The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) (34 page)

‘Hand it over, McAlpin. There’s been enough bloodshed already,’ Lorimer said.

The big man shook his head and grinned. ‘Take you with me, won’t I?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Well here you are. Catch!’

The backpack flew through the air, a dark shape against the pale blue sky, and for a moment both men seemed to freeze as they watched its rise and descent.

Then, as McAlpin continued to look up, Lorimer rushed at the man, grabbing his legs in a well-timed rugby tackle.

As the two men crashed to the ground, Lorimer was aware of the sound of running feet. Then other hands reached down, Drummond and the transport officers intent on containing the man who was groaning in a heap on the ground.

As they hauled McAlpin to his feet, Lorimer did not notice the dark baseball cap rolling away from him, its logo turning and turning until it came to rest, the green G winking in the summer sunshine.

He looked at Drummond, who was standing guard beside the backpack containing the explosives, a question in his eyes.

‘The area’s been evacuated,’ the MI6 man told him.

Drummond turned to acknowledge the man in khaki uniform who had appeared by their side. ‘Right, Sergeant. It’s all yours,’ he said, taking a few steps aside, allowing the soldier to examine the backpack.

‘I reckon he hadn’t the brains to set this thing off,’ the sergeant told the detective superintendent. ‘At least, let’s hope not.’

Drummond raised his eyebrows and grinned, then sketched a salute of farewell as he made to follow the officer from the bomb squad who was carrying the backpack away.

Lorimer stood there for a long moment, a solitary figure gazing at the airport buildings, trying not to imagine the smoke and rubble that could have been there instead.

‘
P
ity it didn’t work out the way we’d hoped,’ Peter MacGregor sighed. ‘Wonder what happened to the boy?’

‘A girl will be behind it somewhere, I bet you,’ Joanne replied, giving her husband’s arm a squeeze. ‘Handsome young fella like that. Anyway, we got tickets, just not so close to the royal box as he promised.’

‘What annoys me most is not having my dirk,’ Peter grumbled, indicating the top of his kilt stocking where the
sgian
dubh
should have been inserted.

‘Probably wouldn’t have got it past security,’ replied Joanne. ‘My, but they sure are careful, aren’t they? Never expected the military to search everyone’s baggage and put us through those X-ray machines. Like going through the airport all over again. Anyway, here we are,’ she said excitedly, gazing round at the ranks of people above and below them, the stadium filled to capacity for the opening ceremony of the Glasgow Commonwealth Games. The excitement was almost tangible as the crowd gave an appreciative roar, then everyone got to their feet.

‘Is that…?’ Joanne’s eyes turned to a familiar figure entering the front row below them.

‘Sure is, darling.’ Peter grinned, clapping and cheering with the rest of the enormous crowd. Then, as a band struck up the first notes of the National Anthem, the sound of cheering was replaced by a wave of voices singing.

Joanne felt her husband’s fingers entwine with her own and tears misted the woman’s eyes as she watched the royal figure standing motionless and dignified below them.

Asa pressed her face to the window of the Land Rover, ignoring the man and woman who had come all the way to bring her safely home. A holiday, they’d said, the Nigerian officer interpreting their words for the girl.
We
would
like
to
see
the
animals
and
the
birds
in
your
country
, they had explained. And so she had been content to travel with Bill and Maggie, her two new friends, plus the lady from the embassy who was there acting as a translator.

The dust from the red earth blew up in twin clouds either side of the vehicle as they trundled over the pitted track, scrubby trees showing where elephants had been, branches split and broken as they foraged for food. Sometimes the Scottish woman would exclaim at the sight of a baboon running for cover as the Land Rover came too close; often the man was looking skywards, binoculars trained on some hawk or other, things that Asa had taken for granted all her young life but that seemed to be a new treat for these white people.

Looking up, Asa stared at the sky above her, an African sky, wider than the ocean they had crossed. And it seemed to the girl that the blue heavens were holding out their mighty hands, enfolding her in a blessing: the promise of sun, rain and starlight.

The vehicle turned at last into a flat clearing surrounded by a cluster of simple whitewashed houses, their roofs made from sheets of corrugated metal. Beyond them, past fields of tall green maize, she caught a glimpse of the thatched huts where her grandparents had been born.

A young girl, her hair braided tightly to her head, appeared from behind one of the buildings, then waved and yelled as the Land Rover came to a stop. In response to her cry, people began to emerge from the houses, until there was a small crowd of men, women and children running along the path towards them, their clothes bright splashes of colour against the dusty ground.

Asa stepped out, her legs weary after so much sitting.

Everything seemed so much smaller than she remembered. The few houses were as nothing compared to the city where she had been, the twittering weaver birds simply part of the landscape after the noises of traffic and shouting people.

‘You’re home now, Asa,’ Maggie said, and the girl turned, hearing her voice.
Home
, the woman had said.

Asa smiled. She had learned only a few words of English, but as she walked towards the village and the welcoming faces of her African friends, she knew that this was one word she would never forget.

It never fails to astonish me how willingly so many people give of their time and expertise to assist me in researching my work. Without them the novels would lack those authentic touches that I believe bring my stories to life. I have many people to acknowledge, experts in their own fields, letting me share the secrets of their professions. Several Scottish police officers must be thanked, including those in the anti terrorist squad at Stewart Street; DC Mairi Milne, whose words of wisdom keep me on the right track, and DI Bob Frew, who never minds my sporadic emails coming out of the blue; Dr Marjorie Turner, friend and consultant forensic pathologist without whose aid Rosie would be standing waving a scalpel in the air and not knowing what to do with it; Baillie Liz Cameron for introducing me to the right people; Jim Doyle of Glasgow City Council for sending me the extensive information about child trafficking; David Grevemberg’s team at the Glasgow 2014 offices, especially Janette Harkess and Matthew Williams; David Robertson for being so willing to assist me in forensic matters; my friend Kate MacDougall for pointing me in the right direction about child protection; Stuart Wrigley of Terry’s Tattoo Studio for being so willing to teach me all about the art of tattooing and even allowing himself to slip between the pages of the story as himself; Dr Fiona Wylie for the sound information about toxins and their effects; Professor Jim Fraser for his wonderful suggestions about explosive devices. And there are others whose support is invaluable to me: my great editor Jade Chandler, who is continually helpful; David Shelley (who seems happy to have me as his longest-standing author); my agent, the one and only Jenny Brown, who understands all the stresses and strains that are part of being a writer; Moira, without whom my diary would be a shambles, and the rest of the LB team, who do so much work; my family, who accept me despite the awful things I do to people between the pages of books, especially my husband, Donnie, who is the best roadie this crime-writing lady could ever wish for.