The woman smiled at them both. ‘Well, perhaps we can begin by showing Daniel what will be expected of him.’

  There was a taxi rank by the Botanic Gardens and it only took a signal from Qasim to alert a driver to draw into the kerb beside them. Once aboard, nobody spoke, the woman having given an address and sitting back, apparently looking out as they turned and headed back along Great Western Road and into the city centre. Qasim sat beside her, his eyes closed, Daniel opposite, staring at them both in turn and wondering what on earth he was going to be asked to do and if he could avoid anything that would result in him being thrown out of the UK.

  The taxi took them past rows of brightly lit shops, past a church with an enormous spire (Don’t stare at it, he reminded himself) and through a busy junction where he could see the sweep of a motorway and its overhead gantries. Everywhere he looked people seemed to be burdened with bags of shopping (messages, as Netta would call them) but the gaudy glitter on many of them suggested purchases of Christmas gifts. There would be none of that for him this year, though he would dearly love to buy a little present for his elderly neighbour. No, Daniel thought, keep such ideas suppressed for now, give this female the idea that you disdain the very concept of Christmas. He gritted his teeth, staring out at the crowds gathering at a set of traffic lights, mustering up as much false indignation as he could. Should she turn and glance at him, Daniel Kohi had to appear just as she wanted him to be.

  They were dropped at one side of George Square and immediately Qasim led Daniel through the crowds until they reached a large glass-covered scene.

  ‘You want me to bust that?’ Daniel asked, jerking a thumb towards the Nativity figures that were displayed inside.

  Qasim smiled and laid a finger to his lips. ‘It will be broken, certainly, but not by you, my friend. We have another task for you, Daniel Kohi.’

  He turned to look for the woman, but she had disappeared from sight. Was she somewhere in this crowd, watching them? Daniel did not know and dared not risk searching for her.

  ‘Where’s … ? What’s her name?’ he asked Qasim. ‘She seems to know enough about me but hasn’t even said who she is.’

  Qasim grabbed him roughly by the sleeve.

  ‘If she wished you to know her name, do you not think she would have told you?’ he hissed. ‘Do not ask questions, Mr Kohi. Just do what we tell you and you will be rewarded. Is that not enough?’

  Daniel gave a shrug. ‘Suppose so,’ he said. ‘I didn’t always know who my paymasters were back home.’

  Qasim relaxed his grip, evidently reassured that their newest recruit had been part of some sort of gang, a bit of muscle paid to do what he was told.

  ‘So,’ Daniel said, giving Qasim a thoughtful look. ‘What exactly is it you want me to do? And when can I expect my money?’

  Qasim narrowed his eyes but Daniel continued. ‘She said plenty, but, hey, how much is that and what do I have to do to earn it?’ Putting on an act of a greedy conspirator was the way to play this, he decided, eyeing up the Syrian.

  ‘You like money? Well, she will give you thousands, yes,’ he said as Daniel’s eyes gleamed, ‘thousands to spend wherever you wish to go in this weary world.’

  ‘Yeah? Sounds good to me.’ Daniel grinned, rubbing his hands together.

  Qasim nodded. ‘Now, look around you. Tell me what you see.’

  *

  Afterwards, as he told Lorimer, he described the busy square with its funfair and ice-skating rink, the children running about and the people with bags full of Christmas shopping. He had searched the crowds for a fair-haired woman wearing a grey headscarf, but she was nowhere to be seen. Qasim had remained silent throughout, then, beckoning Daniel to the front of the City Chambers, he whispered in his ear, words that made his blood run cold.

  ‘You’re essentially there to be a lookout? Make sure that the boy is in the correct place?’ Lorimer asked.

  Daniel nodded. ‘I have no idea who he is. The only ones I’ve met are the two Syrians and the female that seems to be in charge.’

  ‘But this Qasim spoke of a boy?’

  ‘I am guessing he is also Syrian,’ Daniel said unhappily. ‘Some youngster brainwashed by these people.’

