A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Sure – absolutely.’

  ‘Good. Thanks, Jim. And remember, if it’s too much, just stop.’

  ‘No, I welcome any diversion right now.’ His face was dark.

  ‘Give her time, Jim, yes?’

  Momentarily, Daley was confused. ‘Liz, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m trying. I take it you two have spoken – about what happened, I mean.’

  ‘Briefly, enough for me to know bits and pieces.’

  ‘If I could get my hands on him . . .’

  ‘That’s not the way, DCI Daley, and you know it.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  Symington pulled out her mobile and called for a car back to Kinloch Police Office. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll boot up the computer now.’ He hesitated. ‘By the way, who have you placed aboard the Great Britain?’

  ‘Come on, there was only one man for the job.’ She smiled.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope, Brian Scott – or should I say, Mr William Sinclair, specialist in wind energy.’

  ‘But Brian knows nothing about that kind of thing.’

  ‘He does now – sort of. Enough, I’m hoping.’

  As Daley watched his superior head for the door, he wondered just how much information about renewable energy Brian Scott could have assimilated in such a short time. He bit his lip.

  35

  Cabdi walked around the town, testing the water. If he wasn’t in the clear, he calculated he’d soon find out.

  He passed two uniformed police officers who nodded a friendly greeting. He was right; they couldn’t have identified him. He saw a bakery and suddenly felt very hungry. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Walking in, he bought a large mug of coffee and a cheese roll.

  ‘They no’ feeding you on that boat?’ asked the woman behind the counter.

  ‘Ah, they feed us very well, but I have a big appetite.’ He smiled, patting his belly.

  ‘Well, you don’t look like it. You’re like a clothes pole.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Och, nothing. Just you enjoy yourself. Most of the hotels and pubs have music on. You’re all very welcome. Have you been rolling in the mud, by the way?’

  ‘No, I went hiking to see more of your beautiful area,’ said Cabdi. ‘I’ll get changed when I go back on board.’

  He walked out of the bakery and leaned against a litterbin, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling town as he drank his coffee and ate his roll. Dotted along the streets were groups of men and women who were clearly tourists, and probably from the Great Britain. They were looking in shop windows, no doubt hunting for little reminders of their visit to Kinloch, or presents for friends and family to hand out when they returned from their trip.

  How foolish they are, he thought. They have no idea what danger lies in wait. This was the easy way of the Westerner: no cares, no worries. When a father, a mother, a daughter, a son – anyone – left their homes in the countries these people came from, their last worry was that they might lose their life. In Somalia, things were very different.

  He saw a group of very loud Americans cross the road in his direction, so decided it was time to mingle.

  He placed the empty cup and the paper bag in which his roll had been served in the bin, and looked around. A whitespired building stood up the street from where he was standing, to its side a narrow lane. He decided to make his way down this little road, away from the main thoroughfare to somewhere quieter.

  The lane opened out to a square, on each side of which shops and bars huddled around a car park. The sign above one of the bars read The Douglas Arms. Cabdi heard music and laughter coming from inside, and decided this would be as good a place as any to sit down and rest, to lose himself in a crowd and get warm.

  He entered the busy pub.

  Acting DS Potts was reading the post-mortem report on Cameron Pearson. Identity confirmed, it was now just a case of trying to find any clue as to the person or persons who had killed the unfortunate ornithologist. But there was little to go on.

  Chief Superintendent Symington breezed into the CID suite. She was making for Daley’s glass box, but stopped at Potts’s desk when he signalled to her.

  ‘Very little from the PM on Mr Pearson, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t expect there would be. If whoever killed him went to the trouble of removing his head, hands and feet to obscure his identity, it’s unlikely that they were going to leave a wealth of evidence as to who they were. The remains were only found by sheer luck.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We might be able to isolate the make of knife used to – well, to decapitate him and so on – from the serrations on the wounds. It’s a long shot, mind you.’

