‘And how do I know you are who you say you are, and I’m not part of some elaborate entrapment operation?’ Years in the police force had taught Daley a healthy scepticism.
‘On that point, DCI Daley, you are going to have to trust me. Now, I think it would be prudent to leave. Lunch awaits.’
As Daley raised himself out of his easy chair, he felt even more uncomfortable in his police uniform.
There was a queue at reception when Daley and Layton arrived at the County Hotel. Annie was busy trying to explain the complexities of their stay to a group of bemused Japanese tourists.
‘You’ll – need – tae – come – wae – me,’ she shouted, one word at a time, in the hope that someone would follow her upstairs. Daley waved and smiled at her before being ushered into the dining room by a harassed-looking waitress.
A large table, set to seat twelve at the far end of the long dining room, was empty save for Charlie Murray, a local councillor and former Provost of Kinloch, when such a title existed. He was a large bald man, squeezed into a suit that looked at least two sizes too small. His shirt collar looked likely to decapitate him at any moment. Daley had met him on a number of occasions and quietly admired his direct, no-nonsense approach to local politics.
‘How you, Mr Daley,’ he said, greeting the policemen. He spoke in a slow Kinloch accent; Daley reckoned that nothing much hurried Charlie Murray.
Daley introduced Layton then settled down to look at the menu. For once in his life, his appetite felt diminished. The shock of Layton’s revelations was still reverberating through his mind. He’d suspected something wasn’t right for a long time – after Scott’s shooting, and the note he’d left Daley outlining Donald’s clandestine order to free MacDougall, he had made his fears known to certain individuals within the force who would, he reasoned, be capable of doing something about the problem. This had been more in hope than expectation; he had no direct evidence apart from his own gut instinct, certainly not enough to initiate a disciplinary action against a senior officer. When Donald had been promoted to commander of the new force district, he’d feared his warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Now that he knew Donald to be under official investigation he felt a strange disconnection.
What if he had been wrong? What if Donald was a perfectly honest cop who, apart from his appalling manner and venal attitude towards his subordinates, was about to be brought low by nothing other than idle speculation and personal prejudice? He tried not to think about it, and settled down to focus on the lunch instead.
‘Jeest like this crowd to be late,’ Murray observed. ‘Government? They canna spell the word.’ It was clear that Elise Fordham and Charlie Murray were on opposite sides of the political debate. ‘There’s things happening in this toon that no right-thinking person should tolerate. We’re a dumping ground for a’ the shit o’ the day. Aye, jeest send them doon tae Kinloch, oot the road – that’s the attitude, without a doubt.’
‘You’ll understand that I can’t make political comments, Charlie,’ said Daley, sipping at the soda water and lime he had just been handed. ‘Off the record though, you have my sympathies.’
‘Ach, I know fine whoot position you’re in, Mr Daley. Awkward, right enough. The whole toon admires how you’ve stuck tae your task since you came here. You’ll know whoot they’re callin’ you, no doubt?’
‘What?’ asked Daley, not sure if he really wanted to know.
‘Wyatt Earp,’ Murray answered with a smile. ‘Fuck me, you would need tae be, whoot wae a’ that’s been going on here. Folk butchered in their ain hooses, an’ settin’ themselves on fire. D’you know, that kind o’ thing would have been unimaginable jeest a few years ago. I didna start locking my ain front door until 1994, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘Again, as you know, Charlie, I can’t say anything about these incidents, apart from that investigations are ongoing.’
‘Aye, jeest so, Mr Daley, an’ you’re the very man tae get tae the bottom o’ it all.’ He paused to take a large gulp of beer. ‘Better get this doon me before that nippy sweetie arrives. No doubt we’ll have tae suffer some shitty wine along with her patter. No’ weather for wine, this. As soon as I take wan swallow o’ the stuff the sweat will pure lash off me.’
At that, a couple of other guests arrived – one of the local ministers, and the owner of a construction company. ‘Hello, Reverend McMichael, how are you doin’?’ shouted Murray, in his booming voice. ‘If you’ve got your beer goggles on the day, you’ll be disappointed – nothing but empty rhetoric for lunch. Aye, I needna ask if you’ve got the beer goggles on, eh, William,’ he said to the thickset businessman, who gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘You’re like your grandfaither. I mind him oot wae the horse and cart, aye, an’ a fine swally he had, tae.’
