It didn’t do for the woman to be seen fraternising with a cop for too long, particularly one as well known as the head of the MIT, and the rendezvous for this meeting had been chosen well out of Glasgow in a small garden centre opposite a country church. A line of parked cars outside the adjoining hall and a sign stating CHRISTMAS FAYRE TODAY showed that for now, at least, they would not be disturbed. No doubt Santa and his elves were busy inside the old building, parishioners enjoying their festive snacks there rather than in the garden centre’s café. There were few customers here on this cold dreich morning, two young mums with toddlers sharing coffee and cake and an elderly couple in the corner by the wall heater.

  It would be a nice place to come in summertime, Lorimer reflected, glancing around at the shelves filled with craftwork for sale, the ubiquitous holly garlands and fairy lights making the walls glitter. The coffee was good, too, and if he’d been here at a different time, the soup of the day advertised on a chalkboard might have appealed. The staff had been friendly and welcoming but had not lingered overmuch by their customers’ table. Opposite the car parking area outside was a large field where he’d spotted several alpaca and three miniature ponies grazing, wisps of hay scattered across the grass from an earlier feed. He looked across at the senior citizens, his mind wandering from the woman sitting opposite. Would he and Maggie come here in years to come, once they were both retired? The thought vanished as he picked up his coffee cup and gazed at the undercover detective.

  ‘Nobody has given you any cause to worry?’

  Sylvie glanced at him briefly then dropped her gaze. That’ll be a yes, then, he thought, reading her body language as easily as if she had actually spoken.

  ‘One of the senior partners followed me into the city centre,’ she admitted. ‘I lost him in Princes Square, but I am certain he was trying to see where I would go, what I was doing.’ She bit her lip and raised her teacup so that it hid part of her face.

  Lorimer suppressed a sigh. They needed this woman there right now to see what was going on in that firm. Intelligence had led them to believe that someone in Bryson’s had been linked to people trafficking on a large scale and, short of a raid on their premises, there was nothing more they could do.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Senior partner. Name of Burns. Vincent Burns. I don’t like him much, though to be honest I’ve found nothing on him. Incidentally, he and Derek didn’t always seem to get on very well. Heard them arguing once but couldn’t find out what that was about. Still, Burns appears to be clean as a whistle. Member of the Western Club. Lives out in Newton Mearns. Golfs at weekends.’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t had any problems with him in the office. He’s not a sex pest like some men I’ve encountered on other jobs so … ’

  ‘So, you think he’s suspicious about you?’

  ‘And that makes him a person of interest.’ Sylvie looked him straight in the eye, her lips widening in what might pass for a smile.

  Lorimer nodded. ‘It’s always a risk staying on when there’s the slightest chance your cover could be blown but leaving abruptly would only confirm anything this guy suspects about you. No,’ he took a sip of his coffee, ‘stay put meantime but begin to throw out the occasional hint that you might be going away over Christmas. Skiing, perhaps.’

  ‘I do ski, as it happens,’ Sylvie mused. ‘What did you have in mind? A sudden accident off-piste?’

  ‘It would do as a story if we need to pull you out,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Right, if that’s everything you can think of, we’d better make tracks. I bet this place will get pretty crowded after the Christmas fayre finishes.’ He grinned, glancing up at the wall clock where the time was ten minutes before noon. ‘And I’m sure you have things to do on a Saturday.’

  Vincent Burns stepped back, driver in hand, as he watched the golf ball rise into the air, a satisfied smile on his face. It was a good shot and he might make the green in three, stealing a birdie to give himself a decent lead over his opponent. He leaned on the golf club, staring at the other man who was lining up his own shot. Gerry was a keen golfer, like himself, a friend from way back whose determination to win was only equalled by Vincent’s own. Being members out here in the Renfrewshire countryside gave them the opportunity to catch up at weekends, conversation only turning to business once they had shaken hands on the eighteenth green and headed back to the clubhouse.