  ‘Even if we do, you can bet it will be from some chain store which sells thousands of them. But if that’s all we have, that’s all we have. I just hope our colleagues from the Security Service manage to come across someone up in the hills. It looks like a military exercise on Ben Saarnie – Royal Marines everywhere. Odds on it’s this Majid. Just how this has happened given the security surrounding everything, I don’t know. Keep digging, DS Potts.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He remembered the yellow Post-it note on his desk. ‘Ma’am, there was a call for you – well, for the person in charge; he initially asked for DCI Daley. It’s a Mr Manston. He didn’t sound very happy.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  Potts coughed awkwardly.

  ‘Spit it out, DS Potts.’

  ‘He says he’s been receiving threatening calls, ma’am.’

  ‘Surely you don’t need me to deal with that! It’s not as though we don’t have enough on our plate at the moment.’

  ‘It’s rather sensitive, ma’am.’

  ‘In what way is it sensitive?’

  Potts lowered his voice. ‘Apparently the calls are coming from Mrs Daley, ma’am.’

  The expression on Symington’s face changed, darkening in concert with her mood. ‘Give me the number, DS Potts.’

  He handed her the Post-it note, and she marched into Daley’s box, slamming the door behind her. Soon, she closed the blinds.

  The bar was busy as Cabdi stood behind a group of people waiting to be served. He spotted a small room through a door behind the bar. It looked less crowded, so he decided to make for that in the hope of getting a seat. His legs still ached from his hike across the hills.

  A short corridor led him into the lounge, where two men in golf gear were arguing over a scorecard in voluble French. He knew the language well, and could hear that the dispute was about their respective scores from an earlier round of the game.

  Three young women sat at another table. One of them looked at him and smiled, then said something to her friends that made them giggle conspiratorially. All in all, the place was quieter than the main bar, but most of the seats were filled.

  At the end of the narrow room sat an elderly man. He was perched at a table alone, two empty chairs at his side. Cabdi reached the counter at last and ordered a coffee from a harassed-looking barman.

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can,’ said the young man. ‘Take a seat and I’ll bring it over to you.’ He pointed to one of the chairs at the table where the old man sat staring into space.

  ‘Do you mind?’ said Cabdi with a smile.

  ‘Naw, not at all, son. Be my guest. There’s no’ many will sit beside me just noo.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?

  ‘Ach, folk in this town – no’ as nice as they look, let me tell you. Hey, you off the cruise liner?’

  Cabdi was ready for the question, and merely nodded a reply.

  ‘Lucky you, eh? She’s some vessel.’

  ‘Yes, a great ship, indeed.’

  The old man held out his hand. ‘Here, what’s your name, son?’

  ‘I’m Nassim,’ Cabdi lied.

  ‘Aye, good tae meet you. It’s nice tae have someone tae talk to. There’s
no’ too many keen tae pass the time of day with me in Kinloch, as I’ve said.’

  ‘Oh, small towns, I suppose. Always trouble with some people, yes?’

  ‘Aye, you could say that, son – wae bells on!’

  ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’

  ‘Peter, Peter Scally.’ The old man and the tall Somali shook hands.

  Symington waited for the phone to be answered. ‘Yes, may I speak to Mr Manston, please? It’s Chief Superintendent Symington from Kinloch Police Office.’

  She listened to some inane hold music for a short while until another voice came on the line.

  ‘Must say, I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously. I expected to be palmed off with some constable.’ Manston was well spoken and brusque.

  ‘I’m told you’ve been receiving threatening calls, Mr Manston.’

  ‘Yes, from a deranged woman, and I want them to stop.’

  ‘What is the nature of these calls, sir? I take it the woman is a resident of this area, since you’re calling Kinloch?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact she is. However, this isn’t just any woman. I believe she is married to one of your senior officers.’

  ‘Really, who?’ asked Symington innocently.

  ‘A Detective Chief Inspector Daley. His wife is Liz – Liz Daley.’

  ‘And what kind of things has Mrs Daley been saying to you?’

