He made for a car hire desk, produced the necessary documents, paid the deposit with his credit card and was shown to his vehicle. He’d picked a black Mercedes SUV. He made himself familiar with it, and was soon heading away from the airport.
The roofs and spires of Paisley brought back more memories. This time, Liz’s face in the Paris nightclub, long, long ago. He smiled at the thought. We met in Paris, she told her friends, always omitting the fact it was a down-at-heel nightspot rather than the French capital.
He parked the car on a piece of disused land on Abercorn Street that had once been a factory. Other cars were dotted about. A boy approached him, no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in fashionable clothes intended for an older male.
‘Three quid tae watch your motor, mister.’ He held out his hand.
‘Or you’ll pan in the windows, right?’
‘Naw, I’ll keep an eye on it. You’re no’ fae here. This toon’s a fucking nightmare.’
Daley smiled, reached into his pocket and handed the lad a fiver. ‘You’re right. I’m not from here, son. That car better be pristine when I get back.’
‘Cheers, bud. Since you gave me a five spot, I’ll clean your window for you.’
Daley nodded and walked away. Such were the entrepreneurial skills in the old mill town’s young; some things never changed. Given the chance, some of these kids could be captains of industry. More likely, though, they’d be brought low by drugs, drink and crime. It always made him depressed.
Scott swallowed the last morsel of bacon roll and instantly wished he’d had the salad. He washed it all down with a gulp of coffee, and swung round on the chair in Daley’s glass box, still troubled by what Hamish had said. Why the old man was dreaming about teeth when Scott knew Jim had discovered that Liz had been assaulted by a dentist he couldn’t fathom. But he also knew the old man had the knack of seeing things others couldn’t.
He picked up the phone and dialled a number he remembered well from his days in Paisley CID.
‘Royal Alexandra Hospital,’ said a bright woman’s voice on the other end.
‘Outpatients clinic, please – cardiology,’ Scott replied. He waited for a few moments and this time a man answered the phone. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Scott at Kinloch Police Office,’ he said in his best phone voice. ‘I believe my boss DCI James Daley is with you for an appointment at the moment. Can I speak tae him, please? It’s quite urgent.’
‘Hold on, Inspector,’ said the man on the other end of the phone. Scott drummed his fingers as he waited to hear Daley, but instead the same voice sounded in his ear. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we have no record of Mr Daley on our list for today.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure. I’ve looked at the computer and his appointment isn’t until next week, sir.’
‘Right,’ said Scott. ‘My mistake, son. Sorry tae have bothered you.’ He put the phone down, feeling suddenly very uneasy.
He thought for while as he finished his coffee and headed out of the glass box. ‘I’ll be back in a while, DS Potts. The empire is a’ yours. But mind and no’ sit in my seat. It’s like musical chairs in here already.’
Leaving a smiling Potts, he made his way out of Kinloch Police Office and into his car.
64
The bar on Paisley’s Old Sneddon Street was more rundown than Daley remembered it. A skinny elderly man stared at him with rheumy eyes as he counted change in his hand, no doubt searching for enough money to buy another drink. Two youths were standing at a fruit machine, cursing as they lost money with another roll.
‘Can I help you, mate?’ said a bored-looking barman.
‘Just a soda water, please,’ said Daley. ‘Quiet in here, eh?’
‘This is as good as it gets till the weekend. Even then there’s only a dozen or so. Pubs are buggered in this town; half of them have shut.’
‘Sad. I remember this place when you couldn’t get in the door.’
‘No’ in my time. I’m just doing this to pay my way through uni. Bugger this for a job.’ He passed Daley’s drink across the bar. ‘Ice, lemon – an umbrella?’ He smiled.
‘You’re fine.’ Daley made his way past the lads at the fruit machine, then to an area of tables where in the dim light a rotund man with a bald head sat, half-finished pint in front of him.
‘You’ve fair put on the beef, Jimmy,’ he said.
‘Always a cheery word, Mr McLean. You’re hardly Twiggy yourself.’ They shook hands warmly and Daley took the seat opposite him. ‘How’s things, Billy?’
