‘Are you looking forward to getting back into it?’ Daley asked.
‘Aye, sure, Jim. I cannae wait to get stuck in.’ As the words came out of his mouth, he doubted their veracity. Did he want to be back at work? Was he looking forward to getting ‘stuck in’? His dry mouth and trembling hands indicated a resounding ‘no!’
Daley sat Scott down and briefed him on what had happened in the last few days. A spectacular suicide and two gruesome murders were a lot, even for a detective of Scott’s experience, to take in.
‘And to make matters worse,’ Daley got to his feet, ‘our highly esteemed leader should be here at any minute.’
‘Oh, you’re fucking kidding me on,’ Scott said, his pallor becoming a shade greyer. ‘I thought it would be great getting back intae the swing o’ things doon here, kinda oot o’ the way. I’ll tell you, Jim, I don’t think I can cope wae him just noo, honestly.’ There was a pleading look in his eyes.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Daley, massaging his temple with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Even worse now that the bastard’s the divisional commander. Listen, you know where I am with this. I’m sure he made you spring MacDougall for a reason; I’m sure he’s up to something. We just have to find out what. As you know, I’ve been digging about since you’ve been, well, incapacitated. Something’s not right. I just can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Aye, good stuff, Jim. Mind you, I wish I was still incapacitated. I don’t know aboot you, but I feel as though I’ve landed on a different planet. Nothin’ seems the same. I’m no’ even working for the same police force any more. And noo I’ve got the prospect o’ the dark lord grabbing me by the bollocks.’
‘Listen, put him out of your mind. He’ll have other things to worry about. And I suppose we’ll get used to our new employers, Brian. At the end of the day we’re still chasing after the same lowlife bastards. That’ll never change.’
‘Aye, it doesnae help when one o’ the lowlife bastards happens tae be your boss.’ Scott’s resigned look made Daley smile.
‘I’ve been told it’s light duties for you only, my old son. I’ve got a wee list here of folk I’d like you to talk to today. It’ll get you out of the office while your man’s here. After that, I want you to finish early and go back to the hotel and get a sleep. Tonight, you’re going for a wee sail.’
‘Eh?’
‘Lights in the sky, Brian. Lights in the sky.’
He reckoned it would take less than thirty minutes to sail back to where the collision had taken place. This meant that he should have sight of the yacht and its occupants soon. He kept sighting with the scope on the high-powered rifle. The mist had completely lifted now, and the sun was hot on the back of his neck. Pavel, too, was squinting into the distance across the sea, the ripples of which sparkled in their path. To the right of their boat a porpoise arched out of the water, returning to it with hardly a sound. The sea smelled sweet and salty, and left a tang at the back of the throat.
‘They can’t be far away now, Pavel.’ He cradled the sleek rifle against his cheek. His weapon of choice was the McMillan TAC-338, favoured by the American military. It was the most deadly sniper’s rifle of all time. His had been tuned to utter perfection by a Russian gunsmith to suit his own exact specifications. He’d had a custom-built cheek piece fitted, a mould made from the fingers of his left hand was replicated on the barrel grip, and the trigger had been lightened to just under three pounds of pressure. The weapon felt like an extension of his own body; it had ended many lives while at the same time enriching his own. If he could get within a kilometre of his target he was confident that he could eradicate the problem. The sea was calm, and despite the alcohol he had consumed, he didn’t doubt his abilities for one second. Only memories stood in his way. He took his eyes from the sight and shook the thought from his head.
Alice was beginning to warm up, as the sun beat down on the tiny vessel and its wretched occupants. A few moments ago, the handheld radio had burst into life; the Kinloch lifeboat would be with them in just over an hour. The voice of the lifeboat’s coxswain had boomed confidently out of the device and, for the first time since the accident, she had seen the tension ease from her father’s face. All they had to do was to sit and wait.
Alice angled her head into the sun. She figured that she might as well work on her tan as they awaited rescue. After all, as her father always maintained, every cloud has a silver lining.
