The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘I want you to take a look at this, Brian,’ he said.

  DS Scott squinted at the phone.

  ‘I’m sick o’ seein’ that bastard,’ he shouted to Daley above the throb of the engines. ‘Where the fuck is he now?’

  ‘That’s just it, Brian. That’s not James Machie. It’s Duncan Fearney’s adopted brother, who disappeared just about five years ago.’ Daley watched Scott as he stared at the phone.

  ‘It cannae be,’ Scott spluttered. ‘He’s Machie’s spittin’ image.’

  ‘He’s Machie’s twin brother. Or, was, to be more accurate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what Duncan Fearney told me before he died. Before he was killed, I should say.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Scott, holding tighter to the handrail in front of him. They were passing the island at the head of the loch and entering the open sea beyond; as the noise increased, so too did the speed of the vessel, its trim changing so that the prow rose into the air, offering less resistance through the waves and making higher speeds possible.

  ‘We’ve found our ghost, Brian.’

  With that, Scott thrust his head forward and spewed between his legs.

  36

  Frank MacDougall scanned the horizon. He was in more placid waters now, and had almost reached his destination. The heater of the pleasure craft blew a steady stream of hot air into the cabin. MacDougall wasn’t sure whether that or fear was responsible for the beads of sweat that he could feel on his brow. He tried to collect his thoughts as the distant roar and crashing of Corryvreckan drowned out the normal maritime soundscape of seabirds. As he eyed the horizon once again and was about to give up, his phone rang.

  ‘I can see ye!’

  ‘Aye, well, I cannae see you,’ MacDougall replied.

  ‘Look at yer compass, Frankie. Steer forty-five degrees an’ ye’ll get tae see yer lovely daughter again.’ The phone went dead.

  MacDougall turned the boat and eased the throttle forward, desperately trying to think of a way out of his predicament.

  Despite the bracing sea wind, the odour of Scott’s sickness hung about the open boat. Daley was examining his phone. His frequent calls to Kinloch Police Office in an attempt to find Donald had been completely unproductive; he had not been in contact with the office, nor was he answering calls or messages. Daley thought this typified the man. Here he was heading out to sea to try and bring one of Scotland’s most dangerous men to book – for the second time – and his superior was nowhere to be seen. Should the operation be a success, he was in no doubt that Donald would reappear, ready and willing to accept all of the plaudits. But it was true that in the last few days he had seen his boss’s mask slip, and more of what he remembered as the real man re-emerge. Why?

  So many issues about this case troubled him. He was convinced that an unseen thread ran through everything, yet he couldn’t work out what the connection was, and how it could possibly unite individuals as diverse as Machie, Donald, Fearney and the MacDougall family. He had a familiar feeling in his stomach, a feeling that he was so accustomed to he was unable to immediately identify it. After wrestling with the problem as the boat bumped through the waves, it suddenly dawned on him that he was experiencing the same knot in his gut that he had when he knew Liz was being unfaithful; a gnawing, cloying sadness that undermined everything he thought or did. Was it down to his suspicions regarding his wife and Mark Henderson, or was there another, more troubling reason, something he had missed?

  ‘Penny for them, big man,’ Scott shouted, almost at the top of his voice in order to be heard above the roar of the huge diesel engine and the rush of wave and wind.

  ‘I wish we could find the boss,’ Daley shouted in reply.

  ‘Why? What’ll he contribute? We’ve got orders from on high. Who needs him? Be careful what you wish for, Jim.’

  Daley was pleased that the temporary impasse between he and Scott had righted itself, but he was still unhappy at the role his DS might have played in MacDougall’s escape. He thought back to Duncan Fearney, and what he had said in the seconds before the red dots found him and his body exploded in a spray of blood and gore.

  Who was the individual he knew so well?

  Daley looked sidelong at Brian Scott. Could he be the man that Fearney was referring to? Daley hoped not, wished it with all of his heart.

  He thought of the man who had ordered the shots that killed Fearney. The knot in his stomach got tighter.

