‘Now, if I knew that, I’d be as clever as you. I’m emailing some stuff doon. Some o’ these pictures look as though they’ve been taken on the coast round Kintyre, or so I’m reliably informed by the expert in topography, or whatever it’s called. I want you tae have a look an’ see if you can pinpoint where, Brian.’
‘Aye, nae bother, Willie. I’ll take a look an’ get back tae you. There’s an old guy here, a retired fisherman, sounds right up his street. All very mysterious. I know Jim’s no’ happy wae this case.’
‘Who would be, Brian? I could dae without this myself. In my experience, mention the word politics an’ all the shit o’ the day appears. See what you can do for me, eh?’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Oh, did I tell you, Brian, we’re off tae get another poodle at the weekend. He’ll no’ replace wee Jinky, mind. But och, the hoose was just empty, you know what I mean?’ He went on to describe the pain of life without the aforementioned Jinky bounding about.
‘Right enough, Willie. Aye, great stuff, just what you need. It’ll be great tae see the new addition tae the family, so tae speak. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.’ Scott grimaced as he finished the call with his old friend. ‘I hope this new poodle doesnae stink and lick my face the way the last fuckin’ one did,’ he muttered under his breath as he went in search of Manion’s email.
Daley looked around the cell. It was neat, tidy and bright. Had it not been for the peephole in the door and the bars on the windows, he could have been in a downmarket hotel room. A single bed sat against the wall under the window. A wardrobe stood in the opposite corner, beside which was a desk and chair, with a mirror on the wall behind. Under the desk was a set of drawers which Daley opened to begin his search. The first two contained underwear, socks, prison issue T-shirts and jumpers; nothing of significance. On the top of the desk was a cheap writing pad, beside a framed picture of a teenage boy wearing a muddy football kit. Despite never having met him, Daley recognised Cisco, Sarah’s older brother, who a few years after that picture was taken would be butchered in the stairwell of a Glasgow high rise. Daley looked at the young face with the broad smile. Not for the first time in his life, he thought about destiny. What was the destiny of the small child who had changed his life? What was his, come to that? He tried to focus on the job in hand and take his mind from the distraction of Liz.
The contents of the second pair of drawers were more interesting. Letters and photographs were neatly stacked next to a pile of books. Daley skimmed through the letters – many from friends, and a couple from Sarah’s mother, written in a child’s hand – then looked through the books. Novels by Jane Austen, Proust and Thomas Hardy sat beside books on philosophy, politics and economics. Daley sighed again; what a waste of a life. He held each book by the spine and flicked through the pages in case anything had been placed between them; on initial investigation, at least, nothing was apparent.
On the small cabinet beside her bed, Sarah MacDougall had placed two framed photographs and a small radio. The first photo showed a group of girls in school uniform; he spotted a young Sarah in the middle. The second was of her parents; Frank and Betty MacDougall stared out in monochrome, both smiling. Despite her expression Daley thought he could see unhappiness in the woman’s eyes.
A further two slim drawers in the cabinet contained very little. Apart from another couple of books and three magazines – two on current affairs and one on history – there was a notepad with some doodles and a packet of chewing gum. It looked as though his search would be futile.
‘The Stirling boys will want to bag this lot up,’ Daley said to the prison officer standing at the door.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Are you finished?’
Daley looked about. ‘Yes, just about, I think.’ He looked at the bed; as unlikely as it was that something would be hidden in or around its frame, he thought he might as well be thorough. He bent down, gingerly, and looked under it; the space was empty. He stood, threw the duvet cover and pillows onto the floor, then lifted the mattress and searched underneath and around it; again, nothing. As he lifted the bedding to throw it back onto the bed, something fluttered from the pillowcase – a small scrap of paper. Daley quickly reached for it.
CVL:Phil/231-01
Daley thought for a moment, looking around the small cell. ‘Right, lock this up until Stirling CID are ready to have a look,’ he ordered. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I want to go to the prison library.’
Scott was in the passenger seat alongside Rainsford, who was driving.
