A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  The place was as he expected, bustling with customers, locals anxious to witness and pass comment on the members of their community who’d been lucky enough to bag a golden ticket to the reception aboard the cruise ship. He made his way into the large bar first, searching the long room for the person Cabdi had described.

  ‘Aye, free drink an’ food a’ night, and a chance tae shake hands wae a duke. Canna be bad,’ he heard a woman at the nearest table comment to her friends.

  ‘I don’t give a damn aboot any duke,’ one of them replied. ‘I’d be off tae bag myself a billionaire. I saw a few crackers in the toon earlier. Imagine a life wae money like that.’

  Scally couldn’t see who he was looking for, and as he left the bar he ignored the scowl of the barman busy polishing glasses. He crossed the lobby and entered the lounge. It boasted spectacular views across the loch to the hills beyond, and for a moment he stared out at them, deep in thought.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a woman he didn’t know behind the bar. She spoke with a foreign accent, and Scally reckoned her to be one of the Polish community who had arrived in the town over the last few years. Quickly, he scanned the room, and sure enough, sitting at a table near the window was the person Cabdi had told him to seek out.

  ‘Aye, a whisky, please – a large one.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The cheapest,’ said Scally, searching in his pocket. In the net shed and during his walk along the promenade he’d had the chance to think what he might do to cause a distraction. He looked at his watch – he had more than ten minutes before Cabdi was likely to do whatever it was he’d planned. He paid for the drink and knocked it back in two gulps. ‘I’ll take another o’ the same, please.’

  As the barmaid put the glass to the optic, he knew it was time to carry out the tall man’s orders. Time for one last dram, he thought.

  55

  The two police officers looked left and right along the beach, but there was no sign of their quarry. Across the Atlantic, a purple hue was forming over the isle of Islay, the setting sun turning the sea into molten gold.

  ‘We’ve lost him, sir, over,’ said one of the constables into his radio.

  ‘Then bloody well find him!’ shouted the inspector, his voice distorted over the Airwave radio. ‘And be careful, McCann. He may be armed for all we know. If he’s had explosives he could have a weapon.’

  Inspector Mauchlin was twenty miles further up the road from Kinloch. His team’s job was to check vehicles, to look for anything worrying or suspicious travelling to or from the town at the end of the peninsula – and they’d found it.

  He took his phone from his pocket and called his superior. ‘Sir, one of the technicians working on the Great Britain has left traces of explosives in the van he was travelling back in. He’s made off, but we have two men after him.’

  ‘This man was working on the Great Britain, you say?’ Assistant Chief Constable Brown’s face was etched with concern.

  ‘Yes, we believe so, sir. I’m not at the locus, but my men are questioning his workmates now. They’ve all just left the vessel after correcting an electrical problem, apparently.’

  ‘Right, leave it with me. Good work, Mauchlin. Make sure your men take care, and await my instructions.’ ACC Brown clicked off the call and pressed another button. ‘Get me Chief Superintendent Symington in Kinloch – and quickly!’

  Daley was driving round the loch as his son hummed an unidentifiable tune in the back seat. He saw the small straggle of passengers still waiting on the quay and pulled up alongside them.

  ‘You wait there, James. Daddy’s just going to have a quick word with someone.’ He left the car, locking it as he went. A few yards away, a steward was ushering guests down to the pontoons as a motor launch on the loch slowed ready to come alongside. Daley flashed his warrant card.

  ‘Yes, sir, what’s the problem?’

  ‘I wonder, has Chief Superintendent Symington been taken over to the ship yet?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, sir.’ The steward consulted the notes pinned to his clipboard. ‘No, definitely not, sir. I haven’t checked her off. I think I saw her and Captain Banks going into the hotel across the road a while ago. I suppose they’re still there.’

  Daley thought for a few moments. ‘Can you do me a favour? My son’s in the car there, and I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye on him while I nip into the hotel. I just need to have a word with the Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. That won’t be a problem.’

