A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We’re already looking for his van.’

  ‘Good work. If Brachen gets back in touch, tell him I’m on my way.’ She looked at DS Potts and shrugged. ‘We just missed them. I want you to arrest the man we were talking to. He must have seen something, and any piece of information we can get just now is invaluable. I’ll send the van to fetch you. I’m heading back to the office.’

  As she walked back down the street to where their car was parked, she cursed Brachen for the delay. More than ever, she was now convinced that the second drone man, as she’d come to think of him, was the real danger. Yet things still didn’t make sense. To go to the trouble of alerting the authorities by attacking the Great Britain with a drone containing no explosives was pointless.

  Scott was stretched out on his bed when a knock sounded on the door. A tall man in a dark suit stood before him.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Sinclair. I’d like a word, if I may.’ He flashed an ID card.

  ‘Oh aye? What aboot?’

  ‘If I could come in, please, sir.’

  Scott held open the door and let his visitor into the cabin. Ella was off having a swim and a sauna while he tried to make sense of the images he’d taken of the map he’d found in O’Rourke’s bathroom.

  ‘My name is Haddon. I’m with security here on board, sir. I’ll come straight to the point. We’ve had a complaint.’

  ‘If it’s my wife’s snoring, there’s bugger all she can do about it. Her ain mother was exactly the same – runs in the family, so tae speak.’

  ‘No, sir, something more serious than that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Aw fuck, don’t tell me we’re sinking!’ said Scott.

  ‘Just under an hour ago you were spotted in another cabin, sir.’

  ‘Och, see this boat. I get fair confused. I was on the wrong floor, son.’

  ‘And the wrong side of the ship, sir.’

  ‘Aye, I’m hellish when it comes tae directions. My wife will tell you, cannae find my way anywhere. I apologise for my mistake.’

  ‘The cleaner we spoke to was under the impression that there was something suspicious about your behaviour, sir.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You looked furtive, she said.’

  ‘See, I’ve just got that kind o’ face, son. I was always being picked up the police, just because of the way I looked when I was a boy,’ continued Scott convincingly.

  ‘Well, there appears to be nothing missing from the complainant’s cabin, so he’s willing to overlook the matter. I must warn you, though, that such is the nature of this trip, if you were to do something like this again we would have no choice but to ask you to leave. I hope that’s clear, sir.’

  ‘Aye, crystal clear. Next time I’m on my travels roon the boat, I’ll make sure and take my wife wae me. She might be a right bad snorer, but she’s got a great sense o’ direction – like one o’ they dogs.’

  ‘What dogs, sir?’

  ‘They ones that find folk in the snow – big fluffy things wae sad eyes.’

  ‘A St Bernard, sir?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right enough, though she’s no saint, mind. Easy seen why you’re in security, eh? No’ much will get past you, I’m thinking.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He walked to the door. ‘Oh, and it’s a ship, sir.’

  ‘Well, I didnae think it was a hoover.’

  ‘No, you called it a boat – it’s a ship.’

  ‘Aye, right. I’ll stow that away wae the rest o’ my nautical knowledge. And let me tell you, there’s a lot o’ that.’

  ‘If you would just be more careful where you’re going, sir, that would be much appreciated.’

  Scott watched him go, then leaned out of the door. ‘Hey, how did thon cleaner know it was me?’

  ‘You had your name tag on your jacket, sir.’

  Scott closed the door and lay back on the bed to examine his phone and forward a copy of what he’d photographed to Symington. Just as he was about to send the email, another knock sounded at the door.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s like Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night!’

  When he turned the handle the door was flung open with some force, knocking him to the ground. As he tried to get back to his feet and collect his thoughts, he was bent double by a kick to his stomach, winding him and sending him back to the floor.

  Then he felt a strong grip on his throat, stopping his breath.

  49

  Brachen sat beside Symington in one of the interview rooms at Kinloch Police Office. The Royal Navy commander hadn’t been particularly keen on this course of action, preferring to take Majid to the Great Britain for questioning, but Symington had insisted. The man had been intercepted in a bay where he’d moored his little craft and erected a tent. He’d set a fire there, bordered by some boulders. And it seemed likely that this was where he’d been since disappearing from the cruise ship.