‘I see them!’ he shouted, spotting the stern of the yacht poking up, proud of the waves, through the powerful scope. Beside it bobbed a dinghy, in which he could see four figures. ‘Slow down, Pavel. Stop when I tell you.’ He leaned forward and looked through the sight. ‘We need to get a bit closer, but not too much.’ Taking into account the slight undulation of the ocean, he was still too distant to be certain of a hundred per cent kill. He needed a hundred per cent kill rate.
*
Something made Alice turn around. At first she wasn’t sure what, then she realised that she could hear something in the distance. Having spent a lot of her short life at sea, she knew that sound travelled across the water with much greater ease than over land. She could make out a speck on the horizon.
‘Dad, there’s a boat out there! Look, over there!’
Her father turned his head, shading his gaze from the glare of the sun with his hand. ‘Oh yes, I can just about make it out. Bugger, my good binoculars are still on the boat. Maybe we won’t have to wait for the lifeboat after all.’ With that, they both started to wave their arms, soon joined by Alice’s mother and brother, who, newly awoken, looked confused.
After a few minutes of waving, it was obvious that the vessel, whatever it was, was getting no nearer.
‘They can’t have seen us,’ Stephen said with a tut.
For some reason she couldn’t explain, despite the warm sun and the promise of rescue, Alice felt a sudden chill, as she looked out at the small, unmoving shape.
They were close enough now. All he had to do was measure the rise and fall of both boats in his mind, and calculate how to execute an effective shot. He decided to shoot on the rise; though the swell seemed insignificant, it was exaggerated by distance and magnification. This target would be difficult, but he’d experienced worse.
He cradled the butt of the rifle in his arm; everything felt right. Even the slight haze didn’t present a real problem. He narrowed his eye in the sight. Through the crosshairs, he could make out faces; he picked out the tanned face of the dark-haired girl. Behind him, anticipating the kill, Pavel started to giggle. Normally, this would not have worried him, but now he felt so irritated by it that he stood up and swung around to face the squat man, holding the weapon at his waist, finger still on the trigger.
‘If another sound comes from your fat pig’s head, Pavel, I will kill you,’ he snarled. He leaned back on the gunwale and, once again, took aim. There she was: dark eyes, brown skin, bright and young. He was going to end her life, rob her of her future. He hesitated; suddenly he was no longer in the present. The years dropped away. He froze.
He sees her, the old woman, as she hunches across the street. The basket at her side swings to and fr o as she slouches along. Her only protection is the black scarf that almost covers her head and face. If they can’t see you they can’t kill you.
He tried to steady the rifle and stop his hands from shaking.
‘Baka!’
A call from long ago echoed in his head as he tried again to focus on the girl.
Concentrate. He pulled the butt of the rifle close into his neck, holding it close like a lover.
‘Pazi Snajper!’
He pulled out of the shot, looking at Pavel now, standing on the deck of the boat, not the dusty street in Sarajevo.
He leaned back into the rifle. The girl’s face was framed in the sight, and he followed the movement of the boat up and down, waiting for the moment the little craft would linger on the apex of the swell. He curled his finger around the trigger.
; A shot whined through the air – not his, but another.
She falls in slow motion, the old woman on the bright dusty street. Her basket is tumbling through the air, spilling its meagre contents as he watches. A fish falls fr om a white paper bag, arcing through the air in slow motion.
He blinked the vision away, waiting for the boat to rise.
‘Baka!’
He heard it again, the tiny voice bringing more perspiration on his brow.
He is with her now, kneeling at her side. ‘Be a good boy. Run. Run fr om the dragons,’ she says, her voice a fading whisper.
He desperately tried to shake the old woman from his mind’s eye.
The little boy stands over his grandmother as she rattles her final breath. His small hand reaches for hers. She stares at him with sad brown eyes as her life ends. For a moment her lips move in a silent goodbye.
‘Baka!’ The boy calls out in pain. He stands in the middle of the dusty, deserted road; a tiny boy in the middle of a big war. He wills the dragons to take him to his grandmother, but they do not roar. Their fire doesn’t touch him in the street in Sarajevo, long, long ago.