  ‘Threats – telling me she’d make sure I suffered. All sorts: all irrational, threatening, and she’s often drunk. This is happening at all times of day and night. My family – my children – are becoming very distressed.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that you have recorded any of these calls?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens, I have. I recorded the calls I received yesterday and today.’

  ‘And you know Mrs Daley?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want to know her any more.’

  ‘Did you know her through work, or socially?’

  ‘If you must know, we were in a relationship. That relationship is now over, thankfully. The woman is mad, and I want her to stop contacting me. I’m making an official complaint. And before you reply, I know just how you police officers stick together. Well, I’ll have you know that I have friends who are very senior figures in Police Scotland, and if my complaint isn’t treated properly I’ll have no hesitation in pointing it out to them, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘I see.’ Symington paused. ‘I assure you, Mr Manston, that I’m taking this matter very seriously indeed.’

  ‘Glad to hear it!’ Suddenly he sounded unsure. ‘So, you are aware of the issue?’

  ‘Yes, I am. In fact, I was with Mrs Daley – oh, not more than an hour ago.’

  For a moment, there was silence, then: ‘What has that mad woman been saying? I demand to know!’

  ‘All I’m prepared to say at this stage is that I’m dealing with what is potentially a serious crime. I’m gathering facts at the moment. And as part of that, I’d like to speak to you – quite possibly under caution. Do you understand?’

  The tone of Manston’s voice changed. Suddenly it was low and menacing. ‘Typical. Just as I expected – a cover-up. Well, my lawyer will make mincemeat of you and Liz Daley. In any case, she won’t want to take me on. If she’s made some kind of complaint, I want to know about it. And you can be sure the information will be passed on to my lawyer.’

  ‘Perhaps you have a lack of understanding of the Scottish legal system, sir. And while some women can submit to being threatened, I’m glad to say that I’m not one of them. In Scotland, it is the police who bring charges, not the complainant. So, if I have reason to believe that a crime has been committed, I have every right to investigate. As I’ve told you, I’ll be looking into this matter closely. And the likelihood is that I’ll want to speak with you more formally. Until then, good day, Mr Manston.’

  Symington replaced the receiver with great satisfaction, cutting off Manston’s protests.

  Now it was up to Liz Daley.

  36

  Brian and Ella Scott were sitting at a table with some of the Great Britain’s other passengers. There was an elderly Arab sheik – apparently an oil billionaire – and his beautiful young girlfriend; a striking Frenchwoman and her new wife who together ran an upmarket Cognac house she’d inherited from her mother; an Australian senator who’d had far too much to drink, and a quiet, bookish-looking civil servant from Edinburgh wearing a trouser suit that engulfed her, being several sizes too large. She blinked at the party behind round spectacles, flashing an occasional nervous smile.

  ‘Aye, it’s a nice day,’ said Scott, remembering Symington’s instruction to get to know as many of the passengers as possible, and pick up any gossip and potential intelligence that he could. He’d been a police officer for a long time, and she was placing much faith in his instinct to spot something wrong, out of place.

  ‘Nice day, mate? I nearly froze my bloody bollocks off when I was up on deck earlier. In Australia, this is like the fucking winter – if you’ll pardon my language, ladies.’

  Chantelle Amion stared at him in disgust. ‘But everything is so dry and dusty in your country. I was in Perth – it almost choked me.’

  ‘We make a better drop of wine than you do now, you have to admit that.’

  ‘Monsieur, your wine is cheap and cheerful – not for the connoisseur, I assure you. I’m right, Patti, yes?’ She patted her wife’s hand affectionately.

  ‘As long as it gets you pished, eh?’ said Scott, earning a kick under the table from Ella, who smiled sweetly at the Frenchwoman.

  ‘That’s a lovely dress, Chantelle.’

  ‘A Stella McCartney – I feel it is only right to wear what little your country has to offer in haute couture while I’m here.’

