The small dark man shrugged his bony shoulders, making the leather jacket seem even more shapeless than usual. 'I have a day off today,' he replied, carefully. His English was perfect, that of an educated man and better than most of the people who lived in this city, but sometimes even that made him feel set apart.
'Sunday the restaurant is closed.' He shrugged again. 'So I can buy you lunch, perhaps?'
Marianne smiled again. 'That would be lovely, thanks. D'you want to go out of town since it's a nice day? We could get a train to Ayr, if you liked. See the seaside. Eh? How about it?'
Amit looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head. 'I am sorry' he said. 'I need to see somebody later today' He gave a stiff little nod that might have been a gesture of apology or even a little bow.
Marianne raked her fingers through her hair then let it fall over her cheeks. `Och, well, never mind. It's good to keep in touch, though. See you're doing all right.'
She looked around, noticing a group of travellers with pull along luggage trolleys enter the coffee shop. 'Come on, it's getting too busy here. Let's go and get some sandwiches and sit in George Square.'
As they came back into the main concourse of the station, the woman sensed her companion slow down and move closer to her side. Marianne looked up to see two British Transport Police officers standing talking together outside the entrance to the disabled toilet. She took Amit's hand and pulled him towards the middle of the station where streams of people were walking to and from the platforms. The intimate gesture reminded her suddenly of another man whose hand she had once held. But that hand was cold now, cold and gone. The woman squeezed Amit's hand, suppressing her shiver.
'It's okay,' she urged him. 'You're just part of Glasgow's rich and varied landscape now. There's no need to worry any more. I promise.
Nobody's going to send you back.'
Yet, as they headed for the Gordon Street exit, something made the woman turn her head, just to see if the policemen were watching them.
CHAPTER 9
Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer frowned at the papers on his desk. The ballistics report was complete and Rosie's pathology results were all there, including the toxicology report.
Some background information about Kenneth Scott had been written up by his officers and so far it made pretty boring reading.
There was nothing there. Not a thing to show why a supposedly upright member of the community had been gunned down in the hallway of his own home. And it had all the hallmarks of a professional hit, the gunman even taking time to remove the cartridge case from the scene of crime.
Perhaps Cameron and Scott's mate, Paul, were right. Perhaps this had been a case of mistaken identity. If so, he reasoned, would there be another killing soon? Finding the correct target this time? His mouth hardened. Trust something like this to come up just when he had planned his summer leave. Usually Lorimer and his wife, Maggie, took a break at the beginning of July but this year it hadn't happened. Instead he had allowed the roster to be filled up by fellow officers who had young families and needed to fit their plans in with the Scottish school terms. Having no kids of their own, the Lorimers had decided to let the holidays drift, even though Maggie was similarly constrained in her teaching profession. Next week was the final week of her summer vacation, then it would be back for a couple of in-service days at M uirpark Secondary School before the kids came streaming into the playground once again.
This last week had been earmarked by the DCI, however. One of the officers in the division had cancelled his leave and Lorimer had jumped at the chance to take Maggie away to their favourite hideout, a cottage miles from anywhere on the isle of Mull. Now, he reflected gloomily, even that small respite might be denied them.
The telephone rang out twice before he yanked it off its cradle.
'Lorimer,' he said. There was a pause before the voice on the line identified itself as Doctor Solomon Brightman.
'Um,' Solly said, then paused again. 'I have a problem. Not quite sure what to do about it.'
Lorimer leaned back in his chair, letting it swivel around from side to side as he smiled at the sound of his friend's voice. Despite his years in Glasgow, Solly's accent was still one hundred per cent that of a Londoner. A well-educated, Jewish Londoner who had the annoying habit of filling a conversation with lengthy blanks.
'Okay. Shoot,' Lorimer told him.
'I have had a letter from the Assistant Chief Constable,' Solly began. There was another pause and this time Lorimer stopped swinging in his chair and sat up, listening.
'It seems that there has been a change in policy and that my services may no longer be required by Strathclyde Police,' Solly said quietly.
'Good Lord! What else did it say? Does she give any reasons for that?'
'Only that there has been a change in policy regarding the use of criminal profiling,' Solly said.
Lorimer could hear the hurt and disappointment in the man's voice. Doctor Solomon Brightman had been instrumental in helping to solve various murder cases in which Lorimer had been the Senior Investigating Officer and the policeman had learned to value his insights.
'Did she hint at budgetary constraints?' Lorimer asked, wondering if the credit crunch had been to blame.
'No,' Solly said. There was a silence then the psychologist blurted out, 'Is it me? Are they not happy with something I've done?'
'Hey, don't even consider that for a minute,' Lorimer told him.
'You're well thought of around here, surely you know that!'
'Then why…?' Solly left his question unfinished.
'I really don't know, Solly. But leave it with me and I'll see what I can find out. Anyway, you've got enough to do right now, haven't you? A book almost ready for publication and a new baby on its way. Got that spare room made into a nursery yet?'
The psychologist's voice brightened up as he took Lorimer's lead and chatted about the changes he had made to the spacious top floor flat that overlooked Kelvingrove Park.
Lorimer put down the phone and looked at it, thoughtfully.
Why had Solly been so summarily dismissed from the police service?
Was it money? Or was it something to do with that case south of the border where an eminent criminal profiler had got things spectacularly wrong? Lorimer thought about the case for a few minutes.
Doctor Richard Thackeray (Doctor Dick, the less salubrious newspapers had taken to calling him) had profiled a young man with some pretty serious mental health issues as being the perpetrator of six prostitute murders. The man had been taken into custody, the southern police force thoroughly relieved to have found their killer. Or so they had thought. After being brutalised by his cellmate, the young man had committed suicide. The press had been less than charitable, hinting at justice being snatched out of the hands of the courts.
Then the whole shebang had collapsed with the killing of a seventh victim and the apprehension of another man, one who appeared to be, ironically, completely sane. The man's DNA was all over the other victims and so a confession of sorts had been obtained.
Yet again a furore had broken out, the redtops changing their stance once more, this time baying for the blood of Doctor Richard Thackeray. This had all taken place last year but now the killer was due for sentencing. Alongside the media fuss, the future career of Thackeray was being mooted. Several of the better papers had run features on criminal profiling, not always portraying it in a positive light. Was that it, then? Had police forces around the country decided that profiling had had its day? As a mere DCI, Lorimer was not party to the sort of policing politics that determined things like that.
Perhaps he might have a word with Her Nibs, as they all called Joyce Rogers, the Assistant Chief Constable. She was a fair minded individual and would at least give Lorimer a chance to put forward Solly's case.