‘There was a woman,’ Giles continued. ‘See over the page … ’

  And that was when Lorimer found the small matter of motivation that Solly Brightman had told him they needed.

  ‘She’s a British citizen, or was,’ he told Mearns and Flint. ‘Goes by the name of Shararah. Was in a relationship with a known terrorist, Kalil Durani. Who was found dead in his detention cell. Whole matter hushed up. Till now,’ he added grimly. ‘The detention centres were being targeted by several groups demanding freedom for asylum seekers and a suicide was the last thing they needed splashed across the newspapers.’

  ‘Any ID given?’ Flint asked.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘But we can be pretty certain she’s the one we’re after. We’ve spoken to the warders that were on duty at the time. They were reluctant to say much, as you might expect, but one of them remembered a remarkably beautiful blonde woman who had collected his personal belongings.’

  ‘The same woman?’

  ‘I’d guess so, and that gives her a motive for carrying out this atrocity.’

  ‘But, why here? Why in Scotland of all places when her man died in the south of England? That doesn’t make sense, surely?’ Mearns asked, drumming his fingers on the desk.

  ‘It does if the money to fund her enterprise was being channelled through Bryson’s,’ Flint mused. ‘Any further forward on that, Lorimer?’

  ‘Still working on it,’ he said. ‘But we have found another link between Vincent Burns and Gerald O’Neill. One that doesn’t involve a golf club.’

  ‘Go on,’ Flint encouraged.

  ‘Rumour has it our Mr O’Neill had a few fingers in some dubious stuff way back,’ Lorimer told them. ‘We think perhaps an engineering business in the Middle East that wanted a legitimate British firm to launder their dirty money.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m guessing that Vincent Burns was the partner who dealt with it,’ Lorimer told them. ‘And, we think that Derek Carter may have got wind of this somehow. Perhaps Carter’s link with the refugee charity gave him some knowledge of what his boss was up to. Trouble is, we have no paperwork yet to back this up. Just rumours and speculations for now.’

  ‘Why didn’t he blow the whistle on Burns, then?’ Flint wanted to know. ‘He’s been painted as a reformed character by your undercover woman, hasn’t he?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘But he also told her of his intention to give up his job and relocate overseas. And there was something else that he wanted to tell her, but he was dead before he had the chance.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew too much and was afraid,’ Mearns suggested.

  ‘Or wanted a slice of the money Burns was undoubtedly getting from this source,’ Flint said grimly. ‘One way or another he had to be quietened for good.’

  ‘Like Vincent Burns,’ Lorimer reminded them. ‘And they were both linked to this female.’

  ‘We have to find her,’ Mearns said seriously, a bleak look at Lorimer. ‘Do everything you can. My God, time’s running out and she’s out there somewhere setting plans to blow up the city centre!’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, sir,’ Lorimer said steadily. ‘But if it comes to the bit, we just have to haul out the boy and take in her accomplices.’

  ‘Will they talk, d’you think?’ Mearns asked hopefully. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing that right now?’

  Caroline Flint shook her head. ‘That sort will die before they give up one of their own,’ she said. ‘Trust me, I’ve come across their type before.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  It was a quiet day in the office, most of the staff preparing for the Christmas night out. Sylvie had been a little surprised when Dominic Fraser, now their senior partner, had said that it would go ahead as planned. It will take our minds off recent horrible events, the memo had read but Sylvie reckoned that the deaths of two members of Bryson’s staff would be the key subject of conversation in the restaurant tonight. Still, the absence of most of the women, given time off to visit hair salons and suchlike, meant that Sylvie could have a better look in the room that had lain empty since Burns had been killed.

  She crept on silent feet, opened the door noiselessly and closed it behind her, a sigh of relief that nobody had seen her.

