Daley sprinted out to the backyard. Already, a handful of uniformed cops were piling into a van, some still pulling on their uniform jackets, disturbed from a rest break.
He clambered in behind them. Soon, with the siren wailing and blue lights flashing, they were making their way down Hope Street, dodging the Glasgow traffic.
Daley looked out of the rear window. Sure enough, a line of police vehicles, marked and unmarked, were behind them. He bit his lip and prayed they’d be there in time.
X
Scott screamed in pain as the knife was inserted just below his right shoulder blade. Through his pain, he could hear Machie and his henchmen laughing at his plight.
He was naked, strapped to the improvised dentist’s chair, his vulnerable flesh exposed to the cruelties of the Professor’s knife. This was the third wound he’d suffered, but each stab had been the worst pain he’d ever felt.
‘See what I telt you!’ shouted Machie. ‘The man’s a genius. Knows how tae gie you the agony, man.’
His tormentor’s ugly red face appeared in front of Scott’s. ‘I’m making small incisions where muscles meet bone, Brian. Just tiny ones, mind you. Don’t worry, you’re not bleeding much right now. That’ll come.’
‘You’re one sick bastard,’ croaked Scott.
‘Now, time we had a wee look below the waist,’ the Professor said in a voice loud enough to send Machie into a paroxysm of laughter.
‘Oh, boys, wait tae yous see this. Your man’s going tae slice him where it hurts, noo!’
Scott was still reeling from the pain of the first cuts as he felt the Professor run his hand down his back, onto his buttocks. He drew in a deep breath, screwing up his eyes, waiting for the agony to begin all over again.
He never thought he’d pray to die, but now it seemed the only option.
Distantly, through the horror, he could hear something, something familiar.
The vehicle skidded on the dusty gravel outside the big warehouse. Daley could remember visiting the festival with Liz. When they had left the building it had stood as a reminder of Glasgow’s past, where tobacco in various forms was shipped in, then back out, transformed into cigars, cigarettes and a multitude of other products. It and whisky had made the city and some of its citizens rich.
Now, despite everyone’s best efforts, there seemed only to be decay.
He watched as two police officers battered in the big warehouse doors with a metal ram.
In seconds, still with their lights flashing, police vehicles poured into the warehouse.
When they stopped, Daley looked around, frantically. Uniformed police officers were pointing their torches into the gloom. For a second, Daley panicked. Did they have the wrong building?
Suddenly, from much further into the warehouse, came a shout: ‘He’s here! Quick!’
Daley rushed towards the voice, with a dozen other officers whose torches illuminated the scene.
There, strapped to the frame of a chair, was Detective Constable Brian Scott, his body smeared in blood, head bowed.
‘Brian!’ shouted Daley, rushing to his friend’s side.
The stricken man looked up, squinting into the torch light, and moved his lips.
‘Brian, what is it? What are you trying to say?’ urged Daley, fearing the worst. He leaned close into Scott’s face to try and hear what he was saying.
‘Have you got any fags on you, big man. I’m fair gasping here.’
XI
Daley, Scott and their guest, Ian Burns, were in the Press Bar. It was almost a week since Scott’s ordeal, and Daley was pleased to see him looking more and more like his old self. Certainly, he looked the part now, gulping down a pint, with a cigarette burning in the ashtray.
‘Aye, sir, so they heard the cavalry on the way – you know, the sirens and that – and got oot a wee door at the back o’ the warehouse, and off.’
‘But we think we’ve identified the torturer. Alan McDaid, failed medical student,’ added Daley. ‘He was studying at Glasgow Uni when he lost the plot with drugs.’
‘And fell into the clutches of James Machie,’ said Burns.
‘Yes, exactly. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but no sign of him so far.’
‘I doubt you’ll see him again,’ said Burns. ‘You don’t think Machie will risk a guy like that exposing him. No, I think our Mr McDaid will be lying in some unmarked grave somewhere, in much the same way Machie himself will hide behind a multitude of alibis. He’ll have been miles away from the site when all this was going on, you’ll see.’
They were silent for a moment, contemplating Burns’s theory.
