Fuckin’ arseholes, he thought as the vehicle fishtailed over a slick patch of dirt. He hated the police. He hated everything, and especially his family: his father, his poor mother, but most of all, his sister. He despised the way she patronised him – laughed at him openly. He hated the way she spoke, looked, walked; he hated her opinion of him, his life, what he liked to do and who with. It made his blood boil. He often fantasised about hitting her, over and over again, ruining her pretty face and silencing her forever.
He was on the main road when his mobile phone, which he’d flung onto the passenger seat, rang.
‘I’m on my way. Whit d’ye want?’ he said, mouth twisting in distaste. ‘What! Are you sure? That gear should’ve been safe as houses up there. The fuckin’ shop is empty, for fuck’s sake.’ He listened to the reply with growing irritation. ‘Nah, it’s no’ ma fuckin’ fault we had tae change plans, is it? Listen, dinnae say anythin’ aboot this, right? There’s a lot o’ shit happenin’, so I’ll deal wi’ a’ this. Dinnae bother gettin’ a hauld o’ anyone else, OK?’
Conversation over, he threw the phone back onto the passenger seat. ‘Bastard!’ he shouted, banging his fist against the steering wheel.
He glanced at the digital clock on his dashboard; he was going to be late. He pushed his right foot firmly down on the throttle as the BMW’s headlights briefly flashed across a sign: A83 Kinloch 7 miles.
The three police officers sat round a table in the empty dining room of the County Hotel. Two of them were eating heartily, while the third eyed his fish and chips with obvious distaste.
‘You no’ hungry, sir?’ enquired DS Scott through a mouthful of chicken curry.
‘What do you think, Brian?’ said Donald, lifting a glass of white wine to his mouth.
‘If ye don’t want yer chips,’ said Scott, ‘I’ll happily take them off yer hands.’ He was about to pass comment on the shrivelled fish, but was silenced by a look from Daley.
‘So you’re here for the duration, sir?’ Daley asked.
‘Yes,’ said Donald. ‘Though I can assure you, it gives me no pleasure whatsoever. The Chief Constable is of the opinion that the seriousness of this case demands the presence of a senior officer.’ He drained his glass. ‘Unfortunately, it would appear as though I’m destined to be drawn to this bloody awful place. Where the hell is that useless waitress?’ He turned in his seat in order to locate the missing member of the hotel staff. ‘We had to wait half a bloody hour for this crap to be thrust before us, now the wretched girl has disappeared.’
‘I’ll hoof it up to the bar mysel’,’ Scott declared, getting to his feet while removing the napkin which he’d thrust into his shirt collar. ‘Anyone fir a top-up?’
‘Yes,’ said Donald. ‘Get me another half carafe of this gnat’s piss.’
‘Just a pint for me, Brian, please,’ Daley said with a smile. He had been keeping a close eye on Donald. They had gone straight into the dining room on their arrival, as the superintendent had made it clear that he had no intention of sitting in the bar for an aperitif amongst ‘the yokels’. He had already had two glasses of wine, plus a half carafe when his meal had arrived. Daley remembered how much Donald used to drink in the past, and could see echoes of it in his superior’s current behaviour. Back then, beer and whisky had been his tipples of choice. Not for the first time in the last few days, Daley noticed the ghost of the gruff and boorish man of so many years ago breach the acquired confidence of Donald’s new personality. It made him uneasy.
‘So, you’re to be a father, Jim,’ said Donald.
‘Yes, sir. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.’
‘Well, it’s been rather a fraught few days, to say the least,’ said Donald. He abandoned his attempt to snare the remaining peas, thrust his cutlery noisily onto the plate, then pushed it away. ‘But everything is . . . as it should be, on that front, then?’
Daley wasn’t sure whether it was the tone of the question or the question itself that annoyed him more. He felt the familiar sensation of his temper straining at an invisible leash. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’
Donald held his gaze for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Congratulations, I’m sure. Mrs Donald and I have never been blessed in that department. I suppose I rather assumed you and Liz would be the same.’
‘What was it you used to say, sir? To “assume” is to make an “ass” of “you” and “me’,’ Daley said, his face like thunder.
‘Just a polite enquiry from a concerned friend, Jim, nothing else.’