  Majid looked miserable and confused as he sat beside local duty lawyer Arthur MacPhee opposite Symington and Brachen. He was a gaunt-faced man with a wispy dark beard, well below average height, wearing a tatty jumper and dirty jeans, and no more than thirty-five years old.

  ‘Tell us why you left the Great Britain without informing your supervisor, Mr Majid?’ Symington began.

  The man shrugged. ‘I was given money. I was told to hide for a time, then go to the village – I can’t remember its name – when I received a message. This is what I did.’

  ‘Firdale?’

  ‘Yes, that is it.’ Majid’s English was hesitant, but good. ‘At a certain time I was to go to the local shop on the pier, ask for some items and return in the boat to my campsite.’

  Brachen sat back in his chair. He was dressed in civvies and had removed his suit jacket to reveal an immaculately laundered white shirt. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘What made you do this? I mean, did you know the person who asked you to leave your job without a word and do what he told you?’

  Majid looked at the floor. ‘No. I went into my cabin after work one night. In it was a bag.’

  ‘What was in the bag, Mr Majid?’ said Symington.

  ‘More money than I can earn in three years, all in US dollars.’

  ‘And what else?’ barked Brachen.

  ‘Just a note and a mobile phone. The note told me what to do if I wanted to keep the money.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘As I’ve told you. Go to where I made camp. A car had been left for me in Kinloch – well, just outside the town. I followed the directions and ended up where you found me. I was to wait, then go to the shop and do as they asked.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying they?’ said Brachen.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know – he, she, they – I don’t know! I was warned that if I took the money and did not do what I was told there would be consequences.’

  ‘Then you have no idea who provided the money and asked you to do this? Surely you must have suspected that something was wrong, Mr Majid – especially when you were threatened in that way? I’m afraid I don’t believe you!’ Brachen thumped the desk in front of him engendering a concerned look from the lawyer.

  ‘My family in Pakistan are very poor, sir. The only way I have of providing for them is to send money home from my work on the cruise ships. Recently, my daughter was taken ill. She needs an operation. The money is enough to pay for that. What would you do?’ He stared at Brachen with a mixture of sadness and defiance.

  ‘And this phone you were given, where is it now?’ asked Symington.

  ‘I was told to throw it into the sea on the way back from Firdale.’

  ‘So how on earth were you to learn what to do next?’ Brachen snapped.

  ‘I was to stay at the camp for another day, then go back in the car and leave for home.’

  ‘Pakistan?’ said Symington.

  ‘I was told to join the crew of a freighter heading to Pakistan. Work my passage. The letter said that everything was arranged and that I would
be able to take the money with me, no questions asked.’

  ‘Surely you must have wondered why this was happening? I mean, you don’t get handed a big bag of money and asked to go camping for a couple of days and not think that strange?’

  Majid lowered his head. ‘I wanted to save my daughter. It all seemed very simple, and I couldn’t see anything wrong in doing what I did. I have not robbed or harmed anyone, yet here I am being held prisoner.’

  ‘And the note you were given? What happened to that, Mr Majid?’

  ‘I ripped it up and threw it into the sea. That is what I was told to do, and that is what I did.’

  Symington leaned forward and pressed a button, ending the interview.

  ‘Am I free to go?’ asked Majid hopefully.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Brachen standing to put on his jacket.

  ‘If I may interject.’ This was MacPhee. ‘Mr Majid can be held for, oh, another eighteen hours.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Of course you can ask for an extension, but under the circumstances – certainly as things stand – I see no crime committed here. If the money hasn’t been stolen, nor the vessel and vehicle Mr Majid used, then there is no reason for his confinement beyond the accepted terms of detention. In short, if you cannot charge him in the next eighteen hours, in my opinion, he must go free.’

