Once Annie's fears had included the monthly mortgage payment.
She'd bought her flat when property had been at a premium, worried sick by how far she had extended herself. But the credit crunch had taken the sting out of that, with interest rates tumbling down so that now the policewoman could enjoy a reasonable standard of living. She swirled the red wine round and round, though she doubted whether it made any difference to aerate a bottle of stuff this price. Probably not, she told herself, taking another mouthful. Ach, it tasted fine to her, anyway. For a moment she wondered what sort of fine wines Omar Fathy was used to drinking. With his expensive schooling and posh accent (not fair, Irvine, he's just a nicely spoken man! she scolded herself) he was probably accustomed to the sort of bottles that came all cobwebby from a real vintner's, not cheap supermarket plonk like this. The woman gave a sigh then leaned forward, resting one arm on the railing. She'd never fancied a fellow officer like this before. Maybe it was because Omar was a bit different. Well, a ot different, she admitted, giggling a little at her thoughts. Certainly he was drop-dead gorgeous and she was sure she wasn't the only female officer who couldn't take her eyes off him. But it was more than that. Annie had felt at ease with him, as if they could be good friends. Or more, a little voice whispered in her ear.
So far DC Annie Irvine had managed to work happily with her colleagues without being asked out on dates. Maybe her manner had been a trifle wary, giving out the signal that she wasn't up for that sort of stuff? Annie grinned. Doctor Brightman would no doubt be able to suss out that one, wouldn't he?
But would the good doctor be able to plumb the depths of her heart? A heart that had been sorely tried and that even now fluttered uncertainly as she contemplated a situation where she might be able to trust a man in her life again. Annie tipped her head back, letting the last of the wine slide down her throat, determined to blot out any glimpse of threatening memories.
Omar Adel Fathy flicked the remote until the programme reached his chosen channel. He had eaten a chicken ready meal out of the hoard that he kept in his tall fridge freezer, a stack of meals supplied by M and S. Fridge to oven, to plate to stomach. He sighed, watching the football teams run all over the green space on his plasma screen. It wasn't like the old days when he had been at home, cosseted by loving parents, given choice dishes by their resident cook. But then rebellion on his part had put an end to that sort of lifestyle, hadn't it? Joining the police force and making his own way in life had been his way of escape. `Ahr he cried aloud as someone missed a sitter, the ball ricocheting off the crossbar and back into the defence. His eyes were glued to the game but Omar's mind was half on his past and the ties he had chosen to cut. Nepotism had not been a dirty word in his family. On the contrary, it was expected that the children would follow their father's steps in his multi-million business. He could have been ensconced in a nice office job with a fantastic salary if he had toed the family line. Instead here he was in a bog standard flat eating the same dinner as hundreds of other single men as they watched television. And it felt great! 'Come on!!' he urged the striker who had gathered up the ball at his feet and was now running towards an open goal. `Yes!!' Omar stood up, still clutching his dinner plate, then sat down again, grinning. Here he was, free to pursue his own life, doing a job he loved. What happened tomorrow was unpredictable and that was one of the things he enjoyed about being a police officer. Would there be a development in the case he was on, perhaps? There was something strange about this murder, he mused. Why would an innocent man be gunned down on his doorstep in the middle of the night?
His partner had given a cynical reply to that question, hadn't she?
Irvine had smiled at him in that funny way she had and tapped a finger against the side of her nose, 'More to this than meets the eye. Wait and see what we dig up, pal,' she had told him. And Omar had felt something stirring in him, an excitement about being part of this Glasgow team, a thrill at having DCI Lorimer as his boss.
Omar put down the half-eaten chicken and sat back, arms folded as the teams regrouped on the pitch. Superintendent Mitchison had said to come to him for anything he wanted. And so he could. But if he was going to share the knowledge of that note inside his locker it would have to be with someone he could really trust. DC Irvine? he wondered. Or would she think him a wimp for having left Grampian? Her opinion mattered, somehow Did she fancy him? If so, she hadn't been pushy with it and he found himself admitting that he liked this policewoman with her quirky smile and sense of humour.
