‘That doesn’t make sense. If you’re trying to find someone to quietly smuggle drugs – whatever – across continents, you’re not going to pick a person the authorities are likely to be looking for because he’s just gone AWOL from a ship with the richest passenger list in history. And there’s more you don’t know, Commander.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ he said mockingly.
‘A local man was caught on the town’s CCTV cameras with the second drone man. I visited his home – blood everywhere. We’ve reason to believe this mystery man you think so innocent has taken him captive. Is that the action of someone who presents no danger?’
‘All I know is it’s nothing to do with me, or the Great Britain. We just have to get this local yokel reception out of the way and then we can bugger off.’
‘So the electrical problems are fixed?’
‘Yes, back to normal. If it was up to me we’d sail now, but . . .’
‘But it’s not up to you.’
‘No, but hey-ho. We’ll soon be under way.’
‘Where’s your next port of call, Commander?’
‘Belfast, if you must know.’
‘I have a theory. I think Majid, the men with the drone and the sudden failure of the Great Britain’s electrical systems are no coincidence.’
‘Bloody hell! Are police officers like this everywhere, or just in this damnable place? All of you seeing hidden dangers round every corner, like children scared of the dark?’
Ignoring him, Symington continued. ‘I think all that has gone on has been done to keep you and your team busy – eyes off the ball, if you like.’
‘For what reason?’
‘We have information that one of your passengers has connections to Irish Republican paramilitary groups – or did once upon a time.’
‘Once upon a time. How apt, Chief Superintendent. Your whole theory is a fairy story. Every passenger has been thoroughly vetted, as have the crew. I hope you’re not naïve enough to think that some of the wealthiest business people in the world today don’t have some skeletons in their closets? I assure you, we’re well aware of the risk profile of all our guests, and none of them presents a danger.’
She stared at him. ‘So bugger off, Symington – is that it?’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself – in the nicest possible sense.’ He smiled sickeningly.
‘Well, I hope for your sake – and for the sake of those you have a duty to protect – that you’re not mistaken. As a police officer you get a nose for things that aren’t quite right.’
‘Like a dog, you mean?’
‘Go back to your ship, Commander.’ Though Symington’s voice was quiet, her face spoke of a much more heated emotion.
‘With pleasure. Get Majid ready. I’m taking him with me to be handed to the Security Service.’
‘That’s not happening. Majid is in my custody, and in it he will remain until I am told otherwise.’
Brachen towered over her as he stood. ‘My father was from Dublin, you know.’
‘And why are you telling me that?’
‘Just to add to your obvious paranoia. Good day, Chief Superintendent.’
As he swaggered out of the room, Symington’s phone rang.
‘DI Scott for you, ma’am.’
Scally had driven to some broken-down garages at the foot of a hill, where he parked the van.
‘We’re on foot fae here,’ he said to his captor, looking at him nervously.
‘Where do we go?’
Scally pointed across the road. ‘Thonder is an auld railway cutting; never many folk aboot. It leads tae the seafront. From there it’s a few hundred yards tae the new pier and the shed I telt you aboot.’
‘And this is the best way to get there – no other route?’
‘It was you that said they’d be looking for the van. I came o’er the Doctor’s Road and up past the scheme. No cameras on that way. Wae the motor hidden here behind these garages, we can leg it doon tae the shed. It’s the only way I can think o’.’
‘Okay. That is what we do. But I warn you, Mr Scally, if you do not do exactly as I say, you’ve been warned of the consequences.’
‘Aye, I’ve got the message.’
‘Good. You lead the way.’
As casually as possible, the pair headed across the road and down the old railway cutting, hidden by its steep, tree-lined banks. As they neared the end of it a boy appeared on a bike. He stared at the tall African in the red baseball cap as he approached.
‘How’ye, son,’ said Scally calmly. ‘You watch your tyres, there’s some broken glass up there.’
‘Aye, cheers, mister,’ said the boy, still staring at Cabdi, who smiled broadly back.
