Dark Suits and Sad Songs (13 page)

‘There’s nae end tae the strange things that happen at sea, Brian,’ said Hamish, as he savoured his whisky. ‘As a boy, I was oot wae my faither, not far from here, as it happens, when I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’ Scott asked.

‘Och, hard tae explain, noo.’ Hamish lit his pipe. ‘It was jeest at the darkening; we were on oor way hame after fishing jeest off Ballycastle. My faither had intended tae be back intae port before dark, but we’d hit such a proud shoal of mackerel that he stayed with it until they disappeared. Aye, fair loaded we were, right enough.’

‘Loaded wae this, by the sound o’ it,’ observed Norrie, holding up his tin mug.

Ignoring this, Hamish continued. ‘I was sitting on the bow, jeest keeping a look oot since the light was so poor. We didna have a’ the modern gadgetry they do the day. Nae such thing as sat nav, or even radar. You relied on your senses. Och, it was a better world a’ the gither.’

‘Will you get on wae the story before I sober up,’ said Scott.

‘All of a sudden, there in the gloaming, I saw it. A long boat, like nothing I’d ever seen before: sleek an’ dark, wae a huge square sail an’ a horse’s heid prow.’ The old man closed his eyes. ‘Rows of oars, a’ hitting the water at the wan time, apart fae that, not a sound.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Scott, enthralled despite himself.

‘Och, I hurried aft, tae get my faither, but he’d seen it fae the wheelhoose, an’ he was already oot on the deck.’

‘What happened then?’ Kenny looked on, wide-eyed.

‘Dae you know whoot this place used tae be called? Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Hamish, not waiting for a response. ‘The land o’ the horsemen, aye, jeest that, land o’ the horsemen. Noo, yous can scoff if you like, but I think whoot I saw that night wiz a glimpse o’ the past. An’ these horsemen weren’t the yins that ride aboot on some cuddy, the horse was the one on the prow o’ their boat. Aye, an’ us in Kinloch are their descendants.’ He crossed his arms, his tale over.

‘So, what did your father have tae say aboot a’ this?’ asked Scott.

Hamish took a long puff on his pipe. ‘He telt me tae say nothing, so that’s what I did. The first time I spoke aboot it was nearly forty years later, an’ my faither was long deid, an’ – och well – I thought, whoot’s the odds?’

‘Was this tae that professor, Hamish? Caused quite a stir, a few years ago, did it no’?’

‘Aye, Norrie, indeed it did. Professor George Welby, o’ Cambridge University, no less. He used tae come tae Kinloch in the summer wae his boat. Well, tae cut a long story short, he invited me aboard for a dram or two, an’ we got speakin’.’

‘Aye, I bet you didna say much until the bottle was near the end, and you were after another,’ said Norrie.

‘No, not true. He was a professor of ancient history. He was tellin’ me a’ aboot his theories on a people called the Phoenicians. Apparently they were fine sailors, fae thousands o’ years ago. Knowing I was a mariner mysel’ he brought oot this book, aye, an’ there it was, plain as day.

‘What was?’ asked Scott.

‘The very boat I’d seen a’ these years before, horse’s heid, prow, the lot.’ Hamish sat back, looking into the darkening sky. ‘He reckoned that they came a lot further north than whoot maist o’ his colleagues thought. He was convinced that they were the horse people that gave Kintyre its name. Aye, there you are.’

‘That’s one for oor Jim,’ said Scott. ‘He’s never got his heid oot o’ a book.’

‘Maybe, no’ so much time on his hands the noo, whoot wae his wee friend tae entertain,’ said Norrie, smiling.

‘Eh?’ replied Scott, confused.

Suddenly Hamish jumped to his feet, sending a shower of pipe tobacco from his pouch onto the deck. ‘I’ve remembered!’

‘Remembered what?’ asked Scott, brushing tobacco from his trousers.

‘Windmills,’ said Hamish. ‘That’s whoot Mr Cudihey was moaning aboot. Windmills. I’ve been trying tae remember since the poor bugger killed himself. Aye, he was a modern-day Don Coyote, right enough; tilting at windmills, he was.’

‘Oh,’ said Scott, bemused. ‘I’m afraid I’m no’ right up tae speed with that investigation. Dae you think oor Jim will want tae know?’

‘Oh, aye, fair demanded I tell him everything I could remember aboot my conversation wae Mr Cudihey, so he did.’

‘Who the fuck is this Don Coyote?’ asked Norrie. ‘I thought a coyote was an American dug.’

