Whoever it was, it was no ghost. This man was not James Machie. The DS breathed a sigh of relief.
16
He walked quickly along the overgrown path. Three high-rise blocks – the last monuments to the folly of brutalist sixties architecture – reared out of a desolate, unkempt landscape. This brave new world of multi-storey living was about to go the same way as its predecessor, the once ubiquitous Glasgow tenement. He wondered if he was the only person left with any affection for this once thriving neighbourhood.
He entered the building through large red security doors panelled with tough polycarbonate, now rutted by graffiti and burned brown by the cigarettes that had been repeatedly stubbed out on it. The doors had long since been stripped of their electronic locks and transoms; the echo of them banging shut reverberated around the bleak vestibule, which stank strongly of urine. Two of the three lifts were out of order so he stood before the functional one and pressed the button, which would have illuminated green had it not been for the fact that it was shattered, the broken bulb visible through the cracked plastic.
The lift seemed to take an age, but eventually a distant pulse and thud heralded its arrival. It clunked into place and the doors creaked open, hesitantly, as if fretful of revealing was what inside, which in this case was a drunk man, sprawled unconscious in a pool of his own piss on the floor.
He stared down at the unconscious man. The stench of urine, vomit and stale alcohol was overpowering in the enclosed space. The man groaned, and a dribble of saliva migrated down his stubbly chin. He reached into his pocket.
Why she enjoyed documentaries about the war, she couldn’t fathom. It had been the most terrifying time of her life. Having grown up in Clydebank, she had witnessed the Blitz virtually wiping out the whole town; thousands had died, including her grandfather who had gone to work on a cold November morning, never to return. He died along with the other occupants of the bus that was carrying him home after his shift at the shipyard was over. The only survivor had been a three-month-old baby, protected from the blast by the body of its dead mother.
However, regardless of the aching loss of friends and family members during the war, she looked back on it now with a kind of nostalgia, a feeling of warmth and familiarity as she remembered everything now absent from her life. Most of her friends were dead, and her family – or what was left of it – had been ravaged by booze, drugs and poverty. She had lost two sons to heroin, and her husband had died nearly forty years ago, the whites of his eyes yellowed as his liver gave up the battle against alcohol.
She got up from her chair stiffly, clicks and pops coming from her knees and ankles. It was time for another cup of tea, then bed, the only opportunity she had now of escaping her loneliness and her aches and pains.
He removed his hand from his pocket and leaned over the man. He put his fingers to his neck and felt for a pulse, pulling the man’s collar aside to reveal a red, dirt-encrusted throat.
‘There you go, Tony-boy,’ he said, sliding a bundle of notes under the collar of the sleeping figure. ‘Two hundred quid should see ye aff, ye poor bastard.’ He snorted a laugh and looked down at the man. Aye, fir auld times’ sake.
The lift juddered to a stop and the doors slid open to reveal the hallway of the sixteenth floor. He pulled the right leg of the unconscious drunk across the piss-soaked floor to the lift entrance; the man was so out of it he barely moved, grunting incomprehensibly as he expelled more dirty brown saliva down his chin. He watched as the doors were stopped by the obstruction.
Worth two hundred quid of anybody’s money, Tony-boy, he thought. That’s probably the most money ye’ve made yourself in the last thirty years, and yer no’ even awake.
He caught sight of himself in the polished aluminium of the lift door and took the opportunity to straighten the black-and-white checked hat on his head. ‘Fuck me, PC Plod,’ he chuckled throatily to himself, as he walked along the hallway past welcome mats and little ornaments the occupants of this raised hell had placed outside their front doors in an attempt to make their surroundings more bearable.
He read the nameplate on the door: 16/5. MACDOUGALL.
He knocked loudly. Presently, a light went on in the hall and a small figure came into sight through the frosted glass of the door, moving slowly along the hallway inside.
‘Who’s there?’ The woman sounded frail and elderly.
‘Police, Mrs MacDougall. Can I have a word with you?’ He saw her reach forward, and heard the rattle of chains and locks as she opened the door.
