‘So, you do think it is him!’
‘No, I don’t think that for one minute. But they blokes was up tae something, and you’re right, we should tell the polis. But nothing more than we need tae say. We was up the hill looking for him and we saw they men. Anything else they can find oot for themselves, right?’
‘Okay, Papa. Come on, my car’s parked just doon the road. I’ll take you up tae the station.’
‘Fine, Kevin, son.’
As they walked to the car, Peter Scally wished he’d left the skull fragment at home instead of in his left trouser pocket, heading for Kinloch Police Office.
The meal had been delicious, Faduma had to admit. Even though he now resented his partner, the man’s cooking was as good as any he’d tasted. But even as he’d enjoyed the food it had reminded him of home, and the sadness that he’d never see his family again had overcome him.
He thanked Cabdi for the meal and then made his way to the back of the van.
The steel box was around the size of two beer crates, with stout handles on two sides and rubber stoppers at each corner. It was robust, as it had to be in order to protect what lay inside.
Carefully, Faduma hefted the box from the van and laid it on the rough ground under the canopy of fir trees. He clicked open both catches and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, secure in a tightly fitting foam mould, sat a white drone. It had four limbs, configured in an X shape. Its centre was bulky, broader than a normal drone. This casement was sealed, but Faduma knew what lay inside, and it was deadly.
He removed the drone and the remote control beside it, then, again very carefully, replaced the lid on the box and lifted it back into the van.
He carried the device to an open patch of ground away from the vehicle, knelt before it pressing buttons, and then stepped back, the remote control held in front of him with both hands.
‘The machine is ready?’ said Cabdi, bounding across the ground towards him, an excited look on his face.
‘Yes. I am ready to test it.’
Cabdi looked at the device intently. ‘You have not armed it, I hope.’
‘Of course not. Look.’ He walked across to the drone. ‘I arm it by using this button. You don’t trust me, Cabdi, and that thought makes my heart sore.’
‘You have been foolish. My heart aches, too – aches for what might have happened.’ He looked into the sky. ‘It is clear. Let’s try to fly it – get it off the ground, at least.
Faduma stepped away from the drone again, pressed a button on the hand-held console and watched as small rotors at the end of each of the four arms buzzed into life. With his tongue sticking out between his teeth, he worked the little joystick, and soon, slowly and steadily, the drone rose into the air.
‘Look, Cabdi – come and see the screen!’
Cabdi did as he was bid, and looking over Faduma’s shoulder he watched the trees disappear to reveal the broad vista of the loch and the hills behind it.
‘How steady it is,’ said Cabdi.
‘Yes, brother. If we wanted, we could just stay here and launch the drone – to its full purpose, I mean. No one would see us – or it – until it was too late.’
‘No. You know what our instructions are. We find a vantage point. Remember, we have to film the drone – the end result. I must use our camera to catch the moment we strike. In minutes the destruction of the Great Britain will be all over the world. Many of the world’s richest men and women will die with it, and the deaths of our brothers and sisters will be avenged. Now, bring it down. We know it works, and we don’t want to attract any more attention.’ Cabdi lowered his gaze from the drone to Faduma for a few seconds, then walked away.
Faduma felt his temper rise. Who was this man who could now tell him what to do? They had been partners; now Cabdi was master. Faduma knew what he wanted. You will see what I can do, he said to himself. Oh, yes, brother, you will know my power.
Peter Scally and his grandson Kevin sat in the waiting room at Kinloch Police Office. They’d told a uniformed sergeant what they’d seen, and now they were to be interviewed by the CID.
Despite himself, Scally fiddled with the piece of bone in his pocket.
‘They’re taking their time, Papa.’
‘Aye, son. It’s done on purpose; they want you to feel guilty.’
‘For what?’
‘Anything, it doesna matter tae these bastards. They’d have you on the way tae the big hoose in a minute, let me tell you, though you’d done nothing wrong. As long as they solve a crime, they’re no’ bothered.’