  ‘Mine is fae Debenhams,’ replied Ella. ‘Best dress I’ve had for a long time. William’s no’ a big spender, are you, darling?’ She had to nudge her husband, who still hadn’t got to grips with his cover identity.

  ‘Aye, right – och, I’m no’ much for dresses myself. Nane o’ that effeminate stuff where I’m from.’ Scott smiled, ignoring the French couple’s baffled stares.

  ‘You are a very funny man, Mr Sinclair,’ said Sheik Ahmad. His accent was that of an English private school rather than his homeland. ‘Please, tell me more about your turbine operation. You must understand, your renewable energy holds certain concerns for me, as a man who sells oil for a living. However, I can see which way the wind is blowing, and I am certainly thinking of investing in the future. I hope you’ll forgive my little joke.’

  Ella Scott braced herself. She’d been coaching her husband in the short time available about the mechanics and nuances behind wind turbine manufacture and usage with the books, pamphlets and websites Symington had provided. To say she wasn’t sure that her husband had mastered the subject was putting it mildly.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s no’ as simple as it looks,’ said Scott. ‘You see, things go fine when the wind’s on the go, but when it stops – well, the wheels fall off the bus, like.’

  The civil servant Alison Rutledge coughed. ‘But it’s so important for the future of energy provision in this country and worldwide, Mr Sinclair. Surely we have systems in place to store energy generated on windy days for just such circumstances?’

  Scott thought for a moment, the toe of Ella’s shoe pressing hard into his foot. ‘You’re right – aye, they big accumulators. I mind my mother off tae the wee electrical shop tae get oors filled up. You must mind o’ that, tae, Ella.’

  ‘Oh, I thought your name was Nancy?’ said Sheik Ahmad.

  Ella smiled broadly. ‘Och, Ella’s his pet name for me.’

  ‘Aye, as in ’ell o’ a woman,’ said Scott.

  ‘How quaint,’ said Chantelle. ‘I have a pet name for Patti too, don’t I?’

  Her wife prodded her. ‘But this is between us!’ They both grinned.

  ‘Tae get back tae the subject, no matter what you’ve got – big batteries, anything –
you cannae make up for they days when the wind doesnae blow,’ said Scott, folding his arms.

  Ella focused on a distant chandelier, quietly willing her husband to shut up, while Alison Rutledge shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘But you blokes are supposed to be at the cutting edge across here,’ said Frinton.

  ‘Oh, we are,’ said Ella, desperately trying to rescue the situation.

  ‘It sounds as though you know more than your husband, Nancy, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Och, he likes tae joke around – play the devil’s advocate. Don’t you, darling?’ She kicked him on the leg as hard as she possibly could without drawing attention to the fact. ‘What part of France are you from, Chantelle?’ she added, in a desperate attempt to stop her husband saying anything more.

  ‘I live in Paris. Do you know it, Nancy?’

  ‘Och, no’ as well as I’d like. William’s a bit o’ a home bird, aren’t you, eh?’

  ‘Whistling for the wind, no doubt,’ said Sheik Ahmad.

  ‘My faither always said that worked,’ said Scott.

  Ella glared at him. ‘I’m sure we’ve heard enough about your family, dear.’

  ‘No. The auld dear – my mother – she used tae put the washing oot doon in the green, you know?’

  Frinton shook his head.

  ‘Anyhow, if it wasnae a windy day, the auld fella – my faither – well, he would get doon tae the bottom o’ the close and start whistling.’

  Ella had her head in her hands.

  ‘So this is part of your business strategy, this whistling for the wind?’ said the sheik, a smile playing across his lips.

  ‘Naw, it didnae work. My poor mother would have tae haul the whole lot back up the close stairs and try and dry it beside the fire – you know, on one o’ they horse things.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Ella under her breath.

  ‘But you must have a solution to this problem of no wind – if not the whistling, I think?’ said Chantelle.

  ‘Well, we was thinking of putting some o’ they windmills up in the Arctic – it’s fair breezy up thonder.’