‘Unless it’s secreted in an offshore account where we have no jurisdiction,’ Lorimer grumbled. ‘That puts it out of our hands, of course.’

  ‘So, at that stage it’s a matter for the security services?’

  Lorimer did not reply, looking up instead as the waitress returned with their meals. It was not a question he could answer right now. Only the chief constable and DCC Caroline Flint had the ear of those particular people. He’d come across them once before, during his involvement in a plot to blow up the opening ceremony of the 2014 Commonwealth Games here in Glasgow. Lorimer remembered exactly why he’d declined their offer to quit the police and join a different type of service knowing that his place was here in Scotland’s largest city. Still, the memory gave him a renewed sense of value. He was still needed here and his time to hand over the job had not yet come.

  Lorimer looked across at his friend. Solly’s dark curls gleamed under the lamplight and he could see a distant look in his eyes as he sat motionless, fork raised part way to his mouth, his thoughts somewhere other than in this restaurant. Perhaps he had asked too much of the psychologist? After all, Solly was not being paid to look into this case. But the bearded man sitting opposite relished a difficult puzzle and was known for coming at such things from quite unexpected angles.

  They had finished their meal and split the bill, though Lorimer had protested that it really should be his shout. Solly wiped his beard with the napkin and laid it on the table. It had been good to see him tonight, not just to reassure himself about Maggie’s well-being, but to gauge Lorimer’s current mood too. It was not unexpected that he’d had a moment of doubt about his career; under the circumstances who would not have such thoughts about giving up their job if it endangered a loved one? The question about who was behind the planned attack that the Counter Terrorism division had heard about, and the leaking of those undercover officers’ identities, was of paramount importance. But were these senior officers really correct in thinking the source came from within Police Scotland? He pondered the idea as they collected their coats and headed out into the wet streets.

  A slight drizzle was coming down, the sort that could soak a person in minutes.

  ‘Here, hop in and I’ll run you home,’ Lorimer said, aiming his key at the big silver car that was parked opposite the restaurant.

  Molly and Maggie were sitting side by side at the fire when he walked in, the sound of their laughter warming Lorimer’s heart.

  ‘There you are!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘We’ve had a lovely evening here and Molly’s been regaling me with tales from her past.’

  The detective sergeant smiled and looked up at Lorimer. ‘No trade secrets given away, honest, boss!’ she laughed. ‘Just a bit about my misspent youth.’

  ‘Not misspent if you were helping to build an orphanage in Romania,’ Maggie scolded.

  Molly shrugged and rose to her feet. ‘As I said, that was a long time ago,’ she murmured. ‘Right, time I wasn’t here. See you two in the morning.’

  ‘Why not stay the night?’ Lorimer offered. ‘It’s pretty late and we both have an early start, after all.’

  ‘Your toilet bag’s still in the spare room,’ Maggie urged. ‘And it means we can have a proper nightcap,’ she added, a wicked glint in her eyes.

  Molly looked to Lorimer who nodded agreement.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ he said. ‘Who’s for a whisky?’

  Maggie had gone to bed early leaving the two police officers alone downstairs, seated by the fireside, Chancer snuggled up on Molly’s lap.

  ‘Something I wanted to run past you,’ Lorimer began as he lifted his glass and examined the amber liquid under the lamplight. ‘You know I’m working on this case, something that involves a security threat?’

  ‘I’d gathered that much from the little you’ve told me,’ Molly said, shooting him a curious glance. ‘But I’m happy to hear more.’

  Lorimer sat back and breathed in deeply. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to know whom to trust, especially when it seems as if there is someone within the force guilty of the deepest malpractice.’

  Molly sat still, watching him intently as he swirled the whisky glass thoughtfully.

  ‘You are one of those people I do trust, DS Newton,’ he said at last, turning his blue gaze upon her. ‘And what I am about to tell you must go no further than this room.’

