His thoughts turned to the practicalities of the attack and theft. Of course, they could put a trace on the laptop, find out exactly where it was, and then? Well, that depended on what the thief had done with it. He doubted very much that Maggie had been coshed in the garage just for her laptop. She was making a name for herself in the world of children’s fiction but Margaret Lorimer was still far from becoming a household name, one whose work in progress was hardly worth stealing. If it had been a proper burglary, there would have been far more items missing than that.

  No, it was more likely that whoever had taken it was unaware that it belonged to Mrs Lorimer and not to the detective superintendent, though once their mistake was apparent, they might simply ditch the device and scarper.

  ‘A what?’ The woman clenched her fists in a moment of fury.

  ‘A ghost story. She’s a children’s writer … ’

  ‘She? You mean … ?’

  ‘It was the wife’s laptop. The only one in the entire house, I told you.’ The voice on the telephone sounded a whining note. ‘Looked everywhere. He doesn’t keep any of his own stuff there.’

  ‘And Mrs Lorimer?’

  There was a slight pause as she imagined the person on the other end shrugging his muscular shoulders.

  ‘She’ll live. Just gave her a knock on the head. That was all.’

  The woman cut him off, her face a mask of rage.

  They had spent weeks planning this night, watching and waiting for the right moment, certain that something would have been found in the detective superintendent’s home. But he’d been too clever for them, it seemed, and now they were back to where they had started, wondering why William Lorimer had been turning up unannounced at different crime scenes and poking his nose into other officers’ business. If, as rumours had it, he was simply looking around for likely candidates to fill upcoming vacancies at the MIT, then all was well.

  But, if he was part of a clandestine operation to root out their plans, then everything could collapse.

  She drummed impatient fingers on the table in front of her. Perhaps it was time to change things a little, alter the date that had been agreed all those months ago. After all, maximum damage was the desired outcome and most evenings in the run-up to Christmas would see the city centre packed with revellers.

  Kalil had instilled into her the need to plan carefully in order to carry out their mission. His teaching would not be in vain, Shararah promised him, silently. This was a crusade against a people who deserved no mercy and this Christmas was one that Glasgow would not forget in a hurry.

  ‘Paisley town centre,’ Lorimer was told, several hours after he had left the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. ‘Thrust into a bin and covered up with fish supper wrappings. Only damage seems to be the grease all over the casing.’

  ‘And, any traces?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle. They got into it, mind. Some clever hacker managed to bypass the safety screening. But they left no trace. Keys sprayed with some fluid and not even a partial print on the screen or the casing. This lot knew what they were doing all right,’ the forensic scientist at Gartcosh told him.

  ‘Okay, keep it for now, of course. Maggie has everything backed up and she doesn’t need it just now,’ he said, half to himself.

  He had left his wife after watching her take a little breakfast, helping her to drink some weak tea and wiping her bruised lips with a soft handkerchief. Forensics had been and gone to their Giffnock home and, as he now expected, there was no trace of the intruder except for some footprints on the garage floor. He had spilled some sand there after that last snowfall, keen to clear the icy drive, and now there was at least one piece of evidence that might be used to trace the suspect’s footwear, though both Lorimer and the forensic scientist tasked with this job doubted it would be enough to catch him.

  There was no way he was going to leave Maggie on her own in this house, however, and his thoughts turned to someone who might offer to come and stay in their spare room once she had been discharged from hospital.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jack of all trades, master of none, Molly Newton thought, applying some fresh lip salve and examining her face in the mirror. It was nice to be asked a favour, even if it had meant abandoning the original task of shadowing Sylvie Maxwell. The undercover officer appeared to be going about her business as expected, travelling from Paisley each day by train to the city centre and spending her days working at Bryson’s. Fair play to her, Maxwell had spent long hours of overtime since the death of the senior partner, poring over any files that had not been taken away by Police Scotland for closer examination. Her willingness to be helpful had charmed Dominic Fraser who seemed to be perpetually harassed in his new role as head of the firm, the undercover officer had reported. No, a few days away from overseeing Maxwell’s movements would be fine; at least that was what Lorimer had told her.

  Now it was a different sort of babysitting job that her boss had requested, looking after his wife when she came home from hospital today. This was no ordinary burglary, Lorimer had told her, his keen blue eyes narrowing as he nodded. But, with no more to add to that remark, it was down to Molly to imagine just what he meant. Someone had been looking for something more than hardware they could flog around the pubs to make a few quid for Christmas and Molly Newton was curious to know what that might be. The files at the MIT were all secure and Lorimer toted his personal computer back and forth each day in his battered old leather briefcase. Nobody had ever asked him why but now Molly was beginning to wonder what it was that the detective superintendent had to hide even from his fellow officers in Govan.

