‘Best get on with it, hen,’ Nancy McLelland sighed, raising her eyebrows in disapproval at the young woman rocking her son back and forwards like a baby.

  ‘Jayce, you first,’ Mairi Falconer said, taking the grandmother’s hint. ‘Tell us in your own words what you did today.’

  The boys then took it in turn to describe their walk through Paisley and up the Braes, Jayce’s eyes shining when he described the moment they had stumbled on the body. ‘Ah seen it first!’ he declared proudly then turned to Gary as he took over the tale.

  Gradually they pieced together the adventure, not forgetting Gary being thoroughly sick (no murmurs of sympathy from the scowling grandmother), and, by the time they had finished asking questions, Lorimer was certain that the taped interview would hold a reasonable amount of information for DI Brownlee and his team to work with.

  ‘If you touched the body, we need to take your fingerprints,’ Lorimer advised them.

  ‘Dis that pit them oan wan o’ they databases? Like a permanent record?’ Ms Barnes blurted out.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘The boys have done nothing criminal,’ he assured her. ‘On the contrary, they have been good witnesses and their answers will be very useful in our subsequent enquiries.’ Too much CSI on the TV, he thought. That was where most of the public seemed to get their impression of police work nowadays.

  Once the boys had trooped out with their mums and gran, Lorimer sat back and shook his head. ‘Amazing how little we really know about what they did,’ he said, turning to DS Falconer. ‘Wouldn’t put it past Jayce or Gary to have done a wee bit of a recce of the shops, lifting a sweetie or two. And, as for hauling Ryan along, what was all that about?’

  ‘Happens all the time,’ the FLO told him. ‘A wee impressionable kid from a decent family makes the rest of a group look good if they ever have to explain themselves. “Oh, we were with Ryan.” See? That suddenly shows the others in a better light.’

  ‘He’s not even in their class at school, though, is he? How did he come to tag along with characters like Jayce and Gary?’

  ‘Hero worship? Tired of being mollycoddled by his mum, perhaps?’ Falconer shrugged as they both rose from their chairs.

  ‘Maybe this will be a lesson to him, then, not to keep company with that pair.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all the reply he received from the family liaison officer who had clearly seen much more of underage kids and their development than the head of the MIT.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Yorrite, son?’

  Daniel turned around, key in hand, to see a short plump woman standing, arms folded across her ample chest. Despite the cold she was dressed in a knee-length black skirt and garish red jumper with diamanté sparkles, her bare feet pushed into a pair of fake sheepskin slippers.

  ‘Hello?’ He took a step back as she approached, unsure whether this was friend or foe. She was a granny, was his first thought as he stood looking at her. Not like the grannies he knew, faces split in grins that showed their white teeth, bright cotton shawls wrapped around to hoist up the latest small member of their family. But, still. Daniel could see something of them in this female, her white curls blowing in the breeze eleven floors up in this multi-storey block.

  ‘See me, son,’ she said. ‘Ah’m no wan o’ they racist types, know whit ah mean?’ She unfolded her arms and stuck out a hand. ‘Netta. Next door but wan,’ she added, tilting her head towards a red-painted door two along from the flat that Daniel had been allocated.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Daniel replied politely. He turned towards the scuffed wooden door and stifled a sigh. The number 8 of flat 118 was hanging by a single nail, making him wonder how long it had been since the previous resident had vacated the place.

  ‘Jist movin’ in, then?’ the woman asked, pointing at his case and backpack then shuffling a little closer.

  It was obvious that he was so he nodded and stood for a moment, wanting her to go away so he could see the place for himself yet intrigued by her thick Glasgow accent and the way she was looking at him with such frank appraisal.

  ‘Course you are, son. Don’t let me keep ye back. But come on through for a wee cuppa when ye’ve got yersel sorted. Okay?’

  Daniel nodded, somewhat mystified by the torrent of words, catching just a few. ‘Wee cuppa’ must mean tea or coffee, yes? But did she mean today or at another time more mutually convenient?