‘Ach, I mind fae years ago, back when I was at the school,’ Hamish said, puffing his pipe again. ‘This fella Coyote used tae charge at the windmills a’ day wae his horse an’ a lance. In
the days o’ chivalry, you understand. I canna think where the dug would come intae it, mind.’

They sat in silence for a while, gazing out over the sound. The purple hue had darkened to midnight blue. A tinge of green showed faintly over Arran, as the stars began to shine bright in the velvet sky, reflecting their pinpricks of light on the dark sea.

‘Is the man you’re after no’ called Quixote,’ said Scott, pronouncing the name phonetically.

‘I wouldna think so,’ said Hamish. ‘That’s a wile stupid name.’

He looked at the mobile phone, and was pleased to see that he had a strong signal. He’d had a few conversations with the man he was about to phone over the last few months; all had been brief and he had always been the one to end the call. He always detected fear in the voice at the other end; this, in his experience, was not unusual. Most people panicked when he talked to them.

He dialled the number, making sure that his information would not appear at the other end. He always used pre-paid phones, bought on the black market, changed frequently, and utterly untraceable.

The nervous voice he had become so used to answered.

‘I need information, and I need it tonight,’ he said, before the man on the other end could interrupt.

‘What? Did you not get my message? I can’t do this any more. I demand . . .’

‘You are in no position to demand anything. I know you will be aware how badly things have gone for certain individuals recently. Make sure that you do not join their number. A yacht was sunk off the north coast of Kintyre earlier today. A
naval vessel rescued those aboard. I want you to tell me what happened. Did any members of the crew survive?’

He listened to the brief reply, then ended the call. He stroked his chin and closed his eyes. Gripped by rage, he threw the phone hard against the side of the vessel, smashing it. Why had he been so stupid? The risk now was too great. He had two options: abandon this mission and admit failure; or continue, and finish what he had begun. In his world, reputation meant everything. He had no real choice. He had to remove the problem to be able to finish his mission. The job would be difficult, with the risk of detection high, and so he would have to do it himself.

‘Pavel, steer for our mooring point,’ he called. ‘We have to go back to Kinloch; this time, by road.’

He remembered the dark, intelligent eyes he’d seen through the gun sight, and his mind turned to dark thoughts.

Scott was chillier now, but with his jumper on and whisky in his belly he didn’t mind. Norrie had produced cold bacon rolls which they tucked into heartily, their hunger fuelled by alcohol. As seemed to be the way of these things, the second bottle was going down faster than the first, with only one more round left in it. It helped that young Kenny had been ordered to abstain, as he was now in charge of the vessel. The unsuccessful quest for lobsters now over, they had sailed to the exact point where the lights had been seen, and as DCI Daley had requested, moored and waited.

‘I could get used tae this sailing carry-on,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve never seen a night sky like this in my life.’ Away from the glare of light pollution, everything was clear; the vast sweep of the Milky Way slathered across the sky as billions of distant
suns shed their ancient light on the small boat and its four occupants.

‘Ach, we could sit here until next Christmas and nothing would happen,’ Norrie said, looking about. ‘I knew fine this would be a waste o’ time.’

‘No’ tae worry, eh?’ said Scott. ‘It’ll still be the most lucrative trip you’ve been on for many a long year, by the looks o’ them empty creels. Jim telt me whit compensation you were getting for this wee jaunt.’

‘I suppose you have the right o’ it there. Even so, we’ll wait oot for another half an hour or so, then make for hame. Fuck me, we’ll have damn near run oot o’ whisky by the time we get back,’ replied Norrie, cracking open the last of their ration.

‘Dae you mind that good auld song Andy Stewart used tae sing?’ asked Hamish, a slur obvious in his voice. ‘“Oh, Campbeltown Loch, I wish you were whisky, Oh, Campbeltown Loch, och aye . . .”’

Without even thinking about it, Scott could remember the words to this Scottish classic, so he and Norrie joined in, the youthful Kenny looking on and shaking his head.

‘C’mon, son,’ said Norrie, breaking off his singing. ‘Join in, you fuckin’ misery.’

‘How can I? I’ve never heard that song in my life.’

‘Jeest shows you,’ shouted Hamish, ‘education’s fair gone doonhill, right enough. No’ a clue about Don Coyote an’ his windmills, noo he doesna know the words tae “Campbeltown Loch”. Fine folk, the Campbeltown folk. I’m off the McMillans fae there, myself, you know’.

‘Shut up!’ shouted Kenny, staring over Hamish’s head. ‘There’s they lights again!’

