Sleep like the dead lab-8 Read online

Sandiman said gruffly.

  'You were an army officer, sir?' Irvine asked.

  'Black Watch,' Sandi tnan replied, adding, 'before they rearranged us into a battalion!' He spat the word out as though it had a bad taste. 'Best regiment there was. Top Brass never get it right, though,' he added bitterly. 'Didn't then and aren't doing so now,' he shook his head angrily.

  'Brogan was a Black Watch officer?' Irvine asked in surprise.

  'Not an officer. Private,' Sandiman corrected her.

  'Did Fraser ever speak of Brogan to you, sir?' Wilson wanted to know.

  The man turned to face the two police officers and Irvine could detect a trace of tears in his eyes. His mouth trembled and she felt a sudden sympathy but as he began to speak she realised that he was shaking with suppressed fury.

  'My son! My son!' His voice cracked as emotion swamped his self-control. 'To consort with low-life like Galbraith and Brogan!

  What was he thinking about?'

  Irvine watched, fascinated, as he clutched the mug of hot tea, his fists gripping it with such intensity that she feared he would break off the handle.

  'Fraser was educated, Sergeant,' he said, gritting his teeth.

  'Brought up to respect people. To respect his country. Not to make his living from other men's misery!'

  As he bowed his head Irvine stepped forwards and took the mug from his grasp, letting her fellow officer be the one to console the man in the torrent of grief that followed.

  Annie stood behind them, wondering. It was bad enough to have a son who was found dead, but the shame of being found in the home of a known drug dealer was something this proud man would find hard to forgive. Fraser Sandiman had been given a decent upbringing, by all accounts; Galbraith's background on the other hand was rooted in poverty and deprivation. But from her limited experience Irvine knew that it was wrong to make a judgement about people based on that. She thought about the blowsy woman they had left over in Glasgow's East End and then looked at the man weeping into his hands, Wilson's arm around his shoulders. They were also victims of whoever had pulled that trigger. And their suffering would likely follow each of them to their graves.

  DCI Lorimer looked at the report from Irvine and Fathy. He'd read it and reread it but there was still something that didn't add up. Marianne Scott seemed to have vanished. There was no trace of her after her course at Anniesland College though they now had her list of SEE Higher passes. She had certainly gained enough for entry to the University of Glasgow. But had she gone elsewhere? Abroad, perhaps?

  Frances Donnelly's statement contained the idea that Scott had still been seeing his ex-wife, though there was no concrete evidence for this. It was only the girlfriend's impression. But what if the Donnelly woman had been wrong? What if Scott hadn't seen his ex-wife for one very good reason?

  And for the first time the DCI had the chilling thought that perhaps there was another body still to be found.

  CHAPTER 19

  The August sun beat down on his back as Billy Brogan strode along the path towards Gala Bona. The Catalan name meant the good bay, one of the hotel waiters had told him. And Gala Millor meant the better bay, the man had added, smirking as well he might. The hotel was possibly the most expensive in the area and its guests would be pleased to know how well they had chosen their holiday destination, his expression had seemed to suggest.

  That wasn't an issue with Brogan right now as he headed towards the small fishing port that lay a few miles along the curving coastline. The morning was already stifling hot and he had nearly finished the bottle of mineral water that he'd taken from the refrigerator in his room. Brogan winced as he walked along, feeling a blister begin where his toes were being rubbed by these cheap flip-flops he'd bought at the market. He glanced at a couple of older men who passed him by, bare chests showing enviable suntans; both sported sensible panama hats and each carried a large bottle of chilled water as they headed towards the miles of silver sand. His T-shirt was probably showing large patches of sweat, he thought, wiping his brow for the hundredth time as the perspiration trickled into his eyes. Not a pretty sight for any of the yachties he was hoping to cajole into giving him passage.

  Brogan paused for a moment under the shade of an awning that jutted out from one of the many restaurants. Maybe he should nick around to the shopping area in the street that ran parallel to this one? Buy a clean shirt, freshen up a bit?