  It was a large room, carpeted in moss green Wilton, the cream walls displaying a selection of Scottish art. Beneath the picture rail the old-fashioned wooden panelling remained, testament to the taste of previous incumbents. Sylvie walked slowly round the room, lifting each painting to see if a safe had been hidden behind one of them, but there was nothing to see but a few sparse cobwebs clinging to their frames. She gave a sigh. Was she being stupid looking here when the police had already combed the place?

  She made a second tour of the room, this time tapping the lower panels gently and listening to the sound her knuckles made against the polished wood. Next to a glass-fronted book case full of ledgers that she’d already managed to examine bit by bit over the preceding weeks there was a trolley for tea and coffee. It was empty now, save for a few folded tea cloths, and Sylvie dragged it away from the wall, careful not to let it rattle.

  She bent down and rapped the panelling then stopped abruptly. That was a different note, surely? She took a step back and compared the previous sound with this new one. Eyes shining, she crouched down and ran her fingers across the hollow-sounding section.

  A gentle push was all it took for the panel to swing open and reveal the space behind. She knelt on the carpet, bending as far as she could, one arm reaching into the secret compartment. Her fingers touched what felt like a pile of folders and she pulled them out, seeing a small cloud of dust rise with them.

  Sitting back on her haunches, Sylvie took them onto her lap and flicked through the ring-bound pages.

  Yes! A smile lit up her face as she read the names within the documents. Was this what Derek had been going to tell her? And had he confronted these people, only to be brutally killed? With a care borne of much practice, she closed the panel quietly and stacked the files on top of the trolley, covering them with the cotton tea towels.

  Her luck held as she opened the office door and peered out. There was nobody in the corridor, so she closed the door behind her and headed for the kitchen. Anybody looking out of their room would not remark on a tea trolley being pushed along, Sylvie reckoned.

  Once in the kitchen she pulled the trolley into a corner. There was a roll of black bin liners under the sink. That would do, she thought, ripping one off and emptying the folders inside. She looked around to see if there was anything else that might disguise her find.

  Behind the kitchen door someone had hooked a few empty carrier bags by their handles. Sylvie lifted them off and selected a big Christmas bag with the John Lewis logo. That would be perfect, she thought, stuffing the wrapped folders inside and replacing the other bags on the brass coat hook.

  ‘Hello, what’s up, Sylvie?’

  A voice from the corridor made her start. Fiona, the receptionist, stood, coat slung over her arm, regarding Sylvie with curiosity.

  ‘Shh, present for my boyfriend. He’s not supposed to know,’ Sylvie laughed, making a face. ‘Meeting him after work so I needed to find a big carrier bag to hide it. No one will mind, will they?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Golly, you’re leaving it to the last minute,’ she remarked. ‘Mine were bought and wrapped weeks ago.’

  Then, with a wave, the younger woman was gone, no doubt leaving early to prepare for the night out.

  Sylvie breathed a long sigh. Her own night out would be rather different, she guessed, especially when she showed this lot to the detective superintendent.

  Helen Street police station loomed out of the dark, streetlights playing on the hard shapes of the building. Somewhere in there Lorimer was waiting, she thought as the taxi pulled into the space beside the staff car park.

  In moments Sylvie Maxwell was inside the building and taking the familiar stairs two at a time.

  A quick knock then she opened his office door.

  ‘Sir, you have got to see these,’ Sylvie said, breathing hard more from anticipation and excitement than from the flights of stairs.

  She explained where she had found them, and Lorimer waved her into the seat opposite as she began to unwrap the folders.

  Two more days, Mearns had warned and now he had the information they’d needed to make at least one arrest. But not yet, he decided, his stubbled chin resting on one hand. O’Neill was complicit, all right, and there was enough in these documents to show the years of money laundering that he and Burns had been carrying out for various parties in dangerous parts of the Middle East. If they picked up O’Neill too soon, the entire operation might fail. The woman they sought would simply vanish into the night, the way Kohi had described before. Then some other European city would be her target.

