can't afford to take any risks,' he said gravely. 'Hopefully the people who were Brogan's associates will make contact with him, but that may take time…' he broke off as the door to the room opened and a harassed looking uniformed officer entered, a familiar figure in her wake.
'I'm sorry, sir, but he wouldn't listen when I said you were in a meeting.. `Ah, Lorimer,' Solly neatly sidestepped the woman and came forward, beaming as though the senior officer would be equally delighted to see him.
'Doctor Brightman,' Lorimer replied formally, sliding off the desk and taking the man's outstretched hand. 'We are, as you see, in a meeting..
Solly looked around him, nodding at the officers he knew well.
'Yes, yes, that's fine. I thought it best to come right away, you see.
There's such a lot you all have to know,' he told them, standing just in front of Lorimer as though to take his place, a strategy that was quite deliberate on the psychologist's part.
'Forgive the sudden interruption,' he added, glancing at Lorimer with a sweet smile that he knew was not nearly apologetic enough. 'But I have information relating to the disappearance of Marianne Scott.' He turned to Lorimer again. 'Or should I say, Marianne Shafiq?'
It gave the psychologist a moment of satisfaction to see Lorimer's jaw drop at the mention of that name.
'How did you know..
'Your good people came to see me, remember?' Solly waved a hand in the direction of Irvine and Fathy. 'I was made aware of the fact that you were looking for one of my students, a young woman whom I had come across by chance during the summer vacation,' Solly continued, drawing Lorimer to his side as he addressed the assembled officers. 'I had been puzzled for some time by something that she said to me,' he went on. 'Something rather strange.' He paused and looked at them intently while they waited, most of them accustomed to the sudden little silences in the psychologist's flow.
Perhaps,' he said, turning to catch Lorimer's eye, 'it might be easier to understand if I begin at the beginning.' He took off his spectacles and polished them with the end of his tie, looked to see that they were clean, then replaced them. 'Marianne Scott began studying with me a year ago. She was a mature student but the difference in her age was not what marked her out from the rest of her class.'
There was complete silence as Solly continued, the officers keen to hear whatever new information he might have.
'Marianne was a very quiet, withdrawn sort of creature. One who liked to keep to the back of a seminar, remain unnoticed,'
Solly said, nodding his head as though he were trying to recall her exactly. 'I remember her as a plain looking woman; hair pulled back from her face, no make-up, rather drab, actually,' he said, a note of apology in his voice as though he were stating some political incorrectness. 'With hindsight, I think that this was a deliberate ploy on her part.'
The quizzical looks that were directed towards him made SoIly nod once more.
'When I saw her a few weeks ago, she was a different person altogether. Vibrant,' he murmured to himself. 'That's the word I keep coming back to. It means being full of life and energy,' he explained. And she was. Her hair was long and loose, that lovely Titian red… she wore something brightly coloured… I can't recall just what it was… but it was her expression that stays in my mind most of all,' he said, folding his arms across his chest. 'She was so full of animation, excitement, joy..
Solly broke off again but this time Lorimer filled the pause.
'How is this supposed to help us find the woman?' he asked, a note of irritation in his voice.
'I was coming to that,' Solly replied mildly. 'She said she had something to thank me for,' he told them. 'Her exact words were, I've a lot to thank you for' He nodded again, this time unsmiling.
'Later I was to find out that I had met her just one day after the death of her ex-husband,' he said.
There was a murmur amongst the officers who did not notice the psychologist's sigh as he spoke. But Lorimer had heard it and came to stand beside his friend.
'You know something about all of this, Solly, don't you?' Lorimer asked.
'Yes,' he replied sadly. 'You see,' he continued, 'I fear it may have been something I said that prompted Marianne Scott to have her husband killed.'
'What?' one officer asked, clearly incredulous at the psychologist's statement. Others began to frown and mutter amongst themselves.
'Okay, let Doctor Brightman explain,' Lorimer waved an authoritative hand, silencing the officers' reaction.