There was a flurry of activity at the dining-room door as Elise Fordham and her party made their way into the room.
‘Gentlemen,’ Fordham said, smiling at them all. ‘Please take a seat. No need for formalities around me. How are you all?’
‘Aye, jeest fine,’ replied Murray, who pointedly hadn’t stood to greet Fordham. ‘I’m fair starving, tae. It’s high time I got something back fae a’ that money I’ve handed oot in taxes o’er the last fifty years.’
As Fordham shook hands and introduced herself to everyone, Gary Wilson smiled at Daley. ‘Well, well, James Daley, formerly of Glasgow’s finest. How are you? Are they only making uniforms in the one size now?’ he said, smiling at Daley, who automatically pulled in his stomach.
‘Nice to see you again,’ Daley lied. ‘It’s always great to see someone doing better for themselves after such a difficult start in life. From the gutter press to the corridors of power, no less.’
‘Touché, Chief Inspector.’
‘I hear you’re staying with us the night,’ Murray said to Fordham. ‘Probably jeest as well.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘A’ this hysteria, folk deid in the street, not tae mention the UFOs. Ach, I’m sure a woman wae her ear tae the groon like you has it a’ taped, digested, an’ ready wae a’ the answers.’ Murray smiled wickedly.
‘Well, yes, of course, yes,’ said Fordham, looking less than confident. She was about to embark on her default speech about Kinloch, when Murray interrupted.
‘Aye, good stuff. When I organised the public meeting for tonight, I couldna foresee that someone as senior as yoursel’ would be able tae attend. The folk o’ Kinloch will be fair chuffed. Lots o’ things, including the fate o’ the nation, tae discuss. A rare privilege for us oot here in the sticks, right enough. Votes galore in it, I shouldna wonder.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure I can say a few words,’ replied Fordham. She was long enough in the tooth to know when an unavoidable political trap had been sprung. ‘It’ll be my pleasure to meet the good folk of Kinloch.’
‘Excellent,’ replied Murray. ‘Noo, whoot’s for dinner?’
‘Don’t you mean lunch?’ said Wilson, glaring at the councillor.
‘No, I mean dinner. When you’re in Kinloch, dae whoot the Kinloch folk dae. At this time o’ day, we have oor dinner.’
Daley smiled to himself, as Gary Wilson and Elise Fordham exchanged a brief, anxious glance.
‘Noo, have yous a’ seen the menu?’ asked Annie, ready her with her pad and pen. ‘Jeest tae let you know, the lasagne’s off, an’ the roast beef is roast pork the day, doon tae the fact that wee Alistair at the butcher had some fine cuts goin’ at a great price. If any o’ you are vegetarian, it’ll be the macaroni cheese, or salad wae a boiled onion.’
After sitting in his tight trousers for well over an hour, Daley was relieved when the meal ended and he was able to get up from the table. On the whole, it had been a reasonably light affair; four other local bigwigs had arrived, including a stick-thin woman from the Chamber of Commerce who proceeded to eat more quickly than Daley thought humanly possible, and consume wine at such a rate that she was well into her second bottle when the Minister stood to take
her leave. The caustic Murray commented that she probably only got fed and watered at official functions, hence her physique. ‘Aye, she only gets oot once a year. Her man’s the maist stingy bugger you’re ever likely tae meet. Poor lassie’s starved, by the looks o’ things.’
Daley and Layton made their excuses to those still around the table and left. As he was passing, Daley stopped to speak to Annie, less frazzled now the Japanese tourists had departed.
‘You’ve your hands full today, Annie.’
‘Aye. Mind you, great tae see the place buzzin’. It’s a’ this nice weather. No’ a toon as pretty as Kinloch when the sun’s oot, Mr Daley.’
‘Absolutely. Anyway, I better get back to the grind.’
‘Oh, before you go. Who will I make the Taylors’ bill oot tae?’