‘Just as you see them, I’m sad tae say. I’m still up in Gallowhill, though my daughter wants me tae go intae a sheltered community.’ He spat out the words with disgust.
‘But you’ve still got your ear to the ground, Billy.’
‘Oh aye. But this has cost me a few quid, Jimmy. Inverkip’s no’ just next door, know what I mean?’
‘Here.’ Daley handed him a bundle of rolled-up notes, hidden in his large fist.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Billy, quickly counting them under the table.’
‘How long have you been doing me favours?’
‘A good quarter of a century, anyway. No’ much business from you lately, mind you, what wae you stuck doon in the sticks. You must miss the action up here, Jimmy?’
‘I’ve more than enough action to cope with, thank you.’
‘How’s Brian?’
‘Brian is still Brian. Though he’s off the bevvy.’
‘Naw, you’re kidding!’ Billy looked horrified, almost as though somebody had died. ‘That’s a shame. What the fuck does he dae with his time?’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’ Daley looked at his watch. ‘Anyhow, Billy, I’m short on time. Are things as we expected?’
‘They were half an hour ago. Here, I’ll just check.’ McLean pulled a mobile phone with a cracked screen from his jacket and dialled a number, mumbling when the call was answered, and ending it quickly. ‘Yup, all’s as I said.’
‘Good. Thanks, Billy. It’s just like old times.’
‘No, it’s no’, Jimmy. Those days have gone, my friend.’
Daley bid his old informant farewell and left the bar.
‘Tell me his name, Lizzie,’ said Brian Scott, standing in Daley’s lounge.
‘No, it’s none of your business. I’m not making a complaint. I’ve told Jim and I’ve said the same to Carrie. I just want to forget the whole thing.’
Scott rubbed his chin.
‘What aren’t you telling me, Brian?’
‘The big man. I checked a while ago, and he’s not got an appointment at the hospital today. It’s next week. So what do you think he’s up to?’
Liz looked momentarily confused. ‘What? You know Jim: he doesn’t lie, Brian.’
‘No, he leaves that tae you.’
She smiled at him sarcastically. ‘Why, thank you so much.’
‘I want tae know where this boyfriend of yours lives. You know Jimmy as well as I dae. He might no’ be a liar, but his temper’s off the scale. And it simmers, tae.’
‘He’s in no condition to go after anyone.’ Suddenly Liz looked worried.
‘And when did anything like that matter tae him, eh? I know he’s been brooding about what happened tae you. You must have seen it yersel’. Tell me where this bastard lives!’
‘Keep your voice down, Brian. James is having a nap.’
‘Tell me, Lizzie, or I swear I’ll arrest you for withholding evidence.’
‘Oh, yes, that would look great in the papers: Police Inspector Threatens Beaten Woman. Think about it, Brian.’
‘Listen tae me. If you care one jot aboot Jimmy, you’ll tell me. He only told me the bare bones.’
‘So you wouldn’t go after him, you mean.’
‘Whatever. Tell me, Lizzie, and tell me now!’
The sky was still blue when Daley drove into Inverkip past the honey-coloured buildings on the seafront. Though
the season was almost at an end, there was still a forest of masts in the exclusive marina and some tourists taking in the scene.
Daley drove slowly past rows of pontoons until he had almost reached the end of their line. He pulled up and got out of the hire car. He could smell the telltale aroma of wood and coal being burned on the air, a sure sign that the nights were drawing in.
He walked down the wooden slats of the pontoon until he reached a large cabin cruiser. Its sleek sweeping lines made it look as though it was sailing at top speed out to sea, but in reality it was tied to two bollards. He looked at the name of the boat and smiled: Wisdom was written above the black silhouette of a large tooth, roots and all. Water lapped gently at the side of the expensive craft, making it bob gently at its moorings. Above the squawking of the gulls and the putter of a small motor boat heading out of the marina, Daley could hear drilling from within the vessel and a song on the radio – Journey, one he remembered from his youth. A man was humming tunelessly.
Gripping the hand-rail, he stepped on to the deck.
‘Mr Manston, are you there?’