Solly began to describe the scene he had remembered from the seminar on dreams, taking care to repeat his own words, explaining why he had said them.
'It was a careless, throwaway remark,' he shrugged. 'Something to elicit a laugh. But I fear that the woman may have taken it seriously.
You see,' he broke off again, his gaze sweeping the room, 'I think she was haunted by particular dreams of her own death. I believe,' he continued, 'she may have thought her ex-husband was going to kill her.'
A derisive snort came from the back of the room and a male voice called out, 'Well, if you saw her having so many mood changes she probably was a bit unstable. Do we know if she had mental health problems?'
'Problems?' another voice burst out. 'Of course she had problems!'
Everyone turned to see IX: Annie Irvine standing, red-faced, her eyes bright with anger.
'Do any of you know what it's like?' she asked, thrusting her hands forwards in appeal. 'Day after day after day not knowing if he's going to be behind you in the street or the bus or a queue at Starbucks? Jumping every time the phone rings in case it's another load of filth you have to hear? Leaving the home you love just to get rid of him..
Tears were streaming down the policewoman's cheeks now but she seemed totally unaware of them.
'You don't know, do you, any of you?' she said, whirling to look at her fellow officers in turn. 'Marianne Scott was probably out of her mind with the strain of it all. Being hounded like that must have been bad enough, but to be unable to sleep because of him infiltrating her dreams…' She broke off in sobs and Fathy came to stand beside her, proffering a large white handkerchief.
There was an uneasy silence as several of the officers eyed her curiously, others too embarrassed at her outburst to even look in her direction.
'Is that why you joined the police force?' Solly asked kindly and nobody was surprised when Annie Irvine nodded, hand holding Fathy's handkerchief to her face.
'I'm sorry,' she gulped, 'I shouldn't have..
'No, don't apologise,' Lorimer told her. 'Perhaps we need to understand a little more about Marianne Scott and her ex husband in order to see how Doctor Brightman's story is possible.'
'Maybe it was the only way she could imagine being rid of him,' DS Cameron suggested.
'And if she was having such awful, recurring nightmares, she probably wasn't what you would describe as being in her right mind,' Fathy put in.
'If what we have heard is true, and remember it is only a theory – we can't present something like Doctor Brightman's notions as hard evidence – then this woman may need help,'
Lorimer said. 'We need to look into old hospital records, see if there is anything that might suggest injuries from abuse by the husband. She deliberately absconded from what Shafiq saw as a place of safety. Now why is that, do you think?'
There was no answer from the room.
'Well,' Cameron said at last. 'If she knows that her brother is being sought by the police, surely it follows that she's afraid we'll bring her in too.'
'She's still hiding,' Annie said firmly. 'She may have thought that everything in her world was working out when you saw her,' she nodded towards Solly. 'Thought she could sleep peacefully at last.'
'Well, let's hope that Shafiq might lead us to her. No matter what he says, I think someone in the Asian community may have a good idea of her whereabouts,' Lorimer said firmly. 'Brogan's links involve his sister, I'm sure of that.'
Billy sat on the edge of the bed and wept, his shoulders heaving as the sobs racked his body. If only… he sighed, remembering the words of his mum. If only you were more like your sister, she'd scolded him on a daily basis. Instead of running with that bad crowd. Poor old Mum had succumbed to the cancer that had ravaged her body, long since, dying in that hospital where he had rarely visited, knowing he was unwelcome, the black sheep of the family.
He hadn't been able to face that, either, had he? It had always been the same: he'd run away from anything hard. Had she always seen him as a bad lad? Probably, he thought, tears of remorse trickling down his face. Dogging off from as young as ten, trying dope before he'd even reached the end of primary, selling it by the time he was in high school. And while Marianne sat and passed all of her exams Billy Brogan had been receiving a different sort of education altogether. How to hustle, how to drive a good deal, how to ingratiate himself into an established group of businessmen.