  She nodded, never taking her eyes from his face for a moment. A lesser person might have looked away, but Molly had that inner strength that had served her well over the years of her service, both as an undercover officer and as a member of the MIT.

  ‘It all began a few months back when the chief constable had a visit from a man in the security services. No need to give a name, and anyhow, it was probably an alias just used for the occasion.’

  ‘Go on,’ Molly said quietly.

  ‘Intelligence showed that there were various persons coming into the country under the guise of refugee immigrants but whose real intentions were to infiltrate different groups, stirring up trouble and amassing enough of a rabble to cause a great deal of harm. One they had their eye on was found hanged in his room at a detention centre. Probably suicide. That was back in July,’ he added. ‘Since then we have had snippets of intelligence and we deployed some of our officers to keep tabs on a couple of these groups. You know what happened then.’

  ‘Their cover was blown, and the papers had a field day writing about them,’ Molly went on.

  ‘But not before they had a chance to tell us a bit more,’ Lorimer said slowly, looking into the whisky glass as though he were addressing it and not the woman sitting opposite.

  ‘We now have reason to believe that the person behind the threat is a woman,’ he continued. ‘Someone intent on causing a great deal of damage in the city centre, possibly around Christmas or New Year. At first I was looking at members of our own force.’

  ‘A female officer in Police Scotland?’ Molly’s tone of outrage did not surprise him. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘We’ve been looking very hard but so far not a single person has fitted the description we have of a potential terrorist.’

  ‘I can’t believe one of our own would be capable of something like that,’ Molly protested.

  ‘Neither can I,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘But the fact remains that whoever gave away the secrets of those officers must have had inside knowledge that we believed could only have come from a serving officer.’

  ‘Surely the members of a terrorist cell would have wanted to do what they could to keep these officers onside, whilst pretending they did not know their real purpose?’

  ‘I think they were too afraid to do that,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Or else wanted to create a diversion with selling their stories to the press.’ His lips tightened. ‘In retrospect, these officers might feel lucky to have escaped any physical harm. Whoever it was, we are beginning to eliminate serving female offices from our enquiries.’

  ‘What about a husband? Boyfriend?’

  Lorimer gave a slight nod. ‘Maybe. Or at any rate someone who was clued up enough to get that sort of information.’

  ‘A hacker?’

  ‘Might be. They got into Maggie’s laptop without too much difficulty, so they have IT professionals on their team.’

  ‘But why? Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘Money? Power? Or, maybe just sheer spite, who knows?’

  ‘Is that why you were seeing Professor Brightman tonight?’

  Lorimer took a sip of his drink and nodded. ‘He has the ability to look at things from strange angles, you know? Lateral thinking taken to an extraordinary degree,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Molly asked suddenly, sitting forward a little and searching his gaze.

  Lorimer gave her a slow smile and set down his glass. ‘I think it’s time that we had a little more help on our small team,’ he told her. ‘And, as I said, I need someone I can trust.’

  Molly folded her trousers and hung them on the back of the bedroom chair. Their conversation had taken her into familiar territory, the world of undercover operations that she had left behind some years before. Now, however, her task was to stay within the MIT and use all of her expertise to try to find something that might lead Lorimer and the senior officers to the person who had spread their insidious poison into the very fabric of Police Scotland.

  Of Kohi he had made no mention, but Molly was certain that the man to whom she had delivered that hired car was one more member of Lorimer’s secret team, though what his role in all of this was she had still to find out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was not too far to the nearest post office but by the time Netta reached it there was a queue snaking around the shop and she made a face as she joined the people waiting in line. Christmas cards used to be something she enjoyed writing but nowadays the postage was far too expensive, so she contented herself with buying a cheap pack to hand deliver to her closest family and friends. She’d kept one back to give to Daniel on Christmas Eve, the same design as the one she held now in her mittened hand. The words had come quite easily once she’d thought about them.

  Wishing you a merry Christmas from your pen pal in Scotland. Having a good time in the lions’ den so don’t worry. Hope the New Year is good to you.

