The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

‘We’ll get months mair fun fae that,’ said Jocky, holding out his glass as a silent request for it to be refilled.

  ‘Aye, so yous might.’ Annie replied, ‘Though fae whoot I saw, the boy’s got nothin’ tae be ashamed o’. In fact it’s nae wonder he got caught oot, if ye know whoot I mean.’ She winked in the direction of the policemen.

  ‘Whoot dae ye mean, Annie?’ Jocky swayed on his stool, a look of puzzlement on his face.

  ‘Well, pit it lake this if God had given you whoot he’s given Peester, we’d be callin’ you Jock the Cock, an’ no’ wee Wullie Winky.’

  Despite the revelations of the last few days, even Daley had to laugh.

  Normally, DS Scott resided at the County when his peripatetic duties brought him to Kinloch. On this occasion, though, he decided to take up Daley’s offer to stay at his and Liz’s home, a well-appointed rented bungalow on the hill above Kinloch.

  The two detectives sat on the decking at the front of the house, both wrapped up against the frosty night, while Scott smoked and fretted. After a couple of drinks in the County, Daley had decided it prudent to phone Liz, who arrived in her new Mini Countryman – a gift from her father – to pick them up. She had made lasagne, which, despite their stressful day, the detectives both tucked into heartily.

  Daley had noted with concern that his wife was picking at her meal. Her ability to never gain so much as a pound in weight belied a healthy appetite; it was most unusual to see her staring gloomily at a nearly full plate of food.

  He thought about this as he watched Scott’s cigarette smoke disappear into the starlit night. Below, the loch shimmered silver under an almost full moon; the island which stood sentinel as its mouth loomed black and silent.

  ‘This has a’ got tae be wan big scam,’ Scott declared, as, much to Daley’s chagrin, he flicked his cigarette butt over the garden fence and down the hill. Daley remained silent, watching it splutter out of sight in a momentary shower of sparks. ‘Ye know yersel, they can dae a’ sorts o’ things wi’ computers these days. That CCTV film o’ him is likely just some kind o’ trick photography.’ Scott looked hopefully at his boss.

  Daley sighed. He spotted Liz’s pale face at the kitchen window. ‘There’s no point trying to fathom this until we can get some more information from his majesty tomorrow. You can guarantee, there’ll be something he’s conveniently forgotten to tell us.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, Jim.’ Scott lit another cigarette, puffing clouds of smoke out into the clear night. ‘I must admit, I’m pretty knackered. I’ll sleep the sleep o’ the just the night, for sure.’

  ‘Not something you do very often, Brian,’ Daley said, smiling. ‘No wonder you’re knackered – you’ve put away a hell of a lot of whisky.’ He raised his eyebrows at his DS.

  ‘Och, that’s nothin’ – the lasagne soaked it up. Don’t worry, I’ll be tip-top for the royal appointment the morrow. I’ve got some o’ that mouthwash in my bag. Bugger it,’ he said, flicking ash across the decking, ‘I’ve left the bloody stuff in the motor, back at the office.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare toothbrush,’ Daley offered as they stood up to go back inside.

  ‘Aye, that’ll be fine, but I’m no’ sae sure I’ll fit intae a pair o’ your scants.’

  Daley laughed and shut the door with a slam that echoed down the hillside to the loch.

  8

  Glasgow

  The night was still and frosty all over the west coast of Scotland.

  The man sat in the battered old Honda with the engine running, keeping the heater on against the chill. He stared down the acetylene-illuminated street, watching as the occasional customer entered or left the bar, wrapped up in scarves and woolly hats. From time to time one or two determined smokers would huddle around a wall-mounted ashtray in order to exercise their habit. He reflected on how much the world had changed. What would his granny have thought about not being able to smoke in a pub? He remembered her clearly, sitting on her favourite seat at the bar, a Capstan Full Strength always drooping from her mouth as she gossiped with her fellow regulars. His face broke out into an impromptu smile at the memory. She had been his touchstone, his anchor in what had been a childhood blighted by drink, drugs and violence.