  The thought seemed to lead his weary feet back into a shaded side street and past the blocks of apartments where women hung out of their windows talking loudly to neighbours in the street below. Brogan watched them, not understanding a single word as they called to one another, waving their hands in the air as though to emphasise whatever it was that they were discussing. The sunlight cut across the openings between the buildings, making him blink even behind the shade of his sunglasses, then a noise just behind him made Brogan turn and he stepped quickly to one side as a motorbike roared past, a pair of Spanish men on board.

  Neither of them were youngsters, Brogan noticed; both of them were dressed extravagantly in cowboy gear, even sporting colourful boots with fancy patterns cut into the leather.

  He looked down at his own clothes, a grey sweat-stained cotton shirt and a pair of shabby cut-off jeans. No, he thought, this wouldn't do at all. Lengthening his stride, Brogan emerged into the main shopping thoroughfare and began searching for a half-decent men's outfitters amongst all the outlets laden with tourist tat.

  Twenty minutes later he was back on the esplanade and heading on to Cala Bona looking for a waste bin to ditch his old clothes.

  Catching sight of his reflection in a window he saw a man wearing a fine linen shirt hanging loose over cream-coloured chinos, his bare feet thrust into a pair of comfortable tan leather sandals. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in spikes, a fashion look that made him grin in appreciation.

  It was better up here, he thought, as the path twisted through high sided buildings that created some shade from the late morning sun, The two towns simply ran into one another and only a large notice proclaiming that this was now the town of Gala Bona allowed a stranger to know where one stopped and the other began. Then suddenly he was out in the sunlight once again, the path taking him straight to a picture postcard harbour where several large boats were moored.

  Brogan strolled around the harbour side, glancing at the fishing boats and yachts as any tourist might, all the while taking note of the names on the hulls and the various countries of origin. Among the craft were a couple of glass-bottomed boats, their crew nowhere to be seen. But from the placards fluttering from the booms, Brogan could see that they were pleasure craft for taking tourists on trips around the area.

  Retracing his steps back around the harbour, he took a path back up to the edge of the esplanade and found himself looking out at the water. It was choppy today, the waves rolling in more fiercely after the thunderstorms of previous nights. Would these pleasure boats put out to sea in conditions like this? He glanced behind him and saw a small booth set against a wall, the names of the boats displayed brightly against the desk. A bored looking lad of about eighteen lounged in the shade of the booth, gazing at the folk who constantly passed him by.

  Then, as another man approached him, Brogan smiled. The furtive exchange between the two Spaniards was something Brogan had seen a thousand times on the street corners back in Glasgow. This was a wee glimpse into his own world, he told himself, moving towards the lad with increasing confidence. `Doin' the business, pal?' Brogan grinned, giving the Spanish boy a slap on his shoulder.

  The way the lad gave a quick look to his left then his right told Brogan all he needed to know.

  'You lookin' to score, sefior?' he asked Brogan nervously.

  'Well, now I'm lookin' for something, that's true, but you can keep your weed, son. What I'm after is a bit bigger.'

  Shifting from one foot to the other, the boy eyed him suspiciously.

  'That your boat out there?' Brogan pointe
d to a large craft bobbing at anchor. `Si,' the boy answered sullenly.

  'No custom today?'

  The boy shook his head and nodded towards the sea. 'Too much waves. No go out today.'

  'How about tomorrow?' Brogan persisted.

  'No tomorrow Maybe day after,' the boy shrugged. 'You wanna book a ticket?'

  Brogan grinned and sidled up to the boy. 'Maybe I want to take a private trip,' he said, slipping one hand into his pocket. 'Just me and the captain,' he continued, watching as the boy's eyes fell greedily on the bundle of folded notes he had produced. 'How about it? Where can I speak to your boss?' he whispered, lowering his sunglasses in a way that made the boy look at him more closely.

