Sleep like the dead lab-8 Page 9

  'Okay, Fathy?' The tall, lanky figure of DS Cameron loomed behind him and Omar felt a friendly touch on his shoulder.

  'Good work that, finding out the sister was Scott's ex. We could've been running round in circles for ages without that particular snippet of information,' he smiled.

  Omar Fathy ducked his head as if in embarrassment. The detective sergeant's lilting voice sounded so genuine, so why was every sinew in his body stiffening in suspicion? The man from Lewis was a nice guy. They had Asians up there who spoke the Gaelic like natives. So why would Cameron target the young Egyptian? 'You all right?'

  Omar looked round to see an expression of real concern in the man's eyes.

  'Yes, thanks. Just worried someone might think I'm overstepping the mark, you know?'

  Cameron gave him another tap on his shoulder. 'Nobody will.

  Lorimer takes notice of everyone's contribution. There's no pecking order with him,' he grinned. 'He might be a DCI but he's not forgotten what it's like for the foot soldiers. Besides,' his grin widened, 'he's not averse to getting his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.'

  Omar frowned. `Och, I often think he'd rather be out and about with us than stuck in his office with all that admin,' he continued, shrugging.

  'But sometimes he just does that anyway. Drives the Super nuts of course.' Cameron laughed. 'You should see Lorimer questioning a suspect. There's no one can hold a candle to him in the interview room, I promise you.' And, winking at the detective constable, Cameron moved on towards the door.

  Omar stood perfectly still. If what Cameron said was true, then more than ever he believed that Lorimer was the man who would listen to his story and take it seriously.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lorimer listened to the liquid notes of the thrush. How any bird could sing its heart out like that in the middle of this city, was something akin to a miracle. It was a sound he associated with the countryside, reminding him of deep, green swards of grass under shady stands of trees. But why this fellow had chosen to compete with the constant din of Glasgow's traffic was anyone's guess. He had heard the bird several times now, from its perch on top of a lamp post just outside his window. For a moment the detective forgot all about the bodies lying in Glasgow City mortuary and the ever-growing files upon his desk. It was the thrush's total innocence that moved him, its unconcern for anything except filling the whole of its small body with that song.

  The shrill, peremptory ring of the telephone broke the spell and Lorimer turned back to the world of crime and criminals.

  'Lorimer,' he said, a slight frown upon his brow But as he heard the woman's voice at the other end of the line, he straightened up as though she were with him in this very room.

  'Ma'am,' Lorimer said, listening as the deputy chief constable, Joyce Rogers, took time to explain the meetings and discussions that had preceded the letter that had gone out to Doctor Solomon Brightman. Lorimer's email to her might well have been a little on the terse side, but now she was being fulsome in her praise of the psychologist, assuring Lorimer that it was nothing personal, simply a slight shift in policy.

  'A temporary shift, perhaps, ma'am?' he enquired.

  'We'll see about that, Lorimer,' Rogers replied. 'And, talking about shifts, have you had any thought about my proposal?'

  'Not yet, ma'am. Still thinking it over,' Lorimer replied. He bit his lip. Being asked to head up the Serious Crimes Squad with promotion to detective superintendent ought to be a no-brainer, but he had put it to the back of his mind, not even mentioning the matter to Maggie. `Hm, well, don't take too long about it, will you? There are always plenty of other officers hungry for a chance like that.

  Meantime,' she continued briskly, 'any joy with those two men who were shot?'

  Lorimer spent the next five minutes filling the deputy chief constable in on the recent progress, even going so far as to mention DC Fathy's part in the investigation.

  'Good man, that. Lots of potential. See that we keep him in Strathclyde, won't you, Lorimer. Don't want his feet to become itchy again. Besides,' she continued in a tone that made Lorimer imagine her eyes twinkling, 'We need all the diversity we can muster within the force in these modern times.'