They must roar again now.
He clenched his teeth and shook his head. The memories that tortured him were getting worse.
14
He hated that vision; that memory. It haunted him still; what had happened to that little boy?
He pulled away from the gun sight and closed his eyes. He breathed in the warm air. He had a job to do; he had a smaller war to win.
He squinted back into the sight; he could still see them in their dinghy. He focused again on the girl. There was something strange about the way she was staring, motionless, straight ahead. Though he knew it was impossible, he could have sworn she could see him and knew that she was going to die. His right forefinger curled around the cold trigger. He took a deep breath and waited again for the rise of the swell.
Alice stared at the boat, transfixed, oblivious to all that was going on around her.
She was jolted into reality by her father, who had leapt to his feet.
‘Over here! Yes! God bless the Royal Navy!’
Aware now, Alice heard a low noise. She looked up to see the growing outline of a warship, sounding its claxon in the distance to let them know that help was on the way. She, too, raised her hands to wave.
As he squeezed the trigger, a noise made him flinch. The butt of the rifle forced itself into his shoulder a moment after the barrel flashed. He swore to himself and got to his feet.
‘Quick, Pavel, we have company. Wherever they are, steer in the opposite direction. Full speed!’ He dashed below, carrying the weapon with him, low and out of sight, protected from view by the gunwale. He hadn’t had time to check the outcome of his interrupted assassination attempt, nor the nature of the new vessel they had for company; he just knew that they had to get away. The shot was not perfect, the blast on the horn had made him flinch, but he was confident that he had done the job, killed the girl. Their task now was to disappear.
There was a rush, then a pop akin to a balloon being burst, though deeper and less crisp. A piece of rubber hit her in the face, and her father fell backwards. Something was wrong; she was sinking into the bottom of the dingy.
‘Fuck,’ her father swore, as his son levered him up and back to his feet. ‘The bloody boat’s burst. We’re sinking.’
Alice felt a chill at her feet, rising up her leg. Seawater was streaming into the tiny vessel as its shape and structure began to collapse. Her mother screamed, but her father – as so oft en was the case – urged them all to be calm.
‘We all have our lifejackets on. We’re going to get wet, but that destroyer will be with us in a matter of minutes. Hold on to each other!’ he shouted, as he grabbed his wife’s fluorescent jacket. ‘Let the lifebelt take the strain. We’ll float until they get here.’
Their little dinghy was nearly submerged now; the cold water at her waist was making Alice gasp. As though in recognition of their plight, the warship gave three long blasts. Alice looked up. The vessel was much larger now; she could make out the frothing white wake as the Royal Navy steamed to their rescue.
The lifebelt rose around her neck as it bore her weight in the water. Alice looked for the smaller boat that had been motionless for so long, but there was no sign of it.
Alice gasped again as the cold seawater lapped at her chin.
‘This bloody place! Just what the fuck is going on?’ John Donald cursed, as he banged his fist on the desk. ‘This is grotesque,’ he said, flinging down the crime scene photograph of the young man, his tongue sticking out from the slash in his bloody neck. ‘What progress have you made?’
‘He spoke to someone earlier in the day at the shop downstairs where he was buying air freshener. Whoever killed him did so brazenly, in broad daylight, in his own home. There’s no sign of a struggle at the door, the locks weren’t forced, so it would appear they were invited in,’ said Daley.
‘Air freshener? Not the first purchase I would have expected a lowlife like this to make.’
‘No, sir. Clearly he was expecting company; somebody he wanted to impress.’
‘Impress?’
‘Don’t you give your house a quick spray before your guests arrive?’
‘Indeed not. I leave all domestic matters to my good lady. In any case, our home is not a fucking crack den like this stupid bugger’s. I daresay you have to attend to that type of thing yourself now, eh, Jim?’ Donald smirked, breaking off his tirade, unable to resist the opportunity.
