The Bird That Did Not Sing Page 13

  ‘Shh!’

  She sat up, the cry dying on her lips as she saw the bigger of the two Nigerians close the door behind him and approach her. There were tiny beads of sweat on his dark brow and he was breathing hard as he came to sit on the edge of her bed.

  Suddenly he grasped the covers and with both meaty hands pulled them off, tossing them on the floor, hungry eyes boring into her own. Then, pulling up her nightshirt, he began to squeeze her small breasts, shifting his body so that he could lie beside her.

  Asa closed her eyes, smelling the alcohol on his breath, feeling the hands coming down across her stomach, touching her in places that no man had ever touched before, her body rigid with fear.

  Then, in one swift motion, he had pulled her thighs apart, making her cry out, and she could feel the weight of his body crushing the breath from her chest. There was a push and a stab and her whole body seemed to split and burn, the man groaning and roaring above her, waves of pain surging as he pressed himself again and again into her soft flesh.

  Asa soon found that there was nothing to be gained from struggling beneath this terrible heaviness; her efforts to escape only seemed to redouble the big man’s enjoyment.

  At last, with a yelp that was more animal than human, he flopped across her body, a shuddering sensation deep inside her.

  When he rolled away from her, Asa began to cry, but he took her by the shoulders and shook her until she felt her neck would snap.

  ‘Shut it!’ he commanded. ‘You’ll get more than this from our friends, so better get used to it!’ he snarled.

  The meaning of the words was lost to the girl but the sound of his voice was enough to make her cringe to the edge of the bed, fingers curled over the damp edges of her nightshirt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Wrigley wasn’t to know what was going on, though maybe being asked to place a tattoo on that part of the body could have told him something,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘He did say that the girl wanted it somewhere discreet. He’d got the impression that the folks back home might not be too pleased to see their daughter with a tattoo from Glasgow,’ Kirsty answered.

  Detective Superintendent Lorimer sighed. There was so little to go on. The tattoo artist’s information had been helpful enough in its way, but everything seemed to point to something a lot more sinister than someone’s niece (if that was what she really was) hiding a tattoo from her parents back in Nigeria. There was no doubt in his mind that these girls had been tattooed for a different reason altogether, the Pictish spiral more of a brand mark than mere decorative art. And Rosie’s post-mortem had thrown up a suggestion of a different sort. Were these girls being trafficked as prostitutes? If so, perhaps they ought to be looking for this second girl, the one called Asa.

  Most of the citizens of Glasgow did not regard their city as a hotbed of human trafficking, despite it being the fifth most popular place in the UK for such criminal activity. It was their Dear Green Place, the former City of Culture, Glasgow’s Miles Better being a logo that had filled its folk with a pride in their couthy humour and welcoming manner to strangers. Now that the Commonwealth Games were coming ever closer, there was a sense of civic self-esteem amongst the populace, something that Detective Superintendent Lorimer had been told to consider. The girl’s body lay in the mortuary, silent and still, her identity remaining a mystery that was not to be shared with anyone outside the investigation. No press release would be put out and every officer on the team had been strictly warned to keep the case completely secret.

  Lorimer had now spoken to Stuart Wrigley at the tattoo studio, the quick visit to Chisholm Street necessary to keep the case under wraps. He’d liked the man on sight and trusted him to keep PC Wilson’s visit to himself. Wrigley had nodded, understanding. It wasn’t the first time he had helped with such a case, he’d reminded the detective superintendent.

  DC Lennox and PC Wilson had received the sharp end of his tongue afterwards. Letting the probationer go there on her own was just not on, and despite the fact that Kirsty had coped well and obtained some salient information, she ought to have waited for Lennox or reported back to Stewart Street. Lorimer had hidden a smile as Kirsty and Lennox left his office. She wasn’t used to seeing him stern like that, and her red face had made the senior officer realise just how raw she was to all of this.

