‘Oh aye, an’ where’s that?’
‘Ailsa Craig, sir. For some reason, the old man thinks that the vessel we’re looking for may be there.’
‘Oh aye, well, good luck. Let me know when you’re approaching, I want tae save this lassie, an’ I don’t care if it’s the Pope aboard tellin’ you what tae dae. Out.’
He opened his briefcase and tucked Sarah’s letter into one of its compartments, then removed a mobile phone and keyed in a few numbers.
There had been so much death already today.
49
The sea was heavy. Dark waves pounded the police vessel as it made its way towards Ailsa Craig, which was moving in and out of view as they were tossed up and down on the fury of the waves.
Scott, who had already been sick, was now huddled on a bench at the back of the cabin, his face a light shade of green.
Daley stood at the helm with Inspector Mason, who stared through the rain-lashed window, a look of deep concern on his face.
‘If this gets any worse, we’ll have to turn back,’ he shouted to Daley, struggling to be heard against the roar of the engines, the howl of the wind and the battering of the sea on the side of Semper Vigilo.
‘We have to see if Hamish is right,’ shouted Daley. ‘He knows these waters – it must be worth the risk. Carry on.’
‘This may blow out soon, sir. Couldn’t we sit off for a while, and wait until the helicopters can go back up and have a look?’
‘There’s no time. We’re the only vessel in the area. At least if we know where she is, it’s a start.’
Mason drew himself up, then steered the vessel on through the maelstrom.
*
Elise Fordham looked at the pages in front of her. She often wrote her own speeches, her time in the popular press giving her an insight into what caught the attention of the man in the street; an advantage she had over other politicians.
This speech was different though. She had never dreamed she would find herself in such a position. She heard the voice in her head telling her to be pragmatic, but there was simply no going back. The words before her would change her life forever.
She read the speech through again, took a deep breath, then, with her security detail, took a car to her home in the suburbs.
‘Robert,’ she said to the burly protection officer as she was leaving the car. ‘Do me a favour while I’m getting ready. Get a hold of your boss and tell him I want security cameras installed on this street.’
Fordham walked into her home to get ready for the speech of her life.
Daley struggled to keep his balance as the vessel rocked from side to side. He could hear Scott throwing up again. Through the rain-splattered window, against a grey sky, he saw a flash of red.
‘That’s it, that’s the fishing boat!’ shouted Daley to Mason who, having spotted the boat himself, was now steering towards it, four or five hundred yards off the rocky shore of Ailsa Craig.
Mason picked up the radio mic. ‘Semper Vigilo to ACC Manion and all stations. The Girl Maggie has been spotted, anchored under the eastern lea of Ailsa Craig, over.’
‘How soon will it take you tae get alongside?’ asked Manion, the first to reply.
‘In this, sir, better give me twenty minutes or so. I don’t even know how alongside we’re going to get, over.’
DC Dunn stared grimly at the screen of her computer. Alice Taylor was silent now, crouched on the floor, worn out by her own despair. She had one hour and forty-five minutes to live.
Out there, trying desperately to save the life of this girl, was the man she loved, adored with all of her heart. She had seen two men die today.
‘Save her, Jim,’ she whispered. ‘Dear God, bring him back. She can have him, but just bring him back safely.’ She prayed for the man whom she realised, one way or the other, was already lost to her.
Mason took his time and sailed Semper Vigilo as near to the old fishing vessel as he could. Even Scott had managed to drag himself from the bench in order to see the boat on which Alice Taylor was captive.
‘Aye, the auld fella was right all the time, thank fuck!’
‘Mason to ACC Manion and all stations. Alongside now, though how we’re going to get aboard is anyone’s guess.’ The boats were about a hundred feet apart, as near as Mason dared go, given the gigantic swell. One minute The Girl Maggie appeared above them, then she would plunge out of sight as both craft were tossed by the huge waves.
