That was another thing about this state of pregnancy. Her imagination seemed to be working overtime. Hormonal activity making you ultra sensitive, she told herself wryly. Wait till the baby's born, a colleague had warned her; your mind becomes like a vegetable. Rosie smiled. Well, she'd be off on maternity leave for a good enough spell to let her brain recover from the shock of the birth.
The telephone ringing made her turn around. Clutching both arms of the rocking chair and heaving herself up, Rosie wondered who on earth wanted to call on a week night. She was no longer on call at nights, but had somebody forgotten that? 'Maggie!' The pathologist's expression changed from apprehension to delight as she heard her friend's voice on the other end of the line.
'We're having a barbecue out in the garden. D'you fancy coming over?' Maggie asked.
Rosie made a face, glad that the policeman's wife couldn't see her. 'Sorry, His Nibs is out and I feel too fat and squashy to be bothered driving over on my own tonight. Do you mind?' She felt a sudden pang of guilt. Maggie had never managed to carry a baby to term, had never known what it felt like to have a burgeoning bump cavorting inside her. `Och, that's okay. Maybe you can make it over at the weekend.
If you feel okay?'
'Yes, I'm sure we can do something. Just a bit hot and bothered tonight. They said on the evening news that it was to be thunderstorms later on.'
'Right, well we better get on with it before we're rained off,' she heard Maggie reply.
Rosie put down the telephone then looked back out towards the west. The streaks of cloud were moving a bit faster now, driven by an unseen wind. Lorimer was home with his wife, then. No late nights chasing after murderous gunmen. Gunman, a little voice corrected her. It looked all the more likely from the ballistics report that the three men had been shot by the same weapon. Some kind of automatic pistol. Brogan, the man in whose flat the two drug dealers had been found, was ex-army. Had he killed them? And his former brother-in-law? Rosie sighed. Such matters were not really her business, but it was something that all her colleagues did regularly: speculate on the types of persons responsible for the damage that they saw down in the city mortuary The pathologist rolled her shoulders, feeling a sense of restlessness that made her get up and walk about the room. As she paced back and forwards, past the open door of her husband's study, Rosie noticed a mess of papers strewn upon the floor. Rosie glanced at the curtain blowing inwards. She had opened that window earlier to let in a draught of cool air. Tim,' she sighed, 'better clear that lot up, hadn't I?' Crouching down, she gathered up the loose sheets, not really paying much attention to what they were – lists of students' names, she thought – more intent on collecting them neatly together and placing them back on his desk.
She gave a quick glance around, searching for the large Caithness glass paperweight that they had been given as a wedding gift.
There it was, just beside a basket full of journals. Rosie placed it on top then smiled. He'd never know they'd been scattered around now, would he?
As she wandered back into the lounge Rosie forgot all about the papers. Behind her, the topmost sheet was rippled by the breeze as if it sought a means of escape from the weight of the pale purple glass, the name Marianne flickering back and forth, tossed in the power of the gathering storm.
When the first drops began, the woman turned towards the window, suddenly awake. Her heart was hammering in her chest, but there was no dream lingering in her thoughts, nothing to make her sweat in such fear. The noise had been enough; a drumming on the window pane like a scattering of pebbles flung by some unseen hand. Marianne shivered, remembering. He had done that often enough, hadn't he? Woken her up to let her know he had found her again.
But that could not happen any more and this was simply a storm beginning. Marianne turned on her side, tucked the sheet close about her chin and closed her eyes, willing sleep to return.
Across the city lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the streets below in sudden flashes as if daylight were breaking through the inky darkness. The hit man rolled over in his narrow bed, listening as the rains coursed down the gutters outside his rented room.
A sudden flash made him open his eyes, the unfamiliar shapes of the furniture giving him a sense of where he was and why he had not yet returned to the place he called home. For a moment he lay still, wondering. The shooting of those two men had complicated things. Why not simply get into the car tomorrow and leave? ()n a night like this it was a tempting prospect to simply cut his losses for once. He rubbed his eyes as if rubbing the idea away. Ten thousand pounds was too much money to forfeit. Besides, he had his reputation to consider and nobody was going to pull a fast one on him, least of all scum like Brogan.
CHAPTER 17
Cala Millor was bathed in its usual sunshine, pooling the room with yellow light when William Brogan awoke. He had left the curtains of his hotel room open the previous evening to watch the streaks of lightning fork downwards into the seas. He sat up, screwing his eyes against the dazzle, stretched out his arms then sank back onto the pile of snowy pillows behind his head. `Ah,' he sighed, breathing out as his lips widened in a smile of utter contentment, 'this is the life!'
He glanced down at his arms, noting with satisfaction the tinge of bronze that had appeared over the past few days. Another week of this and he'd be ready to move on. Marrakesh, first, then maybe further east. See what pickings there were, he thought to himself. He had booked this hotel for an entire fortnight, though he had no intention of paying for it when push came to shove.
Dear me, no. Waste of good money, Billy grinned to himself. He'd just push off one fine day as though he were going to the beach, then catch a plane out of here and the hotel would be none the wiser. Wasn't as if they'd kept his passport or anything, was it?
He'd given it over for them to check but now it was secreted in that safe inside the massive wardrobe, just waiting for him to decide on his next move.
A noise outside the room made him look towards the door.
Throwing back the covers, he stepped on to the tiled floor, glad of the cool beneath his bare feet. He padded across the room, unlocked the heavy door and peeped out from behind it, careful to hide his naked body from the gaze of any passing chambermaid.
There, on the floor, was a British newspaper. Giving a quick glance to left and right, Brogan scooped it up and let the door swing shut.
'Tough luck, pal,' he said, grinning at whoever had been unlucky enough to have had his morning paper delivered to the wrong room. 'Okay, let's see how you're all getting along back home without me,' he chuckled, turning the newspaper over to see what the sports headlines might be. The footie season had begun after a summer of British clubs wrangling for the best players at a price that would keep them on the right side of solvency.
Brogan skimmed the pages, turning until he came to the one that gave the latest Scottish Premier League results. `Och, no' again!' he moaned, tossing the paper onto the bed as he read the report on his favourite Glasgow team. Anither year chasin' yer tail at the foot of the table,' he told the newspaper in disgust. Then he looked up at the glass doors that separated his room from an extensive balcony: sunshine was flooding the entire area with a brazen light. Suddenly the air-conditioned room felt too close and cramped and Brogan decided it was time to breathe some fresh air. He picked up the white bathrobe that he'd discarded the night before and shoved his arms into it, luxuriating in its soft fluffiness as he tied the belt around his waist. As he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror, his mouth turned up at one corner. A tanned face with several days' stubble looked back at him, the eyes narrowing speculatively. 'Aye, no sae bad, son, no sae bad,' he muttered to himself then, grabbing the newspaper, he headed towards the balcony and the beckoning sunlight.