The Silent Games Page 6

  The coffee she had brought in from Berits & Brown was cold now but she sipped it anyway. The article was well written, Gayle told herself, skimming down the page again, the shadow of Cam’s presence banished from her mind. And the journo had picked up on more than just the timeline for the arrival of the athletes at the village; he had written about the different ways that sportsmen and women from so many nations were preparing for this Scottish summer ahead, injecting a touch of wry humour about the probability of rainfall and the thousands of Games umbrellas already being sold around the city.

  Gayle glanced out of the window again, remembering the feel of the early-morning sun on her skin and wishing hard that this summer might be warm and sunny day after day after day, unlike any Scottish summer she had known in her twenty-five years.

  Peter MacGregor glanced across the aisle at Joanne. He had eased a bit more belt from the lap strap, aware of the curve of his stomach under the cashmere sweater. Where had that well-toned sportsman gone? He grinned ruefully, remembering the days of his youth when he and Jo had shared such a passion for athletics. She was still a trim woman, he thought, looking at his wife’s slim legs in their designer jeans. You could pass for forty, he’d told her as they’d stood in the house that morning, making her blush and protest. Well, fifty anyway, he’d conceded, and he believed it. Joanne MacGregor, with that sleek bob of highlighted hair and her fine cheekbones, was often asked her age, officials raising their eyebrows to find that this lovely woman was indeed a senior of sixty-four. She had her eyes closed as she always did before take-off, hands clasped loosely on her lap. They had chosen aisle seats in preference to sitting side by side, the long-haul flight necessitating some decent leg room, but it was at moments like this that Peter regretted their choice, wishing that he could have held her hand, sharing the surge of joy he felt that their long-planned dream was actually beginning.

  In his head Peter went over the itinerary that had been so carefully worked out for the coming six months. London first, with all its sights, then up to Scotland, where they were to hire a car to take them on a tour of the Western Isles. Then it was across to Inverness and the journey south through MacGregor country until they reached Gleneagles. He and Mrs MacGregor wanted to explore the old home country on their own, he had told his hosts. Once they were in Glasgow Peter suspected that the MacGregors there would happily take over all of his plans, and part of him wanted to resist being whisked hither and yon by a group of strangers, no matter how kind their intentions were. He blinked as the engine noise rose to a climax and the big plane began to move along the runway. They had been very thoughtful, though, hadn’t they? They’d even reminded him not to bring his sgian dubh. One adorned with the clan crest would be awaiting him in Glasgow. But that was still several weeks away and Peter smiled at the thought of all the sights they would see during April and May, months when the weather was meant to be at its best in Scotland and the azaleas and rhododendrons gave their bonniest show. It would be a quiet prelude to the excitement of the Commonwealth Games, the Gathering and finally the Ryder Cup, back in Gleneagles. By October they would no doubt be ready to return to Australia and its summer months.

  As the plane’s nose tilted skywards, Peter MacGregor felt a childlike thrill of adventure. Melbourne lay below him, its familiar landmarks becoming smaller and smaller until they were swallowed up in cloud, leaving Peter with the drone of the engine ringing in his ears and a single thought in his head. He was on his way home!

  Detective Superintendent Lorimer glanced back at the curve of the avenue as he turned the Lexus towards the main road. It was not yet six a.m., but there was a brightness in the sky that suggested another lovely day ahead. The drive into Glasgow was tinged with a sense of guilt that he was escaping somehow, leaving his poor wife to attend to Vivien Gilmartin’s needs. Well at least the post-mortem could take place today, and after that she would surely be free to return south and prepare for whatever form of funeral her late husband might have expected. It had been a difficult weekend. Maggie had been overly solicitous to their guest, hardly giving her a moment to herself, and Lorimer suspected that both women would be relieved when the time came for Vivien to make her goodbyes. Several times Foxy had caught his eye and he’d seen the mute appeal there to be left in peace. She had feigned tiredness once or twice simply as a way of being on her own up in the spare room, Lorimer was sure.