‘Serves that Professor bastard right,’ said Scott, breaking the spell. ‘Here, what’s this I hear aboot Dines?’
‘DCI Dines has resigned. Family problems, apparently,’ replied Burns, his face expressionless.
‘Must have been bad for him to have sacrificed his precious career,’ remarked Daley.
‘Apparently a ledger appeared at Pitt Street – just out of the blue. Former property of the Magician, Provan.’
‘Really?’ said Daley
‘Yes, so they say.’ Burns sounded mysterious. ‘Records of payments made to those in the thrall of James Machie. It made for very interesting reading, so I’m told.’
‘Ya beauty,’ exclaimed Scott. ‘So they’ve got Dines banged tae rights, sir?’
‘I wouldn’t quite say that, Brian.’ Burns smiled at Scott’s quizzical expression. ‘As I told Jim here, don’t ever look for neat conclusions in this job – you won’t get them. If you were the chief constable, would you really like it if the man you’d chosen personally to head up your elite investigative squad turned out to be a wrong ’un?’
Daley smiled wearily. ‘Wonder how that came to light?’
‘Oh, DC Daley, the world is a fascinating place.’ Burns tapped his nose. His smile said, I know, but you’ll never know.
‘I see, sir. But he still gets off with it.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Big drop in his pension – the end of a potentially glittering career.’ Burns squinted at the bar. ‘Is that John Donald?’
‘Yes,’ said Daley. ‘DS Donald, now.’
‘As I said to you, Jim, there are three types of cop you can be. The useless buggers who just see it as a way of paying the bills and have no ambition and even less sense. Then there’s the good guys who see the whole thing as a calling – a service to keep people safe and keep the scum at bay.’
‘What aboot the third?’ asked Scott.
Burns stared absently at Donald, who was laughing obsequiously at the lame jokes of a DCI beside him at the bar.
‘Oh, they just see the job as a means to an end. Yes, they’ll work hard to get up the greasy pole, but not out of any desire to help anyone but themselves. Being in the police gets them where they want to go – nothing more.’
‘And what happens when they get to the top?’ asked Scott.
Burns returned Donald’s wave as Daley looked on thoughtfully. ‘Well, now, that’s when the problems start.’ He drained his glass and got to his feet. ‘Right, boys, it’s been a pleasure. But I’ve got to go now – off to book a holiday.’
‘Where you off tae, sir?’
‘Italy, next summer.’
‘For the World Cup, sir?’ asked Daley.
‘Shh,’ said Burns, holding his finger to his mouth. ‘Mrs Burns doesn’t know about that yet.’ He smiled. ‘And it’s Ian, not “sir”. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Thank you, Ian – for all you’ve done, I mean,’ said Daley sincerely.
The men said their goodbyes. Daley and Scott watched Burns leave the Press Bar, off to enjoy the rest of his retirement.
‘Watch oot,’ said Scott.
Daley looked up to see DS Donald making his way to their table.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the Teflon team,’ said Donald, with an unctuous smile.
‘Meaning?’ asked Daley.
‘Meaning
you’re one pair of lucky bastards.’ He tapped Scott on the shoulder. ‘I know you’re hand in glove with Machie and MacDougall. Don’t think that little stage show fooled me. All done for effect, nothing else.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Scott. ‘You’re off duty, right?’
‘Yes, and?’
‘Well, here’s what I’m saying. Why don’t me an’ you take a wee walk oot the back, while I kick you good-looking?’
Donald raised an eyebrow and turned to address Daley. ‘And you, the hero of the hour, eh? I have you marked, James Daley, had you down from the start. Don’t think for one minute you’ll get any further than a DC. I don’t care how much you suck up old Burns’s arse. He’s yesterday’s man. The future’s right here.’ He thumped his forefinger into his chest.
‘Aye, well, in that case, here’s tae the past,’ said Scott, raising his glass.
As they watched Donald thread his way back to the bar, Daley muttered under his breath, ‘Who do you think phoned me, Brian?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know, the day you were under the knife. Who tipped us the wink?’
‘I’m buggered if I know,’ said Scott with a shrug.
