Lately, however, things had become messy with the suspicion that someone was feeding information directly from the heart of Police Scotland to the terrorists. Not only that, but the cover of several officers tasked with gathering intelligence had been blown in a dramatic fashion, their identities splashed across the papers.

  Mearns had warned them that if there was one thing to be expected, it was that they would not find it easy to identify the person they were seeking. Every barrel has its rotten apples, the chief constable had told them, shrugging as if it was something that he’d seen elsewhere than in Police Scotland. Trouble was, no amount of rattling any particular barrel had resulted in producing the officers behind the current problem. Centralising the force all those years ago had gained a modicum of control but with it they had relinquished the familiarity that different squads around the country had with their particular patch.

  A female officer, possibly a crime scene manager or senior investigating officer, had been suggested at one of their preliminary meetings with MI6, following information from the security services.

  It was a difficult time for the senior officers who sat in that office with William Lorimer. Not only was the force without a permanent chief constable but an inquiry into recent difficulties with a now depleted undercover department had left a bitter taste in many mouths, particularly when a unit from the Met had been entrusted with looking into that department’s failings. There were political feelings running high, too, in parallel with the wave of nationalism across the country, some officers resenting what they perceived as the London unit’s interference.

  These particular problems, for all that they presented a delicate background against which to work, were peripheral to the main reason that Lorimer was seated beside Deputy Chief Constable Caroline Flint and Acting CC David Mearns, former chief constable of Cumbria.

  ‘Thanks for coming in today,’ David Mearns said, nodding towards his deputy and detective superintendent in turn. ‘Hopefully we’ll manage to get to the bottom of this before Christmas and then you can concentrate on appointing your new chief.’ Mearns had made it quite clear from the outset that he did not covet the top job himself, happy for now to take the reins till the post was filled. However, there was history in Scotland of looking south to find the right candidate and Lorimer hoped that Caroline Flint’s bid for the job would not meet a barrier of opposition from those ardent nationalists (some of whom had a tendency to be a bit anti-English) keen to see one of their own in place. Flint’s background as an undercover officer in the Met had stood her in good stead for this particular investigation and, since her appointment here in Scotland, she’d found a good ally in William Lorimer.

  Mearns clasped his hands across the file on his knees, looking from one of his officers to the other, a smile now crinkling his eyes as though he were genuinely glad to be discussing matters with them. Lorimer had watched the man several times on TV, expounding on different topics to do with Police Scotland, and he admired the relaxed way he dealt with the press, fielding questions with good humour and an innate intelligence. He would have made a fine politician, someone had remarked, but Lorimer felt that although Mearns had a genuine desire to serve the public, he lacked the brutal cut and thrust that seemed a prerequisite for modern-day politicians. In short, their temporary chief constable was a man of integrity to whom uttering the smallest lie would be anathema. It had taken some persuasion from Flint and Lorimer to allow the current subterfuge. Nobody was actually telling porkies to the different divisions, simply allowing rumours to develop so that they might create a sort of smokescreen.

  The bottom line was that somewhere in the force (and they had narrowed it down to the central belt) somebody was risking the lives of their fellow officers by passing information into the wrong hands. It was not just a lucrative source of money from a journalist anxious to have a story, though that was bad enough. They had suspected for some time now that big money was being made by some officer on the take, letting criminal bosses know that they were being spied upon by a cop in their own organisation. Undercover operatives had a hard enough time of it, often away from home for months on end, their personal lives on hold until a case drew to its conclusion. Already three officers had been forced to change their careers, taking jobs that were far less demanding, in the wake of their identities being splashed across the front pages of the papers. All of them were expected to quit the force before long and there was a dire need to recruit more officers to replace them. There was now a very small number of officers being deployed and right now the intelligence they were providing was of the utmost importance to national security.

  ‘Intelligence has led us to believe that the person we seek is probably Scottish and female. That covers around half of our population but what about officers? Any further forward?’ Mearns began directing his question to Lorimer.

  The detective superintendent shook his head slowly. ‘Looking at DS Morris’s background certainly was one idea,’ he said. ‘She’s married to an Asian chap.’

  ‘He’s squeaky clean as far as we can tell,’ Caroline Flint murmured. ‘Had some bother when he married her, though. Family not happy at all to see their boy taking a non-Muslim, white Scottish wife. But there doesn’t appear to be any radical element in their midst. Security services have assured us of that.’

  ‘Hmm, we need to look at the bigger picture, of course, but step softly. One hint of racism and the press will land on us like a ton of bricks,’ Mearns warned. ‘What do you think, Lorimer?’

  ‘As a scene of crime manager, she’s the first line of contact at a locus, knows each and every one of the team from pathologist down to SOCOs, given every piece of information right from the start of a case,’ he replied. ‘There can’t be many in an investigation team other than the SIO who keeps track of every single bit of what is ongoing. And even the SIO isn’t always kept up to scratch,’ he added, pulling a face as though to remind himself of past cases where review teams had been put in after the senior investigating officer had been found wanting. He’d headed up a case like that himself, down in Inverclyde, one that had ended with tragic consequences.