‘What do you suggest?’ shouted Daley. Beside him DS Scott, an even deeper shade of green, struggled to hear the reply, terrified at what it might be.
*
Dunn heard the radio traffic and scrutinised the screen. She imagined what the conditions at sea were, able to hear the battering they were taking when Mason’s voice issued from the radio. For a moment she wondered why these wild conditions were not reflected by the images of Alice Taylor, who was still gently bobbing up and down in the boat in the same way she had been since they had first discovered the sickening video feed.
Rapid movement of numbers on the screen caught her eye. The time was scrolling backwards, fast. She reached for the radio on her desk. ‘DC Dunn to Semper Vigilo.’ Before she could get the rest of the words out, the screen flashed and went black. ‘DC Dunn to Semper Vigilo, come in, please.’
A sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of rain against the windows of Kinloch Police Office, as a rumble of thunder rolled across the hills above the town.
Daley was flung forward, his head colliding with a chair in front of him. Shards of glass from a shattered window stung his face. He could hear someone calling out, but the voice was muffled. It was as though he was underwater, such was the stunned silence that enveloped him. For a second, he started to panic, fearing he was sinking into the sea and his bludgeoned senses hadn’t quite managed to communicate the fact to him. He was reassured when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Jim, are you OK?’ Daley could see Scott’s mouth move, but could barely hear him.
‘I’m fine. What about everyone else?’ The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a huge weight deposited itself on his shoulders. They had failed; Alice Taylor had been blown to pieces. The pain of this realisation pushed him back to the floor of the cabin, now swilling with seawater.
‘Quickly!’ shouted Mason. ‘We’re compromised. We need to get into the life raft, now!’
Daley hauled himself to his feet with Scott’s assistance. The sea heaved, and the noise of wind and waves in the cabin managed to penetrate even Daley’s temporary deafness. The men stumbled along the deck, slipping and sliding in the heavy swell.
‘Stay there and hang on. If anyone goes over the side here, they’ve had it!’ shouted Mason, making his way down the rolling deck. Whether it was the icy wind or the salt spray, Daley’s head was beginning to clear. He looked back to see Scott and three other men huddled in a corner, clinging to various parts of the cabin. Daley lurched towards them just as a massive wave hit the side of the boat.
DC Dunn sat back in her chair. She’d heard a mayday call from Semper Vigilo and the response from the coastguard and other vessels nearby. Her heart was pounding; the memory of almost being dragged into the maelstrom that was Corryvreckan fresh in her mind. She thought only of Jim Daley now. The girl was dead.
The thunder was growing louder; lightning flashed, causing the office lights to flicker. Kinloch’s Main Street had been turned into a river; the sudden deluge of rain had already overwhelmed the town’s storm drains. Street lights popped into life as though under a night sky, not that of a summer’s afternoon.
As a coastguard message about the horrendous conditions at sea burst forth from the radio feed she was monitoring, she pictured the wretched figure of Alice Taylor, slumped with exhaustion in a corner of the fishing boat set to become her tomb. Again, something about the gentle way the image had swayed didn’t ring true.
She was jolted from these thoughts by Mason’s voice, crackling over the radio feed. ‘
All crew and passengers of Semper Vigilo now in life raft awaiting rescue near last known coordinates, over.’
Dunn breathed a sigh of relief, then looked down at her computer. She knew they were still in danger, so to take her mind off their plight, she rewound the image of the girl trussed up on the boat, stopping at a random point just over three hours ago. The picture swayed gently; she had been told this was because of an unsteady camera aboard the boat. She sent the footage spinning forward again until just before the screens had gone blank. There was Alice Taylor, her head bent forward on her chest, the room gently swaying.
50
There was silence aboard the lifeboat, save for the rain, wind and waves battering the sides of the vessel, and quiet commands from Coxswain John Campbell, the large man sitting at the helm, far from his usual ebullient self.
