The Bird That Did Not Sing Page 12

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Nooooo!’ The scream echoed through the darkness, making him sit bolt upright.

  ‘Vivien,’ Maggie murmured, rolling over to gaze at her husband.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he whispered. ‘You go back to sleep.’

  She watched him take the dressing gown from its hook on the bedroom door, then he was gone, a shadow disappearing in the night, leaving her with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  He paused for a moment outside her room, wondering if the cry had been from a troubled dream. Was she awake? Then, hearing a whimpering from within, Lorimer pushed open the bedroom door. Moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains cast a strange light across the bed where she lay, bedclothes up to her chin, hair tousled against the white pillow.

  ‘Foxy,’ he whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

  Her only answer was a loud sniff and a mumble into the duvet.

  ‘Bad dream, eh?’ He came closer to sit on the edge of the bed, Vivien automatically shifting to one side to make room for him.

  ‘It was… horrible,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He was dead but coming towards me with this mask on his face… It was…’ She began to cry again, the words swallowed up in sobs.

  ‘Here,’ Lorimer put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his side. ‘It was a nightmare. Nothing to be afraid of,’ he soothed. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe here with us.’ He patted her back as though she were a frightened child.

  ‘What if…’ she hiccupped, ‘what if it meant something?’ Her eyes stared wildly into his and he could see the panic there, feel his arm clutched by a terrified hand. ‘What if Charles is trying to tell me something?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘You really believe that?’ Lorimer smiled at her. ‘Dreams are nothing to be afraid of, Foxy, even bad ones. They’re just rubbish accumulated by your brain then all jumbled up inside, that’s all.’

  She drew closer to him and he could feel her body shivering through the thin silk nightdress.

  ‘You shouldn’t pay any heed to bad dreams,’ he told her. ‘Best to forget them and think of something nice instead,’ he went on.

  A sudden memory came back to him of another woman whose dreams had haunted her to the point where she had lost all sense of reason. Death and despair had been the result.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ she asked, her voice small and tremulous.

  ‘Look, lass, you’ve been through a terrible few days. No wonder you’re having nightmares. And that stuff the doctor prescribed. Could it be having an effect?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she replied, one arm coming across his chest as she snuggled into him.

  ‘Listen,’ he said gently, ‘you’re safe here. Nothing and nobody can harm you. Okay?’

  As she looked up at him, Lorimer felt an ache of sadness for his old girlfriend. She tried to smile and he noticed that her cheeks were still wet with tears glimmering in the moonlight. He wiped them away with his finger.

  ‘It isn’t easy, I know.’ He smiled at her. ‘I remember something Maggie’s mum used to say: everything passes. And she was right. It must hurt so badly now, but there’ll come a time when this nightmare will all be over.’

  ‘Nothing will ever be the same,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, that’s true. But life is full of changes, Foxy. And we humans are pretty adaptable to even the worst of them.’

  Vivien gave a huge sigh and Lorimer felt her head slip on to his shoulder.

  Would she sleep again now? Drift into a dreamless sleep where no monsters chased her in that nameless place?

  ‘Can I get you anything? Some warm milk, maybe?’

  ‘No.’ She yawned suddenly. ‘Just stay with me. Please?’

  He looked at the woman lying beside him, remembering the girl she had been: that long red hair falling in their faces as they had tumbled together, their lovemaking a joyous thing. He smoothed an unruly lock away from her face and bent to kiss her forehead. A subtle perfume filled his senses, something sophisticated, something that the young Vivien Fox would never have worn, and he drew back, seeing this woman for what she was to him now, a middle-aged stranger.

  He rolled off the bed, tucking the duvet around her carefully, then went across to sit in a chair by the window.

  ‘Go to sleep, Foxy. I’ll be right here. Okay?’

  She muttered something inaudible into the pillow, then turned on her side.

  Lorimer raised his hand and pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the beam of moonlight, casting the room into a velvety darkness once more.