*
The inside of Kinloch’s police office was bright and warm. Scott stood beside a radiator, holding his hands as close to it as he could stand as he tried to warm up after his exposure on the hillside at Frank MacDougall’s farm.
‘Brass monkeys oot there cryin’ their eyes oot, Jim,’ he said to Daley, who was busy unbuttoning the waistband of his trousers as he sank into his swivel chair, in the glass box that was his new home from home.
‘I’ll let that daft kid cool his heels overnight in the cells before we go and interview him,’ said Daley, who visibly relaxed as his stomach was released from his loosened trousers, though the buttonholes on his shirt were still stretched to their maximum tolerance.
‘Aye, slimmer o’ the year, eh? Fuck me, when are ye due?’ Scott yawned halfway through this statement, making it only slightly less palatable to his boss, who frowned and pulled his belly in.
‘You’ll never know how lucky you are, Brian. You can eat and drink anything you want and not put on a pound. I, on the other hand,’ he said, rubbing his stomach, ‘have to struggle with this, or starve to death.’
‘Och, it’s a’ pent up energy wi’ me – my mind’s a’ways workin”. Scott grinned and sat down on the guest’s chair, leant back and put his feet up.
‘Aye,’ said Daley, ‘working out when and where you can get your next drink.’
‘That’s a low blow, right enough, especially since ye’re hardly whit I wid call the soul of sobriety,’ Scott replied, eyes closed. ‘I’ll tell ye somethin’, I thought that wiz yer man up there on the hill the night. If I’d had a hip flask on me, I wid have drunk the lot.’ He smacked his lips together at the thought of the dram he was anticipating.
‘That boy got the fright of his life, eh?’ Daley said, referring to the young lad who had been waylaid by the Support Unit at gunpoint on the hill, just over an hour before.
Aye,’ Scott chortled. ‘No’ the kind of assignation he was expecting. Mind you, that Sarah’s a bonnie lassie, an’ no mistake.’ He inclined his head in a way that said, If I were only twenty years younger.
‘And before you say it, you’d still be too old.’ Daley laughed. Anyhow, something’s telling me that young Miss MacDougall has her sights set rather higher than a detective sergeant with a glad eye and a fondness for strong liquor.’
‘I can hardly believe she’s related tae Frank and Betty. She’s nothin’ like them, or her granny, come to that,’ Scott said, now sitting up straight, with his feet on the floor, as though the shock of MacDougall’s well-spoken, cultured offspring was too much to get his head around.
‘Popular with the young men from Tarbert too,’ Daley said, referring to the fact that the young intruder had been on his way to meet Sarah MacDougall.
‘Did ye see her faither’s face when she said that there wiz nothin’ in it, an’ she just fancied a shag? I thought Frankie wiz goin’ tae blow up an’ never come back doon.’
‘Well,’ replied Daley, ‘there’s nothing like a night in the cells to cool your ardour.’
‘Of that there can be no doubt, James,’ Scott said, scratching his head and yawning. He was about to say something more, when Daley’s internal phone rang.
‘Hello, sir.’ Daley made a face at Scott to indicate that Donald was on the line.
‘I hear you’ve had some fun this evening. Who was this clown?’ Donald’s voice was loud enough for Scott to overhear.
‘A local boy, si
r. He comes from Tarbert, the village just up the road. Lovesick for MacDougall’s daughter, by all accounts.’
‘I want you to keep him in custody as long as possible, Jim. Apply for a custody extension if necessary; I’ll use my influence if required.’ Donald sighed those last few words, as though he was weary of the pressure of command. It was not the attitude Daley associated with his superior.
‘What reason will I give the Sheriff, sir?’ Daley asked.
‘Be creative, Jim. Regardless of the fact that the boy is probably an in-bred halfwit, he’s seen too much. It must surely have dawned on him that it’s a little unusual that his girlfriend is being guarded by armed police. The last thing we need is for the local gossips to get going and the papers to get a sniff of what’s going on.’
‘Yes, sir. Surely this is more reason for Witness Protection to move them on, sir?’