  Lorimer nodded his agreement. ‘You need to find out more without scaring them off,’ he told him. ‘When do you expect to meet up with them again?’ he asked, his mind already working on the best person to witness their rendezvous.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, at the refugee centre,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Just carry on as if everything is normal. Leave the rest to me.’

  It was too risky to involve any of the existing undercover officers or, indeed, any of his own team at the MIT. But perhaps there was someone that might be willing to provide eyes and ears, someone whose skills of observing human nature were far more advanced than most. He might have to pick up an old coat and scruffy trainers from somewhere to disguise the bearded man with horn-rimmed spectacles that he had in mind, Lorimer thought, already focusing on the scene as well as the danger of involving yet another civilian without telling Mearns or Flint.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Let me get this right, you have intelligence that this act of terrorism is to take place in George Square right before Christmas?’ Solly asked.

  Lorimer nodded.

  ‘Why not inform the security services? And why involve someone like me?’

  ‘We think there is an insider, a woman who has access to either police files or perhaps someone linked with the security services. I’m worried, Solly. What if there is someone right at the heart of either of these establishments working with those terrorists?’ Lorimer heaved a sigh. ‘I know it was a terrible risk involving Daniel but I needed somebody that wasn’t connected to the ongoing investigation. Now, I thought you too might play a small part?’ He looked across at his friend then frowned suddenly.

  ‘There was something … ’ He tailed off. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but I thought either Mearns or Flint had said something that I meant to follow up.’ He made a face. ‘I was so intent on other things that it has now completely escaped my mind. Old age,’ he said, giving a wry smile towards his friend. ‘They say the more facts you absorb, the more begin to slip through the net of your grey matter. Is that right?’

  ‘Tiredness, concern about Maggie, you have plenty of reasons to forget a small detail,’ Solly soothed.

  ‘It’s the small details that often hold the clue to a big case, though,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘So, let me go over this again. At some time, close to Christmas, a young lad will set off a suicide device close to the Nativity scene in George Square. Maximum damage. Glass flying everywhere. Crowds gathered round. Am I correct so far?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lorimer nodded. ‘Our initial intelligence from the security people was of a terrorist event, but they had no details of who was to be involved except a woman seems to have infiltrated police casework. We also strongly suspected that this same person had informed the press about several undercover officers because these particular officers were tasked with finding out about this terrorist cell. The same ones who all live in the Paisley or Barrhead area.’

  ‘And Kohi has found the woman?’

  ‘She is nowhere on our databases. Thank God. I’d have hated to be in David Mearns’s shoes if she was one of our own. Speaks Arabic, may be the same female seen with Vincent Burns leaving with him from his house. Young, very good-looking, according to Daniel. A Grace Kelly lookalike, he reckoned.’

  ‘Why?’ Solly frowned. ‘Why does a white woman plan such an atrocity in the first place?’ He turned to Lorimer. ‘There has to be some very deep motivation going on here. Something that has brought her into contact with these Syrian refugees.’

  ‘We’ve got the team looking into that as we speak,’ Lorimer assured him. ‘So far nobody of her description has been involved with any of the refugee charities and, of course, there are hundreds of other areas in which a refugee might have met her. Home Office, detention centres, you name it, we’re searching every avenue we can think of.’

  ‘You believe that the break-in, when Maggie was hurt, was an attempt to find your own personal files?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lorimer nodded. ‘When this all started, we – that’s Mearns, Flint and myself – all agreed to take our laptops with us wherever we went. Flint is very clued up about stuff like that. Her work in the Met included time as an undercover officer.’

  ‘And your current chief constable?’

  ‘Easy enough for him to tote his laptop around. He won’t be with us much longer. They head back home for Christmas then we will be appointing a new chief some time in January.’

  ‘They?’ Solly’s question hung in the air.