  Time passed so strangely in the wee small hours that it may have been only minutes, but it felt like an age before he heard her breathing deeply and knew that she was asleep once more. Standing up slowly, afraid to make the least sound, Lorimer crept out of the room, leaving the door ajar, and tiptoed back along the corridor to his own bed.

  Maggie was asleep, he guessed, as he turned back the covers and slipped into his side of the bed, feeling the sheet cold beneath his bare feet. With a sigh, the policeman closed his eyes, willing sleep to come.

  But all he could see behind his eyelids was the dead face of Charles Gilmartin.

  In another part of the city, a man lay staring at the darkened ceiling above his bed. One hand wiped at the sweat trickling down his chest. The dream that had disturbed his sleep had come yet again, showing Cameron Gregson that somewhere deep in his subconscious he still had some degree of empathy. Psychopaths were incapable of that, or so he had been told by those who read all that true crime stuff, and he certainly didn’t consider himself in that light. The nightmare still had the power to make the postgraduate student stiffen in terror: the flames engulfing the people all around him, screams and yells of anguish, then the knowledge that he was trapped in the suffocating smoke and the press of heaving bodies trying to escape.

  Cameron Gregson blew out a sigh, then turned to see Gayle slumbering softly by his side. It was just a dream, nothing more.

  He would get out long before the bomb exploded, he had been told that often enough to believe it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TERRY’S TATTOO STUDIO, the red words above the shop front proclaimed. Kirsty was waiting outside the studio for the other officer to arrive, as instructed. Being early was a fault she had acquired in her enthusiasm for this job, though to be fair, having her dad drop her off after last night at home had given her a head start too.

  The weather had turned colder again and an easterly wind slanted the rain across Chisholm Street, rattling the metal shutters that covered the front door. Ten o’clock, the man had told her on the phone, and there was no sign of DC Lennox, the officer supposed to be leading this particular action. It was still ten minutes to the hour, and Kirsty could feel the rain beginning to soak into her uniform trousers, driving her from the tattoo studio to the deeply recessed doorway of the restaurant next door. The young officer shook her head, wishing she had taken the umbrella offered by her mother. Betty Wilson had been right earlier on, as she’d looked up into the sky. ‘Too bright too early,’ she’d proclaimed. ‘Heavy rain coming in before long.’

  Kirsty kept her gaze on the street, looking at every vehicle as it slowed down in case it was DC Lennox or the tattoo artist arriving for work. Across the road was the Tron Theatre, a side door leading to a café where her boyfriend, James, had taken her after they’d seen a play together. Glancing around, Kirsty could see that little had changed over the decades in this particular area; many of the buildings had been there since Victorian times, and her eyes picked out the architectural details of crow-step gabling and tiny turrets, though the shops at street level mostly reflected twenty-first-century preferences, like this tattoo studio. She had walked along Trongate, passing the old Panopticon Theatre and a double-fronted shop that had made her pause, mouth watering. Mrs Mitchell’s Sweetie Shop was a modern take on the old-fashioned confectioners’ shops of her granny’s generation, something that was becoming more a
nd more popular in these little pockets of the city. Maybe she’d buy a packet of soor plooms to give to Mum, a thank you for the great meal last night. Betty Wilson never bothered watching her figure and would enjoy these old-fashioned boiled sweets.

  ‘You waiting for me?’

  A grey-haired man stepped on to the pavement from his blue van, a younger girl hastening through the rain to open up the shop.

  ‘PC Wilson?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kirsty said, coming out of the doorway. ‘We spoke on the phone. Mr Wrigley?’

  ‘Stuart.’ He smiled, ushering Kirsty into the tattoo studio and out of the wind. ‘Cup of tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Aye, tea would be great, thanks,’ Kirsty said, following the man as he led the way into a second room. This was obviously the tattoo studio proper, she thought, her eyes roving around the place. One mirrored wall reflected the cabinets and worktops opposite, pairs of black swivel chairs reminding her of a hair salon, though the cluttered surfaces suggested something far more exotic. Her eyes fell on a bottle of dark green liquid containing what looked like a dead snake curled within, its opened fangs making Kirsty shudder. Beside it sat a pink glass paperweight, a sand-coloured scorpion trapped inside, and two other plastic shapes concealing a stag beetle and something strange that made her look more closely.