  Lorimer put down the phone, grinning. For two pins he would bet that even Joyce Rogers would apply her lipstick if she anticipated a visit from DC Fathy. He had them all around his little finger, he chuckled, storing up this little nugget to share with Maggie when he got home.

  But it did not alter the situation with Solly. Not that this case required the psychologist's input. There was nothing remotely resembling a serial killer on the loose. No, it was a case of drug dealers falling out, if he was not mistaken. Yet there was something odd about it, too. Scott had seemed a decent citizen to all intents and purposes. Yet he had been married to the sister of a known dealer. Had been, a voice reminded Lorimer. Perhaps Scott had wanted to sever links with the Brogans. But the man's divorce had been effective for over two years now So why had he been targeted by that marksman? Had there been bad blood between Billy Brogan and Kenneth Scott?

  Lorimer chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. Scott had no family to talk to and they had already spoken to his workmates. But surely there were others in his life who had known the man more intimately? If only he could speak to Marianne Brogan, or whatever she was calling herself these days. But the woman seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, suggesting that she had in fact relocated to somewhere overseas. They would have to continue their inquiries to see if that was indeed the case. Or did her disappearance give a hint that she had something to hide?

  Lorimer asked himself, his suspicions shifting his thoughts down a different route entirely. One way or the other he was going to be working flat out, he realised with a grimace.

  The prospect of a holiday during Maggie's summer break was becoming more and more unlikely as the days went by. It wouldn't be the first time they had had to cancel something due to the pressure of his work, Lorimer thought. Perhaps they could have a last-minute break during the school October week, he told himself, ruefully.

  The detective leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the Van Gogh print that he had placed across on the far wall. There was something alive about the painting: the art dealer seated on that rush-covered chair, bright splashes of colour behind him, depicting some of the paintings in his shop. And that timeless quality in the man's wizened face appealed to him too; he could have been a Tibetan monk about to deliver some piece of ancient wisdom. It was as if the subject might turn his head and speak from the frame at any moment.

  He could do with some words of wisdom right now, that was for sure, he thought, standing up suddenly and pacing the room.

  It was something he simply could not help; an anxiety to be up and about, searching for the next clue in a puzzle about human life. A restless spirit, Maggie had called him once, a tinge of regret in her voice. But it was how he was made, he reflected now, his mind roaming into dark avenues where other people might fear to venture. Being a policeman was not just a job, it was a way of life.

  And hadn't he just recently told that to some new recruits in his lecture at the police training college in Tulliallan? And Maggie knew that. Had he opted for a life of academia, like Solly, would life be very different now? Would he be traipsing across the globe lecturing on fine art, as he had once imagined?

  The telephone ringing once again took Lorimer's thoughts back to the present and the portrait of Pere Tanguy seemed to diminish as he let his eyes slide away, focussing on the papers on his desk instead.

  Several minutes later, Lorimer was tapping words into his BlackBerry, fixing a date to speak at a course in the University of Glasgow. Rosie had wheedled in such a convincing way that he had found himself agreeing almost immediately to her request. It might take a bit of time to prepare, though, he frowned, wondering if he could wing it in front of an audience of medics, legal folk and fellow police officers. No, he thought, glancing up at the painting once again and no
ting Pere Tanguy's calm gaze. This was something that would demand a proper amount of thought and effort.

  He stood up once more and strode to the open window but the thrush had flown away and all that he could hear was the noise of traffic rumbling around this great city's beating heart.

  'We've already tried Martha Street and The Department for Work and Pensions,' DC Irvine moaned. 'What more can we do?'

  'She went to Anniesland College to take the necessary qualifications for entrance to university. What name did she use when she registered there?' Fathy asked.

  'Scott. But that doesn't get us anywhere. We've eliminated all the Scotts as well. The registry office at the uni confirmed there are no Marianne Scotts or Marianne Brogans currently attending any courses.'

  'And she would have needed to register under the name that was on her SEE certificates, wouldn't she?'

  'Of course.' Irvine narrowed her eyes. 'What are you getting at?