  He remembered the day she died. He had felt as though suddenly and without warning the world had become small, cold and hostile. He stayed in his room for three days, not wishing to see or communicate with anyone. Something in him had changed; he emerged on the fourth day having promised himself he would never be as vulnerable and alone again. Then, and every day thereafter, he had hardened his heart and banished his loneliness; thoughts of his grandmother had receded and had gradually become associated with Scotland’s collective nostalgia for sad songs, Hogmanay and times past.

  It was nearly one in the morning, and the radio was playing Gerry Rafferty as one particularly booze-laden night owl staggered out into the cold. He briefly heard the dull murmur of drunken conversation and a refrain from the jukebox before the door swung shut. He watched the man fumble in his pockets, take a cigarette from a packet in his hand, and place it between his lips. A lighter flared then guttered, momentarily illuminating his face. The man stood unsteadily, arching his back as he drew deeply on the tobacco. He replaced the cigarettes and the lighter in his pocket and muttered something barely audible to himself, before hunching his shoulders and taking his first faltering steps towards home.

  The man in the car smiled as he turned off the radio, released the car’s handbrake, then, with the dull clunk of an old gearbox, put the vehicle into first and pulled slowly away from the kerb.

  If the pedestrian noticed the car as it idled past him, he didn’t falter from his head-down plod. As he progressed down the street, the chunky sole of his boot caught a broken section of the pavement, making him trip and swear.

  The driver slowed to a stop thirty yards in front of the staggering figure, switched off the engine and lights and exited the Honda. He stepped onto the pavement, towards the man moving haltingly past a row of empty, boarded-up shops.

  They were only a few feet apart when the man from the car, in a darting motion, flunged towards the pedestrian and thrust a broad-bladed hunting knife into the unsuspecting man’s belly. A look of horror suffused the dying man’s face as he clawed at the knife handle, and a trail of steaming urine threaded from his ankle down his boot and onto the pavement.

  The attacker didn’t bother to remove the knife from the man’s stomach, merely pushed him backwards, turned on his heel, and strolled back to his car before driving sedately away.

  Blood bubbled at the mouth of the man lying on the cold dark pavement; the desperate tremble of his hands as they clawed at the handle of the hunting knife, slowed, then stopped.

  After what had been a frosty night, Daley had to drive gingerly down the driveway that led from his house to the main road. He made a mental note to call Liz and tell her how slippery the conditions were when he got to the office.

  The view across the loch and down to the town was magnificent: the sky was an almost Caribbean blue and the light from the sun glinted off the frosted hillsides and played on the mirror-still surface of the loch. Everything felt clean, fresh and renewed. But bold and bright as it was, Daley still had the heater blasting into the car, keeping the two policemen warm as well as dispelling the ice which slid slowly down the windscreen.

  Daley’s heart was still heavy, and as he looked across at his DS, slumped gloomily in the passenger seat, he recognised that they were both suffering from the same malady: James Machie.

  People waved and nodded as they sat at the traffic lights on Main Street. Scott snorted as the car coming towards them ignored the red signal all together, cruising past them with a hearty wave.

  ‘I take it that Green Cross Code punter never made it here?’ Scott spoke for the first time since they left Daley’s house.

  ‘These lights have only been up for a couple of months. It takes them a wee while to get used to new traffic manage
ment measures,’ Daley replied, glad to be talking about something that wasn’t James Machie.

  ‘When I wiz a young cop, I’d have been standing there a’ day tae get a few bodies.’ Scott remembered how young police officers had been encouraged to report as many misdemeanours as they could, learning to construct a proper case, regardless of its nature.

  ‘Brian, if we prosecuted everyone who jumped these lights or committed minor traffic offences here, the court would be a 24/7 job. Have you never listened to your man’s “pragmatic policing” speech?’

  ‘Ye know yersel, Jim, I listen tae him as little as possible.’ Scott shook his head.

  The lights changed, and they drove up the street and turned through the open gate into the car park at the rear of Kinloch police office, situated on the crest of the hill looking down Main Street.

  ‘Well, you’ll get the chance to listen to him all day today, my friend,’ Daley said as he parked the car in the space reserved for the sub-divisional commander. The detectives exited the vehicle then, after Daley had punched the security code into a wall-mounted keypad, pushed open the heavy security door to the office.

