Dark Suits and Sad Songs (17 page)

‘So you think he’s at it,’ said Scott. ‘What aboot the car you found on the beach?’

‘Registered to a guy in Motherwell who died three months ago, Brian. Clean enough not to attract any suspicion,
initially anyway. I’ve got the forensics boys onto it, though I doubt they’ll find anything.’

‘Why not? Have some faith, Jim. Fuck knows, half the time that’s a’ we’ve got tae hold ontae.’

‘No, Brian, that kind of faith’s not enough here. These murders . . . they’re professional. I bet any money that car’s as clean as a whistle.’ Daley sat back in his chair and raised his eyes to the heavens. He knew that, yet again, Alice Taylor had been lucky to escape with her life. The real question was, why had she been placed in such danger? Donald couldn’t have known of his suspicions about the men that had sunk the Taylors’ yacht, that one of them might be one of Europe’s most dangerous criminals; nor could he have known that it was almost certain their dinghy had been sunk by a sniper’s bullet. Or could he?

‘Why did that bastard move the Taylors, Brian? He looked like death earlier. Why go to all the trouble of finding a cottage for them?’

‘That’s a hard one, Jim. What does this Taylor guy do? He’s big time, isn’t he? Pound tae a penny, the gaffer will have done his best tae put oot the red carpet. It might not be what you think.’

‘No,’ replied Daley, staring into space, deep in thought. ‘He owns some kind of engineering company, I think.’

‘There you are then. QED. Donald gets one whiff that this guy Taylor’s worth a few bob, an’ reckons he’ll add tae his long list o’ impressed acquaintances by puttin’ him an’ his family up in a nice wee cottage at the taxpayers’ expense, while he kicks his heels waiting for us an’ the marine accident boys tae dae our stuff. You must admit, that’s no’ exactly oot o’ character.’

‘You’re right. Even if there is something in this, all he has to say is that his concern was for the wellbeing of the family after their ordeal. Fuck!’

‘You know yoursel’, big man, you need tae be up damn early in the morning tae catch that bastard.’

After a sharp knock at the door, Layton appeared. ‘DCI Daley, you wanted me?’

‘Yes. I need to talk to you, urgently. Brian, could you give us a few moments?’

‘Would it be in order to talk with you in Superintendent Donald’s office?’ Layton asked. ‘I too have something I’d like to draw your attention to. Much easier in there.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll be with you in a few minutes. No sign of Superintendent Donald, I take it?’

‘No, still in his sickbed, I suspect,’ said Layton, closing the door carefully behind him as he left Daley’s office.

‘I’m missing something here, Jim. What’s happening?’ asked Scott.

‘Listen, Brian, I can’t tell you everything – well, not now, at least. You’ll have to trust me on this for the time being.’

‘Whatever you say, big man.’ Scott stared blankly at the desk in front of him.

Daley knew that his friend’s nose was now out of joint. In normal circumstances the pair had no secrets, personally or professionally; it was the way they had always done things. But Scott had been absent for a long time, and Daley knew how fragile he still was. Not to mention his drinking which, looking at his colleague’s bloodshot eyes across the desk, was still a problem.

‘Oh, aye, another thing tae add tae your woes,’ said Scott, attempting a conversational tone without much success. ‘I
had Cornton Vale on the blower a wee while ago. Sarah MacDougall wants tae see you, in person. That’s all they would say.’

‘Really? Wonder what that’s about.’

‘No’ for a wee catch-up, I wouldnae think.’

‘Brian.’ Daley leaned across his desk. ‘Listen, I need you back, but I need you straight. You know what I mean.’ He looked the detective sergeant directly in the eye. ‘The drink, you’re going to have to knock it on the head.’

‘I know. I know fine, Jim,’ said Scott. ‘It’s been hard, you know. I mean, being shot, it just kinda knocks the stuffing out o’ you. Aye, literally.’ He managed a weak smile.

‘Give me a while. Honestly, I’ll tell you everything,’ said Daley, getting up from his chair. ‘If I have to go and see Sarah MacDougall tomorrow, it’ll take up most of the bloody day. I’ll need you to cover for me. Properly, you understand?’

‘I will, Jim. You know I won’t let you down, big man.’

‘Good. I’m afraid that your light duties are about to become heavy ones.’

