Lorimer raised his eyebrows and merely smiled. He’d save the expression of his thoughts for when they were safely out of earshot and back in the car. But, yes, there was something defensive about Gerry O’Neill and he wondered if that was enough to merit a bit of digging into the man’s business background to see if all these trappings of wealth had been hard earned in a perfectly legal manner.

  When the door opened again, Lorimer and Giles rose politely to their feet to greet the slim, silver-haired woman who entered the room.

  ‘My wife, Diane,’ O’Neill said as she stepped forward to shake their hands. Diane O’Neill was a pretty woman in her sixties, wearing dark jeans and a fluffy cream sweater, her eyes crinkling in a genuine smile as Lorimer and Giles introduced themselves. Lorimer couldn’t help but notice the huge diamond ring on her finger as she held out her hand, its single stone winking in the light.

  ‘Oh, we were so very sorry to hear about Vince,’ she began, taking the bucket seat next to the fireside and not, Lorimer noticed, next to her husband. ‘Have you managed to find out what happened?’

  ‘Our enquiries are still ongoing,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Did you know him well?’

  Diane O’Neill shot a questioning glance towards her husband, as if asking for permission to reply. The almost imperceptible nod from O’Neill gave Lorimer an understanding about the relationship between this pair. She was a good-looking woman, possibly a second wife? And there was a definite air of deference about her manner, despite distancing herself from her husband.

  ‘Yes, we did know Vince, at least Gerry did. I don’t play golf with the chaps,’ she said. ‘But we did sometimes meet for lunch in the clubhouse.’

  ‘Oh, any particular clubhouse?’

  Again, that look towards her husband.

  ‘Usually Whitecraigs. Vince was a member there,’ O’Neill answered for her.

  ‘That’s right.’ Diane O’Neill nodded.

  ‘Never in Fereneze?’

  ‘Where?’ The word was out of her mouth before the woman could help herself and she actually put a hand to her lips as though to cover up a fault, Lorimer noticed.

  ‘It’s in Barrhead,’ Lorimer said helpfully.

  ‘Don’t socialise there, myself,’ O’Neill stated brusquely.

  ‘But you do play there. Yes?’

  O’Neill shot a dark look at the two police officers then nodded. ‘It’s a good enough course to play. Challenging. Scenic, if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you took Mr Burns there? Signed him in?’

  ‘Done your homework already, haven’t you, so why ask daft questions?’ O’Neill snapped. ‘Vince and I played several different courses. I’m a member over at Erskine – the old club, as well as Mar Hall – then there’s Fereneze, Whitecraigs and several others. Vince sometimes came for a weekend round with me, so what? Was he bashed over the head with a golf club?’ He gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘Gerry!’ his wife implored, frowning at him and shaking her head.

  ‘We’re not at liberty to disclose the details of Mr Burns’s death,’ Lorimer said firmly. ‘We are interested in anybody who was recently with Mr Burns at Fereneze Golf Club, however, and of course as the member that signed him in your name came up, sir.’

  O’Neill frowned. ‘What on earth is all this nonsense about golf clubs? Vince was killed outside his home, wasn’t that what the news report said?’ He turned towards his wife for the first time and she nodded, sitting forward on the edge of her seat, clearly nervous and uncertain about what was going on.

  ‘You will not have heard a news report with new developments yet,’ Lorimer told them smoothly. ‘However, I can inform you that we are investigating another death that may have taken place in the vicinity of Fereneze.’

  ‘And what the hell has that got to do with me? Or Vince?’ O’Neill’s face was beginning to colour up, his tone belligerent, the signs of temper about to boil over.

  ‘Again, I am not at liberty to discuss details, but it would be very helpful if we might have a look at your cars?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ O’Neill snapped. ‘This is outrageous. Coming here and asking questions, wanting to know about our late friend and now nosing into things that don’t concern you!’ he blustered.

  ‘If you would prefer that we returned with a warrant?’

