A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Taking a breath’s enough tae make you want tae get fair pished. I didna know Cameron very well, but he was always a quiet, decent man – no’ much of a drinker, neither.’ Annie gave Neil a knowing look.

  ‘You know fine that it’s always the quiet ones that are the worst. Sure, honest men like mysel’ are too busy working and having a small libation of an evening tae get intae any mischief. A man like that can have deep, dark thoughts. I widna be surprised if he was involved in some cult, or organised crime, or that.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another please, Annie – better make it a large one. Jeest tae handle the grief, you understand.’

  ‘You’re very quiet, Hamish. You knew Cameron better than any o’ us, eh?’

  The old man sucked quietly at his unlit pipe, his leathery face wrinkled, slanting eyes closed.

  ‘Bugger me, no’ another corpse!’ Annie wailed.

  Hamish stirred and opened his eyes. ‘No, I was jeest engaging my brain. Something you might consider doing yourself, Neil, afore opening that great gaping gob o’ yours, that is.’

  ‘Well said,’ piped up Annie.

  ‘Cameron was one o’ the gentlest souls I ever met. A kind, well-doing man; loved his birds much mair than a glass o’ whisky – aye, or even two or three glasses. Man, it’s tae be admired when a body can resist the pull o’ the bottle wae all its pleasures in favour o’ an all-consuming hobby.’

  ‘You’ve never had much room for the birds, eh, Hamish?’ said Neil, winking to his fellow customers.

  The old man’s eyes flashed. ‘I’ve only loved one woman in my life, and my heart will be true tae her until the day I die!’

  A large fisherman rose to his feet and walked across to the bar. ‘Apologise noo, you cheeky bastard. There no’ one o’ us here that will hear a word against the auld fella. Another crack like that, and you’ll get a crack – on the heid!’

  ‘Now, now, boys,’ Annie put in. ‘That’ll be enough. A man’s deid – one of oor own, tae. We should behave in a fitting manner. Neil?’

  ‘Sorry, Hamish. I was jeest breaking your balls.’

  There was a stunned silence in the room, only ended when Annie gave voice to the question on the tip of everyone’s tongue. ‘You were what?’

  ‘Och, it’s an expression fae one o’ they gangster movies. It’s a Mafia saying.’

  ‘Well, the only Mafia here is me, so if you want tae break any balls, jeest you go and dae it in another establishment. Sounds like the kind o’ caper they’d be at o’er at the Douglas Arms, certainly no’ in a respectable establishment like this.’

  Hamish shuffled to the bar, and automatically Annie moved to pour him a dram.

  ‘Haud your hand, Annie. I’ve had enough the noo. This news aboot poor Cameron has had the opposite effect on me than it has on Neilly here, obviously. Only the good Lord knows whoot torments poor Cameron had tae suffer. A man that didna deserve them, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Stay a whiles,’ said Annie, worrying about the old man being alone with his grief. ‘Mind we’ve got that party for they folk off thon big boat tomorrow night. They’ll be wanting to hear your tall tales, I’m quite sure. One for the road, eh? Look, I’ve poured it and everything.’

  ‘No, my dear, but thank you, I’ll be off. Aye, and I’ll see you tomorrow for sure. Sometimes a man needs a while tae reflect on life, if you know whoot I mean.’

  As she watched Hamish leave, she turned to Neil. ‘I hope you’re proud o’ yourself. When you’ve done wae that dram that’s your last for the night. If there’s balls tae be broken aboot it, I’ll be the one tae do it.’

  There followed a ragged cheer as Neil sipped at his last whisky of the day – in the County Hotel, at least.

  *

  Hamish leaned against the outside wall of the hotel for a while, taking in the bustling town. Alistair the butcher waved to him from his van, while across the road a huddle of young girls was staring at something on a phone, laughing and giggling as they did so. Jean Duncan, pulling a shopping trolley, said hello as she passed by and commented on the dreadful fate of Cameron Pearson.

  He watched Archie Dixon haul a sack of potatoes on his back, then bundle it into the back of his car, as his wife Mhairi chided him about something or other. He noted how interesting their conversation was to Amy McKay, purposefully slowing her stride as she neared the car, better to hear just what was being said.