  He had been up at Gartcosh a bit more often than usual, she knew. Could there be something afoot that was too big for the Major Incident Team to handle? Or, and here Molly paused as she flicked back her hair, eyes crinkling thoughtfully, was there someone rotten inside the force that he needed to find? The debacle over these undercover officers’ identities being splashed across the Sunday papers had come and gone again, as all stories did. However, the reverberations were still being felt within the force and Molly was beginning to suspect that Lorimer might have been tasked with the job of rooting out the person behind it all.

  ‘This is really kind of you, Molly,’ Maggie said as the taller woman helped her into the car. ‘I’m sure I could have taken a taxi, but Bill wouldn’t hear of it.’

  She looked behind at the hospital. Two nights spent there seemed more like weeks but still Maggie could not remember anything after she had left work that fateful December afternoon.

  ‘No trouble at all, Mrs Lorimer.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie, please! It’s only classes full of school pupils who call me that,’ she laughed. ‘And, after all, we’re going to be housemates for a while, though honestly, I think I could manage fine on my own for a few days.’

  ‘No bother.’ Molly smiled. ‘And I think your doctor was pleased you were having somebody with you.’

  ‘Well. I’m sure he was. They’ve all been so kind.’ Maggie sighed. ‘What would we do without our NHS, eh?’

  ‘Right,’ Molly replied, then swung her car into the lane that would lead them to the motorway and the fastest way home to the Lorimers’ home in Giffnock.

  Bill had fussed too much, Maggie thought. It wasn’t as if she was in any danger of an incident like that being repeated. After all, statistically speaking, wasn’t right now the safest time for her to be alone at home, officers patrolling the area several times a day? The doctor at the Queen Elizabeth had given her strict instructions to take the rest of the term off but Maggie was already chafing against that stricture. What about the end of term dances? The school carol concert? The last day of term when her friends on the staff left early to enjoy a slap-up lunch at a favourite restaurant? Maggie frowned then sighed as the pain in her head throbbed. Well, things happened, and she would simply have to put up with it. Besides, DS Molly Newton seemed like a good companion to have and Maggie began to imagine the pair of them sharing present wrapping and listening to Classic FM as it played her favourite Christmas music.

  *

  Molly turned with a start as a noise came from behind her.

  ‘Oh, it’s just you,’ she gasped as Chancer the cat leapt up onto the rocking chair by the fire. Maggie Lorimer had gone upstairs for a rest and last time Molly had looked the woman was blissfully asleep. The orange cat jumped up onto her knees and before she knew it, Molly’s fingers were stroking its soft fur, rhythmic purring reverberating under her caress.

  She must have dozed off, Molly realised as Maggie put a mug of something sweet smelling on the table beside her.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean … ’

  Maggie smiled down at her. ‘I thought a mug of glühwein might make us both feel a little bit more festive,’ she said. ‘It’s been a strange few days and I’d almost forgotten that Christmas is just around the corner.’

  Molly nodded and picked up the steaming mug, aware that the cat was no longer curled on her lap and that it was already dark outside, lights from a twinkling candle branch reflecting its own image on the kitchen windowpane.

  She watched as Maggie moved across the room to turn on the radio then she came and sat beside her. ‘A little music will help us to capture the festive spirit if this doesn’t do the trick.’ Maggie grinned, lifting her mug carefully in her right hand.

  It was not a radio channel that Molly normally tuned into, nevertheless the Christmas carols were a pleasant distraction and she had to admit they enhanced the mood that Maggie Lorimer was evidently trying to capture.

  Molly’s eyes were closed as the strains of a familiar tune began, though she’d forgotten its title.

  ‘Nooo!’

  She jumped up, startled, as Maggie stood up suddenly, mouth open and eyes wide, the contents of her mug spilling in a red arc.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll fetch a cloth,’ Molly began, but Maggie waved a hand to stop her, face chalk white as if she had suffered a shock.

  ‘What … ?’

  Maggie looked down at the detective sergeant. ‘Shhh … listen … ’ She raised a commanding finger to her lips as the strains of the music continued.

  Then, the colour slowly spreading across her cheeks, she gasped aloud.

  ‘I remember,’ she began. ‘I was listening to “Troika”. Sitting in the car till it finished.’

  Molly watched as the woman’s face lit up.

  ‘I was just sitting there. Then I drove into the garage … got out of the car … ’ She looked at Molly. ‘That’s when it must have happened,’ she said, her hand feeling the back of her head. ‘Someone must have been waiting for me out there, crept up behind me, then … ’

  ‘Coshed you,’ Molly finished grimly. ‘Look, why not sit down and I’ll clear this up,’ she said. ‘Think back to that moment, see if there is anything else you remember, okay?’

  She watched as Maggie sank into her chair, an entranced expression on her face. Could she recall anything more? Or had that tune simply conjured up the moments before the attack?

  Sylvie closed the front door and sighed. Still nothing, she thought, her mouth turned down at the corners. Despite her best intentions, there had been no sign of any paperwork that could lead to signs of money laundering in Bryson’s.