They had spent more than an hour in the freezing life raft, and Daley was only now beginning to stop shivering. As he looked across at Scott, it was clear he was still suffering. They had changed out of their soaking clothes and been given warm survival suits. Apart from minor cuts and bruises and mild hypothermia, they had survived the explosion of The Girl Maggie miraculously well.
Their deliverance was down to the fact that when the fishing boat had exploded, it had been on the crest of a high wave on the swell, and their vessel in a deep trough. Had Semper Vigilo not been cushioned by a wall of seawater, the sheer compression of the blast would have been enough to kill them.
But Daley could feel no joy at his escape from death.
‘We did all we could, big man,’ said Scott, his teeth chattering. ‘Everybody’s feeling it, Jim.’
He looked around the cabin at the cold, tired, miserable faces. Here he was again, lamenting the loss of another young life; another to add to the long litany of lives he had touched, now all gone.
The thought had been in Daley’s mind for a very long time; now he was sure. He’d had enough of dealing with the worst that society could offer, the detritus washed up for him to remove. Aboard Kinloch’s lifeboat, as it ploughed on through heavy seas to harbour and home, Daley decided to leave his job. He no longer wanted to be a policeman. He wondered if he ever really had.
Elise Fordham stood before the crowd in the upmarket Edinburgh hotel. The lights on her were bright and warm, yet she shivered as she looked down at the lectern and her speech. To either side of the plinth, two screens stood ready to scroll her words down as she read them, making it appear that she was talking without notes.
At the front of the audience sat Gary Wilson, his face impassive, save for the hint of a sneer that she wasn’t sure was real or imagined.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your kind reception,’ she began. ‘I hope you’ll feel it was merited after I’ve bored you to tears for the next few minutes.’ There was laughter at this, the exaggerated kind from people who had been drinking and were out to encourage the woman who stood before them. Fordham took a sip of water from the glass in front of her and started to speak. Her cheek was still sore from the blow from Wilson, but the bruise was artfully concealed with make-up. ‘Everyone in this room, regardless of politics, is a proud Scot . . .’ The screens scrolled, and she waited until the roar of approval died down. She was doing what she had for years, but this time the circumstances were very different. She glanced briefly at Wilson, then carried on – bright, confident, amusing, and glad to be back in control. Words spilled forward on the screen in front of her.
Daley climbed into the police car with Scott. They had been taken to Kinloch’s cottage hospital after landing on the pier. Daley’s cut face had been attended to, swabbed lest any of the glass from the shattered window of Semper Vigilo had embedded itself. Both he and Scott were still wearing the orange survival suits they had been given aboard the lifeboat.
‘You coming in for a dram, big man?’ asked Scott as the car, driven by a young cop, pulled up outside the County Hotel.
‘No, thanks, Brian. I just want some time to myself.’
‘Aye, well. Remember, you’re no’ tae blame. We did a’ we could. Aye, an’ nearly got drooned for oor pains.’ Scott patted him on the shoulder, then left the car and walked towards the hotel, his survival suit bright in the gloom.
As he was driven past the loch, Daley noticed a patch of livid sky above the island, beyond which lay the open sea. Though the torrential rain had stopped, the wind was still strong, whipping up crested waves that lashed against the sea wall. All of a sudden they had been transported from July to January, or so it seemed. Winter had arrived in his soul, of that there was no doubt.
As they drove up the steep lane that led to Daley’s home he was surprised to see a light in the window. A grey 4×4 stood outside.
He left the car, thanking the driver and, realising he didn’t have his key, knocked at the door. He was bathed in warmth and light as the door opened. Framed in the doorway was Liz, holding their child. Though there were dark shadows under her eyes, she looked beautiful.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, kissing his forehead. ‘I know what’s happened. They told me when I arrived.’ She hesitated. ‘We can talk about it if you like. Remember, I know you and I’m here now. So, come in, there’s something in the oven for you.’
