Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

'Stalking,' SoIly said the word aloud as he read the heading on Lorimer's email message. A slight frown creased the man's brow.

He'd been hurt by the police decision to withdraw from his services and now here was Lorimer asking him questions that would take up some of his time. In one way it was gratifying that his friend continued to have faith in him but in another way it was just plain annoying. Had he let any pettiness creep into his soul, SoIly Brightman might have told himself that if his services were not required by Strathclyde Police then he'd simply ignore the email. But such ignoble thoughts were not part of the psychologist's make-up and, as he rose from his desk, he was already thinking of well known cases like that of TV presenter, Jill Dando. There had been good evidence at the start of that investigation for supposing that Dando had been gunned down by a stalker, though what had actually taken place might always remain a mystery.

'Stalking,' he said again, this time standing by his filing cabinet and leafing through his notes.

Ken Scott would be an interesting subject if he were proved to have been a stalker. Not only was he an ex-husband whose wife had rejected him publicly by the divorce but he must have harboured the delusion that she was still in love with him. For, SoIly knew, that was the hallmark of a stalker. The person stalking was convinced that his or her target was capable of returning the devotion that they felt. And with patience and perseverance the notion was that their victim would eventually fall into their arms, capitulating to their desires. For it was not about love, Solly reminded himself. It was all about power and powerlessness. The stalker, once a rejected lover (whether in reality or in his or her mind), regarded themselves as in a position of power while they followed their prey. Overpowering their victim became a necessary part of the game. They might tell themselves that they only wanted their loved one to return some affection, to give a smile or a kiss. But what they craved was their victim's ultimate submission. And when it became clear that wasn't going to happen willingly, they sometimes resorted to violence.

Frustration breeds violence was a phrase Solly remembered from his early days as a student of behavioural psychology. And he could cite many instances in the world of stalkers where that held true. Filthy messages sent through the post or by email, unwanted gifts (some of them with sinister overtones) and plain harassment were the outpourings of a rejected and frustrated stalker. Had there been any evidence of such things in Scott's case? The photographs were all that the police had to go on so far. It was a pity that Lorimer had drawn a blank in locating any of the ex-wife's friends or family. If he had a fuller picture of the couple's relationship then perhaps he might be able to make some useful contribution. But, failing that, he could give his friend some general pointers about the sorts of violent stalkers whose deeds had been recorded.

Annie Irvine watched her colleague as he lifted his lunch tray off the table and headed towards the canteen door. Omar had delib – erately chosen to sit by himself for the last few days, she'd noticed, facing the window that looked out on to the street, avoiding eye contact with any of his fellow officers. There was something about that figure hunched over his sandwiches that troubled Annie. Something was wrong and it wasn't to do with the ongoing murder case, she was certain of that. Omar had been full of enthusiasm not that long ago, hadn't he? So why this sudden change in his manner? The policewoman had been sensitive enough to know when to leave the handsome young Egyptian alone. Besides, what chance would she have of furthering their friendship if she barged in on him when it was obvious that he wanted nobody's company?

A tall dark-haired woman planked herself down next to Annie.

It was Maureen, the civilian officer who was in charge of processing and recording all the productions from scenes of crime. Annie would have moved away but her lunch was barely started and she was incapable of being rude even to Maureen, whose loudmouthed comments were known to make others cringe.

'What's up with Omar Sharif?' she asked, nudging Annie's arm.

The woman's shrewd glance showed that she had been following Annie's gaze as Omar walked out of the canteen.

Annie didn't reply, trying to focus on the salad and ham baguette that had suddenly become quite unappetising.

'Had a tiff, then?' Maureen gave a short laugh that sounded like a dog's bark.

Annie coloured up, watching as several heads turned their way, Maureen's strident tones carrying right across the canteen.

'Don't know what you mean,' Annie mumbled, stuffing the baguette into a napkin. She opened her handbag and drew out her mobile phone. There was no message on the screen but Maureen wasn't to know that, was she? Sometimes a wee deception had to be played out and this was one of those times. 'Have to go. See you,' she said, then rose from the table as fast as she could. `Ach, he's no worth the heartache, Annie,' Maureen persisted.

Then, catching hold of the policewoman's arm she dropped her voice to a whisper. 'An' I reckon he's the wrong colour for a nice girl like you, eh?'

Annie stood stock still for a moment, shocked at the woman's blatant racism. Had she been overheard, Maureen might well have been given notice to quit her job. She blinked then shook her head, showing the other woman that such a remark was not to be condoned.

As she turned to go, Annie kept hearing the words in her mind like a hiss of malevolence. Really she should report the woman, but there was something nasty about Maureen Kendall that gave her pause for thought. Somehow, Annie felt, there would be repercussions if she tried to put that little incident into a formal complaint. And right now she could do without the bother.

Omar was walking down the CID corridor when Annie finally caught up with him.

'Hey, what time do we have to be at the university?' she asked, still slightly breathless from her encounter in the canteen.

Omar turned round and when he saw Annie he stopped and gave her a smile. Was there really nothing worrying him behind that nice polite face? she wondered. Was she seeing things that weren't there? None of her business, anyway, Annie reminded herself.

'Remember we've to get our tails up to Gilmorehill and start quizzing the departmental secretaries,' she reminded him.

'Yes, of course,' Omar replied, the faintest of frowns producing a crease between his dark eyebrows. 'Would you like me to drive?'

The spire of the University of Glasgow could be seen for miles around, dominating the skyline as it stood proudly on the heights of Gilmore Hill. It was a strange piece of architecture, harsh spikes emanating from that narrow spire, reminiscent of a knight's mace. What the story was behind that particular feature, Annie didn't know. But it always held a sense of foreboding when she looked up from University Avenue at the dark points outlined against the sky.

'No problem getting parked today,' she remarked as Omar slipped the pool car into a space not far from the main gate. In term time it would be a different story, parking spaces close to the university buildings becoming as rare as hens' teeth.

'Wonder if she ever did apply for a course here,' Annie mused as they walked over the hill towards University Gardens.

'Lorimer thinks she's dead,' Omar replied shortly.

Annie stopped and looked at him. 'Well what on earth are we doing here? It's just a waste of our time, surely?'

Omar gave a faint grin. 'Your DCI isn't right all the time, is he?

Besides, he has to cover all the possibilities.'

Annie kicked a stone that appeared on the pavement. It skittered onto the railings with a metallic ping. 'In my experience Lorimer's hunches usually turn out to be spot on,' she said gloomily.