Who, then? The image of a tall man with dark hair flopping over his forehead came clearly back to Omar. His was a face that had seen too much suffering and pain, too many dead bodies and grieving relations. But there was an inner strength about this man, a core of toughness that was tempered, Omar felt sure, with a genuine kindness. He'd be able to talk to Lorimer. But not yet, not till he was ready. `Och, Fraz, he'll no be back therr again, he'll have gone taste crash at anither pad. Know whit ah mean?' whined Andy Galbraith. The taller of the two men outside Brogan's flat did not deign to reply, simply shouldering his way into the close mouth with a swagger that betokened his superiority. `Ah mean, Brogan widnae came back efter we turned his pad ower, ah mean, wid he?' Galbraith danced at the other man's side, an anxious hand raised as if to ward off any blows.
Fraser Sandiman took the stairs two at a time. The shotgun held neatly against his body was a mere shadow in the dim light.
'C'mon, Fraz, wait fur me!' Galbraith panted up the stairs. 'Shut it, Gubby,' Fraz replied in a quiet but menacing tone, his face turned towards the man several steps below. 'D'ye want the entire neighbourhood taste hear ye?'
Galbraith waited till the other man had recommenced his ascent then stuck out a childish tongue at his back. He was Gubby to his mates, not just in token of his surname but because ever since primary school he had been unable to keep his gub shut. `Cannae even say a wurd but yerr on taste me,' he grumbled, clenching his fists, hard man style.
The door was easy enough to open, but Fraz pushed it gently, just in case someone was inside.
'Made a richt job o' that, eh? Eh?' Gubby laughed gleefully as he brushed a manky hand across the splintered wooden frame.
'Aye,' said his mate, moving cautiously into the flat.
'He's no in,' Gubby rattled on. `Ah felt ye, he's no comin' back here. Let's jist get onything we can and split.' He followed the other man into the wreck of the lounge.
'Shut it,' Fraz snarled, raising a hand in warning. 'Someone's been in here. See this? He lifted a khaki-coloured kitbag that rested behind an overturned chair.
'That no Brogan's?' Gubby asked doubtfully. `Cannae mind him havin' wan like that,' he scratched his already tousled hair then scratched a bit harder as if to stimulate his thoughts.
'C'mon, let's see whit's in the kitchen. See if onybody's bin doin' the business,' Fraz commanded.
Gubby followed him out of the lounge. If there had been any drug taking going on, surely they'd find traces? Crumpled tinfoil, maybe? A few roaches chucked into the dustbin? Gubby wrinkled his nose in disgust. He'd never touch the stuff, nor would Fraz. They'd both seen too many dealers go the way of addicts, money slithering through shaking fingers as they dipped into their precious goods. Fraz and he made their money out of men and women desperate for what they could sell them, and so did Billy Brogan.
Was Billy on the stuff? He'd seen him smoke a few joints at parties, but had he gone onto the hard stuff? Whatever the story was, Billy Brogan had skived off somewhere, owing them a whack.
Outside the Glasgow streets were slick with a damp rain that had begun to fall as the clouds gathered steadily, drifting from the west. The hit man locked his car and strolled across the street, not looking back. The kitbag was back at the flat and he had some spare clothes heaped inside the boot. He hoped he wouldn't need them, though this thin rain was already soaking his jacket. Maybe Brogan would come back tonight? Then he would conclude his business with the dealer and head on home.
The man bent his head against the wind that was gusting scraps of paper and old leaves along the pavement. He rounded a corner. Two more doorways then he was back to Brogan's pad.
Looking up, he hesitated. A red car that had not been there earlier was parked outside the close. A smile crossed his mouth.
'Welcome home, Billy boy,' he chuckled softly.
The worn stone steps made no sound under his soles as he stepped swiftly up the two flights of stairs.
Then he stopped. Voices from Brogan's flat made him shrink against the wall, one hand curled around the gun hidden under his jacket. He grinned, anticipating the look on Billy boy's face when he made his entry.
The front door was open just a fraction and he could hear the voices coming from a room along the far end of the flat. The kitchen, he thought. `Yerawankerr one of them shouted out and then there was a thump. `Gerrofff Fraz! Leausalane!' another voice whined, obviously hurt in some way.
The hit man stopped halfway along the hall. Glasgow accents, both of them, but neither reminded him of
