Marianne woke with a start. Somehow she had slept through the night with no dreams to disturb her for once. Was it because she was so exhausted, physically and emotionally, or had she simply found that reality was far more terrifying than all the images that had swirled uncontrollably around her brain?
Max (she couldn't stop thinking of him as Max) was not in the hotel room. The bed they had shared was neatly made, but not by one of the hotel staff. He had made sure of that, letting the Do Not Disturb notice dangle from the door knob outside. Hearing their sexual frolics night after night must have made the staff think they were newlyweds or something, Marianne realised. Had it all been a ploy, then? Had Max bedded her to make the hotel think they were on their honeymoon? He'd certainly beguiled her into imagining that all of these endearments and caresses had been real. She bit the inside of her lip, trying not to cry, but the gaffer tape caught at her skin, tightening its grip.
The hit man had secured her to the only wooden chair in the room, one she'd sat on in front of the mirror to brush her hair, put on her make-up. He had set it deliberately away from a wall so that Marianne could not thump her elbows or wrists against the adjoining rooms. Nor could she tilt it over, making it crash to the floor, he'd seen to that, too, roping the back of it firmly to the brass bed ends.
She swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in her throat. How long had it been since she had drunk anything? Hours and hours, she told herself, glancing at the television's digital clock. Despite that, she badly needed to pee.
Marianne closed her eyes and began to pray. Please, please let Billy come home. Would Billy come back, bringing the money that Max asked him for? Or would he leave her there, running away from something difficult as he usually did?
That's not fair, a little voice reminded her. He helped you to get rid of Ken, didn't he?
Marianne shivered, remembering the nightmares and the days when she had been too scared to turn around to see Ken following her, stalking her wherever she went. She'd been terrified he'd get hold of her once again; torture her in those insidious ways he had devised. No matter how often she changed her address he had always seemed to find her. I'll sleep like the dead once he's gone for good, she'd told Billy once, and her brother had laughed at the phrase.
Max had killed those two men in Billy's flat, Galbraith and Sandiman. The hit man had shrugged it off, telling her they had been an accident. But his words had chilled her. There had been no tone of remorse whatever, just a matter-of-factness that had made her wonder at the nature of a man like this. What would Doctor Brightman have made of him? she wondered. Did he fit the description of a psychopathic personality? Marianne didn't think so. Her Max Whittaker, Billy's Mick Stevens, was so frighteningly normal, wasn't he? As a companion he'd been able to make her laugh. As a lover he had been able to make her swoon with pleasure. And all the time he had been planning her imprisonment, calculating Billy's response to his threats.
She sighed, hearing her breath tremble as she exhaled. It was crazy, but she still felt something for the man she had met that day by the car park, some remnant of longing. (And of lust, though it shamed her to admit it.) What was it they called it? That odd relationship that a prisoner forged with their captor? Something to do with being in thrall to them, being a hostage, something like that?
Despite the hours of sleep, Marianne felt dog tired, and her brain was unable to summon up words and phrases.
Somewhere she heard the ring of a phone, far away, as if it was coming from the next room. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she could hear the guest next door speaking on his mobile? Perhaps if she made a big enough noise he would hear her and alert the hotel staff…?
But as the door opened and Max walked in, his ear to her own mobile, all thoughts of rescue faded. Over one arm he carried a plastic bag, its contents bulging. The woman's eyes fell on a bottle top. Water! She watched as he threw the bag on to the bed, totally ignoring her as he spoke into the telephone.
'Aye, Brogan. Just you do that,' Stevens was saying, making Marianne's eyes light up with sudden hope.
'You want to speak to her?' He turned to Marianne with a grin across his face. Not sure if she can manage conversation right now, let's see.'
Marianne screamed as he tore the duct tape from her mouth, her head swung roughly to one side.
'That do for you, Brogan? Hear it loud and clear?' Stevens was saying into the phone. 'Well, maybe you'll not hear her voice for much longer if you don't get your arse back here with my money.
Got it?' he tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled a bottle of water from the bag.
Slowly he unscrewed the top, tilting it up to take deep gulps. `Ah,' he sighed. 'That was good.' The watched as she licked her lips, knowing that she was unable to take her eyes off the bottle.
'Thirsty, are you, darlin'?' he asked then laughed softly. 'Want some?'
Marianne nodded, hardly daring to breathe.
He came so close to her that she could smell the familiar mixture of sweat and aftershave lotion.
