‘What do you mean, if things get shitty with the press? They already fucking are! The tabloid boys were onto this little accident within an hour of it happening. Because Kirsteen Lang was on secondment, they haven’t made the connection between her and Cudihey yet. But they will, have no doubt about it.’
‘I’ll have to think,’ said Fordham, biting her lip. ‘Fuck. This is the last thing we need at this sensitive time.’
‘Aye, I’m sure. Well, trust me, it’s about to get a damn sight more sensitive. And I’m in the firing line here. I’m the one who’ll have to answer all the bloody questions and I don’t know the first thing about it!’
‘I know you, Gary. You can spin this until we decide what to do.’ She nudged him in the ribs, forcing a smile.
‘Enough of the doe-eyed shit!’ he shouted, his face turning a shade of crimson. ‘That might work with some sweaty old MSP with bad breath and a libido that won’t lie down, but it won’t work with me. This is serious – we still don’t know who interviewed Lang about Cudihey. Do we? Oh, fuck off!’ Wilson turned on his heel and stormed off down the beach.
Daley took the call from the coastguard on his mobile, giving details of the location and a quick explanation of the circumstances. The efficient woman on the other end said she would call him back when they’d taken action. It was a long shot, but he wanted the fishing boat he had just seen stopped.
‘You think my daughter has been abducted!’ Taylor shouted. ‘Why? We’re not even from this bloody place. Why do you suspect this? Surely we’ve been through enough.’
‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr Taylor,’ answered Daley. ‘Your daughter identified a man on the boat that hit you. My early investigations point to the fact that this man is highly dangerous.’
‘You mean . . . Oh God.’ Taylor’s eyes widened in sudden realisation.
Daley’s phone rang. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he replied in answer to the person on the other end. ‘Thank you. Please keep me informed.’
‘What was that? What action are you taking to save my daughter, Mr Daley?’
‘The coastguard have directed a naval vessel in the area to intercept the fishing boat we saw.’
‘You think my daughter has been taken onto a fishing boat?’
Just as Daley was about to answer, one of his detectives called over. ‘Look, sir. Over there, by the trees.’
Daley followed his colleague’s line of sight. Sure enough, emerging from the copse of trees on the hill beyond the beach, a figure could be seen walking towards them.
‘Alice. It’s Alice!’ shouted Taylor, stumbling over the boulders towards his daughter. Daley and the other police officers followed.
‘What’s happening?’ Alice managed to ask, just before her father enveloped her in a tight embrace, tears of relief flooding down his face. ‘I thought I saw a hoopoe. I followed it into the trees, but I lost it,’ she said, her voice muffled by her father’s hug.
High on the hill above, the man looked down through the sight of his rifle. He could take a shot, but the distance and elevation made it difficult, and there were too many bodies in the way. He shifted his sight from one face to another; through it, he could make out the individuals quite easily. The girl was entwined in her father’s arms, surrounded by a group of men. He stopped at the man in the ill-fitting police uniform. He was tall, with dark hair. Unlike the rest, he was looking about, taking in the scene. The man’s finger curled round the rifle’s trigger.
22
Brian Scott was sitting in Daley’s glass box, nursing the mother of all hangovers. They had made it back into port just before six in the morning. Having consumed a great deal of whisky on the boat trip he had absolutely no idea how – or when – he had made it back to the County Hotel. Fortunately, he’d had the presence of mind to set his alarm before they left, so at two o’clock he’d been jolted from a restless sleep, with a dry mouth, an aching head and a momentary sense of dislocation that left him wondering just exactly where he was.
He was shaking so badly he had to hold his coffee to his lips with both hands. He remembered being in a pub in Glasgow’s East End with his father. He must have been fifteen or so; the pub had been filled with football supporters getting ready to go to an Old Firm game. Amidst the singing, scarves and high spirits sat a man who looked impossibly old, the wrinkled skin on his face providing the backdrop for two rheumy yellow eyes, bloodshot and sad, which stared out at the world above a bulbous nose, itself a spectacular shade of purple. The young Scott had watched as the man, with visibly trembling hands, tied his blue-and-white scarf to his right wrist, then looped it around the back of his neck. He gripped his pint glass, brimful of beer, and pulled on the scarf with his other hand, to slowly winch the glass to his mouth without – much – spillage. The ragged cheer from the men elicited a mirthless smile from the old man, as he reversed the process and gently laid his glass back onto the bar. Scott had looked on, mesmerised, as the man’s hand, now at his side, shook as though he had just lifted a heavy weight, or been shocked in some way.
