supposed. Carlos had to rest some time during this voyage and he'd taken one of his crew with him. The Spaniard had never said they were sailing alone, had he? The other guy must have been down below when Billy had set foot on board the boat, doing whatever sailors did. But it had been done in a furtive sort of way that made Brogan uneasy. Why had Carlos not simply introduced the other man when he'd stepped down the gangway? Brogan tried not to let his ideas go any further. He was at the mercy of these Spanish seamen and sitting tight and not asking any questions until they had completed the journey was probably for the best.
Another massive wave made the boat rise high in the air and descend with a crash, sea spray flying past the window where Brogan was clutching the edge of his seat. All he could think about was his present condition; the bucket on the floor beside him skittering away from his hand as he reached out to grab it.
Whatever was going on up on deck or in the wheelhouse wasn't his affair. So long as the sun continued to rise and the boat was heading for land, that was all he cared about right now
CHAPTER 27
F'ax from the Spanish police, sir,' the duty officer handed a sheet of paper to Lorimer as he walked along the corridor to his office. 'No sign of Brogan. He didn't return to his hotel room last night. And he wasn't on any of the flights leaving Palma yesterday.'
Lorimer nodded and took the fax into his room. Brogan would still be somewhere in Mallorca, then. And shouldn't be too hard to locate. The fax added that no hire car had been taken out in his name. And he'd have needed a valid driving licence for that, wouldn't he? Lorimer wasn't too worried. The local police would pick him up pretty soon, he reckoned. It was an island, after all, with few places for a Glasgow drug dealer to hide. Then a frown crossed Lorimer's face. They'd had that tip-off from this end. Did that mean Brogan had friends in Mallorca? But why check into a hotel if that were the case? No. The caller had mentioned that Brogan had been spotted by someone from back home. That had been unlucky for the drug dealer. And Lorimer hoped that was a sign that Brogan's luck was rapidly running out.
Meantime he had a pile of paperwork that would take most of the morning to sift through. He was quietly confident that by midday they'd have had news of Brogan's arrest.
But there was something else he wanted to do first. Opening up his laptop, he composed the message in his head. It wasn't anything official, nor something that could be seen as contravening the present command about using the services of a psychological profiler. It was just a friendly enquiry from his personal address, Lorimer reasoned, as he typed in the email for Doctor Solomon Brightman.
'Stalking,' SoIly said the word aloud as he read the heading on Lorimer's email message. A slight frown creased the man's brow.
He'd been hurt by the police decision to withdraw from his services and now here was Lorimer asking him questions that would take up some of his time. In one way it was gratifying that his friend continued to have faith in him but in another way it was just plain annoying. Had he let any pettiness creep into his soul, SoIly Brightman might have told himself that if his services were not required by Strathclyde Police then he'd simply ignore the email. But such ignoble thoughts were not part of the psychologist's make-up and, as he rose from his desk, he was already thinking of well known cases like that of TV presenter, Jill Dando. There had been good evidence at the start of that investigation for supposing that Dando had been gunned down by a stalker, though what had actually taken place might always remain a mystery.
'Stalking,' he said again, this time standing by his filing cabinet and leafing through his notes.
Ken Scott would be an interesting subject if he were proved to have been a stalker. Not only was he an ex- husband whose wife had rejected him publicly by the divorce but he must have harboured the delusion that she was still in love with him. For, SoIly knew, that was the hallmark of a stalker. The person stalking was convinced that his or her target was capable of returning the devotion that they felt. And with patience and perseverance the notion was that their victim would eventually fall into their arms, capitulating to their desires. For it was not about love, Solly reminded himself. It was all about power and powerlessness. The stalker, once a rejected lover (whether in reality or in his or her mind), regarded themselves as in a position of power while they followed their prey. Overpowering their victim became a necessary part of the game. They might tell themselves that they only wanted their loved one to return some affection, to give a smile or a kiss. But what they craved was their victim's ultimate submission. And when it became clear that wasn't going to happen willingly, they sometimes resorted to violence.
Frustration breeds violence was a phrase Solly remembered from his early days as a student of behavioural psychology. And he could cite many instances in the world of stalkers where that held true. Filthy messages sent through the post or by email, unwanted gifts (some of them with sinister overtones) and plain harassment were the outpourings of a rejected and frustrated stalker. Had there been any evidence of such things in Scott's case? The photographs were all that the police had to go on so far. It was a pity that Lorimer had drawn a blank in locating any of the ex-wife's friends or family. If he had a fuller picture of the couple's relationship then perhaps he might be able to make some useful contribution. But, failing that, he could give his friend some general pointers about the sorts of violent stalkers whose deeds had been recorded.
Annie Irvine watched her colleague as he lifted his lunch tray off the table and headed towards the canteen door. Omar had delib – erately chosen to sit by himself for the last few days, she'd noticed, facing the window that looked out on to the street, avoiding eye contact with any of his fellow officers. There was something about that figure hunched over his sandwiches that troubled Annie. Something was wrong and it wasn't to do with the ongoing murder case, she was certain of that. Omar had been full of enthusiasm not that long ago, hadn't he? So why this sudden change in his manner? The policewoman had been sensitive enough to know when to leave the handsome young Egyptian alone. Besides, what chance would she have of furthering their friendship if she barged in on him when it was obvious that he wanted nobody's company?
A tall dark-haired woman planked herself down next to Annie.
It was Maureen, the civilian officer who was in charge of processing and recording all the productions from scenes of crime. Annie would have moved away but her lunch was barely started and she was incapable of being rude even to Maureen, whose loudmouthed comments were known to make others cringe.
'What's up with Omar Sharif?' she asked, nudging Annie's arm.
The woman's shrewd glance showed that she had been following Annie's gaze as Omar walked out of the canteen.
Annie didn't reply, trying to focus on the salad and ham baguette that had suddenly become quite unappetising.
'Had a tiff, then?' Maureen gave a short laugh that sounded like a dog's bark.
Annie coloured up, watching as several heads turned their way, Maureen's strident tones carrying right across the canteen.
'Don't know what you mean,' Annie mumbled, stuffing the baguette into a napkin. She opened her handbag and drew out her mobile phone. There was no message on the screen but Maureen wasn't to know that, was she? Sometimes a wee deception had to be played out and this was one of those times. 'Have to go. See you,' she said, then rose from the table as fast as she could. `Ach, he's no worth the heartache, Annie,' Maureen persisted.
Then, catching hold of the policewoman's arm she dropped her voice to a whisper. 'An' I reckon he's the wrong colour for a nice girl like you, eh?'
Annie stood stock still for a moment, shocked at the woman's blatant racism. Had she been overheard, Maureen might well have been given notice to quit her job. She blinked then shook her head, showing the other woman that such a remark was not to be condoned.
As she turned to go, Annie kept hearing the words in her mind like a hiss of malevolence. Really she should report the woman, but there was something nasty about Maureen Kendall that gave her pause for thought. Somehow, Annie felt, there would be repercussions if she tried to put that little incident into a formal complaint. And right now she could do without the bother.
Omar was walking down the CID corridor when Annie finally caught up with him.
'Hey, what time do we have to be at the university?' she asked, still slightly breathless from her encounter in the canteen.