  For a moment Lorimer seemed puzzled. ‘I think he’s up here with his wife,’ he said at last. ‘To be honest I’ve never talked to him about his personal circumstances. And he’s never offered to socialise. Not a problem.’ He shrugged. ‘I rate him pretty highly, as it happens, Solly, and so do a great many others. Word has it he might be on the New Year’s Honours list for a knighthood.’

  ‘He’s finally retiring then?’

  ‘Yes. But I know it would be a real feather in his cap if we can prevent this threat from becoming a reality.’

  ‘Yet you are still comfortable keeping both Kohi and myself a secret from the chief constable and his deputy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say comfortable, Solly. But I felt it was important to involve individuals who could not be identified as police officers. Kohi is an intelligent man, not easily broken despite the trials he’s been through, and he’s keen to help.’

  The psychologist gave a sigh. ‘I could refuse, you know. I have Rosie and the children to consider. My family are coming here for Christmas this year and we are looking forward to being together.’

  ‘Look, forget I asked you,’ Lorimer said abruptly. ‘I had no right … ’

  Solly held up his hand. ‘I hope to have a wonderful time with my own children,’ he said. ‘But how can I enjoy myself if I failed to help so many other families that might be robbed of their little ones?’ He lifted his dark eyes to Lorimer, a sad expression on his face. ‘If I can do anything to help prevent this terrible thing, then I will.’

  The ancient belted raincoat hid his warm sweater but Solly had put on his own cord trousers after rummaging through a bag that was full of old clothes destined for the playground recycling bin. The shoes he had chosen to wear were scuffed and worn, ones he used for playing football with the kids in the park. He hesitated as he approached the glass-fronted centre in Byres Road. It was not so very far to reach from his home across Kelvingrove Park or, in fact, from his office at the university and Solly’s main worry was being greeted by any student who might not have returned home for the holidays. However, the raincoat turned up at the collar was a decent enough disguise, he decided, his hand on the door.

  As instructed, he headed straight to the table where tea- and coffee-making facilities were spread out. A dark-haired young woman came forward to greet him with a smile, but not before Solly had glimpsed the pair of Syrian men sitting against a wall, gazing out at the street.

  ‘Hello, you’re new here, I’m Jackie.’ She smiled. ‘Help yourself to tea or coffee. There are biscuits here,’ she offered, pointing to a round metal tin adorned with a picture of a robin on a holly wreath. ‘Have you just arrived in Glasgow?’

  Solly shook his head. ‘I have been here for a while,’ he whispered. ‘But I have not been in this place before.’ He nodded, hoping that the girl would take him for yet another refugee seeking some comfort in this place.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘I was in London before … ’ he told her truthfully, then shrugged as if too weary to go into more detail.

  ‘Well, help yourself, sit anywhere you like. And if you want to have a chat, I’m always here.’ She smiled again, giving him a small pat on his shoulder.

  Solly carried a mug of tea and a home-made biscuit to an empty table close by the Syrians, his head down as though he were afraid to make eye contact. He had been genuinely shy when he was a boy, and it was the memory of a young Solomon Brightman that had given him the idea of behaving like this. As a scholar of human behaviour, Solly was enjoying creating this version of himself for others to see.

  Sure enough, after giving him a cursory glance, the Syrians continued to talk quietly as they waited for Daniel to appear. Now was the time to listen carefully, the device secreted under the folds of the raincoat recording their every word.

  Solly nibbled the biscuit slowly, his fingers fidgeting on the tabletop as if he were nervous, a good sign to throw out to anyone watching. A refugee new to the city, that was the role he had chosen, and sitting quietly, head down, was part of that particular guise. The two men were conversing in a language he did not know but guessed was Arabic. That was no problem for a Police Scotland interpreter to translate, of course. So long as he sat and stared at the table, all would be well, he told himself, though, when the door opened and he saw two pairs of eyes turned towards the sound, Solly could not help but turn for one swift moment.

