The moon penetrated his kitchen with its eerie luminescence, making it easy for him to trace the route along the granite worktop towards the bottle of wine and pour himself another glass. He had discovered that he could drink as much as a bottle a night without encountering the baleful effects of a hangover the next day; any more though and the familiar feeling of disconnection would impinge upon the important tasks of the following day. He was too dedicated to success to let this happen, but too stressed to do without the restorative salve of alcohol as part of his nightly relaxation. As a result, he was regimented in his discipline as far as self-medication with the fruits of the vine was concerned.
He had a lot on his mind. The spectral resurrection of JayMac was something he could have done without; he had enough to deal with as it was, especially with the jockeying for position that the introduction of this new ‘national’ police force was prompting. Many senior officers would be casualties, lured into early retirement by the prospect of enhanced pension deals and golden goodbyes. These incentives though, were not for him. Every problem is the dawn of a new opportunity: this was the mantra he had discovered as he rose through the ranks, part of a code he would never abandon.
As he appreciated the forest berry palate of the Grenache, his mobile phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He hoped it would be his wife, however, his instinct told him otherwise. He furrowed his brow as the phone’s display illuminated his face in the semi-darkness of the room.
‘Speak,’ was his pre-emptive greeting.
‘Our friend has contacted us,’ came the brief reply, the voice foreign, the English halting.
‘How?’
‘By the usual means,’ said the voice, nearly as curt with its answers as the questions it was being posed.
‘How have you responded?’ Donald’s voice was edged with a trepidation that his colleagues in the police force would have found most unusual.
‘We are arranging a drop. It will be in the next two days. We will inform you when.’ The accented voice paused, trying to find the appropriate word. ‘It is organised.’
‘This is not a good time, not at all,’ Donald responded in a shouted whisper.
‘Good or bad, what is it mattering?’ came the reply. ‘In this we have no choice.’
The line went dead. Donald massaged his temples, much in the way he had seen Jim Daley do in an effort to relieve the unremitting stress he always appeared to be under.
‘Our friend’ had disappeared in a speedboat as the authorities in Kinloch discovered the true extent of the illegal trade in narcotics funnelling through the town and its environs. The part he played in this venal trade was important, and it was essential that he evade capture – but for that he had needed help. Now it was time for Donald to pay the price of assistance.
Donald lifted the wine bottle again, noting with irritation that it was nearly empty.
Maybe it was time for a nightcap of the hard stuff; this was surely a suitable opportunity to break his code of alcohol consumption. He left the kitchen and walked into his large, well-furnished lounge, where he removed a bottle of Ardbeg from the cabinet. As the warm spirit numbed his lips, he angled his head back, eyes closed. Had he gone too far? Was this one calculated risk too many?
15
He looked himself up and down in the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. He remembered a TV programme from his childhood where a cartoon figure donned a new costume every week and did the job that matched the outfit.
He had no intention of doing this job.
The heavy jacket didn’t match the clothes underneath. He replaced his woollen hat with a blue baseball cap and transformed his appearance yet again.
He picked up the gun with its silencer from the bedside table, left the bedroom, switching off the ceiling light, then, now in the small lounge, drained the last drops of whisky from the cracked tumbler.
The cottage was isolated enough not to be in the path of many passers-by, but he decided to leave the light in the old standard lamp burning.
‘You never know what crooks are on the go.’ He smiled at this thought, prompted by the old saying of his mother’s, and walked out into the moonlit night.
Scott was standing on the hill behind the farmhouse with Frank MacDougall. A pall of cigarette smoke curled into the night as the two old neighbours looked down the hill and across the river to another rise thickly crowned by commercial forestry. The world was silent, monochrome; the faint tinkle of the burn barely sounded over the distant rumble of the sea as it broke on the rocky shore.