  ‘Where is it yer from?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Ye dinna look like wan o’ thae Syrian refugees we had last year. Africa, ah’m guessin’. Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Zimbabwe.’

  ‘Oh, ah ken a’ aboot thon place,’ Netta told him, wagging her head in a manner that reminded Daniel more and more of the elderly grannies from his village. ‘Whaur thon bad Mugabe wis, aye?’

  Daniel nodded again then looked meaningfully at the door key clutched in his hand.

  ‘Ye goat a name, son?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Daniel frowned. Goats? What did goats have to do with anything?

  ‘Goat a name?’ Netta repeated, poking his arm. ‘Ah cannae jist ca’ ye Mr Zimbabwe, can ah, noo?’

  A smile spread across his face as the words began to make a sort of sense.

  ‘Daniel,’ he said, swapping the key into his left hand and holding out his other hand. ‘Daniel Kohi.’

  Netta shook his hand up and down, nodding a little as though she was finally satisfied.

  ‘Awright, Daniel son. Come away ben the hoose wance yer ready. Kettle’s on.’ Then, with a wave of her hand the woman turned and headed back through the red door, adding, ‘See ye in a wee while.’

  Daniel blinked as she disappeared, leaving the corridor suddenly empty, the silence only filled with the sound of his sigh as he turned once more towards the flat. So, he thought, fitting the key into the lock, this was a regular safe place for refugees, was it? Syrians the previous year, the woman, Netta, had said. And, as the door swung open revealing a darkened hallway, he wondered how many lost souls had found it a place to hide from whatever demons had chased them across the world.

  It smelled stale when he closed the door behind him, as if the air inside had been trapped for a long time and was too weary to make an attempt at freedom. Daniel wrinkled his nose but there was nothing offensive, no stink of rubbish or even cleaning fluids, merely the suggestion of layer upon layer of dust. Straight ahead was another door and he pushed it open to find himself in a rectangular room with a large window opposite. A sagging settee had been pushed against one wall, a single armchair and small wooden table with two mismatched chairs against the other, a dog-eared calendar pinned onto a wooden background. There was an ancient carpet on the floor, cigarette burns and marks where things had been spilled, patches worn and scuffed.

  He’d been told that there would be basic accommodation. A furnished flat. But despite all the places he’d already been in, Daniel’s expectations had been a little higher than this. He’d return to gaze out of that window later, but first he needed to see where he would sleep and what the other facilities were like.

  Back in the corridor he saw two further closed doors, one on each side. A quick glance as he pushed open a white-painted door let him see a small bathroom, its toilet and washbasin side by side. He pulled on a light cord by the door and immediately a whirring sound made him look up to see an extractor fan set into the ceiling. Well, something was in working order, he told himself, trying to summon up a vestige of enthusiasm. The bare light bulb swung a little as though he had brought in a draught of air.

  Leaving the light on, Daniel took a couple of steps back across the corridor and into the adjoining room where a single bed sat in the middle of the room, a pile of neatly folded sheets and towels beside a lumpy grey pillow. Someone had prepared that, at least, he thought. The only light was from a glazed window that looked out onto the landing, a dingy net curtain that had been white at some stage in its existence hanging from a thin metal rod. There was a mirrored wardrobe, its glass foxed around the edges. It creaked, protesting, as he slid it half open, a jangle of metal hangers suspended from the faded brass rail.

  It would do for now, Daniel told himself, a weariness descending on him that had nothing to do with his journey to this northern city, or the hard seat he had been forced to occupy as the harried-looking woman in the office had asked him question after question. She had demanded to see his papers as though Daniel was keeping her back from something else despite the fact he had arrived there exactly on time, her sighs and shaking of her head making Daniel feel as though he should feel guilty for disturbing her at all. She had thrust the envelope at him, the key inside it, told him to call if there was a problem then glared at him as if that was the last thing she wanted him to do.

