‘You are not of their faith?’

  Daniel breathed a quick prayer of regret to whoever was watching over him before continuing with his biggest lie.

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Then, perhaps we can help grant your wish,’ Qasim said, offering his hand across the table.

  Daniel put on his best fake grin and clasped the older Syrian’s hand. Trust was what it was all about, he’d told him, and now it looked as if he had gained entry into their confidence. But where was that going to lead? And would he really be able to carry out whatever crime they had in mind?

  Caroline Flint was on her own when Lorimer arrived for the meeting at Gartcosh.

  ‘David shouldn’t be too long,’ she told him. ‘Here, have some coffee. Just brewed it a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘How are things progressing?’ the deputy chief constable asked him as she poured the coffee.

  ‘I have a few things put in place,’ Lorimer admitted. He would not reveal Inspector Kohi’s part in this just yet, his unorthodox offer to the Zimbabwean probably contravening several Police Scotland regulations. Yet it was more than that, he realised as Flint sat back and looked at him. He needed to keep Kohi a total secret and that meant not saying a word to either of these most senior officers. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Caroline Flint, but she had been an undercover cop back in her Met days and there was a tiny ripple of unease in Lorimer’s mind about that very fact.

  ‘How’s Maggie?’ Flint asked. ‘You must have got a real fright. Oh, here’s David,’ she said, looking up as the door to her office opened to admit the acting chief constable.

  ‘Yes, how is your wife?’ Mearns asked as he sat beside Lorimer. ‘That must have come as a terrible shock.’

  ‘I’ve got one of my team keeping an eye on her, sir,’ Lorimer replied. ‘And there was no lasting damage done. It really did look as though they were after a laptop, presuming it was mine.’

  ‘But you don’t keep yours at home?’ Mearns asked.

  ‘It’s always in a safe place, sir,’ Lorimer replied smoothly, not over-anxious to admit that he carried it about wherever he went while there was danger from some source within the police itself.

  ‘Good, good. We all need to be vigilant right now, keep our personal places as safe and secure as possible.’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of security set up at your own house?’ Flint asked, looking at Mearns.

  ‘Oh, yes, as soon as we moved in, I had the place rigged up with the lot. Paid for by Police Scotland, I might add. The rental people are quite happy to go with that,’ he added.

  ‘Coffee?’ Flint asked and Mearns nodded. ‘Same as usual, milk and two, thanks, Caroline.’

  Lorimer blinked. The chief constable had taken on a property over on the south side of the city, he believed, though he was not sure of its address. By the new year there would be a few hats cast into the ring to compete for the top job, Caroline Flint’s among them, and Mearns would retire with a decent pension, his final posting here in Glasgow completing what appeared to be an enviable career. Rumour had it that a gong might even be forthcoming for David Mearns in the New Year Honours list, something that he deserved, Lorimer thought.

  But he’d missed something important just now, he realised. Something that one of them had said. He tried hard not to frown as Mearns began the meeting, the moment lost for now.

  ‘That guy who was here, the black fellow, a good friend, is he?’ Molly ventured as she and Maggie sat at the dining room table, a Scrabble board between them.

  Maggie looked across and saw a tide of pink appear on the detective sergeant’s cheeks. Ah, so that was the way the wind blew, she thought.

  ‘Someone Bill met quite recently,’ she said. ‘Used to be a detective inspector in Zimbabwe.’

  ‘Oh, I did wonder,’ Molly said, looking at the letters on her tray then back at the board.

  ‘You’ve met him before, I take it?’

  Molly shrugged. ‘Just doing my job,’ she said. ‘Your husband asked me to take a car to this place in Maryhill where I handed over the keys to him.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘If Bill wants to tell you more about Daniel, then I’m sure he will,’ she said lightly. ‘But I can assure you he is a nice man. A widower, as it happens. Sad story, but not mine to tell,’ she added firmly.

  Molly glanced up and nodded. ‘Okay, but I wouldn’t mind meeting him again,’ she admitted with a shy smile.