‘Dae ye believe a’ this shite, Scooty?’ MacDougall asked the policeman. ‘Oor lassie thinks this is a’ part o’ the mind games o’ the Witness Protection, tryin’ tae get me oot the way abroad. I mean, that’s the second time Gerald Dowie’s died, no’ tae mention yer man.’ He paused, as though the very mention of his name might conjure him up.
‘Well, I’ll tell ye this,’ replied Scott, drawing at his cigarette, ‘they’ve done a fuckin’ good job o’ it. Ma heid’s well and truly fucked up wi’ it an a’.’ He flicked the cigarette butt down the hill.
MacDougall hawked and spat copiously. ‘If it wisnae for the wife, I’d probably take their advice an’ dae one. But ye’ve seen her – wan mention o’ goin’ abroad an’ she goes mental.’ He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Who wid’ve thought that evil bastard wid be able tae cheat death? Fuck knows, he cheated everything else. I suppose we should-nae be that surprised.’
‘It’s a shame she’s . . . ye know.’
‘Aye, it’s mair than a pity, a’ right. The trouble is I cannae abandon her noo; the docs have a’ready said she’ll need tae go intae . . .’ Now it was MacDougall’s turn to pause. ‘Into a place, ye know?’ He looked Scott squarely in the face, the moonlight picking out the lines on his forehead in greater relief.
‘No’ a nice prospect. No’ nice at a’, Francis,’ said Scott, shivering in his borrowed jacket, as an owl piped up from the trees. ‘Aye, an’ stop ca’ing me Scooty, ya cunt. That bastard Donald’s a’ready picked up on it.’
‘Nice tae see he hasnae changed much. Still the arrogant swine he wiz six years ago – worse, in fact.’
‘Of that, my friend, ye can have nae doubt.’ Scott raised his head sharply. ‘Did ye see somethin’ move there? O’er by that wee boat doon in the river?’
‘Whit? MacDougall whispered, squinting into the distance. ‘Aye, there it is again.’ He pointed his finger across to the other side of the burn, crouching as he did so.
Scott, who also ducked, grabbed MacDougall by the arm and steered him slowly back down the hill. ‘DS Scott tae all stations. Positions over?’ One by one the five Support Unit personnel replied, their voices issuing distantly from Scott’s radio, which he had turned down to a whisper.
‘We’ve got company,’ Scott murmured into the mouthpiece, ‘across the river at the back o’ the hoose. Who’s nearest?’
Scott and MacDougall lay flat on the cold ground, peering over the crest of the hill.
‘When the unit boy arrives up here, I want ye tae go back tae the hoose. Make sure everybody’s where they should be. OK, Frankie?’
‘Gie me a shooter, Scooty. If that’s that cunt, it’ll be my pleasure tae blast his fuckin’ heid aff,’ said MacDougall defiantly.
‘Aye, I’ll just gie ye a gun, an’ count the days until I’m banged up in Barlinnie. Just dae as I say. We’ve won a watch here, he widnae be expecting anybody tae see him.’
A rustling noise from behind startled the two men. They turned to see a figure dressed in black creeping towards them up the hill.
‘The house is being secured, gaffer,’ he said, no trace of anxiety in his voice. ‘Best if you accompany me, Mr Robertson.’
‘Ye nearly gied me a fuckin’ heart attack,’ said Scott, doing his best to sound put out with a whisper. ‘Take Frankie back tae the hoose, an’ I’ll stay here an’ keep an eye oot for this bastard. Don’t be long, mind. I’ve no’ got a
weapon, remember.’ Scott’s clearance to carry a sidearm had not yet come through from divisional HQ, much to his frustration. ‘That bastard Donald couldnae have planned this better; me here on a fuckin’ lonely hillside, being stalked by the ghost o’ Christmas past, an’ only a baton fir company.’
‘Best o’ luck,’ said MacDougall, already sneaking back down the hill with the armed officer.
Scott squinted down the glen. The brightness of the moon had been dulled by a passing cloud, adding to his tension. He reached for his mobile phone, cupping the screen with his hand so that its light would not be visible to the prowling figure somewhere out in the darkness.