  O’Neill stood up, now bristling with ill-concealed rage. ‘I’d prefer if you would leave,’ he snapped. ‘And I will have a word with your chief constable. Mearns, isn’t it?’ He smirked, striding towards the door and pulling it open.

  Lorimer and Giles rose hastily and made their way from the room, but not before Diane O’Neill had cast an apologetic look their way.

  O’Neill stood on the porch as before as the Lexus turned on the red gravel and headed back down the drive but this time there was no word of farewell, just an angry stare as he saw them off his premises.

  ‘He didn’t want us to see his cars, did he?’ Giles said. ‘And what’s the betting he has them valeted before we can obtain a warrant to have a look at them?’

  ‘You think he’s a wrong ’un?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘I’d bet my life on it,’ Giles replied, then looked across at Lorimer. ‘He’s hiding something, don’t you think?’

  Lorimer nodded, but did not reply. There was something about Gerry O’Neill that demanded a lot more investigation, including where he had been on particular dates. That last round of golf at Fereneze between Burns and O’Neill had been as recently as November and now, what he wanted to know was the date on which Rosie Fergusson reckoned their unknown Asian man had been killed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘The cops have been here.’

  She listened to the man’s spluttering invective as he outlined the morning’s visit but all she could really hear was the fear in his voice.

  ‘You say nothing. Clear up your own mess, do you understand?’

  There was a sudden silence that she took for acknowledgement of her command.

  ‘You have seen what happens when someone steps out of line. And I would hazard a guess that neither you nor your lady wife would wish to end up like that?’

  She cut off the call and laid her mobile on the glass-topped table by her side. Perhaps it was time to groom that Zimbabwean fellow, make him aware of the services that would be required and the rewards that would come his way.

  Netta listened as the footsteps drew closer then stopped outside her door. She had the money ready in an envelope, clutched in her hands, the door chained across so that this time no one would barge in and knock her about.

  The thumps made the front door shake and Netta drew back for a moment as if she herself had been struck.

  ‘Open up, ye auld bag!’ a voice thundered. ‘We know yer in therr!’

  Netta unlocked the door with trembling fingers and thrust the envelope out before the men had time to push anything past the chain.

  ‘It’s all there. Now go home and leave me alone,’ she called, pushing the door shut and bolting it fast.

  A stream of invective and a kick on the lower part of the door were all she had in answer.

  The old woman breathed out, her heart racing as she sank against the wall in the darkened hallway.

  A sudden cry from right outside her door made Netta start. Then she heard running footsteps and yelling.

  What the heck was going on?

  Not daring to open her door again, she rushed into the kitchen and peered out from behind the curtains. It was hard to see further along the passage outside the flats, even craning her neck.

  The sound of different thudding boots coming from the other direction made her turn to see a couple of uniformed police officers give chase to the men who had grabbed her loan money.

  ‘Go on, boys,’ she urged in a breathy whisper. ‘Get the wee devils!’ Someone had called the cops, another victim perhaps, not as terrified as she was with the threatened reprisals from the gombeen man? Heart beating rapidly, Netta stood at the window, half fearful, half excited by the appearance of these police officers.

  When all was quiet again, she filled the kettle, deciding that a restorative pot of tea was needed to recover from the excitement.

  A couple of raps on her door made Netta jump, spilling some water onto the work surface.

  ‘Oh, ma goad! They’re back!’ she cried.

  ‘Netta,’ a familiar voice called through her letter box. ‘It’s me. Daniel.’

  She struggled through the hallway once more, flicked off the chain and unlocked the door, letting it swing open.

  ‘Oh, Daniel, son, come away in. You’ll never believe what’s been happening,’ she began, ushering her neighbour inside and locking the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Try me.’ Daniel’s grin made Netta stop and stare at him for a moment.

  ‘You know? Did you see what was happening?’ she asked, eager to find out if the police officers had caught up with her tormentors.

  ‘Those loan shark people will not be bothering you again, Netta, dear,’ Daniel told her.