  ‘Can you not give her a bit of space?’ he had begun during a Sunday that had been so unseasonably warm that Maggie had laid the table out in the garden for lunch.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ she had snapped back at him. ‘I’m doing my best to be nice, aren’t I?’ And he had withdrawn, surprised at her tetchiness, wondering what tension had sprung up between the two women. You’re doing too much, he wanted to say, but that would have been churlish. After all, it had been his decision to offer hospitality to his old friend and Maggie had seemed so sympathetic at first.

  Vivien and he had not spoken much on their own over the last two days, Maggie always there with a pot of tea or the offer of a glass of something stronger. Then last night the red-haired woman had heaved a sigh that could only be relief when Maggie had left the room to go upstairs to bed, leaving the pair of them in front of the television, glasses of whisky still to be finished. They had watched an arts programme, something neutral to banish all talk of funerals and post-mortems from the conversation. Yet he had seen Vivien stiffen as a certain London-based playwright’s name had been mentioned, her pale face more drawn than ever in the shadowy lamplight.

  ‘Someone you know?’ he’d asked, and she’d given a brittle little nod, eyes turned away from him as if to indicate that she preferred not to talk about the theatre world. She had been sitting on the big rocking chair, but now she rose quietly and slipped on to the sofa beside him, placing her whisky glass on the side table. Neither of them had spoken for a while, and Lorimer had sensed the woman next to him relaxing in a way he had not seen since the school reunion two nights before.

  ‘Do you remember old Greeky?’ she’d said suddenly, turning to him with a smile.

  ‘Greeky Grierson? Classics teacher? He was mad, wasn’t he?’ Lorimer had laughed. ‘Remember the time he took assembly and went on and on about some ancient old Greek long after the first bell? We were all holding our breath hoping he’d never stop so we would miss most of the first period.’

  ‘Aristophanes,’ Vivien replied.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It was Aristophanes. The old Greek.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lorimer had sipped his whisky, feeling a moment of confusion. ‘How on earth could you remember that?’

  ‘He was one of the most celebrated writers of his time. His plays are classics in more than one sense. They’re still acted all over the world.’ She’d turned to him, a curious expression on her face. ‘Imagine being so famous after more than two thousand years. How could I not remember that name?’ She’d asked the question lightly, but it had felt a little like a rebuke, and Lorimer wondered if even then their worlds had been too far apart.

  The memory of their conversation came back to him clearly now as he stopped at a red light. She’d enthused about the wispy-haired classics teacher, someone Lorimer had considered a bit of an eccentric, telling him about a theatre trip the teacher had arranged for them.

  ‘It was to the Citizens,’ she’d told him. ‘To see The Wasps. I’ll never forget that. It was like having my eyes properly opened for the first time.’

  Lorimer had thought about her remark later. It had been an art teacher, a single older lady with massive enthusiasm for her subject, who had been responsible for giving the young William Lorimer his own passion for art. And hadn’t Miss Sheridan taught him how to see the works of art that he had grown to love? Perhaps he and Foxy weren’t so different after all, he mused, easing the car forward as the lights turned green, the touch of her lips on his cheek and the faint memory of her perfume lingering long after she had risen from the couch, leaving him to finish
a contemplative whisky on his own.

  Chapter Twelve

  Asa’s body stiffened under the thin blanket at the sound of the knock on the door. Nobody had knocked before. Usually they simply unlocked the door and came straight into the room. Sometimes there would be one of them, usually the stout woman, but often two or more stood inside the room, staring at her then talking to one another while food was put down on the table. She had recognised some of the English words on her captors’ lips. Lorry and cargo had been repeated several times, with glances in Asa’s direction. Did these words mean ‘girl’? Or even ‘prisoner’? Asa shivered, watching the door, wondering when it would be opened. Since the night of her arrival no one had actually laid hands on her, but Asa sensed that any move to escape would result in physical violence.