Daley said nothing, making sure his expression remained the same, despite his boiling blood. ‘This was an execution, sir, plain and simple. As was that of Rory Newell. We were right about him all along; somebody is sending out a message, a very strong message, sir. I’ve informed the Serious Organised Crime Agency, of course, and they’re studying the crime scene evidence.’
‘Did you know Rainsford spent a spell on secondment with the Carabiniere in Florence? This looks like bloody mafia shit to me, or something similar. Get him in here.’ Donald waved his hand at Daley and turned his gaze to a document on his desk.
As Daley strode towards the door, desperately trying to hold his temper, Donald spoke again. ‘While we’re at it, send DS Scott in to see me. I expect to see a change in his attitude if his return to duty is to be a permanent one.’
‘Afraid I can’t, sir. He’s working a split shift today; on obs tonight, so he’s not on duty at the moment.’
‘Obs duty?’ mocked Donald. ‘That decision should have been left to me. Get someone else to do that, and get Scott back here now. Fuck knows, he’s probably got his face in a bloody glass, already.’
Daley turned in the doorway. ‘Direct order from the ACC, sir,’ he lied, then smiled as Donald waved him away with a dismissive flourish of his hand. Despite the gesture, Daley knew he had won.
15
Daley was looking at a grab taken from Kinloch’s CCTV footage during the window of time around Malky Miller’s murder. Though he had no reason for his suspicions, he didn’t like the look of the man walking down Kinloch’s Main Street with his head bowed. He stood out, was different somehow; certainly he wasn’t a local man, though Daley knew he could be an innocent tourist or businessman. The clip was only a moment longer than three seconds, and Daley had watched it over and over again. There was something about the way this man walked, his gaze permanently fixed to the ground. He wore a dark jacket and a cap underneath which Daley was sure he was bald; no hair was visible on the side of his head, though, from this angle, it was hard to tell. His build was striking; he reminded Daley of a wrestler, or a rugby forward. Somehow, to the detective’s eye, he didn’t fit.
‘I want some stills blown up from this. And take a look around the time it was taken and see if we can find this character anywhere else on CCTV,’ said Daley to a young DC. He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought, as the detective left his glass box. These were vicious, pitiless crimes tha
t left him sick to the stomach. He had seen the full spectrum of man’s inhumanity in the course of his career, but this was at the extreme end.
And what about Cudihey? Was his horrific suicide a final gesture of defiance, a desperate attempt to cleanse the soul with fire, or a two-fingered salute at an uncaring world? Or was it something else entirely?
A knock rattled his door and Rainsford entered. ‘I thought I would let you know, sir, that a member of the Scottish Government is paying a visit to Kinloch.’
‘Really, when?’
‘Tomorrow, sir. Apparently it’s some kind of fact-finding mission.’
‘Oh, brilliant. Does his majesty know yet?’
Rainsford gave Daley a puzzled look, then realised who he meant. ‘I thought it best that you inform the Chief Superintendent, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Apparently she is bringing her own security detail, so it will cause minimum disruption to us, at least. The whole visit is to be low-key, I’m told.’
‘Just what we need. Get me the details, please, and I’ll tell the boss. Who is this official?’
Rainsford looked at the document he was holding for a few moments. ‘Elise Fordham, sir. She’s the Minister for Rural Affairs, Food and the Environment. Their party will consist of her and two others; an assistant and someone from the communications office. Plus protection officers, I assume.’
‘Who from the communications office?’
Rainsford turned a page over. ‘Gary Wilson, sir. That’s all the information I have.’
‘That’s all the information I need. Gary fucking Wilson.’
‘You know him, sir?’
‘Oh yes, I know him. If you worked in the eighties in the Glasgow Police, you knew Gary Wilson, let me assure you. A bastard, a complete bastard. The fun never ends.’
The sheer size of the warship that had rescued them prevented it from entering Kinloch’s harbour proper, so the Taylor family were being transported to the pontoons aboard a tender, piloted by a petty officer and a young rating. The Navy had managed to winch the family’s dinghy aboard and were going to attempt to salvage their yacht which, thanks to modern buoyancy aids, was still partly afloat, stern up in the water.
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 8