‘You and I have never been friends, John. I would prefer to keep it that way.’
‘Really, Jim, I’d hoped you’d be able to divest yourself of that temper as you matured – I can see now that hasn’t been the case.’
‘Well, sir, we can’t all start out as one thing and become something entirely different, can we?’ It was Daley’s turn to be condescending.
Donald was about to reply when Scott appeared back in the dining room, unbuttoning his shirt collar and loosening his tie with one hand.
‘It’s a’ right. Annie’s bringing the drinks in two ticks,’ he announced. ‘Right,’ he said, now back in his seat and looking at his colleagues, ‘whit have I missed?’
‘Nothing,’ said Daley. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Instead of all of this chit-chat, gentlemen,’ Donald announced, ‘let’s try and assess – as best we can – exactly where we are with this horror.’
‘No’ really anywhere, as far as I can see, sir,’ answered Scott.
‘It does feel as though we’re standing by, waiting for Machie to make his next move,’ Daley said. ‘It’s not as though division or the crime squad have turned anything up, is it?’
As Daley spoke, Donald’s phone bleeped, vibrating loudly on the table. He picked it up and scrolled through the email he had just received.
‘Not true, Jim,’ he said. After one of his dramatic pauses, he continued: ‘Cumnock CID lifted DNA from the helicopter. Our worst nightmares have come true.’
‘A match with Machie?’ asked Daley.
‘Not quite,’ said Donald. ‘You will remember that, since his death, all physical records of Machie have been expunged.’
‘Yes,’ said Daley, bridling at Donald’s tone.
‘But you will of course remember JayMac’s sister – the lovely Ina?’
‘Aye, how could ye forget?’ said Scott.
‘She was arrested for shoplifting last year, stole an outsized bikini.’ Donald couldn’t help smiling at the thought of the grossly obese Ina Machie squeezing herself into the garment. ‘Anyhow, there is no doubt; the unknown person present at the scene of the helicopter murder is Ina’s sibling. Taking into account the visual evidence, combined with the fact we know who her only sibling is, well . . .’
Daley remained silent, staring ahead in disbelief.
‘Is DNA infallible? I mean, surely there’s an element o’ doubt.’ DS Scott’s voice bore traces of despair.
‘There is an element of doubt in just about everything,’ Donald barked back. ‘This, plus the evidence of our own eyes, as well as this person’s actions, surely minimise that doubt. We must now consider this madman to be James Machie and concern ourselves more with how to stop him from doing any more damage rather than worrying how he has managed this resurrection.’
‘We still have no idea if he knows where MacDougall is,’ declared Daley. ‘That’s what’s strange. MacDougall’s aunt says Machie never said anything to her during the attack. Didn’t even ask where Frank was – poor soul.’
‘How did MacDougall react to your lecture on keeping his brood out of trouble, Jim?’ asked Donald.
‘Not well, sir. He seems to feel powerless as far as keeping them to heel is concerned.’
‘I might have known he would prove inadequate when it came to raising a family. Mind you, a task no man takes on lightly, eh, Jim?’
Daley realised that the superintendent was, at the very least, half cut. Before he could ma
ke further comment, Scott greeted the arrival of Annie with a full drinks tray. ‘Ah, there she is – an angel o’ mercy. Whit took ye so long? It’s no’ exactly busy, the night – where’re a’ the punters?’
Annie cleared a space on the table and began placing the drinks in front of the men. ‘Lager for you, Brian. And a pint for you, Jim. I mean, Mr Daley.’ She smiled nervously at Donald. It was clear that the formidable chatelaine was uneasy around the superintendent. ‘And a half carafe of the house white for you, sir.’
‘My dear woman,’ Donald gushed. ‘Please, call me John – no need for all of these formalities. After all, I’m a guest in your fine establishment, and could be for some time. Tell me, Angela, why are you so quiet?’
‘Annie, sir. I mean, John.’
‘Oh, who is she, and what has she done to have spirited away all of your customers?’
‘I’m Annie,’ she continued, nodding and smiling to soften the blow for Donald, who had made the mistake.
‘Sorry?’ The inebriated police officer was now completely befuddled.