  Daley noticed the hush that had pervaded the building, normally a lively, even happy, workplace. This morning everyone seemed subdued. As he passed the bar office, the desk sergeant drew his forefinger across his brow and inclined his head to indicate that a senior officer with a braided cap was present: Donald.

  Though Daley was acting divisional commander, he had based himself, quite naturally, within the glass box in the CID room. When Superintendent Donald arrived, he would occupy the boss’s office. As expected, he was sitting boldly behind the desk once occupied by Inspector MacLeod.

  ‘Ah, there you are. At last,’ Donald murmured, looking pointedly at his watch.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you, sir. I thought you were flying down.’

  ‘I arrived just under an hour ago. I have so much on I decided to drive down early. The roads are so much quieter. I had hoped that your day would have begun long before the time designated to pick me up.’ Donald was in an imperious mood, which didn’t bode well. ‘Things have moved on rather rapidly, I’m afraid to say. Come in here, both of you, and shut the door.’

  Daley could hear Scott mutter under his breath as he shut the door firmly. There was only one seat in the room, apart from the one occupied by Donald, so Daley indicated to Scott that he should take it.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, DS Scott?’ Donald enquired. ‘No doubt nursing a gargantuan hangover, judging by the look of your bloodshot eyes. Please do your best not to breathe in my direction.’

  Scott opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to interrupt as Donald carried on, barely pausing for breath.

  ‘In the very early hours of this morning, a forty-nine-year-old man was found dead in a street in the East End of Glasgow with a seven-inch blade still lodged in his solar plexus.’ Donald looked at the men for a reaction, but gave them no time to comment. ‘Two hours earlier, a helicopter was discovered by a night orienteer – whatever the fuck that is – in a clearing in the middle of forestry in South Ayrshire. The pilot had been despatched professionally by two shots to the head.’ Donald looked out of the office window, down Kinloch’s Main Street.

  ‘Not something that happens every day, sir,’ Daley commented, feeling that he had to say something.

  ‘Indeed not, Jim. Most unusual.’ Donald was clearly troubled, which worried his subordinates. ‘Under normal circumstances these events, as distasteful as they are, would have been viewed as being wholly unconnected; that is, until one looks at the last known movement of the helicopter and the identity of the murdered man in Glasgow.’ Donald paused, displaying the skills of the storyteller. ‘Peter MacDougall, petty crook, drug dealer and, most pertinently, younger brother of Frank – who needs no introduction.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Scott was sitting forward in his chair, looking at the floor.

  ‘I believe the deceased was a friend of yours, DS Scott?’ Donald said.

  ‘I widnae say “friend” as such, sir,’ Scott replied, clearly affected by this news. ‘I wiz at school wi’ him. We grew up in the same street, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, far be it from me to pry into your tortured personal relationships, Brian. That is, unless something inappropriate has been going on, in which case . . .’

  ‘Sir,’ Daley interjected firmly, not bothering to hide his irritation, ‘this is not getting us anywhere. Please can we just get on with it?’

  ‘How forceful, Jim. Your new management responsibilities must be suiting you. The CID team from Cumnock have been working on this all night. The helicopter was registered to a Henry Parr, a retired Royal Navy pilot, who passed some of his time by carrying out commercial contracts – ferrying golfers about and so on. However, at first glance it would appear he worked only infrequently, spending much more time at his holiday home in the Bahamas.’

  ‘Which is hard to do when you only have a navy pension to sustain you,’ Daley observed.

  ‘Exactly,’ Donald affirmed. ‘On examination of the aircraft’s satnav, it would appear he spent a few minutes at a point somewhere off the North Antrim coast, a specific position he had programmed into the machine. That was prior to landing in Ayrshire – his final flight.’

  ‘And Peter MacDougall – do we have anything more on his murder?’ Daley enquired.

  ‘Your colleagues at London Road are working hard on that, but you know the East End, Jim. Nobody saw anything, and the CCTV coverage isn’t exactly comprehensive. Most of the street is derelict. All we know is that he left the pub along the road minutes before he was killed.’ Donald sat back in his chair. ‘Because of the delicate situation concerning his brother, the WPP have asked me to pass on the news about Peter.’ He steepled his fingers in front of his face, waiting for a response.

