Solly lifted the green file and put it into his already bulging briefcase.
Dreams, he smiled to himself. That had been one of the more successful in his series of lectures to last year's undergraduates.
Now he had updated it to include references from Shakespeare, and the Bard's plays were still to the forefront of his mind. Last night he and Rosie had discussed possible names for the baby. Again. It was a pity, he thought, that they had not yet come to any agreement about this. His recent foray into Shakespearean literature seemed to have influenced his own preferences: Miranda, Imogen, Harry and Anthony. They all sounded fine when conjoined with his surname. But Rosie had wrinkled her nose. Her own choices had Celtic overtones: Siobhan, Mhairi, Ruaridh and Euan. He'd smiled as usual, shrugged them off and suggested they both look at the well-thumbed book of children's names once more.
'You will know what his name is when you see him,' Ma Brightman had said when he had revealed their dilemma to his mother. She was so sure it would be a boy, he laughed to himself: a little new Brightman to continue the family tree.
Solly had dreamed about the child last night. A boy, certainly, but not a newborn. This was a little lad who had walked by his side, blonde head uncovered, shining in the sun. And although the details of that dream were now hazy, SoIly still retained the powerful feeling of paternal love towards the boy who had slipped into his unconscious mind.
He smiled as he lifted the briefcase and headed towards the door of the flat. Dreams, indeed! 'A Midsummer Night's Dream is all about the quarrel that Oberon and Titania have over the little changeling boy,' Maggie told her class. 'The whole of the natural world is turned topsy-turvy as the quarrel persists, making the summer weather wet, foggy and stormy.'
'Aye, jist like Glasgow durin' the Fair,' Jimmy Lang piped up and everyone laughed.
Maggie smiled too. The two-week trades holiday was notorious for having poor weather. 'Don't think that's the fault o' the fairies,' someone else called out and again a ripple of giggles ran through the class.
As the bell to end the period rang out, Maggie raised her hand to prevent a charge towards her classroom door. Now remember to tell your parents about the theatre trip. We need to have the forms filled in and returned no later than next week. Okay?'
She smiled as they filed out into the corridor, some of' them grinning up at her, others saying 'See you, miss,' as they passed her by. This was by far the nicest group of first years she'd had in a long time, Maggie thought, closing the door behind them and settling down for a rare period of preparation.
Her smile faded as she regarded the notes on Shakespeare's well-loved play. Why had she chosen to highlight the changeling boy? Was it some subconscious desire on her part to elevate the child to a position of importance? Surely not. She smiled again, remembering the little faces that had just looked up at her. These would be her family, kids who passed through her life for five or six years. She sat, thinking about the future. Soon both she and Bill would be forty and that landmark birthday seemed to Maggie to be a kind of watershed in their lives. She could go on teaching for more than twenty years, hundreds of kids receiving the benefit of her tuition, she mused. Would she still be here, in this school? There was no ambitious streak in the policeman's wife to go chasing promotion. Their only ambition had been to have children one day and now that possibility was fast drawing to a close.
Maggie drew a sigh. She was so lucky compared to many of her friends; like her colleague, Sandy, with a messy divorce behind her and a teenage son who drove his mother demented. And if her husband worked long hours and had sometimes to cancel social engagements because of work, she could still treasure the knowledge that she was his only love and that they would always share a unique and special bond. The notion brought her back to the warring lovers in A Midsummer Night's Dream and Maggie settled back to prepare lessons for the following weeks.
'No he isn't here at present. No. Would you? Oh, well, thanks for that, ma'am.'
DCI Lorimer put down the telephone and looked at it thoughtfully.
The deputy chief constable had expressed both the horror and outrage that he himself had felt over DC Fathy's revelation.
Talking to Joyce Rogers had been a good idea since she had taken such a personal interest in their Egyptian detective constable. We need more ethnic minorities representing our forces, she'd told him more than once since Fathy had transferred from Grampian. But if there were racist elements at work within their divisions then something was seriously wrong.
Lorimer wondered just how to begin to tackle this. There were known groups, football casuals among them, that were blatantly racist. It might pay to ask a few questions in those quarters. But since the first incident had actually happened here, in the locker area, just yards from the charge bar where officers came and went at all hours of the day and night, he really should begin with their own division. If it was an incident involving serious crime, then he could have used some technology, like hidden cameras, but that was completely out of the question given the number of officers using the locker area. And, since Fathy hadn't a clue who his attacker was, they had to keep any investigation very low-key indeed. Any officer worth their salt would have taken precautions to keep his (or her) DNA off the materials sent to Fathy through the post. But he might just call up a favour from his chum in the Scottish criminal record office to have the letters and note dusted for prints. Even the most forensically aware person could still make mistakes, he reasoned. Lorimer would make enquiries, he'd promised Joyce Rogers, keep it as discreet as possible, see if he could avoid putting it through official channels just yet.
The DCI pursed his lips as he thought about all the things going on right now; Fathy's problem, the hunt for Billy Brogan, and his wife's difficulty in coming to terms with her operation.
Then there was Sol ly and why he was being sidelined when such skills as his were invaluable. His frown changed to the faintest of smiles. Solly would soon be immersed in fatherhood and Lorimer was certain that the psychologist would make an excellent dad.
Should he be feeling a pang of envy? Or was he so wrapped up in this job that he simply never had the time to think of what he was missing?
CHAPTER 31
Aaaaagh!' The man's scream bounced off the walls, tripling the sound of his agony.
'No nice taste grass up yer mates, Jaffa. No nice at all,' the man standing over Jaffrey whispered softly, chuckling as he watched the pain twist the man's face.
'C'mon Raj, let's git oot o' here,' a voice behind him insisted.
'He's grassed wance, he'll mibbe grass us up anither time.'
'No, Vik,' Raj replied. 'Jaffa won't do that, will you, son?'
Jaffrey's frightened face looked up and he shook his head, opening his mouth to beseech his tormentors.
But Raj had already raised his knife, plunging down hard, cutting off any coherent words.
The high-pitched scream of pain ended in barely a whimper.
Then the two men turned and walked away from the shadows of the deserted factory into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Raj heaved the metal door shut then secured it with the large padlock that had dangled from its hasp. The derelict building had a row of windows set high up on one side, all of them broken like stars from a toddler's drawing book. Weeds grew up against the ruins of a pathway around the place, feathery willow herb and thistles, their fluffy seed heads floating skywards. He let his eyes roam over the area round about. Several dark brown bottles that had been kicked into the undergrowth glinted in the afternoon light, evidence that people had been here. Probably jakeys from up in the village over that nearby hill, he told himself, then grinned. Nobody would find Jaffa any time soon. And by the time they did, he would be past telling anything. He swaggered to where Vikram was waiting by his Beamer, nodding to himself in satisfaction.