  He recalled a night much like this, standing with his old skipper Sandy Hoynes as they chewed the fat after a few drams and shared a convivial smoke before they took their separate paths home. It seemed like yesterday, but it was a long time ago.

  As Hamish puffed blue tobacco smoke into the air, he remembered the day when news such as today’s would have seen everyone in Kinloch scuttle for hearth and home, keeping their families close, while at the same time thanking God that they weren’t the ones lying dead.

  That things had changed there was no doubt. But for Hamish nothing seemed to have altered for the better. He feared the day when the wee town where he’d grown up and lived all his life turned into just any other place, where community was of little value, and friends and neighbours were to be found on the screens of new-fangled devices and not across the garden fence, on the street, or over a dram or two at the County.

  Maybe he was just getting old, and the way he felt now was the way old men down the centuries had felt about the changes they’d seen in their lifetimes. Och, he wasn’t sure – perhaps it was just a touch of melancholy. The glums could hit any man with a taste for the water of life, especially on days like this.

  As he reflected on the changes the passage of years had brought, something niggled at his conscience – had done since he’d heard the news.

  He’d never been a man to tell tales. He remembered his father giving him a swift clout round the lug when he’d run to tell him that Jamie Morrans had kicked the football in his face deliberately.

  Don’t tell tales, son, jeest you go back and do something aboot it. His father’s voice was as clear in his head now as it had been all those years ago.

  Now, though, he felt he must heed only part of the wisdom imparted to him on that day. Instead of turning left down Main Street to begin the long walk home, he turned right, heading up the hill for Kinloch Police Office.

  When Patrick O’Rourke arrived at Machrie he took the time to stand and look across the water to the place of his birth. Though he’d never returned to Belfast – or the island of Ireland, come to that – since leaving as a child, the place still burned in his heart. Sometimes it was a warm, comforting feeling; on other occasions – most, in fact – the hatred he felt for what had been done to his family made him feel almost sick.

  And there it was; he could almost touch the place.

  ‘Are you ready to lose fifty thousand dollars, Mr O’Rourke?’ said Khan, taking short quick steps towards the first tee along with the tall McMaster, their UK civil service minder, the man who wanted to persuade them to invest in UK plc.

  ‘Ready? Sure I’m ready, but not to lose our bet. I just hope for your sake that those steel mills of yours are working as fast as they can,’ he replied, smiling broadly.

  ‘All over the world, Mr O’Rourke.’

  Before they teed off he turned back to take another look at County Antrim over his shoulder, the smile already gone from his lips.

  24

  Brian Scott was waiting for a cup of coffee to drop from the machine in the office canteen when Sergeant Shaw appeared.

  ‘A visitor for you, sir.’

  ‘Will you cut oot this sir stuff. They pips on my shoulder earlier are like snowdrops on the river, a moment white, then gone for ever.’

  ‘Burns.’

  ‘What, the coffee?’

  ‘No, what you’ve just said – it’s from a Rabbie Burns poem.’

  ‘I thought Jimmy made it up. He’s forever saying it. Mind you, just the kind o’ cheery stuff you get from him, eh?’

  ‘Now you’re at the same patt
er. Must be something to do with rising in the ranks.’

  ‘I can think o’ one o’ my own sayings tae answer that.’ Scott pulled the cardboard cup from the machine and took a sip of warm coffee. ‘So, who’s this visitor?’

  ‘Your old pal Hamish.’

  ‘Shit! I’d love to chat wae the old boy, but I’ve got my hands full here. Can you fend him off?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s in for a yarn. Says he has some important information to pass on.’

  ‘The price o’ fish, likely.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Scott winked. ‘Tell you what, gie me a couple o’ minutes and send him through tae my office.’

  ‘Woo, your office.’ Shaw made a gesture with his hands under his chin.

  ‘And you can . . .’

  ‘How far are you into setting everything up for the investigation into Mr Pearson’s murder, DI Scott?’ Symington had appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Things are in place, ma’am. I’m just about to interview a witness now, in fact.’

