All over the country people would be tuning in to see this programme; some eager to know the salacious details, as if the real-life crimes were a form of entertainment, others wishing that there was something, even the tiniest thing, they could do to help solve them, and of course there were those looking to see if their face or name appeared, ready to flee further away from the glare of the public spotlight.

  The team at the MIT had pondered over what to call the renewal of the Quiet Release case and in the end Lorimer himself had come up with Operation Death Star, after Queen Elizabeth University Hospital’s nickname. It had raised a few smiles but the fact that the man they sought was a fugitive from the QEUH made sense. So, backstage the talk was all about Operation Death Star, although the actual presentation would not reveal their code name for the current investigation.

  ‘Three minutes to go,’ the sound engineer’s voice told Lorimer through the microphone tucked neatly in his ear. He was ready and waiting in the studio, seated at an angle beside the blonde presenter who would be introducing him and asking just a couple of questions before Lorimer delivered his part of the story to the nation. Then she would conclude the detective superintendent’s part in the programme and move seamlessly on to the Crimestoppers’ numbers that would appear on screens all over the United Kingdom.

  Lorimer concentrated on what he was about to say. The way that the script had been agreed upon was very close to what he had written out before coming down today so he felt no nervous tremor within, simply a desire to speak clearly and with conviction. He saw the man with headphones standing at one side of the studio, counting them down.

  ‘Tonight we focus on a dreadful series of crimes that were carried out in Glasgow, many of which took the lives of elderly or vulnerable people. With me is Detective Superintendent William Lorimer from Police Scotland. Detective Superintendent, can you tell us a little about this case?’

  Kirsty and James sat side by side, holding hands, eyes glued to the television screen. They were recording the programme for Alistair and Betty Wilson who were still in the US, but both were eager to see it.

  Kirsty felt the squeeze on her fingers and turned to give James a brief smile as Lorimer began to speak. But her focus was soon on the figure seated in that Cardiff studio and her shoulders tensed, waiting to hear what he would say.

  ‘Last year we apprehended several people who were involved in an end-of-life scam called Quiet Release. Relatives of sick or elderly people were targeted, and paid large sums to have the victims dispatched by lethal injection.’

  The camera panned in closer until the viewers saw only a head and shoulders shot.

  ‘This was an illegal organisation that sought to make money from the miseries of other people. It must never be confused with any overseas organisation that is legally set up to serve these who choose to end their own lives,’ Lorimer told the camera, his face set. ‘These victims had no choice.’

  Peter McAree sat back in his chair, a mug of tea in one hand. It had been a long day but now the kids were both asleep and he could enjoy an hour or so of television before clearing up the kitchen and heading off to his own lonely bed.

  He listened as the dark-haired cop spoke of the misery inflicted on so many folk denied the chance to say a last goodbye. At least he’d had that before Kathy had succumbed to the cancer that had taken her away from him far too soon. It was a small crumb of comfort in a world that was for ever changed.

  ‘We have some forensic evidence that links one man to the scene of several crimes,’ Lorimer continued. ‘This man is known to have posed as a medical professional and has been using different aliases, one of which was Gordon Smith.’

  The man peering intently at the small television set in an upstairs room at Glasgow City Mission was watching in silence but Jenni Lothian, the woman volunteer sitting next to him, saw his mouth open as the name was spoken. Who was this Gordon Smith? And why had poor old Tam turned so pale?

  ‘We have several pictures to show the viewers this evening. Two are recent photographs and one is a graphically designed image that shows what our suspect might look like when clean-shaven.’

  One by one the pictures of the man that the police sought were brought up onto the screen, then all three were shown in a row for comparison.

  Jack Gallagher’s fist closed around the whisky glass, its crystal indentations cutting into his skin. ‘Charles Graham,’ he whispered. ‘Well, well, well…’

  This was not on their agenda. Mitchison had hindered the reopening of the Quiet Release case but was it too late now to stop this investigation going any further?

  The furrows between his eyes deepened as he watched and listened and began to think hard.

  The images to be shown to the nation’s viewers were only there for a few moments but they remained superimposed on the screen in a smaller area as the camera returned to the police officer.

  ‘There is a substantial reward being offered for information that leads to the arrest of this man,’ Lorimer continued, his blue eyes staring straight into the camera, his voice full of determination. ‘Please, if you know who this is, call us now.’

  The mug of tea lay on a side table as Peter McAree sat forwards, hands clasped together.

  ‘Oliver…’ he began, nodding at the three pictures of the man who had once been his student. ‘It was Oliver…’ But try as he might, the fugitive’s complete name eluded him.