  ‘A pig foetus,’ Stuart said cheerfully, bearing two mugs of tea that he set down on the worktop beside them.

  Kirsty managed a weak grin. ‘Oh. Right,’ she said. She bit her lip. ‘I’m supposed to be accompanied by a more senior officer, but he hasn’t turned up, so perhaps I can talk to you on my own?’

  The grey-haired man’s grin faded a little. ‘You wanted to ask me about an unidentified person,’ he began. ‘Sad to say, it’s something that crops up a fair bit these days.’

  Kirsty nodded. He seemed a nice guy, this tattoo artist, and well spoken, too. She could imagine that a man like this would put a client at their ease without much difficulty. Stuart Wrigley’s establishment was the oldest of its kind in Glasgow, founded way back in the 1950s by his late father, Terry, hence the name above the door. And given the popularity of tattoo art, the man sitting opposite her had often been visited by police officers for help in the identification of men and women whose lives had been cut short in some way or other.

  Kirsty took out her notebook and showed him the drawing she had made.

  ‘I think it might be like that,’ she said, turning the page so that Stuart could see it.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, looking at the curled spiral shape instead and nodding.

  ‘Black girl?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Yes.’ Kirsty drew in a sharp breath. ‘How did you know?’

  Stuart Wrigley turned his face to hers and she suddenly saw the furrowed brow and a look of intense sadness in his eyes.

  ‘I think I may have done the tattoo for her.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Wrigley raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. ‘Couple of days ago. Poor girl, what happened?’

  Kirsty stared at him. ‘But that’s impossible,’ she blurted out. ‘She’s been dead for…’

  Wrigley shook his head. ‘Definitely just two days ago. I remember her coming in with her uncles. Or at least that’s who they said they were. Showed me her passport.’

  Kirsty looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Even if they come in off the street like these ones did, I need to have ID of some sort to verify the client’s age.’

  ‘Okay.’ Kirsty nodded, intrigued. ‘Go on.’

  ‘They were quite specific about the design they wanted. A triple spiral on the lassie’s upper thigh. Well I tried to put them off. Suggested placing it on her shoulder instead, but they said she wanted it somewhere discreet.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Tricky place for girls like that. Thinner skin there, you see, and black skin is more delicate than ours.’ He shrugged. ‘Told them the usual about keeping it clean, giving it time to heal, how it might be more prone to infection. But that’s all we can do really. Unless they ever come back with a bad infection.’

  ‘And she hasn’t?’

  ‘No. As I said, it was only two days ago. That’s not the girl you’re trying to find out about, is it?’ Wrigley asked, his bright eyes shrewd with an intelligence that the young officer could not ignore.

  ‘So you gave this girl a triple spiral tattoo? Do you have any details of her name and address?’

  ‘Wait and I’ll see.’ He rummaged in one of the drawers opposite his workstation and drew out a sheaf of papers clipped together.

  ‘Should be in this lot,’ he said, leafing through the bundle.

  Kirsty waited expectantly, her heart beating faster. Would she be returning triumphantly to Stewart Street with the information that Lorimer was seeking?

  ‘Here we are,’ Wrigley said, handing her an A5 sheet of paper with the heading: Terry’s Tattoo Studio. Our records are kept in the strictest confidence. Underneath there was space for the usual name, address, contact number and email, followed by tick boxes for various illnesses like HIV, epilepsy and diabetes. Every box was ticked under ‘No’, and only a name and address had been filled in. The date of birth was given as 1 April 1995.

  ‘I can tell you a bit about her if you like,’ Wrigley continued. ‘I thought the poor girl looked scared to death. Some of them get pretty nervous when they see the needle,’ he explained. He frowned again, as if trying to remember something. ‘She seemed a bit doolally,’ he said at last. ‘Thought she might have been not all there, know what I mean?’