'If I give you some, you'll have to promise to be a good girl.
Okay?' His voice was soft and low, a lover's murmur in her ear.
'I promise,' she said, meeting his gaze with her own, hoping as much for his lips to brush against hers as for the bottle of water that he held aloft.
Ii orimer moved the telephone from his ear for a moment, covering the mouthpiece with one hand as he turned to the man who sat patiently beside him.
'It's the British Consul in Algiers,' he whispered. 'They've got Brogan with them. He wants to talk to me.'
Solly nodded. 'Perhaps the Ctimewatch programme has spread its…' he fell silent as Lorimer shushed him, waving his words aside.
'Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,' he said. 'Mr Brogan?'
'Aye, you've been looking for me, Lorimer, haven't you? Well, I jist want to say I had nothin' taste do wi Fraz and Gubby, okay?'
'We know that, Mr Brogan. But I think you also know that we want to talk to you about the death of your former brother-in-law, Mr Kenneth Scott,' Lorimer told him, speaking as calmly as he could to temper the drug dealer's initial belligerence.
There was a pause then Lorimer could hear the man sigh down the line.
'Aye, well, that wasnae me, neither.'
Not directly, perhaps,' Lorimer conceded.
'Look, Mr Lorimer, I huvnae time taste waste wi' all of this, right? Ye c'n charge me wance I'm hame, but meantime… ye huv taste do something fur me.'
'I'm listening,' Lorimer said, hearing the urgency in the man's voice.
Brogan drew a deep breath before continuing. 'There's this man called Mick Stevens. He's the one you're looking for. He's got my sister. And he's going to..
Lorimer frowned at the handset, wondering if the line had suddenly been cut off, but Brogan's voice returned, high-pitched and nervy.
'Mr Lorimer you've got to do something quick. Or Stevens is going to kill her.'
'We have very few choices,' Lorimer told the superintendent.
'Either we allow this man, Stevens, to stay in the City Inn armed with God knows how many weapons, threatening the life of a young woman, or we go in after him.' He paused then gripped the sides of Mitchison's desk, willing the man to agree with him for once. 'We've got one strategic advantage, sir. And that's the hotel's proximity to Anderston police station. We can call on as many of their officers as they have available right now.'
Mitchison nodded. 'You're right. It's a class A situation; public safety must be our primary concern. What do you suggest?'
DCI Lorimer took a deep breath and began to outline his plan.
Omar Fathy fastened on the Kevlar vest, glancing at his fellow officers as they prepared themselves for danger. It was all part of the job, he reminded himself, feeling the buzz of adrenalin shooting through his veins, nothing to get too worked up about. Omar gave a wry smile. It was just this sort of scenario that had caused his parents to have so many misgivings when their son had announced his decision to join the police force. Far too dangerous, his mother had scolded him, but Omar had simply grinned and told her to stop watching so many TV cop shows; it wasn't like that in real life. But now the young man was in a situation that had begun to resemble some of these celluloid adventures. And he found that it was thrilling.
'Ready?' Annie Irvine was not smiling as she came to stand by his side.
'You bet,' Omar replied. For a moment they looked at one another, two colleagues ready to face a dangerous situation. And suddenly Omar wanted it to be more than that; his fingers itching to take Annie's hand in his, to reassure her that everything would be okay. But then a voice commanded them forwards, the moment was gone and she turned towards the police transporter van that was to take them into the city centre, leaving Omar feeling slightly dispirited.
'Got your taser?' Annie asked and Omar nodded, giving it a tap against the belt that contained his equipment. He had never been supplied with a weapon before and had been surprised when Lorimer had insisted that they be issued for their own safety. Still, there was to be a proper firearms unit there as well, men who were trained to shoot on command. These hand-picked officers were already on their way to the scene, the hotel's staff having been alerted to evacuate the premises.
Fathy had been amazed at the speed with which Lorimer had managed to make all of these things happen, though having Anderston so close by was a huge bonus. Now, entering the white van and wedging himself next to his colleagues, he squared his shoulders, returning the nervous smiles and glances that were directed his way.
For the first time since arriving in Glasgow he felt truly part of this team. No matter what happened today or the next day or the week after that, Fathy knew that nothing would stop him being a police officer, not even the malicious notes he was receiving with such painful regularity.
