Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

The door swung open as he rang the bell as if Rosie had been waiting for him.

'How are you?' Lorimer stepped forward, kissing her on the cheek.

'Great,' she smiled. 'Never better. In fact if it goes on like this I might just decide to be the Old Woman who lived in a shoe.' She chuckled as they moved into the spacious lounge, a room that Lorimer loved with its huge bay windows overlooking Kelvingrove Park and the swirling abstract paintings that SoIly had acquired from a local gallery.

'Thought you might be contemplating a move to suburbia,'

Lorimer said.

'No, I don't think so,' Rosie said, settling herself on a couch with the help of a couple of squashy cushions at her back. 'We can leave the pram in the downstairs hall. Besides, I'm really looking forward to walks in the park.' She gave another smile that softened her features, gazing out towards the window where the afternoon sunlight was streaming in.

There was a new vulnerability to the pathologist that Lorimer had never seen before, a fragility that surprised him. With her halo of blonde hair shining in the light, she looked much younger than her thirty-five years. No one seeing her right now would imagine her in scrubs, scalpel in hand, exploring the mysteries of a corpse on her clinical metal table back in the mortuary. The tough, resilient woman he had come to visit dissolved in an instant and Lorimer knew at that moment he could not bring himself to discuss Maggie's predicament. It had been selfish of him to think that Rosie might give his wife some friendly medical advice, reassuring her that all would be well. How could he talk about a matter like Maggie's hysterectomy when Rosie's baby was filling its mother's womb? 'Nice to see you,' Rosie began and Lorimer found that she was looking at him quizzically.

'I was just passing. Had a meeting nearby. Thought I'd come and see how my favourite pathologist was faring,' he lied, smiling his most charming smile and fixing her with his blue eyes.

'Fancy a cuppa?'

'No, you're fine, thanks. Just wanted to have a blether, see what you're up to. Missing the day job yet?' he grinned.

'As if,' Rosie laughed. 'Can't perform any surgery now but I do have plenty of paperwork to keep me going before I hand the university work over to my locum. Things to do before term starts,' she added.

'So you're not wanting to hear what we've found in the Kenneth Scott case?'

Rosie shook her head but she was smiling. 'Suppose you're going to tell me anyway,' she said giving a theatrically exaggerated sigh.

'Well, the answer is, not a lot, I'm afraid,' Lorimer replied, suddenly serious. 'We can't locate either Brogan or his sister, though word has it that Billy boy was in Spain recently. As for the woman, well,' he shrugged and turned away from Rosie's gaze. Suddenly he was reluctant to talk about the case. How could he begin to relate his thoughts that Marianne Scott was dead when his friend was sitting there, blossoming with that new life inside her? 'We're still working on that,' he said instead. 'Doesn't look as though we're getting anywhere fast, though.'

'Can't win them all,' Rosie replied in an indifferent tone that Lorimer read as distancing herself from his world.

'So, what else have you been up to?'

'Watching the bird man. Do you know him?' Rosie asked.

Lorimer got up and moved to the window. `Ah, that man,' he nodded. 'Aye, he's one of the RSPB volunteers from Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Sometimes takes visitors around the park to tell them about the local wildlife. Can't remember his name offhand. But we've spoken a few times.'

'And not about low-life hidden in the undergrowth,' Rosie commented dryly.

Lorimer chuckled. 'No. More about the goosanders and whether a kingfisher has been sighted.'

'I like to watch him,' Rosie said dreamily. He stands so still, so patiently, waiting for the little birds to come.'

Lorimer recognised the note of longing in her voice. Hadn't he heard that over and over whenever his own wife had raised her hopes for the child she had been carrying.

'Maggie sends her love,' he said, turning to leave. 'I'm sure she'll be in touch but she's pretty busy with school stuff right now.

Curriculum for something or other,' he added vaguely.

'Sure,' Rosie said, heaving herself out of the sofa and standing beside the tall policeman. In her flat shoes she barely came up to Lorimer's chest and had to stand on tiptoes as he put his arms round her for a farewell hug.

What had that all been about? Rosie wondered as she closed the door. With her swirling hormones heightening her perception of everything around her Rosie could see that something was troubling the DCI. And it wasn't anything to do with the murder case they'd both been involved in.

'Someone told the police,' the Hundi said, watching for Dhesi's reaction. 'They know Brogan's in Mallorca.'

'Not our friend? Not Amit?'

The Hundi shook his head. 'I don't think so. We've been keeping a close eye on that one. I think,' he said slowly, 'that Jaffrey has been a greedy man. Not content with just giving his information to us.' He raised one shoulder in a shrug of resignation. 'Not much we can do about it now. Though we may be able to put feelers out to his boy. See just what he knows about Brogan.'

'If the police do find Brogan, if he tells them about us…'

Dhesi's voice rose in alarm.

'We'll find him first, don't worry,' the Hundi reassured him.

'Remember we've got Mr Smith now,' he added with a crocodile smile that made his lips curve but failed to reach his narrowing eyes.

Mr Smith had decided to be Max Whittaker today. Of the several names by which he was known it was the one he liked best.

Besides, it was the name on his driving licence and on one of his collection of passports. Marianne would be expecting an ex-army chum so he kept to his faded denim jacket and combat trousers with a clean white 'llshirt making the outfit both respectable and authentic. He slicked a handful of gel across his hair, spiking it up.

Turning his head this way and that, he grinned at the effect it had, making him look a lot younger than his forty-two years. A quick spray of lemon-scented cologne and he was ready. Max Whittaker was prepared to enjoy this outing. He had a feeling that the outcome would be far beyond the imaginings of Brogan's sister.

Marianne stepped out into the sunlight, glad of the excuse to hide behind these large sunglasses. She had twisted her hair into a russet knot, impaling it with a single clip at the back of her head.

It was not perfect as a disguise, but anyone on the lookout for a woman with long red hair would be unlikely to give her a second glance. She'd chosen to wear a shorter skirt today, dark blue and tailored rather than the trademark Gypsy style that she normally favoured. A red top and a cream linen jacket completed her outfit.

Swinging her handbag, Marianne felt a sense of freedom that she had long forgotten; a girlish smile made her look in a nearby window to see an attractive young woman smiling back at her, head held high. The sunlight flitted between the tall buildings as she crossed from West Regent Street to Bath Street, heading for the pedestrian precinct.

On a day like this, anything was possible, she thought, glancing at the shops as she made her way up Sauchiehall Street. She might even be able to have a normal day out like those other women who lingered by the windows, pondering the selection of clothes and shoes. Some of them, like Marianne, were dressed smartly as though they too were meeting a friend for lunch. There was a carnival feel to the city today, she thought, listening to an old woman playing the violin, her nut-brown face turned up to catch the glances of passers-by. On impulse, Marianne took out her purse and selected a handful of silver, placing it in the musician's open music case. A Romanian Gypsy, by the look of her, Marianne thought; a fugitive from some story that was now behind her. Was that why she had given her the money? Had she felt a common bond between them?