The shrill, peremptory ring of the telephone broke the spell and Lorimer turned back to the world of crime and criminals.
'Lorimer,' he said, a slight frown upon his brow But as he heard the woman's voice at the other end of the line, he straightened up as though she were with him in this very room.
'Ma'am,' Lorimer said, listening as the deputy chief constable, Joyce Rogers, took time to explain the meetings and discussions that had preceded the letter that had gone out to Doctor Solomon Brightman. Lorimer's email to her might well have been a little on the terse side, but now she was being fulsome in her praise of the psychologist, assuring Lorimer that it was nothing personal, simply a slight shift in policy.
'A temporary shift, perhaps, ma'am?' he enquired.
'We'll see about that, Lorimer,' Rogers replied. 'And, talking about shifts, have you had any thought about my proposal?'
'Not yet, ma'am. Still thinking it over,' Lorimer replied. He bit his lip. Being asked to head up the Serious Crimes Squad with promotion to detective superintendent ought to be a no-brainer, but he had put it to the back of his mind, not even mentioning the matter to Maggie. `Hm, well, don't take too long about it, will you? There are always plenty of other officers hungry for a chance like that.
Meantime,' she continued briskly, 'any joy with those two men who were shot?'
Lorimer spent the next five minutes filling the deputy chief constable in on the recent progress, even going so far as to mention DC Fathy's part in the investigation.
'Good man, that. Lots of potential. See that we keep him in Strathclyde, won't you, Lorimer. Don't want his feet to become itchy again. Besides,' she continued in a tone that made Lorimer imagine her eyes twinkling, 'We need all the diversity we can muster within the force in these modern times.'
Lorimer put down the phone, grinning. For two pins he would bet that even Joyce Rogers would apply her lipstick if she anticipated a visit from DC Fathy. He had them all around his little finger, he chuckled, storing up this little nugget to share with Maggie when he got home.
But it did not alter the situation with Solly. Not that this case required the psychologist's input. There was nothing remotely resembling a serial killer on the loose. No, it was a case of drug dealers falling out, if he was not mistaken. Yet there was something odd about it, too. Scott had seemed a decent citizen to all intents and purposes. Yet he had been married to the sister of a known dealer. Had been, a voice reminded Lorimer. Perhaps Scott had wanted to sever links with the Brogans. But the man's divorce had been effective for over two years now So why had he been targeted by that marksman? Had there been bad blood between Billy Brogan and Kenneth Scott?
Lorimer chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. Scott had no family to talk to and they had already spoken to his workmates. But surely there were others in his life who had known the man more intimately? If only he could speak to Marianne Brogan, or whatever she was calling herself these days. But the woman seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, suggesting that she had in fact relocated to somewhere overseas. They would have to continue their inquiries to see if that was indeed the case. Or did her disappearance give a hint that she had something to hide?
Lorimer asked himself, his suspicions shifting his thoughts down a different route entirely. One way or the other he was going to be working flat out, he realised with a grimace.
The prospect of a holiday during Maggie's summer break was becoming more and more unlikely as the days went by. It wouldn't be the first time they had had to cancel something due to the pressure of his work, Lorimer thought. Perhaps they could have a last-minute break during the school October week, he told himself, ruefully.
The detective leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the Van Gogh print that he had placed across on the far wall. There was something alive about the painting: the art dealer seated on that rush-covered chair, bright splashes of colour behind him, depicting some of the paintings in his shop. And that timeless quality in the man's wizened face appealed to him too; he could have been a Tibetan monk about to deliver some piece of ancient wisdom. It was as if the subject might turn his head and speak from the frame at any moment.
He could do with some words of wisdom right now, that was for sure, he thought, standing up suddenly and pacing the room.
It was something he simply could not help; an anxiety to be up and about, searching for the next clue in a puzzle about human life. A restless spirit, Maggie had called him once, a tinge of regret in her voice. But it was how he was made, he reflected now, his mind roaming into dark avenues where other people might fear to venture. Being a policeman was not just a job, it was a way of life.
And hadn't he just recently told that to some new recruits in his lecture at the police training college in Tulliallan? And Maggie knew that. Had he opted for a life of academia, like Solly, would life be very different now? Would he be traipsing across the globe lecturing on fine art, as he had once imagined?
The telephone ringing once again took Lorimer's thoughts back to the present and the portrait of Pere Tanguy seemed to diminish as he let his eyes slide away, focussing on the papers on his desk instead.
Several minutes later, Lorimer was tapping words into his BlackBerry, fixing a date to speak at a course in the University of Glasgow. Rosie had wheedled in such a convincing way that he had found himself agreeing almost immediately to her request. It might take a bit of time to prepare, though, he frowned, wondering if he could wing it in front of an audience of medics, legal folk and fellow police officers. No, he thought, glancing up at the painting once again and noting Pere Tanguy's calm gaze. This was something that would demand a proper amount of thought and effort.
He stood up once more and strode to the open window but the thrush had flown away and all that he could hear was the noise of traffic rumbling around this great city's beating heart.
'We've already tried Martha Street and The Department for Work and Pensions,' DC Irvine moaned. 'What more can we do?'
'She went to Anniesland College to take the necessary qualifications for entrance to university. What name did she use when she registered there?' Fathy asked.
'Scott. But that doesn't get us anywhere. We've eliminated all the Scotts as well. The registry office at the uni confirmed there are no Marianne Scotts or Marianne Brogans currently attending any courses.'
'And she would have needed to register under the name that was on her SEE certificates, wouldn't she?'
'Of course.' Irvine narrowed her eyes. 'What are you getting at?
You've got that look again,' she said.
'What look?'
'Elm, the sort of look that means your exotic brain's about to churn up something interesting that the rest of us mere mortals have missed,' she replied, smiling in spite of herself.
'Well,' Fathy began, 'what if she didn't register for her exams in her married name. Or her maiden name, come to that.'
'You mean she used an alias? How would that work?'
'You know as well as I do that under Scottish law you can call yourself anything you like. See,' he swung round in his chair to face her, 'I had this pal at school, foreign bloke like myself, his surname was Lo. L-0,' he added with a wave of his hand. 'Sort of gave away his different ethnic origin – except his mum was Scottish. Never got on very well with his father. So when he went up to university he decided to change his name to Lowe. L-O-W-E, see?'
Tut didn't everyone think it was the first spelling, I mean when they looked at him?'
'That was just it,' Fathy explained eagerly. 'James didn't look all that Chinese, really. Dark haired and all, but much more like his mother,' he mused, gazing beyond Irvine as if to conjure up the woman.