‘Fuck, have they ever been any other way? Oh, see when you come back fae Layton, I need tae talk tae you.’

‘What about, Brian?’

‘Lights in the sky, Jim. Lights in the sky.’

23

Superintendent Donnie McClusky flung the car door open and rushed up the spiral staircase to the third floor, followed by three colleagues. They were in luck; the door to the flat was still intact. He looked on as the well-built constable used the steel ram to batter down the door, then burst through, into a neat hallway with a red carpet and plain white walls, adorned here and there by trendy posters and small prints. McClusky was relieved; it looked as though nothing had been disturbed. They were the first on the scene.

The flat was comprised of one bedroom, a small kitchenette with a round table, shower room with toilet and sink, and a lounge. One large sofa and an easy chair sat at right angles to each other facing a large television. Everything was neat and tidy, there was no clutter and the whole apartment smelled fresh, the scent emanating from plug-in air fresheners in the hall and bedroom.

‘Right, I’ll take the bedroom, Constable Stewart, the lounge. I want one of you on the door while the other checks the kitchen, cupboards and bathroom. Anything that resembles an electronic device with a memory has to be removed. And any documents, photographs, scribbles, any bloody thing. Time is of the essence, so get going!’

McClusky had searched many properties in his thirty years in the police force; he’d looked for people, stolen goods, firearms, drugs – just about any conceivable thing. This case was different, though. Wilson’s call had been unspecific. All he knew was that they were looking for evidence either written or stored electronically. His job was to remove it.

At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything in the tidy bedroom. A small double bed was covered with a brightly patterned quilt and pillow set. On one side of the brass headboard hung a trilby hat with a feather in it; on the wall above hung a framed photograph of a pretty young woman with long blonde hair, standing on a beach in front of a stunningly blue sea. She was wearing a yellow bikini, which highlighted her tanned skin. The woman was Kirsteen Lang. He felt a pang of regret that such a young, vibrant and beautiful woman had lost her life. He forced this thought to the back of his mind, where it took up residence with the ghosts of so many others. He looked behind the picture, then dismantled the frame, which contained nothing apart from the photograph itself.

Next, he walked over to the wardrobe. The rail bowed in the middle with the weight of the clothes that hung there. Dresses, coats, jackets, jumpers and shirts were crammed in, dangling from hangers of various descriptions. He decided to leave the job of searching pockets and collars to one of his junior colleagues. In any case, he reckoned that a search of Miss Lang’s clothing would elicit little of interest. He rifled through a chest of drawers, finding underwear, T-shirts, jumpers, socks, hankies – nothing out of the ordinary. The drawers were lined with paper which he lifted, but there was nothing to be found underneath.

All that was left in the room was a bedside cabinet, short and square, with a cupboard and one narrow drawer. In the cupboard he found a box of photos, an old diary and a jewellery box, which contained an array of bangles, rings, necklaces and earrings in gold and silver. He was just about to open the drawer when his foot caught on something on the floor. Underneath the bed, just poking out, was the edge of a laptop. He smiled. Not a very inspired hiding place, if hidden it was. He threw it on the bed, and turned his attention to the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

Inside was an assortment of things: a watch, the time stuck at five past ten, some pens, an erotic paperback novel, a tube of lubrication jelly and a vibrator. He took everything out and felt around the inside of the drawer but, finding nothing, replaced the items. When he tried to shut the drawer, it jammed, so he rearranged everything and tried again, but the drawer refused to close properly. He removed it again. Then two things happened at once: his eye alighted on a dark object that had been hidden right at the back of the drawer, and he became aware of raised voices outside the room and the sounds of a scuffle. Instinctively, he lifted the black smartphone from its hiding place and slid it into his trouser pocket just as the door opened and three men in dark suits forced their way into the small bedroom.

‘Put everything back where you left it, please, sir,’ ordered a middle-aged man with swept-back grey hair, a goatee beard and an English accent.

‘Indeed I will not,’ replied the superintendent. ‘I’m here on parliamentary, as well as Police Scotland, business. Just who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘I’m from MI5, the other officers here are from SIS. We
have taken possession of this locus, as is our right on the basis of national security. I want your men to replace everything they have moved in the property and leave, as quickly as possible.’ McClusky was about to reply decisively in the negative when a familiar head popped around the bedroom door.