‘Right, we’re jeest aboot tae come oot intae the open. This is the dangerous bit.’
‘How fast can you run, Mr Scally?’
‘Are you kidding? Anyhow, if we run we’ll attract attention. Jeest walk and keep your heid doon. Follow me.’
Suddenly they were out in the open, the loch before them on the other side of a promenade of grass bordered by a pathway. To their right was the island protecting the loch, almost obscured by the sleek lines of the large cruise ship, much nearer across the water. The evening sun was lowering, and Scally shaded his eyes as they crossed the road and walked down a narrow path to the promenade proper.
‘See, they’re loading folk on and off they boats that ferry everybody oot tae the cruise ship fae the pontoons over on the far side of that pier.’
‘And where are we going?’
‘This way.’
The unlikely pair turned left on the promenade, passed a small play park, mercifully empty of children, and headed for buildings Cabdi had seen from the hill.
‘This is a ferry terminal – there will be people about.’
‘Nah, no boats today, only at weekends. We’re fine.’
A woman with a small dog was walking towards them, though she was more interested in the Great Britain, eyes fixed on it as she passed them by without a glance.
A few yards further on they reached the ferry terminal buildings. Scally was right: though a crowd of people was gathered on the opposite pier, their attention was focused elsewhere, on the pontoons beyond, where guests were queuing, waiting to be transported to the Great Britain.
Scally bustled past the ferry terminal, dark within and clearly closed. Beside it were three decrepit buildings. Scally made for a blue door at the gable end and bent down.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Cabdi.
‘Getting this,’ Scally said, moving a weight designed to keep lobster creels on the seabed and revealing a rusting mortise key. He thrust the key into a hole in the ramshackle door and with some effort managed to push it open.
The two men entered the musty building, and Scally locked the door behind them. The space was cluttered, full of old fishing nets, floats and other fishing paraphernalia, at odds with the drum kit and two amplifiers placed against the rear wall. At the front of the room were two filthy windows, one with a long crack running diagonally across its length. Through them shone the setting sun, highlighting dust motes as Cabdi did his best to clean the uncracked one using his forearm, sending a large spider scurrying for a darkened corner of the window frame.
‘I can’t see,’ he said, frustration plain in his voice.
‘Here, use this.’ Scally handed him an old brass mariner’s telescope. Though its glass was almost as encrusted with dirt as the window, Cabdi could now make out figures standing on the quayside across the short stretch of water.
‘This will do,’ he said, focusing on the crowd of people on the pier.
Behind him, Scally eyed an old mallet used by the net makers who had once inhabited the building. He sidled towards it as quietly as he could.
‘Take your chance, Mr Scally,’ said Cabdi, still looking through the telescope at the scene across the harbour. ‘Trust me, I will break your head in two before you can hit me with anything. Get back and sit
by the wall. Now!’
Scally sighed in frustration, but knew when he was beaten. He shuffled to the back of the room and perched on an amp. ‘Whoot are you looking for? I’m telling you, the place will be crawling wae security and polis. You’ll get spotted straight away.’
Cabdi lowered the telescope and turned to face the local man. ‘Yes, but I have you, Mr Scally.’ His smile was broad, but not encouraging.
51
The excited crowd of locals were waiting their turn to be taken the short distance across the loch to the Great Britain. They chatted enthusiastically, their discussions punctuated by the odd flurry of laughter, especially when old MacSporran the newsagent’s false teeth fell out and landed in the loch with a plop as he was boarding the launch. He stared back at his fellow townsfolk on the quayside and managed to mash out his feelings on the subject. ‘Fuckshake, it’ll be the shoup for me the night.’
Councillor Charlie Murray was dressed in an evening suit bursting at the seams. The collar of his shirt, clearly too small for his thick neck, looked likely to decapitate him at any moment. ‘Here, I should be at the front o’ the queue, whoot wae me being on the council.’