  You've got that look again,' she said.

  'What look?'

  'Elm, the sort of look that means your exotic brain's about to churn up something interesting that the rest of us mere mortals have missed,' she replied, smiling in spite of herself.

  'Well,' Fathy began, 'what if she didn't register for her exams in her married name. Or her maiden name, come to that.'

  'You mean she used an alias? How would that work?'

  'You know as well as I do that under Scottish law you can call yourself anything you like. See,' he swung round in his chair to face her, 'I had this pal at school, foreign bloke like myself, his surname was Lo. L-0,' he added with a wave of his hand. 'Sort of gave away his different ethnic origin – except his mum was Scottish. Never got on very well with his father. So when he went up to university he decided to change his name to Lowe. L-O-W-E, see?'

  Tut didn't everyone think it was the first spelling, I mean when they looked at him?'

  'That was just it,' Fathy explained eagerly. 'James didn't look all that Chinese, really. Dark haired and all, but much more like his mother,' he mused, gazing beyond Irvine as if to conjure up the woman.

  'Okay, so what's your point?'

  'James could have changed his name by deed poll but he didn't. He simply began using the other spelling for all his legal documents: driving licence, bank details, you name it..

  'So you think Marianne Scott, nйe Brogan, might have done the same sort of thing?'

  'Well, we could check with the SEE exam board to see what names come up for the year before she was meant to begin university.'

  'If she ever did,' Irvine replied gloomily. `I'm beginning to think she's not in Scotland at all.'

  'Worth a try, though, isn't it?' he persisted.

  'Aye, suppose so. Lorimer'll want no stone unturned.' She looked thoughtful for a moment. 'There is another possibility, though. D'you remember that case of the medical student who faked his school exam results?'

  Fathy shook his head. `Och, it was ages ago. The bloke had been knocked back to study at Glasgow Uni so he forged a load of stuff and began attending lectures, doing exams, the lot. Pretended he was just a young guy when he was… oh I can't remember, thirty-something I think. Nearly got away with it an' all.'

  'Would have to have been a good forgery,' Fathy pointed out.

  'Aye, so it would,' Irvine answered. 'And I wonder just who would be doing stuff like that in Glasgow nowadays.' Marianne lay with her eyes closed, willing sleep to come. The nights were beginning to darken earlier now so there was no reason why she should find it difficult to rest and relax.

  Everything had been so carefully worked out, hadn't it? But now all of her plans seemed to be unravelling at the seams.

  Where was Billy? And who was the man with the seductive voice who wanted to see him? An old army pal? Or was he something else? These thoughts chased themselves around her brain like hamsters on a wheel.

  And now there was so much more to worry about. Two men had been found dead in Billy's flat, Amit had said. Known drug dealers.

  The newspaper item hadn't even made the front page of the redtop she'd bought. Just a couple of column inches tucked away at the foot of a page dominated by the shenanigans of a blonde celebrity. Fraser Sandiman and Andrew Galbraith, the paper had written. The names didn't mean anything to Marianne, but then she had deliberately steered clear of her brother Billy's mates.

  Only saw him when she needed to. And then, only on her own terms. In fact, she thought, she had never once set foot in that particular flat over in Argyle Street. He had always come to her.

  'Where the hell are you, Billy?' she whispered into the gathering darkness.

  Dreams came at last, not the old nightmares of suffocating pain, but of Amit waving to her, laughing as he ran across the bridge over the Clyde. He's going to catch hold of my hand then pull me into a hug, she thought, panicking… choking me like Ken used to do…

  Then everything changed. And he was falling, falling in slow motion before disappearing below the oily waters. Marianne heard a voice screaming aloud as she knelt on the bridge, desperate to see the man who had been about to embrace her.

  The sound of her own voice emitting a hoarse croak made her sit up suddenly, awake and sweating.