  ‘An’ how do ye know that, son? You’re a refugee, right? How come ye can say that to me? Ye dinna know whit these people are like,’ she said, shaking her head at him.

  Daniel’s smile faded as he regarded her seriously. ‘I wasn’t always a refugee, remember,’ he said at last. ‘When I lived in Zimbabwe I was known as Inspector Kohi.’

  ‘An inspector?’ Netta’s jaw dropped open in astonishment.

  ‘Yes. I was indeed, with a team of men answering to me. At least for a time,’ he said, a note of sorrow in his voice. ‘Now I have a friend here in Glasgow who has seen to it that these men will not trouble you any more for money. In fact, after today, I think the … what did you call him? Gobbyman?’

  ‘Gombeen man,’ Netta corrected him, still wide-eyed with the revelation that her neighbour had not only been a senior policeman, an inspector, in a former life but had also taken it upon himself to sort out her problems.

  ‘In the name o’ the wee man,’ she said softly and sank into the nearest chair.

  ‘It’s true, Netta. I was someone different back home, a respected member of society until … ’

  Daniel knelt down and took his neighbour’s hands in his own. ‘You can’t imagine what it was like. Finding that people I had known and trusted were doing the most terrible things. Then trying to do something about it. They threatened to kill me, Netta.’ He stopped again for a moment, biting his lower lip to prevent the tears coming.

  ‘They set fire to our home. Murdered my wife and our little boy,’ he whispered huskily.

  ‘Oh, son, that’s whit ye couldnae tell me. Oh, Daniel, son, that’s terrible!’ Netta cried out and then she was weeping and holding his head against her chest, his own tears finally flowing.

  Later, after the necessary tea and more explanation from Daniel, Netta listened as he told her of the incident at the front door of the flats and how he had packed off the two bullies who’d tried to force their way in.

  ‘I have a good friend here in the police,’ was all he would say; no mention of Lorimer’s name and nothing about the vigilance of the local cops who had been given details of the loan sharking carried out against the old woman.

  ‘So, let me get this right, son. You were once a top cop ower therr. Why can ye no’ jist become a polis in Glesca? Eh? Can ye no’ dae a transfer or something?’

  Daniel’s sorrowful smile and shake of the head made her sigh.

  ‘Perhaps one day I will be a police officer again but like so many other professional people who have come to this country to seek asylum, I must follow the procedures.’

  There was no way he would confide in this dear lady that he had begun a sort of police work already. It might be highly dangerous for his own life right now as he masqueraded as a disaffected type seeking some sort of role in carrying out a terrorist attack. But it could also jeopardise his future here in Scotland, if the authorities were to learn of it.

  ‘Where is he?’ Qasim muttered to himself, thrusting back the sleeve of his loose tunic and staring at his watch. It was an expensive make, not one that many refugees might still be wearing after the struggles and expense of fleeing their country.

  Then, as if he had been called up by the Syrian’s very question, Daniel appeared at the door of the refuge and slunk in quietly, glancing behind him as though fearful of having been followed.

  ‘You’re late,’ Qasim accused.

  ‘Am I?’ Daniel’s eyes widened in surprise as he glanced at his own watch. ‘Sorry, this is so old, perhaps the battery needs changing,’ he apologised, holding up his wrist and showing the face to the man scowling at him. He was on his own today, Daniel saw, the younger Syrian absent for some reason.

  ‘Well, get it sorted,’ Qasim growled.

  He leaned forward, fixing Daniel with a gimlet stare. ‘If you are to be working with us, you need to understand that every second counts when it comes to carrying out our task.’

  ‘I’m your man when it comes to getting things done,’ Daniel assured him, tightening his lips in what he hoped looked like a grimace. He might be an amateur when it came to playing a part like this, but his police training had given him plenty of insight into putting on an act to fool criminals in the past. At this moment, all he really had to do was think of the men that had torched his home and murdered his family. That was enough to bring verisimilitude to his expression of antagonism. It was not any UK authorities that he was against, though with any luck this Syrian would never doubt that. No, Daniel Kohi’s crusade was against any wrongdoers, whether they were greedy loan sharks intimidating an old lady or planning some outrage in his adopted city.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he said, eyes gleaming as though in anticipation.

