The three boys nodded in unison, silenced by the enormity of what Geordie had found in the old factory. Thoughts of being punished for dogging off school had long vanished. Fear of something more dreadful had made them scramble up the hill to the main road where, as chance would have it, they had managed to flag down a passing patrol car. Their earlier bravado had vanished; now they were three wee laddies whose natural instincts for what was right and what was wrong had reasserted themselves.
Breaking already broken windows and having a few bottles of Buckfast was nothing compared to what Geordie had found. That was wrong in anybody's book.
'Can you describe the man to us, Geordie?' the officer in the front passenger seat turned to ask.
Geordie Mitchell swallowed the bile that threatened to shame him before his mates. He'd never forget that sight as long as he lived. Yet trying to describe that body covered in blood with its dead, glaring eyes was beyond him. He shook his head, refusing to meet the eyes of his pals who were looking at him with unashamed curiosity.
'It's a deid mate he'd screamed, falling down on top of an astonished Rab.
There had been no time for discussion. Geordie had turned to run back the way they had come, the other boys following his lead, galvanised into action by the expression of horror on his chalk-white face.
Marianne wiped her mouth with the paper serviette and smiled at the man opposite. He'd been quieter than she had imagined an ex-soldier would have been, this Max Whittaker, but he had made up for that by being attentive and a good listener. She had told him lots about her first year at the university and as the meal had progressed, Marianne had even let slip her hopes for the future.
'Why America?' Max had asked, gesturing in the air with his fork. 'Aren't there enough opportunities here?'
Marianne had shaken her head, pretending to know more about that than she actually did. A gulp from her water glass had given her time to think up some spurious comment about psychologists being better paid and Max seemed to take her fantasies for the straight truth.
He hadn't said much about himself and Marianne's curiosity had been satisfied by the few comments about travelling around the UK as a consultant and the tedium of staying in travel lodges that looked the same no matter what city you were in.
She let her fingers stray on to the table, playing absently with the pair of white ceramic ducks twined together to provide salt and pepper. Years ago a friend who had worked for British Airways cabin crew had pinched one of them and sent photographs of the duck from places all over the world. Marianne pondered for a moment whether the staff had missed the lone duck and what they had done with its partner.
'Glad you came out with me today,' he said gruffly, breaking into her thoughts and putting a light hand over her own. It was the nearest he had come to an intimate moment and, absurdly, Marianne found herself blushing like an awkward schoolgirl.
'I've enjoyed it,' she said truthfully, looking at him with a new appreciation.
Max Whittaker wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but there was something appealing about these regular features and his light grey eyes, especially the way they held her own as though he wanted to say more but was too shy.
'Better get the bill,' he mumbled and began to reach into the inside pocket of the jacket that was slung on the seat behind him.
She felt a spasm of disappointment as keen as real pain. That was it, then. They'd drive back to the city and he would disappear from her life. Suddenly Marianne knew that she wanted more from this man, this stranger who had made her feel like a girl again, full of hopes and possibilities. Reaching behind her head, she unclipped the barrette and shook out her long, russet tresses, watching under her lashes for some reaction. Men had always remarked on her hair, finding something fascinating in the way it cascaded round her shoulders, falling onto her breasts.
'Maybe we could find a movie? Or something?' she asked, hearing the deliberate huskiness in her voice, watching the man's face to see if such boldness was overstepping the mark.
When Max smiled and nodded, Marianne let out her breath, her cheeks glowing with a mixture of relief and pleasure.
As they rose to leave, Marianne accidentally swept the two saltand-pepper ducks off the table.
'Oh!' she cried, her hand flying to her mouth in horror as one of the ducks shattered into bits on the stone floor.
'Come on. Someone'll clear that up. Don't worry about it,' Max told her, a slight irritation in his tone.
Marianne nodded and hurried out after him, but for some reason the incident had cast a shadow over her spurt of optimism like a cloud suddenly covering the sun.
He knew that she was looking at him even in the darkness that shrouded them from all the other cinema goers. That was good. As his lips curled upwards the hit man wondered what the woman would make of the thoughts that prompted that smile. He had hardly mentioned Brogan; just a couple of questions thrown out casually Hope my old pal Billy might be around next time I'm up in Glasgow. And, later, When did you last see your bad wee brother? That had been said with a grin that was meant to tell her that Max knew the score with Billy Brogan. He'd seen something like relief in Marianne's face: this old friend, Max Whittaker, was straight but didn't hold Billy's wayward lifestyle against his sister. It had been a nice little conjuring trick, letting her think that he understood how she felt.
His grin widened. If only she knew what had really prompted that smile. Should she manage to make contact with Brogan, the dealer would be happily surprised that Max Whittaker had turned up out of the blue. Billy Boy hadn't seen or heard from Max for years, thankfully.
The hit man chuckled to himself. Private Whittaker might he dead and gone, one of the casualties of the Afghan conflict, but his name still had its uses.
He laid a casual arm across the back of the seat, fingering Marianne's long red hair, feeling her body edge closer to his own.
This was a different sort of war he was involved in now, and there would doubtless be more casualties before the end, but whether this woman was to be numbered amongst them depended on his new paymasters.
Sahid Jaffrey. Aged forty-nine. Lived at 20 Maxwell Road. No previous convictions,' Detective Sergeant Wilson looked up at the team as he recited the dead man's statistics. 'And that's just because he was good at ducking and diving,' he continued grimly.
'How's that?' DC Fathy asked, puzzled. `Ach, Jaffrey was pretty well known to us,' Wilson explained.
'Used to be a small-time dealer. Rumour has it his missus threatened to turn him in so he went straight. Sort of. But we know he'd maintained links with some of his old mates. Worked to our advantage and he was one of the more reliable snouts on our books. In fact,' he sighed heavily, shaking his head as he turned to address the entire team, 'he was the one who was instrumental in telling us about Brogan.'
'But I thought it was from a call box,' Fathy frowned.
'Aye, that was just for the record, son. See, we don't give away our sources that easily. One trip to court and Jaffa would have been a sitting duck for the bad guys.'
'Well it looks as though it was one of the bad guys who found out that he'd been dealing with us,' Lorimer broke in. 'Those knife injuries to his knees suggest a very personal sort of punishment.'
It was two days since the discovery of Jaffrey's body. The officers from K Division had sent in a forensic team to the Gleniffer Braes where the body had been examined then taken to Glasgow City mortuary. The SIO on the case, DI James Martin, had been astute enough to recognise DS Wilson's name from the stack of cards inside the dead man's wallet. Now the two divisions were collaborating on the man's death since it could very well have some link to Scott and the men in Brogan's flat.