  ‘Good stuff. I’m having a quick coffee and a sandwich, and then I’ll have to go and tell our Security Service friends on the boat that we have a problem. I want the search for these guys in the Transit van widened. We’re looking at NPR around West Dunbartonshire, all approaches to the road down, to see if we can pick up this van.’

  ‘Could have come via Arran, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, there are a number of places from which they could have sprung. It’s our job to find out where they came from and where they are now. I’ll let you know how I get on when I’m afloat. Good luck with your witness, DI Scott.’

  Cabdi was stretched out on the grass beside his tent in their campsite amongst the trees, fast asleep under a rough blanket. Faduma watched him with simmering hatred.

  As far as he’d been led to believe, they’d started out on this enterprise as equals, but now it was obvious just who was in charge. The thought fed his anger, and combined with the inertia made him agitated beyond tolerance.

  As he gazed, the echo of the great ship’s horn sounded through the trees. He was frustrated – how was this advancing the cause? They were sitting around doing nothing in an old tent in a damp pine forest, while those he hated so much enjoyed themselves in the lap of luxury.

  Cabdi’s mouth was gaping open now, his breath heavy; he was clearly in a deep sleep.

  Quietly, Faduma got to his feet and made his way to the back of the old Transit. He opened one of the rear doors slowly, knowing that it needed to be oiled and not wishing to wake the other man.

  Carefully, silently, he removed the big steel box from the back of the van. He laid it carefully on the ground, closed the door, and hefted the heavy metal box by one of its stout handles. He made his way into the trees, doing his best to do so as quietly as possible.

  Now was the time to act; now was the time to avenge his brothers and sisters who had died across the world in the battle against the Infidel. Sitting waiting only increased the risk of being caught. Once his mission was accomplished, he didn’t care. Cabdi could kill him – it would be for the best. Faduma knew he was heading for paradise, when he had sent the souls of many unbelievers to hell.

  It was time.

  Back in his crumpled suit, Brian Scott felt much more at ease. He’d enjoyed seeing his old friend, but was still worried about his health.

  Daley had offered to do some work on the murder case from home, but Symington had firmly refused.

  He’d noticed that Liz was now making no effort to hide the cuts, lumps and bruises on her face, and he admired the way Symington had ignored them, though he knew she must have wondered what had happened. Whatever her thoughts, she hadn’t mentioned anything as they drove back to Kinloch Police Office.

  A knock on the door, and Hamish’s familiar olive-skinned, wrinkled face appeared around it.

  ‘Am I fine tae come in, Brian – Inspector?’ he said.

  ‘No’ you as well! Brian will dae just fine, Hamish. Now, come in and take a seat. I’m afraid I cannae offer you a dram, just the bilge that passes for coffee fae oor machine – or tea, if you prefer.’

  ‘Och no, you’re fine, Brian. I know you’re a busy man, whoot wae poor – well, wae whoot’s happened. So I’ll no’ take up much o’ your time.’

  Scott studied the serious look on the old man’s face, seeing none of his usual bonhomie, or natural charm. That something was troubling Hamish was very clear.

  ‘Right then, fire away, Hamish. I’m all ears.’

  ‘I know you’ll no’ want tae confirm it, but I know – the whole town knows fine – that Cameron Pearson was the unfortunate soul dragged fae the Sound.’

  ‘You’re right, Hamish. I cannae say anything else right now, but we’ll be asking questions soon enough – asking everybody in the area.’

  ‘Well, I have some information on the matter.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Aye, I do that.’

  Scott leaned forward. ‘Just what is this information? No’ just local tittle-tattle, I hope.’

  ‘No, nor nothing of the kind. It’s concerning Peter – Peter Scally.’

  Hamish had the detective’s attention now. Something about Scally’s demeanour – his interview – had set off a warning light in Scott’s mind. Maybe Hamish knew why. ‘What aboot Mr Scally?’