  ‘Or drugged up to the eyeballs?’ Kirsty offered.

  Wrigley’s eyes widened. ‘The two guys with her said she was their niece over on a six-month visa from Nigeria. Passport seemed to check out okay. Photo was definitely recent. Said the girl wanted something really Scottish to remember her visit.’

  Kirsty looked hard at the man.

  ‘And you’re certain you never gave a similar tattoo to another black girl? Say within the last few months?’

  Wrigley shook his head, his keen eyes staring into her own; he was either telling the truth or he was an exceptionally cool individual.

  ‘And you didn’t suggest the triple spiral?’ Kirsty went on.

  Wrigley tapped his beard thoughtfully. ‘No. Like I said. Come to think of it, that was a bit strange. Two big black lads asking for a Pictish symbol for their lassie. One of them even had it on his iPad to show me exactly what they wanted.’

  ‘And did they pay by credit card?’ she asked, hoping that even more details might come to light.

  ‘Cash only,’ Wrigley said, pointing to a sign by the main door. ‘Always has been. Saves us a lot of bother. So these are all the ID we keep, I’m afraid.’

  Kirsty looked at the form. The address was in a street she had never heard of. But as she read the name above, Asa, no surname given, Kirsty began to wonder just where this might lead.

  ‘Doesn’t exist,’ DC Patrick Lennox told her. ‘Yoruba Street! They’re havin’ a laugh,’ he snorted. ‘That’s one of the main Nigerian languages, Yoruba,’ he explained.

  Kirsty felt her face reddening. Okay, she’d found the source of one girl’s tattoo. Surely that could lead somewhere?

  ‘Even if it’s true that Wrigley didn’t do the tattoo for our black girl, the name and address are both probably false,’ Lennox explained.

  ‘If they were up to no good then they probably wouldn’t use the same tattoo artist twice,’ Kirsty mused.

  ‘Still plenty for us to do, then, young Kirsty.’ Lennox grinned. ‘Let’s see the list of all the tattoo artists in the area.’

  DC Lennox had apologised profusely for his non-attendance at the tattoo studio; his mother-in-law had been rushed into hospital during the night and both he and his wife had overslept. ‘Be grateful if you don’t tell His Nibs,’ he had whispered, his face pale with lack of sleep and the strain of waiting for hours in a hospital corridor. ‘Don’t want to blot
my copybook.’

  Kirsty had merely nodded, wondering if the information she had found was to be credited to Lennox or herself. There would be a meeting shortly where she would listen to Lennox reading from her report, though the email already distributed to other members of the team had come from her computer.

  She had a lot to learn in this job, she realised, and not all of it had to do with catching criminals.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Asa woke with a dry feeling in her mouth. It was still dark outside and she had no idea of the time, though there was the sound of a pigeon cooing on the roof, so perhaps dawn was not too far off. It was good to hear some sounds at last.

  Night after night the African girl had struggled to sleep, the traffic outside sometimes making strange high-pitched whines or pulsing notes that shrieked through the city. But it had been the long silences that had been hardest. Asa was accustomed to the texture of night noises, the small nocturnal creatures whose sounds lulled her to sleep, and she missed the gurgling croaks of frogs and the cicadas in the bush. This quietness made her stare into the shadows, an ache in her soul to be back where she belonged.

  The girl rolled over on her side, then yelped aloud as the pain from her wound seared along her inner thigh.

  He had not been a doctor after all. What had she expected from a man wearing jeans and a casual grey striped sweater? His voice had been kind, though, unlike the voices of the two Nigerian men who had persisted in speaking English. Asa had ventured a timid word or two in Yoruba only to be met with angry glares. They had understood her, she was certain of that, but they had refused to reply. The rest of the day had passed in a blur: memories of the car bringing her back from the tattoo studio to the tall grey building, of being huckled up each flight of cold stone stairs, then the relief of being able to sleep and sleep and sleep.

  Asa’s body tensed as she heard the creak of the door opening. Was it Shereen coming to bring an early breakfast?