  Stuart Wrigley folded the form in two, along with a copy of the triple spiral designs, placed them in an envelope and dampened the edge, sealing it shut. His two daughters were completely unaware of what had taken place during these visits from the police officers, and he intended to keep it that way. Stuart’s thoughts crept back to the young black girl whose skin had trembled under his touch. She hadn’t been a willing client, had she? And his instinct ought to have told him that at the time. Asa, the man had called her, the name written on that form. He recalled the lift of her head, the response to her name. That hadn’t been faked, he was sure. Fishing out the card from his wallet, Wrigley looked at the number beneath the detective superintendent’s name. It might not be much, but perhaps even this little snippet could be helpful. I think that was her real name, he had written on the back of the form.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The darkness outside made her feel safe, the street lamp’s glow burnishing the pale green curtains of this bedroom, her haven for now. Memories of Charles lying on that other bed, his grizzled head against the pillow, still haunted her dreams, confused rags of nonsense that were no doubt partly induced by the medication the doctor had given her, as Lorimer had suggested.

  Vivien listened, but there was no sound from the room along the corridor, no voices discussing what she ought to do next. On other nights she had heard Maggie’s voice, low and murmuring, and she was certain the woman was trying to persuade her husband to ask her to leave. But he wouldn’t do that, Vivien thought, a small smile curling on her lips. His sense of chivalry was the same as it had always been, something she had never forgotten, something that had been to the forefront of her mind even when his invitation had been posted.

  William Lorimer was one of the good people in her life. And right now she needed him more than ever.

  Maggie lay on her back, feet stretched out below the duvet, hands clasped loosely across her stomach. Beside her, Bill was snoring softly, a comforting sound, like Chancer when he purred himself to sleep. It was a gift, she thought, being able to close his eyes and drop off so quickly. Some nights were cut short by the demands of the job and so perhaps he had learned the secret of sleeping when he could.

  Tonight Maggie Lorimer could not find that secret. There was little noise from outside; once a neighbour’s car drew away from the avenue (Jill was on night shifts at the hospital), then all was silent apart from the deep breathing from the man whose back was turned towards her.

  Since Vivien Gilmartin’s sudden arrival, they had not made love once, Maggie reminded herself, the longing to be drawn into her husband’s arms so acute that her body throbbed with an ache that demanded to be satisfied. It was no use, though. A night of passion would have to wait until the red-haired woman was gone for good. Was that why she had begun to resent her? Was it simply a physical frustration building up? Or was there something more to the antipathy that she felt for the widow?

  Maggie lay staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was that she had begun to hate about herself. Mrs Lorimer was the teacher that all the girls came to for advice, her listening ear and box of Kleenex well-established facts in the school. A soft touch, her friend Sandie had told her more than once, but Maggie didn’t mind. Nor did the guidance staff, who were overworked and knew that Mrs Lorimer would bring anything serious to their attention. Suddenly Maggie longed to be back at school, for the holiday to be over, and to immerse herself into the frantic weeks before exam time.

  Perhaps Vivien would be gone by then. Things back to normal. The flat in Glasgow was rented out for another three months but Vivien had hinted that she was cancelling the lease. The landlord wo
uld understand. It wasn’t every day a tenant died in your property, she had said with a hollow laugh that had raised Maggie’s eyebrows. Such remarks touched with a world-weary cynicism had been spoken only to her, never when Bill was around to hear them, something that troubled the woman who gazed sleeplessly at the ceiling.

  Gayle sighed, reaching down the side of the bed where her silk slip had been dropped on the floor. Cam was asleep already, his kisses and endearments still tingling on her body. It was no use, she thought. Despite her best intentions, she was still here, and if she was honest, that was what she wanted. Tonight had been different, though. Cam had been gentler, taking time to please her in ways that she had only dreamed of. The blindfold was still lying beside her, the sweet scent of the Elixir Sensual he had massaged on to her skin perfuming the air. And he hadn’t said a single bad word about her job or the Games. Not one. Perhaps he was coming round to her way of thinking at last, the collective pride that seemed to grip this city having captured even Cameron Gregson.