  From,

  Your friend,

  Netta.

  His mum would get the message, surely. Daniel in the lions’ den was a story from Netta’s childhood Sunday School days and Daniel had mentioned his mother being a regular churchgoer. It would be nice if she wrote back, just to know that she’d got the card and understood the cryptic message. She’d written down her email address too, though she doubted if the lady could send a message from whatever remote wee place she lived in Zimbabwe. She didn’t know much about that part of the world, now she came to think about it.

  Netta’s thoughts served to fill in the time waiting for her turn at the counter.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Zimbabwe.’

  ‘Put it on the scales, please.’

  Netta did as she was bid then tried to hide her shock when she was told the price for the airmail postage. She gulped back an angry remark; wasn’t the girl’s fault that it cost so much, she told herself. Besides, if she couldn’t give the lad a present, she might be able to connect him with his old mum back at home.

  She still didn’t know what had happened to make him flee that faraway place but deep down Netta felt that someone had done something nasty to her neighbour and she was reluctant to believe anything bad of him. He’d shown her courtesy and kindness, qualities rare in most of the menfolk in her life. But she was more curious than ever to find out about Daniel, especially since he’d turned up with that smart red motor car.

  *

  The lift was back on when Netta returned to the flats and she breathed a sigh of relief, pressing the button for the eleventh floor. Her stomach gave a rumble, reminding the old lady that breakfast had been hours ago and that she had a pot of lentil broth to heat up when she got home. Maybe the lad would like a bowlful?

  The thought stayed with her as the lift ascended. Sending that card all the way to Africa had given her a connection to Daniel Kohi, so perhaps it was time that he told her a bit more about why he was here and what he was doing with that car.

  By the time she reached her own door, Netta had made up her mind and so she took a few more steps and knocked on number 118.

  ‘Netta, come in.’ Daniel stepped aside, his ready smile showing his pleasure at seeing her.

  ‘Naw, jist came tae see if ye fancied a plate o’ soup. Far too much fur wan,’ she said, trying to appear casual.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll just grab my jacket,’ he said and disappeared for a moment.

  Netta waited, then, when he reappeared, they walked side by side to her front door.

  ‘Ye’ll nivver guess where ah’ve been,’ she smirked, casting a sly glance at him as they entered her flat.

  ‘Sounds as if you are going to tell me, am I right?’

  ‘Well, that all depends, son,’ she said. ‘Mibbe if ah tell ye ma wee secret then you can tell me some of your story, eh? Whit d’ye say?’

  Daniel stood still for a moment, the smile dying in his eyes, and Netta clasped his arm.

  ‘Sorry, son, dinna mind me. Ah’m jist a nosy auld besom, so ah am.’

  Daniel shook his head slowly.

  ‘You are my friend, Netta, and friends share their secrets. But I can only tell you so much of my story,’ he said quietly. ‘Some of it is not the sort of thing I want you to think about. But one day I shall tell you why I am here in Scotland, a refugee and not a member of the Zimbabwean police force.’

  ‘A copper?’ Netta gasped.

  Daniel nodded slowly. ‘I was,’ he confirmed. ‘But I had to leave when certain of my colleagues wanted me to agree to carry out some things … things I did not wish to become involved with.’

  ‘Bent coppers?’ Netta said grimly. ‘Could ye no’ hiv telt the wans in charge?’

  Daniel gave her a sorrowful look. ‘They were the ones in charge, Netta. I’d been warned repeatedly that if I didn’t do their bidding, follow a corrupt way of working, then they would make my life hell.’

  The old lady’s face was like stone as she regarded Daniel. ‘And ye nivver paid them ony heed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did they do tae ye, son?’ she whispered.

  Daniel simply took his friend’s hands in his and shook his head sadly.

  ‘Now, you, Netta, dear, what was it you wanted to tell me?’