‘I see you watching auld Jockie,’ his father had said, wiping pint froth from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘What age dae you think he is?’
Scott shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know – a hundred?’
‘Nah,’ his father replied, cuffing his ear playfully. ‘Your man there is a year younger than me – he’s forty-eight.’
Though the complex nature of the aging process and its subtleties of perspective were unknown to the teenager, the man in front of him looked at least twice that age. He had looked at his father in disbelief.
‘I’m telling you, son, it’s the truth. The bevy can be a good friend tae you, but by fuck, it doesnae half make for a bad gaffer.’
All these years later, as Scott looked at his reflection in the glass of Daley’s office, he saw that man again. He was forty-nine; right now he looked a decade older. These days, he spent all his time waiting for the moment he could place a glass to his lips and feel the warm embrace of alcohol set him free from his gnawing anxiety. His nose wasn’t purple – yet – but at the memory of his father sitting beside him, all those years ago, a tear slid down his cheek.
He was jolted back to some kind of reality when the phone in front of him burst into life.
‘Cornton Vale on the line for you,’ said Shaw. ‘They have a message from a Miss MacDougall, currently residing there. It’s for the boss, but I thought you might want to take it since he’s not here.’
‘Aye, put them on.’ He hadn’t forgotten the promise he’d made to Frank MacDougall, as his old neighbour’s life had drained away into the sand. He felt a pang of sorrow as he thought about Frank’s daughter, that bright young girl, consigned to Scotland’s only women’s prison for the next few years. He took the call.
He caressed the trigger, waiting for the moment he could gently squeeze and release it. The large man in the police uniform was talking on his mobile phone now. He ranged the sight to his left; there she was, the girl, her father holding her at arm’s length, saying something to her. He inched his shoulder forward in readiness for the recoil that the powerful weapon would impart. He aimed at her head, just above her right ear; wounding wouldn’t do, he had to be sure of a kill.
He squeezed the trigger to just before its firing point, the moment between life and death. He took a deep breath, which he wouldn’t exhale until the job was done, a bullet lodged in the girl’s shattered skull. He shuddered, as the phone in his trouser pocket vibrated, easing his finger from the trigger and forcing his eye from the sight.
‘What?’ he spat into the device, then listened for a few moments. ‘You have failed me again. This failure will be your last, unless you make sure that this problem goes away. If I have to abandon my mission, your life will be worth nothing.’ He ended the call and stared down at the distant group of people, this time without magnification. They were making their way along the beach, back towards the cottage.
Daley entered
the office like a hurricane. ‘Where’s Superintendent Donald?’ he roared, as he thundered down the corridor towards the CID Suite.
Scott jumped out of his seat as Daley strode into his glass box, sending papers and a small silver quaich flying from the top of a filing cabinet as he slammed the door open against it. ‘Jim, what’s happening?’
‘Bad stuff, Brian. Very bad stuff,’ replied Daley. He picked up the phone from his desk and pressed two buttons. He hesitated for a moment or two then flung the receiver onto his desk when his call remained unanswered. ‘Get me Inspector Layton, someone,’ he shouted into the office, the tone of his voice sending a couple of detectives hurrying to do his bidding.
‘Sit doon, man,’ Scott implored. ‘You’ll gie yourself a heart attack.’ Daley’s face was beetroot red and a thick vein bulged on his temple. For a moment, Scott feared that Daley’s anger was targeted at him, but realised this wasn’t the case as Daley let loose a volley of expletives directed at John Donald.
Briefly, Daley told Scott his suspicions about their boss’s behaviour, many of which Scott shared, but he was careful to leave out Layton’s revelations as to the clandestine investigation into Donald’s suspected activities, as well as Manion’s place in it all.
