His partner had given a cynical reply to that question, hadn't she?
Irvine had smiled at him in that funny way she had and tapped a finger against the side of her nose, 'More to this than meets the eye. Wait and see what we dig up, pal,' she had told him. And Omar had felt something stirring in him, an excitement about being part of this Glasgow team, a thrill at having DCI Lorimer as his boss.
Omar put down the half-eaten chicken and sat back, arms folded as the teams regrouped on the pitch. Superintendent Mitchison had said to come to him for anything he wanted. And so he could. But if he was going to share the knowledge of that note inside his locker it would have to be with someone he could really trust. DC Irvine? he wondered. Or would she think him a wimp for having left Grampian? Her opinion mattered, somehow Did she fancy him? If so, she hadn't been pushy with it and he found himself admitting that he liked this policewoman with her quirky smile and sense of humour.
Who, then? The image of a tall man with dark hair flopping over his forehead came clearly back to Omar. His was a face that had seen too much suffering and pain, too many dead bodies and grieving relations. But there was an inner strength about this man, a core of toughness that was tempered, Omar felt sure, with a genuine kindness. He'd be able to talk to Lorimer. But not yet, not till he was ready. `Och, Fraz, he'll no be back therr again, he'll have gone taste crash at anither pad. Know whit ah mean?' whined Andy Galbraith. The taller of the two men outside Brogan's flat did not deign to reply, simply shouldering his way into the close mouth with a swagger that betokened his superiority. `Ah mean, Brogan widnae came back efter we turned his pad ower, ah mean, wid he?' Galbraith danced at the other man's side, an anxious hand raised as if to ward off any blows.
Fraser Sandiman took the stairs two at a time. The shotgun held neatly against his body was a mere shadow in the dim light.
'C'mon, Fraz, wait fur me!' Galbraith panted up the stairs. 'Shut it, Gubby,' Fraz replied in a quiet but menacing tone, his face turned towards the man several steps below. 'D'ye want the entire neighbourhood taste hear ye?'
Galbraith waited till the other man had recommenced his ascent then stuck out a childish tongue at his back. He was Gubby to his mates, not just in token of his surname but because ever since primary school he had been unable to keep his gub shut. `Cannae even say a wurd but yerr on taste me,' he grumbled, clenching his fists, hard man style.
The door was easy enough to open, but Fraz pushed it gently, just in case someone was inside.
'Made a richt job o' that, eh? Eh?' Gubby laughed gleefully as he brushed a manky hand across the splintered wooden frame.
'Aye,' said his mate, moving cautiously into the flat.
'He's no in,' Gubby rattled on. `Ah felt ye, he's no comin' back here. Let's jist get onything we can and split.' He followed the other man into the wreck of the lounge.
'Shut it,' Fraz snarled, raising a hand in warning. 'Someone's been in here. See this? He lifted a khaki-coloured kitbag that rested behind an overturned chair.
'That no Brogan's?' Gubby asked doubtfully. `Cannae mind him havin' wan like that,' he scratched his already tousled hair then scratched a bit harder as if to stimulate his thoughts.
'C'mon, let's see whit's in the kitchen. See if onybody's bin doin' the business,' Fraz commanded.
Gubby followed him out of the lounge. If there had been any drug taking going on, surely they'd find traces? Crumpled tinfoil, maybe? A few roaches chucked into the dustbin? Gubby wrinkled his nose in disgust. He'd never touch the stuff, nor would Fraz. They'd both seen too many dealers go the way of addicts, money slithering through shaking fingers as they dipped into their precious goods. Fraz and he made their money out of men and women desperate for what they could sell them, and so did Billy Brogan.
Was Billy on the stuff? He'd seen him smoke a few joints at parties, but had he gone onto the hard stuff? Whatever the story was, Billy Brogan had skived off somewhere, owing them a whack.
Outside the Glasgow streets were slick with a damp rain that had begun to fall as the clouds gathered steadily, drifting from the west. The hit man locked his car and strolled across the street, not looking back. The kitbag was back at the flat and he had some spare clothes heaped inside the boot. He hoped he wouldn't need them, though this thin rain was already soaking his jacket. Maybe Brogan would come back tonight? Then he would conclude his business with the dealer and head on home.
The man bent his head against the wind that was gusting scraps of paper and old leaves along the pavement. He rounded a corner. Two more doorways then he was back to Brogan's pad.
Looking up, he hesitated. A red car that had not been there earlier was parked outside the close. A smile crossed his mouth.
'Welcome home, Billy boy,' he chuckled softly.
The worn stone steps made no sound under his soles as he stepped swiftly up the two flights of stairs.
Then he stopped. Voices from Brogan's flat made him shrink against the wall, one hand curled around the gun hidden under his jacket. He grinned, anticipating the look on Billy boy's face when he made his entry.
The front door was open just a fraction and he could hear the voices coming from a room along the far end of the flat. The kitchen, he thought. `Yerawankerr one of them shouted out and then there was a thump. `Gerrofff Fraz! Leausalane!' another voice whined, obviously hurt in some way.
The hit man stopped halfway along the hall. Glasgow accents, both of them, but neither reminded him of Private William Brogan. So where was the little sod?
Before he could think of his next move, two figures rushed out of the kitchen, one of them brandishing a shotgun.
'Whit the…?' Fraz's question was cut off even as he began to aim his weapon.
The sound of gunfire resonated off the walls of the flat, booming and echoing, masking any cry from the men. The impact of the shots lifted each of them off their feet, one after the other, backs curved, arms flung heavenwards before they hit the ground in two dull thumps.
The hit man listened to the silence, the sense of stillness that followed every death: the scent of gunfire drifting above those crumpled heaps on the floor a malevolent incense.
The man took a step back, regarding the dead men. If he turned them over he would see patches of crimson staining their chests, dark bullet holes piercing their pale, northern brows.
Heart, head. That was how he had been trained to kill in the service of Her Majesty. It was second nature to him now, that sudden reflex action. Not like the deliberate hit of a commission where he simply fired into the middle of a man's (or, occasionally, a woman's) skull.
Taking a piece of worn cloth from his pocket, he wrapped the gun carefully before replacing it in his jacket. Had he been a wild west cowboy he'd have blown into the barrel, he thought. The image made him smile.
'Right, Billy boy, what have we here?' he murmured, hunkering down to have a closer look at the men on the ground. But his examination was to be short-lived.
He stood up almost immediately, tensing as he heard noises coming from the stone staircase outside. Time to get out of here, he told himself, thinking rapidly as he grabbed his backpack; no wasting precious seconds scrabbling around on hands and knees trying to retrieve four cartridge cases.