  Marianne handed over the application form to the librarian, watching to see her reaction when she read the name on the piece of paper. It came, just as she had thought it would, a surprised lift of the eyebrows and a swift once-over of the red-haired woman standing on the other side of the desk. Marianne waited, unsmiling, for the card to be printed out and re-issued. If anyone were to question her…? But it was only minutes before the girl returned and handed back her renewed library card, staring at Marianne with blatant curiosity. Dropping her gaze, Marianne saw that the librarian's hands were carefully manicured, pale pink shiny polish on_perfect ovals, all the better to display the two rings, one gold, the other a single diamond that sparkled under the artificial light.

  'Thanks,' Marianne mumbled, then, deliberately avoiding the girl's curious stare and pushing the card into the depths of her shoulder bag, she turned on her heel to head for the barrier that would take her into the heart of Glasgow University's library Well, she thought, letting out a sigh of relief, that was that, then. A new name and a new term ahead. Between Billy's young friend in registry and this latest twist to her life, Marianne could breathe more easily knowing that the secrets of her identity were safe.

  There were more than five weeks now until the start of the session but this time she was determined to be ahead of the game. Plenty of time for all the required texts on this year's reading list. A little smile played about her mouth. She was one of the fortunate students who did not need to work at part-time bar jobs in order to fund their courses. Marianne sighed. Another couple of years, or more if she were lucky enough to make honours, then the world of work could beckon once more. A new beginning somewhere else, the States, perhaps, where a degree in psychology might be the necessary passport to a job of some kind.

  Glancing behind her at the librarian who was now busy with another student, Marianne's face took on a wistful expression. She hadn't appreciated how much fun she'd had all those years ago having colleagues to gossip with, girls' nights out. The girl back there at the desk looked as though she had it all: a steady job, decent salary, nice place to work, a husband and maybe even kids… Well, times had changed and she had changed with them.

  Be careful what you wish for, she told herself. It might just come true.

  CHAPTER 20

  Brogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. That's it. Billy Brogan. How did I get your number? Well that's for me to know and you to find out, pal.' He looked back at the notebook in his hand with its list of names and telephone numbers. 'Right now I want to find our friend, okay?'

  The hit man waited, listening to a rumble of voices in the background, straining to make out what language was being spoken. It was more than a minute before the man he had called made any reply. Then it was to apologise. He was busy, had a business to run.

  Not convenient to talk right now.

  'So when would it be convenient, mate? I think we might have something to discuss about Billy Boy,' the hit man said slowly, his voice full of steel.

  'I'll call you back,' the man replied.

  'No,' he said. 'That's not possible. Arrange to meet up now Give me a time and a place and I'll be there.'

  There was more hesitation and a spluttering of excuses but eventually a rendezvous was suggested.

  'Okay by me. Today suit you?'

  Again there was some humming and hawing, until a time was fixed for the following day. 'I have meetings, many meetings. I am a very busy man, you know,' the voice on the line insisted. 'I will send someone to meet you.'

  The hit man listened, hearing just a hint of anxiety, understanding that the very mention of Brogan's name held a lot of significance for the man who was listed in Brogan's notebook simply as Dhesi.

  Glasgow in late August was better than he had expected. The weather was clear and sunny, the summer heat intensifying just as the school term had ushered the population of Scottish schoolchildren back indoors for a new session. The hit man grinned as he sat on a bench in the middle of the city watching the lanes of traffic circulate around George Square. It was not unpleasant sitting here watching the world go by but he did not expect to be in Glasgow for much longer. He glanced at his wristwatch. Soon he would be joined by another man, someone who could help him to recover the money he was owed; someone who had an interest, like himself, in finding Billy Brogan.

  The chosen rendezvous had been easy to find and he had arrived early, wandering around the square for a while, admiring the City Chambers, a pale grey building that dominated one entire side of the square. It was impressive by anyone's standards, even someone like himself who knew nothing about architecture, its towers leading the eye upward. A pair of stone carved lions flanked the white cenotaph, a few yards from the building, reminding him of lives lost in a duty to Queen and country that he himself had once followed.

