There was more hesitation and a spluttering of excuses but eventually a rendezvous was suggested.
'Okay by me. Today suit you?'
Again there was some humming and hawing, until a time was fixed for the following day. 'I have meetings, many meetings. I am a very busy man, you know,' the voice on the line insisted. 'I will send someone to meet you.'
The hit man listened, hearing just a hint of anxiety, understanding that the very mention of Brogan's name held a lot of significance for the man who was listed in Brogan's notebook simply as Dhesi.
Glasgow in late August was better than he had expected. The weather was clear and sunny, the summer heat intensifying just as the school term had ushered the population of Scottish schoolchildren back indoors for a new session. The hit man grinned as he sat on a bench in the middle of the city watching the lanes of traffic circulate around George Square. It was not unpleasant sitting here watching the world go by but he did not expect to be in Glasgow for much longer. He glanced at his wristwatch. Soon he would be joined by another man, someone who could help him to recover the money he was owed; someone who had an interest, like himself, in finding Billy Brogan.
The chosen rendezvous had been easy to find and he had arrived early, wandering around the square for a while, admiring the City Chambers, a pale grey building that dominated one entire side of the square. It was impressive by anyone's standards, even someone like himself who knew nothing about architecture, its towers leading the eye upward. A pair of stone carved lions flanked the white cenotaph, a few yards from the building, reminding him of lives lost in a duty to Queen and country that he himself had once followed.
The hit man watched as a large black Daimler glided to a halt right outside the entrance to the City Chambers. From a professional point of view the security was spot on. Darkened windows hid the passenger from view and he caught only a brief glimpse of a woman's figure as she alighted from the big car and entered the main door with some lackeys in tow. He cocked his head to one side. Now, if he had been positioned up on that rooftop, belly down, rifle in his grasp, that would have been an entirely different matter. `Mr Smith?' A voice behind him broke the reverie, making the hit man stand up immediately.
'Aye, maybe,' he replied evasively. 'Who wants to know?'
A dark-skinned man who may have been Indian or Pakistani stood smiling at him then gave a small bow, one hand across his corpulent stomach. 'I come to you as an intermediary, Mr Smith.
I believe that was understood by our mutual friend?'
The hit man sniffed and threw the man a sideways glance. `So what are we waiting for?' he asked. 'I take it he's ready to begin discussions?'
'Oh, yes, sir. If you'd like to follow me, we have a car parked just along the road,' the Asian motioned with one hand, willing the other man to accompany him.
'I suppose you've got a name, pal?'
In reply his companion tapped one side of his nose, an age-old gesture that signified that it was not wise to ask too many questions.
The hit man frowned suddenly. This man's voice sounded so like the one he had spoken to on the telephone yesterday. Was he actually Dhesi? And had it all been a bit of nonsense about sending someone else?
The hit man walked just a little behind the stranger, cautious in case he had to make a sudden run for it. He touched his pocket, feeling the gun's reassuring hardness. But it wasn't something he could make use of here, in the city centre, if things suddenly went wrong.
The Mercedes was parked outside a large pub just past the square. As he was ushered into the back seat, the hit man glanced at the driver, a middle-aged white man with rolls of fat coming over his collar, clearly sweating under his smart black uniform.
Not in good shape, he told himself, dismissing the driver as posing no potential threat, then turned to face the Asian who had climbed into the back to join him.
'Brogan,' he began. 'He's known to you?'
The Asian inclined his head a little. 'He is known to my client,' he said.
'Client? What are you? Some sort of lawyer?'
The man beside him chuckled. 'Not at all, my friend. I am what you might call a fixer. A middleman. Those from my homeland know me better as The Hundi.'
'So you're not the man I spoke to on the phone?'
'No, Mr Smith. That was my client. Someone, it appears, who has a mutual interest in Mr Brogan. Now, while we drive to our meeting place, let me tell you something about this lovely city of ours,' he said. Turning towards the window he pointed up at the buildings that swooped up on either side, their windows glittering in the sunshine. Then, as though the hit man was simply a tourist visiting Glasgow for pleasure, the Hundi began to enthuse about some of the city's architectural gems.
CHAPTER 21
Dhesi stood, hands behind his back, looking out of the window This was his home now, this city whose fine buildings were a constant reminder of past glories, Glasgow's tobacco lords and ship owners gaining their immense wealth from their trade. It was a city that suited him, Dhesi thought. He, too, traded in things, though those commodities were less welcomed by the city fathers than the bales of Virginia tobacco that had been shipped to the docks in times past. The restaurant was his legitimate enterprise, of course, and he was proud of it. Things had become so easy in the months following Amit's arrival, that it would be a pity if they were to be upset by these latest incidents. But his partner's complete integration into their world here in Glasgow was of the utmost importance and it might even be to their advantage that Brogan had disappeared, leaving his sister unprotected.
The Pakistani had deliberately chosen this suite of rooms in a West End hotel in which to meet Brogan's contact. Someone calling himself Mr Smith (he'd laughed derisively at that) had insisted that he wanted to find Brogan. A mate, he'd said, from the old days. Knowing Brogan's past as well as he did, Dhesi guessed that this was another ex-soldier. And from what he had read in the newspapers, he wondered if the man might be useful to them right now If he turned out to be just another druggie, they'd get shot of him faster than he could say chapatti. But that voice on the line had sounded intelligent and, besides, he could only have found out his number from Brogan himself. Was this a set up, perhaps? Was Brogan using this old chum for purposes of his own? Nobody in Glasgow had any idea why the dealer had disappeared, though two dead bodies in his flat might give even the least cynical person some sort of clue.
The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn away from the window. His friend, the Hundi, was ushering in a man whom he judged to be about forty-five, short mid-brown hair, thinning on top and of medium height and build. Dhesi took all this in as he strode towards him. An ordinary looking man, he thought to himself, except for the face and its pale grey eyes.
These were eyes that had seen terrible things, Dhesi told himself; and that face, with its sharp cheekbones and firm jaw, might have been carved out of granite. Glasgow folk had a name for someone like this: a wee hard man. His visitor stood ramrod straight, gaze unwavering as he looked Dhesi in the eye.
This is someone you don't want to mess with, he suddenly thought, hearing Brogan's voice in his mind. `Mr Smith,' Dhesi smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand in welcome, `So good of you to come.'
'Dead? What makes you think that?' Joyce Rogers leaned forward in her chair, one hand clasping her chin as she considered the DCI's idea.
Lorimer made a restless movement before he answered, immediately revealing to the deputy chief constable that he was less than comfortable with this suggestion himself.
'She's nowhere to be found, ma'am. No trace of her leaving the country, no records of employment, nothing in the university registry or in any other UK registry that we can find.'
'I see,' Rogers nodded briefly. 'And you think we might want to investigate her as a missing person?'
Lorimer sighed. Thousands of people went missing each year, many of them at their own behest. But there would always be some who had been killed by a person or persons unknown and whose bodies would rot in their unmarked graves for generations.