The hit man had selected his location well, thought Lorimer as they approached Glasgow's City Inn. If he had planned to be in a siege situation, Stevens couldn't have made a better strategic choice. The hotel was bounded on one side by the river and there was a police launch just out of firing range, in the lee of its southern bank. The Squinty Bridge and the main road to the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre had been closed to traffic with police cordons set up around the adjoining streets, the road block at the slip road to the M8 causing most of the disruption for motorists.
Looking up at the pale blue sky and a single gull floating over the river, Lorimer wondered at how calm it all seemed. There was little sound of traffic save from the distant rumble across the faraway bridges.
His decision to call this operation 'eyeball in the skyball' had been met with curious looks from those officers too young to remember The Perishers cartoons. But it had seemed an appropriate tag for this hostage situation, especially when the new technology of the PD-100 Black Hornet was to be utilised. It might have seemed like a waste of an afternoon at the time, but now Lorimer found himself pinning a lot of hope on this new, untried device. He grinned as he remembered the superintendent's raised eyebrows: for once Mark Mitchison had been in total accord with all of Lorimer's proposals.
The window of Stevens' room was at an acute angle from their present position, but they would be able to see when the Black Hornet was activated and watch its flight upwards to the hotel's top floor then listen to what was happening inside. An additional advantage was that this tiny helicopter could send images back to the monitor that was secreted inside the police vehicle where Lorimer sat with Wilson and Solly.
'Lucky that Brogan knew which hotel they were in,' DS Wilson murmured to Lorimer as they sat waiting in the patrol car opposite the hotel car park.
'More than lucky for us,' Lorimer replied quietly. 'Especially when his sister told him their room number into the bargain.'
Both officers kept other thoughts to themselves: that sometimes luck played a part in bringing an investigation to a satisfactory close. But it was far from being ended and much could still be played out against the backdrop of this riverside scene. It was hard to imagine that Strathclyde Police now had this place surrounded, the quiet was so intense.
'What's happening with Brogan?' Wilson whispered.
'Being flown back to the UK under escort,' Lorimer replied.
'Right, looks like we've got all our ducks in a row,' he added, spotting the officer who was to launch the Black Hornet. 'Radio silence, all units, please,' he said, nodding to the members of his team who watched and waited from the confines of their vehicle.
Mick Stevens was completely oblivious to the tiny helicopter whirring silently past the window of his bedroom, hovering to a place just out of his direct line of sight. But he did know that things had begun to happen.
The fire alarm had been set off half an hour ago, making him look out into the corridor. The frightened face of a porter met his as the man rushed towards the nearest exit. And in that one look, the hit man had seen something he recognised. Fear. And not just the fear of some bogus fire. It was fear of him. The hit man. Mick Stevens.
So now he knew it was happening. Everything had caught up with him yet all he felt was a strange sense of calm, as though this day had been inevitable.
When he heard the loudspeaker announcing the police presence, Stevens had been savvy enough to keep out of sight from the window There would be police marksmen all over the bloody place, ready to pick him off the moment they saw his face.
'Let the woman go, Stevens!' a voice commanded, its booming tones reverberating in the cold air outside his room.
'What d'you think, darlin'? Should I let you go?' Mick smiled sadly at Marianne whose eyes bulged with terror at the pistol pointed at her. 'After all, Billy's been a bad boy, bringing the cops after us, hasn't he?' Stevens reasoned, waving the gun at her.
'Deserves to be punished,' he went on. 'And what better way,' he brandished the weapon closer to Marianne's face, 'than to leave him a little message?' he laughed softly, pulling one finger back.
Marianne shrank further into the chair, her body slick with sweat under the thin covering of her nightdress. He was going to kill her. Any minute now he was going to press that trigger… she closed her eyes, terror numbing her senses, her only prayer that it would be over quickly.
'Right, you're coming with me, darlin',' Mick crooned softly. 'A little walk upstairs. See if you'd like to fly instead.'
Lorimer and Wilson exchanged glances as the couple left the hotel bedroom and disappeared. The Black Hornet's microphone had picked up the hit man's words perfectly but it was unable to do any more unless he appeared by that window.
'The roof,' Lorimer said, shortly. 'He's taking her up onto the roof.'
The DCI shifted his position to get a better view of the upper level of the hotel, then spoke into the mouthpiece. 'Attention all units. No firing until you are absolutely sure that the girl is out of Stevens' way. And as soon as we have sight of them get the Hornet up to their level!'