  It was daylight again, a weak sun hidden somewhere behind those forbidding grey buildings, so different from the glorious blaze that shone down on the earth back home.

  Asa put her head in her hands, wanting to shed tears for the longing inside, the yearning to be where she belonged. But tears were a sign of weakness, and some instinct told the girl that she had to be strong for whatever lay ahead.

  The sound of the key turning in the lock made her grit her teeth, wide eyes staring. For a moment there was nothing, just a gap appearing as the door swung inwards.

  ‘It’s me.’ The woman stood there grinning, a tray of food in both hands. ‘Breakfast time,’ she added.

  Asa listened to her voice. Breakfast was a word she had heard before, and now she was sure it must mean ‘food’. A meal.

  There was a small table next to the bed where the woman set down the laden tray, and Asa’s eyes roved hungrily over its contents. There were two bowls of cereal and a stack of toasted bread, the butter spread so thick that it slipped over the crusts, making the girl’s mouth water. And two mugs of tea, its familiar fragrance making Asa look at the woman in surprise.

  ‘Rooibos,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘You like that, eh? Here,’ she added, picking up a mug and offering it to the girl.

  Asa swung her legs out of the bed and perched on the edge, hands held out to receive the warm mug of tea. As she sipped, she saw that the woman had picked up the other mug and was drinking greedily. Two bowls, Asa told herself. She means to have her own meal here with me, she thought, surprised at how pleased it made her feel. They might share some sort of ethnic origin, but it had become evident that Asa’s Yoruba tongue was completely foreign to the big lady, who now sat on the wooden chair, spooning cornflakes into her mouth. Back home, English was the language of the city, of rich Nigeria, far from the village where Asa had lived for all of her fifteen summers. Yet if she was to survive, somehow she had to learn these strange new words and what they meant.

  ‘Brek-fasst,’ she tried, pointing to the other bowl of cereal.

  The woman’s grin showed that she had got it right. ‘Aye, breakfast. Kellogg’s cornflakes,’ she added, nodding at the tray.

  Asa picked up the second bowl shyly and began to eat, a small glow of satisfaction spreading through her. She had always been a clever one, her late father had said. She would marry well and have a husband who had many cattle. But then the sickness had come and Asa had been left alone, no husband willing to take her in case she too had the disease. Life had been hard for the children left behind, but there had still been enough food and the sun had shone down, warming the baked earth outside the tiny hut.

  Asa blinked in surprise as she saw the empty bowl on her lap.

  ‘Well done, little one!’ The woman was clapping her hands and Asa smiled, wondering what was being said. Was it good to have finished the food? Or was it the custom here to clap once you had eaten? Just in case, the girl put her own hands together, giving a faint clap in return.

  The woman’s howl of laughter made Asa’s cheeks burn with shame. Had she done something stupid? But the plate of toast was being pushed her way now, so perhaps whatever it was didn’t matter.

  The scent of warm toast and the fragrant tea made Asa relax. There were two pieces left on the plate and the woman’s gestures indicated that they were both for Asa.

  Wiping the crumbs carelessly from her dress on to the floor, the woman continued to talk, words flowing like water over the Nigerian girl’s head. Then, in a pause, she tapped her breast and said, ‘Shereen.’

  She was watching Asa as she spoke; now, repeating both word and gesture, she pointed to the girl, a question in her eyes.

  Asa tapped her own thin chest. ‘Asa,’ she said, surprised at the sound of her name being uttered in this cold little room.

  ‘You are Asa?’ The woman pointed at her again and Asa nodded. ‘I am Shereen,’ she said slowly. ‘Sher-een.’ The word was drawn out so that Asa knew she was meant to repeat it aloud.

  ‘Sher-een,’ she said obediently, as if she were a small child again learning new concepts from her elders.

  ‘Good girl!’ Shereen exclaimed, gathering up the empty crockery and placing it back on the tray. ‘We’ll have you ready in no time!’