  He had been offered nothing there, not even a glass of water, and now he realised how thirsty he was. Coffee. A large cup, he thought, imagining himself back in the church hall with his British friends. A puzzled frown crossed his brow. Where was the kitchen? Looking around, he saw no other door so, retracing his steps, Daniel found himself back in the big room with the window.

  He had missed it first time around, a partition door on hinges, between the table and armchair, that he had mistaken for part of the shabby décor.

  Pushing it gently along aged runners revealed a square kitchen with pale grey units, a washing machine backing on to the wall that separated this from the bathroom, and an empty refrigerator whose door was kept open with a brick laid on the floor. There was a square window that looked out onto the outside corridor but there was nothing to see, only darkness.

  Daniel moved back through the lounge and walked towards the window, laying his hands on the cold sill. He looked out over the city, imagining he could see a view of distant hills beneath the darkening clouds. A sudden shaft of light pierced the gloom, a ray escaping from a hidden sun, then it was gone, the violet-coloured mass moving swiftly across the horizon. Below he could see a myriad of lights twinkling either side of a highway where cars snaked along, their red tail-lights hesitating now and then as the rush hour traffic slowed everything down.

  Red. That was the colour he had seen back in that narrow alleyway. A fleeting glimpse on a blade. A man pushing past that door then retreating once more.

  Daniel Kohi felt a shudder down his back as he closed his eyes and recalled the moment over again.

  Would he return there? Try to make sense of what he had seen? He’d been warned repeatedly to be careful, to stay out of trouble. But, as he’d known for a long time, it was trouble that had a way of finding Daniel Kohi.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Weeping achieved nothing.

  She had found that out very quickly, the searing pain in her chest changing to a rage that fuelled Shararah’s every waking thought. The image of her beloved Kalil swaying from that noose was one that refused to leave her mind, though in truth she had not been there to see his body, then or afterwards. Rising from her prayer mat, she resolved to maintain both her strength of spirit and the calm demeanour that concealed her inward hatred.

  For months she had been setting up the necessary steps to complete their plans, her unique position affording them access to so many secrets. That, combined with a powerful command over others in their cell, gave the woman some consolation in her grief. The money was in place, the equipment ready, and now all that remained was to prepare for the day itself.

  They might need some new recruits, however. Not every one of her men was so steadfast in their aims as she had wished. The lure of Western ways corrupted some, money and the stuff it could buy being of greater importance than the cause. She had been trying to find replacements but that was proving very difficult and they might need to be less selective now when bringing in some muscle.

  The woman stood at the washbasin gazing at her reflection through narrowed eyes then, looking down, she saw that she was rubbing her hands together, an unconscious gesture as if to remind herself of the time spent washing off that blood. She drew back with a shudder. Hadn’t Lady Macbeth been haunted by the deed she had committed, urging her husband on to murder? She shook her head defiantly. Nothing was going to intrude on her plans, and she was made of sterner stuff than the Shakespearean character who’d descended into madness. Yet, like that same woman, hadn’t she drawn back from taking that knife into her own hands, using her feminine wiles to ensure that another person committed the act instead?

  There was no question but that the man had to die. He had learned too much and had been on the point of shattering all her plans. And they would go ahead now, thanks to her determination.

  The woman heaved a sigh. When the boy detonated the device, he would send his soul to paradise, destroying hundreds of these Christian infidels on the eve of their festival.

  Shararah’s brow furrowed for a moment as she remembered what Christmas had been like in her childhood: presents piled beneath the tree, uttering squeals of delight as she unwrapped the gifts her adoptive parents had left for her. They had been well-meaning people, she conceded, but her heart was hardened against all that now, the zeal of her newfound conviction outweighing any residual gratitude she felt for them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Maggie Lorimer turned over the calendar with a smile. The first of December, the start of Advent. It was a season that she loved, not only for its religious connotations but also because of the heightened pleasure that it gave to her as a schoolteacher. Sure, there was always pressure on the seniors as exam time loomed nearer but there was a lot of fun, too, the school show being held close to the end of term and lots of Christmas themed pieces chosen by her for English lessons. Christmas itself was going to be a little bit different this year, too, with an invitation from their friends, Erin and Flynn, to have dinner with them in their new home.