'Oh my God,' Wilson whispered. `D'you think..
Lorimer's face was grim as he replied. 'I think he may be going to jump,' he said. 'And take Marianne with him.'
Amit had watched the men following him, aware of their presence at every street corner. Didn't they know how adept he had become in those frightened weeks after his father's death when spies had dogged his every footstep? Here in this strange city he might have been considered an easy target, but Amit Shafiq knew all about the art of surveillance.
Hiding from these undercover officers was not an option, so the man from Lahore had decided to adopt a different strategy altogether.
He was not going to be hunted all of his life. No, he would turn this to his own advantage. Now, whenever he saw them, Amit simply turned and walked back towards them, across busy roads, in and out of the subways, smiling to himself as they moved away, shiftily, as though they hoped their cover was still intact.
So it was that the hunters became the hunted and Amit Shafiq had let several of them pick up his trail, hoping that they might eventually lead him to where Marianne was hiding. Practising that U-turn, he had followed different men and women all over the city until this morning. One of them, a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt, ostensibly out jogging on Byres Road, had put one hand to her ear as if she was adjusting her iPod. But it was the expression on her face as she stopped mid-stride, rather than the tell-tale action, that immediately alerted Amit. Something was happening.
Suddenly ignoring the Asian, she broke into a run, fled across Great Western Road, one hand waving frantically as she hailed a taxi.
Amit was not far behind her.
He grinned as he got into his own cab, feeling almost like a boy again as he told the taxi driver, 'Follow that cab!'
The road at Houldsworth Street had been closed to traffic but the woman's taxi stopped a little beyond the police tape and Amit saw her get out, brandishing what he took to be a warrant card at the officer who bent towards the taxi driver.
'Here,' Amit whispered to his own driver. 'You never saw me.
All right?' Then thrusting a couple of twenties into the man's hand, he slipped out of the cab and walked cautiously past the empty car park at PC World, and the deserted forecourt of the Citroen garage.
'Sorry, you can't go past here, sir,' the uniformed officer told Amit. `DCI Lorimer needs me,' Amit told him firmly. 'I'm with that other officer but we got split up back there,' he lied, pointing to the woman in running gear who was now quite far ahead, almost at the corner where the road forked right towards the City Inn.
'Need to see your ID, sir,' the man replied firmly.
'Of course,' Amit said, putting a hand to his inside pocket. Then, as though he had spotted someone behind the policeman, he smiled and waved. As the officer turned, Amit broke into a run, arms pumping hard by his sides, heart thudding at his own audacity.
Marianne felt her legs buckle beneath her as Max pulled her off the chair, her bonds cut free by a knife he had produced from somewhere.
'Come on,' he told her, flicking her hair back from her face with the blade of the knife. 'Get going.'
As the hit man pocketed the knife and picked up the gun again, Marianne bit her lip. She had to go, she just had to…
Too terrified to reach out and touch his arm, the woman watched his every move until finally she caught his eye.
'Please,' she begged. Van I go to the toilet?'
He seemed to hesitate for a moment then shrugged. 'Okay, but make it quick.'
With a sigh, Marianne sat on the pan and closed her eyes. It was humiliating to have him standing there, watching, but the relief as her bladder finally gave up its contents overcame any residual embarrassment.
'Right, move it,' the hit man told her.
Somehow she managed to stumble towards the doorway and out into the darkened corridor. All the lights were out, she noticed. Had the hotel staff cut off the power? A flicker of hope entered the woman's heart. Maybe the police outside would save her from the man who was pushing her steadily along, that gun pressed into her back, urging her towards the end of the corridor.
Or would Max relent? Tell her it was all a mistake? That he never intended to harm her?
The fresh air made her gasp as the door was thrust open and Marianne was bundled onto the roof. Her nightdress billowed upwards, exposing her bare legs and for a moment Marianne feared that she would be blown straight off into the river below 'I can't…' she said, holding back, her eyes pleading with the gunman.
'Move,' he said, twisting her arm painfully so that now she was in front of him, a human shield, protection from whoever tried to fire on them.
'Please,' Marianne whimpered, her bare feet taking steps against their will. Sharp bits of gravel cut into the soles, making her wince.
The edge of the roof began to come so close. Too close…
'No!' she said, struggling in his grip. 'Don't make me! Please!'
But her words blew away in the wind as he forced her nearer and nearer to that dizzying drop.