  Asa watched as the woman left the room, expecting the door to be swung shut as usual. But this time it remained open, letting in a draught of cold air from the darkened corridor outside.

  Asa crept barefoot across the threshold, stopping to peer out at the hallway. She blinked, wondering if she had dreamt the night of her arrival; this seemed so different from her memory of a long narrow place where danger lurked at either end like hunting beasts. The corridor was shorter than she remembered, a few feet away from the front door on her right and about the same distance to the light shining from a room at the far end where she could hear the hum of a machine and the noise of music playing. Confused, she wondered whether she should return to the room, gather up the clothes she had been given and dress herself as quickly as possible. Had the woman made an error in leaving the door open? Would she be punished if she left the room and stepped into that lozenge of brightness?

  Curiosity overcame the young girl’s trepidation and she walked on silent feet towards the source of that warmth and brightness, lured as certainly as a moth to a candle. But there was no flame to scorch her fleecy Primark pyjamas, just a grin from Shereen, who had turned from whatever she was doing at the kitchen sink.

  There were four high stools arranged around a length of table, and Asa slid silently on to one of them, watching Shereen, waiting to see if the woman would shoo her back to the room.

  ‘More tea?’ Shereen waved a teapot aloft, pointing at it with a friendly smile.

  Asa nodded, understanding the gesture and sniffing the air to catch again the scent of the redbush tea leaves. Moretea. She held the word to her like a talisman, guessing incorrectly that this was the English word for rooibos. Staring at Shereen, she suddenly saw this fat, friendly woman as a possible route of escape. She would teach her English words, enough for Asa to tell someone out there that she had been captured, taken from her home and forced on that terrible journey. For, the girl reasoned, until she could speak the language, she was as effectively imprisoned in this land as if they had chained her to a wall and left her to rot.

  Shereen waddled over to the table and placed a brown earthenware teapot between them.

  ‘It takes time to brew,’ she informed Asa, receiving only an uncomprehending stare.

  ‘Tea,’ Shereen said, pointing to the pot.

  ‘Moretea,’ Asa replied brightly as if batting back the single syllable with two of her own.

  Shereen sighed and tried again. ‘Tea,’ she said. Lumbering off her stool, she opened a cupboard and took out a tin. ‘Here,’ she said, opening it and showing the contents to Asa. ‘Tea.’

  And so it was: dark leaves dried from the rooibos, their smoky fragrance rising as Shereen stirred them with one chubby finger.

  ‘Tea,’ Asa said.

  ‘Cup,’ Shereen continued, warming to her role as the girl’s instructress as she touched the porcelain mug beside her.

  ‘Cup,’ Asa said, her eyes
darting back to Shereen’s to seek her approbation.

  The woman grinned, then, as though something had come into her mind, stroked the line of her mouth with an index finger.

  ‘Smile,’ she said.

  Asa touched her own mouth and repeated the word. But this time there was something wrong.

  ‘Nah, not like that, girl. See, like this,’ and Shereen swept her finger over her mouth in an exaggerated curve. ‘Smile, see?’

  Drawing closer to Asa, she touched the girl’s lips, making the same shape so that Asa did smile, the moment of understanding a rare moment of joy between them.

  ‘Smile, kid,’ the man commanded, lowering the camera for a moment to jerk his head at Asa. The image would be transferred to a fake passport later, something the girl might never even see.

  And she tried to smile, her face muscles obedient to the command, though in truth her heart fluttered with terror lest this man be taking part of her very soul away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Don’t like it,’ the white-coated woman murmured, shaking her head as she sat back from examining the tissue slide under the microscope. ‘Don’t like it at all,’ she added, casting a quick glance at the toxicology report on her computer screen. Thanks to the new range of screening techniques, the samples had undergone rigorous examination, something that did not happen in every laboratory in the country. LC-QTOF was able to find multifarious substances, and now it seemed as though something highly unusual had turned up on their doorstep.