He would not emerge at the ground floor, of course, provoking that concierge’s curiosity. He needed to leave a respectable amount of time to make it appear that he had indeed had an appointment with a solicitor on the top floor and so Daniel retraced his steps upwards once more, having given each of the named occupants of the building his fullest attention. The lift on floor six opened with the faintest of sighs and he stepped inside and pressed LG. If anyone was watching, he could claim to have made a sight error, he decided.

  Luckily nobody else stopped to enter and he watched the numbers change from level to level as the lift descended to the very bottom.

  The doors opened and Daniel stepped out into a shadowy area, the bright lift behind him a patch of light in the gloom. Then, as the doors behind him swooshed closed once more he was left looking around at the place where a man must have stood several days before, his hand clutching that bloodstained knife.

  He made out the dim shapes of packing cartons piled up to one side, their dusty sides fixed with brown tape. Too large to be wine crates, he thought, giving the one at shoulder height a small shake. Nothing within rattled and it felt heavy, so filled with something, all right.

  There was no obvious reason why anyone might have been wielding such a thing; a caterer preparing food might have been taking a short break, of course, and Daniel had no way of knowing what facilities might exist at the back of these offices. However, the figure he’d seen had not been wearing kitchen whites, but a dark suit with collar and tie. Besides, there had been a furtive look about the man, as if he had wanted to leave by the lane then changed his mind.

  Daniel had his phone in one hand, its torchlight casting thin beams across the cement floor, stepping closer and closer towards the exit. Then, hunkering down, he examined the area nearest the door. He peered closely then stopped. Was that a trail of bloodstains he could see? Dried and darkened now, of course …

  A noise from the lift made him turn swiftly and he stood up, pocketing his phone. In two silent strides he was behind the crates, bending as low as possible.

  The lift doors opened then closed once more as Daniel stared into the gloom.

  Footsteps drew closer then stopped. Daniel held his breath, fearful of discovery. Then he heard a metallic clang as the emergency bar was pushed and the doors swung open, daylight streaming into the darkened basement.

  For a brief moment the man’s face was illuminated and Daniel caught his breath.

  He saw the figure step outside and heard the footsteps walking away down the cobbled lane.

  Slowly, slowly, he rose from his crouching position and crept towards the door. But, when he risked a peek outside, there was no one to be seen.

  With a sigh that was only partly relief, Daniel retraced his steps, entered the lift and pressed the button to take him back to the ground floor, heart beating a little faster than normal.

  There was no need to acknowledge the concierge this time as nobody sat behind the lobby desk and he was on the pavement in seconds, walking swiftly uphill, his mind replaying what little he had seen.

  The sight of that retreating figure was fixed in his brain. A fleeting image, perhaps, but Daniel Kohi was certain that it was the same person he had seen almost a week before, though this time there was no knife in his hand and anyone watching him walking through that lane might have taken him for a city businessman.

  He stopped at the next corner and took out his phone once more, eyes flicking down to the steps up to those six floors of offices. He would stand here, apparently absorbed by his screen like half the world but waiting for that figure to reappear and walk back into the building.

  But no one appeared. Daniel turned into the lane once more, walking this time towards Hope Street. The cobbles were uneven beneath his shoes and once he almost stumbled as he stared at each back door along this block. He stopped when he reached the black door. A notice on one side read FIRE EXIT, and on the other KEEP CLEAR, as if to warn any motorists stupid enough to take a shortcut through this lane. Each side of the black metal door was a security gate, a flimsy-looking affair in iron mesh, but the padlock attached to a hasp was solid enough to mean business. These were details that Daniel squirrelled away in his mind, things that might add up to make sense of what he had seen the day he’d arrived in this city.

  How often had he done something like that in the old days? Watched and waited for someone who had crossed an invisible line. But that had been part of his life. So why, when this was none of his business, was he letting his curiosity take him into a situation that might ruin his already precarious future?

  CHAPTER NINE

  The sensible thing to do would be to call the police. But Daniel had been warned to keep out of any sort of trouble and that included sticking his nose in where it did not belong.