  Majid smiled at the lawyer and bowed his head, hands together in a praying motion. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

  ‘This is now a matter of national security. Do yourself a favour, MacPhee, and shut the fuck up!’

  The lawyer stared at him, unmoved. ‘As the tape is now off, and the interview officially over, I shall record what you’ve just said to me in writing, Commander.’ He looked at Symington. ‘I trust you will witness Commander Brachen’s comments, Chief Superintendent?’

  Symington nodded, then looked at Brachen, her face like thunder. ‘A word with you, please.’

  Ella Scott opened the door of the cabin to find her husband lying motionless on the floor.

  ‘Brian!’ She rushed to his side, and instinctively tried to lift his head from the floor.

  Scott began to stir. ‘What the fuck?’ he murmured, his voice slurred.

  ‘Come on, I’ll help you onto the bed. What the hell happened to you?’

  Though he was still unsteady on his feet, with his wife’s help Scott managed to stagger onto the bed. As he lay back Ella noticed that his eye was red and swollen and blood was trickling from his nose.

  ‘Who did this to you, Brian?’

  ‘That O’Rourke guy. Listen, Ella, I need tae get hold o’ Symington, rapid like.’

  ‘Damn right! This guy needs tae get huckled, big time. Then you need tae see a doctor.’

  ‘Naw, I’m fine. Stop fussing. It’s no’ the first time I’ve had a right battering, as you well know.’

  ‘Oh, somebody comes into oor cabin – I take it that it happened here – gies you a good kicking, and everything’s fine? No’ likely, Inspector Scott!’

  ‘Get me a phone, woman. This is important!’

  ‘A phone! It’s a bloody ambulance you need,’ she said, looking around nonetheless for his mobile, which she found lying on the floor.

  ‘Thanks, doll.’ Scott dialled Symington’s number. ‘Answer, for fuck’s sake!’ he said, cursing again when the call went to voicemail.

  ‘Are you no’ just going tae leave her a message?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, darling. Here, I’ll just write a wee note and send it on a pigeon. This is something she needs to know now!’ Scott fumbled again with the phone. ‘See these bloody phones! They keep handing me new ones, and none o’ the damned things are the same.’

  ‘Here, gie the bloody thing tae me, you stupid bastard.’

  ‘Florence Nightingale here, eh?’ Scott touched his bleeding nose gingerly with one hand as he handed the phone to Ella with the other.

  ‘Huh, the polis inspector that cannae work his mobile phone! Are you wanting tae phone the station?’

  ‘No, the cinema.’

  ‘If you don’t shut it, you’ll have broken teeth tae deal with as well as whatever’s happened tae your coupon.’ She pressed the screen a few times and handed the mobile back to her husband. ‘Here. I take it you’ll manage tae speak?’

  As he heard the ringing tone Scott looked at her. ‘When I’m finished, I’m going tae stick this phone right up your . . . Hello, it’s DS Scott here. I need tae speak tae Symington!’

  ‘DI Scott, numb nuts,’ said Ella.

  ‘Och, does it really matter?’

  Ella Scott shook her head and went to the bathroom to get a flannel and some hot water to attend to her husband’s injuries. Whatever had happened to him, she could see he was worried – very worried.

  Daley was watching the final scenes of the film when he noticed that his son was fast asleep at his side. He smiled down at the little boy.

  ‘You’re tired today, James,’ he said quietly. No wonder, he thought. It’s been an eventful one.

  Gently, he lifted the boy in his arms, ignoring another twinge in his chest. He’d made a conscious decision not to think about what might be wrong with him. What would be would be. He pushed open the door to his son’s room and carefully laid James in his bed, tucking him in and switching on his nightlight.

  As Daley looked on, James sighed in his sleep, turning his head on the pillow, and muttered, ‘Mummy.’ Daley felt his throat tighten. Here was his son, and he was determined to stay with him as long as he could. He pictured his own father in his mind’s eye, the look on his face as he’d stared at his son in the moments before he died.

  ‘I’m sorry, son,’ was all he’d said before his eyes closed for the last time.