As he walked in, she handed him the child, his son. The baby squinted at him, then just as he thought the little face was going to crumple in tears, a huge smile beamed, transforming his features, and the boy gurgled happily.
She’d been away for months, but here she was, here they were. Jim Daley had a family again.
‘To conclude, I would like to say something – something very important.’ The words on the screen stopped; the operator had noticed that what Elise Fordham was saying didn’t match the script. ‘I love my country. My whole life, not just my political one, has been devoted to our nation, please believe me.’ She looked straight at her audience, all except for Wilson, who was squirming in his seat, trying to catch her eye. ‘Some time ago, it came to my attention that all was not well, that there were those at the very heart of our government, our civil service, even our police force, who were hell-bent on taking this nation in a direction that, should they succeed, would prove ruinous.’ The audience gasped, and Wilson froze, held down by Fordham’s protection officers, who pinned him to his chair.
‘In the next few days and weeks, you will hear a great deal about me.’ Fordham stared down at Wilson. ‘The things that are true, I did for the best, for my country. I did them to stop this nation and her people from becoming pawns in a deadly game between good and evil.’ The audience were uneasy, looking at each other in silent astonishment.
‘Today, I spoke with our Justice Secretary, a man I trust, and who you will remember was almost forced from his position earlier this year, over accusations contrived by those who sought to bring him down and replace him with their own man,’ she said, noting the flashing light on top of a TV camera. ‘As of now, he has, as is his right under our constitution, suspended all operations in our parliament, and has asked the Commissioner of London’s Metropolitan Police Service to investigate members of Police Scotland, our civil service, and, I am so sad to say, colleagues of mine, friends and fellow statesmen I thought I could trust. We must – we simply must – cut out this cancer!’
No sooner had these words left her mouth than all hell broke loose.
‘Lies, all lies, I can prove it!’ shouted Wilson as he was bundled away. Dragged past tables of astonished diners, he spat and kicked, his eyes bulging in fury. Journalists and photographers mobbed the podium. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted.
Fordham stood back from the lectern and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. The last thing in the world she had wanted to say, but the most important.
When Mary Dunn’s mobile rang she rushed across to where it sat on the kitchen counter in her little cottage. She had hoped it was Jim Daley; it wasn’t. A young doctor she had met at a party nearly a year before was calling. He’d asked her out
a couple of times since, but she’d always been busy.
The voice at the other end of the phone was hesitant. ‘I’ve been invited to a wedding, and the reception is tomorrow night.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I was hoping you might do me the great honour of accompanying me.’
She smiled at his formal manner, and the nervousness in his voice. She was about to say that she was working, too busy, but then thought, why not. She couldn’t waste her time waiting for something that was never going to happen.
She thought of Daley, sitting beside the body of Superintendent Donald, stunned and bewildered. Her heart lurched in her chest and she gulped her tears away. The man she loved, so much that it ached in her chest, had been saved then lost – to her, at least – on the same day.
He was at home now with his wife and son. Life had to go on.
51
Daley was woken in the early hours of the morning by the cries of his son. From what Liz had told him, it seemed that Jim Daley Junior was as restless as his father.
Daley picked up the little bundle, cradling him over his shoulder, and took him into the kitchen to prepare a bottle, the way Liz had shown him. It was almost quarter to four, and already a pale light spilled through the windows. The storm had blown over, and all was quiet. Summer had returned to Kinloch, but Daley’s heart still felt cold.
When Brian Scott awoke, he did so feeling thirsty, disorientated and with a thumping head. He had become used to the after-effects of alcohol, and on the very rare occasion that he didn’t wake up with a hangover, felt as though something was wrong. He dragged himself out of bed and padded through to the bathroom.
The more drunk he had become the previous evening, the more he had thought of John Donald. The man who had tormented him for so long was gone. But had the bullet that killed him really been meant for Jim Daley? They had been dealing with one of the most ruthless and efficient assassins in the world. Did these people make mistakes? Did they ever hit the wrong target?
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 29