  He knew what he had seen, though, and the image would not leave him in peace.

  Today the bitter east wind had dropped and there was stillness in the air, frost carpeting the ground. Looking out from his window, Daniel could see distant hills glittering as the morning sun cast its rays across snowy peaks. Despite the freezing temperature he was seized by a sudden urge to be out of doors, climbing up the sides of those hills. Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the front door and swung it shut behind him.

  ‘Ye goin fur yer messages, son? Gonnae get me a pint o’ milk?’

  What? Daniel swallowed the word as he spun on his heel. His neighbour’s words bounced off the cold walls.

  ‘Messages?’ he said at last, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

  ‘Aye,’ Netta replied, looking at him and shaking her head. ‘D’ye no’ ken whit ah mean? Mess-ah-jies,’ she said, enunciating each syllable as though that would help him. Then, as he continued to look bewildered, she began to chuckle.

  ‘Goad help us,’ she cried. ‘We’ve a right one here. Messages, son. Grocery shoapin, a’right?’

  Daniel nodded, understanding at last. The woman thought he was off to purchase groceries. Messages? Was that a Scottish name for them? Odd, he thought. Very odd.

  ‘No, I was just going to go for a walk,’ Daniel explained.

  ‘In this weather?’ Netta exclaimed. ‘Withoot a dacent coat on yer back? Son, ye’ll catch yer death, so ye wull.’

  Daniel shrugged. He had no warmer garment than his fleece-lined jacket.

  ‘Here.’ Netta summoned him inside. ‘Ah’ve goat wan o’ ma auld man’s still. He’ll nae be wantin’ it ony more whaur he is.’ She gave a sudden whoop of laughter as she shambled back into her warm hallway, Daniel following her as meekly as a lamb.

  ‘Where is your husband?’ Daniel stood for a moment, uncertain if the woman was trying to sell him another man’s garment.

  ‘Roastin’ in hell, I expect.’ Netta grinned. ‘Dead these past fower year. Nasty auld bugger, so he wis. Cannae think why I didnae pit oot thon coat alang wi’ the rest o’ his claes,’ she muttered, pushing open the door to her bedroom.

  Daniel hesitated, reluctant to follow the older woman any further. Was this some sort of ploy to entice him there?

  Netta turned and stared at him. ‘Ye gonna staun ther like an eejit?’ she demanded. Then, as he took a tentative step towards her, she slid open her wardrobe door and rummaged inside, pushing garments along, the metal rail screeching in protest.

  ‘Ah, therr it is!’ she announced, and, with smile of triumph on her face, she pulled out a garment bag and handed it to Daniel.

  ‘Might be okay if the moaths huvnae goat it,’ she grinned.

  Daniel stood looking at her, still uncertain of what sort of transaction was taking place.

  ‘Well.’ Netta stood, arms crossed, looking at him steadily. ‘Open the damned thing up and see if it fits, eh?’

  Daniel unzipped the bag and took out a thick black coat buttoned up to the neck.

  ‘Ma man wisnae as tall as ye are, son, but it was always ower big fur him onyway,’ Netta declared. ‘Go on intae the living room and try it oan.’

  Then, as though impatient to see her neighbour wearing it, Netta tutted and took it from him, unbuttoning the garment then handing it back to him.

  It was a good fit, he had to admit, as Daniel wrapped it around his body and fastened the buttons.

  ‘I don’t think I can afford—’ he began.

  ‘Tsk! Who said onything about me sellin’ it to ye?’ Netta bristled indignantly. ‘It’s nae loss whit a freen gets, son,’ she declared, leaving Daniel to blink once more. The translation of her words might be utterly beyond him but he had caught their gist: Netta wanted to give him the coat, plain and simple.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. ‘This is a very generous thing that you do for me.’

  ‘Ach, away wi’ ye,’ she replied brusquely. ‘Jist bring us back a pint o’ milk, okay?’