Seeing that the conversation was going nowhere, Annie decided to change tack. ‘It’s the big switch-on tonight. You know, the Christmas lights.’
‘But they’re a’ready on,’ said Scott, looking mystified.
‘Aye, that’s jeest cos the celebrity coudnae make it last week,’ she told them. ‘It’s a’ go the night: float parade, the pipe band, and a’ the wee shops are open wi’ mulled wine an’ mince pies. It’s a right community event. The weans jeest love it.’
‘Right,’ said Scott, relieved that his concerns about an empty bar had been put to rest. ‘When’s the fun start?’
‘In aboot an ’oor,’ said Annie, looking at her watch.
‘Surprised you didn’t know about this, Jim,’ Donald chided. ‘Clearly a concern in terms of crowd control, if what Angela here says is right.’ He stared at Daley down his long nose.
‘All sorted,’ Daley answered. ‘I’m not the only policeman in Kinloch, sir.’
‘Quite,’ said Donald, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘Though you’re supposed to be in charge.’
‘Och, nothin’ for you boys tae be worried aboot,’ assured Annie. ‘It’s wan o’ they times when there’ no nonsense. Yous should take a wee wander outside – it’s a lovely night.’ She stopped for a moment, as though reconsidering. ‘Well, apart fae the time Peter Wilson an’ Hoggie McIntosh had that fight and went through Broon’s windae.’
‘Oh?’ said Donald, raising his eyebrows.
‘Aye, an’ a couple o’ years ago when Dougie McMillan an’ his daughter had that argument aboot the length o’ her skirt, an’ she tried tae run him doon . . . Oh, an’ when Bessie Gilchrist got steamin’ and fell in front o’ the parade, an’ the Pipe Major near took her heid aff wi’ his mace thing, or whootever it’s called. Aye an’ there was the time . . .’
‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ interrupted Daley, not wishing to hear any more stories about the disasters that were likely to occur during the switch-on of the town’s Christmas lights – occurrences he had been told nothing about. He consoled himself that the ever-reliable Sergeant Shaw was in charge, a uniformed officer steeped in the traditions of Kinloch, having spent over twenty years in the community.
‘At least this will give them something to keep their minds off the goings-on this afternoon,’ Donald declared, watching Annie pad back to the bar with an empty tray.
‘Any word fae the forensic boys yet, sir?’ Scott asked.
‘The explosives team at the cottage are going through everything with great care, for obvious reasons. As for Mr Bentham, well, forensics have only one question to answer.’
‘Aye, I think we can rule oot suicide,’ said Scott. ‘I think we a’ know the answer tae that, wi’oot havin’ tae wear a white coat tae find oot.’
25
Tommy MacDougall waited, shivering, at the rear of the building, the front of which faced onto Kinloch’s Main Street. He clutched a cigarette in one hand; the other was thrust deep into the front pocket of his hooded top.
The building had belonged to a large retail chain, forced into bankruptcy after the global financial crash. It was a flat-roofed construction of three storeys, with grey pebble-dashed walls and large, boarded-up windows. A goods entrance was secured by a padlocked roller door, adorned with graffiti, which he squinted to read in the dim light of the security lamp. He snorted a laugh at the more risqué remarks, recognising the names of some of the individuals mentioned. A few feet above his head, the bottom rungs of the external fire escape hung in mid air. Though the citizens of Kinloch had objected to the building’s construction in the sixties, the shop had become a cornerstone of Main Street. Tommy illuminated the dial of his watch, his hand trembling with anticipation as well as the cold. He needn’t have worried about being late; the person he had come to meet was late too. Or so he thought. Movement overhead made him crane his neck towards the fire escape.
‘You, how did you get here so quickly?’ he said, unsettled by the appearance of the man above him. ‘Fuckin’ typical. We’ve got tae move a’ the shit on the busiest night o’ the year. Whit aboot this pair on the roof ye told me aboot?’
The man said nothing, just gestured to Tommy to follow him up onto the fire escape.
‘Whit the fuck’s wrong wi’ you?’ said Tommy, as he placed his right foot on the first rung of the rusting ladder.
