Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

'A Setior Brogan. Englishman,' one of the officers began.

'tic is un Estods,' the girl corrected him primly. 'Not Ingle's.' 'Where is he?' the other officer demanded, clearly quite uninterested in the distinction.

'He left his key in reception,' the girl nodded to the desk.

'Went out hours ago. Probably gone for dinner by this time.' She glanced at the clock. 'Almost nine. He'll likely be in one of the tavernas, I would say. What d'you want with him, anyway?'

'Where's his room?' the first policeman asked. 'We need to look at it.'

'Has he done something wrong?' the girl's hand rose to her mouth in alarm.

'Key to his room, please, senorita,' the other officer said, holding out his hand in a manner that brooked no argument.

The glass doors to the balcony were open, thin muslin curtains blowing upwards, letting in a draught of the night air when the two Spanish officers entered Brogan's room.

'Doesn't look as if he's gone for good,' one of them remarked.

'No,' the other agreed. And see here,' he opened the wardrobe to show the clothes still hanging upon their rails. 'Look in the bathroom. See if he's taken his razor and stuff.'

Moments later the other man returned. 'All there. He's not done a runner by the looks of things.'

'So he doesn't know anyone is looking for him,' the first officer said, nodding. 'And he will not be expecting us to visit him when he returns.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'Park the car round the back. We don't want to warn him off.

Remember what our instructions were.'

'To keep a low profile,' the other officer said as though he were repeating someone else's words. 'But what are we actually supposed to do?'

'We'll wait here for him to come back, won't we? I could do with a couple of San Miguels,' he grinned at his companion. 'How about phoning down for a little room service while we cool our heels up here?'

The boat had slipped quietly out of the harbour, unnoticed by the mass of tourists seeking their evening's pleasure onshore. It was a good time to leave the island, thought Brogan, as he watched the twinkling lights recede. Taking a deep breath full of salty air, he stood on deck, watching as the old sailor guided his boat out into the choppy waters. This was it, then. A new adventure! Billy Brogan laughed softly to himself: he'd done it! They could look high and low for him all over the damned island but they'd be chasing shadows. He was off and running with this tide, evading anyone who might try to takes him back to Scotland to face a mess that was not of his own making.

Brogan frowned. Was he in any way responsible for what had happened to Fraz and Gubby? He sniffed. Och, they'd run close to the edge, that pair. Not his fault if they'd come to a bad end.

And Marianne? Och, she'd be fine. Amit would be looking out for her, he reasoned. But the creases on his brow persisted and he chewed a guilty lip, wondering just what was going on back in the place he had once called home.

A full moon made a track across the waves as though leading them onwards into the dark seas. Brogan shivered, rubbing his arms. Carlos had advised him to wear something warm but he had ignored the man, choosing instead to wear this thin linen shirt that now flapped in the gathering wind.

As the lights from the shore grew smaller and smaller, the island appeared as a large brooding mass, frowning across at the boat bobbing uncertainly on the rising waves. Brogan staggered from the deck to the safety of the large inside cabin, sliding open the door, feeling unbalanced in the heaving swell that made the timbers beneath his feet rise and fall.

His stomach gave a queasy flip and he caught hold of a wooden rail to steady himself. Fifteen hours, the Spaniard had told him.

He let out a yelp as the boat rose and fell over a particularly high wave. Oh. That wasn't funny. A feeling of nausea came over the man as he clutched the rail harder then shuffled to the nearest seat. Fifteen hours of this? Brogan groaned aloud. Just what had he let himself in for?

It's entirely your decision,' the man told her, sitting back in his swivel chair, watching her face.

Maggie Lorimer nodded, too unhappy to give a verbal reply. It was her body, her cramps brought on by the endometriosis that was filling her womb with knots of fibrous tissue. And that persistent pain, she reminded herself. Yesterday she had been quite certain of the way forward. Abandoning a classroom full of kids halfway through a lesson to stumble along to the ladies' toilet was just not on. She'd have the damned operation, she'd told herself then, splashing water on her face, cursing the weakness that was dragging her down.

But now, in the cold light of day, faced with the surgeon who would open her up and remove that poor part of her, Maggie was not so sure.

Babies had been started there, nascent little creatures whose forms never developed to term. Such hopes each of them had brought! And such grief when they had aborted from her unwilling body. There was no hope left, one gynaecologist had insisted.

Better to face up to the facts. But Maggie Lorimer had clung to shreds of longing, waiting for a time that might come. Now that time seemed to have run out and she was making herself ill by delaying what was surely inevitable.

Mr Austen's voice had sounded quite calm but a small frown furrowing the consultant's brow showed Maggie that he was genuinely concerned.

'If it was your wife…?' she asked, hearing the breathy catch in her words.

He smiled then, a sympathetic smile. 'I'd tell her to go ahead and have the surgery,' he said, his eyes full of pity for her dilemma. 'But then, we already have two boys,' he shrugged.

Maggie nodded again, glad of the man's honesty. He hadn't just told her what to do: he had understood the turmoil in her heart and mind. Probably used to women like me, she reminded herself.

'Okay,' she sighed. 'When can you do it?'

Omar lifted the bundle of mail from the dark space by the door.

Most of it consisted of flyers – for a local grocery store, someone offering car insurance and a tree surgeon. He smiled at that last one. There were no trees in this block of flats: he supposed that the sorting office was given loads of that sort of stuff to thrust through letterboxes in a wide area, irrespective of how appropriate it was to the householder. The rest of the mail consisted of a bill from his electricity provider and one handwritten envelope that looked as if it might be an invitation to someone's birthday party.

Omar opened this one first, hopeful of adding a date to his somewhat empty calendar.

He drew out a plain piece of card, neatly folded down the middle, then turned it over, expecting some sort of picture on the front. There was nothing and its stark whiteness made him grit his teeth, anticipating the contents.

GET OUT BLACK BASTARD

The words, scrawled in dark felt pen, jumped at him, making Omar flinch. So. They had found his address already. That was bad.

Heaving a sigh, Omar Fathy nodded to himself as though he had come to a decision. He had endured so much up in Grampian and had thought that this move would mean a fresh start. But someone must have followed him here. Picking up the envelope, Omar examined the stamp to see if the franking mark might give him any information: it did. The card had been posted locally, here in Glasgow.

It was time to do something about this. His dark face hardened as he dropped the junk mail into a recycling box. Taking the card carefully between his fingers, he walked through to his kitchen, looking for a clean plastic bag.

DCI Lorimer turned slowly into his street, willing the old car to roll into the driveway. He came to a stop and turned off the engine, sensing the sigh of relief from the Lexus as it began to cool down. Pressing a button, Lorimer saw that he'd clocked up the best part of two hundred thousand miles now, surely more than could be expected from even the trustiest workhorse. The old girl was losing oil at an astonishing rate these days and he knew in his heart that it was time for a change of car. The detective was surprised at his attachment to what was, after all, a heap of metal. A fondness for this machine that had carried him to so many destinations was surely bordering on a sentimentality that was unworthy of his calling? But he sat still, fingering the worn leather on the driver's seat, feeling as much at home here as he did in his own front room. He'd miss driving this car but there was no denying it was time to trade it in for something newer. His fortieth birthday was a few months away now, Lorimer reminded himself. Perhaps he could justify the purchase of another Lexus? 'Hi,' he called, closing the front door behind him.