‘So you think he’s at it,’ said Scott. ‘What aboot the car you found on the beach?’
‘Registered to a guy in Motherwell who died three months ago, Brian. Clean enough not to attract any suspicion, initially anyway. I’ve got the forensics boys onto it, though I doubt they’ll find anything.’
‘Why not? Have some faith, Jim. Fuck knows, half the time that’s a’ we’ve got tae hold ontae.’
‘No, Brian, that kind of faith’s not enough here. These murders . . . they’re professional. I bet any money that car’s as clean as a whistle.’ Daley sat back in his chair and raised his eyes to the heavens. He knew that, yet again, Alice Taylor had been lucky to escape with her life. The real question was, why had she been placed in such danger? Donald couldn’t have known of his suspicions about the men that had sunk the Taylors’ yacht, that one of them might be one of Europe’s most dangerous criminals; nor could he have known that it was almost certain their dinghy had been sunk by a sniper’s bullet. Or could he?
‘Why did that bastard move the Taylors, Brian? He looked like death earlier. Why go to all the trouble of finding a cottage for them?’
‘That’s a hard one, Jim. What does this Taylor guy do? He’s big time, isn’t he? Pound tae a penny, the gaffer will have done his best tae put oot the red carpet. It might not be what you think.’
‘No,’ replied Daley, staring into space, deep in thought. ‘He owns some kind of engineering company, I think.’
‘There you are then. QED. Donald gets one whiff that this guy Taylor’s worth a few bob, an’ reckons he’ll add tae his long list o’ impressed acquaintances by puttin’ him an’ his family up in a nice wee cottage at the taxpayers’ expense, while he kicks his heels waiting for us an’ the marine accident boys tae dae our stuff. You must admit, that’s no’ exactly oot o’ character.’
‘You’re right. Even if there is something in this, all he has to say is that his concern was for the wellbeing of the family after their ordeal. Fuck!’
‘You know yoursel’, big man, you need tae be up damn early in the morning tae catch that bastard.’
After a sharp knock at the door, Layton appeared. ‘DCI Daley, you wanted me?’
‘Yes. I need to talk to you, urgently. Brian, could you give us a few moments?’
‘Would it be in order to talk with you in Superintendent Donald’s office?’ Layton asked. ‘I too have something I’d like to draw your attention to. Much easier in there.’
‘Yes, of course, I’ll be with you in a few minutes. No sign of Superintendent Donald, I take it?’
‘No, still in his sickbed, I suspect,’ said Layton, closing the door carefully behind him as he left Daley’s office.
‘I’m missing something here, Jim. What’s happening?’ asked Scott.
‘Listen, Brian, I can’t tell you everything – well, not now, at least. You’ll have to trust me on this for the time being.’
‘Whatever you say, big man.’ Scott stared blankly at the desk in front of him.
Daley knew that his friend’s nose was now out of joint. In normal circumstances the pair had no secrets, personally or professionally; it was the way they had always done things. But Scott had been absent for a long time, and Daley knew how fragile he still was. Not to mention his drinking which, looking at his colleague’s bloodshot eyes across the desk, was still a problem.
‘Oh, aye, another thing tae add tae your woes,’ said Scott, attempting a conversational tone without much success. ‘I had Cornton Vale on the blower a wee while ago. Sarah MacDougall wants tae see you, in person. That’s all they would say.’
‘Really? Wonder what that’s about.’
‘No’ for a wee catch-up, I wouldnae think.’
‘Brian.’ Daley leaned across his desk. ‘Listen, I need you back, but I need you straight. You know what I mean.’ He looked the detective sergeant directly in the eye. ‘The drink, you’re going to have to knock it on the head.’
‘I know. I know fine, Jim,’ said Scott. ‘It’s been hard, you know. I mean, being shot, it just kinda knocks the stuffing out o’ you. Aye, literally.’ He managed a weak smile.