  ‘We’ve got tae break cover an’ tell Frank that his brother has been killed?’ Scott was incredulous. ‘Can they no’ dae that themselves?’ he added, shaking his head.

  ‘At last, it speaks,’ Donald said. ‘The murder of Peter MacDougall has changed things: Witness Protection was reasonably relaxed, as I told you both yesterday, after the murder of the Dowies. That is now no longer the case. The form is that if they believe there is a viable threat to someone on the programme, they liaise with local law enforcement, wherever that may be. In this case, gents, that is us. It’s our pleasant duty not only to inform him that his brother has been murdered, but tell him about “you know who” and persuade him that another change of identity and location would be, well, most prudent.’

  ‘Prudent?’ said Scott. ‘If I wiz him I’d be on my bike quick smart, an’ nae mistake, before this ghost, or whitever it is, comes knockin’.’

  Daley walked over from the window where he had been standing and leaned on Donald’s – his – desk. ‘I’m still all at sea with this, sir.’ He pointed his finger into the desk. ‘For a start, if this is JayMac – and surely that is open for debate at the very least – how has this happened? People don’t just come back from the dead.’ He looked down at Donald, who squirmed in his chair, not enjoying the dynamic.

  ‘Apairt fae the big man,’ Scott said, drawing the attention of both of his colleagues.

  ‘The big man?’ asked Donald.

  ‘Aye, ye know – JC.’ Scott sat back in his chair. ‘Jesus, ye know?’

  ‘Perhaps you missed your calling, Brian. Maybe you’d have made Archbishop of Canterbury if you had taken the cloth,’ Donald said.

  ‘Aye, well.’ Scott was not to be outdone. ‘Mebbe we’ll need tae gie him a call, see if he can perform wan o’ they exorcisms.’

  Donald snorted in derision and was about to speak when a knock sounded at the door. After Donald barked a perfunctory ‘Yes?’, DC Dunn walked in, pausing near the door, where she smoothed some unseen creases in the front of her dark blue skirt.

  ‘Just to let you know, sir, sirs’, she began, plainly nervous around Donald, ‘the
presentation is ready.’ She nodded her head obligingly and Daley thought for one awful moment that she might curtsy, but Donald dismissed her in the same offhand manner in which he bade her enter and she left hurriedly.

  ‘I felt it would be beneficial if we were to look back in time,’ Donald said, picking up papers from his desk. ‘Try and find some way that this – if it is him – could have happened. Come with me.’

  They trooped from the office, Donald taking the lead. Behind him, Scott shrugged at Daley and raised a two-fingered salute behind the superintendent’s back.

  ‘And you can stop that insubordination immediately, Brian,’ Donald said, not bothering to turn around and sweeping open the door of the audiovisual room. ‘In fact, I want a word with you, DS Scott – in private.’ He looked at Daley, who excused himself, and led Scott into a nearby empty room.

  Daley, not trying to hear what was being said, couldn’t help being surprised at the bile expressed by the superintendent. It was clear that, despite Scott’s careless attitude, he was most certainly not flavour of the month with his boss.

  9

  DC Dunn was in the room, leaning over the computer that controlled all things audiovisual. Donald placed his arm around her shoulder, speaking to her in hushed tones as though what was about to be revealed was a state secret. Daley was sure he saw the young woman flinch as Donald’s hand snaked over her back. How many times had he seen these manoeuvres from his boss?

  Donald turned away from Dunn and indicated that his detectives take a seat. ‘I think it important that we fully rebrief ourselves with what happened six years ago,’ he said grandly, as though addressing a packed auditorium. He looked to Dunn. ‘I take it you’re finished? Just tell me which button to press, then kindly absent yourself.’

  ‘Press any button to start, and the same to stop,’ the flushed DC replied, clearly uncomfortable in her superintendent’s presence.

  ‘Great!’ Donald exclaimed. ‘Off you pop now.’ He leaned over the keyboard, glasses perched on the end of his nose, as DC Dunn made a hasty exit.