‘If you manage to get on that wee boat wae your clothes intact, you should be grateful,’ shouted someone from the crowd.
‘I’ll have you know this suit came fae one o’ the finest tailors in London!’ Murray retorted.
‘Aye, in 1967!’ replied his anonymous interlocutor. ‘You’ve near doubled in size since then.’
As laughter rang out, Hamish ran his finger round the collar of his own shirt. It had probably once been white, but was clearly – like Charlie Murray’s suit – suffering from the ravages of time and was now a deep ivory colour. He was wearing a blue tweed jacket with leather patches on each elbow, above a faded kilt that had also seen better days. What set off his outfit though was the wide orange tie, knotted awkwardly at his neck. He fumbled around in a sporran hanging far too low, and fetched out his pipe and a small skein of tobacco.
‘Could you no’ jeest take off that tie, Hamish,’ said Annie at his side.
‘Indeed not! Whoot kind o’ man goes tae meet some o’ the wealthiest folk on the planet wae no tie on? You’ve got some strange ideas, Annie.’
‘Better nae tie than that tie,’ she told him.
‘This is a pure silk tie. It cost me near three shillings when I bought it.’
‘In whoot century?’
‘Nane o’ your cheek – that blue dress you’ve got on has seen a fair few outings, unless I’m much mistaken.’
‘I’ll have you know, Hamish, that this dress is haute couture. I got it in a charity shop in Glasgow. It’s all the rage noo, saving the planet by wearing used clothes – vintage, they’re called.’
‘How’s that saving the planet? And I see this vintage premise clearly doesna cover ties.’
‘There’s vintage, and there’s shite. I wouldna be seen dead walking aboot wae something like that on. I suppose if there’s an emergency and the lights go oot like they did in thon Titanic film, we’ll be fine. We can jeest follow your tie tae safety.’
‘Aye, get it a’ oot while you can, Annie. You’ll no’ be laughing when you see the table o’ folk I’ll be sat at. German aristocracy, I’m thinking.’
‘There’s no’ so many o’ them aboot these days, I fancy.’
‘Now that jeest shows your ignorance on the subject o’ anything that goes on past the Welcome to Kinloch road sign.’
‘Oh aye, and just how is that?’
‘Oor ain dear monarch is near as German as you get. You can hardly say she’s no’ the aristocracy.’
‘Maybe not, but sometimes it’s hard tae tell who someone is or whoot they do jeest by looking at them, right enough. I canna say that for you, mind.’
‘How so? Is it my proud naval bearing, the tan you get at sea that nae amount o’ holidays in foreign climes can match?’
‘Naw, it’s the smell o’ fish and your kipper tie.’
Hamish sucked angrily at his pipe, desperately searching for a retort that wouldn’t come. ‘You’re jeest a scunner, Annie – and getting worse wae age intae the bargain. I’ll be happy if you don’t attempt tae muscle in on my company the night. In fact, I canna think why you were invited in the first place.’ He sent a cloud of blue tobacco smoke into the air.
‘I’ll have you know I was invited by that captain himsel’.’ She nodded at the old fisherman with a triumphant smile.
‘Mair likely the bosun, I’m thinking.’
‘No, nor the bosun. I was invited by Captain Magnus Banks. After me putting on such a fine day for the guests when they were ashore.’
‘I suppose it was a passable event. Though auld Lamont was fair puggled wae whisky on that accordion. He didna know his Gay Gordons fae his Dashing White Sergeants by three o’clock. Could you no’ get wee Roger?’
‘No, he’s away in Tenerife.’
‘Poor soul. Here, talking o’ dashing white sergeants, you’ll see yours the night.’
‘He’s an inspector now, Hamish.’ Annie stared across the loch at the hills beyond, her face taking on a mournful expression.
‘And whoot have you got the glums aboot? Nae doubt the fact that the inspector’s wife is wae him, I’ll venture.’
‘Nothing of the kind, Hamish! I was thinking, here’s us enjoying oorselves while poor Mr Pearson’s lying in the mortuary.’