‘Give me a while. Honestly, I’ll tell you everything,’ said Daley, getting up from his chair. ‘If I have to go and see Sarah MacDougall tomorrow, it’ll take up most of the bloody day. I’ll need you to cover for me. Properly, you understand?’
‘I will, Jim. You know I won’t let you down, big man.’
‘Good. I’m afraid that your light duties are about to become heavy ones.’
‘Fuck, have they ever been any other way? Oh, see when you come back fae Layton, I need tae talk tae you.’
‘What about, Brian?’
‘Lights in the sky, Jim. Lights in the sky.’
23
Superintendent Donnie McClusky flung the car door open and rushed up the spiral staircase to the third floor, followed by three colleagues. They were in luck; the door to the flat was still intact. He looked on as the well-built constable used the steel ram to batter down the door, then burst through, into a neat hallway with a red carpet and plain white walls, adorned here and there by trendy posters and small prints. McClusky was relieved; it looked as though nothing had been disturbed. They were the first on the scene.
The flat was comprised of one bedroom, a small kitchenette with a round table, shower room with toilet and sink, and a lounge. One large sofa and an easy chair sat at right angles to each other facing a large television. Everything was neat and tidy, there was no clutter and the whole apartment smelled fresh, the scent emanating from plug-in air fresheners in the hall and bedroom.
‘Right, I’ll take the bedroom, Constable Stewart, the lounge. I want one of you on the door while the other checks the kitchen, cupboards and bathroom. Anything that resembles an electronic device with a memory has to be removed. And any documents, photographs, scribbles, any bloody thing. Time is of the essence, so get going!’
McClusky had searched many properties in his thirty years in the police force; he’d looked for people, stolen goods, firearms, drugs – just about any conceivable thing. This case was different, though. Wilson’s call had been unspecific. All he knew was that they were looking for evidence either written or stored electronically. His job was to remove it.
At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything in the tidy bedroom. A small double bed was covered with a brightly patterned quilt and pillow set. On one side of the brass headboard hung a trilby hat with a feather in it; on the wall above hung a framed photograph of a pretty young woman with long blonde hair, standing on a beach in front of a stunningly blue sea. She was wearing a yellow bikini, which highlighted her tanned skin. The woman was Kirsteen Lang. He felt a pang of regret that such a young, vibrant a
nd beautiful woman had lost her life. He forced this thought to the back of his mind, where it took up residence with the ghosts of so many others. He looked behind the picture, then dismantled the frame, which contained nothing apart from the photograph itself.
Next, he walked over to the wardrobe. The rail bowed in the middle with the weight of the clothes that hung there. Dresses, coats, jackets, jumpers and shirts were crammed in, dangling from hangers of various descriptions. He decided to leave the job of searching pockets and collars to one of his junior colleagues. In any case, he reckoned that a search of Miss Lang’s clothing would elicit little of interest. He rifled through a chest of drawers, finding underwear, T-shirts, jumpers, socks, hankies – nothing out of the ordinary. The drawers were lined with paper which he lifted, but there was nothing to be found underneath.
All that was left in the room was a bedside cabinet, short and square, with a cupboard and one narrow drawer. In the cupboard he found a box of photos, an old diary and a jewellery box, which contained an array of bangles, rings, necklaces and earrings in gold and silver. He was just about to open the drawer when his foot caught on something on the floor. Underneath the bed, just poking out, was the edge of a laptop. He smiled. Not a very inspired hiding place, if hidden it was. He threw it on the bed, and turned his attention to the drawer of the bedside cabinet.
Inside was an assortment of things: a watch, the time stuck at five past ten, some pens, an erotic paperback novel, a tube of lubrication jelly and a vibrator. He took everything out and felt around the inside of the drawer but, finding nothing, replaced the items. When he tried to shut the drawer, it jammed, so he rearranged everything and tried again, but the drawer refused to close properly. He removed it again. Then two things happened at once: his eye alighted on a dark object that had been hidden right at the back of the drawer, and he became aware of raised voices outside the room and the sounds of a scuffle. Instinctively, he lifted the black smartphone from its hiding place and slid it into his trouser pocket just as the door opened and three men in dark suits forced their way into the small bedroom.
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 13