  Sarah looked at him as he checked the automatic pistol, loaded it, and checked it again. Somehow, it reminded her of watching the glass blowers in Venice. It had been a school trip, just after her fourteenth birthday. Her private school hoped that exposure to the delights of Florence and Venice would inspire their young minds, and they were right. She had watched entranced as these men turned amorphous lumps of molten glass into beautiful bowls or vases, the concentration, the expertise apparent in their every movement. She saw that same skill now, as he checked and rechecked the weapon; the end result of his expertise, however, would not be beautiful.

  She had a salty taste in her mouth; he had been rough, forcing her against the side of the cabin, pinning her to the thin walls as he thrust deep inside her. Despite the pain, the sickness, the discomfort – perhaps because of it – she had climaxed, her body contracting with pleasure as she felt him come inside her.

  ‘Here’s Daddy,’ he said, staring out to sea through a pair of expensive binoculars. ‘Better tidy yersel up, ye dinnae want him tae see ma cum running doon yer leg, honey.’

  ‘It’s obvious you don’t have children,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ he said, removing the binoculars from his eyes. ‘They a’ways let you doon, know what I mean, kid?’ He began to laugh, then picked up the gun and held it to her head. ‘Be a good wee girl, for a change. Yer comin’ on deck wi’ me. Let’s say hello tae yer auld man.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, brushing the gun away.

  MacDougall could see the boat now; it was bobbing gently in calm waters, yet behind the vessel the sky was dark above a tormented sea, as Corryvreckan churned in fury. It was as though James Machie had chosen the geographical feature best suited to his personality as the site for their meeting.

  As MacDougall neared the other craft he eased back on the throttle. He could see two figures standing on the aft section of the vessel, behind the square cabin. His heart leapt in his chest as he saw Sarah, and sank almost immediately to the pit of his stomach as he recognised his former partner in crime holding a gun to her head.

  Daley’s mobile burst into life. He had given instructions that he was to be contacted via the RIB’s radio should his phone no longer work, but he was relieved that – from the point of view of contacting Donald, at least – he still had some kind of signal.

  ‘Just had the Coastguard on, sir.’ The bar officer at Kinloch Police Office had to shout to be heard.

  ‘And?’

  ‘A diving vessel located to the south of Corryvreckan has spotted two boats in the area, actually heading into the first portion of the whirlpool. They were so worried that they called the Coastguard immediately, in case they were tourists or something.’

  ‘OK. Any sign of the boss?’

  ‘No, sir. We keep trying his mobile, but absolutely nothing. The second I find him, I’ll contact you.’

  Daley ended the call and signalled to Newell. ‘How long to our destination?’ he shouted above the tumult.

  ‘We’ll enter more unsettled waters in about ten minutes. After that, well, I’ll just have to judge how safe it is to proceed.’

  ‘OK,’ Daley replied, not liking the doubt he detected in Newell’s voice. Surely if the other two vessels could weather the conditions, so could they?

  MacDougall came to a halt twenty feet from the vessel on which his daughter and her abductor stood. He walked out of the cabin and onto the deck, and for the first time since JayMac had sworn vengeance upon him from the dock of Glasgow’s High C
ourt, they came face to face.

  ‘So it is you,’ said MacDougall. ‘I’d hoped it wiz a’ just a fuckin’ bad dream, stories fae a’ the sick fucks that wanted ye back. Nae such luck. Ye better no’ have touched a hair on her head, ya bastard.’

  ‘Ahoy there, me hearty,’ Machie shouted, his mouth open in a wide smile but his eyes cold, exactly the way MacDougall remembered them. ‘Yer in nae fuckin’ position to threaten me, Frankie-boy. This time, a’ the cards are stacked in ma favour.’

  ‘Enough o’ the fucking preamble,’ said MacDougall. ‘I know what ye’ve come for so spit it oot. This isnae aboot revenge.’

  ‘That’s no’ very polite raising yer voice like that, Frankie,’ Machie shouted in reply. ‘Just you ease over here, and come aboard.’ He shoved the gun against Sarah’s head, making her yelp in pain.

  ‘Take it easy. I’m coming.’ MacDougall walked backwards into the cabin, not taking his eyes off Machie, who yanked Sarah’s head back by the hair.

  MacDougall could feel the pistol tucked into his waistband, the metal cold against his back. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he was going to kill James Machie.

