see you about your son.'
Three quarters of an hour and two pots of tea later Annie found herself out in the fresh air once more.
'Christ!' Wilson swore as they walked across to the car park.
'How does she do it? One fag after another!' he exclaimed. `Betty'll create tonight when I walk in smelling like this,' he added.
'Never mind how she does it, how can she afford to smoke like that?' Irvine retorted. 'No husband around and existing on benefits,' she exclaimed. 'Still, maybe it's what's keeping her going.
That and tannin.' She grimaced. 'How many teabags d'you reckon were in each pot?'
Wilson took a deep breath, face towards the sky. 'Whew, that's better. My poor lungs were fit to burst in there. Anyway, young lady, what do you think? Reckon we're any further forward after speaking to Gubby's old mum?'
Irvine shook her head as they approached the car. 'No. She obviously didn't see him much. Still hell of a shock to find your boy's been blown away by some mad gunman, isn't it?'
'Aye,' Wilson replied. 'I know some who would say: she'll get over it, her type always do, but here's a thing. She's a mother and mothers never get over losing their kids, no matter how estranged they might have been.'
The Detective Sergeant's words stayed with Annie on the journey to Langside where Fraser Sandiman's father lived. In contrast to the Galbraith home, his was positively middle class. The short terrace of town houses ended in a narrow cul-de-sac, forcing Wilson to manoeuvre the car with some difficulty so that it was facing back out towards Langside Avenue.
The appearance of the houses was deceptive, however, and as they drew closer to the Sandiman house, they could see that many of the properties had been split into flats. Some had annual plants brightening up the patches on either side of the steep front steps but at number eleven it looked as though its residents had lost heart long ago. Here the tiny front gardens were choked with long grass and summer weeds, rose bay willow herb blowing its feathery seeds skywards.
'Wonder what else they're growing down there,' Wilson joked, motioning towards the overgrown plots.
'If it was cannabis they'd be taking a lot more care of it,' Irvine muttered.
There were five names on a list by the security buzzers, Sandiman being the only one properly typed and slotted into its metal plate. The rest were scribbled but legible, possibly evidence that the residents were mostly students who would have shorter tenancies.
In answer to Wilson pressing the buzzer Irvine heard a crackle then a man's voice asking, 'Who is it now?'
There was no mistaking the irritation in that tone and the two officers exchanged a glance before Wilson answered, 'Strathclyde Police.' 'Fop floor,' the voice said and they stepped into a darkened hallway as the door clicked open.
Charles Sandiman was waiting for them at his door. Irvine saw a tall man with a military bearing and a small, grizzled moustache.
He looked at them fiercely, eyeing them as though they were officers on parade to be inspected, then stood aside. 'You'd better come in,' he said.
'It's about Fraser,' Irvine told him as they entered a large lounge that overlooked the street. She resisted the impulse to touch the man's arm. Talking about the death of his son was surely going to be as painful for this man as it was for any mother?
It was Annie who made the tea in this home, allowing DS Wilson to fill the father in on how his son had been killed. She left the two of them sitting side by side, the father gazing unseeing out of the window as Wilson tried to engage him in some form of conversation.
From the adjacent kitchen she could then hear the detective sergeant's voice explaining why they had to come, why questions about Fraser's background had to be asked. But until she re-entered the room, bringing a tray with mugs and a plate of digestive biscuits, the man did not say a word.
As she approached, Sandiman stood up, a mark of courtesy that she recognised as belonging to gentlemen of a different generation.
Or class, Annie reminded herself, thinking of Omar. But his stiff-backed stance was probably from years of that military background.
'We're looking for William Brogan, sir,' Wilson said. 'To help us with our enquiries,' he added.
'Never met the man. Knew he was one of ours, though,'
Sandiman said gruffly.
'You were an army officer, sir?' Irvine asked.
'Black Watch,' Sandi tnan replied, adding, 'before they rearranged us into a battalion!' He spat the word out as though it had a bad taste. 'Best regiment there was. Top Brass never get it right, though,' he added bitterly. 'Didn't then and aren't doing so now,' he shook his head angrily.
'Brogan was a Black Watch officer?' Irvine asked in surprise.
'Not an officer. Private,' Sandiman corrected her.
'Did Fraser ever speak of Brogan to you, sir?' Wilson wanted to know.
The man turned to face the two police officers and Irvine could detect a trace of tears in his eyes. His mouth trembled and she felt a sudden sympathy but as he began to speak she realised that he was shaking with suppressed fury.
'My son! My son!' His voice cracked as emotion swamped his self-control. 'To consort with low-life like Galbraith and Brogan!
What was he thinking about?'
Irvine watched, fascinated, as he clutched the mug of hot tea, his fists gripping it with such intensity that she feared he would break off the handle.
'Fraser was educated, Sergeant,' he said, gritting his teeth.
'Brought up to respect people. To respect his country. Not to make his living from other men's misery!'
As he bowed his head Irvine stepped forwards and took the mug from his grasp, letting her fellow officer be the one to console the man in the torrent of grief that followed.
Annie stood behind them, wondering. It was bad enough to have a son who was found dead, but the shame of being found in the home of a known drug dealer was something this proud man would find hard to forgive. Fraser Sandiman had been given a decent upbringing, by all accounts; Galbraith's background on the other hand was rooted in poverty and deprivation. But from her limited experience Irvine knew that it was wrong to make a judgement about people based on that. She thought about the blowsy woman they had left over in Glasgow's East End and then looked at the man weeping into his hands, Wilson's arm around his shoulders. They were also victims of whoever had pulled that trigger. And their suffering would likely follow each of them to their graves.
DCI Lorimer looked at the report from Irvine and Fathy. He'd read it and reread it but there was still something that didn't add up. Marianne Scott seemed to have vanished. There was no trace of her after her course at Anniesland College though they now had her list of SEE Higher passes. She had certainly gained enough for entry to the University of Glasgow. But had she gone elsewhere? Abroad, perhaps?
Frances Donnelly's statement contained the idea that Scott had still been seeing his ex-wife, though there was no concrete evidence for this. It was only the girlfriend's impression. But what if the Donnelly woman had been wrong? What if Scott hadn't seen his ex-wife for one very good reason?
And for the first time the DCI had the chilling thought that perhaps there was another body still to be found.
CHAPTER 19
The August sun beat down on his back as Billy Brogan strode along the path towards Gala Bona. The Catalan name meant the good bay, one of the hotel waiters had told him. And Gala Millor meant the better bay, the man had added, smirking as well he might. The hotel was possibly the most expensive in the area and its guests would be pleased to know how well they had chosen their holiday destination, his expression had seemed to suggest.
That wasn't an issue with Brogan right now as he headed towards the small fishing port that lay a few miles