  Lorimer had already phoned Maggie to apologise, explaining that he had a load of paperwork that couldn’t wait till morning. It might take several hours to sift through this lot, write out a report for Flint and Mearns, but he had to have it done for their meeting tomorrow. They were due to gather at Gartcosh at midday and decide once and for all whether they should take action against the Syrians and rescue that poor brainwashed lad down by the riverside.

  Tomorrow was the twenty-third of December. One day away from the date on which the terrorist attack was planned. Was it possible to find this Shararah in time? Would the feelers that were spreading out in all directions prove fruitful? The Home Office had been alerted, the security services doing their utmost to track her down. But meantime it was his responsibility to keep the good citizens of Glasgow safe.

  It was near midnight by the time Lorimer switched off the light of his office and set out, briefcase in hand. He’d written his report, emailed it to Flint and Mearns. Now it was time to catch a bit of sleep before the next step was taken.

  Daniel sat bolt upright, clasping the edge of the duvet to his chin. He could still feel the sensation of the flames licking at his skin, though the dream was already fading. A house, not his own but a strange place full of dark corners where a boy slept on embroidered couches. In his dream it was a candle knocked over that had started the fire and he had shaken the boy to waken him. But the lad had simply opened his eyes and begun to laugh at Daniel.

  Then he was trying to run, to escape the sound of fire belching from behind a door, but his feet would not move, no matter how hard he tried. He was fixed to that spot and would be burned to a crisp like …

  Daniel sat huddled in his bed, the darkness a relief, the memories of his beloved wife and child bringing tears streaming down his cheeks.

  The nightmare took various shapes and he would never be sure where he was or what would happen, but it always ended with the thought of his beloved Chipo and Johannes.

  ‘Chipo,’ he whispered. Her name meant ‘a gift’, and so she had been to Daniel. A gift taken cruelly away for ever. He wiped his face with a corner of the bedcover and lay back, afraid to sleep lest the dream returned.

  Think of good things, his mother used to tell him when childhood nightmares caused the young Daniel to wake with a cry. Daniel closed his eyes, imagining his mother’s voice in his ears, soothing him to sleep. Would he ever hear her voice again? Or was she also lost to him for ever?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  David Mearns sat back and sighed. The morning had been full of officers coming and going, the business of Police Scotland carrying on as if there was no imminent fear of a terrorist attack. He had signed a pile of documents and was about to call for coffee when he leaned down to pick up his briefcase.

  For a moment he blinked, wondering where it was. Then he remembered. After work yesterday, the cleaning woman from the letting agency had seen him coming in with the briefcase and he had shoved it into a cupboard in the laundry room downstairs, a secure enough place, he reckoned, away from prying eyes till he could lock it in the safe he’d bought. Then he’d forgotten all about it. But this morning, probably too tired after a restless night punctuated with horrible dreams, Mearns had clean forgotten to pick it up.

  He lifted the telephone and pressed a button. ‘Kirsten, I’m about to go back home and collect my briefcase. Silly of me, but I’ll be back in time for my meeting with Lorimer and Flint,’ he told his secretary.

  Helena had told him she would be out all day and so there was no point in ringing her at the villa and asking her to bring it in.

  Mearns fitted his safety belt and drove as swiftly as the speed limit allowed along the busy streets until he came to a suburb of the city and the tree-lined avenue where he and his daughter currently lived. If all went well, then they could pack up tomorrow and be back home just in time to spend Christmas together. It had been a rare joy to have Helena back in his life again, even if only for a while till her new job began. Then she’d be off, working for yet another multinational, her expertise as an engineer taking her around the world. He was proud of her, of course he was, but that did not diminish the pain at having her so far away. Still, there was the anticipation of a Christmas spent together and he’d already spent a small fortune on gifts that would make him the best dad in Helena’s eyes.

  When he parked at the kerb outside the villa, David Mearns frowned at the sight of a cream Fiat parked at the side of his rented villa. Surely that was Helena’s little runabout on the driveway? He made a face, feeling a bit foolish for having assumed that she would be out. ‘Should have called her,’ he muttered, annoyed with himself for having made a needless trip back here.