  37

  MacDougall eased his craft closer to Machie’s. Though the sea was relatively calm, the power of the whirlpool created a kind of restlessness he had never witnessed; tiny pinnacles, each tipped with white foam like small peaks on an iced cake, coated the sea between the vessels. He saw Machie turn to Sarah and for a heart-stopping moment thought he was about to kill her. Fortunately, he let her go. MacDougall watched his daughter bend down to retrieve a long wooden boat hook, then tentatively held it out towards him.

  ‘Here,’ Machie shouted, throwing a coil of thick rope across the narrow void onto MacDougall’s boat. ‘I want ye tae tie us together. This pretty wee thing tells me that that ye can tie a fine knot noo.’

  MacDougall caught the end of the heavy rope and tied it around two metal gunwales on the side of his vessel, while on the other, Sarah did the same. Soon, the boats were secured together.

  The two middle-aged Glasgow gangsters stood looking at each other, framed by the turbulent waters of Corryvreckan in the background.

  ‘Lost a bit o’ weight, Frankie,’ Machie shouted.

  ‘Yer no’ looking too bad yersel, for a dead man,’ answered MacDougall. ‘Right, let’s get on wi’ it.’

  Suddenly it was like a different world. The RIB was tossed in the air, then after what seemed like an eternity smacked down into the water with a hard crack. Daley felt his spine jar painfully. To his side, Scott had begun to retch again. The DCI wondered again about the wisdom of bringing his DS along. This thought was banished as the boat was flung into the air once more, this time returning to the sea bow first, soaking everyone aboard with stingingly cold water.

  ‘Tae think I near joined the fuckin’ Merchant Navy,’ Scott groaned, water dripping from his matted hair and down his green-tinged face.

  Newell was staring, grim-faced, out into the tumult. For the first time since his wife had almost died, Daley prayed – this time, for himself.

  Machie waved the pistol at MacDougall. ‘C’mon, get yersel aboard. This wan’ll help ye,’ he said, gesturing at Sarah, who held out her hand to help her father bridge the small gap between the two vessels.

  ‘Sarah,’ MacDougall gasped as he clambered on board, hugging her close. ‘What has he done to you?’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Nothing, Daddy, I’m fine,’ she said, surprising him by pulling free from his embrace.

  ‘Is this no’ where ye say, “If ye’ve touched a hair o’ her heid, I’ll kill ye?” said Machie.

  ‘We both know it’s no’ ma daughter you’re interested in, you bastard.’

  ‘Dae we noo? Just whit am I interested in, then?’

  MacDougall caught a change in Sarah’s expression out of the corner of his eye; a quizzical look, directed at Machie, which he couldn’t reconcile with the situation, or her predicament.

  ‘Oh here,’ said Machie, gauging the body language between father and daughter. ‘Did Daddy no’ tell ye his big secret? Somethin’ naebody knows, apart fae me an’ him – an’ I only know the maist important part o’ it.’

  ‘Leave her oot o’ this, JayMac,’ said MacDougall, clenching his fists in anger.

  ‘Aye, that’ll suit ye just fine, eh, Frankie-boy? A few years’ worth o’ water under the bridge, but still the same old liar, eh?’

  ‘Daddy, what does he mean?’

  ‘Oor wee agreement – the wan between me an’ yer faither. I take the glory – the kudos, if ye like, oh aye, an’ all the blame – while he runs the show an’ takes the dosh. That’s the abbreviated version but I think that about covers it, eh, Frankie?’

  ‘An’ whit if it does?’ MacDougall shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve no’ exactly been tripping the light fantastic o’er the last few years. Sarah’ll vouch for that.’

  Machie stared at the young woman. ‘Ye can get enough o’ anything: drink, sex, drugs, even power. Efter a while, it a’ turns sour – been there, done that kinda shit. The only thing is, in ma game nae cunt gets tae retire, know whit I mean?’ Machie was in full flow now, his face growing darker. ‘But Daddy here comes up wi’ the perfect solution. Just dae whit ye want, he says: travel, shag as many women as ye can get hard fir, stick half o’ Colombia up yer nose, it doesnae matter. I’ll run the show, call the shots. Aye, an’ don’t worry, ye’ll get a cut – efter a’, you’re the main man, JayMac.’

