The Bird That Did Not Sing (DCI Lorimer) (8 page)

Maggie saw the colour drain from the woman’s face.

‘You can say that more tests are being done. Nothing of this needs to be made public just yet,’ Lorimer reassured her.

‘So the press…?’

‘Nobody will know anything until the Procurator Fiscal decides what steps to take,’ he said firmly. ‘I think it would be best if you could let this Goodfellow chap take over all the theatre management now, don’t you?’

‘But the project can’t go on without Charles,’ Vivien said suddenly. ‘He was funding almost the entire thing by himself.’

‘Wasn’t it backed by the Scottish government?’ Maggie asked.

Vivien shook her head. ‘There was just a grant to pay for evaluating its effect on Scottish tourism. No core funding.’ She gave a sigh. ‘That was all going to be met from Charles’s personal money.’

‘So will the project not go ahead now?’

Vivien shook her head. ‘Charles
was
the project,’ she said vehemently. ‘There’s no way it can possibly carry on now he’s gone.’

Lorimer hesitated. He had to detach himself, think like a policeman, but it was hard, seeing her face so racked with grief.

‘I want you to give me the keys to your flat, Vivien,’ he said. ‘The Fiscal will probably want the police to have another look,’ he added, making his tone as diffident as he could. ‘Is there anything I can bring you back?’

‘Shall I come with you?’ Her face turned up to his, a flash of fear in her green eyes.

‘No. You stay here with Maggie,’ he replied firmly.

‘Maybe some fresh clothes…’ Vivien looked down at her hands, then her whole body seemed to quiver with the sob that she could no longer contain.

Lorimer recalled Vivien’s words as he drove back into town. It seemed that all the work on this ambitious project was for nothing now. Gilmartin had prepared so much, his widow had told them, arranging flights for the African actors, making bookings in Edinburgh for a prolonged stay during the Festival. It would all be cancelled now. She had already told Goodfellow he would have to see to that.

The detective frowned. It was the first time Vivien had mentioned the man’s name, and yet she must have been in contact with him on her mobile since arriving back at their house during the wee small hours of Saturday morning. Odd, he told himself. Why hadn’t she spoken about Gilmartin’s business before now? They could have offered the use of their landline for anything she needed.

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he thought about it. He didn’t really know this woman, did he?
Lady
Foxy,
he’d called her, as though they had been pals for ever. But she had been Mrs Charles Gilmartin for much longer than the few years they had known one another as teenagers at school. Their lives had taken such different paths. Until now, when the sudden death of Charles Gilmartin had brought her glittering London theatrical world and that of a Glasgow detective very close indeed.

‘
T
hat’s the bend in the river, there’s the athletes’ village and there,’ the end of a pencil tapped a small area on the map, ‘is where the opening ceremony will take place.’

Several pairs of eyes looked at the man standing at the centre of the table. He was the sort of person who would pass unnoticed in any crowd – short and of slight build, his thinning hair making him look older than he really was; nonetheless he had command of this disparate group of men. His dark eyes roved around each one of the other five intently, seeking assurance that all present in the room were of one mind and one accord.

‘You know our aim,
gentlemen
.’ The last word was almost a sneer: several of the assembled group had been detained on more than one occasion at Her Majesty’s pleasure. ‘Maximum disruption. Getting our message across in the only way these idiots seem to understand!’ He was glaring at them now, arms folded across his chest as though defying any sort of opposition.

‘We had one hundred per cent success with the Drymen explosive and there has been absolutely no comeback from MI6. Right, Number Five?’

A black-haired man straightened his back as it became clear that the leader’s question was directed towards him. No names were given in these clandestine meetings and at first some of them had sniggered over this, but that had been back at the start of the previous year. Now, each and every one of them understood the need for complete secrecy if they were to pose an effective threat to the success of the Glasgow 2014 Commonwealth Games.

‘Right,’ the dark-haired man agreed.

‘They think it was some daft wee laddies out in the village,’ added the explosives expert, the oldest man in the room.

A small ripple of laughter flowed around the table.

‘All the better for us,’ their leader replied. ‘Now, listen carefully. This is what we are going to do.’

They all leaned forward more closely to look at the map of Glasgow laid out on the table, the afternoon sun slanting directly on to the creases where it had been folded and refolded, silvering the blue line of the River Clyde and the pencil point that was hovering above Parkhead Stadium.

As he explained the plan, the potential for damage and carnage was clear to even the dullest imagination. The man’s words conjured up pictures of twisted metal, row upon row of seats upended by the blast and, best of all, the collapse of a regime that each of them detested so bitterly. They were fighters in a war, he reminded them, survivors of an ancient race. Their blood was purer than that of those upstart Hanoverians. It was time to let the world know that they would no longer tolerate being subordinate to such outdated rule.