‘So you reckon you know where this is?’ he said, turning to the man in the back seat.
‘Och aye,’ said Hamish. He was still studying the image Scott had given him, in which a pretty girl with a tanned face and blonde hair smiled at the camera. Behind her, the sea and the coastline were easy to make out. ‘That hill’s Dundraven, an’ that’s Dundraven beach. If I had a penny for a’ the times I sailed past there, I would be a rich man noo, and nae mistake.’
‘Well spotted,’ said Rainsford in his clipped tones. ‘I must admit, I thought this was going to be a wild goose chase.’
‘Have faith, son,’ chided Scott. ‘It’s no’ a’ contained in books an’ the internet, you know.’
‘Indeed it’s no’,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t know whoot end is whoot when it comes tae computers, but I can navigate this coast wae my eyes closed, an’ that’s a fact.’
They drove on for a short while until Hamish pointed out a lay-by ahead, where they parked. At the far end of the lay-by, a small gate opened up onto a rough track, down which they set off. The sky was deep azure, the long grass a vibrant green, and the scents of honeysuckle and the sea heavy in the air. They followed the track to the top of a small hill, which revealed a breathtaking scene. A long stretch of white sand bordered the calm ocean. In the distance, islands could be picked out in the shimmering haze, one of them with a series of dramatic conical peaks.
‘Aye, in front o’ you are the Paps o’ Jura,’ said Hamish, pointing with the stem of his pipe. ‘Beside it, the wonderful island o’ Islay.’
‘What’s that landmass over there?’ asked Rainsford, clearly impressed.
‘The Emerald Isle.’ Hamish’s eyes creased into a smile. ‘Aye, Ireland. Right bonnie, is it no’?’
‘Who needs the Costa del Sol when you’ve got this on your doorstep, eh?’ said Scott, filling his lungs with the heady scents of sea and shore.
‘Who needs the Costa del Sol, period?’ said Rainsford.
The three men made their way towards the shore, with the buzz of insects, the insistent call of seabirds, and the lazy swish of the tide as their soundtrack.
Daley immediately knew why Sarah had sought the library as her refuge. It could have been any library, almost anywhere in the world. Apart from the barred windows, and white utilitarian buildings beyond, it would be easy to forget that you were in the heart of a prison.
A woman with short dark hair, who looked to be in her early thirties, approached Daley, holding out her hand for him to shake.
‘Elaine Wright. I’m the librarian here,’ she said with a weak smile. Her eyes were puffy and she looked as though she’d been crying.
‘Nice to meet you, Elaine. I’m DCI Daley. You knew Sarah MacDougall reasonably well, I believe?’
‘Yes.’ A tear made its way down her cheek. ‘It’s so terrible, what happened to her. I can’t believe it.’ She wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. ‘She was such a lovely, clever girl.’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Daley. ‘She would come here most days, I take it?’
‘She was a trustee, Inspector Daley. So she was here nearly every day. As you can see, we’re not exactly rushed off our feet, so she spent a lot of time reading. She had started a course on philosophy, too. I have the details here,’ she said, bending down behind her desk.
‘Can you make any sense of this?’ Daley handed her the piece of paper, retrieved from Sarah MacDougall’s pillowc
ase.
The librarian studied it for a second, then smiled. ‘Yes, this is one of our library references, for a book on philosophy, as you might expect. If you follow me, I’ll show you.’
Daley did as he was told and followed the librarian through the maze of shelves.
‘Here we are,’ she announced. She reached down to the bottom shelf and pulled out a book: a faded copy of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s On Certainty. She handed it to Daley, looking suddenly uncertain.
Daley felt the heft of the book in his hands for a few heartbeats, before turning it upside down by its spine and leafing through the pages with his thumb. As he had expected, a tiny envelope – most probably homemade – fluttered to the ground. In neat, rounded handwriting it was addressed to DCI Daley.
‘Oh,’ the librarian said uncertainly. ‘What can that be? I mean, addressed to you. It’s very strange.’
‘Yes. Did she mention anything to you? You know, fears or worries? It seems that you were the one person in here that she spent a lot of time with.’