  ‘So what, did I break the contract? It wiz hardly fuckin’ RBS we wiz running,’ MacDougall retorted.

  ‘Naw,’ said Machie, ‘even we’re no’ that fucking bent.’

  ‘And just what is the point to all this?’ said Sarah.

  ‘The point is, darlin’, that yer man here an’ his protégé, Gerry Dowie, they get fed up. Here’s me, daein’ exactly whit I want tae dae, but gettin’ bored, so whit dae I dae? Time tae get back in the saddle, says I. Take the reins again, tae continue the equine metaphor. Get a proper cut o’ the business – ma business.’ He stopped, staring at MacDougall. ‘But that wisnae goin’ tae happen, wiz it?’

  ‘Even if a’ that did happen, so what? You’ve escaped death, an’ I escaped the jail. No’ a bad exchange fir the lives we’ve led.’

  ‘So what is a’ the dosh ye spirited away when ye did the deal wi’ the cops. Aye, leavin’ me in the frame, taking the big fa’, while you an’ Gerry stashed the millions until the heat wiz off an’ ye could take a wee jaunt, disappear and spend it,’ Machie spat. ‘Time tae spill the beans, Frankie-boy.’ He held the gun to Sarah’s temple.

  Daley felt as though he was about to explode. The RIB had been thrown in the air and crashed back to sea more times than he could count. Despite his concern for the officers under his command, all he could do was brace himself against the sea’s ferocity and grip the handrail in front of him for dear life as he awaited the next bone-jarring thud.

  As the RIB crashed into the waves, Daley’s head jerked upwards, his neck arched in the agony of it all. When he opened his eyes, something was wrong. He realised immediately that the seat in front of him was empty; the huddled figure that had been DC Dunn was gone. Frantically, he looked around the boat. The rest of his colleagues had adopted the same position as himself, shoulders down, facing the floor, just trying to endure the trauma the best they could. He was the only one to have noticed that Dunn was missing.

  They were in the trough now, the water an enormous wall of water that sucked the daylight from the scene. The grey of the next wave towered above them, the foam visible at the top as they were propelled upwards. Daley, now panicking, managed to lever himself from the seat, straining the safety harness that held him there. In Dunn’s seat he could see her harness had been ripped from its housing, and was now stretched across the deck and over the side of the boat.

  He craned his neck to see over the side of the boat, and a flash of movement caught his eye. A pale hand gripped what remained of
the harness. DC Dunn was alive, but she wouldn’t be for much longer.

  Daley reached down, releasing the catch on his own harness. As the boat flew through the air, pitching wildly before the headlong plunge, the DCI threw himself to the side of the vessel, his arm outstretched.

  38

  ‘Yer aboot tae make the biggest mistake o’ yer life,’ MacDougall roared at Machie, who had the pistol rammed against Sarah’s temple while pulling her head back at an awkward angle.

  ‘The biggest mistake I ever made wiz trustin’ a cunt like you, Frankie.’ Machie’s face was contorted, eyes flashing with fury.

  MacDougall stared at the scene with horror, desperate to save his daughter from the man he knew would have no qualms about killing her. Then a shadow fell across the boat.

  From out of nowhere, behind Machie and Sarah, a massive wall of water was rising. MacDougall tried to keep his face expressionless; this would likely be his last chance.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he shouted. ‘She’s mair important tae me than money. Just tell me whit the fuck ye want. Ye can take the lot, just let her go.’

  Machie was about to speak, when he and Sarah were pitched violently forward. Prepared for the sudden swell, MacDougall propelled himself towards his daughter’s captor. Machie, caught off balance, tumbled backwards under the weight of his old lieutenant, his head bouncing off the wooden decking. MacDougall pressed home his advantage by straddling his quarry, then aiming a clenched fist into his face. The pistol Machie had been holding spun across the boat, glinting dully in the low winter sun.

  The pair wrestled as the boat plunged into the trough left by the rogue wave the whirlpool had created. MacDougall’s powerful hands encircled Machie’s neck as he battered his head into the decking with sickening thuds. Machie’s face turned beetroot and large veins on his temples bulged as MacDougall tried to squeeze the life from his victim.