Daley looked at him for a few moments. ‘It was Frank MacDougall, wasn’t it?’
‘How should I know? I’m just glad whoever it was did what they did, or I’d be like a teabag, the noo.’
Daley grinned at his friend. He supposed it was an answer he’d never get. He suspected the boys from the single end would always stick together when push came to shove. Pragmatism: there was that word again.
‘Here, you, away an’ get the pints in. I’ve got a right thirst.’
Whatever horror he’d faced in the warehouse, Daley was glad to see that Brian Scott was back to his normal self.
ONE LAST DRAM BEFORE MIDNIGHT
A DCI Daley Short Story
I
Daley shuffled uncomfortably in his best uniform: shuffling, because, having spent most of his career in the CID, he found wearing it more like being in fancy dress; best, in that he’d finally been measured properly and it actually fitted him.
Yet again, he altered imperceptibly the trim of the braided hat that signified his rank of chief inspector as he watched Councillor Charlie Murray – relaxed and affable – chatting with a reporter. A cameraman nearby fiddled with his equipment, readying it for the interview with Kinloch’s foremost politician.
Daley, for want of something better to do, gazed around the museum. The room was filled with paintings, stuffed birds, model fishing boats and flint tools; and even a full-size quern-stone that appeared as though it had been made the day before, rather than over three thousand years ago. Idly, he tried to imagine how the world would have been then. What did people wear? What did they eat? What were the crooks like?
One item caught his eye – a jet necklace that rested on a white silk cushion within a case of thick security glass. It was constructed of jet triangles, large and small, and the animal hide that had once threaded through each stone had been replaced by a thin gold chain. Daley counted fourteen pieces in all, glinting under the bright lights. He found it hard to fully grasp the antiquity of this beautiful piece of ancient jewellery.
The British Museum was about to take temporary possession of the necklace, which had been found at an ancient burial site in the hills above Kinloch in the late sixties. The piece – of global significance – had become a talisman for the population of the small town. It was an object that had aroused international interest and some avarice in museums and collectors worldwide. Only reluctantly had the community council agreed to its sabbatical in London, the decision having been forced upon them by the regional council, who promised to keep the town’s little museum open on the strength of the funds raised by the loan of the necklace.
Many, though, were unhappy, aware of the long list of precious historical objects that had been removed to London ‘on loan’ from around Scotland only to be declared of such importance that, ‘for safety and to benefit the entire nation’, they were held there in perpetuity.
‘Och, of course we’ll be sad tae see it go,’ said Councillor Charlie Murray to the reporter, who was recording their discussion on her phone. ‘But we need tae keep the toon’s museum open, and if lending oor necklace tae London for a few months does the job, then so be it.’ Having delivered his statement, he smiled, happy with this credible display of political pragmatism.
‘Right, we’re good to go, Councillor,’ said the reporter on receiving the thumbs up from her cameraman. ‘We’ll just go through what we’ve been talking about, so don’t worry about repeating yourself. It’s all new to the viewers.’
‘I’ve been repeating myself for near sixty-five years,’ replied Murray with a grin. ‘I’ll hardly be scunnered by it noo.’
‘He can say that again,’ piped up an irreverent voice by Daley’s side. ‘Here, Jimmy, get that doon you.’ DS Brian Scott handed his superior a mug of coffee. ‘The wee lassie in the office made it. I’m fair parched.’
‘At least you don’t have to stand here like Lord Nelson on the bridge, Brian. I feel ridiculous parading about like this,’ replied Daley.
‘Now, you know fine that you’re oor leader. It would be a bad show if you was tae trap up in thon cheap Asda suit you’re so attached to – especially on an occasion like this. I think you look right smart.’
‘Bugger off, Brian.’
‘There’s thanks for you. I bring you a cup o’ coffee, and a’ I get is abuse. You should take a leaf oot o’ Charlie Murray’s book and get your public face on. You can rest assured they’ll be watching up the road for any sign of weakness. I’m surprised they let you do this by yourself, to be honest. Count yoursel’ lucky, exalted police chief, wae a uniform that you didnae need tae be sewn intae, to boot!’