  Well, a quick in and out then he’d be back in time to meet Flint and Lorimer.

  Mearns leapt out of his car and walked round to the back of the house. The laundry room was off the kitchen and he inserted the back door key, turning it once.

  In moments he was bending down and pulling the cupboard door open.

  There was nothing there.

  Had he picked it up after all, taken it to the office? No, he was certain he had not touched it since coming home late yesterday afternoon.

  ‘Helena? Are you home, darling?’ Mearns called out as he strode through the house and made for the staircase that led to their bedrooms.

  ‘Have you seen my briefcase? Helena?’

  There was no response and so he climbed the stairs, a puzzled frown on his handsome face.

  ‘Helena … ?’

  David Mearns stopped short in the doorway of his daughter’s room. His laptop was open on her dressing table, the briefcase tossed on the floor.

  But it was the sight of what lay on her bed that made his mouth open, words failing to form.

  ‘Helena … ’

  She stood looking at him, green eyes glittering with a malice he had never seen before.

  ‘Shararah,’ she hissed. ‘My name is Shararah.’

  ‘You … ? This … ’ He pointed to the neat array of explosives tucked into the suicide vest that lay incongruously across his daughter’s silken bedspread.

  A sick feeling in his stomach made him place a hand across his belly. ‘It’s you?’

  She nodded at him, never once taking her eyes from his face.

  Mearns took a tentative step, hands outstretched.

  ‘We can do something about this, Helena, I promise. Stop this now and nobody need ever know,’ he pleaded.

  He made to move towards her, but she dodged as he tried to grasp her arm.

  Helena twisted away and then, with a cry that chilled his blood, she lunged at him, one hand clutching a hidden knife.

  ‘No,’ he whimpered, staggering backwards as the pain seared his chest. ‘Helena … ’

  His voice sounded strange to David Mearns’ ears, far away as though disappearing into a tunnel.

  There was no reply, just the sight of his daughter smiling as he fell, a red mist covering his vision.

  Then everything turned black.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Where is he?’ Caroline Flint paced up and down, shaking her mobile phone irritably. ‘Landline is just ringing out. Not even an answering machine on,’ she complained. ‘And he can’t be in his car as his mobile is adapted for hands free, so he’d answer if he got our calls.’

  She stopped for a moment and fixed him with a glare. ‘I don’t like it, Lorimer. Something’s wrong, I can feel it.’

  ‘Send an officer over to his house,’ Lorimer suggested. ‘Maybe his wife’s taken unwell?’

  ‘Wife?’ Flint stopped for a moment. ‘David was widowed a long time ago, Lorimer,’ she said. ‘Wife died in childbirth. Didn’t like to bring it up, knowing your and Maggie’s situation,’ she admitted.

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘Poor mite died as well,’ Flint sighed. ‘Just as well they’d already adopted a little girl. Never thought they could have one of their own till she fell pregnant. Then … ’ She shrugged. ‘What were the chances of that happening?’

  Lorimer suddenly thought about another man who had lost both wife and child. Daniel Kohi was meeting the Syrians again today but this time he hoped to be able to track their movements using Kohi’s mobile phone.

  ‘What about David? Maybe he’s taken ill. Collapsed?’

  Flint pulled a face. ‘Could be. He’s not as young as he used to be. Sudden heart attack, who knows? Pressure of this damned job gets to the best of us,’ she growled.

  ‘How far is it to his rented accommodation?’

  ‘Twenty minutes? Fifteen in that souped-up job of yours? What do you think?’

  ‘Come on,’ Lorimer urged her. ‘Maggie’s already been a target. Who knows what might have happened to David.’

  Daniel sat in the refugee centre, his eyes flitting between the children playing on the carpet beside the Christmas tree and the glass doors. Qasim and Mohammad were late, and he didn’t like it. He had already drunk three mugs of coffee and his nerves were jangling with too much caffeine.

  Suddenly they were at the door, beckoning Daniel to rise from his place at the table.