  Outside, the crisp, sharp air was a welcome contrast from the previous day when the wind had whipped sleety rain under his jacket, soaking his trousers. Daniel drew up the coat collar and thrust his bare hands into the capacious pockets. His fingers closed around a piece of stiff paper and, curious, he took it out and stopped to see what it was. Unfolding it, he saw an order of service for the funeral of one James McTaggart. A grainy black and white photograph showed the face of a man with white hair smiling at the camera. The inside displayed familiar hymns, the twenty-third psalm and ‘Abide With Me’, and, on the reverse of the card, another photograph, this one in colour, the late Mr McTaggart holding a pint glass in one hand and a blue rosette in the other. Something significant to celebrate in a life of … Daniel read the dates given on the front … sixty-nine years.

  So, had Netta’s own husband last worn this to his friend’s funeral? Or was James McTaggart a relative, perhaps, worthy of the purchase of a new coat, its Marks and Spencer garment bag hung up on the bedroom rail afterwards? It was indeed a generous gift and Daniel thrust the card back into his pocket, determined to do something in return for the kindness of his neighbour.

  Everything seemed quieter today as if the cold air had tamped down harsh sounds and even his footsteps made little noise as he strode away from the high flats and headed towards a row of shops that included a mini-market, an Asian takeaway that would not open its metal shutters till later in the day and the ubiquitous bookmaker’s that never seemed to close at all.

  The Asian boy looked at him as Daniel handed over the milk carton and counted out his money instead of using the ASPEN card that guaranteed him almost thirty-eight pounds each week. He still possessed a handful of coins from the gift of money he’d been given by his church friends before travelling to Glasgow, but these were precious. There was no knowing when he’d be granted settled status, never mind permission to work and earn money again. Yesterday that same lad had given a disdainful sniff when the tall black man had appeared in the shop but today he did not appear to recognise him, a sort of doubt creeping over his features.

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel said as he took the milk.

  ‘Aye, see you later,’ the boy said, a throwaway remark that was probably his standard reply to all his customers. Had he realised that this was a previous customer? Or did the big coat make such a difference, giving Daniel the appearance of a more prosperous figure worthy of some little respect?

  Once again, the moment took him back to a different place where young boys stopped and stared, not daring to whistle after him but creeping into the shadows in case he spotted their misdeeds. Daniel Kohi had not been a man to suffer fools gladly and the good folk in the townships would nod courteously to him whenever he passed them by.

  Always stand up for what you believe, his mother used to tell him and even as a small boy Daniel had stuck to that principle. In time to come, of course, that very maxim had been his undoing.

  A blast from a horn made him stop suddenly to see a driver skid to a halt as a cyclist swung across the road, wobbling a little then speeding away over the opposite pavement. There was no need to hear the angry words hurled at the cyclist, one look at the driver’s expression said it all. Was that what had happened to him? One little deviation from how they had expected him to behave resulting in a rage that had consumed …

  Daniel shut his eyes tightly, the scenes reappearing in vivid colours: crimson tongues of flame burning, burning …

  When he opened his eyes it was a street in Glasgow that lay before him, the traffic moving past, people going about their daily business.

  Daniel swallowed hard, clutching the carton of milk in his hands. He would not go to that place in his mind where nightmares lurked, waiting like monsters to swallow him up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sylvie felt the eyes on her back and knew without turning around that she was being watched. It was a sixth sense that people in her world developed over time, something few talked about but acknowledged just the same. A prickling of hairs on the back of my neck, one man had told her before he’d been career-changed, a phrase they used amongst themselves. That was the expression used for trainee guide dogs that didn’t make the grade required to assist a blind person. And in a lot of ways their jobs were the same, walking beside those unable to see them or know of their superior skills in detecting danger. Being an undercover officer was full of pitfalls and it took a person with heightened sensitivity as well as the ability to melt into crowds to do the job and do it well.

