Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

'Anything interesting?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' Cameron replied, sharing a quick glance with Fathy. 'Wait till you see…' he tailed off as Lorimer strode towards the window and sat beside a low table.

Opening the envelope the DCI saw that there were four packets of prints within clear plastic packets, labels denoting the dates on which the various photographs had been taken.

He looked up at the two officers. 'There must be over one hundred pictures here,' he said then looked back at the dates on the labels. 'Taken from more than six months previously to the week before Scott was killed,' he murmured.

'Right, let's begin with you lot,' Lorimer said, lifting the pack of photos that had been taken most recently and laying the others on a low table. 'Maybe we'll find out where Scott went for his holiday.'

The DCI's eyebrows rose in astonishment as he drew out the first photograph. It was of a Glasgow street with a young woman walking along, her red hair blowing in the wind.

'Good Lord, it's her,' he whispered, recognising the same woman whose framed photograph he had found in Brogan's flat.

'Did you realise?' he asked, looking up at Fathy and Cameron.

The two men shook their heads, coming around to have another look at the pictures for themselves.

'This is the woman whose photograph was found in Billy Brogan's place.' He looked back, studying the picture for confirmation.

'Thought it might be one of Brogan's fancy women,' he muttered.

Then, as he picked up the next photo and the next, he saw that the subject was the same. 'It's her,' he said again, flicking through the entire pack. 'You've seen what's been happening, eh?' he said, looking at his two officers. 'Whoever the photographer was he's shot the same woman from different angles and in various locations around the city.'

'We assumed it must be Kenneth Scott who took them, sir,'

Cameron said.

'Mm,' Lorimer's reply was non-committal as he turned his attention back to the remaining photographs. The other three packs showed an identical subject – the red-haired woman.

'Look,' Lorimer pointed at the array of photographs laid out upon the table. 'She's not looking up at the camera, or even smiling towards the lens for the benefit of the photographer, is she?'

Suddenly Lorimer rose from his place by the window and motioned for his officers to follow him back across the corridor to his office.

Cameron and Fathy watched as Lorimer stepped towards his desk and lifted the file on top of a mass of other papers. In seconds he had found the passport image of Marianne Scott nйe Brogan. Nodding to himself, Lorimer gave a sigh. 'It is her,' he said, glancing across at the bundle of photographs.

'Who do you think it is, sir?' Cameron asked.

'It's Marianne Brogan. Marianne Scott,' he corrected himself.

'Look at this,' Lorimer handed over the small square of passport photograph. 'Same face, same hair colour. A lot younger but it's her all right.'

'It's weird that he took all these photos of his ex-wife,' Fathy began, indicating the pile strewn across the table beside the window. 'Well, more sinister than weird really, isn't it, sir?' he said, as they looked at the images of the woman.

'Very strange, Fathy,' Lorimer agreed. 'It would be interesting to know just why this man took so many pictures of her. Suggests an unhealthy obsession, doesn't it? And we have to see if this has any relevance to his death.'

Before the day was out Lorimer had obtained the necessary authorisation to have Marianne Scott's image spread across the media. The press office had agreed to release her picture to the press as soon as the Crimewatch programme went out.

This was not the first time that Lorimer had appeared on national television. One of his earlier cases had included an appeal for-information and the results had been crucial in following up their initial leads.

And it had been down to Doctor Solomon Brightman that good use had been made of that programme, hadn't it? Lorimer thought to himself, remembering. A flicker of irritation crossed his mouth.

Solly's expertise was something he had come to appreciate, admire even at times, and now it was to be consigned to oblivion because another psychologist had got things spectacularly wrong.

Still, he reminded himself, this was a pretty straightforward case.

Everything now pointed to Brogan being the killer, didn't it? He'd done a runner, leaving three men dead behind him, men who had been well known to the drug dealer. And he'd been ex-army, had handled firearms.

Lorimer nodded. Solly's skills in profiling a potential serial killer simply wouldn't be needed in this case.

The hit man drained the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a thoughtful look in his eyes. The name Brogan had opened a particularly interesting door for him. He had not mentioned anything about his reason for being in Glasgow, preferring instead to continue the fabrication about being an old army mate. Had that washed with the man calling himself Dhesi? He doubted it. There had been something in the man's expression as they had discussed their mutual friend, as the Pakistani had insisted on calling Brogan, that implied friendship was in fact the last thing involved. And how could he forget the man's words, directed at him in that soft, suggestive tone of voice?

A lot of money might be made for anyone who was willing to assist in disposing of troublesome elements from their part of the city.

A steely glint had entered these dark eyes as he'd dropped that bombshell into the conversation. Did he know? Or was he simply guessing that he'd blown these three men away?

The pub was busy at this time of the evening, a crowd of customers around the bar, calling to one another in loud voices that competed with the football match being shown on the television, a Manchester derby. He'd thought it safe enough to mingle with the populace here, knowing so many would be crammed into the place to see the widescreen 'I'V. And so it had transpired. Nobody gave him a second glance as most eyes were fixed on the players.

It was, he had to admit, a cracking match: there were players of international standing whose skill commanded that sort of attention.

The hit man could not give it his full concentration, having an habitual tendency to glance around him, his gaze often straying towards the door, just in case.

Part of him wanted to get out of Glasgow and head back south but a sense of caution stopped him. He hadn't committed himself to anything more than an agreement to meet up again with the Pakistani. He'd been treated with respect, he thought, remembering the tray of coffee and cakes ordered in that upper room, the dignified way in which Dhesi had handed him his cup and saucer.

And that other chap, who called himself the Hundi, he'd been graciousness itself. They needed something from him and he had guessed what that might be. Also, he wanted to know what it was he was being offered. Money, certainly, but perhaps the security of a bigger organisation within this city that might provide him with a better way out.

They wanted Brogan, that was clear. But there was more to it than this. A subtle hint that another job might be in the offing. Elements, Dhesi had said. The man sitting in a corner of the pub, nursing his glass, was oblivious to the sudden roar from the punters around him as Manchester City scored a goal. His grey eyes narrowed in thought.

Licking his lips, he savoured the taste of whisky in his mouth.

There was money to be made, a lot of money. Well, perhaps he'd hang about and see what was on offer.

Marianne imagined that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, hot and moist as she ran. The street was in total darkness, the slippery cobbles under her feet threatening to trip her up. If she could just make it to the corner where the amber light from a street lamp spilled onto the pavement, then she'd be safe.