‘You would think so, Jim, however, our friend MacDougall is digging in his heels. He claims that because of his wife’s mental state, her human rights would be infringed if she were to be moved at this time against her will. Mental cruelty, would you credit?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Human rights have always been at the forefront of Frank MacDougall’s mind,’ Daley said. Though MacDougall was not in the same league as JayMac for violence, he had nonetheless committed some crimes of sickening brutality.
‘Keep a hold of him as long as you can, Jim. I’ll busy myself with trying to get MacDougall and his clan as far away from Kinloch as possible, but rest assured, it will take time.’
There was a brief silence between the two men, a pause that would normally have been filled by some hubristic comment from the superintendent. The resurrection of James Machie appeared to have troubled Donald more than Daley had realised.
Daley ended the call by wishing his boss goodnight.
‘Aye, an’ I’ll come up an’ tuck ye in and read ye a story,’ Scott added, when he was sure that the receiver was well and truly down.
‘Not sounding his usual self, Brian,’ Daley observed.
‘Nice to know even his magnificence has his off days tae,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve had a right hard night, Jim. How about we head doon for a couple o’ swift drams as a nightcap, eh?’
Giving the notion only the briefest thought, Daley nodded and stood up. He hauled the waistband of his trousers together, then, not without difficulty, managed to fasten the button.
‘Aye, the outdoor life doon here’s daein’ wonders for your physique, big man,’ Scott said with a grin.
‘Shut up and get your wallet out. I feel like a large malt.’
‘Is that the way of it?’ Scott grimaced. ‘I wish tae fuck I’d kept my mooth shut.’
‘I wonder just how rich you’d be if you had a pound for every time that thought crossed your mind, Brian?’ Daley smiled as Scott left his glass office, muttering under his breath.
Marion MacDougall lay on the floor of her living room. It looked really strange from this angle, and she felt confused and cold. The right side of her head throbbed, and she could feel a warm stickiness on her arm. She knew she was only able to see out of one eye, because when she closed her left everything went black, shot through with flashes of red and yellow.
She tried to move her legs, but the pain that shot through her body was excruciating. Even breathing was difficult; the air got stuck in her throat as though her whole chest was blocked by a massive weight.
‘More bad news for the economy . . .’ The voice belonged to the nice Welshman who read the ten o’clock news. She couldn’t work out how it was so late. It was cold – very cold – though somehow it didn’t seem to trouble her in the way it normally did.
Out of the corner of her eye, at the very periphery of her vision, she could see something white: yes, a white circle. She tried to steady her breath and focus. The way her remaining vision was blurring, this might be her only chance, her only opportunity to survive, to do something to save her life before her world went black for good.
She managed to move her arm, even though the pain was so acute it made her feel sick. Slowly, she managed to hook her thumb around the chain that held the white disc around her neck. She retched a foul mix of bile and blood, which spilled out over her false teeth and down the side of her face onto the floor. She didn’t have much time. Instead of pulling the chain towards herself, she pushed her hand away, feeling the links pass over her thumb, still hooked around it. Though doing this caused her pain, it didn’t make her feel so nauseous.
Suddenly, the chain pulled tight, biting at her neck and making her almost pass out in agony. Her breath was short now, but she had managed it; the white disc was under the palm of her hand. She forced it down, hearing the little bleep that indicated it had worked. Soon, very soon, help would be on its way. But would it come soon enough?
17
They went into the County Hotel through the heavy old door, on which someone had scrawled Merry Christmas!!! in fake snow from an aerosol can. A large, artificial tree stood in the vestibule sporting a selection of baubles – not one of which matched the next.
A low murmur of voices issued from the serving hatch to the small bar, indicating that Annie was reasonably busy for this time of night. A large man nearly knocked Scott over as he pushed past the detective, heading down the corridor towards the toilets. Shouts of ‘He’s got the skitters’ and ‘Willie’s jeest shat himsel” accompanied the stricken man, as his drinking buddies at the bar speculated as to the state of their friend’s health.
As the two policemen appeared at the bar, however, the atmosphere changed. Everyone fell silent.