Some time later each man left the building, singly and in different directions, avoiding the ever-present stares of CCTV cameras, buoyed up by their leader’s rhetoric, surer than ever of the cause for which they were fighting.

Cameron Gregson strode along the city street, heart pounding. The expression on the leader’s face might have been almost laughable had his words not had such deep intent. He was, Cameron had decided with each successive meeting, probably certifiable, but perhaps it took a madman to exert that sort of authority over the members of this group.
And
to effect the plan.

A thrill of excitement shivered the hairs on the back of the young man’s neck. They could do this. It would happen just as they had planned.

His own contribution had been to gain inside knowledge from the ever-willing Gayle, though lately she had grumbled about his snide remarks. Cameron smiled to himself. He had taken the decision not to pretend too much. Better to be disparaging about the Games, let her protest how wonderful they were going to be as she tried to persuade him to come to the various functions that were happening on an almost weekly basis.

He crossed the road and slipped down a cobbled lane where the internet café door was open to the sunshine. Loads of students seemed to be out on this warm April afternoon, and as Cameron entered the café, he glanced around, hoping that there would be no familiar face there to distract him.

No emails, the leader had always insisted. No using computers to contact one another. Too easy for the spooks to follow a trail like that. So they used cheap mobile phones dedicated to this venture, their identities protected from any network and from each other.

But this afternoon Cameron Gregson was not intending to send an email from his identity as Number Six. The letter to Gayle was from his Hotmail account, one of several that he had set up.

As he ordered his latte, the young man was already composing the words in his head, sweet-talking the girl so that she would give him another chance.

It had been on a bright sunny day like this that he had met the leader. He had taken a pint out to the beer garden at the back of his favourite pub in Ashton Lane when the sound of bagpipes had started up, making the drinkers look up to see where the noise was coming from. Lots of the windows in Lilybank Gardens had been open to catch the warm breeze and it was from behind one of these that the lone piper was beginning his repertoire. After an initial wheeze and tentative notes of tuning, music began to spill: first a slow march, followed by some jigs and reels, then, hauntingly, the measured notes of ‘The Dark Island’
.

Cameron had not noticed the man coming to stand by his side then, so wrapped up was he in listening to the unseen piper whose music had captured his attention.

‘That’s the one that always gets me,’ the man had said, looking past Cameron with a rapt expression on his face.

‘Aye,’ Cameron had responded. ‘Know what you mean. Good piper, isn’t he?’

The man had slid easily on to the bench next to Cameron, a polite discussion about the merits of various pipe bands ensuing before the conversation had taken a different turn.

It had been Cameron who had expressed his disgust with modern British politics, not caring to conceal his fervent hatred of the upper classes, especially the royals and all they stood for. It was easy to let your opinions flow with each successive pint when your companion was a stranger you would never set eyes on again. The man had concurred with Cameron’s point of view, filling in historical gaps in the younger man’s knowledge that had impressed the PhD student.

‘What d’you do about it, though? That’s the trouble,’ Cameron had said, a note of bitterness in his tone. He recalled the faraway look in the other man’s eyes, then the way he had turned and stared at Cameron for a long moment as though debating something within himself.

‘There are things that can be done,’ the man had said at last, his words spoken in a low voice so that only Cameron would hear them, ‘for those who are brave enough to go through with them.’

Cameron sipped his latte, remembering the moment when their eyes had met. It was as if some kindred spirit had come to him that afternoon in the form of that ordinary-looking man. They had talked some more, then walked the length of Byres Road together, crossing over to the Botanic Gardens.

It was a war between the royalists and the people, the man had explained, and he had outlined the course of history so succinctly that Cameron felt that it answered all the years of frustration he had felt growing up in a Scotland that seemed ruled by outsiders.

‘My name’s…’ He had held out his hand, but the man had waved it away, insisting he didn’t want to know. Knowing names was unsafe. If the young man really wanted to join the fight against the enemy, he would be given a number.

And so Cameron Gregson had become Number Six
.
A time and place to meet again had been arranged and the mobile phone duly handed over with strict instructions to use it only for operational purposes.

