forgotten that little matter? It's about drugs,' he added, clenching a fist and tapping it lightly on his desk as though he were reminding a foolish pupil of the correct way to do his homework. 'When the Spanish police finally bring Brogan to ground then you'll see I'm right,' he nodded again. 'Till then I don't want to hear any more nonsense about Doctor Brightman and his theories. He's not on our payroll, remember?'
Lorimer strode out of the building and headed for his car. He was still seething after his encounter with Mitchison. The man was a total prat, he told himself. Hidebound by budgetary constraints, blinkered by his desire to see every other murder case in terms of drug dealing. Okay so the city was awash with the stuff. And there were always demands to show that the police were tackling crime of that sort. What Mitchison wanted was a difference in statistics, something to boast about. But did he really think that one less dealer on the street would equate to a drop in drug usage? Aye, right, Lorimer thought cynically. Mitchison hadn't even given consideration to the facts. There were signs that a hit man had been used to effect at least three of the killings. Okay, so Sahid Jaffrey's murder showed a different MO. But he'd had dealings with Brogan, hadn't he? Mitchison hadn't even bothered to acknowledge that connection.
But even as he drove out of the car park, Lorimer realised that the two senior officers were at loggerheads for a very different reason. The superintendent wanted the figures to add up while all that Lorimer wanted right now was to find a dangerous killer and justice for his victims.
CHAPTER 33
Marianne woke from a dreamless sleep. Her eyelids flickered, their grittiness making her blink. The room was bathed in sunlight, fine cotton curtains blowing gently at an open window. She looked around, wondering for a moment where she was, feeling more relaxed than she had for years. As her eyes registered the rumpled sheets Marianne saw the hollow in the pillow where his head had rested next to hers.
'Max,' she said aloud, savouring the name. It was a word redolent with possibilities: maximise, maximum… surely it mirrored that feeling of complete satisfaction that flowed over her right now? Their coupling had surprised her, mainly because it had happened at all.
Somehow he dispelled all her fearfulness, treating her like an ordinary woman whose desires matched his own. Her hunger for his body had shown how starved she had been for the merest affection.
Marianne frowned. Amit had been kind to her, shown her an innate courtesy, hinted that he, too, might release that pent-up need that had been locked inside her for so long. But they had made a pact, hadn't they? The tiny creases on her brow smoothed out as a smile appeared on her lips, in her eyes. Amit was almost history now. Max, she thought, hugging her arms around her cold shoulders, was her future.
There had been no restless night punctuated by smothering dreams, a good omen surely? Even Amit had featured in her nightmares, encouraging her to distrust the gentle Asian whose destiny had become entwined with her own.
A faint peeping sound from the handbag across the room made her stiffen. Someone was trying to call her mobile. She laughed as she remembered; Max had her number. Perhaps he'd gone out for some food and was wondering what she would like. Drawing a sheet around her naked body, Marianne tiptoed across the room, fishing the mobile from her bag.
'Hi,' she said, waiting to hear Max's English accent. But it was a voice far more familiar than her new lover's.
'Billy?' Marianne clutched the phone closer to her ear. 'Where the hell are you?'
Billy Brogan was sitting in a small pool of shade under a tree, watching as an army of ants circled madly beside his feet. He shifted his bottom then swept the frenzied insects away with his foot, sending them tumbling down in a small cloud of grey dust.
'I'm in trouble, Marianne,' he said solemnly.
'You can say that again,' his sister answered tartly.
'No, I mean real trouble. The police are after me. They think I had something to do with Fraz and Gubby… I mean, come on… would I do anything like that?'
There was a pause and he began to fidget, watching the ants regroup to return their assault. Did she really think he had anything to do with these killings? 'I know,' Marianne said at last and he heard her sigh. 'Things haven't been exactly fine here either,' she said dryly. 'Anyhow, where are you? Why haven't you been in touch?'
Brogan sniffed, putting out a foot to bar the ants' progress. 'I'm in Algeria,' he said at last.
'What? 'Algeria. It's a long story. Remind me to tell you some time if I ever get out of this godforsaken place. Anyway, I need your help. Are you listening?'
'Aye, go on,' Marianne replied, a trace of wonder in her tone.
'See if you can find the Hundi for me. He'll fix things.'
'Like he fixed things for Amit?'
'Look, that was okay, wasn't it? You did no' too bad out of that arrangement, eh?'
'And how am I supposed to find him? Look up directory enquiries?' the sarcasm in his sister's voice made Billy sigh.
'Ach, okay, I know he plays this hard-to-get act. See if you can locate him through Amit.'
There was another pause then Marianne said quietly, 'I'm not seeing Amit any more, Billy. That's all over now.'
'Oh, well.' He stopped to think then said, `Go and find Jaffa.
You know where he lives, don't you? He'll arrange for you to see the Hundi.'
'How can I contact you again?' Marianne asked anxiously. 'You left without even telling me what was going on,' she added. 'I know you've changed your mobile. C'mon, Billy. What's your new number? I need to know,' she insisted, angry with him now that the shock was subsiding. 'What if we get cut off?'
'I'll call you, okay?'
'Right,' she said, then there was another pause that her brother took to mean that the conversation was over.
Billy grinned and clicked off his mobile, standing up and shaking a few ants from the hem of his trousers.
He never heard her last words telling him about his old friend or that Max Whittaker had been asking after him. Stepping out into the blazing African sun, he adjusted his shades and sauntered towards a group of dark- skinned boys who were lying in wait for him. One of them held the rope tether of a sleepy-looking donkey in his small fist.
'Taxi,' they yelled as he strode past their outstretched hands, 'air-conditioned taxi!'
Brogan grinned as their yells surrounded him. The donkey was the only air-conditioned taxi they possessed, but he appreciated their sense of humour all the same.
It was not long past midday and the streets were thronging with people. Entering the narrow bazaar was like running the gauntlet, hands tugging at his loose sleeves, eager faces turned his way, voices shouting as the vendors tried to entice Brogan to sample their wares. The noise was deafening, donkeys braying, tuk-tuks puttering round the adjacent streets and the occasional camel train sauntering past, the animals looking disdainfully down their rounded noses. His feet were sore and dusty from the long days walking since he had been abandoned at the village, and all that Billy Brogan wanted now was a bottle of cold mineral water, preferably one with its cap still intact. Above him the daylight was obscured by goods hanging high on wooden rails that crossed from one side of the alleyway to the other, a selection ofgalabayas floating like headless dolls, their hems richly bordered in designs of golden thread. Vendors in white robes or European dress sat at the entrances to their tiny shops, every inch of space crammed full of goods, selections of garishly printed T-shirts suspended from unseen hooks. Some shops had windows made of glass behind which Brogan could see large brass lamps, hexagonal tables and cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jewellery twinkling against velvet stands, too expensive to risk being at the mercy of passers- by, too enticing for the tourists to ignore. Most, though, were open to prospective purchasers, three sides of a small, high space stacked high with linens, basket works, vegetables and spices.
Brogan paused for a moment beside a tea and spice vendor who was relaxing with a sheesha, its red and gold pipes connected to the bubbling pot beside him. Packets of warm spices were stacked into the shelves of a