  Joseph Alexander Flynn had been shown the greatest hospitality by Lorimer in years gone by, given sanctuary in their home following a near fatal accident after being chased by one of Lorimer’s own officers. Now an established landscape gardener with a thriving business, he had met DS Erin Finlay during a case that had started when Flynn had turned up a body buried in a country garden. This unexpected beginning had led to a romance that delighted both Lorimer and Maggie and now the pair were living together in a small cottage near Carmunnock, high above the city.

  Maggie shook her head. Time to get a move on, she told herself. Bill had gone ages ago, his habit of arriving early in the MIT at Helen Street meaning that they rarely took breakfast together on weekdays. Today was Tuesday and she had to help with the Scripture Union club at lunchtime, something she’d enjoy, especially today as Advent began. She grabbed her coat, stooping briefly to pat Chancer, their ginger cat, on the landing as he sauntered towards their bedroom, fluffy tail erect, in the hope that the recently vacated bed would still be warm.

  ‘See you later, lad,’ Maggie murmured as she hastened downstairs. In moments she had locked up behind her and was in the car, ready to drive to Muirpark Secondary School across the city and begin her day. It was still dark and drivers needed their headlights on at this time of the morning, daylight yet to creep like a reluctant thief across the horizon.

  The figure watched as the red tail-lights disappeared around the corner. Mrs Lorimer was gone, then, and the house would be empty until she returned from work. A quick glance had shown the burglar alarm high above an upper window. It was to be expected that a senior cop like Lorimer would have all the bells and whistles that security could provide. Still, there was no harm in keeping an eye on the place until some way could be found to get into that house.

  The detective superintendent could prove a stumbling block to their plans and the person watching his home right now had been ordered to conduct a complete search of this particular villa in Giffnock. Getting access to his personal computer which they hoped to find here in Lorimer’s house might tell them exactly what was going on. Besides, any information meant more money passing through several hands and the hooded figure standing in the shadows of next-door’s hedge was already calculating how much that might be. A slow walk along the curving avenue and a rapid glance upwards were enough to take in the details. A door with two locks, the burglar alarm, modern double-glazed windows that were most likely locked from inside. A small movement made the figure pause and look once more. But it was just a ginger cat sitting on the upstairs window sill, regarding the outside world with a haughty stare that would have done justice to the Sphinx itself. A slow smile crossed that shadowed face. If the cat had free run of this house during the day, then chances were that the alarm was left off, the external device merely for show.

  At the end of the cul-de-sac the figure turned and retraced its steps, hood pulled down to obscure any features that might be caught on a residential camera. The large haversack slung over one shoulder gave an impression of business so that anyone staring out of a window would assume that the flyers recently dropped through their door had come from that very source.

  Nobody remembered the invisible people, after all: the assistant helping at self-service checkouts in a busy supermarket, the dog walkers who passed them by or the delivery drivers who left parcels in the front porch. And the figure taking a last look at the house with the yellow-flowered creeper arching around the door felt as secure there and then as if a magic cloak of concealment had been cast around their shoulders.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘This could be the biggest one yet.’

  David Mearns, acting chief constable of Police Scotland, regarded his two colleagues with a grave expression on his face. ‘We know enough to think that an attack is planned for the city centre but exactly where, when and, more to the point, by whom are details we need to find out. And time is against us.’

  His deputy, Caroline Flint, turned to Detective Superintendent Lorimer and caught his glance. She could see his jaw tighten as he acknowledged the CC’s words. As head of the Major Incident Team, Lorimer had been asked to join these two senior officers and he was well aware that the approaching Christmas season could make Glasgow a target for a terrorist attack. The security services had given them that much information and more had been filtered through from undercover officers tasked with rooting out whatever cell was planning this latest atrocity.