  Qasim made to rise. ‘Not here,’ he told Daniel. ‘Come, there is somebody who wishes to meet you.’

  She looked into the mirror, not seeing her own reflection but the room behind, its pastel colours chosen to give an impression of light. But there were shadows everywhere, the gloom of this midwinter day seeping into each corner. Glasgow was so different from the place where she had made her home, a land of searing heat and dust, endless horizons and a sky that could swallow you whole. Once this was over, she intended to return, though it would never be the same as before.

  Did anything remain constant? The thought made her mouth harden. They had taken away the one person who had changed her entire life and now she would wreak her spite against his captors. An eye for an eye, the ancients had it, so different from these milksop Christians with their hybrid festival. Christmas, a birth of some Palestinian child, or so the old story would have you believe. But it was scarcely remembered amidst the frantic rush of Westerners to the altar of consumerism. Trees, baubles, cheap rubbish! Her lip curled in disdain at the thought.

  It would be a Christmas to remember in this cold, dreary city.

  The glass house was surprisingly warm inside, massive ferns and exotic greenery making Daniel look upwards. They passed by a shallow circular pool as Qasim led him further into the place, Daniel breathing in the scent of growing foliage as he followed the Syrian.

  She was standing at the far end, near a set of metal stairs spiralling upwards, her back to them. As before, her blonde hair was swathed in that pale grey scarf, draped around her neck and hanging in two tails across her shoulders. There was a stillness about the woman that intrigued him. She was not particularly tall, perhaps five feet six or seven, but she had a grace and alertness that reminded Daniel of antelope he had watched so many times: impala heading on delicate hooves towards the vlei, seeking water on the marshy edges of the bush. Even with her back turned to them, he could sense a watchfulness about her. It would not do to spook this female in any way, he thought, readying himself to become the obsequious thug he guessed she wanted him to be.

  ‘You’re here.’ She turned as they drew closer and gave Daniel an appraising look. Close up she was more beautiful than he had first thought, her pale skin flawless, high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face. But it was the eyes that made him blink. Aquamarine, he decided as she continued to stare at him, siren’s eyes with depths in which a man might drown.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said. ‘Daniel Kohi. That’s not a Zimbabwean name, surely?’

  This woman knew about African heritage and that would be a small fact to squirrel away, he decided, impressed.

  ‘My grandfather came from Tanzania. To work in the mines.’ He shook his head as though in disapproval. ‘White men’s mines in the old Rhodesia.’

  She nodded and then began to walk slowly around him as though he were an animal that she might purchase.

  ‘You made money back in Zimbabwe?’ she asked as she completed the circle and came back to the metal staircase.

  ‘Enough,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Ever been in prison, Kohi?’

  Daniel looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet as though embarrassed or guilty. ‘A few times,’ he admitted, and though it was true, this woman must never suspect that it was to interview an inmate during his role as a police inspector.

  ‘I can make sure you have plenty of money if you do what we ask you,’ she said, her voice silky now, almost seductive.

  Daniel’s head shot up, his eyes gleaming in what he hoped was an expression of greed.

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘All they gave me was this stupid card. Keeping you like a beggar on the streets!’ he complained.

  ‘We want you on the streets,’ she laughed lightly, ‘but not as a beggar. No, Daniel Kohi, we have much more use for you in the city, much more.’

  She turned to Qasim. ‘He isn’t a Christian, you said.’

  Daniel watched as the Syrian gave a slight bow, acknowledging her words.

  ‘No religion,’ Qasim assured her. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Kohi?’

  Daniel nodded sullenly, hoping that his act was covering up the frisson of dismay that he felt inside. Raised in a Christian household, he had adhered to the faith of his family but right now he sent up a small prayer of apology along with a silent plea for forgiveness.