‘Well, no’ all of him.’
Annie looked at Hamish. ‘Whoot dae you mean?’
‘Sure he was minus his heid, and other parts tae.’
‘You’re a wicked man, Hamish.’
‘It wisna me that did it!’
‘No, but you’re fair wallowing in the gore o’ it all. He was a lovely man – jeest wanted tae be up the hill wae his birds.’
‘He wisna too clever at keeping an eye on one bird.’
‘Eh?’
‘Och, you know fine. If he’d spent mair time wae his binoculars on his wife rather than looking for a hoopoe, he might have kept her oot o’ the arms o’ Peter Scally.’
‘I’m no’ speculating on any o’ that, and neither should you.’
‘If Mr Daley was on the case, that sleekit bugger would be behind bars, and no mistake.’
‘You cannae go throwing aboot accusations like that. Someone might take them seriously.’
‘Aye, wae good cause, tae.’
Annie looked him straight in the face. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Whoot was me?’
‘You that telt the polis aboot this affair, between him and Maggie Pearson. Oh, Hamish, it’s written a’ across your face.’
He took one last puff of his pipe and tapped the bowl on the heel of his shoe, sending the ash onto the pier below. ‘I’m telling you, Peter Scally’s a rogue. He’ll get himself arrested again, you mark my words.’
‘Och, you stupid auld bugger. The only one likely to get arrested is you if you keep flicking up your kilt like that. Half the toon got a look at something naebody wants tae see, jeest there.’
Hamish looked about, carefully adjusted his tie and made no response.
The captain’s launch skimming across the calm waters of the loch towards Kinloch from the Great Britain contained not only the eponymous captain, but also the team of technicians who had managed to put the great cruise liner’s electrical systems to rights.
‘I’d like to thank you all for getting your work done so quickly and efficiently,’ said Banks, addressing the six-man team. ‘We’ve managed to stay pretty much on schedule, though we may be a little late leaving for Belfast. I’ll make sure you all get a bonus for your efforts.’
‘Much obliged to you, Captain,’ said the team’s foreman. ‘Glad to have been of assistance.’
At the rear of the launch, one of them sat quietly, nursing the large canvas bag containing his tools. Had anyone taken much notice, they’d have seen that the bag was almost empty. But as the team had been vetted prior to their t
rip to Kinloch, and as security was busy, no one was bothered. As he looked out at the oily blue waters of the loch he smiled at the thought of the five sets of red digits now shining unseen in various nooks and crannies of the ship that lay in their wake.
If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.
Symington was fretting following Scott’s call. She’d been wrong about Patrick O’Rourke. According to Scott, he was planning to buy a piece of land in County Antrim and return to his roots as a rich man, not the scared wee boy from a family ruined by hatred, division and death, who had crossed the Atlantic with his mother so long ago.
In order to keep his cover intact, Scott had taken a beating from the Irish-American, who suspected the undercover police officer of trying to steal from him. But the newly minted inspector was convinced that he wasn’t their man, and Symington trusted his instincts.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror in her hotel room. Her first visit had been an official one, and she had dressed appropriately in her best uniform. Now, she’d discarded her buttons and braid for a little black dress and matching short jacket. She’d also applied some make-up, and wondered when she’d last had the chance to dress up. Her new promotion had sent her far from friends and family; her flat in Glasgow’s West End was more akin to a dormitory than a home, as all her efforts, her very being, were focused on work and banishing a past that still haunted her.
Symington took a deep breath and dropped her fully charged mobile into the small clutch bag she would take with her. It contained little else other than some lipstick, face powder and a tiny bottle of Chanel No. 5.
Maybe Brachen was right – but he couldn’t be. Someone had killed Cameron Pearson, and they’d had a reason. The neat explanation that the drone man had fallen to his death may or may not be true. But there was something about the guarded nature of Brachen’s comments that niggled at her.
A Breath on Dying Embers Page 27