‘No. I mean, not really. We spoke about her course, and books we had both read, of course. Very little else. I have strict rules to follow when it comes to my relationships with the prisoners. I’m sure you appreciate that.’
Daley noticed a sudden change in her manner. ‘Yes, absolutely. Since this is addressed to me, I hope you don’t mind my removing it. After the sad events of earlier this morning, it’s now evidence in a murder inquiry.’
He left the library and was taken to the office of the deputy governor, where he was seated in an anteroom. Malcolm was busy in a meeting, no doubt focused on the murder of Sarah MacDougall. He welcomed the opportunity to open the envelope and read its contents.
Dear Mr Daley,
When my father and I were trying to make our escape, he told me something that he urged I should use if ever things became too much for me to bear, or if I felt threatened in any way; incidentally, I feel both emotions at present. He was also most insistent that I should pass this information to you, and only you, in person if possible. I have been warned off, told to keep quiet, but I don’t intend to. If anything has happened to me, you need only search from where the words come to find the answer. I think it is part of the human condition to want to bare one’s soul, but I think I am about to learn the hard way to be more careful to whom I unburden myself.
I know that you are a clever man, and I hope that this information may help you restore some balance to our small part of the world; though I fear that the ramifications of what I know go far beyond the shores of Kintyre. I am also aware that – and I know this sounds clichéd, please forgive me – if you are now reading this, then my worst fears have been realised.
My father made it clear to me that he knew of corruption at a very high level within the police force. Apparently you were sent to Kinloch to clean things up to make way for something else. He told me that powerful people had their tentacles spread throughout our society, to the highest possible levels.
He only had one name: John Donald. But there’s also someone higher. Another police officer, more senior to Donald, was involved, but he didn’t know the name. He believed that this corruption went far beyond the police force. That is all I know.
I’m sorry that I didn’t get the chance to tell you this in person. It would appear that my attempt to enter the world of crime, to emulate my father, was doomed from the outset. I console myself with the fact that death is not a part of life, that we do not live to experience it.
Please help my mother, if you can.
Trust nobody.
Sarah
Malcolm’s voice made Daley jump. He hurriedly folded Sarah MacDougall’s note, put it back into the envelope and followed the deputy governor into his office.
‘Stirling CID are interviewing the assailants now, though I don’t believe they’re getting very far. Two lifers with nothing much to lose. I must tell you that both the investigating officers and the governor are most unhappy that you appear to have taken it upon yourself to interview members of our staff, and conduct searches outwith the official investigation.’
‘Shut up,’ said Daley, who remained standing.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Malcolm made to rise from behind his desk.
‘Sit fucking down. I want you to take steps to detain Elaine Wright. I’m just about to arrange for local police officers to arrest her. How carefully do you vet your civilian staff, Mr Malcolm?’
‘Very carefully. In fact, my background is in HR, so I know all there is to know about the processes we use to make sure our staff are of the highest quality. We have strategies in place to ensure absolute effectiveness; no doubt beyond the comprehension of a non-professional.’
‘You little twat. How long has she been in place? Less time than Sarah MacDougall has been languishing here, I reckon. I’d bet anything that your incomprehensible strategies have led to Sarah MacDougall’s death. Make the call.’ Daley watched as Malcolm picked up the phone and instructed his security staff to detain the prison librarian.
‘Now, I must insist that you leave.’ Malcolm stood to his full, average height.
Daley looked down at him and smirked. ‘Human resources, I might have known. We’ve got people like you, too.’
‘Hard-working professionals, without whom no organisation could operate?’ replied Malcolm sarcastically.
‘No. Self-important arseholes, with no function other than to make work for themselves and for others who have proper jobs.’ He turned to leave, then spotted a crash helmet sitting on a filing cabinet. ‘Are you a biker, Mr Malcolm?’
‘Yes, and why is that of any consequence?’
‘You just don’t look the type.’ Daley smiled and left the man muttering under his breath.