  As Gerry shuffled his feet and began to line up at the tee, Vincent looked at the view across the River Clyde. The hills over on the far shore were a bit misty and rain would no doubt be falling by the time they turned to leave. The morning had begun cold and damp, but without a wind, perfect golfing conditions for this time of year. It had been a morning like this when he had been instructed to set out for the Braes, a recce to see just where to dump an unwanted burden. It had been the perfect spot, or so they’d thought, early nightfall hiding that task some hours after the deed had been done.

  Vincent Burns shivered suddenly. A goose went over my grave. The phrase came to him and he tried to dismiss it with a frown. The ground up there had sloped away to a grave-like hollow as if it had been waiting for a body to enfold. Nobody would ever find it, he’d told Gerry, believing his own words even as he’d uttered them. His guys would be sure to make a decent job of burning the corpse, leaving not a trace to identify their victim, he’d boasted. And that was what the men had told him, money changing hands between them under the cover of darkness.

  ‘Good shot,’ he called out as the other man’s ball described an arc against a sky that was as pale as a bloodless corpse. They would walk in silence, find their golf balls and concentrate on their next shot. Was Gerry’s mind full of what was not being said, Vincent wondered, or was he focusing on which iron to use to make the sixteenth green? He glanced at the man by his side; he was a couple of inches shorter than Vincent, but with a stockiness to him that suggested physical strength. Gerry O’Neill had the sort of stamina to walk all day and never tire. And, looking at the gloved fist that clutched the handle of his golf cart, Vincent was reminded of what other things it had held, back in the day, things that had wreaked violence on human flesh.

  One dead man had been a hard enough thing to stomach, Vincent realised, but the thought of hundreds of bodies strewn on the ground was more than he could take. He’d already tried to explain this to the woman whom he loved to distraction, but she had simply told him to talk to Gerry.

  He opened his mouth to say something but closed it when he saw the man’s face already turned away to concentrate on the next shot.

  As they split to walk to the places where the small white balls lay, Vincent suddenly knew that Gerry O’Neill was going to win this match. And that, unless he chose his words very carefully, the conversation they would have afterwards might lose him a lot more than a golf partner.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He’d been lucky to find a parking space in the Buchanan Galleries, Lorimer thought as he walked through the overpass above the railway station. Beyond the windows he could see snaking lines of metal rails glinting in a late afternoon sun, the city beyond mere outlines of buildings under a haze of cloud. It would be a good opportunity to sample that perfume for himself, he had decided after leaving the undercover officer back at the café. At this time of year there was nothing suspicious about a man buying perfume for his wife in the big department store. He’d have a sniff of that Baccarat Rouge, make a show of debating over different scents, then buy Maggie’s favourite Chanel Number 5.

  There was a small crowd around the perfume counters, and it took him almost a quarter of an hour to test the samples before making his eventual purchase. Happily, the girl at the Baccarat counter had sprayed a sample onto a piece of card which now nestled inside a folded handkerchief in his coat pocket. Something for him to think about, should he ever come across that scent again.

  He was back in the Lexus and heading through the town at a snail’s pace, Christmas traffic slowing everything down, when Lorimer received the call. He flicked the button that gave him hands free access to his mobile.

  ‘Lorimer.’

  ‘We’ve just had the report from Robinson, the tyre prints expert,’ Niall Cameron told him. ‘It’s as we expected. Most likely a van, given the tread width. Hard to say what type but if we ever find it, there are some particular aspects of the tread that would create a match. Robinson says it’s likely to be a transit van of some sort. Probably the kind you can hire from Arnold Clark any day of the week.’ Cameron sighed.

  ‘Okay, thanks, Niall. That’s another tiny bit of forensics to add to what we have. Nothing ever goes to waste,’ he said encouragingly.

  Lorimer rang off and concentrated on the flow of traffic as the lights ahead changed to green. This had been a difficult case from the start, especially given his own parallel inquiry into the threat of a terrorist attack. He looked out of the window as the car turned into St Vincent Street, crowds of Christmas shoppers thronging the city, the air of anticipation almost palpable. An attack here at Christmas was unthinkable; the casualties involved possibly in their hundreds if the intelligence from MI6 was correct.