  Daley walked from the room, closing the door gently as he went. He’d made sure the baby alarm was on. Not that James needed it now, but Daley was over-cautious when it came to something as precious as his little boy.

  He decided to call the hospital and see how his wife was.

  ‘She’s doing fine, Mr Daley,’ said the staff nurse kindly. ‘She’s asleep again, or I’d let you have a word with her. She’s been through a lot, so best that she gets as much rest as possible.’

  Daley thanked her and put down the phone. He was relieved that she seemed none the worse for her overdose, and gave silent thanks for it.

  Resisting the urge to pour himself a dram, he looked out of the lounge window as the golden light of evening adorned the loch, turning ripples in the water into glittering jewels as boats from the Great Britain ferried people to and fro.

  He remembered that this was the night some locals were to be invited on board, and smiled at the thought of Hamish having a conversation with the duke and duchess.

  He’d been warned off alcohol for the time being by his doctor, and now he understood what a gargantuan effort Brian Scott had made to kick his booze addiction. Though Daley hadn’t plumbed the depths of alcoholism his friend had sunk to, he still felt the strong desire to sit with a comforting dram to ease his troubled mind.

  He picked his iPad off the couch and looked at the music he might play to help him relax. As he scrolled through the tracks in his library, his hand hovered over The Blue Nile’s Hats album, but he still couldn’t listen to that song. Instead he searched for ELO’s greatest hits, and played the album through his stereo. The first bars of ‘Evil Woman’ quietly rang out. For long enough the song had reminded him of Liz.

  As the music washed over him, it brought back memories in the way only music could do – memories both happy and sad. Where had the years gone? It seemed these days that no sooner had he raised his glass to bring in another New Year than the next festive season was upon him. Though he tried to stop the thought before it began, he couldn’t help but wonder how many more years he’d have to toast the beginning of another one.

  Unsettled, melancholy, and missing the soothing effects of alcohol, he decided to do what he always did when everything became too much for him to bear: work.


  His computer had gone into sleep mode, but a touch of the keyboard saw the screen flash back into life. He was now at the final stage of his checks, the crew of the Great Britain. With a sigh, he pressed a key and began a search he thought to be futile, but nonetheless had to be done.

  50

  ‘Just what the hell did you think you were doing in there, Commander?’ snapped Symington. ‘This is a police office, not some back street torture room. No one gets threatened in my station, got it?’

  Barchen yawned theatrically. ‘I suggest you spend a little more time on the matter in hand rather than your wearisome morals, Chief Superintendent,’ he sneered. ‘I’ll get the spooks on this, and Mr Majid will be eaten up by the system and spat out whenever it suits. We’re not restrained by your ridiculous rules. Please try to remember that.’

  ‘You are one arrogant bastard – also an arrogant bastard who has everything wrong. The second drone man does exist, and he matches the descriptions from America.’

  ‘So what? He’s on the run because the pap he was with fucked up, fell down a hill and killed himself after botching a photo opportunity. He’s worried in case he gets the blame. We’ve checked out the man found dead on your hill, and he has no terrorist connections – utterly clean.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘That’s classified, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And what’s his record as a photo journalist?’

  ‘Surely you’re not stupid enough to believe that only the accredited press search for images they think they can sell on these days? Every bugger and his friend are at it. We had a chap try to get aboard in Glasgow to snap the passengers. This whole thing has been a fiasco. It’s unsettled those on the Great Britain, and we’ve been run ragged for no bloody reason.’

  Symington smiled. ‘So, you’ve got a crewman who’s paid a considerable amount of money to disappear for a couple of days, complete with specific instructions, just for fun. You also have a drone hit the cruise ship you are tasked to protect, leaving one man dead and the other on run, and you think there’s nothing to worry about?’

  ‘Yes. It has all been a combination of circumstances that have had no impact on my task. Who knows what this Majid was going to be asked to do when he reached the freighter bound for Pakistan? My guess is he was to end up as some drugs mule. Our men are checking out the vessel on which he was due to take passage.’