  Maggie Lorimer breathed in a quiet sigh. If she were a fairy godmother, then she would wave her wand and make something happen between those two. The tall blonde detective sergeant was about Daniel’s age, she reckoned, and it would be good to see a relationship blossom after the dreadful experiences that he had endured. Maybe it was time to suggest a foursome around this table for dinner, Molly and Daniel getting to know one another in the safety of the Lorimers’ home? It was Christmas time, after all, the season of goodwill, and Daniel had left everything and everyone behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Solomon Brightman fastened the straps of his briefcase with a sigh of contentment. The end of the university term had come at last and now he was free to stay at home with young Ben, sharing the day-to-day duties with Morag, their beloved nanny. Rosie was on call all of this week which meant that she could be asked to attend a scene of crime at any hour of the day or night, no matter what she was doing. He stared out of the large windows, their upper panes decorated with old-fashioned stained glass, a reminder of the age of this building and how many men and women had stood here over the years, their vocation to teach bringing them to Glasgow.

  Even in the relatively short time Solly had lived in this city he had seen changes. Down towards Byres Road newer buildings jostled for space as demands for science and technology created different departments. In his own discipline of psychology Solomon Brightman had been part of a different approach to criminal behaviour, his work in profiling not just a help to police forces around the country but also gaining him a reputation as a writer and psychologist of note. The Christmas holidays might give him the opportunity to edit his latest manuscript, though if Rosie were working all hours, he was happy simply being Daddy to Abby and little Ben. He gazed back up towards the old buildings, cars passing up and down University Avenue. It was a fifteen-minute walk across nearby Kelvingrove Park to their top-floor flat and, with the storm clouds looming towards the west he would need to hurry if he wanted to avoid being soaked. Still, he stood, lingering for a few moments, contemplating his good fortune and wondering how much time he might spend later this evening thinking about the puzzle that Lorimer had presented to him.

  A woman, a femme fatale, perhaps, young and beautiful. He saw many lovely girls and young women as they passed through this very room, earnest creatures for the most part, some refreshingly unaware of their own allure. He was still a student of human behaviour, and always would be, fascinated by the things one person could do to another, whether it be to steal their heart in a moment of desire or smash their skull with a blunt instrument. Had Vincent Burns lost his heart to a woman like that? One who possessed charismatic qualities that might overpower a man’s reason? And, terrible though it might be to consider, had that same female predator wielded the fatal weapon? One of Solly’s previous books about female killers had given him insights into things most people might wish to ignore. But the fact remained, however much statistics showed that a killer tended to be a male, there was no doubt that some women had the capacity not just to kill but to do so without any lingering sense of guilt.

  He was looking for the psychopathic personality, Solly decided. A woman like some of those in ancient times who had slaughtered their menfolk in the most brutal fashion and gone on to savour their triumph.

  What, though, was this particular woman’s motivation? If the end result was to create carnage in Glasgow city centre, there had to be a driving force behind it. A religious fanaticism, perhaps? Or a deep-seated rage against something or someone that would make an intriguing study for a psychotherapist. But first, he told himself, stepping towards the coat stand in the corner and taking down his thick winter tweed, she had to be found. And stopped.

  ‘We’ve found a new recruit.’

  The woman listened as her caller described the African man that Qasim had met at the refugee centre. A disaffected type, the Syrian assured her. Ready to throw his lot in with them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘What’s his background?’

  ‘Mohammad and I reckon he’s skipped from the authorities back where he came from. I can almost smell it on him, you know what I mean? He’s been kicked out for some subversive activities is my feeling, though he’s cagey about telling us the details.’

  ‘Cagey is good,’ she replied. ‘It shows he’s not a fool. Like some of them.’

  Qasim risked a snigger. ‘What is it they say about you? Not a woman to suffer fools gladly?’

  ‘Hmm, well, I’d like to see him for myself, but I am not ready to let him meet me. Let’s arrange something where I can have a look and judge for myself before you make any promises to this stranger.’