  For a moment Lorimer thought of a case in Glasgow that had been his previous contact with Special Branch. A man calling himself Drummond had been in the city working with them to prevent an equally horrific incident at the opening of the Commonwealth Games. He’d taken Lorimer aside afterwards, asking if he would consider giving up his job with Police Scotland and joining the spooks at MI6. It hadn’t taken much thought, of course, Lorimer content to be in Scotland as a senior detective, but now he wondered what life would have been like had he switched to that side of public service. He shook his head, his thoughts returning to the here and now.

  Some woman was behind it all, they’d been advised by the security services. But whoever that was remained a mystery. Was it the same person who had planted the listening devices in Derek Carter’s home? Had the dead man been having an affair with her? Or had she slipped into his house unseen, leaving only that trace of expensive perfume behind?

  It was dark by the time he reached home, lights from nearby gardens a welcome sight. Hidden in the boot of his car were several packages, wrapped beautifully by the staff at John Lewis, hidden under a tartan travelling rug till he took them out on Christmas Eve. Lorimer whistled as he locked the Lexus and stepped towards his front door. He was a lucky man, he told himself, putting his key into the lock. Behind that door Maggie would be waiting, his home bathed in warmth and light, a meal prepared for them to enjoy.

  ‘Hi,’ he called out and closed the door behind him, shutting out the darkening night and every thought of the terrors that threatened the safety of his fellow citizens.

  When the lights went out, Daniel clutched the arms of the chair, blinking into the sudden darkness. It took a little effort to stand up and grope his way across the room to the window, carefully planting his feet on the worn carpet. His fingers reached out and grasped the wooden sill. There before him lay the city, shimmering in the darkness of an early winter’s night. Down below, at street level, all was shrouded in gloom, not a single lamp illuminating this particular area.

  A power cut, he realised. These things happened, of course, and he had experienced it often enough in his own home back in Zimbabwe.

  The sound of his front door being rapped on made Daniel look up, a frown creasing his brow. An unexpected visitor was an unwelcome guest in his book and his hands were bunched into fists as he stumbled along the hallway, trying not to bump into things. He fumbled for his mobile and switched it on, aiming the thin pencil of torchlight straight ahead.

  One look through the spyhole changed Daniel’s expression at once.

  ‘Netta, come in,’ he said, opening the door wide, admitting his elderly neighbour. He glanced down at her, the light in his hand showing carpet slippers worn at the heels, white cotton socks covering swollen ankles.

  The woman struggled in, bearing a large cooking pot in both hands.

  ‘Seize a haud o’ this, son,’ she panted, and Daniel eased the handle from her grasp. It was, indeed, very heavy.

  ‘What … ?’

  ‘S’ma Christmas pudding,’ she declared with a broad grin, giving Daniel a small push. ‘Gonnae pit it oan yer hob? Ah ken ye’ve goat a gas wan. Ah’m a’ electric, so ah am, an’ it needs tae steam fur anither hour.’

  Daniel looked at her, frowning. What on earth was she talking about?

  ‘Go on, son, it’s jist another hour. Ah’ll pay ye back when ah get ma pension the morra.’

  Daniel hefted the pot and carried it through the darkened hallway and into the kitchen, beginning to understand the drift of her request. She wanted him to cook whatever was in this pan for an hour, yes?

  His hand found the box of matches exactly where he had left them and breathed a sigh of relief as the spurt of flame illuminated the kitchen for a moment. It was easy enough then to light the gas and place the cooking pot on top, and Daniel sensed Netta at his elbow watching him with her hawk-like gaze as though this were a matter of considerable importance.

  ‘Takes me weeks tae save up fur a’ thae ingredients,’ she told him, in confidential tones. ‘Widnae like tae have the hail thing ruined at this stage, eh?’

  ‘A Christmas pudding?’

  ‘Aye.’ Netta nodded. ‘Ye no’ dae Christmas where ye come frae, son?’

  Daniel began to smile. ‘We celebrated Christmas every year, yes, but we didn’t cook it in a pot,’ he explained, a quizzical expression on his face.