  Despite long hours spent in surveillance, watching darkened windows in obscure city streets or listening to subversive creeds being spouted from fanatical mouths, Sylvie Maxwell loved her job. And it was one that suited her well. A woman of average height, her shoulder-length hair easily adapted to become a sleek chignon or dyed black to merge in with the rent-a-mobs that were intent on causing trouble at any sort of public rally, Sylvie was happiest being disregarded by those around her.

  The case she was presently involved in had meant spending weeks with the sort of people whose day-to-day lives were very different from her own as a serving police officer, something she had to subsume in her everyday dealings with them. Her degree in Economics and Information Technology followed by her police training had led to several placements in offices where she was able to obtain information relating to financial irregularities and pass that on to the appropriate authority within the Fraud Squad. Currently, Sylvie Maxwell (which was not, of course, the name on her official birth certificate) was employed in a sixth-floor office in one of Glasgow’s more desirable streets where she spent hours ostensibly drawing up balance sheets for a firm of solicitors but in reality looking for anything in their accounting systems that might lead her to the hidden millions that were funding some serious criminal activities.

  She had recently reported back about one significant change: the absence of one of the junior partners who had simply failed to come into work one day. It had been the presence of Carter that had led Sylvie here in the first place, an ex-con in a solicitor’s office flagging up some interest. Yet, despite his chequered past, Derek Carter had been a chatty type of fellow, warm and witty, and Sylvie had enjoyed his banter over the water cooler or in the communal kitchen. No real explanation had been given for why he was no longer in the firm. She had enquired innocently about the missing man to her immediate boss, Vincent Burns, but had been given no satisfactory answer, feeling instead a sense of disquiet emanating from the senior partner. He hadn’t liked Derek, Sylvie decided. She’d heard them arguing once as she’d passed Burns’s office but Derek had just shrugged it off when Sylvie had questioned him about it.

  ‘All right, Ms Maxwell?’ A familiar voice made her stiffen, the man bending so close to her that Sylvie could feel his breath on the back of her bare neck.

  She swivelled on her chair, a ready smile simpering on her lips.

  ‘Oh, Mr Burns,’ she gasped, one manicured hand raised to her mouth. ‘You startled me!’

  She saw the man’s eyes bore into her for a moment before dropping her gaze as though too modest to meet his own.

  ‘Keeping busy?’ he asked, in a whispering tone that might have held a threat.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him, turning back to her desk. ‘Always plenty to do here.’

  There was a silence behind her as she let her hand hover over the mouse as though to continue working, then she felt his hand squeeze her shoulder briefly in one strong grip that would surely leave a mark.

  ‘Good,’ Vincent Burns said, then walked away, leaving Sylvie with the distinct impression that something was not good at all and that she had been tested and found wanting.

  Once she was sure that he had left the room, she gave a long sigh. She was not the first officer to worry whether or not her cover might be blown but for now she would remain here unless her superiors ordered her to quit. In recent weeks there had been others who had left their posts in different cases after months of painstaking work to infiltrate different organisations, the mystery of who had sold their secrets to the press baffling the entire force.

  There would be no extra hours worked this evening, searching files for data that might help root out the sources they needed to find. No, she would leave right on the dot of five o’clock, take the lift down to reception and walk out into the bright city streets with their Christmas lights, just one more office worker on her way home. Though, like any good undercover police officer, Sylvie Maxwell would not take a direct route to her home, an address that was rather different from the one presently lodged in the personnel files of Thomas Bryson, Solicitors.

  Vincent Burns watched the woman as her boot heels clipped smartly across the marble floor, down the flight of stone steps that led to street level and turned in the direction of the town. His car was waiting in the parking area out in the lane, a small cobbled square chained off for use by the senior partners, but tonight Vincent would take a walk first, his curiosity piqued by the woman who had worked in his office for these past months. It was nothing sexual, of course. She was not his type at all, too skinny, too plain for his liking. And too old as well, in her late thirties according to her CV. Yet, as he kept his eye on her retreating back, he saw a figure that was lean and fit, her footsteps quickening as she approached the junction, ready to cross on a green light. What was her hurry? Did she have a bus to catch or a particular train?