  The hit man watched as a large black Daimler glided to a halt right outside the entrance to the City Chambers. From a professional point of view the security was spot on. Darkened windows hid the passenger from view and he caught only a brief glimpse of a woman's figure as she alighted from the big car and entered the main door with some lackeys in tow. He cocked his head to one side. Now, if he had been positioned up on that rooftop, belly down, rifle in his grasp, that would have been an entirely different matter. `Mr Smith?' A voice behind him broke the reverie, making the hit man stand up immediately.

  'Aye, maybe,' he replied evasively. 'Who wants to know?'

  A dark-skinned man who may have been Indian or Pakistani stood smiling at him then gave a small bow, one hand across his corpulent stomach. 'I come to you as an intermediary, Mr Smith.

  I believe that was understood by our mutual friend?'

  The hit man sniffed and threw the man a sideways glance. `So what are we waiting for?' he asked. 'I take it he's ready to begin discussions?'

  'Oh, yes, sir. If you'd like to follow me, we have a car parked just along the road,' the Asian motioned with one hand, willing the other man to accompany him.

  'I suppose you've got a name, pal?'

  In reply his companion tapped one side of his nose, an age-old gesture that signified that it was not wise to ask too many questions.

  The hit man frowned suddenly. This man's voice sounded so like the one he had spoken to on the telephone yesterday. Was he actually Dhesi? And had it all been a bit of nonsense about sending someone else?

  The hit man walked just a little behind the stranger, cautious in case he had to make a sudden run for it. He touched his pocket, feeling the gun's reassuring hardness. But it wasn't something he could make use of here, in the city centre, if things suddenly went wrong.

  The Mercedes was parked outside a large pub just past the square. As he was ushered into the back seat, the hit man glanced at the driver, a middle-aged white man with rolls of fat coming over his collar, clearly sweating under his smart black uniform.

  Not in good shape, he told himself, dismissing the driver as posing no potential threat, then turned to face the Asian who had climbed into the back to join him.

  'Brogan,' he began. 'He's known to you?'

  The Asian inclined his head a little. 'He is known to my client,' he said.

  'Client? What are you? Some sort of lawyer?'

  The man beside him chuckled. 'Not at all, my friend. I am what you might call a fixer.
A middleman. Those from my homeland know me better as The Hundi.'

  'So you're not the man I spoke to on the phone?'

  'No, Mr Smith. That was my client. Someone, it appears, who has a mutual interest in Mr Brogan. Now, while we drive to our meeting place, let me tell you something about this lovely city of ours,' he said. Turning towards the window he pointed up at the buildings that swooped up on either side, their windows glittering in the sunshine. Then, as though the hit man was simply a tourist visiting Glasgow for pleasure, the Hundi began to enthuse about some of the city's architectural gems.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dhesi stood, hands behind his back, looking out of the window This was his home now, this city whose fine buildings were a constant reminder of past glories, Glasgow's tobacco lords and ship owners gaining their immense wealth from their trade. It was a city that suited him, Dhesi thought. He, too, traded in things, though those commodities were less welcomed by the city fathers than the bales of Virginia tobacco that had been shipped to the docks in times past. The restaurant was his legitimate enterprise, of course, and he was proud of it. Things had become so easy in the months following Amit's arrival, that it would be a pity if they were to be upset by these latest incidents. But his partner's complete integration into their world here in Glasgow was of the utmost importance and it might even be to their advantage that Brogan had disappeared, leaving his sister unprotected.

  The Pakistani had deliberately chosen this suite of rooms in a West End hotel in which to meet Brogan's contact. Someone calling himself Mr Smith (he'd laughed derisively at that) had insisted that he wanted to find Brogan. A mate, he'd said, from the old days. Knowing Brogan's past as well as he did, Dhesi guessed that this was another ex-soldier. And from what he had read in the newspapers, he wondered if the man might be useful to them right now If he turned out to be just another druggie, they'd get shot of him faster than he could say chapatti. But that voice on the line had sounded intelligent and, besides, he could only have found out his number from Brogan himself. Was this a set up, perhaps? Was Brogan using this old chum for purposes of his own? Nobody in Glasgow had any idea why the dealer had disappeared, though two dead bodies in his flat might give even the least cynical person some sort of clue.