  ‘We were all strangers to you at one time,’ Qasim reminded her.

  ‘Yes,’ she demurred. ‘You were.’

  She put down the phone and gazed thoughtfully out of the window of the room where she stood. Bare-branched trees were swaying in the rising wind but in here there was warmth and comfort, supplied by a man whose aim was to keep her happy whenever she chose to be in his house. When it was all over, they would leave this place and she would travel further from him once more, one task complete and others still to fulfil.

  She glanced at her fingernails, slicked with pale gel, perfectly shaped as befitted a woman like her. There was no doubt that her beauty had captured men in the past and that she would use it to snare them in the future, so maintaining that veneer of perfection was a small price to pay, though she despised the nail technicians and beauty therapists who occasionally saw to her needs.

  A Zimbabwean, she thought. Well, at least he would have English as a language and hopefully not have any understanding of the Arabic in which she was fluent. It had paid to speak to the Syrians in their own tongue, gaining their confidence and eventually becoming their leader. It had taken time here, in this cold city, but they were almost ready to carry out her plan, do her bidding. She’d tried for so long to find a replacement for the last one and now it looked as if her prayers had been answered. And, if she had an extra member of her team in this new recruit, she would be able to sit back and watch as it all unfolded, her hands apparently clean of any mortal stain.

  ‘There is a place,’ Qasim told him. ‘We want to take you,’ he added, catching hold of Daniel’s sleeve. ‘Will you come with us?’

  Daniel forced a grin onto his face. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  As before, the two Syrians headed for the Subway but this time Qasim produced money to buy Daniel’s ticket.

  ‘You have very little, I know,’ he said as they descended on the escalator. ‘It is a wicked thing to force a man like you into becoming a beggar, is it not?’

  Daniel gave a shrug. The Syrian was evidently trying to show the UK immigration authorities as the bad guys and Daniel would play along with that as best as he could.

  The little orange train roared to a halt by the platform, a sooty smell sweeping through the black tunnel. They sat side by side, not speaking, though any conversation over the noise of the Subway train was practically impossible. Daniel contented himself with watching the other passengers coming and going as each station drew the train to a screeching halt. Kelvinbridge, St George’s Cross, Cowcaddens then their own stop, Buchanan Street. He rose with the other men and followed them silently up and out to the street where crowds of people surrounded a lone busker with his guitar and microphone.

  Neither Qasim nor Mohammad paid the singer any heed, but Daniel felt a shiver down his spine as he heard the man’s tenor voice rise in a familiar lyric.

  ‘ … but I long for yesterday … ’

  He swallowed hard, urging his emotions to stay under control. The words were so poignant, and he could wallow in their sentiment if he let them. But now was not a time to look back, Daniel told himself; now he had to assume the role of follower and see just where that might take him.

  It was a surprise when the two men stopped by the big square opposite the City Chambers, a large ornate building where Glasgow’s City Fathers went about their business. He had never yet stepped inside, though, as he had stood near the Cenotaph monument flanked by two huge white lions one day, a tourist guide in scarlet uniform had assured him that visitors were permitted.

  ‘We’re going in there?’ Daniel asked, pointing across the square.

  ‘No. At least, not yet.’ Qasim chuckled. ‘We are taking you to have some street food,’ he said with a smile. Then, beckoning Daniel to follow, he led the way through the crowds until they reached a row of covered booths. The smells wafting from them made Daniel’s mouth water and it was all he could do not to feast his eyes on the variety of food that was on offer. Yet, he’d been brought here for a purpose, he thought, not just to be given a meal and lured further into the Syrians’ affections.

  Daniel hung back a little, glancing this way and that, hiding his scrutiny of the crowd as he pointed to the different food on offer, nodding happily as Qasim chose things for him.

  Most of the people pushing to get closer to the booth were dressed for the weather, dark coats and bobble hats, an occasional flash of scarlet, scarves wrapped around their necks to keep out the bitter wind.