‘Please comply with these gentlemen, Donnie. Whatever’s been moved or bagged, put it back where it was.’ As quickly as he had appeared, the new Chief Constable of Police Scotland disappeared out of the door. McClusky, not taking his eyes from the dark-suited man with the goatee, straightened up and dropped the drawer on the bedroom floor.

‘Oops. I’m afraid I haven’t got any time for spooks,’ he said.

‘I don’t give a fuck, mate,’ replied the MI5 officer. ‘I’m not going to be picking it up.’

As McClusky left the flat with his police colleagues, he put his hand in his pocket and felt the smartphone. He had something to show Wilson; he just hoped it would be of some use.

‘Well, what happened?’ Wilson demanded, when McClusky called him later.

‘Not good, Gary. About ten minutes after we got there our friends from the south arrived with Lamont. My hands were tied. They took the lot.’ He paused, waiting for Wilson to answer, but nothing came. ‘I have got one piece of good news, though.’

‘Good news? What the fuck’s that.’ Wilson had been trying desperately to work out what was going on. The
original interview of Kirsteen Lang by the bogus detective bore all the hallmarks of secret service involvement, but what were they after?

‘I managed to smuggle a smartphone out of the room. One of our IT guys had a look at it.’

‘And? For fuck’s sake, Donnie, this is not the midnight fucking movie, tell me what the fuck is going on!’

‘Och, the usual stuff, selfies, emails, social media, all of which we’re going through. One thing stood out, though. An email from Cudihey.’

‘Yes, and what?’

‘I’m sending it to your phone, have a look for yourself.’ A second later, Wilson’s phone chirruped to tell him he’d received an email.

From: Walter Cudihey

To: K G Lang

Subject: NKV Dynamics 6628232373

Wilson read the message three times. He recognised the name, but the number was a mystery.

‘So what do you think, Donnie?’

‘The name belongs to a company registered in Luxembourg who manufacture wave energy appliances. As for the number, well, it could be an invoice, or an international phone number. We’re still digging.’

‘Good work. At least we have something to connect this to. Could just be work-related, though. You’ll need to dig further with this. I’ve been delayed in this fucking tip overnight,’ said Wilson ruefully.

‘Why so?’

‘Don’t fucking ask. I’ll give you one piece of advice – never get involved with parliament, or worse still, politicians.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said McClusky. ‘We’ll have to be quick, though. Whatever we have, likely the spooks have it too. They’ve got her laptop and tablet, as well as all her personal papers. It won’t take them long to sift through everything.’

‘I don’t care what you have to do, or how you have to do it, work this problem for me, Donnie, and I’ll make sure you’ll get your reward.’ Wilson knew where he’d heard about NKV Dynamics recently; it had been at a party fundraiser in a posh Glasgow hotel. The speaker had been impressive, well-briefed, entertaining and moved amongst the corporate hosts with a confidence that he greatly admired. That speaker’s name was Elise Fordham.

Daley was in Scott’s room at the County Hotel. Despite being clean and tidy – obviously attended to by the hotel staff – the place stank of stale booze. He was staring at the television while Scott busied himself in the bathroom, from which issued a tuneless whistle punctuated by splashing and expletives.

Everything was impenetrable; nothing seemed to tie up. If the man on the boat that had sunk the Taylor family was who Interpol thought him to be, there could be no doubt that he faced one of the greatest challenges of his career. Certainly, the level of sadistic violence displayed in the two murders he was investigating was absolutely consistent with the kind of horror this man was famous for, but why here, why Kinloch? What on earth would bring one of Europe’s most wanted men to this little town?

The warm breeze through the open window made the
stained net curtains billow into the room. He could hear the patter of smokers, customers from Annie’s bar, standing at the hotel’s front entrance, momentarily expelled from the enjoyment of one habit in pursuit of another.

Tomorrow he would make the long drive out of Kinloch to visit Sarah MacDougall in prison. He wondered how the young woman was coping with life behind bars. Ironically, she had found herself incarcerated only a few miles from the upmarket private school where she had been educated. She had lost her brothers and father in tragic circumstances, while her mother was now being cared for in a nursing home, her mind ruined by vascular dementia. Only the most resolute of individuals would be able to cope with such hardship. He hoped Sarah was one of them.