  ‘Tam, are you all right?’ Jenni Lothian put her arm about the old man’s trembling shoulder. But he simply sat there staring at the screen, lips parted as though all sense of speech had gone, oblivious to the kind hand stroking his arm.

  The man whose photo had appeared on the TV screen narrowed his mouth into a grim line as he pressed the remote and switched off the programme, consigning it to darkness. He had lingered too long in this city, he thought, getting up and pacing towards the big picture window that looked over the river. Should have taken a trip somewhere else by now, spent some of his earnings on a ticket to Barbados or Cuba, anywhere he might escape from the clutches of people like that detective, William Lorimer.

  What if anybody had seen that programme and identified him? So many people in this city could identify him. And would, a little voice taunted him; the prize of £10,000 would tempt almost any of these drugged-up creatures.

  And how would Gallagher react once he knew that Charles Graham was just another bogus identity for the man who had taken so many lives in exchange for hard cash?

  But maybe, just maybe, Jack Gallagher was the very man to help him out in a crisis like this?

  The phone lines were buzzing with several calls from different appeals and Lorimer knew it would be a long night as he sat with the Cardiff police officers backstage. The programme’s format dictated that one whole hour would elapse until the Crimewatch Update that informed the viewers of the immediate responses to these appeals. Lorimer had been here before, waiting tense and hopeful for that one call that would bring his team information. It was a formula that had a good success rate but there were also unsolved cases from years back, the perpetrators of some crimes never brought to justice.

  ‘His name is Oliver, but I can’t recall whether that was his first or last name,’ Peter McAree explained. ‘I was his tutor at the University of Glasgow and he was a first-year medical student. Failed his exams, though I remember he was good at the practical side of things,’ he told the telephone operator. ‘I’m so sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  Tam felt hot tears trickle down his wasted cheeks. It was no use him calling this programme. They wanted a name to put to that face and that was something he simply did not have to give them.

  But if that man was still here in the city, perhaps there was a way of finding him before the police did. His chin rose in a moment of resolution. If Jenni let him he would wait to see the later programme, find out if anyone had called in with a real name. Or not.

  And then, perhaps, he would find a way to carry out a little vengeance of his own.

  He glanced around the well-furnished flat, a luxury he had given himself and something he was reluctant to relinquish too soon. The name on the estate agent’s records was the one he had given Gallagher. Charles Graham had indeed been a real person, one of his earliest victims, and the dead man’s identity was something he enjoyed possessing as though the final joke was on the deceased. All of his official papers in connection with the house sale were in Graham’s name too: insurance, stamp duty, council tax… He sat back down, clasping his hands together behind his head. Nobody would find him here. Nobody would look for a quiet businessman in this place, would they? The down-and-outs would never even see a programme on television so they were no threat. And as for Gallagher…? He smiled and closed his eyes. Gallagher and Graham; Graham and Gallagher – both had a certain ring to them. Perhaps the Glasgow gangster would admire his new partner all the more if he learned the extent of his work to date? After all, what could one lone detective do against the might of Gallagher’s empire? Especially when the man had already infiltrated the higher echelons of Police Scotland.

  ‘Sorry, sir, we had a shedload of callers but at least we got one name.’ Dai Thomas heaved a sigh as he accompanied the tall Glasgow cop back to the main door of the studios.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘And that gives us something to follow up,’ he replied. ‘Never know how many memories these photos might jog and there is still time for calls to come through to Crimestoppers once folk have a chance to think about them.’

  ‘And the reward.’ Thomas smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how many old lags come out of the woodwork to claim a sum like that.’

  Oliver – Lorimer turned the name over in his mind. It was an unusual Christian name for a Scot. But perhaps one of his parents had come from south of the border where the name was more popular? Or, he thought, was it actually the man’s real surname? An Irish university lecturer had phoned in the information, apparently. And, as he settled down in his hotel bedroom for the night, Lorimer’s thoughts turned to another man whose work centred around the university close to his home.

  The ping of the email arriving was not heard by either Rosie or Solly as they slumbered on, the information sent by Peter McAree sitting on the professor’s iPad, one single blue dot marking it as unread.

  Through the night there would be several people who would lie awake, however, considering their next move as the stars wheeled overhead in the black February sky.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘Did you see Crimewatch?’ Niall Cameron asked.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Paul Doherty replied. ‘So that’s your man, is it? The one that got away?’

  There was no swift reply and Doherty nodded to himself, wondering if Niall Cameron was already regretting the clandestine investigation they had carried out.

  ‘I always watch it,’ he continued, more to break the silence than to become involved in a conversation about the previous evening’s TV programme. ‘Like the look of that guy, Lorimer. Wasn’t he your boss a while back?’