  ‘Let me tell you, I’ve thought long and hard aboot this. I’m no telltale, Brian. As far as I’m concerned folk’s business is their own.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I was very fond o’ Cameron. We worked on the same boat for a while – och, when he was jeest a boy. Trouble was, he was mair interested in creatures wae feathers than the ones wae scales. He didna last long as a fisherman. But we’ve been friends ever since; aye, and me and him have chewed the fat doon the pier most weeks aboot bird migration and the like. The man was an expert, no doubt aboot it.’

  ‘I don’t see where you’re going, Hamish.’

  ‘Well, now, you see, Peter Scally – a snake by any man’s measure – he and Maggie Pearson, Cameron’s wife, are more than jeest friendly, if you know whoot I mean. When I heard he was up on the hill looking for Cameron and then a body was found – well, I jeest couldna keep it tae myself.’

  ‘So they’re having an affair, eh?’

  ‘They are that, and have been for years. The whole toon will back me up on the subject. I’m no’ sayin’ Cameron didna know, but if he did, he kept it tae himself, for Maggie was always the apple of his eye.’

  ‘Long way from having an affair tae killing someone, Hamish.’

  ‘Aye, I dare say. But for me, I widna put anything past that bugger Peter Scally, and that’s a fact. I’m jeest telling you so as you know. There might be nothing in it, but I can guarantee he said nothing about that when he was speaking to you.’

  ‘I cannae officially say you’re right – but you are.’ Scott winked. ‘This is serious, and if you don’t mind, keep it to yourself that you’ve told me, Hamish, right?’

  ‘Of course. Believe it or not, I know when tae open my gob and when tae keep it shut. Might be hard tae believe, but there you are. I’ll say nothing, I swear.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I ask how Mr Daley is? I’ve – we all have – been worried aboot the big fella.’

  ‘He’s no’ bad at all, Hamish. Had me worried, mind you, but hopefully on the mend. I’ll tell him you’re asking for him.’

  The old man stood and nodded at Scott. ‘Please do, Brian. I’ll be getting back hame. It’s getting late, and I’m right melancholy today.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Hamish. I appreciate what you’ve done. I know it doesnae come easy – giving information to the polis. Where I come fae it was considered tae be worse than stabbing your granny. Can I get you a lift home?’

  ‘Och, no, I’ll be fine. Maybe a wee walk will do wonders for the glums. I’ll see you aboot. Mind, I’m not saying Scally did the dirty deed, but he’ll know more than he’s saying, tha
t’s for sure. And I hope you catch whoever did this tae Cameron.’ Head bowed, he left the glass box, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Scott rubbed his chin, thought for a few moments, then reached for the phone on his desk. ‘Potts, I want you tae round up Peter Scally and his grandson again, but go canny. Just say we need a wee bit more information, casual like.’

  25

  The expensive, specially adapted drone lay at Faduma’s feet. He was standing just beyond the line of trees, with a clear view down from the hill to the loch below and the cruise ship in its midst.

  He watched silently, the drone’s remote control poised in his hands, as the ship’s launches ferried passengers back and forth from Kinloch’s pontoons. He’d armed the device, and saw the sun glinting off the deadly weapon with a certain pleasure.

  The drone was packed with explosives, and that firepower would be aimed at the Great Britain. Such objects were commonplace now. Photographers, hobbyists, all kinds of folk had them, and they went almost unnoticed in the West these days.

  Faduma had rehearsed his role a hundred times. He’d worked out the new trajectory to the target earlier that day, and calculated the best moment during the drone’s flight to veer for the vessel, aiming for the portion of the ship where most damage was likely to be caused. After hours of practice, the console felt comfortable – familiar – in his hand, almost part of him. He could fly the drone without reference to the hand-held unit, muscle memory and senses doing the job, like a virtuoso musician playing perfectly with eyes closed. It was as though he and the device were now as one. Together they would shake the world, even from this remote place in a country he’d grown to despise.

  At first, they’d found him a job in a back-street garage as cover. No expensive modern vehicles there, just old wrecks poor people were desperate to keep going. He’d found the work interesting, but one of the other mechanics was a racist, and he began to hate going there only to suffer the man’s jibes.