  She flung her keys into the dish on the hall table and made her way through to the kitchen at the back of the house, switching on lights to banish the shadows.

  What was it that Derek had wanted to tell her? Their friendship had deepened into something more and Sylvie had been keen to eliminate him from any suspicion during her searches. He’d talked a little about the refugee charity where he volunteered at weekends, even hinting that she might like to join him there for a coffee. Refuweegee, Byres Road, he’d said. But Sylvie had hesitated, reluctant to be seen with him in such a public place.

  Would there have been a future for them? She would never know, and perhaps it was a lesson well learned not to let her emotions become entangled with her work. After all, she had a job to do and she would carry it out to the bitter end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The music from the speakers in a corner of the room was a mixture of brash pop interspersed with soulful ballads, most of which Daniel had never heard before.

  The big room was decorated with garlands of paper chains hanging from the white ceiling and an artificial Christmas tree stood in another corner, tilted somewhat drunkenly to one side under the weight of its garish decorations. There were several small children on rugs by the tree, playing noisily with some plastic toys, their antics searing Daniel Kohi’s heart as he tried not to watch them.

  It was the fifth place that he had visited in recent days, each time being warmly welcomed by different volunteers, some of them former asylum seekers who had made their home in this city. Daniel had listened to the tales of many journeys and months spent waiting, waiting … the strain of being suspended between hope and despair showing in so many faces. He had not found anyone that fitted Lorimer’s description of a potential terrorist in these centres, however. Folk had been more than happy to share their stories and praising their Scottish hosts was a common refrain.

  This refugee centre, like these others, was a godsend no doubt for many families new to the city, their journeys fraught with so many difficulties more tragic than Daniel’s. He had been given a leaflet on the day he’d arrived, an open invitation from this charity to drop in at any time. But until Lorimer’s suggestion he had resisted spending time with fellow refugees, afraid to hear any more of their harrowing stories. Instead he had chosen to remain cocooned in his own little world of Netta, his small flat and the long walks into the city centre, the impulse to revisit that narrow lane drawing him back time after time.

  But now things were different and coming here had a purpose, one that was more in keeping with a man whose powers of detection were being valued again.

  A couple of men had looked up as he entered but, affecting not to notice them, Daniel collected a mug of coffee then sat down opposite the slight figure of a man who was watching the children intently. Syrian, he guessed, by the look of him. Daniel had met a few like him down south, waiting in crowded rooms for decisions to be made, that familiar expression of hopelessness in so many eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, leaning forward and extending his hand. ‘I’m Daniel.’

  The Syrian lifted his head a little but merely nodded then returned to gaze at the little ones playing on the mat.

  ‘Your children?’ Daniel asked cautiously.

  The man looked at Daniel and nodded. ‘The little one. He is mine.’ He was blinking as though to hold back tears.

  There was a story here, Daniel thought, and not one with a completely happy ending.

  ‘You’re staying here, in Glasgow?’

  The man frowned, looking around him as if he had only just realised where he was.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We leave tomorrow. If boat sails.’

  ‘You’re going back?’

  The man shook his head again but this time a tentative smile flitted across his narrow face.

  ‘We go live on island,’ he explained, then, looking out of the huge picture windows that overlooked the busy street where litter was being tossed skywards in a gusty wind, he pointed upwards. ‘Boat no sail today. Storm,’ he added.

  Daniel nodded, relieved that his first thought had been wrong. He had met so many refugees in places throughout the UK who had been under some sort of threat: detention, being sent home, no hope of achieving immigration status. His own journey had been far easier than most, he knew, the church in Liverpool liaising with the Home Office on his behalf.

  ‘You are fortunate,’ Daniel told him. ‘You will have a new home before Christmas.’

  The man raised his watery eyes to Daniel and sighed. There was no answer to this, he thought. The past, whatever it had been for this man, was still large in his mind and heart; the future an unknown place.

  ‘You can work once you gain your settled status,’ Daniel continued. ‘That is something to hope for. What did you do back home?’

  The man seemed not to have heard Daniel, his gaze focused on the children by the Christmas tree.

  ‘I was a teacher in Aleppo,’ he said softly. ‘To little ones like these,’ he added with a wistful look.

  ‘You can’t go back?’ Daniel asked. The ancient city had been freed from its years of turmoil and thousands had returned from refugee camps to begin the monumental task of restoring the place to some form of normality.

  The man gave a slight shake of his head then looked at Daniel.

  ‘No safe for me,’ he replied simply, holding out his hands in a gesture of weary defeat. ‘People here will give him a new life,’ he added, looking down at the small boy who turned and gave the man a wide grin.

  And what will you do? Daniel wondered. The child would learn the ways of this new country while the father waited patiently for the time when he could do some meaningful work. Teaching? Daniel wondered how many children inhabited this island and if there would be any need for this man’s skills.

  Whatever his story had been it wasn’t over yet. Daniel nodded and began to stand up. ‘Good luck for tomorrow,’ he said.