  *

  ‘I canna say I’m overly entertained,’ said Hamish as he looked at the old watch on his wrist. ‘Thon dirges are fair putting me in the glums. I canna shake them, for some reason.’

  ‘We’re in esteemed company, Hamish. You canna expect them tae be playing Jimmy Shand,’ Annie told him. ‘Anyway, how come you’re so glum? You were fine at the pier.’

  ‘Och, I don’t know. You know fine I’m prone tae a bit o’ melancholy noo and again.’

  ‘But something must have brought it on?’

  ‘Ach, I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’m jeest a havering auld fisherman. A decent dram would set me up better. As far as I’m concerned you can pour these cocktails o’er the side.’

  ‘They’re champagne cocktails, Hamish. Likely expensive champagne, tae.’

  ‘Och, I’ve never been one for champagne, nor any o’ they foreign drinks. It’s like knocking back lemonade. Potent, mind you – one minute you’re shipshape and Bristol fashion, the next you’re on your arse, no’ knowing jeest where you are. Happened tae me at a wedding once in Tarbert. They were handing oot champagne as if it was water. By half eight I didna know if it was New Year or New York.’

  ‘So you don’t like foreign drinks?’

  ‘No’ in the slightest. For a start, you never know jeest whoot’s in the bloody stuff. They telt me years ago that they French fellas jump up and doon tae tread the juice oot o’ the grapes wae their bare feet. Well, I’m here tae tell you, I’m no’ keen on finding a Frenchman’s bunion in my glass, that’s for certain sure.’

  ‘You seemed tae enjoy it fine the last time we had that wine tasting in the County.’

  ‘Aye, well, that was another matter. The drink was free, and it’s a well-known fact that any drink tastes better if you’ve no’ tae reach intae your sporran tae pay for it. Especially in the County!’

  Annie eyed him up and down. He’d already spilled something on his tie, which made it look even worse. But she did note that his expression was one rarely to be seen across the face of the man she’d known all her life. He looked down in the dumps, fretful even. ‘Here, I’ll catch the eye o’ one o’ they waiters and get you a whisky.’

  ‘Aye, but you’re a fine lassie, Annie. It’s a wonder tae me how some handsome young man hasn’t swept you off your feet long since.’

  ‘I’m sure he will, one day,’ she said, looking sadly across at Brian Scott, who was deep in conversation with a tall blond man, his arm round his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘Och, maybes you’re jeest looking in the wrong direction,’ said Hamish. ‘Time tae get the compass oot and set another course, I’m thinking.’ No sooner had the words come from his mouth than he shivered, dropping the unlit pipe from his hand, and sending it spinning onto the thick carpet below.

  ‘Whoot happened there? You looked like you were having a fit!’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Hamish as he retrieved his pipe from the floor and stuck it back in his mouth, brow furrowed. ‘As my dear auld mother used tae say, it was someone walking o’er my grave.’

  ‘Fuck, I better get you some whisky before one o’ us cuts our own throat.’ Annie caught the eye of a steward, who obligingly made his way to their table.

  ‘It’s no’ often I’m unhappy at sea, and that’s a fact. But for some reason, the night I feel right uneasy.’

  ‘We’re in the loch on one o’ the biggest ships I’ve ever seen, man.’

  ‘Aye, so we are
, so we are, Annie.’

  ‘Can I get you something?’ The steward was hovering.

  ‘Dae you have such a thing as a decent malt whisky?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Yes, we certainly have, sir. What would you like?’

  ‘A good West Coast malt – nane o’ that Speyside rubbish, mind. It was us that taught them to make whisky, and I’m no’ sure they’ve got it right yet.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. What about a Springbank, or a Glen Scotia?’

  ‘Now you’re talking, son. Man, they still know how tae make whisky in the wee toon. Thank you, either would be perfect.’

  Annie hoped that the imminent arrival of one of his favourite whiskies would cheer the old man up. But as soon as the steward left, the worried expression returned to his face.

  ‘Whoot’s that thon quintet are murdering noo? I recognise it fae somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Mozart,’ said Charlie Murray, a dainty sandwich in his paw of a hand. ‘His Requiem, if I’m no’ much mistaken.’

