generous tip.
'Have a good night, miss,' he said, nodding at her. Marianne pretended not to see the expression of curiosity that flicked across the taxi driver's face. What was a woman doing out at this time of night and checking into a hotel? Instead, she walked towards the reception desk to another man whose eyes were already full of questions.
Amit drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on a point ahead, wondering if he could be bothered to find another parking space. By the time he returned his own space might well be taken, legally or otherwise. It was a fairly short walk from his own place to the curving terrace that bordered the river Kelvin. As he considered his options, the sun emerged from behind a cloud into a stretch of blue. He unbuckled the seat belt, letting it fall back against the leather seat. He would walk there, he decided, getting out of the Mercedes and pointing the key towards it. The big car gave a blink and a click as though in acknowledgement as Amit strode along the pavement in the direction of Byres Road.
This was the very heartland of student life: streets full of Victorian flats that criss-crossed all the way from Great Western Road, sweeping past many of the university buildings then bisecting Byres Road until they marched in an upward curve to meet Great Western Road once again. Amit's present home was two floors up in a tenement flat above a delicatessen. The Mercedes he kept parked around the corner in a space designated for residents only.
Despite the fact that the new term was still a month away, the place was teeming with young people. Amit watched them as he walked along; girls with long hair in earnest conversation with a group of young men or giggling in a huddle with their pals. With a pang Amit realised that he had never known such careless freedom.
His own youth had been hedged about with rules, both from his family and also by the state, university life a matter of serious studying and only the occasional social engagement.
He left a group of youngsters laughing in his wake, wondering if they realised just how privileged they were. Probably not, he told himself. But there was no bitterness in the thought, it was merely one of the many observations Amit allowed himself as he continued along the road.
Marianne would be expecting to resume her studies soon, he told himself. A frown crossed his dark brow. Was there really any way he could make that happen? Or was her time at university coming to an abrupt end? Biting his lip, Amit walked more hurriedly until he reached the end of the road. A large church building dominated the corner, sprawling between the junction of the two main roads. Amit looked up as he waited to cross towards the botanic gardens. It was no longer a place of worship and was now known as Oran Mor. He had been inside once, climbing the staircase that was decorated in colourful murals that had somehow reminded him of many of the places in Lahore. A restaurant and a pub took up some of the building but it was possibly best known for its basement theatre. A group of young men and women lounged outside on the steps clutching bottles of beer. Amit glanced at them. Seeing the confidence on their faces reminded him of what he was about to take away from Marianne and he experienced a moment of sadness that it had to end like this.
The lights changed and he crossed to the curving railings surrounding the park. It was not far now Once across the bridge he turned left and followed the graceful line of terraced houses until he stood outside her house, looking up at the curtained window.
She was at home, then. He breathed a sigh of relief then walked up the five steps that led to the main entrance, pressing the bell next to the name that she used, a name that made him smile.
The smile changed to a puzzled frown when no answer came.
After repeated attempts Amit decided to wait. Perhaps she was in the bathroom and could not immediately come to let him in. Five minutes passed before he tried again, then ten.
Amit paced back and forth on the top step, looking around to see if anyone was watching a dark-skinned man hovering on the threshold of this house. Only a young man walking his dog passed him by but he did not give Amit a second glance, absorbed in the music coming from his iPod.
Biting his lip, the man looked up again at the curtained window His brow creased in worry. What if something was wrong?
They had always agreed that he would not have a key to her flat.
She required privacy and that was something that Amit understood.
But now he wished that he had pressed Marianne on this point.
Taking a deep breath Amit pushed the first buzzer in the row, knowing that this ground floor flat was the home of Marianne's landlord, the man who owned the entire building. Fie waited then glanced to his left as a curtain was twitched to one side and a familiar face looked out at him.
'Mr Shafiq, my friend, come in, come in,' the Asian ushered Amit into a square, tiled hallway that had a case of wooden letterboxes set on to one wall.
'Marianne,' Amit began. 'She is not responding to the bell.' He shrugged his shoulders in a casual gesture but, seeing the worried look reflected on the landlord's face, he knew his attempt at nonchalance had failed.
'I have a spare key, my friend,' the landlord waddled off to his own apartments, his cotton slippers flip- flopping across the stone flags. Amit waited politely in the inner vestibule, regarding the stairs to one side as if Marianne might descend at any moment, making a fool of him and quietening his anxious heart. `Aha!' The landlord beamed and brandished a set of master keys in his chubby fist. Now we'll see,' he said, stepping up the stairs with a nimbleness that was surprising for a man of his girth.
Amit followed, cursing Marianne for leaving these curtains drawn in the middle of the afternoon. But what if she were ill? He swallowed, forcing down worse images as he clattered up behind the landlord.
As the key rattled in the lock Amit could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands. Hastily he rubbed them against the sides of his trousers. What was wrong with him? Why such anxiety for this woman?
When the door was flung open, both men stood for a long moment saying nothing.
Then the landlord strode to the window and drew back the curtains.
As light flooded into the room they could see why nobody had responded to these repeated rings of the bell. The bedclothes had been left in an untidy heap and the wardrobe doors hung open, showing empty rails.
The landlord screwed up his eyes and Amit knew he was looking at him to see how he was reacting.
'So,' Amit cleared his throat, amazed by the emotion that made speech so difficult.
'So, she's gone,' the landlord said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of dismissal. 'Pity she hadn't washed the bed linen,' he grumbled, pulling the sheets off the bed and rolling them into a large ball. Tut at least the rent was paid up,' he added, giving Amit a sly tap on his arm. Then, cocking his head to one side, he seemed to see the sorrow on Amit's face.
'Don't worry, my friend,' he said, putting down the bundle and grasping Amit's arms in his hands. 'Better off without her. Plenty more fish in the sea for a handsome young fellow like Mr Shafiq.'
CHAPTER 23
'I know where Brogan is,' Jaffrey told the man sitting a little apart from him on the park bench. He waited, a small smile hovering on his lips as he anticipated the next move in this game. Information like this had its value and he would not be shortchanged by this person, no matter what importance the Hundi felt that he had.
As the other man suggested a suitable figure Jaffrey's smile changed to a frown.
'You insult me,' he said, then waited once more as the Hundi remonstrated with him.
'Things are not so easy, Mr Jaffrey,' the Hundi pouted. 'We are in a recession still. Money is always hard to come by,' he lied.
Jaffrey knew that this would take time. Such matters always did. It was all part of the procedure; he would be given a figure, knock it back, suggest an impossibly inflated price himself until a bargain was agreed upon. There was no take-it-or-leave-it about their methods. He had something to sell and he knew the Hundi would be buying.
'The police might want to know this,' Jaffrey said slyly, looking to see what effect his words might have. But there was not a flicker of change in his companion's expression.
At last an acceptable sum was offered and he could tell the man what he wanted to know.
'Brogan was seen by my son,' he said proudly, nodding as he eyed the Hundi's bulky black jacket. The man
