Read Online Lorimer and Brightman - 08 - Sleep Like the Dead. By Alex Gray by Alex Gray - Free Book Online Page B

Fathy’s well-educated voice had made her think he’d received his education abroad, at an international school perhaps. Or maybe that he’d been sent to the UK by his family. It had never once dawned on her that he might actually consider himself Scottish. Don’t be so small-minded, woman, she scolded herself.
    What made you join the polis? she wanted to ask. But again, something prevented the words from being uttered. He might well ask her the same question. And Annie Irvine knew that her standard answer to such a question, to help the community, might not fool this man as it had fooled so many. No, better to keep these things to herself. She was doing okay now, wasn’t she? CID might be a sideways move but it felt like progress. Annie Irvine could be proud of her career path so far. Joining up, for her, had been purely cathartic; a move to signal that she could face her fears head on, maybe even be rid of them for good, one day.
    ‘Right, let’s see what this lot have to say for themselves,’ she muttered, turning into the car park of the call centre. ‘See if anyone can throw a bit of light on Mr Scott.’ Thoughts about Omar Fathy had to be shelved for now.
    And any thoughts about her own past would be easily forgotten in the process of this investigation.

CHAPTER 10
    Amit drained the last of his coffee. It was the quiet part of the day when the staff had an hour to go about their own business. Some, like Paramsit Dhesi, drove over to the south side of the city to spend a little time with families. Others drifted away from the restaurant in twos or threes, chattering in a Punjabi dialect that reminded him all too clearly of the streets of Lahore. Visions of the city came to him like snapshots: the still lakes of water reflecting sun-drenched skies at noon; the market with people constantly coming and going, its smells of ripe fruit, cattle and dust wafting in the stifling air; the train cutting through the city, its open windows full of travellers staring out at the wonders of Lahore. He remembered the family house in Gulberg, its pink washed walls and curving windows: each sill and lattice detail decorated in the style of a Mughal’s palace. Then there were the clubs, his father’s meetings at the Moslem League, the polo matches. But these pictures in his mind were like something he had seen in a film or a dream, not part of his own history The images of bloody bodies, his mother’s scream as the Inter Services Intelligence dragged his father away, these were the stuff of nightmares, locked away in some deep, dark part of his brain, never brought out willingly for examination.
    The sound of crates being delivered to the back door made Amit stir from his reverie. He was in Glasgow now, safe in the place that he was beginning to call his own.
    His mouth turned up at the corners as he recalled the first time he had sat at this very table. A coffee, that was all he had asked for, but that one request had brought him so much more.
    Dhesi had sat down beside him, his hand extended, the light of recognition in his eyes as Amit had spoken.
    ‘You are an Aitchisonian!’ Dhesi had exclaimed, his hand ready to shake Amit’s own.
    ‘Yes, but . .
    ‘I could tell, my brother, I could tell!’ Dhesi had clasped his hand with such warmth that Amit had suddenly heard the familiar inflection in his voice. Only a person who had attended Aitchison College, Lahore’s premier educational establishment, would speak in such dignified tones. But here? In this Scottish city? It was nothing short of a miracle.
    ‘This is nothing short of a miracle,’ he remembered Dhesi’s words and how he had grinned as if he had been able to read the stranger’s thoughts.
    And, for each of them it was just that. Dhesi had sat for the best part of that quiet hour, lamenting the problem he faced with his establishment. A partner who was not to be trusted any longer. Dhesi’s desire to buy the man out. ‘But what can I do?’ he had