Each meeting with the group was arranged for a different house in a different part of the city. Sometimes it would be an upstairs flat in the heart of the university area; other times he travelled out to the suburbs to a bungalow or semi full of other people’s belongings. Cameron was pretty sure that the properties did not belong to any of the other men, and suspected that the leader, despite his evident hatred of the upper classes and what they stood for, actually owned these places. He was always first to arrive and last to leave. Once, wishing to ask a final question, Cameron had turned back to see the man with a bunch of keys in his hand, ready to lock the front door of a lower cottage flat out in Knightswood. That he might be making his living as a landlord intrigued Cameron Gregson. Was he a wealthy man, then? A disaffected member of the upper classes? His voice and manners were not of that ilk, though. He spoke with the Glasgow accent of an educated man, not one whose vowels were brayed out nasally like some of those public-school types Cameron had encountered at university. And he was always dressed simply, nothing fancy or expensive, just a navy anorak and a pair of Blue Harbour trousers from M&S. It was, Cameron had thought to himself, as though he wanted to merge into the crowd. As he had attended more and more meetings, his respect for the leader had risen, listening to how the plan could be achieved if they managed to infiltrate the various areas of Glasgow 2014 without really being noticed.

Cameron’s mouth twisted in a moue of self-disgust. Becoming Gayle’s boyfriend had brought him to the notice of several of her friends and colleagues. He was always careful not to bad-mouth the Games in front of them, of course, but somehow repressing his real thoughts had made him explode with fury in the private moments when they were together. If the others had any inkling what Number Six was saying to her, he’d be out on his ear, Cameron thought. Or worse.

They were a mixed lot, the soldiers in his small troop. Two of them had mentioned being in prison, though what crimes they had committed was never talked about. Number Two was a big brute of a man with fists like hams and shoulders that suggested he could have carried a beast off the hills. Sometimes Cameron imagined the man in full Highland dress as in the olden times, a plaid wrapped around his chest, a weapon in his hand. The impression was heightened by his muscular arms; they were covered in whorls of green and blue tattoos, Celtic runes that swirled and twisted right down to the backs of his enormous wrists. With his rustred hair and full beard, Number Two looked well suited to his particular task: something to do with the Homecoming, one of the many events peripheral to the Commonwealth Games, though big in its own way. He was to accompany a party of overseas visitors to the opening ceremony, though just how that had been achieved, Cameron never found out.

It was best not to ask too many questions, he had discovered. The other ex-con had the privileged position of being Number Three, and Cameron was certain that he and the leader had been on first-name terms long before the group had been established, such was the rapport between the two men. Tall and thin, with lank black hair, he reminded Cameron of an emaciated spider that might scuttle swiftly towards its prey before a sudden kill. A look from Number Three was enough to silence any idle chatter from the members of the group, and Cameron had wondered more than once if this man had ever committed a capital crime, such was the sense of grim suppressed rage that emanated from him at times.

Of the other two, one was the white-haired explosives expert, an older man who always welcomed Cameron with a smile on his benign countenance. Grandad, as Cameron silently termed him, was evidently enjoying his part in the project, particularly in the wake of the Drymen bomb. ‘Number Four blows up some more,’ he’d joked quietly to Cameron, nudging him with his elbow as if the whole plan to destroy the Commonwealth Games was a huge schoolboy wheeze. Cameron had watched him during the meetings, his serene face turned to the leader, listening to every word yet giving the impression that he was still in an impregnable world of his own.

He assumed that each man had been given his number after joining the group, yet Number Five was the one man he felt could take over most easily from the leader if that ever became necessary. In his late twenties, curly dark hair cut smartly, thick-soled shoes always polished, he was, Cameron had to admit, the most difficult member of the group to identify in any way. One day he might arrive briefcase in hand, like a city businessman, yet on others he would be wearing a thick parka, as if his day job entailed being out of doors. It was odd how they all deferred to him whenever he had something to suggest. His was the sort of authority that had made the younger man decide eventually that their mission was not some fly-by-night escapade but something much more serious.

Any failure would have devastating consequences for them all, this man had insisted more than once. And it was Number Five who seemed to know about the activities of MI6, though through what channels he received this information remained a mystery. Was he a government official of some kind?

Or – and this was a thought that had crossed Cameron’s mind more than once – a senior member of Police Scotland?

The Anti Terrorist Unit consisted of four officers, whose domain was a small office upstairs in Stewart Street, though at eight o’clock on this April evening there was only one person still at work. Police Sergeant Patsy Clark smoothed back a loose strand of hair that had escaped from her bun, her fingers searching for a kirby grip to fasten it back. As the date of the Commonwealth Games approached, there were daily memos from the Home Office. Some of them were routine stuff, but there were a few that made the police officer’s eyes gleam with anticipation.

That there were threats to the safety of the Games was not in any doubt. The security measures had been impressive, though, and Patsy’s team had given wholehearted approval to everything carried out since the building work in the East End had commenced. Occasional notes would pass through the office concerning disaffected groups known to government sources. The general public had little inkling of the undercurrents of wrath and madness that went on beneath the surface. TV programmes about spies and films about world domination tapped into only a tiny part of what really went on; stuff that the Official Secrets Act made certain would never come to the consciousness of ordinary people.