‘You’re no’ a big fan o’ the polis, eh, Papa?’
‘No.’
‘Why? What did you get up tae when you were younger?’
‘Och, just a wee misunderstanding outside the Douglas Arms. This is way before your faither was born. I was jeest a boy.’
‘Tell me.’
‘As I say, me an’ this other lad had a wee argument – turned intae a bit o’ fisticuffs. Auld Tam Douglas – Willie that has the pub now is his grandson – he called the polis.’
‘Were you charged?’
‘Nah, we jeest got a good kicking. The sergeant in they days was this big bastard fae Skye. Him and his buddy took us intae the cells and gied us a right good leathering. My eye was black for weeks.’
‘That’s terrible!’ Kevin looked genuinely shocked.
‘Och, they never wasted court time on lads at the fighting back then. You got half beaten tae a pulp then flung in the cells wae nae blanket for the night. Then they kicked you – aye, kicked you – oot the door at six the next morning. That’s whoot passed for justice in they days.’
Kevin shook his head in disbelief. ‘By the way, Papa . . .’
‘Whoot?’
‘Who was you fighting wae?’
‘Ach, it’s too long ago to worry aboot that – ancient history, Kevin.’
‘So what’s the harm in telling me?’
‘You’re a right persistent bugger – jeest like your mother. If you must know, it was Cameron.’
‘Who, Cameron Pearson?’
‘Aye.’
‘And whoot were you fighting o’er?’
‘A lassie, if you must know.’ Scally folded his arms indignantly.
‘Wait, were you fighting o’er Maggie – Maggie Pearson?’
‘She was Maggie Watson in they days – and yes, that’s whoot we were fighting about, you nosy bastard!’
‘So, after all these years you’re having it off wae her, while her man’s lost on the hill. Papa!’
The door swung open, revealing Acting Sergeant Potts. ‘Right, gentlemen. If we could see Mr Scally first, please.’
‘How no’ jeest see both of us?’ said Scally.
‘That’s the way we’d like to do it – please, sir.’
‘See whoot I telt you aboot helping the polis, Kevin?’
Together with the detective, Peter Scally walked to the interview room.
20
Patrick O’Rourke woke with a start and looked at his expensive wristwatch. He took a few moments to take in the beauty of his slumbering young wife, yawned, and made his way across their luxury cabin on the Great Britain to the well-appointed bathroom.
When he looked at his face in the mirror he sighed. He was fifty-three years old now, and despite the expensive haircut, the brow lift surgery, and the Botox he’d had injected into his cheeks, he was beginning to look every year of that age.
He remembered his father, who’d never reached his forties. In Patrick’s mind he was still a pencil-slim man with long dark hair, a drooping moustache and a twinkle in his green eyes. But that was just about the only advantage for those who died young; they would never grow old in the minds of their loved ones. They were frozen in time in the prime of life.
However, on balance, while Patrick hated the lines, the shadows and aches and pains of middle age, he was still glad to be alive. In any case, his life was very different from his father’s.
He remembered the
wind in Chicago when they arrived from Belfast. The size of the buildings astonished him; the roar of the traffic; the clunk of the trains; the speed at which people lived their lives. In Chicago there was no skulking round corners hiding from the RUC, the British Army or the UVF.
When they first got to the city – Patrick and his mother – they were an incomplete family, but at least they were alive. They stayed in the top two rooms of his uncle’s house in one of the better areas. Though he realised, even then, that his mother resented being beholden to her elder brother, neither of them could deny that life was much better than it had been on the trouble-ridden streets of Belfast.
They did their best to forget those who lay still in the soil back in Ireland – including his father, his brother, two uncles and his grandmother. She had been the only one to die of what was described as ‘natural causes’, but even now, he still thought a bullet to the head a better way to go than the withering agony of her death from cancer.
Automatically, he brushed his teeth with the electric toothbrush, flossed, and was just about to get into the shower when he heard his cell phone ring.