Brian Scott spoke quickly into the phone. ‘I want someone tae go and see this Manston, right now. I have information that he assaulted a woman who’s now in Kinloch. And make it quick, tae; he’s a right slippery bastard!’
He put down the receiver and grabbed his mobile from the desk. Again the call to Jim Daley’s phone went to voicemail. This time Scott left a message. ‘Listen, Jimmy, I know what you’re at, man. Don’t be fucking stupid. There’s too much at stake, you hear me? I’ve put in a call tae Renfrewshire and they’re on their way tae find this bastard. You stay out of it!’ He clicked off the call and flung the mobile across the desk. ‘Fuck!’ he swore loudly. Two detectives outside the glass box glanced up.
Daley aimed a last kick at Alexander Manston’s stomach as he lay helpless and bleeding on the floor of the cabin. ‘You bastard!’ said Daley, struggling to catch his breath, eyes wide with fury. ‘Never, never come near my wife, or do to anyone what you did to her again, have you got that?’ When Manston didn’t reply, Daley aimed another kick and the dentist yelped again.
Daley leaned forward, his hands on his knees, gasping. His chest was tight, and he could feel the room start to spin. Desperate for air, he began to make his way out of the cabin.
‘You won’t get away with this, you bastard. Your wife’s a slut and she deserved all she got.’
Fuelled by sheer rage, Daley turned back and loomed over the recumbent man. He knelt down and lifted his head off the floor. He looked into Manston’s bleeding and battered face.
‘I don’t care what happens to me. Next time I’ll kill you.’ He pushed Maston back down and got unsteadily to his feet, dozens of tiny white dots playing across his vision.
He staggered off the cabin cruiser and onto the wooden slats of the pontoon. He felt dizzy, and he couldn’t breathe.
The last thing he saw was the blue sky tumbling out of sight as everything went black. He fell heavily onto the wet pontoon, and lay motionless as the distant wail of police sirens sounded across Inverkip.
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements
Notes
Two strange things happened: one during the writing, the other on completion of this book.
I had just finished the passage about the arrival of the Great Britain in Kinloch, when a huge vessel of similar function entered Campbeltown Loch in real life. An all too unfamiliar sight, I’m sad to say. For a look at this please seek out the wonderful photography of Raymond Hosie, the man responsible for the cover image of this book.
Then, a week after I’d sent the script to my publisher, I sat back to watch the news – to find Gatwick airport under attack by a drone. It would appear that life does sometimes imitate art.
In such uncertain times, I wish the government was doing more to develop our trade prospects. Surely now is the time to show everyone what these islands have to offer regardless of the outcome of this agonising paralysis in our body politic. In generations to come, whatever your view, this period will be looked back upon with mouths agape at such ineptitude and lack of foresight.
As John Lennon said, ‘Strange days indeed’!
Acknowledgements
As always to my wife Fiona and those I cherish. To my editor Nancy Webber, I owe you many thanks. Also to Hugh Andrew, Alison Rae, Jan Rutherford, Neville Moir and all at Birlinn/Polygon, thank you for helping Daley et al go from strength to strength.
To fellow author and friend Douglas Skelton who is as wise and kind as he is talented. Indeed, to all those who are the bulwark of my existence. To our lovely friends and neighbours, especially Mary Anderson, who make this wee community so special. To Ronnie Kelly with whom I always raise a glass or three on our annual pilgrimage to Oban, and who spreads the word of the great game cricket wherever he can. It’s been a long time, old pal.
I make my best attempt at a deep bow of gratitude to David Monteath who narrates the DCI Daley audiobooks with such aplomb – in between stints on Game of Thrones, Vikings and more. It is no wonder he is known as ‘the king of narration’.
To all the journalists and bloggers who have written such kind things about the books, I can’t thank you enough. Every writer needs help from those willing to spread the word, and they all do so magnificently.
To the readers: thank you for coming back time after time and telling your friends, and taking to the dinner table, the water cooler or social media to share your thoughts. Again, this is invaluable to anyone who has to trust his or her wits in order to live by the word.