  Gayle had seen an expensive black dress in a shop window as she had strolled along past the Italian Centre, something that would look good at the opening ceremony. And if Cameron could be persuaded into the evening clothes she knew he possessed, then they would make a head-turning couple. He had been the recipient of many admiring female glances back in January at the Burns Supper. Cameron had the figure for a kilt, Gayle remembered with a smile. So, would he accept her invitation to the big event in the summer if she should be lucky enough to get the tickets she had applied for?

  Shereen gripped the edge of the table with both hands as she listened to the girl’s scream.

  The big man had come earlier that evening, demanding to see Asa, the sight of his hulking figure making even the two Nigerian men shrink back in fear. One of them had taken the girl’s virginity, she knew that. And not just because he was obeying orders, Shereen told herself with disgust. Randy old bastard! Now he was cowering with his pal in the room next door, waiting until the big man had finished with Asa.

  Shereen sat down at the kitchen table, trembling. She was as guilty as any of them, wasn’t she? The money promised had almost paid off her debts, and there would be more to come. Yet she was fearful of the man who was making the young girl cry out, fearful of his staring eyes and wild hair, fearful of those immense hands and those arms covered in slithering serpents, their red eyes and forked tongues entwined in curves and whorls inked on to his skin.

  They had taken Asa to have her tattoo, a tiny thing really compared to the body art adorning the big man. And it had reminded Shereen of the other girl. She had disappeared one night and Shereen had never seen her again nor heard anything about her. It was not good to ask questions, she had been told right from the start. Keep your mouth shut; it’s better for your health, the big man had told her, his eyes boring into her own, making Shereen nod frantically as he had jabbed her with his fat finger and walked away laughing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sometimes, Solly thought, life was almost perfect. He had left Morag, their capable nanny, brushing Abby’s hair as she watched her Toy Story video for the umpteenth time, and now he and Rosie were walking through the park on their way to work. The daffodils were a swathe of yellow amid the swaying grasses on the bank above the river and above them the clouds scudded across a sky so blue that it was hard to remember that this was an April day in Scotland. He did not really have to be in his office in University Gardens as early as this, but walking there with Rosie by his side was one of life’s small pleasures, the psychologist told himself, giving his wife’s hand a squeeze. Rosie had her own office in the Department of Forensic Medicine, the entrance to which could just be seen from his bay window overlooking the curve of University Avenue. She was head of the department now, spending time there and at the city mortuary as well as attending numerous conferences and giving lectures. It had been a hard decision, he knew, for her to return to full-time work after her maternity leave, but he guessed from the spring in her step as they approached the place where their paths diverged that she did not regret that now.

  ‘Any more news about the unidentified girl?’ he asked as she let go of his hand to adjust her shoulder bag.

  ‘Not so far. Lorimer was going to see if there was a DNA match from the foetus.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll never know.’

  ‘Somebody does,’ Solly said quietly, the thought robbing the day of some of its brightness as he waved his wife off, watching the wind toss her blonde curls as she walked swiftly down towards another day dealing with the aftermath of other people’s violent behaviour.

  The professor had not been asked to comment on this case, though he had been helpful to the police in the past as a profiler in cases of multiple murders, but Rosie’s own involvement had piqued his interest. That the girl had been part of a people-trafficking organisation seemed fairly likely. Given his chosen profession, Solomon Brightman was conversant with the many vagaries of human nature, and only last night he had been reading around the subject of child trafficking with growing interest. It was, he now knew, one of the biggest types of organised crime in the UK, along with the illegal trades of drugs and weapons. Trouble was, it was hard to find reliable statistics. The belief that the level of crime was far greater than actual figures showed was shared by almost all the authorities that had investigated cases in the past.

  Nobody wanted to tell of their plight. Many of the children lived in terror of deportation, the threats of repercussions to themselves and their families keeping them silent about their continued abuse.