Daley had been surprised when Donald expressed a desire to join the throng of people and watch the parade of floats leading up to the official switch-on of the Christmas lights. Had his boss not consumed so much alcohol, he would more likely have spent the evening in his hotel room, or back at the police office weaving his interminable webs.
Daley’s thoughts drifted to the visit he had paid Liz at the hospital earlier that day. He was worried by how pale and tired she had looked, but the doctor assured him that it was merely an after-effect of the trauma she had suffered, combined with her condition. She dozed as he held her hand. He tried to picture what their child would look like, hoping earnestly that it would resemble his wife and not him.
Once he had been assured that she was in no immediate danger, he had rather welcomed the break, the chance for some space amidst the turmoil of the last few days. He kissed her on the forehead before taking his leave. Only as he walked down the long corridor of the hospital did the darkness again encroach on his mind.
Thoughts of Liz were banished by Scott, who beckoned him and Donald through the crowd to a better vantage point. He was surprised how busy the street was, and reckoned that the great majority of the town had turned out to witness the spectacle. Beside him, Donald was huddled into a heavy, and no doubt expensive, overcoat. Daley could hear him swear under his breath as they made their way through the throng, Scott on point.
‘Just here, boys,’ Scott called over his shoulder, gesturing to the doorway of a shop. Inside, visible through the large windows, people were drinking from plastic cups and helping themselves to mince pies.
‘I might have known we’d end up at a bookie’s,’ Donald moaned as they took their position in the large doorway. ‘I hope they’re not consuming alcohol in there. Free or otherwise – an absolute contravention of their licence under the Betting, Gaming and Lotteries Act.’
‘Aye, well, since we’ve been consuming alcohol ourselves, an’ we’re off duty, I dinnae think we should attempt an intervention the noo, sir,’ Scott joked, winking at Daley.
‘I’m sure your bookies’ interventions are very frequent, Brian,’ Donald replied, turning his attention to a woman with a large furry hat who had positioned herself in front of him and was obscuring his view of the pageant route on the road beyond. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, tapping her on the shoulder, ‘we are police officers and require a clear view of the proceedings. Please move along.’
‘Whoot?’ said the woman, frowning at Donald. ‘Who died an’ made you king o’ the world? Piss off!’ She turned her attention
to a small child fussing at her feet.
The look on Donald’s face sent Scott into paroxysms of silent mirth. The superintendent was about to speak when a voice issued forth from an incredibly loud public address system.
‘Noo, how are yiz a’ daein’?’ was the first question, accompanied by a blast of jaunty accordion music. This prompted a less than enthusiastic response from the crowd, ranging from pleasant hellos to more profane utterances. One shout of ‘Fuck off, Dan!’ could be heard above the rest, which caused a ripple of laughter amongst the citizens of Kinloch.
Unabashed, and with a brief clearing of the throat, the announcer continued. ‘Noo, in whoot’s a first for us a’ at Kinloch FM, we’re proud tae be covering tonight’s entertainment live, broadcast tae ye all wi’ oor PA, for which we can thank the good people at Rankin Motors! Gie it up for Rankin Motors!’ This was greeted by a ragged cheer. ‘Can ye hear me?’ he roared, after which cries of ‘Turn it doon, for any sake’ or ‘Shut that fuckin’ thing up’ were heard.
‘I’m no’ giein’ away the identity o’ oor special guest, but a’ I’ll say is yous should a’ look up,’ he announced.
Suddenly, from somewhere above their heads on the four-storey tenement behind the policemen, a powerful spotlight illuminated the flat roof of the building across Main Street. Daley could hear the strangled whine of bagpipes being inflated, then the roll of snare drums before the pipes sounded, in readiness for a tune. Then, without warning they burst into life. The crowd applauded, and to his left Daley spotted the flash of silver buttons and tartan as the pipe band rounded the corner of the esplanade and began their march up Main Street.
‘Pit yer hands the’gither for the Kinloch Pipe Band!’ bellowed Dan, clearly audible above the skirl of the pipes and the cheers of the crowd.
Daley looked side on at Donald, who looked less than impressed by the commencement of the festivities, possibly because the woman in front of him had been joined by some of her friends and their offspring, one of whom – a small boy with a runny nose – was tugging at the hem of the superintendent’s coat, while looking up at him with big eyes.
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 16