Lorimer shook his head. ‘O’Neill has given his wife as an alibi for that particular day, but I still wonder if it was Shararah who killed him.’

  ‘Same knife that she used to kill her father,’ Flint added. ‘We might get her on both charges yet.’

  ‘Burns had to be put out of the picture, too,’ Lorimer said. ‘Once he began to show signs of getting cold feet about being involved in an act of terrorism, his fate was sealed.’

  Flint shook her head and sighed. ‘That woman had absolutely no remorse for killing him. In fact, she seemed to revel in the memory of hitting him on the head and leaving him on the snowy ground.’

  ‘And O’Neill?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘He’s looking at a very long time away at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’ Flint grinned. ‘Something tells me that he will not be celebrating Christmas outside prison walls in his lifetime.’

  ‘And you,’ Lorimer turned to Sylvie. ‘This skiing trip you mentioned, will you pretend to come to grief as planned?’

  A small smile played around the undercover officer’s mouth as she nodded. ‘People in Bryson’s will hardly notice my absence after two sensational deaths,’ she murmured. ‘Sylvie Maxwell will be gone for good, as far as anyone there is concerned.’

  Caroline Flint looked at the younger woman appraisingly. ‘A new year, new name and new job. But take your time, Detective Sergeant. Enjoy your Christmas.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Christmas Eve in the city was as pretty as Maggie Lorimer had imagined it would be, lights shaped like angels swaying in pastel shades, the smell of cooked food wafting from nearby stalls and a clear sky above them. Best of all, Bill was here too, holding her hand as if he would never let her go. Annett, Matt and the children were over at the German market enjoying their choice of gingerbread hearts and glühwein while they waited close by the glass-covered Nativity scene. Hymn sheets had been passed around by the volunteers, the fundraiser for Glasgow City Mission already looking like a success. A young chap wearing a red Santa hat was playing an electric piano, his music drawing the gathering crowds.

  ‘All well?’ A voice made them turn and to her delight Maggie saw Daniel coming to their side, an elderly lady clutching his arm.

  ‘This is my friend, Netta Gordon,’ he said, introducing the white-haired woman who was looking shyly up at Maggie and Bill.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer and his wife, Maggie,’ Daniel declared proudly.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Netta gasped. ‘A big shot! Ye nivver telt me yer friend wis top brass, son. Nae wonder ye goat these bad men aff ma back!’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Gordon,’ Maggie heard Bill say as he bent to take the old lady’s hand.

  ‘Jist Netta, son,’ she assured him.

  ‘In that case, Netta, please call me Bill,’ Lorimer replied.

  Then, as the piano played the introduction to the beginning of the carol service, they all gathered closer together and listened as a young boy’s voice began the old familiar hymn.

  ‘Once in royal David’s city, stood a lowly cattle shed … ’

  And, as the words rang out across the clear and frosty air, Lorimer thought of another David, who would never see Christmas again.

  He looked over the heads of the crowds, hundreds of people laughing and having fun, unaware of the dreadful threat that had hovered over this place in recent weeks. They were safe, thanks in part to David Mearns, but also to the man standing by his side, his lusty voice now joining in the second verse of the hymn.

  Lorimer felt Maggie’s grip on his arm and turned to see her smiling up at him.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ she whispered as the music swelled across the square.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he replied, putting an arm around her shoulder as he bent to kiss her.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First thanks must go to my daughter, Suzy, who gave me the idea of refugees and immigrants coming to Glasgow, a birthday gift back in 2019 that grew and grew as soon as she had planted it in my mind. The research for this book took me to Pachedu, a charity in Paisley that assists refugees, and I am indebted to Johannes Gonani and Gregor Smart whose information made all the difference to the character of Daniel. Refuweegee, the charity set up to welcome immigrants to the city, was one of the first places I visited, happily on their open day in Byres Road where the volunteers were willing to talk about their work. By a quirk of fate, the 2019 Edinburgh International Book Festival included three sessions specifically about refugees. Karine Polwart, Val McDermid, Ali Smith and Nayrouz Qarmout were unwitting allies on the day I attended, my notebook full of scrawls as the ideas came thick and fast. Thanks to all of you and especially to Karine, whose haunting ‘Maybe There’s A Road’ lingered with me for a long time. Authors tend to resemble magpies, eager to pick up on the brightest scraps. Reading Refugee Tales was a salutary lesson on what dreadful things can happen to refugees, not just on their escape from terror but also once they are here in the UK. Stories of survival made me very humble indeed and grateful to live in a peaceful country like Scotland.

  Former DCI Bob Frew of the MIT was kind enough to keep answering my questions about police business. Thanks also to my friend and ex-pupil, former DS Mairi Milne, for giving prompt replies to all my email questions.

  I remain grateful to all the officers in Police Scotland from Chief Constable Iain Livingstone down to each uniformed cop who keeps us safe. If we knew even a little of the dangers that might beset us (and from which we are protected 24/7) it would be very hard to sleep at night.

  As ever, my imaginary scalpel is guided by my good friend, consultant pathologist Dr Marjorie Turner, and so thank you, Marjorie, for always being so ready to help and check things for Rosie!

  Bringing a book to its final destination on bookshelves is a collaborative process and so warm thanks are due to my excellent editor, Rosanna Forte, my dear friend and agent Dr Jenny Brown, Thalia, Steph, Millie, Brionee, Liz and the team at Sphere. It has been wonderful being part of this publishing family for so many years now.

  Thanks as always to Donnie who enjoys the peace and quiet when I am upstairs typing and brings me mugs of tea. Thanks, too, for reading the first draft and making helpful notes. Writing this book brought back only good memories of the start of our married life in Zimbabwe, a country that was very different from the one that Daniel experienced.

  Alex Gray

 

 

  Alex Gray, Before the Storm

 

 

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