  It was only a dream, wasn't it? But then she frowned. Was it something that Doctor Brightman had said? Or something she had read? Symbolism, she thought, savouring the word as much as the concept. Was she afraid of losing Amit? Or was this a dream signifying something much more sinister?

  CHAPTER 16

  Omar waved his hand as the policewoman said goodnight. She might raise her eyebrows at his staying on late, but he didn't care. This was something that he had to do. The university registry officer had given him a list of all last year's new students as well as those who were just waiting for freshers' week. The woman for whom they were searching might have gained enough points for entry but delayed enrolling for a year, he had told the registry officer. Even so, the list of every girl and woman in those categories whose first name was Marianne was surprisingly long.

  If Lorimer okayed it, he and Irvine might be in a position to visit and interview every one of the forty-seven Mariannes on record.

  He thought about James Lo. He had kept his first name all through the changes, hadn't he? But what if this woman had completely changed her name? Biting his lip in a moment of self-doubt, Omar wondered at the zeal that had kept him at this task all afternoon. What was he trying to prove? That he was a better officer than all of the rest of the team? Or that it was his endeavours, not the colour of his skin, that was of any significance?

  Lorimer had taken away the photo of that red-haired woman he'd found in Brogan's flat. Could this be the sister? He'd let all of the members of the investigation team have a good look at it and then they had compared it with recent images of Brogan. There was not a shred of familial likeness and most of them had gone along with DS Wilson's suggestion: probably Brogan's bird.

  Now he looked at the photograph on his desk. It wasn't evidence as such, so there had been no requirement to send it down as a production. The woman gazed out of the picture, that smile on her lips directed towards whoever had been behind the camera. Say cheese, his dad had always told him as a little lad whenever he had wanted another snap for the family album. And women liked nice photos of themselves so invariably they put on their prettiest smiles for the camera. There was nothing provocative about her, he thought. That bare shoulder was probably on show simply because it was a sunny day. No smouldering looks for a lover. And just because the picture had been in his flat did not mean that Brogan had taken it himself. So was this lady Brogan's girlfriend or not? Maybe he had a better snap of her secreted in his wallet, Lorimer thought, absently touching the pocket where he kept his own photograph of Maggie. Perhaps the drug dealer was at this very moment with this woman somewhere.

  It's what's not there as much as what is, that we have to focus upon, Lorimer had insisted earlier that day. And apart from Brogan himself, there was a fair am
ount missing: passport, bank details, address books, all sorts of personal stuff. And Kenneth Scott's home lacked some of these things too, the DCI had reminded them.

  Now, sitting at his desk, he wondered. Each of these killings had the same signature about them as far as the ballistics were concerned and had probably been undertaken by a trained marksman.

  But now there were more links between the two cases. He closed his left fist and stuck his thumb upwards, counting. Marianne Scott was Brogan's sister; paperwork that one might expect to find in a home being used by its occupant was missing.

  He raised his index finger then paused. Was that all?

  His hand relaxed on to the desk as he thought hard about each of the killings. Maybe they ought to look at the differences too.

  Scott's home hadn't been ransacked; he wasn't a known drug dealer (or user come to that); nobody in Scott's neighbourhood had heard or seen a thing. And one of the two men had been carrying a shotgun. Was that significant? Had the more recent killings happened in a chaotic situation? Where Scott's death bore the hallmarks of a planned attack, Galbraith and Sandiman's killer seemed to have stumbled upon them. Or was it the other way around? Had they come across the killer after they'd entered the flat? Traces of DNA in other rooms would help to establish an answer to that particular question.

  Lorimer sighed. He'd asked for Marianne Brogan to be found as a matter of priority but was that really such a good idea? The woman had no police record of any sort and the very little he did know about her seemed to indicate that she had been an ordinary housewife before her marriage had broken up. DC Irvine had been adamant that it was weird for a woman to stop work like that after a wedding and most of the officers had agreed. Nowadays it usually took the combined salaries of a husband and wife to pay for the mortgage. And Scott hadn't exactly been rolling in money.