My gratitude, too, to the army of booksellers who stand in stores or work in other ways to promote my work – you carry on a proud and, I trust, continuing tradition. In addition, a special mention for Vikki Reilly who hasn’t forgotten big Jim and Brian, even though she’s found pastures new.
As always, thank you to the people of Kintyre. They continue to be my inspiration. I hear now from so many who have travelled there, or intend to (you’ll love it!), after reading the books.
Finally, to my departed friend, our hybrid Scottish wildcat Wee Boy, who came through with me every morning and curled up in front of the fire while I battered away on the keyboard. He lives on in Hamish the cat. On my return from hospital at the end of 2017, he sat at the end of the bed every night until I went to sleep. It was such a simple thing, but unconditional devotion – a rare quality indeed. The first time I wrote without him at my side I wept buckets. I’ll miss him always.
D.A.M.
Gartocharn
May 2019
The DCI Daley thriller series
Book 1: Whisky from Small Glasses
DCI Jim Daley is sent from the city to investigate a murder after the body of a woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland. Far away from urban resources, he finds himself a stranger in a close-knit community.
Betrayal, fear and death stalk the small town of Kinloch, as Daley investigates a case that becomes more deadly than he could possibly imagine.
Book 2: The Last Witness
James Machie was a man with a genius for violence, his criminal empire spreading beyond Glasgow into the UK and mainland Europe. Fortunately, Machie is dead, assassinated in the back of a prison ambulance following his trial and conviction. But now, five years later, he is apparently back from the grave, set on avenging himself on those who brought him down.
Book 3: Dark Suits and Sad Songs
When a senior Edinburgh civil servant spectacularly takes his own life in Kinloch harbour, DCI Jim Daley comes face to face with the murky world of politics. To add to his woes, two local drug dealers lie dead, ritually assassinated. It’s clear that dark forces are at work in the town. With his boss under investigation, his marriage hanging by a thread, and his side-kick DS Scott wrestling with his own demons, Daley’s world is in meltdown.
Book 4: The Rat Stone Serenade
It’s December, and the Shannon family are heading to t
heir clifftop mansion near Kinloch for their AGM. Shannon International, one of the world’s biggest private companies, has brought untold wealth and privilege to the family. However, a century ago, Archibald Shannon stole the land upon which he built their home – and his descendants have been cursed ever since.
When heavy snow cuts off Kintyre, DCI Jim Daley and DS Brian Scott are assigned to protect their illustrious visitors. But ghosts of the past are coming to haunt the Shannons.
Book 5: The Well of the Winds
As World War Two nears its end, a man is stabbed to death on the Kinloch shoreline, in the shadow of the great warships in the harbour.
Many years later, the postman on Gairsay, a tiny island off the coast of Kintyre, discovers that the Bremner family are missing from their farm.
When DCI Daley comes into possession of a journal written by his wartime predecessor in Kinloch, he soon realises that he must solve a murder from the past to uncover the shocking events of the present.
Book 6: The Relentless Tide
When Professor Francombe and her team of archaeologists find the remains of three women on a remote Kintyre hillside – a site rumoured to have been the base of Viking warlord Somerled – their delight soon turns to horror when they realise the women tragically met their end only two decades ago.
It soon becomes clear that these are the three missing victims of the ‘Midweek Murderer’, a serial killer who was at work in Glasgow in the early 1990s. DCI Jim Daley now has the chance to put things right – to confront a nightmare from his past and solve a crime he failed to as a young detective. However, when Police Scotland’s Cold Case Unit arrive, they bring yet more ghosts to Kinloch. The Relentless Tide is a tale of death, betrayal, Viking treasure and revenge set in the thin places where past, present and future collide.
Can Daley avenge the murder of his colleague and friend?
Book 7: A Breath on Dying Embers
When the luxury cruiser Great Britain berths in Kinloch harbour, the pressure mounts on D.C.I. Jim Daley. The high-powered international delegates on board are touring the country, golfing and sightseeing, as part of a UK Government trade mission. But within hours, one of the crew members vanishes and a local birdwatcher goes missing.
A Breath on Dying Embers Page 34