Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

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.

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.

The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn away from the window. His friend, the Hundi, was ushering in a man whom he judged to be about forty-five, short mid-brown hair, thinning on top and of medium height and build. Dhesi took all this in as he strode towards him. An ordinary looking man, he thought to himself, except for the face and its pale grey eyes.

These were eyes that had seen terrible things, Dhesi told himself; and that face, with its sharp cheekbones and firm jaw, might have been carved out of granite. Glasgow folk had a name for someone like this: a wee hard man. His visitor stood ramrod straight, gaze unwavering as he looked Dhesi in the eye.

This is someone you don't want to mess with, he suddenly thought, hearing Brogan's voice in his mind. `Mr Smith,' Dhesi smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand in welcome, `So good of you to come.'

'Dead? What makes you think that?' Joyce Rogers leaned forward in her chair, one hand clasping her chin as she considered the DCI's idea.

Lorimer made a restless movement before he answered, immediately revealing to the deputy chief constable that he was less than comfortable with this suggestion himself.

'She's nowhere to be found, ma'am. No trace of her leaving the country, no records of employment, nothing in the university registry or in any other UK registry that we can find.'

'I see,' Rogers nodded briefly. 'And you think we might want to investigate her as a missing person?'

Lorimer sighed. Thousands of people went missing each year, many of them at their own behest. But there would always be some who had been killed by a person or persons unknown and whose bodies would rot in their unmarked graves for generations.

The police knew that from experience. And from the results of their cold case units around the country.

'We have no idea when she was last seen, nor do we have a recent photograph of her. No marriage photographs at Scott's house, nothing for matriculation at the college..

'Oh? And why is that? Isn't it mandatory for all the students to have photo ID?'

'Yes, ma'am, but the college doesn't keep them for more than a year after the student leaves.'

She could be shacking up with someone, of course,' Rogers mused. 'Another drug dealer like brother Billy.'

'That's true,' Lorimer conceded. And if she is alive we might try to ask her to come forward, to speak to us in confidence.'

'Why do I have the feeling that you're about to suggest putting out a televised appeal on Crimewatch, Lorimer?'

Lorimer spread his hands open and smiled, 'Because you know me so well, ma'am?'

And you haven't been able to ask Superintendent Mitchison, I take it?'

The DCI's smile slipped a little. Not available at divisional HQ at present, ma'am,' he replied stiffly.

It was common knowledge that the superintendent and DCI Lorimer did not rub along easily together, Rogers reminded herself.

If she had had her way, it would have been Lorimer running his division, not Mark Mitchison, but her vote at the time had been only one of many, something that grated to this day.

Promotion for this man was long overdue, Joyce Rogers thought, watching Lorimer as he tried not to fidget, hands clasped but fingers rubbing each other as though unable to settle quietly. There was an opening in the Serious Crime Squad and she had thrown this man's hat into the ring, pleased to see that her other senior colleagues approved of the idea.

'I'm happy to authorise an appeal so long as a photograph of the woman can be found,' Rogers said at last. 'You will have been sent the last passport photograph from the passport record office, I take it?'

'Yes, ma'am. It was taken over nine years ago so she may well have changed in that time.' Lorimer bit his lip, considering his next request. 'Perhaps we might consider local radio stations first?' `Ah, you're thinking of Radio City? They put out regular calls for missing persons, don't they?'

'Yes, ma'am, they do,' Lorimer replied. It had been DS Cameron who had suggested this at their last meeting. The Lewisman was involved in church work in the city and knew the presenter of one of City's evening programmes. The sound of a telephone ringing on the deputy chief constable's desk was the cue for Lorimer to take his leave.

'Keep in touch,' she told him as he stood up.

The DCI had just emerged into the daylight outside Pitt Street when his own mobile rang.

'Lorimer,' he said.

'Sir, it's DS Cameron. There's something we think you should see. Are you coming back right now?'

Fathy and Cameron were waiting for Lorimer in the incident room, an expression of excitement on both of their faces.

'Sir, it's the scene of crime file from Kenneth Scott's house.

They've sent over prints of photographs that were taken from a camera that was logged at the scene.'

Lorimer nodded, taking the large A4 manila envelope from his detective sergeant. It was usual for items like cameras and computers to be taken from a crime scene for forensic examination.