Until that time when someone had been stabbed in a fight amongst a rowdy lot of football casuals, out of their heads on a mixture of booze and drugs. That had been the end of it for da, hadn't it? There was no welcome home for his boy after that.
Billy Brogan had been lifted with the rest of them, thrown into the cells for a night he didn't ever want to repeat. The threat of a longer spell in prison had driven him into the army and into the company of men who seemed to understand how he felt about life. Many of them were from far more impoverished backgrounds than he was, Billy remembered, shivering as he sat with the sheet wrapped around him. Guys who thrived on three decent meals a day, loved the camaraderie and even took to the harsh discipline as though they had been waiting for someone to give some form or structure to their lives. Even in the scary situations when lives were on the line (and sometimes blown away, though you never dwelt on that) Private Billy Brogan had seen lads who'd once been young hoods like himself turn into brave and honourable men. If only he'd stayed in the army…
Meeting Stevens had been the turning point for him, though.
The older man's biting cynicism had made him laugh. Had made them all laugh, some uneasily, as he recounted stories about picking off his human targets out on patrol. At first Billy had thought the man's tales a load of bullshit, but gradually he'd realised that Stevens was not just a trained sniper, but that being good at killing was something of which the man was inordinately proud.
'Found my vocation, haven't 1, Billy boy?' Brogan remembered him saying after one particularly bloodthirsty patrol when several young Iraqis had fallen under Stevens' fire.
'When this is all over, I'll be coining it, won't I?'
And when Billy had asked him 'How?' Stevens had told him.
'Once a killer, always a killer, Billy boy. And there's plenty will pay for me to do jobs they can't or won't do themselves, know what I mean?'
If only he hadn't kept in touch with the hit man. If only he had ignored Marianne's pleas for help. If only bloody Ken had let her go… There were so many if onlys in his life, Brogan thought wearily, wiping his eyes with a corner of the sheet. Now it looked as though he'd have to face all the bad choices he had made.
'Hello?'
The door opening made Billy look up, startled out of his thoughts.
A woman dressed in white, with a veil billowing over her shoulder, had entered the room and was advancing to him.
Billy pulled the sheet more closely around his body, suddenly shy.
'Who ur you, hen?' he muttered, his Glasgow accent sounding suddenly strange to his own ears.
'It's all right,' the woman said and Billy felt a sudden relief at her English accent. 'I'm your nurse. I'm here to help you.' She smiled, seeing Billy's uncertainty. 'Glad you've woken up at last.
You've been sleeping for quite a long time, you know. We were worried that you might have had a more severe head injury,' she nodded, glancing at his bandaged skull. 'Now just sit back against the pillows while I change that dressing.'
Brogan pushed the breakfast tray to the foot of the bed with a sigh. Funny how a decent bit of food and the prospect of some fresh clothes could make you feel less desperate. He'd been picked up off that back alley and taken to the hospital, one British citizen robbed and beaten; no identity since all of his personal things had been stolen. All but his mobile phone and that hadn't helped them much since it appeared that he hadn't stored any numbers. Brogan had breathed a sigh of relief when the nurse had told him that, her pretty face creasing in a frown. He needed to keep certain things to himself, especially now. Things like Marianne. What was happening to his sister?
Connie, his nurse, had promised that a car would be made available to take him to the British Consul. Did he feel up to it, though? Thinking of Stevens' threatened deadline, Billy had assured her he was feeling brand new, thank you, barely concealing the panic he really felt. Now all he had to do was dress in these borrowed garments and head off to where someone could help him sort out this mess.
The sunlight filtering through the blinds reminded Brogan of the glare of the African sun beating down outside on these foreign streets. Only they were the streets of Algiers, not Morocco. Stupid, stupid, he berated himself. Only a moron would make a mistake like that, he'd told himself more than once. Palma, Mallorca was a very long way from Las Palmas in the Canary Islands and the nearby Moroccan coast. And he deserved to be punished for such stupidity now.
Brogan took a deep breath. He was done with running away from his responsibilities. Now he had to get back home as soon as he could. No matter what the final consequences.