Amit walked slowly around the corner of the street, aware at any minute that he might be made to return. The undercover policewoman had disappeared and there were several police vehicles parked around the outside of the hotel.
He stopped, lingering in the shadow of a building, wondering what was going on. Ahead of him, crouched low beside a white van, was a police marksman, his rifle trained on something he could not see.
Amit looked up.
Just as two figures appeared on the roof, Lorimer's voice sounded from a nearby loudhailer.
'Stop right where you are, Stevens. Leave the woman and come back down!'
'Stay back or I'll shoot her!' the hit man yelled.
Amit took a step forward, eyes fixed on the man who was drawing closer to the edge of the roof and the woman he held in his grasp, her red hair blowing in the wind.
Then he began to run.
'Marianne!' he called, waving his arms at them. 'Marianne!'
The moment he saw the little Asian, Detective Constable Omar Fathy leapt from the transporter. Where the hell had this crazy man come from? 'Stop!' he cried out, lunging towards the running figure. 'Don't go…' but his words failed as Stevens' shot rang out.
'No!' Annie screamed, feeling other arms pulling her back as she tried to leave the van and reach her friend.
'No,' she whimpered, her eyes refusing to believe what she was seeing. 'No, please God, no..
Omar lay there, motionless, arms flung out, one dark stain bloodying his forehead.
Annie stared at him, willing the Egyptian to move. 'Get up, Omar. Please get up..
Then, as strong hands turned her away from the sight, she began to sob into the shoulder of the officer next to her.
There was a man dead at his feet. Amit could see that. A young man, dark-skinned. His life taken by a bullet that had been meant for him.
Amit stood there, shock rooting him to the ground.
Then he heard a second crack of gunfire ripping through the air.
He watched as though in a dream, that figure tumbling from the edge of the roof, a dark shape outlined against the pure, pale sky then falling with a thud onto the concrete below When he looked back up, Marianne was crouched on the rooftop. Her thin, eerie wail floating down to the scene below, shattering the silence.
Then, as he saw other figures come up behind her and take her in their arms, Amit sank to his knees beside the body of the young policeman and wept. et me speak to her, first,' Solly said quietly, his hand on j Lorimer's sleeve.
They were back in divisional headquarters. It was hard to believe that it was barely two hours since they had left, such was the difference in the place. Before, there had been that tense anticipation when adrenalin and testosterone filled the veins of so many officers; now there was only a sullen silence.
Solly had taken his body armour off with the others, waiting to hear murmurs of regret, anything that would ease the pain of this deathly hush. That would come, he told himself. Maybe tonight when the police officers could feel safe in their own homes, maybe tomorrow when they reported for duty. Or perhaps not until they stood at the graveside watching as Omar Adel Fathy's body was laid to rest with all the panoply that surrounded a police officer's funeral.
Lorimer gave no sign of having heard him and Solly patted his arm, seeing the way his friend looked out of his office window. It wasn't difficult to imagine what he was seeing. The sight of his fallen officer would be imprinted on Lorimer's brain for a long time to come, Solly knew. But there were things that still had to be done even though the Senior Investigating Officer might wish to forget about them entirely.
'May I talk to her, take Detective Sergeant Cameron with me, perhaps?' Solly asked.
Lorimer gave a great sigh then wiped a hand across his eyes as though to clear that unwelcome vision.
'It's totally out of the question, Solly. I can't authorise a civilian to undertake something like that.' He gave a faint smile. 'Even you.'
Solly nodded. That was what he had expected and, though his request was genuine, it had been phrased to elicit a particular response. To shake the man back to his responsibilities.
'I'll go down myself,' Lorimer said at last, straightening himself wearily from the window sill where he had been leaning. 'But I can let you sit in on the interview Even ask some questions if you like. It'll all be on record, anyway.' He shrugged. 'Come on, let's get this over with.'
Marianne held the polystyrene cup in her fists, feeling its warmth seep right through her bones.
She was alive. And for now that was all that seemed to matter.
Those moments when she had looked down at the greyness of the pavements way below, sick with fear, still remained, however.
The uniformed policewoman who had wrapped a blanket around her as they sat in the back of the car had held on to her shoulders, murmuring soothing words. Marianne had let the tears fall, then, too choked to utter a single word.
Now, though, her mind was full of questions. How had Amit got there? Who had been shot? (She had seen the stretcher and the shape of a body beneath that white sheet.) And was Billy safe?