  It was time to return to the refugee charity in Byres Road and so Daniel walked briskly from the flats, collar up against the chilly wind that crept under his chin. As he had hoped, Qasim and Mohammad were there, sitting in the same place as before.

  ‘My friends!’ Daniel beamed. ‘I missed you the other time. Now, shall we drink coffee together?’

  The younger man slid an uneasy glance at his companion but Qasim returned the smile, extending his hand to Daniel.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said simply. There was no offer of explanation why the pair had left in such haste, nor, Daniel was pleased to see, any reference to the former police officer tailing them all the way to Hillhead Subway station.

  Daniel fetched three mugs of coffee and laid the tray on the table, sitting as he had done before, his back to the doorway and facing the two Syrians.

  ‘Ach, this place,’ he muttered, giving a dirty look towards the window. ‘Look at them,’ he added scornfully, pointing to the pedestrians passing by, many of them bowed against a spiteful east wind. ‘Like dung beetles. Digging themselves into any shit-filled warm place!’

  ‘You are not happy to be here?’ Qasim asked, his dark eyes seeking out Daniel’s own.

  Daniel looked away as though embarrassed to be asked. If he gave off an appearance of guilt, then perhaps that might serve to ingratiate him to this pair.

  ‘I cannot return,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But if I’d known what sort of place I was coming to … ’ He let the words hang for a moment as if suggesting that he felt a particular animosity towards Glasgow. ‘And I don’t just mean the weather,’ he added with a hiss.

  Was that a look of complicity between the men sitting opposite? Daniel took a gulp of coffee, eyeing them discreetly under the rim.

  ‘You suffered at their hands, no doubt?’ Qasim asked quietly.

  Daniel nodded glumly. He’d spent time rehearsing the story he would tell, shreds and scraps of tales cobbled together from other refugees’ stories: the time spent in detention, the deprivation and stonewalling experienced there, the constant threat of deportation.

  He leaned forward, shuffling his chair a little closer to his new-found friends. ‘It’s like this,’ he began, then gave them a fabricated account of his journey and the hell he had endured ever since arriving in the UK.

  Qasim said nothing as they listened to the Zimbabwean’s whining tones, simply nodding from time to time as though agreeing that such things ought not to be.

  ‘Feel like I could give them something to remember,’ Daniel said at last. ‘But what can we do? They strip us of everything, leave us almost penniless and unable to … ’ he hesitated, ‘work.’

  Would he ask the question that Daniel was dangling in front of him? He waited, eyes cast down, his face a mask of discontent.

  ‘What is it that you did for a living?’ Qasim asked, Daniel’s bait swallowed up immediately.

  ‘This and that,’ Daniel replied, one quick glance then looking away as though to prevaricate. ‘Not anything a nice pair of good citizens like you would approve of,’ he added with a shamefaced grin.

  Once again, the two men exchanged that look and Mohammad burst into a spate of Arabic, casting glances towards Daniel as he spoke. So, he understood English, all right, but chose not to speak it, Daniel thought as Qasim raised an admonishing hand to silence his younger companion.

  ‘We do not judge a man on what he has done in the past,’ he said grandly, staring at Daniel and making the ex-cop look into his eyes. ‘But at what he might do to win our trust.’

  Daniel frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, his heart thumping. Was he about to be offered some sort of illegal activity that would put his refugee status at risk?

  Qasim merely smiled and lifted his coffee towards his thin lips. ‘Keep coming here and perhaps we will ask you to help us,’ he replied.

  ‘Help you? To do what?’ Daniel asked crossly. ‘Drink more coffee? Ha! That’s not what I’d like to do.’

  Qasim cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Then, what is it you want to do, my friend?’

  Daniel sniffed and rubbed his nose. ‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Anything to give this place a bit of a fright. These people don’t know they’re living,’ he complained, thrusting a thumb towards the window. ‘Spending money on rubbish for their Christian festival. Huh!’

  Once more Mohammad broke into a torrent of excited speech and once more Qasim silenced him with a commanding gesture.