Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

'Aye, jist like Glasgow durin' the Fair,' Jimmy Lang piped up and everyone laughed.

Maggie smiled too. The two-week trades holiday was notorious for having poor weather. 'Don't think that's the fault o' the fairies,' someone else called out and again a ripple of giggles ran through the class.

As the bell to end the period rang out, Maggie raised her hand to prevent a charge towards her classroom door. Now remember to tell your parents about the theatre trip. We need to have the forms filled in and returned no later than next week. Okay?'

She smiled as they filed out into the corridor, some of' them grinning up at her, others saying 'See you, miss,' as they passed her by. This was by far the nicest group of first years she'd had in a long time, Maggie thought, closing the door behind them and settling down for a rare period of preparation.

Her smile faded as she regarded the notes on Shakespeare's well-loved play. Why had she chosen to highlight the changeling boy? Was it some subconscious desire on her part to elevate the child to a position of importance? Surely not. She smiled again, remembering the little faces that had just looked up at her. These would be her family, kids who passed through her life for five or six years. She sat, thinking about the future. Soon both she and Bill would be forty and that landmark birthday seemed to Maggie to be a kind of watershed in their lives. She could go on teaching for more than twenty years, hundreds of kids receiving the benefit of her tuition, she mused. Would she still be here, in this school? There was no ambitious streak in the policeman's wife to go chasing promotion. Their only ambition had been to have children one day and now that possibility was fast drawing to a close.

Maggie drew a sigh. She was so lucky compared to many of her friends; like her colleague, Sandy, with a messy divorce behind her and a teenage son who drove his mother demented. And if her husband worked long hours and had sometimes to cancel social engagements because of work, she could still treasure the knowledge that she was his only love and that they would always share a unique and special bond. The notion brought her back to the warring lovers in A Midsummer Night's Dream and Maggie settled back to prepare lessons for the following weeks.

'No he isn't here at present. No. Would you? Oh, well, thanks for that, ma'am.'

DCI Lorimer put down the telephone and looked at it thoughtfully.

The deputy chief constable had expressed both the horror and outrage that he himself had felt over DC Fathy's revelation.

Talking to Joyce Rogers had been a good idea since she had taken such a personal interest in their Egyptian detective constable. We need more ethnic minorities representing our forces, she'd told him more than once since Fathy had transferred from Grampian. But if there were racist elements at work within their divisions then something was seriously wrong.

Lorimer wondered just how to begin to tackle this. There were known groups, football casuals among them, that were blatantly racist. It might pay to ask a few questions in those quarters. But since the first incident had actually happened here, in the locker area, just yards from the charge bar where officers came and went at all hours of the day and night, he really should begin with their own division. If it was an incident involving serious crime, then he could have used some technology, like hidden cameras, but that was completely out of the question given the number of officers using the locker area. And, since Fathy hadn't a clue who his attacker was, they had to keep any investigation very low-key indeed. Any officer worth their salt would have taken precautions to keep his (or her) DNA off the materials sent to Fathy through the post. But he might just call up a favour from his chum in the Scottish criminal record office to have the letters and note dusted for prints. Even the most forensically aware person could still make mistakes, he reasoned. Lorimer would make enquiries, he'd promised Joyce Rogers, keep it as discreet as possible, see if he could avoid putting it through official channels just yet.

The DCI pursed his lips as he thought about all the things going on right now; Fathy's problem, the hunt for Billy Brogan, and his wife's difficulty in coming to terms with her operation.

Then there was Sol ly and why he was being sidelined when such skills as his were invaluable. His frown changed to the faintest of smiles. Solly would soon be immersed in fatherhood and Lorimer was certain that the psychologist would make an excellent dad.

Should he be feeling a pang of envy? Or was he so wrapped up in this job that he simply never had the time to think of what he was missing?

Aaaaagh!' The man's scream bounced off the walls, tripling the sound of his agony.

'No nice taste grass up yer mates, Jaffa. No nice at all,' the man standing over Jaffrey whispered softly, chuckling as he watched the pain twist the man's face.

'C'mon Raj, let's git oot o' here,' a voice behind him insisted.

'He's grassed wance, he'll mibbe grass us up anither time.'

'No, Vik,' Raj replied. 'Jaffa won't do that, will you, son?'

Jaffrey's frightened face looked up and he shook his head, opening his mouth to beseech his tormentors.

But Raj had already raised his knife, plunging down hard, cutting off any coherent words.

The high-pitched scream of pain ended in barely a whimper.

Then the two men turned and walked away from the shadows of the deserted factory into the bright afternoon sunlight.

Raj heaved the metal door shut then secured it with the large padlock that had dangled from its hasp. The derelict building had a row of windows set high up on one side, all of them broken like stars from a toddler's drawing book. Weeds grew up against the ruins of a pathway around the place, feathery willow herb and thistles, their fluffy seed heads floating skywards. He let his eyes roam over the area round about. Several dark brown bottles that had been kicked into the undergrowth glinted in the afternoon light, evidence that people had been here. Probably jakeys from up in the village over that nearby hill, he told himself, then grinned. Nobody would find Jaffa any time soon. And by the time they did, he would be past telling anything. He swaggered to where Vikram was waiting by his Beamer, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

'Hey, dinna mess the car, man,' Vikram whined, stepping in front of Raj, who still clutched the bloodstained knife in his left hand.

'Aye, nae sweat,' Raj replied, bending down to push the blade into the tussocky ground beside the black BMW before wiping it on the grass. 'Now, c'mon. let's split before onybody clocks us.'

The big car accelerated from the patch of rough ground and sped off around a bend past a copse of mottled sycamores.

Somewhere, unseen, a blackbird began to call; an insistent warning cry, signalling danger. But all that could be seen on that September afternoon was a swirl of dust settling back onto the dried-up earth. The bird flew out of the thorn bush, its dark shape a swift arrow against the fading blue sky.

And no sound issued from behind the wooden doors, where a man lay bleeding quietly to death.

"Ves not come home,' the woman said, her voice breaking .

Hinto the threat of a sob. 'What should I do?'

Young Jaffrey looked around him as a crowd of tourists passed by the pavement cafe. The sun that shone down on the busy Mallorcan street made the boy resentful as he listened to his mother and that plea in her tone that suggested he should pack up now and return home. His mouth drooped into a sulk as he thought how to reply.

'Well, don't do anything foolish, will you?' he said at last.

'That's not what Dad would want, now, is it?'