28
‘There you are. Of course, you would need tae be oot at sea tae get the full effect, but if that’s no’ the backgroon tae the pictures, then I’m a Quaker,’ said Hamish, as the three men stood on the white sand looking up at the hill beyond the beach. The surf broke lazily on the shore while, high above, ravens twisted in the clear blue sky.
Scott wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, as was Rainsford’s; even he looked uncomfortable in the heat, made fiercer as it reflected off the powdery white sand. Now and then, Scott could feel the hint of a breeze at his hot neck. He wondered where the nearest pub was, a pint of cold lager was just what he needed. Well, perhaps a couple.
‘What’s over there?’ asked Rainsford, pointing to a small compound, contained within which was a steel hut, like a domestic garage; it looked out of place in these surroundings. Razor wire topped the fence, which looked new and well maintained.
‘Whatever it is, naebody’s supposed to get in, that’s for sure,’ said Scott.
They walked over to the fence, Hamish’s tobacco mingling with the earthy scent of plants and the salty tang of the ocean. ‘It’ll be the electric folk,’ he said. ‘I mind they put a contraption like this at the end of oor street when I was jeest a boy. Electricity was brand new in Kinloch in those days, aye, an’ naebody trusted it, I can tell you. Poor auld Mrs McSorley had a terrible death.’ He shook his head at the memory.
‘Was she electrocuted?’ asked Rainsford.
‘Aye, she was that, son. Cooked like a roasted hen, no’ one bit o’ her no’ charred an’ burnt. You could smell it doon the length o’ the fields. I mind my mother puttin’ the Sunday roast on the table, the week after. No’ one o’ us could take a bite, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Scott, as they approached the high fence, looking for anything to identify the compound’s purpose. ‘Faulty wiring, nae doubt. I’ve had a couple o’ close ones when the wife forced me tae dae some DIY. Fucking cut the whole street off for near ten hours. She never asked me tae dae anything like it again, mind you. Every cloud.’ He winked at Rainsford.
‘Och no, it was sheer stupidity on her part, the auld soul,�
�� said Hamish. ‘As I say, the mysteries o’ electricity were as unknown tae us in they days as the dark side o’ the moon. The poor bugger was in a tin bath in the front room. The water was getting’ cauld – it was near Christmas, if I recall. She thought tae boil a kettle, you know, tae warm her bath up a wee bit. She wiz a canny auld bird though, she spotted the wee two-bar fire she had blazing away, an’ reached oot and pulled it intae the bath wae her – tae heat up the water, you understand. The Monk heard a great calamity fae upstairs – he was in the flat below – so he went running up. Och, whoot a sight; her lying roasted, wearing only whoot God gied her tae. I don’t know whoot he thought was worse.’ Hamish grimaced.
‘Fuck me,’ said Scott, horrified by the mental picture Hamish had conjured up for him. ‘What a tale. You said she was discovered by a monk?’
‘No, no. The Monk; his nickname. No’ many folk in the toon without some kinda nickname or other. They called him that cos o’ the big bald spot on the back o’ his heid; been there since he was a boy. Mind you, there was nothing monkish aboot his behaviour, if you know whoot I mean.’ He winked.
‘Meaning?’ Scott asked.
‘Well, now you see, it wiz lucky poor auld Mrs McSorley wisna breathing, that’s a’ I’ll say aboot it.’
‘I thought she was an auld woman,’ said Scott, mystified.
‘Aye, so she wiz, but that wiz nae barrier tae the Monk. Shag a barber’s—’
‘You two, shut up and come over here!’ shouted Rainsford. Uninterested in Hamish’s tale of tragedy, he had made his way further along the fence. When Hamish and Scott caught up with him, he pointed to a small white plaque, attached to a gate with double padlocks.
BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF DEFENCE: KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
‘Not what we expected,’ said Rainsford.
‘No, certainly no’,’ Scott observed. ‘What the fuck is it?’
‘Strange that Lang would have her photo taken with this in the background,’ said Rainsford, pointing to a blur in the photographs, visible just behind the girl in every shot.
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 17