Tying a towel round his waist, he hurried to the bedside table, sighing when he saw the name of one of his senior managers.
‘Hell, Steve, didn’t I tell you that I wasn’t to be bothered by the business while I was out here? Surely you can handle anything that comes up?’ He listened impatiently as Steve told him that one of his many car showrooms had been set alight during a street fight in Richmond. ‘What the fuck were the cops doing?’
‘They were fighting, boss.’
‘Get a hold of Thomas at our insurers. Just how hard is that to work out, Steve?’
He ended the call, not interested in Steve’s reply. The guy was paid well to do his job; there were no excuses for him not to do so.
‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ Cortina, his raven-haired Mexican wife, had been roused from her sleep by the call.
‘Just a bunch of guys back home I pay too much to do jobs they’re incapable of, that’s all. I’m going for a shower. Hey, that was some night last night, yeah?’
‘It was fine, honey, but I’m still tired.’
‘You get some more sleep. I’m going for a round of golf, you remember? You can lie in bed all day if you want.’
She laid her head back on the pillow and waved him away lazily.
He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, taking in his sagging frame. Too much good living and not enough exercise had turned him to fat, and it was time for some more liposuction on his girth.
He thought about the showroom destroyed by fire. His uncle would have cried at the thought, but for Patrick O’Rourke it was nothing.
He’d worked hard as a child, eventually graduating from Harvard with an MBA and quickly taking over the running of his uncle Tom’s car showroom. Soon it was the biggest auto sales chain in the USA, with offshoots in Canada. Now, despite his dislike for the British, he wanted to build the business in the rest of the world. He wanted lots of things, and he was used to getting his own way.
As he let the warm water wash away the last vestiges of his hangover, his thoughts turned to something else that was important to him – more important than business, even. Something he was determined to achieve.
*
‘So both you and your grandson saw these men, Mr Scally?’ said Potts.
‘Aye, we did that. Sleekit-looking pair, tae.’
‘They looked at this fire and then drove off, returning – what, you say in about twenty minutes or so?’
‘Aye, that would be aboot right, son. Maybe a while longer.’
‘And you were on the hill looking for Mr Pearson, a friend of yours?’
‘Aye, that’s right – an auld friend at that.’
‘These men, can you describe them?’
‘Hard for me tae say. You’d be better asking Kevin, he had the night glasses. But one o’ them was tall – very thin. The other bloke was shorter, stockier. Both were wearing they bloody hoods that they youngsters like so much.’
‘Hooded tops, then. You mention they both looked foreign. Why would you say that if you couldn’t see them properly?’
‘I’m nae expert in creeds an’ colours, son. I’d a quick look through Kevin’s night sight, mind you. Tae me it was the way they carried themselves – especially the big man. Tall, rangy – you know whoot I mean. Anyhow, it’s hard tae make things oot properly using thon things. They distort everything – I mean colours and that.’
‘And they had a van – what kind?’
‘I’d say definitely a Transit – no’ a new yin neither. Looked white tae me, but Kevin reckons it was mair likely light blue or green – looked different in the night glasses, he said.’
‘How long have you been friends with Cameron Pearson?’
Scally rubbed his eyes. ‘Och, near sixty years. We was at school together, though he was in a different year fae me, right enough.’
‘And Margaret Pearson – his wife – you know her well, too?’
‘Aye, of course. Do you no’ have friends that are man and wife? It’s quite normal, I think. Anyway, this is Kinloch: everyone knows everyone. I’d have thought the polis would have picked up on that by now.’
‘And you couldn’t make out the registration of the vehicle?’
‘No. It was as though the plates was splattered wae mud, or the like. Neither me nor Kevin could make them oot. Well, if he canna see them at his age I’ve nae chance, eh?’ Scally’s laugh was forced and nervous. ‘Anyhow, I’ve told you what we saw. I’ve things to be getting on with.’
‘Just a couple more questions, please, Mr Scally.’
‘Aye, if you must.’ He sighed and folded his arms across his chest.