‘Oh, just to me care of Kinloch Police Office, Annie. That should be fine. I’ll get it processed and the money to you as soon as possible.’ Daley smiled. ‘How are they getting on, anyway?’ He hadn’t seen any sign of the uniformed cop who’d been assigned to the hotel for their protection, so assumed that he was upstairs in the corridor outside the Taylors’ room.
‘They left this morning,’ replied Annie. ‘Jeest as well, whoot wae all these Japanese appearing all o’ a sudden.’
Daley stopped in his tracks. ‘Have they gone home?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Mr Taylor said something aboot taking advantage o’ the kind offer an’ making the best o’ whoot o’ their holiday was left tae them. They’ve gone tae a wee cottage doon on the Weirside Road. I thought you would have known aboot it. I’m sure Mr Taylor said that it was the polis who’d organised it.’
‘Where is this cottage, Annie?’ asked Daley. He turned to look at Layton, concern etched across his face.
21
‘That was a nightmare,’ said Fordham, sinking back into her seat in the large hired car. ‘Bloody public meeting. Bastard!’ She shook her head as they drove the short distance to view where Walter Cudihey had set himself on fire. ‘Fucking UFOs. I mean, come on. Looks like you were dead right about this bloody place, Gary. Gary?’ Caught up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that Wilson, sitting in the passenger seat in front of her, was on his phone.
‘I see. Yes. Keep me informed,’ he said, then ended the call. ‘Fuck.’
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Not good, not good at all. Kirsteen Lang’s been killed in a road accident.’
‘Really? I mean, well, I don’t know what to say. Poor girl.’
‘Yes, poor girl, indeed.’ Wilson’s eyes were blazing. ‘I’m an old hand at this game, Elise. I’ve seen a lot – enough shit and dirty tricks to last me a lifetime, and the only way I’ve survived is by listening to that little voice in my head telling me that something is very wrong and to get my arse out the door as quickly as fucking possible, before all the shit or whatever it is lands on my front step.’ He looked angry and exhausted at the same time.
‘And don’t tell me, you’re hearing that voice now?’
‘Hearing it? It’s bloody deafening. What the fuck’s going on, Elise?’
‘I wish I knew,’ she replied. ‘I really do. Couldn’t it just be an accident?’
‘Aye, and natural coincidences are as rare as altruistic politicians,’ said Wilson.
‘We can talk about this later, OK?’ Fordham nodded towards the back of their driver’s head.
‘Whatever you say, Minister.’ He shook his head and turned his weary gaze to the loch where Walter Cudihey had killed himself.
Daley burst into the CID room at Kinloch Police Office. He had tried to raise Donald on his mobile on the way up from the hotel, but the call had gone straight to voicemail.
‘DC Maxwell, I want you to find out anything you can about who booked the cottage for the Taylor family yesterday. You, you and you,’ he said, pointing to three detectives, ‘draw firearms. Now!’
In a few minutes, thanks to Sergeant Shaw’s willingness as duty officer to overlook much of the procedure when handing out weapons, the four policemen bundled into a car and headed for the cottage on Weirside Road. Although he couldn’t picture the property, Annie had told him how to get there and that, since it was the only dwelling at the end of a stretch of rocky beach, he would be unlikely to miss it.
They sped out of the yard and down Main Street, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Though the cottage was less than three miles out of Kinloch, Daley still worried that he would be too late. Soon, the buildings thinned out, and they sped along a narrow road with the sea sparkling to their left under a clear blue sky. On passing Hamish’s home, which faced the island at the head of the loch, the road turned sharply right. Looking into the distance, Daley could see a small cottage on the shore under a looming hill.
‘That’s it over there,’ he shouted to the driver, who nodded. It was so close to the town, yet utterly secluded. Daley could see figures outside the dwelling as the police car sped along the single track road, then onto a dirt path. Mr and Mrs Taylor were standing by two deck chairs, looking surprised by the dramatic arrival of the police car.
‘Alice – where is she?’ shouted Daley, not bothering with formalities.
‘Oh,’ answered Stephen Taylor, holding a mug. ‘She’s about somewhere, beachcombing, I shouldn’t wonder. Is there a problem?’
‘Which way did she go?’
‘Down there, behind the cottage,’ Taylor answered. He and his wife were beginning to look alarmed. ‘She took a rucksack with water and some sandwiches. Just what is going on?’