  It was easy to miss her, the pale grey scarf swathed across her fair hair, a long coat the colour of mud hiding her slim figure. But one look at her face was enough to tell Daniel why he had been brought here. She didn’t see his glance, thankfully, the breeze catching the end of her scarf, making her look away for a second. He breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to nod to Qasim, ignoring her for now. They’d brought him here so she could inspect their potential recruit, he guessed. And that was fine by him. All he needed to do was play to their tune and let her overhear him. It was that easy, or so he hoped.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ Daniel said, giving a small bow to Qasim and stuffing his mouth with the hot spicy potatoes. ‘We eat this food to give us strength for the job ahead, right?’ He laughed, nodding his head in the direction of the City Chambers. Was he correct? Had Qasim’s throwaway remark indeed shown him that the beautiful building was some sort of target? He tried not to turn around, convinced that the woman was staring at the back of his head, close enough to hear what they were saying but able to vanish into the crowds in a moment.

  He would do, she decided, turning on her heel and merging with crowds gathering at the traffic lights near the corner of the square. Intelligent enough to do what he was told and strong too, by the look of him. A small sigh escaped the woman as she crossed the road and headed along a side street leading towards the river. It had been necessary to get rid of that last one. A bit of collateral damage. But this was a war they were fighting. And wars used mercenaries, men of no particular faith, lured by the promise of money. Wasn’t that what Kalil had told her?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was dark up here now, the afternoon light drawing to a close, sunset a memory as the last rays blinked against charcoal clouds then vanished. DS Douglas Hutton had taken the afternoon off to accommodate a workman fitting tiles onto the roof of the bungalow and was now making his way back across the slopes of the Braes. Gareth, his Labrador retriever, was roaming around the bushes, head down, intent on making the most of whatever smells were up here, yet still within shouting distance. Douglas pulled up the collar of his pea jacket, remembering other walks with the dog.

  He’d been selected for one particular job because of Gareth, a dog walker required to seek out a person of interest, his cover the innocent animal that had befriended the target’s spaniel. Dog walkers were themselves a breed apart, most of them content to exchange pleasantries, mainly about their respective mutts, but Douglas had managed to obtain a lot more from these excursions in parks and meadowlands than simply kennel pedigrees. The target would never know how he’d been found out, the last person on his mind a fellow dog owner. These early morning chats had been a rare interlude in the man’s otherwise nefarious day, something of which DS Hutton had taken advantage.

  Did that particular villain know now who had reported his movements back to Police Scotland? Douglas gave a sigh, his lips tightening with displeasure. The newspaper coverage had finished his career as far as undercover work was concerned and since then he’d been chained to a desk, still managing to provide useful work, but still, it wasn’t the same as being out in the field.

  ‘Gareth, here boy!’ Douglas turned to peer through the thickening gloom, aware of the dampness descending. Soon the tops of the Braes would be shrouded in mist and he wanted nothing more than to be back by his own fireside, the dog fed and flopped out on the rug.

  ‘Gareth!’ he called again.

  Where was that dog?

  Frowning now, and beginning to feel a tinge of anxiety, Douglas retraced his steps, calling repeatedly.

  A high-pitched whine made him turn abruptly towards the sound. The dark shadow of a rock loomed ahead, a narrow sheep track winding its way around the cliff edge.

  ‘Gareth!’ His voice was sharp, commanding, but the dog did not reappear. Instead his barks became excited and Douglas broke into a run, all his senses alert.

  Shreds and tatters of mist obscured his sight as the cop followed the sounds, the path taking him steeply uphill between crags that were pitch black against the lowering sky.

  His feet slipped and slithered as the track narrowed and then descended into a gully.

  ‘Gareth!’

  Douglas stopped for a moment, relieved to see the pale shape of his dog, tail wagging ferociously as he stood over something on the ground.

  Then, relief changed to a different emotion, a smell wafting upwards that Douglas Hutton recognised only too well.