‘I don’t think I can remember ever seeing you in uniform, Brian, come to think of it.’
‘You know fine, Jimmy, they’re no’ that happy I’m in the polis at all. The last thing they want tae do is see me advertise the fact. You just cut the right figure – big, imposing, like.’
‘Fat, you mean.’
‘No, not fat – mair kind of grown intae your ain skin . . . like . . . like, och, you know what I’m trying tae say.’
‘Like an elephant.’
‘You’re right hard on yoursel’. No, not like an elephant – like a ship in full sail. Graceful, like.’
Daley’s mouth was forming the beginning of an expletive when a petite dark-haired woman appeared at his side.
‘Excuse me, do you know where the toilets are?’ she said with a vague smile, not quite focusing on the policeman. She was dressed in a well-cut white trouser suit, and possessed the kind of easy authority that comes with a good education, a hefty salary and seriously expensive jewellery.
‘Sorry, no idea. Do you know, Brian?’
‘Aye, just oot the door tae your left. I hope you’ve mair luck than me. When I was in earlier, it smelled as though the bloke who originally owned thon necklace was lying deid behind the cistern.’ He wafted his hand in front of his face.
‘Thank you,’ she replied with a look of disgust.
‘Well done, Brian. Another happy customer, eh? That’s the woman from the British Museum.’
‘She looks like Cleopatra, right enough. Hope she doesnae get bitten on the ass.’
‘Bitten by an asp – a snake – not bitten on the ass.’
‘Aye, right, Professor Daley. Anyway, I don’t fancy being the snake that bit her on the arse. I wouldnae bet much on its chances. Her backside’s likely solid flint.’
‘You’re a real good judge of character I’ll give you that. She just asked the way to the toilet, Bri. What are you on about?’
‘What are you worried aboot? She obviously thought you were a security guard, or one o’ they commissionaires. Mind, they auld fellas wae the white caps that used tae let folk in and oot – ex-army, they were. It’s the uniform that’s doing it. An
yhow, I’ll leave you tae it. Someone roon here has tae get some proper policing done. There’s no saying what’s happening on the mean streets o’ Kinloch while you’re swanking aboot in here, Jimmy. Enjoy your coffee.’
Scott left, taking time to nod to a few locals he knew in the room. As he opened the door to leave, Daley could hear what sounded like a chant coming from outside.
He followed Scott out of the museum and into the street where a small knot of locals were standing with makeshift placards shouting something indistinct.
Daley noticed Annie, the formidable manager of the County Hotel, in their midst.
‘What’s all this, Annie?’ he asked, scanning the ragged group of protesters.
Mainly men and women of a certain age, they had stopped chanting at the sight of the police officer.
‘We’re jeest making sure that they folk fae London know fine that we’re no’ happy,’ she replied. ‘If they think they’ll spirit off oor jet necklace never tae be seen again, they can think again. Is that no’ right, folks?’ she shouted. ‘Whoot dae we want?’
‘Tae keep oor necklace!’ came the muted response.
‘When dae we want it?’
‘Noo!’
‘There you are, Mr Daley. That’ll send them back doon south wae a flea in their ear, eh?’
Unsure as to the efficacy of this protest, Daley shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said addressing the crowd with mock gravitas, ‘I don’t want this to get out of hand. Remember, we’ve tear gas and riot gear up the road if this gets nasty.’
He realised that he’d gone too far when one old woman gasped and put her hand to her mouth in horror.
‘I’m only joking, Mrs Duncan. I’m sure this will be a peaceful protest.’
‘Tae be honest, we’d hoped for a few mair folk,’ grumbled Annie. ‘Auld Mr Hutcheson’s got a right bad cold, and Beth Paterson’s getting her in-grown toenail sorted the day. Aye, an’ we’ve a few absentees efter the Douglas Arms played that team fae Tarbert in the darts league last night. Hell o’ a night, fae whoot I hear. Widna be surprised if there wiz a lock-in on the go, neithers.’ She gave Daley a sly look from the corner of her eye. ‘Some folk jeest don’t know how tae run an orderly public hoose.’
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