  ‘Caroline?’ Mearns shifted his eyes to his deputy.

  ‘She’ll know a lot of officers,’ she agreed. ‘But how would she have found out the identity of undercover cops? That’s nowhere near her brief.’

  The two men nodded silently. It was still a mystery how these officers’ details had been leaked to the press.

  ‘Only our Intelligence Division has their names on file. And Counter Terrorism, of course,’ Mearns agreed. ‘Here are details of our officers, past and present,’ he said, handing over sheets of printed paper to the others.

  Lorimer swept a glance at the names and addresses of past and current undercover officers, frowning a little as he noticed that several of them lived in the Paisley area and one in Barrhead. All within easy distance of Glennifer Braes Country Park. A coincidence? Or something he needed to worry about? His thoughts were interrupted as Caroline Flint looked his way.

  ‘It will do no harm for a scene of crime manager or her SIO to find the head of the MIT hovering at their elbow, I suppose,’ Flint said. She gave a sly grin as she looked at Lorimer. ‘And it’s doing this one a favour. I can always feel you itching to get back out there.’

  ‘Any inklings so far?’ Mearns asked.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘Just the sense that there is someone playing a very dangerous game with us; an officer who appears to abide by the rules but is leading a double life.’

  ‘Someone knows every last detail of what goes on in this area,’ Mearns went on. ‘Otherwise we’d have been turfing out these Islamists long before now.’

  ‘Are we certain that’s who they are?’ Lorimer asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes, just one of the things we learned from our officers before their cover was blown,’ Flint confirmed. ‘That and the fact that they were sure it was a female passing information directly to the leaders of this terrorist cell.’

  ‘Well, whoever she is, she’s doing a good job of disappearing in plain sight,’ he sighed. ‘Almost as if she were undercover trained herself.’

  Caroline Flint raised her eyebrows and gave Lorimer a questioning stare.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He grinned. ‘None of us in this room has anything to worry about.’

  ‘We have three undercover officers currently deployed in the Glasgow area,’ Flint said. ‘Two men and one woman, and whatever else we do it is imperative that we keep them all safe.’

  ‘And each of them working on finding the source of millions being spent on bringing terrorists into the country,’ Lorimer murmured. He knew that the woman had been given the job of infiltrating a city law firm that they suspected of being a hub for money laundering.

  ‘One thing I think we all ought to do is keep a very careful check on these discussions. Any emails or texts between us could be compromised if we aren’t scrupulous about their security.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Mearns asked.

  ‘Carry your personal laptops with you at all times. Have them under lock and key in your own homes, just in case … ’

  Mearns raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘I think we cannot be too careful, given the way these undercover officers were ferreted out,’ Lorimer agreed.

  ‘We’ve been careful to keep dialogue between us off email for now, at any rate,’ Flint agreed. ‘If you don’t have a safe place to lock your computer away, David, then I suggest you order one. Police Scotland will pay for it, of course.’

  Mearns gave a nod. ‘Okay. But the rented house we’re in is pretty secure as it is. Still, it makes sense not to leave that sort of thing lying around. I’ll see to it today.’ He made a note on the pad on his desk then looked up at them both.

  ‘Are we sure it is something major planned for Christmas?’ he asked.

  Flint nodded. ‘MI6 have a good idea that something big will happen in the city centre. It’s what terrorists do, of course,’ she added. ‘They look for the biggest crowds enjoying themselves, totally unaware of a danger in their midst.’

  ‘And definitely Glasgow?’ Lorimer asked.

  Flint nodded. ‘That’s what intelligence tells us.’

  ‘At least the homicide rate showed a remarkable dip this past month,’ Mearns said, giving Lorimer a sympathetic look. ‘You must be pleased about that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lorimer replied. And yet there was something he left unsaid, something that had been a source of concern to him. It was a statistical anomaly to have one single homicide on his calendar, wasn’t it?

  What if that was not really the case at all? What if there had actually been more murders taking place on Scottish soil than they realised?

  And where were the bodies to be found?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He was back in the city centre, heading towards the same place where he had stood and stared a few days before. Glasgow and its different streets were becoming a little more familiar now, though each office Daniel had sat in since his arrival looked pretty much alike. He had repeated the same things over and over until he felt that the words almost belonged to a different person. Nobody had smiled very often, no one asked how he felt, just question after question about why he had fled his native land. Sometimes he wondered if it was a plot to see if he deviated from his story.

