being a pal, a mate, nothing more.
Irvine drove on, her thoughts taking a different turn. Fathy's well-educated voice had made her think he'd received his education abroad, at an international school perhaps. Or maybe that he'd been sent to the UK by his family. It had never once dawned on her that he might actually consider himself Scottish. Don't be so small-minded, woman, she scolded herself.
What made you join the polis? she wanted to ask. But again, something prevented the words from being uttered. He might well ask her the same question. And Annie Irvine knew that her standard answer to such a question, to help the community, might not fool this man as it had fooled so many. No, better to keep these things to herself. She was doing okay now, wasn't she? CID might be a sideways move but it felt like progress. Annie Irvine could be proud of her career path so far. Joining up, for her, had been purely cathartic; a move to signal that she could face her fears head on, maybe even be rid of them for good, one day.
'Right, let's see what this lot have to say for themselves,' she muttered, turning into the car park of the call centre. 'See if anyone can throw a bit of light on Mr Scott.' Thoughts about Omar Fathy had to be shelved for now.
And any thoughts about her own past would be easily forgotten in the process of this investigation.
CHAPTER 10
Amit drained the last of his coffee. It was the quiet part of the day when the staff had an hour to go about their own business.
Some, like Paramsit Dhesi, drove over to the south side of the city to spend a little time with families. Others drifted away from the restaurant in twos or threes, chattering in a Punjabi dialect that reminded him all too clearly of the streets of Lahore.
Visions of the city came to him like snapshots: the still lakes of water reflecting sun-drenched skies at noon; the market with people constantly coming and going, its smells of ripe fruit, cattle and dust wafting in the stifling air; the train cutting through the city, its open windows full of travellers staring out at the wonders of Lahore. He remembered the family house in Gulberg, its pink washed walls and curving windows: each sill and lattice detail decorated in the style of a Mughal's palace. Then there were the clubs, his father's meetings at the Moslem League, the polo matches. But these pictures in his mind were like something he had seen in a film or a dream, not part of his own history The images of bloody bodies, his mother's scream as the Inter Services Intelligence dragged his father away, these were the stuff of nightmares, locked away in some deep, dark part of his brain, never brought out willingly for examination.
The sound of crates being delivered to the back door made Amit stir from his reverie. He was in Glasgow now, safe in the place that he was beginning to call his own.
His mouth turned up at the corners as he recalled the first time he had sat at this very table. A coffee, that was all he had asked for, but that one request had brought him so much more.
Dhesi had sat down beside him, his hand extended, the light of recognition in his eyes as Amit had spoken.
'You are an Aitchisonian!' Dhesi had exclaimed, his hand ready to shake Amit's own.
'Yes, but..
'I could tell, my brother, I could tell!' Dhesi had clasped his hand with such warmth that Amit had suddenly heard the familiar inflection in his voice. Only a person who had attended Aitchison College, Lahore's premier educational establishment, would speak in such dignified tones. But here? In this Scottish city? It was nothing short of a miracle.
'This is nothing short of a miracle,' he remembered Dhesi's words and how he had grinned as if he had been able to read the stranger's thoughts.
And, for each of them it was just that. Dhesi had sat for the best part of that quiet hour, lamenting the problem he faced with his establishment. A partner who was not to be trusted any longer.
Dhesi's desire to buy the man out. 'But what can I do?' he had shrugged, his upturned hands expressing his helplessness. 'I don't have the sum of money needed to send the rascal packing and the banks are simply unwilling to lend at this time of recession.'
By the end of that hour, Amit and Dhesi had not just clasped their hands together in recognition of their joint past, but had shaken on a deal that would mean much to them both. Amit would buy out the other partner and invest in this business (once he had examined the books. Of murve, Dhesi had said hurriedly, that was understood.) And for Amit it had signalled a new beginning. He had a place of business now, a partnership in a thriving restaurant and a friend upon whom he could rely.
Money had not been a problem. The Hundi, the fixer, had arranged everything just as he had promised. Trust of a different sort had been all important, of course, but Amit had been in a situation where even had he been robbed blind by the go-between, he would have given the man his hefty commission. Nonetheless his funds had been transferred to an account in a Glasgow bank and to his surprise they had not been reduced by more than the agreed fee. Honour was still intact, even in this cold, Western land.
His rental flat was comfortable but it was time now to make another sort of investment. A place of his own, here in Glasgow's West End.
Amit thought of the woman with the long red hair. Marianne. If he could run his fingers through those silken tresses… touch her in a way that brought a smile to her lips…
He dismissed the sudden fantasy. She had been useful to him, wasn't that all? And Amit knew the time was approaching when his friends would expect him to be rid of her for good.
CHAPTER 11
Dinner'll be ready in a minute,' Maggie called out, hearing her husband closing the front door behind him. 'Salad again.' She turned and made a face. 'I've tried to go easy on the avocados but there's plenty of chicken and bacon. Okay?'
Lorimer sidestepped the ginger cat that was attempting to wind itself around his trouser leg and walked across the room to where his wife was putting the finishing touches to a dressing.
The scent of oranges wafted from the breakfast bar where she was standing and he sniffed the air appreciatively.
'Smells good. New recipe?'
Maggie smiled and shook her dark curls. 'No. Just made it up as I went along. Inspired by what was in the fridge.' She looked up at the tall man who was leaning against the counter. He was, Maggie Lorimer thought, the sort of person who filled a room just by being there.
She was suddenly reminded of the first time she had seen him.
A crowd of her pals had been gossiping in the students' union, a few weeks into the beginning of term, when this tall young man had wandered in, his eyes fixed on somebody at the far end of the room. He had walked past Maggie and her girlfriends, and as he passed she had turned to follow him with her gaze. His loping stride atracted her.what had it been? A quality of stillness within, perhaps? So different from the clowning, posturing of so many of the lads trying to impress.
Maggie had gone out of her way after that to look for this one.
He told the story his own way, of course: she had been sitting alone in the crowded cafeteria and he'd given her that crooked smile of his. 'Is it all right…?' he'd asked and she'd gestured for him to sit down beside her. He'd been watching her for weeks, he said, waiting for a chance to say hello.
That same crooked smile made Maggie's heart turn over now as he put out his hand and touched her hair.
'Good to be home,' was all he said but those few words and that blue gaze spoke far more to Maggie than any earnest proclamations of love. Scotsmen didn't go in for flowery speeches and this one was no exception.