Scott looked to his left at a whirling ball of light that seemed to be hovering over the sea, just off the Isle of Arran.

‘Fuck me!’ shouted Norrie. ‘We’re gonna dae it by the book, this time. Gie me o’er that radio, Kenny. I’m going tae inform the coastguard.’

Scott watched the lights. He had seen nothing like them before; flashing white, occasionally punctuated by sparks of colour, and perhaps the most eerie aspect was the fact that not a sound seemed to come from the object.

‘Noo, wait a minute,’ said Scott, trying but failing to get to his feet. ‘I’ve got a camera here, that Jim gave me. We’ll need tae get this on film.’

‘I’m on it,’ shouted Kenny, who already had his smartphone held out in front of his face. ‘I’m going tae put this up on YouTube. They’re brighter than they were the last time, would you no’ say so, Norrie?’

Norrie, busy trying to send his report to the coastguard, nodded, an uneasy look on his face. ‘I canna raise them, jeest static on the line.’

‘Just don’t you bother wae view tube, or whatever it’s called. Whitever you get on that camera is police property, son,’ warned Scott.

Hamish was motionless, staring at the lights with unblinking intensity, his pipe left to go out in his hand. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘do you no’ learn something new every day?’

In a split second, flashing white changed to pulsing red, and the strange light soared into the sky at unbelievable speed. Kenny struggled to keep the lights on his screen, but, as they stopped again, he managed to locate them.

After hovering for only a few seconds, the ball of light suddenly grew.

‘Look out,’ shouted Norrie, ‘it’s coming right at us!’

As he ducked, Scott heard a rushing noise, followed a heartbeat later by a massive bang that made his ears ring. As quickly as they had appeared, the lights were gone.

The four men looked at each other in silence.

‘Fuck me,’ said Scott eventually. ‘Where did you get that whisky, lads?’

19

Elise Fordham looked out over the sea as the plane soared into the blue sky. Gary Wilson was sitting beside her; two junior aides, including the hapless youth in yet another cheap suit, were behind them. Across the aisle sat a couple of protection officers, who were – rather incongruously, considering they were in the aircraft and out of the sun – both wearing sunglasses.

‘Would you look at Starsky and Hutch, there,’ Wilson whispered to Fordham. ‘Can you ask them to try and look less sinister, Elise?’

‘You guys,’ Fordham said, leaning across Wilson. ‘Lose the shades, eh.’ Looking unmoved by this instruction, the pair complied silently.

‘Arseholes,’ muttered Wilson, under his breath. ‘I take it the local cops know we’re coming?’

‘Oh aye,’ Fordham confirmed. ‘Not that we’ll be in need of any support. It’s not as though we’ll be doing much politically, though no doubt we’ll have to make small talk with some local dignitaries, or the like; lunch with the Chief Superintendent. You know the score, Gary.’

‘Oh, I know the score,’ He shook his head. ‘I dread to think what passes for a dignitary way out here. The village oaf, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Now, now, all valued members of the electorate, and citizens of this fine country of ours.’

‘The former being of greatest concern to you, I would hazard.’

‘You’re very cynical, Gary. Has anyone ever told you that?’

‘Many times. Though mainly those who confuse cynicism with the exigencies of realpolitik.’

A head poked in between the headrests in front of them. ‘Are you no’ that woman fae Edinburgh?’ asked a middle-aged man. ‘I know your face fae that programme on TV with thon baldy guy. Och, whoot’s its name?’

‘
Question Time
?’ asked Fordham brightly, displaying her winning political smile.

‘Nah, let me think.’ The man’s face was now wedged between the seats, forcing in his cheeks and puckering his mouth. ‘Was it no’
MasterChef
, or maybe,
Saturday Kitchen
. Aye, one o’ the two.’

‘Er, no, I’m sorry. I’ve never appeared on either of these programmes,’ said Fordham, doing her best to end the conversation by purposefully looking away from the man and out of the window.

‘Is that a fact? And who might you be?’ the man asked, swivelling his eyes towards Wilson, whose abrupt answer was thankfully drowned out by the plane’s overly loud intercom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you may be interested to know that we are flying over the south of the Isle of Arran where apparently, over the last few nights, lights in the sky have been spotted by a number of local fishermen. So keep your eyes peeled for little green men,’ said the captain, his tinny voice oozing sarcasm. ‘Back on this planet, we’ll be landing at Kinloch in just over twelve minutes. The weather there is as
glorious as it was in Glasgow. Thank you for flying Scotia Airways.’