  ‘Aye, Lorimer’s one of the good folk,’ the reply came. ‘I could tell you plenty of stories about his cases… that’ll have to wait for another day, though. Just wanted to check and see if you’d come up with anything else meantime. On that other matter,’ he said, the words deliberately vague.

  Doherty smiled. You never knew these days who might be listening in on a phone call and Niall Cameron was evidently taking no chances.

  ‘Nothing more to report. Yet,’ he told his friend. ‘I’ll see you soon, though, whenever there’s anything new. Take care.’

  Paul ended the call and tapped his lips with one cold finger. The stream of emails that he had uncovered had dried up rather suddenly. And, while he could not yet prove anything, he did wonder, despite all his care and expertise, if someone out there had found that these files had been hacked.

  ‘There will be records,’ Solly was telling Lorimer. ‘Peter says that this student was one of his about ten years ago. So there must be records somewhere with that name. Don’t you think?’

  The detective superintendent listened to the professor’s voice and he smiled as he thought of the cases that they’d worked on together. Calm, quiet Solomon Brightman, the man who pondered long and deep about the personalities of offenders, sounded almost gleeful because he had managed to fill in a piece of this jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘Peter McAree assures me that he can give you a description of the boy. Well, he’s a man now, obviously, but Peter remembers him as a youngster.’

  ‘I’ll get the team onto that right away,’ Lorimer promised. ‘I’ll call you as soon as we have more intelligence on him.’

  There was a thoughtful expression on the detective’s face as he ended the call and glanced up at the departures board in Cardiff airport. He had already texted the team about McAree’s later call. Oliver, he’d written. Unable to sleep after the drive back from the studios, Lorimer had googled the name Oliver, and of course it was Oliver Cromwell’s that had come up time and again on the screen of his iPhone.

  He’d amused himself by looking at famous quotations attributed to the man who had wanted England to become a republic. He who stops being better stops being good, was one such and made Lorimer wonder if the Lord Protector’s personality was not just austere but flawed. Subtlety may deceive you; integrity never will. Was that something he had learned from experience? His ruthlessness in doing away with King Charles and his followers had been almost manic. Then there were the others that made Lorimer think about the Puritan who had come all the way to Scotland in his crusade against royalty and its trappings. God made them as stubble to our swords. His thoughts had turned to this other Oliver, the elusive fugitive who had killed God knew how many people. How ruthless and arrogant was he? And was there the possibility that, like his namesake, he would founder because he had been blinded by the certainty of his own cause? His face became grim as he remembered that final quotation, one that had made him see Cromwell as simply another psychopath in a long line throughout history:

  Necessity has no law.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  He had always eschewed the January sales, preferring to wait until the moment new stock arrived in the better shops, the discreet pastel shirts and glowing silk ties beckoning him into their portals. It was a mark of sheer snobbery, he knew. Who would guess that the clothes he wore had cost so much? Only other connoisseurs of the finer things in life, he told himself. The man who had once called himself Gordon Smith gave a sigh as he stood by the window of the shop, his figure shaded by the huge archway of Royal Exchange Square. Below him on the frozen ground sat a beggar clutching his ragged polystyrene cup, grey hood covering God only knew what vermin crawling on his filthy head. The rheumy eyes were staring up at him, he could tell without looking down. Desperate for a fix. Ready to smile and show a mouth full of rotting teeth and whisper his plea, ‘Any change, mister?’

  There was no sense of the disparity between himself and this object of misery. Hard work and cunning had got him to where he was today: a man with money and plans for more, much more, to fill his several bank accounts. Whereas this mongrel seated on the cold pavement had chosen to fill his veins with poison simply for a fleeting rush of glory.

  A quick glance at that face made him pause for a moment. It was an absurd idea and he despised the creature whilst seeing a potential use for him. Given a wash and a decent set of clothes, this man might pass for himself. The sound of the beggar coughing his guts up made him smile faintly, the decision made. Putting an end to his life would no doubt be a mercy. But what little life he had left might be orchestrated by another’s will.

  Eyes were indeed staring as he turned his head.

  ‘Spare any change?’ the hoarse voice asked, the lacklustre tone devoid of any hope.

  He bent forward slightly, but not so close that his expensive overcoat would come into contact with the beggar.

  ‘I can give you more than that,’ he said quietly. ‘Meet me by the taxi rank on George Street in ten minutes.’

  Then, leaving the beggar open-mouthed and speechless, he entered the shop having decided on which items he was going to purchase.

  There was no sign of the tramp when he emerged from the shop, a rectangular carrier bag slung from one shoulder. Had he scared him off? Or, when he walked back up Buchanan Street and turned into George Street, would he find him waiting, eager for whatever he was going to provide?