Solly sat with his head in his hands, staring at the pattern on the carpet. For the life of him he could not begin to understand what the woman had meant.
'She said she was grateful to me,' he murmured.
'Well maybe she meant that you'd been a great teacher?' Rosie suggested.
Solly raised his head and looked mournfully at his wife. 'No. It was more than that.'
His sigh seemed to fill the room. 'Lorimer reckons I saw her the day after her husband was killed.' He raised his eyebrows in a mute appeal.
'So what does that tell you?'
'I don't know,' SoIly shook his head. 'She was so…' his eyes lost their focus as he paused to remember. 'Animated. Yes, that's the right word, I think. Quite unlike the student I recalled from our seminars,' he insisted.
'And you think she was happy for a reason?' Rosie asked slowly.
'If her husband had been stalking her and she knew that he was dead, maybe that would be cause enough,' she went on.
'But why thank me? I didn't stop any of the things in her life,'
Solly replied, though in truth he was speaking more to himself now than to Rosie.
'No, there's more to it than this,' Solly nodded.
'Well you've told the police all you can,' Rosie continued reasonably.
'And it confirms that Marianne was still in Glasgow after Scott was killed.'
'She must have been living in constant fear,' Solly went on.
'That's why there was no trace of her name on the university register. Somehow she managed to slip through that particular net, though God knows how she did it.'
'Well, it's in Lorimer's hands now,' Rosie said, her tone hinting that the subject ought to be closed. She looked over at her husband, noting that expression of concentration she knew only too well.
'Come on, Solly,' she wheedled. It's not your case. Strathclyde Police aren't hiring you for this one, remember?' But as the psychologist continued to stare into space, Rosie knew that her words were falling on deaf ears. Solomon Brightman had decided that he was involved in this woman's fate and in the death of her ex-husband.
And Rosie knew in her heart that this time it wasn't a matter of being brought in to dispassionately examine a case. This time it was personal.
'Doctor Brightman saw her in the bookshop,' Lorimer said. He was sitting opposite Superintendent Mitchison, the afternoon sun shut out behind the vertical blinds so that what light there was made faded shadows over the room. Being in this room was like being inside one of these old sepia photographs, Lorimer decided, the furnishings were all browns and tans, even those colours being leached out by the lack of daylight.
'A coincidence,' Mitchison said, nodding his head as though it had been Lorimer who had suggested as much and he was simply agreeing with him.
'It places her in a specific place and time,' Lorimer went on, trying not to show the irritation that he felt. 'We believe Scott may have been stalking his wife prior to his death,' he continued.
Mitchison smiled, his eyes narrowing. It's usually the one who is stalked that ends up dead,' he laughed mirthlessly. 'So how does this give you any more information about who killed Scott?'
'Marianne Scott's brother disappears suddenly,' Lorimer said.
'She goes to ground.' I le raised his hands. 'Isn't it possible that they were in it together?'
'You think Brogan killed his former brother-in-law to stop him following his sister around?' Mitchison's voice was full of derision.
'Come on, Lorimer. That's the most risible theory I've heard in a long time. Brogan's a known drug dealer who's been lucky enough not to have been caught. Two men dead in his flat, remember?' he sneered. 'Or have you forgotten that little matter? It's about drugs,' he added, clenching a fist and tapping it lightly on his desk as though he were reminding a foolish pupil of the correct way to do his homework. 'When the Spanish police finally bring Brogan to ground then you'll see I'm right,' he nodded again. 'Till then I don't want to hear any more nonsense about Doctor Brightman and his theories. He's not on our payroll, remember?'
Lorimer strode out of the building and headed for his car. He was still seething after his encounter with Mitchison. The man was a total prat, he told himself. Hidebound by budgetary constraints, blinkered by his desire to see every other murder case in terms of drug dealing. Okay so the city was awash with the stuff. And there were always demands to show that the police were tackling crime of that sort. What Mitchison wanted was a difference in statistics, something to boast about. But did he really think that one less dealer on the street would equate to a drop in drug usage? Aye, right, Lorimer thought cynically. Mitchison hadn't even given consideration to the facts. There were signs that a hit man had been used to effect at least three of the killings. Okay, so Sahid Jaffrey's murder showed a different MO. But he'd had dealings with Brogan, hadn't he? Mitchison hadn't even bothered to acknowledge that connection.
But even as he drove out of the car park, Lorimer realised that the two senior officers were at loggerheads for a very different reason. The superintendent wanted the figures to add up while all that Lorimer wanted right now was to find a dangerous killer and justice for his victims.
CHAPTER 33
Marianne woke from a dreamless sleep. Her eyelids flickered, their grittiness making her blink. The room was bathed in sunlight, fine cotton curtains blowing gently at an open window. She looked around, wondering for a moment where she was, feeling more relaxed than she had for years. As her eyes registered the rumpled sheets Marianne saw the hollow in the pillow where his head had rested next to hers.
'Max,' she said aloud, savouring the name. It was a word redolent with possibilities: maximise, maximum… surely it mirrored that feeling of complete satisfaction that flowed over her right now? Their coupling had surprised her, mainly because it had happened at all.
Somehow he dispelled all her fearfulness, treating her like an ordinary woman whose desires matched his own. Her hunger for his body had shown how starved she had been for the merest affection.
Marianne frowned. Amit had been kind to her, shown her an innate courtesy, hinted that he, too, might release that pent-up need that had been locked inside her for so long. But they had made a pact, hadn't they? The tiny creases on her brow smoothed out as a smile appeared on her lips, in her eyes. Amit was almost history now. Max, she thought, hugging her arms around her cold shoulders, was her future.
There had been no restless night punctuated by smothering dreams, a good omen surely? Even Amit had featured in her nightmares, encouraging her to distrust the gentle Asian whose destiny had become entwined with her own.
A faint peeping sound from the handbag across the room made her stiffen. Someone was trying to call her mobile. She laughed as she remembered; Max had her number. Perhaps he'd gone out for some food and was wondering what she would like. Drawing a sheet around her naked body, Marianne tiptoed across the room, fishing the mobile from her bag.
'Hi,' she said, waiting to hear Max's English accent. But it was a voice far more familiar than her new lover's.
'Billy?' Marianne clutched the phone closer to her ear. 'Where the hell are you?'
Billy Brogan was sitting in a small pool of shade under a tree, watching as an army of ants circled madly beside his feet. He shifted his bottom then swept the frenzied insects away with his foot, sending them tumbling down in a small cloud of grey dust.
'I'm in trouble, Marianne,' he said solemnly.
'You can say that again,' his sister answered tartly.
'No, I mean real trouble. The police are after me. They think I had something to do with Fraz and Gubby… I mean, come on… would I do anything like that?'