  Was the murdered girl one of those unfortunate children? Rosie had estimated the girl’s age at less than eighteen, the watershed between childhood and becoming an adult in this country. Solly had read that West Africa was one of the largest source regions for such children. As he looked around him at the students chattering as they crossed University Avenue on their way to classes, he wondered if they had any inkling of just how privileged their lives were. His thoughts turned to the little girl he had left sitting on her nanny’s lap and his heart swelled with a longing to protect her from all the badness that her parents saw on a daily basis.

  Maggie stood in the kitchen doorway watching as the red-haired woman approached the rocking chair where Chancer lay, curled asleep on the cushions. She paused, hidden from sight, the shadow from the open door concealing her presence, waiting to see what Vivien would do.

  As soon as she noticed the cat upon the chair, Vivien stiffened and took a step backwards. Was hers an elemental fear of cats? Maggie wondered. Some people genuinely had a phobia about the creatures. Should she intervene, pick up her beloved pet and allow their visitor to sit on the rocking chair? For a long moment she did nothing, a vision of her mother coming back so suddenly that it took her breath away. Mum had sat there so often, Chancer snug on her lap. Then the memory was gone as quickly as it had arrived, Vivien still hovering uncertainly behind the chair.

  ‘Come on, puss. Off you get,’ Maggie said, stepping into the light and scooping up the cat in one easy movement.

  ‘Oh!’ Vivien gave a gasp. ‘Thank you. I… I don’t know what it is about cats,’ she faltered. ‘Just can’t abide them being near me.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Maggie replied, tipping Chancer out of the door unceremoniously and closing the door behind him. ‘Can’t have you feeling uncomfortable.’ She shrugged.

  Vivien stumbled around the chair, sinking into it as though she were about to faint. ‘You’ve been so kind,’ she began. ‘It’s not every woman who would take her husband’s old girlfriend into her home,’ she continued huskily.

  ‘We could hardly leave you stranded.’

  ‘It’s just… well, William and I go back such a long way and he was so nice to me when we met up that evening…’ Vivien choked back a sob and Maggie bit her lip, wondering why it was that she could not engage more with this woman. Was it simple female jealousy, seeing a beautiful woman making eyes at her husband? Or was there somethi
ng deeper, an instinct that told her to hold back, not let her become emotionally tied to the woman whose husband had died in such strange circumstances?

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she said briskly, and, not waiting for an answer, turned towards the sink, ready to fill yet another kettle.

  The mountains that had been shrouded in mist the day before now rose before them, craggy ridges etched against a pale blue sky. Peter MacGregor was sitting on the wooden bench at the edge of the loch, Joanne’s hand clasped in his, each of them staring out across the water. There was no need for speech; they were used to the companionable silence after more than forty years of marriage, and any words would have been simply to echo one another’s thoughts: how peaceful this was, how relaxed they both felt in this quiet, unspoiled part of Skye. Joanne squeezed his hand a little, and he caught her glance, a nod towards the water.

  First it was only the suggestion of movement, then the unmistakable shape of a head broke the surface of the water. A sleek wet body curving into a dive. Then, with a splash, the otter was gone.

  He heard Joanne’s deep sigh of contentment as they continued to watch the ripples become fainter, the morning light dancing on the water. It had been worth coming down here early before breakfast. Their host had promised something special and at first they had thought she had meant the spectacular mountain range of the Cuillins against the morning sunrise. Now they knew what that twinkle in Mrs Macleod’s eye had really meant. ‘Oh, you’ll see something a wee bit out of the ordinary,’ she’d told them. ‘Just you sit still and wait.’ And they had.

  Peter made to move, but Joanne pulled his hand back. ‘Shh!’ she said. ‘Look!’

  And there they were: two fully grown otters emerging from the water’s edge on to a tangle of bladderwrack. The sun silvering their pelts made the creatures harder to see against the shining seaweed, but then, in a moment, they were playing together, bodies curving as they rolled and frisked along the water’s edge, blissfully unaware of the elderly couple watching their antics. For perhaps ten minutes the two otters romped by the lochside, then, as if something had called them back, they slipped into the water, their sleek bodies disappearing beneath the surface.