Lorimer returned the smile. The officer's spare frame gave the lie to that.
'This murder inquiry, sir?' Fathy continued. 'May I be included in the investigation team?'
'Possibly,' Lorimer told him. 'The actions have already been given out but I think you might be able to accompany DC Irvine, at least for today. Hopefully we'll have it wrapped up soon,' he raised his eyebrows in a rueful gesture. It was every officer's hope that a murder case would be quickly solved. The longer it took, the harder it was to find the perpetrator.
Fathy's answering nod seemed to indicate that he understood exactly what the DCI meant and Lorimer wondered just what sort of cases this young man had tackled in his brief career.
Later, on his own, Lorimer had the opportunity to check on DC Fathy's past experience. It was just as Mitchison had said. A bright and able police officer who had taken part in some fairly high profile investigations. Yet he had asked especially for a transfer to Strathclyde Police. No particular reason had been given and Lorimer had a sudden uneasy feeling that it might not have been just to enhance the young man's promotion prospects. Had he been unhappy in Grampian? And if so, why? There were often jealousies within the police force, officers jockeying for the few senior positions available. Had someone resented Fathy's obvious potential? Or had he been too pushy? He was very keen to play a part in the new case. But perhaps as the new boy he should be trying to keep his head down for a bit and settle in. Lorimer stared out of the window, wondering. He'd taken an instant liking to the handsome Egyptian. It would be a pity if he failed to fit comfortably into his team.
CHAPTER 2
The man laid down the gun then fiddled with the straps on the worn leather bag. He had it down to a fine art, now, could strip down the weapon in seconds, transforming it into several parts easily stowed away in the holdall. The job had been simple enough. The guy had been sleepy, hardly registering his presence before the shot that had penetrated his skull. 'Didn't know what hit him,' he muttered under his breath. It was a mantra he often whispered to himself, partly to expunge the act he had committed. He'd forget the man, his address, anything he had known about him, as soon as the money was handed over. He was just another job, that was all. The hit man preferred not to know why he had been assigned to kill this man or why the target had deserved such an end. And there was certainly no room in a mind like his for false sentiment. Sitting along the edge of the unmade bed he stuffed some balled-up clothes into the bag, tucking the bundle closely around the pieces of hardware.
A quick look around the room sufficed to seek anything that might tell of his presence, but he saw nothing; the gunman was as meticulous in his habits as he was cautious, always choosing some bland, cut-price chain of hotel where there was a large client turnover. Soon a maid would come to clean this room, put on fresh linen and another traveller would lay their head on that pillow, oblivious to the identity of the room's previous occupant. He tightened the final notch, slung the bag over his shoulder and headed out of the hotel room, just another tourist checking out.
'There you are, sir. I hope you enjoyed your stay with us. Have a lovely day.' The girl with the sleek, dark ponytail barely gave the man a glance, though she did fasten a smile on her lips before turning her attention back to her paperwork. A pleasant faced, middle-aged man of medium build, wearing a khaki-coloured jacket and washed out blue jeans, he was out of her mind even before he had left the building.
Now he was ready to pick up his wages. His car's satellite navigation system would have to take him to the meeting place, across the city. He'd never been to that particular spot before.
Then he'd be heading back down the motorway, safe in the knowledge that he had completed another satisfactory assignment.
The wind whipped his jacket as he walked around the corner of the building to where he had parked his car, stinging his face with a hint of rain. Looking up at a sky full of grey clouds scudding across the heavens, he muttered a curse under his breath, hoping that he wouldn't have to wait too long for the handover.
Minutes later he was heading past Glasgow International Airport towards the city, one eye on the screen showing his route.
There were not many students about at this time of year. For most of them term did not begin for another two months though there were always those unfortunates with failed examinations to take again who pretended to themselves that physical proximity to the university buildings was going to make all the difference next time. So, as he lounged against a pillar in the draughty Gothic portico next to the quadrangle, the gunman had little to see of comings and goings. That suited him. The fewer nosey parkers who remarked upon his presence there the better.
A tall, grey-headed man strode out of a door and paused momentarily in his stride as he caught sight of the stranger. A sudden flare of nostrils at the wisp of cigarette smoke issuing from the stranger's lips expressed his disapproval. Then he was sweeping past on his way and into another massive doorway before the gunman could blink.
'Bang!' he said softly, making a pistol from his fingers and pointing it in the grey man's direction. Then he gave a low chuckle. Snooty academic! He could blow him away as soon as look at him. He'd had his fill of that type in the forces; the ones who enjoyed tormenting you because they could pull rank. He'd left a couple of them with souvenirs that they'd carry on their bodies for the rest of their lives.
A quick glance at his wristwatch made him frown. He was late.
And he didn't want to hit the rush hour traffic further down the motorway. Flicking the stub of his cigarette towards the door where the donnish looking man had gone, he took a step forward, wondering if he could stretch his legs. It didn't do to look conspicuous.
And if the tall guy reappeared and asked what he was doing, well, that wouldn't be good, would it? Maybe he could risk a stroll around that square of grass where he could keep one eye on this place?
Doctor Solomon Brightman emerged from the door opposite the quad clutching an overflowing briefcase tightly to his side. It was still a while until the new term began but for Solly and his colleagues the work was already well underway. Still, he'd done enough for today and now he wanted to drop this lot off before going into town to visit his favourite bookshop.
As the psychology lecturer stepped onto the grass he was aware of a figure strolling towards him. A stranger, dressed in casual clothes, a cigarette palmed in his right hand. A tourist, probably, visiting the University of Glasgow on the hop-on, hop-off bus that took visitors around the city. As they passed one another, Solly prepared to smile and nod, a common enough courtesy, but the man turned his head away, almost deliberately, as though avoiding Solly's glance.
It was enough to make the psychologist curious. He was peren nially curious about human behaviour, of course, and looking at the departing figure of the man, he couldn't help but feel that here was a person who wanted to remain anonymous. And he began to wonder why.
An hour later the gunman realised that nobody was going to arrive. The wind that had threatened rain whipped through the cloisters with a ferocity that made the dried leaves scurry into the shelter of doorways. With one last look at the green square beyond the chilly pillars, he turned his heel, grinding the stub of a cigarette before moving into the warmth of a nearby corridor.
It had happened before and might well happen again. Sometimes it just took a little more time and not-so-gentle per statNion to get the money out of whoever had hired him. He clenched his teeth as he strode through the building, eyes alert for the nearest exit. Soon he was out and heading over the hill towards his car. He'd have to make a couple of phone calls then key in another address to the sat-nay. He swore as the blast of rain drove into his face. What he wanted was a few hours on the motor way then home, not hanging around this godforsaken city. The piece of plastic fluttering madly against the windscreen made him stop and swear again. Bloody parking ticket! With one swipe he tore it free from the wiper blades and stuffed it into his pocket.