  The black man sat down opposite the Syrians but not before Solly had taken a look at him. Mid-thirties, perhaps, average height and an intelligent expression on that handsome face … One brief look was all it took for Solly to process what he wanted. Lorimer had given him little background information about his fellow infiltrator yet Solly was encouraged by the feeling of strength in the man seated a few feet away from him. This one could handle himself, he thought, though it was something deeper than mere brawn, there was an inner power to Daniel Kohi, just as Lorimer had hinted.

  At once the Syrians reverted to speaking in English, at least one of them did, Solly decided, listening to the voices.

  ‘It will be on Christmas Eve,’ he heard the older Syrian whisper. ‘A big surprise present for the people of this city.’

  Solly shivered inwardly. The evil that was in men’s hearts … He suppressed a sigh.

  ‘That’s next week,’ Daniel replied. ‘Do you have more details?’

  ‘Hush,’ the Syrian rebuked. ‘You will be told when this is to take place. All we need is for you to guide the boy towards the spot and leave him there.’

  ‘Then?’

  There was a low laugh followed by more words in Arabic then a sound of scraping chairs as the three men rose from the table.

  Solly did not turn to stare at them but he could hear the door open and close then they flitted past the window, three dark shapes heading towards the Subway.

  He was not to follow them, Lorimer had instructed, but simply to obtain what he could by recording their conversations.

  When he was certain that none of the charity staff were around, he rose quietly from the table and headed out onto the street, collar up, head down, his ruined shoes taking him to the nearest taxi rank around the corner.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ‘Your man by the stream was killed a few days before Vincent Burns,’ Rosie told him. ‘The cold air made things difficult to establish an accurate time of death, but we are thinking around November the twenty-seventh.’

  ‘That was the date that Carter was killed,’ Lorimer said at once, staring at the two calendars on his office wall. His former pride at a murder-free month was proving to be a hollow thought now. Two men had been murdered at the end of November, each of them dumped in different parts of Glennifer Braes.

  ‘Any further ideas about who he was?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘No missing persons fitting his description. A young Asian chap from what we can see but we really don’t know yet, though a reconstruction of what he may have looked like is being circulated to all the detention centres and points of official entry to the UK in the hope that there is a record of him somewhere.’

  ‘There was something … ’ Rosie began.

  Lorimer listened intently. Whatever she had found would be worth noting; Rosie Fergusson’s observation and insight had helped him a lot over the years they had worked together.

  ‘There was some odd bruising on his ribs. As if he had been crushed against a barrier of some sort. An unusual pattern, a bit faint now since it must have occurred a week or more before his death. I’m sending over some enlarged pictures to let you see. Maybe someone at your end can figure it out?’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie,’ Lorimer said. ‘Ready to see them any time now.’

  It was a matter of moments till the email pinged up on his screen and he could download Rosie’s attachment.

  Sure enough, there were bruises all across the man’s rib-cage and, as the pathologist had suggested, it might have been the result of being pressed hard against something. Had this young man been forced into a confined space, smuggled into the country with others, all fighting for breath, perhaps? Stories of terrible deaths in refrigerated lorries came back to him now. What terrors these poor souls had endured before they had landed here only to suffer worse and die, their hopes for a future smothered.

  Lorimer scrolled through the images and then sat back, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps these might be sent to Gartcosh to be examined by a counter-terrorism officer. There was something about the pattern of these bruises that the detective superintendent wanted to have confirmed. And, if he was correct, then the death of this young man, though sad, had been a lot less dramatic than it might have been.

  *

  ‘God bless technology,’ Lorimer murmured. It was less than an hour since Rosie had sent the pictures, and now he was listening to the officer at Gartcosh.

  ‘We’ve seen images like this before,’ the woman told him. ‘Happily, the public never know how many times a terrorist is apprehended before they can set off their device. A vest packed full of explosives would leave marks like this and so, yes, it is possible your victim was either a mule bringing it here or he had been wearing it for some other reason.’