That she would be sentenced to a lengthy stretch in prison was inevitable. But somehow that wasn't important.
'Mrs Shafiq?' A tall man had entered the small room where Marianne was sitting on a bench seat, the same female officer sitting near her.
'Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,' the man told her. 'Please would you come with me?'
Marianne met his eyes for a second, light blue, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul. Then she nodded, rising from the bench, feeling the woman's hand on her arm, helping her up. They had been quietly kind in that first police station, providing some clothes for her to wear; jeans that were too big at the waist, a navy fleece and a pair of socks and trainers. Where did they get all of these things? she had wondered, too afraid to ask, just grateful to have that stinking nightdress taken away with the promise of a shower once everything had been sorted out. A vague phrase that she had accepted, too numb to look ahead. Now, though, following this man with these broad shoulders under that dark suit, Marianne felt grubby. Raking fingers through her hair, she felt the knots and tangles and was suddenly ashamed.
'In here, please,' Lorimer ushered them through a door marked Interview Room 2.
The room they entered held a surprise.
'Doctor Brightman!'
'Marianne,' he replied, rising politely from a chair in the corner of the room. He gave her a stiff little nod, but did not come forward to take her by the hand. She glanced back at the two police officers, the tall man and the kindly woman, suddenly at a loss.
'What..?' she began.
'Sit here please,' Lorimer told her, indicating a place to one side of a formica-topped table. She sat on the plastic-covered chair, hearing its metal legs scrape along the floor, frowning at her surroundings.
Surely this was where criminals came to be questioned?
Marianne watched as Lorimer switched on a recording machine then gave his name, rank and the date and time then she blinked as the enormity of the situation began to dawn on her. She was the criminal about to be questioned.
Solly's face was grave as he watched the changing emotions flit across the woman's face. She'll still be in shock, he had advised Lorimer. But that had not seemed to concern the policeman. Was Fathy's death making him vengeful? Could he really have no consideration for this young woman's sensibilities? All of the psychologist's questions had been swept aside as Lorimer had taken the decision to interview Marianne himself, with Solly in attendance. Yet now he could understand why. This woman was vulnerable, certainly, but she might be far more compliant as a result of that, yielding up such information as they needed to know in order to make total sense of the case.
'Marianne,' Solly said, making her look at him. 'There's something I would like to know. The seminar about dreams,' he paused as her eyes widened. 'Was it my fault, giving you that idea?'
She nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'It seemed so simple really. If I could have him taken away, out of my life somehow. Then you said, why not have him killed?'
'Please explain the background to this for the record,' Solly heard Lorimer say, his voice stiff with disapproval.
'Oh, sorry,' Marianne said, turning to look at the recording machine.
'I had these terrible dreams,' she began.
Lorimer closed the door to his office with a sigh. It had been too easy, really. Once Solly's question had prompted her, the flood – gates had opened and Marianne had told them everything. How Scott had followed her everywhere, making her change her address in a series of bedsits, until she was almost at screaming point; how the chance to earn some serious money had come her way when Billy had suggested that she help out this wealthy man from Lahore. Then she had enough money to pay for that matter. She hadn't referred to it by any other term, Lorimer had noticed, never even calling Stevens a hit man, always referring to him as Billy's friend. When he had at last charged her with conspiracy to murder, Lorimer had noticed no change in the woman at all, only a vague nod as though this was something she had expected to happen, part of a process she was willing to undergo.
There was still so much to be done, he thought, suddenly longing for home with Maggie there, waiting as she always did. He still had to speak with Amit Shafiq and arrange for Brogan to be brought up to Glasgow once his plane touched down in Heathrow Airport. There were hours before he could see her, touch her hair, bury himself in her caresses. And all this while Maggie was worried sick about that operation, miserable because she thought it might make her somehow less than the beautiful woman he knew her to be.
Standing there in the room that had become almost a second home to him, Lorimer suddenly came to a decision. Sometimes changes were inevitable, like Maggie's operation, but he knew right now that it was time for him to change his career, put all of today's tragic events behind him. He would accept Joyce Rogers' proposal, take the job in the Serious Crime Squad. There would be some conditions attached, though. First he would take the leave that he was owed, making sure that it coincided with Maggie's time at home after her surgery. Then, he thought, with a sigh, he could make a fresh start again, seek out new challenges.
CHAPTER 39
Mr and Mrs Fathy were sitting side by side in the family room when Lorimer walked in. The first thing he noticed about the mother was her resemblance to Omar. Mrs Fathy had that same angular face, smooth dark skin and natural grace that he remembered so well. He swallowed hard. This was not going to be easy.
'Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer,' he said, moving forward.
Mr Fathy stood up and accepted the outstretched hand but his wife remained seated, tense fists clutching a large handbag on her lap.
'Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,' Mr Fathy said, his voice gruff with emotion. 'It means a lot to us.'
'Omar was a fine officer,' Lorimer began, then, giving a sigh, he passed a hand over his own eyes. 'I can't tell you how sorry I am…'
Mr Fathy touched his sleeve. 'I can see that,' he murmured. 'It is good that you show this.'
'He was tipped to go far in his police career,' Lorimer continued.
'Even those at the highest level recognised that.'
'That is some comfort,' Mr Fathy replied, though it was hard for Lorimer to tell whether Omar's father was uttering mere platitudes or whether he really meant it.
'He should never have joined up in the first place!' Mrs Fathy cried, looking at Lorimer, her face twisting in pain. tried to stop him. I really tried!'
Lorimer nodded, his blue eyes meeting her own dark gaze.
There was something in that look, some unspoken, guilty secret.
Then, as though she had said too much, she dropped her gaze and opened her bag, rustling around for a handkerchief.
And at that moment it came to him, the answer to Omar's persecution.
It was you, his own mother, Lorimer thought to himself, but he did not say the words. How she had managed it, was anyone's guess. Bribing officers within Grampian and Strathclyde to put notes in her son's locker, perhaps? Sending messages to his home address? Anything to try to stop him in the career that she hated.
Thank God he hadn't had time to put anything officially into motion.
Whatever had been going on, it simply didn't matter any more.
They'd got off with it, but Lorimer hoped that somewhere in Aberdeen and Glasgow there would be officers whose consciences would weigh heavily upon them for the rest of their careers.
Perhaps, though, Omar's mother would always feel a sense of vindication. The danger she had feared for her beloved son had come to pass in the most tragic way, despite what she had seen as her best intentions.
Lorimer cleared his throat. 'Omar is to be given the police medal for bravery,' he said. It's something that is often awarded posthumously,' he added gently. 'And, with your permission, we would like his funeral to be conducted with full police honours.'