Mr and Mrs Fathy were sitting side by side in the family room when Lorimer walked in. The first thing he noticed about the mother was her resemblance to Omar. Mrs Fathy had that same angular face, smooth dark skin and natural grace that he remembered so well. He swallowed hard. This was not going to be easy.
'Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,' he said, moving forward.
Mr Fathy stood up and accepted the outstretched hand but his wife remained seated, tense fists clutching a large handbag on her lap.
'Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,' Mr Fathy said, his voice gruff with emotion. 'It means a lot to us.'
'Omar was a fine officer,' Lorimer began, then, giving a sigh, he passed a hand over his own eyes. 'I can't tell you how sorry I am…'
Mr Fathy touched his sleeve. 'I can see that,' he murmured. 'It is good that you show this.'
'He was tipped to go far in his police career,' Lorimer continued.
'Even those at the highest level recognised that.'
'That is some comfort,' Mr Fathy replied, though it was hard for Lorimer to tell whether Omar's father was uttering mere platitudes or whether he really meant it.
'He should never have joined up in the first place!' Mrs Fathy cried, looking at Lorimer, her face twisting in pain. tried to stop him. I really tried!'
Lorimer nodded, his blue eyes meeting her own dark gaze.
There was something in that look, some unspoken, guilty secret.
Then, as though she had said too much, she dropped her gaze and opened her bag, rustling around for a handkerchief.
And at that moment it came to him, the answer to Omar's persecution.
It was you, his own mother, Lorimer thought to himself, but he did not say the words. How she had managed it, was anyone's guess. Bribing officers within Grampian and Strathclyde to put notes in her son's locker, perhaps? Sending messages to his home address? Anything to try to stop him in the career that she hated.
Thank God he hadn't had time to put anything officially into motion.
Whatever had been going on, it simply didn't matter any more.
They'd got off with it, but Lorimer hoped that somewhere in Aberdeen and Glasgow there would be officers whose consciences would weigh heavily upon them for the rest of their careers.
Perhaps, though, Omar's mother would always feel a sense of vindication. The danger she had feared for her beloved son had come to pass in the most tragic way, despite what she had seen as her best intentions.
Lorimer cleared his throat. 'Omar is to be given the police medal for bravery,' he said. It's something that is often awarded posthumously,' he added gently. 'And, with your permission, we would like his funeral to be conducted with full police honours.'
Mr Fathy nodded. 'He would have liked that, wouldn't he, Mother?' he said, turning to his wife.
But Mrs Fathy simply bent her head and wept, her racking sobs reaching into Lorimer's heart like a knife.
Billy Brogan twisted uncomfortably against the handcuffs that were pinioning him to the metal walls of the prison transporter.
The journey from North Africa hadn't been so bad. He'd managed to chat to the stiff-looking English officer who had met him from the consulate and taken him back by plane. Being cuffed to the man had been okay, except when he'd had to go to the tiny onboard toilet. How did couples manage to join the Mile High club? he'd joked, but that had cut no ice with his poker-faced com panion.
Now he was almost back in dear old Glesca Toon, but whether Billy Brogan would see much of the city was doubtful. Barlinnie prison was his destination and, as far as Brogan knew, that high walled institution gave no views of the surrounding landscape.
The transporter rumbled along, giving Brogan no clue as to whereabouts they were and he suddenly realised that this was how it was going to be. No matter what sentence was handed down to him for conspiracy to murder, he'd lost control of his own destiny for a long time to come.
And Marianne? What of her? Nobody had let him know a thing about his sister. Perhaps once he was incarcerated and part of the system he could find out what was going on from his brief. Brogan shrugged. Stupid thing to do, really, hiring Stevens to get rid of Ken Scott. Seemed to make sense at the time.
Surely helping his only sister get rid of a filthy stalker would cut some ice with a jury? he told himself, trying to justify his actions.
The vehicle slowed down and Brogan felt his body sway as it turned a corner. Instinctively he knew they had arrived. He took a deep breath. 'Right, Billy boy,' Brogan murmured to himself.
'Time to turn on the charm.'
Amit was walking beside the Hundi. It was autumn now and the city had wrapped itself in a mistiness that chilled him to the bone.
'We have to be careful, my friend,' the Hundi told Amit. 'There are many who would wish us to perish like our friend, Jaffrey.'
Amit nodded sagely. This Hundi had been good to him, hadn't he? Introducing him to Brogan and Marianne so that he could stay in this country, ensuring that his financial needs were taken care of and now, giving him the sort of fatherly advice that the younger man respected. Instinct had warned him to say nothing about the Hundi to that tall policeman, only mentioning Brogan's part in the transaction. And that was good, wasn't it? Amit felt the big man's hand rest upon his shoulder as they strolled through Kelvingrove Park, past the pond where a heron stood motionless, waiting to strike.
'Everything is fine with Dhesi?' the Hundi asked and Amit nodded.
'He is a good friend to me,' he said simply. 'And an honest business partner.'
The Hundi smiled to himself. Just so long as Amit Shafiq thought along these lines then all was well. It was unlikely that Brogan or his sister would mention him to the police. After all, what could they say? That a nameless Pakistani gentleman had fixed things for them? Where was this man? the police would want to know. And that was a question that they would be unable to answer. No. Their community had closed ranks against the likes of Brogan and even young Jaffrey would be too afraid to talk. `Dhesi is a good man,' the Hundi continued. 'And he is concerned for your welfare.'
Amit nodded again, his eyes fixed upon the path.
'Once your… matYiage. is terminated perhaps you might think of taking another wife?'
Amit swallowed hard as a sudden vision of the laughing red haired woman came into his mind.
'You've met his niece, the lovely Nalini?' he said, patting Amit's shoulder once more. 'She would make a man like you very happy, don't you think?'
Amit looked up at the man. What did he see? A large Asian dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat, cut to hide his immense girth; a man whose very presence dominated this narrow path.
No, that was not all that Amit Shafiq could see. He had learned to look past those outward trappings. Now he could see those little piggy eyes sunk in layers of flesh glittering with a hint of malice. And, as he saw the Hundi looking back at him, Amit felt an overwhelming sense of despair.
Had he come so far only to meet a different kind of evil?
Was it the same everywhere, after all? And was there never going to be any escape for someone like him? 'Perhaps,' Amit said at last with a sigh of resignation. 'Perhaps.'