  Hamish took another silent draw of his unlit pipe. ‘Aye, maybe mair appropriate than you know.’

  ‘Right, will someone pass me the bread knife,’ said Annie.

  56

  Patrick O’Rourke was drunk. He knew that, though for most people it would have been hard to discern. His gaze was still steady and his speech wasn’t slurred. Mind you, he thought, I’ve had a lot of practice.

  For a moment he recalled his father staggering around in their cramped front room, shouting at his mother. Her pride and joy were three china horse figurines that took pride of place on top of the black-and-white TV. They were the only hint of something different in an otherwise dowdy, functional room. He could still see his father swiping them to the floor where they smashed against the old grate. One of the ornaments had been a foal, and for some reason the sight of it lying headless on their living-room floor, the mixture of anger and sadness on his mother’s face, and his father’s slurred expletives had never left him.

  He was furious with himself for assaulting the hapless drunk who’d been in his room. It had been stupid and could easily jeopardise what he’d come to do. There had been too many self-immolations in his family, and he didn’t want to add to their number. He stared into his glass of Bushmills as the scenes in the quiet cocktail bar played out unnoticed around him. Only when he heard raised voices was he roused from his reminiscing.

  ‘You have had the drink, now you must pay!’ The barmaid was shouting at the small elderly man beside the bar who was busy draining his glass. As the woman opened the hatch, no doubt ready to eject this troublesome customer, without warning the old man threw the glass at her. His aim, though, was poor, the glass missing the barmaid by inches. It crashed against a table and shattered, sending two young women screaming from their table.

  O’Rourke could feel his temper rising, but remembering the assault on his fellow passenger earlier in the day he forced himself to remain in his seat, though he wanted nothing more than to get up and throw the man who had disturbed his thoughts bodily out into the street.

  Just as the unwanted customer started to shout and swear, a large man appeared through the door of the lounge and grabbed the miscreant by the collar of his faded jacket, almost lifting him clean off the floor.

  ‘Phone the police office and tell them that DCI Daley has made an arrest and to send officers, will you?’ Daley called to the barmaid as he brandished his warrant card. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he felt unsteady on his feet, but all the same he managed to keep hold of the struggling man, who was still shouting and swearing. As he held the man as tightly as he could, he heard a voice at his side.

  ‘It’s okay, Jim. You shouldn’t be doing this.’ It was Symington. Expertly, she caught one of the old man’s arms and twisting his thumb sent him howling in pain to the floor, where she straddled the prone figure, making sure his movement was restricted, but ensuring he could still breathe. ‘Settle down, Mr Scally. Your night out is over.’

  Realising that he was beaten, Scally stopped struggling.

  ‘I’m telling yous, this is no’ whoot it looks like!’ he said.

  ‘And what does it look like, apart from an obnoxious man who’s had too much to drink, Mr Scally?’ Symington looked up at Daley, who had taken a seat on a stool at the bar. ‘You okay, Jim?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Daley, not mentioning that he’d been grateful the bar stool was so close at hand.

  ‘Well done, Chief Superintendent.’ The voice belonged to Captain Magnus Banks, who was now standing over the senior police officer and her captive. ‘You were certainly paying attention at the self-defence classes – good job. You beat me to it by some distance.’ He looked up. ‘And good to see you too, DCI Daley. Hope you’re feeling better. This is the last thing you needed, I imagine. It’s age. Comes to us all, sadly.’

  Cabdi had watched Scally’s progress along the promenade, and checked his watch to make sure that the old man had the time he’d allotted him to create a diversion. He saw him enter the hotel and waited.

  When the agreed time had elapsed, he scraped the net shed door open and left the building, making sure that his cap was pulled low over his eyes. As he took long quick strides towards the hotel, he turned his face to the loch, shoulders hunched in the hope of making his distinctive frame more anonymous.