Marianne had stopped considering her own fate. What would come to pass was surely something that she deserved, after all?
That she would be sentenced to a lengthy stretch in prison was inevitable. But somehow that wasn't important.
'Mrs Shafiq?' A tall man had entered the small room where Marianne was sitting on a bench seat, the same female officer sitting near her.
'Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,' the man told her. 'Please would you come with me?'
Marianne met his eyes for a second, light blue, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul. Then she nodded, rising from the bench, feeling the woman's hand on her arm, helping her up. They had been quietly kind in that first police station, providing some clothes for her to wear; jeans that were too big at the waist, a navy fleece and a pair of socks and trainers. Where did they get all of these things? she had wondered, too afraid to ask, just grateful to have that stinking nightdress taken away with the promise of a shower once everything had been sorted out. A vague phrase that she had accepted, too numb to look ahead. Now, though, following this man with these broad shoulders under that dark suit, Marianne felt grubby. Raking fingers through her hair, she felt the knots and tangles and was suddenly ashamed.
'In here, please,' Lorimer ushered them through a door marked Interview Room 2.
The room they entered held a surprise.
'Doctor Brightman!'
'Marianne,' he replied, rising politely from a chair in the corner of the room. He gave her a stiff little nod, but did not come forward to take her by the hand. She glanced back at the two police officers, the tall man and the kindly woman, suddenly at a loss.
'What..?' she began.
'Sit here please,' Lorimer told her, indicating a place to one side of a formica-topped table. She sat on the plastic-covered chair, hearing its metal legs scrape along the floor, frowning at her surroundings.
Surely this was where criminals came to be questioned?
Marianne watched as Lorimer switched on a recording machine then gave his name, rank and the date and time then she blinked as the enormity of the situation began to dawn on her. She was the criminal about to be questioned.
Solly's face was grave as he watched the changing emotions flit across the woman's face. She'll still be in shock, he had advised Lorimer. But that had not seemed to concern the policeman. Was Fathy's death making him vengeful? Could he really have no consideration for this young woman's sensibilities? All of the psychologist's questions had been swept aside as Lorimer had taken the decision to interview Marianne himself, with Solly in attendance. Yet now he could understand why. This woman was vulnerable, certainly, but she might be far more compliant as a result of that, yielding up such information as they needed to know in order to make total sense of the case.
'Marianne,' Solly said, making her look at him. 'There's something I would like to know. The seminar about dreams,' he paused as her eyes widened. 'Was it my fault, giving you that idea?'
She nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'It seemed so simple really. If I could have him taken away, out of my life somehow. Then you said, why not have him killed?'
'Please explain the background to this for the record,' Solly heard Lorimer say, his voice stiff with disapproval.
'Oh, sorry,' Marianne said, turning to look at the recording machine.
'I had these terrible dreams,' she began.
Lorimer closed the door to his office with a sigh. It had been too easy, really. Once Solly's question had prompted her, the flood – gates had opened and Marianne had told them everything. How Scott had followed her everywhere, making her change her address in a series of bedsits, until she was almost at screaming point; how the chance to earn some serious money had come her way when Billy had suggested that she help out this wealthy man from Lahore. Then she had enough money to pay for that matter. She hadn't referred to it by any other term, Lorimer had noticed, never even calling Stevens a hit man, always referring to him as Billy's friend. When he had at last charged her with conspiracy to murder, Lorimer had noticed no change in the woman at all, only a vague nod as though this was something she had expected to happen, part of a process she was willing to undergo.
There was still so much to be done, he thought, suddenly longing for home with Maggie there, waiting as she always did. He still had to speak with Amit Shafiq and arrange for Brogan to be brought up to Glasgow once his plane touched down in Heathrow Airport. There were hours before he could see her, touch her hair, bury himself in her caresses. And all this while Maggie was worried sick about that operation, miserable because she thought it might make her somehow less than the beautiful woman he knew her to be.
Standing there in the room that had become almost a second home to him, Lorimer suddenly came to a decision. Sometimes changes were inevitable, like Maggie's operation, but he knew right now that it was time for him to change his career, put all of today's tragic events behind him. He would accept Joyce Rogers' proposal, take the job in the Serious Crime Squad. There would be some conditions attached, though. First he would take the leave that he was owed, making sure that it coincided with Maggie's time at home after her surgery. Then, he thought, with a sigh, he could make a fresh start again, seek out new challenges.