‘You’re a former firefighter, am I right?’
‘Aye, retained fireman. I’ve been retired for a long time now, but I did it for twenty-five years. A volunteer, mark you.’
‘And you examined the fire?’
‘For a while – jeest a fire, whoot else can I say, son? Anyway, they came back, and we had tae get on oor toes quick smart, like.’
‘In your opinion, nothing unusual about the fire, then?’
‘No, no’ really. It was dark, mind.’
‘The fire officer tells us that a propellant was used – probably petrol. I’d have thought you’d have recognised something like that with your experience, Mr Scally.’
Scally shrugged his shoulders. ‘Noo that you mention it, there was a smell of fuel.’
‘Right, Mr Scally, thank you very much for your help.’ Potts collected his notes and nodded to the DC beside him. ‘Interview ends at eleven-thirty hours.’
‘Right,’ said Scally, picking his cap from the desk in front of him. ‘I hope you find Cameron – aye, and soon, tae.’
‘Indeed, Mr Scally, indeed.’ Potts stood up. ‘Oh, just one more thing, sir.’
‘Aye, whoot?’
‘Why didn’t you – or Mrs Pearson, come to that – report Cameron Pearson missing last night?’
Scally shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Is it no’ true that the polis is no’ interested until someone’s been missing for over twenty-four hours?’
‘Not necessarily, sir. It depends on the circumstances. I’d have thought, what with night falling and him not home, the obvious thing would have been to contact us, no?’
‘Maybe you’re right, son,’ said Scally with a defiant look. ‘But we’re no’ all as clever as the polis.’
On a screen in the CID suite, Acting DI Scott had watched the whole thing, scribbling down some notes as the interview progressed.
He rubbed his chin, realising he needed a shave. ‘You’re no’ telling the truth, Mr Scally,’ he murmured under his breath. ‘No, no’ at all, my man.’
21
Captain Magnus Banks stood on the deck in his best uniform saluting his guests as they passed by, ready to be ferried ashore to the delights of Kinloch and beyond. He had parties heading off t
o golf courses, distilleries, or just general sightseeing. Banks had just been in another shouting match with Commander Brachen, and though he was smiling, inside he was seething. Each one of his crew – including himself – was to be questioned by the Security Service regarding their knowledge of or acquaintance with missing crewman Majid.
Banks hated not being master of his own vessel. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and the idea that he was subject to the whims of the upstart naval officer infuriated him. Crew members, often from poor parts of the world, desperate to get back home, regularly jumped ship. They missed wives and children, had found a new love on shore, or simply a better way of making money – the possibilities were endless. Now he and his shipmates were being treated as though they were part of some plot against the nation. Perish the thought.
‘Mr O’Rourke, good morning to you!’ he shouted to the flabby American businessman with the hair weave and the bulging stomach. Despite the man’s failing efforts to stay youthful, Banks liked him, finding the car sales billionaire much less pretentious and aloof than many of his fellow passengers.
‘And a good day to you, Captain. Fine morning for the magnificent game of golf, eh, buddy?’
‘I doubt you’ll make the course before afternoon,’ said Banks, looking at his watch.
‘Yeah, we would have been ashore a whole lot earlier if you stopped throwing such great parties, Captain. Hey, and serving so many fine Scotch malts.’
‘We’re here to please, Mr O’Rourke. You know you’ll be able to see your homeland from the golf course?’
‘Hell, if I can see the Windy City from here in Scotland, I’ll give you a million bucks when we get back.’ He laughed heartily, his face turning red.
‘No, not Chicago – Ireland. I remember you telling me you were originally from Belfast.’
For a split second, O’Rourke’s face lost all trace of merriment. It was as though a shadow had passed over the large vessel, turning the bright day dull.
‘Hey, you’re right!’ he said, smile restored. ‘I should have realised that. From the other side of the peninsula we can see County Antrim, yeah?’
A Breath on Dying Embers Page 10