The dialling tone sounded in his ear, and the call rang briefly on the other end before it was answered.
‘Jim, it’s me.’
‘Why are you speaking so quietly?’ came the breathless reply.
‘I’m on the hill behind Frank’s hoose. We’ve spotted something moving. The unit boys are getting the MacDougalls sorted, then we’ll try an’ find the bastard.’ Scott spoke quickly. ‘By the way, how come you’re so oot o’ breath? Has she had ye oot jogging?’
‘Something like that, Brian,’ Daley said enigmatically. ‘Listen, you get back to the house. You’re not armed. Leave this to the Support Unit. I’ll get over to the hotel and rouse the rest of them. We’ll be able to get there in two cars quite quickly. But get yourself back to the house.’
‘I cannae hear you . . . Whit did you say, big man? This line’s . . . breaking up,’ Scott lied before ending the call.
Liz was lying in bed, propped up on one elbow, watching her husband. The livid scrapes down his back were testament to their lovemaking, which had been disturbed by the call her husband had insisted on taking.
‘Tell me you’re not rushing off, darling,’ she said, knowing what the reply would be.
‘I’ve got to, Liz,’ Daley panted, struggling into a pair of trousers. ‘They’ve got someone prowling around . . .’ He stopped himself. He hadn’t told Liz the full extent of the problem they were facing – certainly not anything about the resurrection of JayMac. ‘This guy, Robertson, could be in a lot of danger – not to mention Brian.’ He pulled in his stomach, wrestling with his waistband.
‘I sometimes wonder if I’d get more attention if I changed my name to Brian.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Daley, who had clearly not been listening. He had succeeded in fastening his trousers, and was now attempting to tuck his shirt into them, not without difficulty.
‘Just as well you’re not a fireman, love. By the time you got your kit on, everything would be cinders.’
Dressed, he leaned over the bed and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ he smiled. ‘You know how it is.’ He left their bedroom and waved goodbye without turning around.
‘Be careful,’ she shouted. Then, much more quietly, ‘We really need to talk, Jim.’ She lay back, looked at the ceiling and sighed. We really, really do, she thought, running her hand down her stomach.
Scott felt isolated on top of the hill. The gibbous moon had been restored to its full splendour, the cloud that had briefly plunged the scene into utter darkness having moved on.
He had one of the new-fangled retractable metal batons in his pocket, which didn’t add to his feeling of wellbeing. What use would this fuckin’ thing be against JayMac? he thought. The feeling of being watched made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention; it was as though his whole body was braced for an attack, the nature of which he was desperately trying to discern. His muscles were tense in anticipation of searing pain, his body remembering the gunshot wound to his shoulder inflicted by his quarry long ago.
He jerked as his mobile phone vibrated silently against his leg. Again, he shielded the screen with his cupped hand. He was cheered to discover that it was Daley’s name that appeared across the screen in bold letters.
‘How’s it goin’, Jim?’ he whispered into the mouthpiece.
‘I’m on my way to the hotel to pick up the rest of the unit, Brian. We should be there in twenty minutes or so. Where are you? Who are you with?’
‘I’m on my ain, on this fuckin’ hill, shittin’ mysel’, if ye must know,’ came Scott’s honest reply.
‘What do you mean, “on your own”?’
‘I’m waiting fir one o’ the boys tae get back here. They’re securing the perimeter of the hoose.’ The stress was apparent, even in Scott’s whisper.
‘Get yourself back inside, Brian.’ Daley’s whisper had modulated. ‘You’re not armed. I’m going to draw weapons, for you too. Fuck Donald.’
‘No, thanks,’ replied his DS. ‘Just get yoursel’ up here. Wait!’ He stopped whispering and held his breath. Something – somebody – was moving on the low ground in front of the river, only thirty or forty yards from where the detective was crouched. ‘Jim, I’ll need tae go. Just get here, buddy.’ His whisper was barely perceptible, even to himself. He ended the call, placed the phone back into his trouser pocket and removed his baton.