  The older woman gave a hoot of laughter. ‘It’s a pudding,’ she said. ‘Fur the big day, get it? Ye huv tae steam it oan the actual day itself, like, but it needs tae cook fur hours noo then be pit away again. See, ah’m awfie late this year. Shoulda had it in the closet weeks ago. But … ’ She gave a shrug by way of explanation, leaving Daniel no wiser but suspecting that the expense of cooking a huge pudding was a bit beyond his neighbour’s means. Netta was leaning against the wall of his small kitchen, arms clutched around her cardigan as though to preserve some little warmth. The old lady was cold, he realised, and the electricity had cut out, facts that suddenly disturbed him.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked. ‘I can boil water in a pot … ?’

  ‘Thanks, son, appreciate it,’ she murmured, giving him a shy glance of gratitude. The woman’s face looked older tonight, lines Daniel had not yet noticed etched heavily on the skin around her eyes and mouth; a trick of the peculiar blue light coming from the gas burner, perhaps? It was the sort of detail that Daniel Kohi noticed, a small yet significant thing to be stored away for future use. He looked at her more closely, trying to catch her eye, but Netta seemed mesmerised by the blue flames and did not return his gaze. Why, he wondered, would his neighbour go to the expense of undertaking this apparently massive cooking project when she clearly did not have the means to do it? Lifting the lid of the pot a little showed him a large ceramic bowl covered with white cloth and secured with string. The water it stood in was beginning to bubble and Daniel turned to see Netta following his glance.

  ‘Dinna let it bile oot,’ she advised, stretching her hand to adjust the gas knob so that the boiling water became a mere simmer.

  ‘Okay.’ Daniel smiled and lifted a small pan, filled it half full with water then set it on a back burner. ‘I also have some instant coffee.’ He nodded towards a jar on his countertop, a precious farewell gift he’d been given by his friends down in England.

  ‘Ooh, get you, son,’ Netta teased. ‘Na, jist tea if ye dinna mind. That’ll be grand. Right cairry oan this power cut, in’t it? Last wan wis five oors. Day afore ye moved in,’ she snorted.

  Soon they were seated in his living room like two ghosts peering through the darkness, Netta’s gnarled hands clasped around her mug of tea.

  A sudden noise made them both turn in the direction of the front door.

  ‘What’s that?’ Daniel stood up, hearing voices and thumping coming from out in the corridor.

  ‘Oh, my goad, it’s them! Look, son. I need tae go.’ The old woman thrust her cup into Daniel’s hands. He caught a glimpse of her face as she sped past him, alarmed to see an expression of fear.

  ‘What’s happening?’ He followed her, but she was out of the door before him and then he heard the raised voices once again, some foul language being directed at the old lady then a bang as his neighbour’s door was slammed. Daniel stood at his own door, anxious for the old woman, uncertain what to do. She had been in a hurry to meet these people, whoever they were, though clearly upset at their arrival. It was a mystery and one he needed to solve.

  In minutes Netta’s door opened again and two men bundled out.

  ‘See ye next week, auld yin!’ one of them called as they turned away and set off along the passageway towards the stairs, unaware of Daniel standing watching them in the pitch dark. He listened to the sound of their voices and the clang of the lift, then there was silence in the building once more.

  Daniel took the few steps that separated his flat from Netta’s and knocked on her door.

  ‘Whit’re ye wantin noo … Oh, it’s you, son!’ The woman’s belligerent tone changed abruptly as he looked down at her.

  ‘You haven’t finished your tea, Netta. Come back in, won’t you?’

  They sat in silence in the darkened room, the visitation from these men lingering like a bad smell.

  ‘Are you all right, Netta? And who were those people?’

  ‘Ach, it’s jist the loan men. Noisy pair, so they are. Ah forgoat they were comin’ the night what wi’ this power cut.’

  ‘Loan men?’

  ‘Aye, gombeen men, ma mammy used tae call them, but then she wis Irish.’

  Daniel looked at her, mystified yet again by some of her words. But he was quick enough to realise what she was trying to tell him.

  ‘You are not in thrall to a loan shark, are you, Netta?’

  He sensed rather than saw that shrug of the shoulders as she remained silent.