had arrived not too long after Jaffrey had called him but he knew that a thick wad of notes would already be secreted about his person, ready to hand over once the information was given.
Jaffrey edged a little closer along the bench. 'He's in Mallorca.
A town called Gala Millor,' he said, raising his hand to his mouth as though to prevent the words being overheard. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. 'My boy is a smart one,' he grinned. 'Followed Brogan back to his hotel. Even found which room he was in,' Jaffrey held the paper in the air triumphantly.
In one quick movement the Hundi stood up, snatched the paper and dropped an envelope onto the bench. Then, hardly pausing to read its contents, he stuffed the paper into his wallet, slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket and walked away from the other man without a word.
Jaffrey watched him go, making a rude gesture at his unseeing back. The Hundi commanded a lot of respect in the community and it would not do to openly cross this man. Still, he had what he wanted, he thought, opening the envelope and counting its contents greedily, giving absolutely no thought to what consequences this encounter might have for Billy Brogan. q[r 'How long?' Brogan's mouth was an 0 of astonishment at the Spaniard sitting next to him on the jetty. He'd never been on a boat longer than the half hour that it took to travel from Wemyss bay to Rothesay.
'The wind may alter that,' the man shrugged, looking up at the skies as though to see what the weather might tell him, 'but, yes, I think it will take at least fifteen hours.'
Brogan followed the man's gaze. The skies had little whippets of cloud scudding across an expanse of searing blue. Sailors knew all about such things, he supposed. This man had the expertise he needed – he could set off from Mallorca at dusk and be on the African mainland by noon tomorrow. Marrakesh! The very name conjured up mountains of hashish, just waiting for someone like him to come and buy.
Brogan licked his lips, tasting a saltiness borne on the incoming breeze. They had discussed a price and he'd agreed to it, mentally talculating how much money he would have left.
'You come tonight?' the Spanish captain asked, his small dark Seyes never wavering as he looked at the Scottish man beside him.
Brogan had spun him a tale about needing to leave Mallorca in hurry, not being able to buy a plane ticket in time for an important meeting in Marrakesh, but he knew fine the Spaniard had en through his lies. That nut-brown face criss-crossed with Wrinkles had seen enough of life to know what was going on. The rice he'd asked reflected that, too, Brogan guessed.
'I will take you to a village. Near to where you wish to go,' the paniard told him. 'I know a harbour,' he nodded and turned way, looking out to sea as if their destination was clearly imagined in his mind's eye. 'The harbour master is a friend. He will not ask questions.' The Spaniard turned back to look at Brogan, smiling a knowing smile. 'Or ask to see passports,' he added.
Brogan nodded, trying not to seem too relieved by this. He'd keep up the pretence as long as he was with this man, but he was*cutely aware that the Spaniard had a good idea of his fugitive status.
'Okay. I'm cool with that,' he said, nodding his head. Tut how o I get to Marrakesh after that?'
The man shrugged. Plenty of buses. Not difficult. You'll see.'
'Right, I'll be here at seven o'clock, then,' Brogan said, proffering his hand for the man to shake.
'If I am not here, remember to ask for Carlos,' he told Brogan.
'One of my sons will be preparing the boat for departure. Adios,' he nodded.
As the drug dealer walked back along the esplanade he failed to see the expression on the Spaniard's face or see him chuckling to himself.
Carlos smiled as he shook his grizzled head, watching the Scotsman head back to his hotel. Such fools as this could make him a wealthy man, he thought. Marrakesh!
He laughed silently imagining Brogan's face when he found out his true destination.
CHAPTER 24
nnie Irvine sat perched on the edge of a desk, listening as Lorimer updated them all on the case.
'You've all had a chance to see the images and as you can see m those I have selected,' the DCI turned to indicate the wn-up photographs on the board behind him, 'there was defihely something going on between Scott and his ex-wife.'
Annie took a deep breath. The pictures spoke for themselves: was a clear case of stalking as far as she was concerned.
'Why would he stalk his ex-wife?' someone asked, putting nie's thoughts into words.
'What motivates any stalker?' Lorimer returned. 'The profile re building up of Scott is of someone who led a very private of existence. According to the girlfriend she says she had ver been to his house.'
'Someone had,' Cameron interjected. 'What about that bed?' 'We'll come to that in a bit,' Lorimer said, acknowledging the tective sergeant's point. Tut I think it may be very pertinent to our to see what sort of man Scott really was. He had a casual relanship with Frances Donnelly, was friends with his work colleagues t he doesn't seem to have given anything away to any of them ut himself, does he? And stalkers are notoriously private people.'
Annie shuddered, remembering the disgusting letters, the used condoms and filthy underpants deposited in her parents' garden and the shadow that had seemed to follow her every day on her way to university. Derek had been too clever for them to pin him down, to find enough evidence to link him to the stalking campaign that had lasted for more than three years. But it had given Annie one thing: her resolution to join the police force had sprung from a determination to see that other women were given more protection by the law.
'Did she know she was being stalked?' DC Fathy asked.
'Now,' replied Lorimer, 'that's a good question. None of the photographs indicate that she was aware of him. But the dates on the photographs show that he was following her on a regular basis, so, perhaps she knew what was going on.'
Too bloody right she did, thought Annie bitterly, edging herself off the desk and leaning against it, arms folded. But she kept her thoughts to herself, waiting for another officer to suggest as much.
'If she did know, why not contact the police?' Fathy asked.
'It's not an offence yet,' Annie couldn't stop herself blurting out. 'The proposed amendment to the Criminal Justice and Licensing Bill hasn't been put through our Scottish parliament. So the laws around stalking on this side of the border are still the same. Stalkers can only be charged with a breach of the peace. If you can make it stick!' she added passionately.
There was a sudden silence in the incident room and Annie listened, hearing her own breathing come thick and fast. It was the nearest she had ever come to admitting these horrible things from her own past and she reddened as she imagined what her colleagues might be thinking.
'Thank you for that DC Irvine,' she heard Lorimer say at last.
'And it is good to be reminded of the way such matters are currently !IIII dealt with. If stalking does become a statutory offence we might alleviate quite a lot of the suffering that women – and some men – currently endure.'
As Lorimer's blue gaze fell on her, Annie felt that he was looking right inside her. Could he guess at the years of persecution she had been subjected to? Or was that penetrating look simply a mark of respect for an officer who had done her homework? 'These photographs are only suggestive, not proof, of the fact that Scott may have been stalking his ex-wife,' Lorimer continued, addressing the room. Tut if Marianne Scott was indeed the target of a stalking campaign, then perhaps we have found a possible motive for Scott's murder.'
He looked around at them all in turn, his gaze coming to rest on Annie.
'One way or another, it is more important than ever to locate Marianne Scott. And her brother.'
There was a murmur of agreement and Lorimer nodded at the policewoman briefly before addressing the team once more.
'We're still waiting for fingerprint results from the SCRO to establish the identity of whoever came back to Scott's house.' He paused. 'Someone made up that bed. Was it the ex-wife? A neighbour who did it out of a sense