  When he reached the roundabout at the head of the old quay, he hesitated. A procession of cars seemed to come from every direction all of a sudden, making it impossible to cross the road. As casually as he could, he leaned against the black railings of the promenade, head down, staring into the oily waters of the loch and waiting for an opportunity to proceed towards the hotel. Horns sounded and people called out of cars as the last straggle of guests made their way onto the motor launch ready to be taken to the Great Britain. He could feel the pistol in the waistband of his trousers as he stared at a graceful swan gliding across the water in his direction, no doubt in the expectation of being fed bread by anyone lingering on the promenade.

  Still staring at the wash of the waves against the pier and a set of old stone steps leading down to the water at his side, he flinched as he heard another distinctive sound: a police siren.

  Having to make a split-second decision, he realised he had little choice. He made his way quickly down the steps, almost slipping on the slick, seaweed-covered stone. At least he was out of sight, he thought. Silently, though, he cursed Scally and considered the possibility that the sly old man had betrayed him, however unlikely that seemed. He knew the man was a coward, but perhaps he’d underestimated his deviousness.

  He had to think. He was so close – but he had to think.

  ‘See your friend keeps staring across at us,’ said Ella Scott.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Annie, who else? I swear that woman’s besotted wae you, Brian.’

  ‘Och, you’re havering, as usual. You thought Janet Donegan doon the close fae us when we first got hitched was madly in love with me. I was sick o’ hearing aboot it.’

  ‘I’m no’ so sure. Mind how when it was sunny and we was doon in the drying green she used tae appear wae her baby doll nightie on tae hang oot the washing?’

  ‘I’ve seen you hanging oot the washing in your dressing gown, dear – or that onesie thing you wear, the one wae the tail and ears.’

  ‘That’s first thing in the morning, Brian. She was parading aboot at three in the afternoon! See if I didnae know you better, I’d have sworn you were at it.’

  ‘Mind you, she had a nice big red setter.’

  ‘Eh?’ Ella suddenly looked furious. ‘A what?’

  ‘A dug – an Irish setter. Are you going deaf, or what?’

  ‘Och, I thought you said something else.’

  ‘Filthy mind, that’s your problem. Was her husband no’ a sailor?’

  ‘Aye, he was. Mind you, he spent mair time on than off when he was at hame, that’s for sure. You could hear them right up the close stairs.’

/>   Scott shook his head. ‘This is just typical of you. Here we are in the lap o’ luxury, and all you can talk aboot is something that didnae happen thirty years ago.’

  Ella looked around, seemingly unimpressed by her husband’s reasoning. ‘Still, it’s nice tae see her and Hamish here. They must be sick o’ the sight o’ the County Hotel. And don’t look now, but he’s coming o’er, Brian.’

  ‘Bugger. I telt him that I was busy.’

  ‘Och, I widnae worry, It’s no’ as though he’ll attract much attention wae that tie. And his sporran’s near at his ankles.’

  Hamish approached the Scotts’ table like a crab, side on, looking in the other direction.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, Brian?’

  ‘What is it, Hamish? I telt you, I’m working undercover,’ replied Scott, his smile not matching his tone.

  ‘Jeest thought I’d tell you something, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve signed the pledge, is that it?’

  ‘No, no – not at all. This is serious, man.’

  ‘I know, you’ve sacked your tailor.’

  ‘I’ve got a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. And damn me, I’m as far doon in mood as I’ve been for a long time. In fact, I’ve no’ felt like this since my dear auld mother died.’

  ‘Ach, we all get down sometimes, Hamish. Get a dram or two down you, you’ll be fine. How often is it you get to come tae a place like this – free booze, tae.’ Though Scott’s words were of encouragement, he could see the old man was troubled.

  ‘Aye, you’re likely right, Brian. But I’m damned. This second sight is a curse.’

  ‘You and your second sight. Get o’er there and keep Annie company. She’s looking right lonely.’

  ‘I’m right fond o’ you, Brian – your wife, tae, though I don’t know her so well. And as far as Annie’s concerned, well, she’s like a daughter tae me.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Don’t be telling her that, mind.’