Somehow, the figure he had spotted in the trees had made its way across the burn; it was now crouched but still discernible in the pale moonlight.
Thankfully, the Support Unit members resting in the County Hotel proved much more adept at getting dressed in a hurry than Daley, who pulled up alongside the dark phalanx of policemen waiting in front of the hotel. After a minimal briefing, three of the Support Unit got into Daley’s car and the other two, including the sergeant in charge, hurried the short distance to the office to collect another car and the arsenal of weapons that Daley had requested over the phone.
As he was about to pull away from the kerb, he saw the unmarked estate car coming down Main Street from the police office. No big personnel carriers were used in sensitive operations such as this, where discretion was key. Also, as they had arrived in Kinloch in three separate cars, specially equipped with weaponry housing and sophisticated communication equipment, they made three complete and functional units, each operational either as part of a greater whole or individually. The lights of the estate flashed as it passed Daley’s 4x4. The cavalry was on its way.
Scott hardly dared breathe; it was at times like this he cursed the fact that he was a heavy smoker. Whenever he was required to remain silent, whether it was in church at a funeral, during one of Donald’s endless briefings, or even at the kids’ Christmas pantomime at the school, he could feel the tickle in his throat. The desire to cough was fighting with his fear of being discovered. At the moment, fear was winning – just.
Suddenly, just when he thought he could no longer stop himself, he felt someone touch his back. After experiencing the odd sensation of jumping clean off the ground without the use of his arms or legs, he turned to see two darkly clad policemen crouching behind him, moonlight reflected in the automatic weapons they both carried.
Scott shook his fist at them in mock anger and quickly indicated that they should remain silent, then pointed down the hill to where the figure was still huddled, silhouetted against the silvery glimmer of the burn.
Scott, still lying flat against the cold ground, nodded to the two armed officers, one of whom scrambled closer to him. He craned his head toward the DS.
‘The rest of the lads are on their way. My orders are to maintain a watching brief until they arrive,’ he hissed in Scott’s ear.
Scott grabbed him by the lapel, pulling him closer. ‘Aye, that’s all very well, but the way things are going, he’ll be standin’ on ma heid in two minutes. We’re going tae have tae try and contain him. He’ll be at the farmhouse long before they get here.’
The officer pulled his head back from Scott and stared straight at him. He then shuffled back to his colleague, and after another brief head to head, turned to Scott and nodded.
At that second, there was a rustling noise followed by a dull thud and what sounded like a whispered oath.
If this is a ghost, he’s no’ very sure-footed, thought Scott. He was trying to work out
exactly from which direction the noise had come when, without warning, a flash of silver in his peripheral vision made him turn his head to the right. A shadow was now passing the police officers about fifty yards distant.
Daley sped round a corner, sending his mobile phone flying off the dashboard and onto the lap of the policeman in the passenger seat. They were only a mile from the turn-off to the single-track road that led to the farmhouse.
The radio belonging to the officer sitting beside him burst into life. Daley expected that it would be Tully, the unit commander from the other car, but he was wrong: it was one of the armed officers at the farmhouse. They were now in radio range.
‘Units engaging suspect, over.’ The voice was terse and to the point, no elaboration.
Daley turned to the man next to him. ‘Get me Tully. Now!’
Scott jumped again as the two officers beside him leapt into action. Both were wearing powerful head torches, which they now illuminated, spotlighting the intruder, stopping him in his tracks. Two dots played across the man’s chest and face like crimson fireflies as he brought up his arm to protect his eyes from the unexpected glare. Scott squinted at the man as his fellow officers shouted instructions to one another. The intruder stretched out his arms and sank to his knees, head bowed.
Scott tried to get a clearer picture of him; he needed to see his face. Slowly, blinking against the harsh light, the figure raised its head and looked straight at Scott.
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 9