Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

It was not the woman's low, seductive voice that halted the Pakistani, but that familiar name on her lips. Amit froze. He knew this programme, Crimewatch, and had seen bits of reconstructions of some violent crimes that reminded him far too much of things that he preferred to forget.

Suddenly there were scenes he recognised; the dark red sandstone of the university, its spires against a cloudless blue sky, the quadrangles with their gothic arches, then the scene changed to the streets around the library and Wellington church, students thronging the pavements. He'd walked there often with Marianne in these first days, tentatively finding his bearings around the campus and the streets that comprised Glasgow's West End. And she had been kind to him, hadn't she? Always making sure he could find his way back to the flat he had rented for her.

Amit listened to the presenter's voice and watched as she turned to the dark-haired man at her side. It was a police officer from Strathclyde, Amit realised, hearing the man's accent; some senior officer called Lorimer. And now he, too, was talking about Marianne.

Amit clutched the edge of his seat, fingers trembling. What had happened to her? He listened as the officer recounted the facts.

Marianne's ex-husband had been shot dead in his own home and the woman appeared to be deliberately trying to hide from the authorities.

What was the man saying? That Marianne, his Marianne, had killed this man? This Kenneth Scott? Amit blinked as though to clear his vision. But the policeman's face was drawing closer to the television screen as a camera zoomed in on him, filling Amit's head with all sorts of ideas.

'We would especially ask any of her friends from Glasgow University or anyone who was close to her to make contact with us,' Lorimer was saying. 'No matter when you last saw Marianne Scott, please get in touch.'

Then he paused and Amit saw his blue eyes staring intently as if he were speaking directly to him.

'If you are watching this yourself, Marianne, please call us or go to your nearest police office. We very much want to speak to you.'

Amit sat very still as the numbers appeared on the TV screen.

A faint ringing sounded in his ears and he licked his lips, feeling how dry they were.

He knew what he could do. More than that, he knew what he should do.

But there was only one question drumming a beat in his brain: had he the courage to give up everything he had gained since his arrival in this city?

Lorimer sat staring at the screen in front of him, his fist closed over the handset. All over the country phones would be dialling the Ctimetwatth number, texting or emailing messages. A lot of them would be a complete waste of time, many simply hoaxes by stupid people who got a kick out of sending duff information.

The police were used to that sort of behaviour, though. The Yorkshire Ripper case had been dogged by bogus intelligence to the extent that Peter Sutcliffe had managed to select another victim before he had eventually been apprehended and shut away for good.

'Thanks for calling,' Lorimer said, putting down the phone on a woman whose voice had betrayed her genuine eagerness to help. She'd been a fellow student at Anniesland College and now her details were to hand should she be needed again.

The day seemed to be going on for ever, he thought, glancing up at a clock on the wall. Since their arrival that afternoon, Lorimer and the members of his team had been briefed about the programme, undertaken a preliminary rehearsal, had dinner (which seemed like hours ago) followed by a dress rehearsal for the nine p.m. live programme. Now each of his hand-picked officers was responding to the calls that were coming in, urged on by Kirsty Young's usual polished performance. But, as yet, nothing had come through that would give any clue as to Marianne's whereabouts and the DCI began to gnaw his lower lip anxiously.

Just what had become of Ken Scott's ex-wife?

Amit looked around the room and saw all the things he had accumulated since his arrival. Nice things, expensive things, that he had hoped would delight Marianne. And the part ownership of the restaurant, the car outside, his very future… all these things would be taken from him if he lifted the telephone and made that call.

Suddenly he remembered the night that they had come for his father. Now he could vividly recall the stern, unyielding faces of the officials who had beaten the old man until he was senseless; he could remember the wailing cries of the women who begged them to stop; remembered his own tears running down his face.

They had left Papa Shafiq there at last, a crumpled heap surrounded by his weeping family.

That battered and bleeding body with unseeing eyes staring heavenwards was a sight that Amit had tried so hard to banish to the darkest parts of his mind. But now it was as if it had come back to tell him something.

His father had led an exemplary life, had enjoyed wealth and the respect of many of his peers. But in the end everything had been taken from him.

What was it all about, this little life that was rounded by a sleep? Amit shook his head, wondering. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he lifted the telephone and dialled.

He listened to the instructions on the line then a voice asked him to speak.

'My name is Amit Shafiq.' He paused to clear his throat, amazed to hear the sound of his own voice and how strong it sounded. 'I'm calling about the Crime-watch programme,' he said at last. It's about the woman they are calling Marianne Scott,' he continued.

'That's right,' the operator said. 'Do you have information about her?'

Amit swallowed, then licked his lips.

'Yes,' he said softly, 'she's my wife.'

Pamela tiptoed around the tall policeman from Glasgow, trying to catch his eye. He was speaking into the telephone right now and didn't look as though he would want to be interrupted. But it was part of the girl's remit to brief this man on what was happening elsewhere in the studios, and really, he would want to know about this call in particular, wouldn't he?

The hit man picked up the passport and flicked the pages until he came to a reasonable likeness of himself. Stern and unsmiling, Michael Stevens, aged forty-two, glared back at him from the square of plastic. It was a name he rarely used when he was working but sometimes it became necessary to be himself again for overseas business where the pickings were richer. Here in the UK he could make plenty though. If the punters hiring him paid up, he reminded himself sourly, remembering Billy Brogan.

But for now he was Max Whittaker to the woman and Smith to his Asian paymasters. Only someone like Brogan himself would be able to tell the real story about Mick Stevens, the sniper who had made such a name for himself in the Iraq conflict.

He laughed silently. The army had taught him plenty, hadn't it?

How to kill being one of its main lessons.

Stevens listened to the rush of water from the bathroom next door. Marianne was taking a shower, washing away their night of pleasure. The hit man grinned to himself. She had been so easy to beguile, he could hardly believe it. Ripe for picking. In a way he could almost imagine someone pitying the woman for setting her cap at him. But pity was not an emotion that a man like Stevens ever allowed himself to feel. He slipped the passport into the duffle bag beside the items he would need for the journey back down south. Being ready to leave at a moment's notice was some thing else he had learned in the forces.

Sitting back on the bed he fondled the gun, its familiar shape fitting snugly in his hand. His eyes moved from the Glock to the bathroom door, anticipating the look on her face when she emerged, naked and utterly vulnerable.