‘Quick, come with me.’ Daley grabbed Stephen Taylor by the arm, forcing him to drop the mug, spilling tea across the coarse machair grass. ‘Show me where she went.’
They stumbled along the rocky beach. Boulders of varying size and shape made haste impossible. To their left, the sea hissed as waves broke on the rough shore. The glare on the water was bright and Daley squinted along the stretch of beach as he picked his way between the rocks as quickly as possible.
‘I’m really worried now,’ said Taylor. ‘You arrive with sirens blaring and all of these questions. Please, tell me, what’s going on?’
About three hundred yards down the beach, Daley spotted a car parked at the end of a rough track. ‘Quick, see if anyone’s about who might have seen her!’ he shouted to his men.
As they approached, it became obvious that the vehicle, an old Ford Mondeo, was empty. Daley climbed up from the shore and onto the track. He tried the door, surprised when it opened. Inside, the car seemed devoid of any signs of use. The ashtray was empty, as were all of the little compartments on the door and between the front seats. As a detective checked under the back seats, Daley pulled open the glove box to find it empty as well. He ran his eyes over the dashboard, and noted a boot release sign by the steering column, which he pulled. Walking to the back of the car, he popped the lid; only a spare tyre and a heavy wrench were visible. He pulled aside the plastic matting that lined the boot, which revealed nothing more.
As he slammed the lid shut, a call made him look up. Further down the beach, DC Maxwell was holding something up.
‘Oh,’ said Taylor, a look of panic on his face. ‘That’s Alice’s rucksack.’
As Daley stumbled back onto the beach he saw Maxwell pull a plastic box from the bag. When Taylor reached the young detective, he grabbed the bag and looked inside.
‘Her sandwiches and water.’ The policemen looked on as he unzipped a small compartment on the front of the rucksack. ‘Her phone. Alice would never leave her phone. I only bought it for her yesterday to replace the one she lost when the boat sank.’ Taylor looked at Daley in panic.
Daley thought for a moment. The car was completely empty, not even a discarded sweet paper or empty plastic bottle to be seen. The only sign that anyone had been in the vehicle was a patch of muddy sand in the footwell under the steering wheel, and a strong smell, reminiscent of fish. Daley looked out to sea; in the distance a small boat was rounding the point.
Daley picked up his phone. ‘Sergeant Shaw, get me the coastguard. Tell them to call me on this number, now!’
‘Why are we here?’ asked Wilson. He and Elise Fordham were walking along a stretch of deserted beach a few miles from Kinloch. The Minister had instructed her security detail to follow them at a discreet distance, well out of earshot. They’d paid their respects to Walter Cudihey by laying flowers near the fire-ravaged section of the pontoons. To Fordham’s surprise, a journalist from the local paper had been there; this visit was supposed to be of the kind that people heard about after the event – a personal tribute rather than another photo opportunity. However, she had done her best to look grief-stricken as she laid flowers by the charred decking.
‘You’re going to have to trust me on this,’ said Elise. ‘We had some problems with Walter Cudihey – that’s all I can say at the moment.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘I can’t give you details, but let’s just say he wasn’t happy with certain environmental policies we were pursuing.’
‘Right,’ replied Wilson. ‘So, I’m to believe that because this clown felt so strongly about when the bins get emptied, or what he should or shouldn’t recycle, he decides to turn himself into the Olympic torch and his trusty assistant gets half a ton of van on her head?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t about bins, anyway, and we don’t know if what happened to Kirsteen Lang this morning was anything other than an accident. Tragic, but an accident all the same. Cudihey and I had a full and frank discussion about something a few days before he . . . well, he did what he did.’
‘OK. So what was the subject of this discussion?’ Wilson indicated quotation marks with both hands.
‘I can’t tell you. It’s a very . . . Come on, Gary, you know the score here.’
‘Don’t give me that political bollocks! One dead civil servant is regrettable, two – from the same department, in a matter of days – could become political dynamite, and you know it.’
‘Right, Gary. I hear you. All I can say is that I want you to give me a couple of days on this, then – if things get shitty with the press – we’ll talk again. You must understand, I’d have to get clearance from the top to be able to tell you anything.’
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 12