  What happened to those men and women after office hours? he wondered. Did these official people meet up and discuss his case? Try to find a hole in his claims for refugee status? Or were they so tired after a dreary day that they simply took themselves to wherever they called home? Sometimes he thought back to discussions he’d had with other displaced people. The accusations about being set up by those in authority had sounded fanciful to Daniel’s ears. Did they genuinely think that these civil servants were trained to deliberately catch them out? Some of the stories he’d listened to had filled him with dismay. It could never happen to me, he’d repeated to himself, willing it to be so. Besides, his own story lacked much of the horror he had heard elsewhere, his grief and pain almost commonplace beside the torture and beatings some men had faced in order to reach these shores. And, once in the UK, their expectations had been thwarted by suspicion and mistrust that had made many of them both fearful and bitter about the men and women who now held sway over their lives.

  They’ll give you refugee status, his church friends had assured him. And in time you’ll be a settled person. Britain isn’t like other places.

  Daniel stopped at the entrance to the lane. He was not sure that he really believed that any more. Human beings felt the same things the world over, the desire for wealth and power too often overcoming any inherent goodness they might once have displayed. Why should this country be any different?

  The lane was empty today, the cobbles slick with earlier rain. He glanced at his watch, the only thing he had left to remind himself of the woman who had bought it for him. Yes, this was the same time, all right. If anyone was in the habit of leaving that building halfway along, then perhaps they would open the heavy metal door and emerge into the open.

  He recalled the man stepping out, the glint of metal then … ? Had he turned and looked at Daniel? Or was that something he had imagined? He closed his eyes and tried hard to recapture the moment. The sound of traffic in the background faded as Daniel conjured up a picture in his mind.

  No, the man had not turned his head. That was something he would definitely have remembered: a look, an expression, some small communication between strangers in a dark place. Well, that was to his advantage, he decided, walking slowly and carefully into the narrow lane.

  The heavy black door was firmly shut, no sign of a handle or anything that would allow a person entry from here. So, he thought, raising his eyes to the rooftop high above, it would be some sort of emergency exit, security demanding that the door could only be opened from within.

  He looked left and then right, calculating the distance from one end of the lane to the other. It was almost midway along. A small smile of satisfaction tilted his lips as he walked through the lane and emerged in Renfield Street, hardly noticing the buses and taxis slowly making their way towards the next set of traffic lights. With a bit of luck he would soon know a little bit more about what lay behind that closed metal door.

  The block stretched from one corner to the next, each main door accessed from street level by a set of stone steps. There were window boxes full of what looked like purple cabbages and evergreen plants, things that appeared strange to Daniel’s eyes. A moment of longing swept over him for warm skies full of weaver birds twittering and fine streets lined with jacaranda trees, their bhuruu blossoms a shade of purplish blue impossible to describe in English. The blast from a car horn startled him out of his reverie and he turned his attention once again to seeking out the building he wanted.

  For a moment he hesitated on the pavement, gazing at the doorway. A row of brass plaques was set just inside on the left, too difficult to make out unless he climbed those stairs and committed himself to going further. Just a few steps to see, he told himself. No need to do any more, not yet.

  There were six floors to the building, offices belonging to different firms. Daniel read them all, memorising their names, a skill that had been honed in all his years investigating matters where such details were important.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Daniel looked up to see a man in uniform standing, hands behind his back, regarding him with polite curiosity.

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel began, realising that this was some sort of concierge in charge of the building’s security. A quick glance over the man’s shoulder showed a marble-floored hallway with a long, curved desk at the far end and a reception area for visitors, a well-lit staircase to one side. He gave the man what he hoped was his most disarming smile.

  ‘Thomas Bryson,’ he said, stating the name on the top floor that he remembered.

  ‘Lift’s just round there,’ the man replied, walking Daniel along and pointing to a door. ‘Saves you a long walk up those stairs,’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel replied, breathing a silent sigh of relief that the concierge seemed perfectly happy to admit a stranger into this building without any trace of suspicion, and wondering what sort of business Thomas Bryson conducted six floors up in West Regent Street.

  Once inside the lift, Daniel studied the names again and noticed that, not only were there six floors of business addresses, but that the lift also took passengers to a lower ground floor. His heart beat faster, anticipating the moment when he might step out in the place where he had seen that man with the bloodied knife. But not yet. First he would ascend right to the top and spend some time looking around. Who knew if the concierge’s prying eyes were following the progress of this lift to see if the stranger had made it to his chosen destination?

  Thomas Bryson’s offices proved to be a firm of solicitors, their name etched on a smoked-glass door. A large tub sat in one corner near the entrance, a small evergreen tree surrounded by shiny-leaved plants full of red berries. Daniel would not ring the bell set to one side of this door, however. Instead he crept quietly towards the stairs and made his way down, stopping at each level to examine the names and occupations of each business. There was no need to write them down, his mental images of them were fixed in a memory that had always enjoyed this peculiar trait. A photographic memory, one of his uncles had joked when Daniel had been a small boy but so it had proved. School had never presented a problem for the boy and his career thereafter had been a good choice for one possessing such a talent.