Unabashed, Scott strode in, removing his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers as he went. He chose a position in between two of the hotel’s more regular customers, whom he recognised, and nodded a hello to each in turn.
‘Aye, lads, a cold yin the day, is it no’?’ Scott rubbed his hands in anticipation of the whisky that would hopefully warm the parts not every spirit could reach. He was slightly surprised by the lack of response from the drinkers but his attention was soon taken up by Annie’s appearance through the door behind the bar.
‘Whoot can I get ye, sir?’ Annie asked stiffly, polishing the bar counter without looking directly at her new customer.
‘Two large malts, darlin’, an’ one for yersel, efter you bein’ so kind the last time I wiz in.’ Scott’s smile elicited little response.
Daley had made his way to the table at the back of the bar, where he usually sat with Liz. She had accused him of purposefully selecting this perch, better to study his fellow drinkers. Maybe he had, though it was also true that this table was furthest from the bar, and the army of those who were not only willing to eavesdrop, but to make comment on conversations that he’d hoped were private. Only a few weeks before, during a discussion with Liz about his interminable diet, an old woman had leaned across from another table and advised Liz that if she expected her sex life to remain active, she better ditch the calorie-controlled regime and feed her man ‘a good plate o’ mince an’ tatties’.
Daley smiled at the old man who sat nearby nursing a small glass of whisky, head turned away, which was unusual for one who was usually so cheery and pleasant.
‘I’m thinkin’ some bastard must be deid,’ Scott announced as he placed two glasses on the table in front of Daley, both brimming with whisky. ‘Even yer lassie Annie’s no’ her usual bubbly self.’ He sat down on the chair opposite his boss, and then turned to note that nearly everybody in the room was looking at them.
‘Something’s up, that’s for sure,’ said Daley.
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the two policemen drank in silence, Scott looking over his shoulder from time to time at the collection of stony faces staring back.
‘I’m goin’ for a pee, big man,’ Scott said to Daley, and made his way out of the bar.
‘Aye, I hope Willie Mason shites on ye,’ uttered a disembodied voice.
‘Right, that’ll be enough,’ called
Annie, though lacking her usual vigour. But it was enough to break the spell, and the murmur of low voices resumed.
As Daley swirled the spirit in his glass, Annie made her way out from behind the bar and towards his table, flicking her cloth at unseen detritus as she progressed.
‘Will ye be for another?’ she asked coolly, as she lifted Scott’s unattended glass from the table, wiped it with her cloth and placed it on a fresh beer mat.
‘Yes, if you can be bothered,’ replied Daley, slightly irritated by the reception he was getting in what had become his favourite watering hole.
‘Listen,’ whispered Annie, ‘ye cannae expect folks tae welcome yous wi’ open erms, when yer giein’ poor Duncan Fearney such a hard time. He’s a nice man – very popular in the toon. Aye, an’ he’s had a hard time o’ it, since that wife o’ hees ran off wi’ the AI man.’ Point made, Annie turned to go.
‘Wait a minute, Annie,’ Daley said, looking serious. ‘I like coming in here, and you’ve always made me very welcome, but you must know, I’ve got to do my job, and no matter if nobody talks to me in Kinloch again, that’s what will happen.’
Annie, looking slightly flustered, sat down on the chair that had been vacated by Scott and leaned in towards Daley. ‘Aye, I daresay, Mr Daley, but ye’ve got tae realise how close the folk here are. Hurt wan, an’ ye hurt us a’. D’ye know whoot I mean? An’ anyhow, the boys appreciated whoot the big fella did for them . . .’ Annie stopped abruptly, avoiding any eye contact with the policeman.
‘What you mean to say is that they got cheap fags from him,’ Daley said, staring at the blushing Annie.
‘Noo, I didnae say anythin’ o’ the sort, Mr Daley. Fuck me, but yous polis are slippery right enough,’ she said, regaining some composure. ‘I never says anythin’ o’ the sort.’
‘No, of course you didn’t,’ Daley replied. ‘But I hope you understand my position, Annie?’
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 10