Dark Suits and Sad Songs (22 page)

‘Oh,’ the librarian said uncertainly. ‘What can that be? I mean, addressed to you. It’s very strange.’

‘Yes. Did she mention anything to you? You know, fears or worries? It seems that you were the one person in here that she spent a lot of time with.’

‘No. I mean, not really. We spoke about her course, and books we had both read, of course. Very little else. I have strict rules to follow when it comes to my relationships with the prisoners. I’m sure you appreciate that.’

Daley noticed a sudden change in her manner. ‘Yes, absolutely. Since this is addressed to me, I hope you don’t mind my removing it. After the sad events of earlier this morning, it’s now evidence in a murder inquiry.’

He left the library and was taken to the office of the deputy governor, where he was seated in an anteroom. Malcolm was busy in a meeting, no doubt focused on the murder of Sarah
MacDougall. He welcomed the opportunity to open the envelope and read its contents.

Dear Mr Daley
,

When my father and I were trying to make our escape, he told me something that he urged I should use if ever things became too much for me to bear, or if I felt threatened in any way; incidentally, I feel both emotions at present. He was also most insistent that I should pass this information to you, and only you, in person if possible. I have been warned off, told to keep quiet, but I don’t intend to. If anything has happened to me, you need only search from where the words come to find the answer. I think it is part of the human condition to want to bare one’s soul, but I think I am about to learn the hard way to be more careful to whom I unburden myself
.

I know that you are a clever man, and I hope that this information may help you restore some balance to our small part of the world; though I fear that the ramifications of what I know go far beyond the shores of Kintyre. I am also aware that – and I know this sounds clichéd, please forgive me – if you are now reading this, then my worst fears have been realised
.

My father made it clear to me that he knew of corruption at a very high level within the police force. Apparently you were sent to Kinloch to clean things up to make way for something else. He told me that powerful people had their tentacles spread throughout our society, to the highest possible levels
.

He only had one name: John Donald. But there’s also someone higher. Another police officer, more senior to Donald, was involved, but he didn’t know the name. He believed that this corruption went far beyond the police force. That is all I know
.

I’m sorry that I didn’t get the chance to tell you this in person. It would appear that my attempt to enter the world of crime, to emulate my father, was doomed from the outset. I console myself with the fact that death is not a part of life, that we do not live to experience it
.

Please help my mother, if you can
.

Trust nobody
.

Sarah

Malcolm’s voice made Daley jump. He hurriedly folded Sarah MacDougall’s note, put it back into the envelope and followed the deputy governor into his office.

‘Stirling CID are interviewing the assailants now, though I don’t believe they’re getting very far. Two lifers with nothing much to lose. I must tell you that both the investigating officers and the governor are most unhappy that you appear to have taken it upon yourself to interview members of our staff, and conduct searches outwith the official investigation.’

‘Shut up,’ said Daley, who remained standing.

‘I beg your pardon.’ Malcolm made to rise from behind his desk.

‘Sit fucking down. I want you to take steps to detain Elaine Wright. I’m just about to arrange for local police officers to arrest her. How carefully do you vet your civilian staff, Mr Malcolm?’

‘Very carefully. In fact, my background is in HR, so I know all there is to know about the processes we use to make sure our staff are of the highest quality. We have strategies in
place to ensure absolute effectiveness; no doubt beyond the comprehension of a non-professional.’

‘You little twat. How long has she been in place? Less time than Sarah MacDougall has been languishing here, I reckon. I’d bet anything that your incomprehensible strategies have led to Sarah MacDougall’s death. Make the call.’ Daley watched as Malcolm picked up the phone and instructed his security staff to detain the prison librarian.

‘Now, I must insist that you leave.’ Malcolm stood to his full, average height.

Daley looked down at him and smirked. ‘Human resources, I might have known. We’ve got people like you, too.’

‘Hard-working professionals, without whom no organisation could operate?’ replied Malcolm sarcastically.

‘No. Self-important arseholes, with no function other than to make work for themselves and for others who have proper jobs.’ He turned to leave, then spotted a crash helmet sitting on a filing cabinet. ‘Are you a biker, Mr Malcolm?’

‘Yes, and why is that of any consequence?’

‘You just don’t look the type.’ Daley smiled and left the man muttering under his breath.

28

‘There you are. Of course, you would need tae be oot at sea tae get the full effect, but if that’s no’ the backgroon tae the pictures, then I’m a Quaker,’ said Hamish, as the three men stood on the white sand looking up at the hill beyond the beach. The surf broke lazily on the shore while, high above, ravens twisted in the clear blue sky.

Scott wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, as was Rainsford’s; even he looked uncomfortable in the heat, made fiercer as it reflected off the powdery white sand. Now and then, Scott could feel the hint of a breeze at his hot neck. He wondered where the nearest pub was, a pint of cold lager was just what he needed. Well, perhaps a couple.

‘What’s over there?’ asked Rainsford, pointing to a small compound, contained within which was a steel hut, like a domestic garage; it looked out of place in these surroundings. Razor wire topped the fence, which looked new and well maintained.

‘Whatever it is, naebody’s supposed to get in, that’s for sure,’ said Scott.

They walked over to the fence, Hamish’s tobacco mingling with the earthy scent of plants and the salty tang of the
ocean. ‘It’ll be the electric folk,’ he said. ‘I mind they put a contraption like this at the end of oor street when I was jeest a boy. Electricity was brand new in Kinloch in those days, aye, an’ naebody trusted it, I can tell you. Poor auld Mrs McSorley had a terrible death.’ He shook his head at the memory.

‘Was she electrocuted?’ asked Rainsford.

‘Aye, she was that, son. Cooked like a roasted hen, no’ one bit o’ her no’ charred an’ burnt. You could smell it doon the length o’ the fields. I mind my mother puttin’ the Sunday roast on the table, the week after. No’ one o’ us could take a bite, an’ that’s a fact.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Scott, as they approached the high fence, looking for anything to identify the compound’s purpose. ‘Faulty wiring, nae doubt. I’ve had a couple o’ close ones when the wife forced me tae dae some DIY. Fucking cut the whole street off for near ten hours. She never asked me tae dae anything like it again, mind you. Every cloud.’ He winked at Rainsford.

‘Och no, it was sheer stupidity on her part, the auld soul,’ said Hamish. ‘As I say, the mysteries o’ electricity were as unknown tae us in they days as the dark side o’ the moon. The poor bugger was in a tin bath in the front room. The water was getting’ cauld – it was near Christmas, if I recall. She thought tae boil a kettle, you know, tae warm her bath up a wee bit. She wiz a canny auld bird though, she spotted the wee two-bar fire she had blazing away, an’ reached oot and pulled it intae the bath wae her – tae heat up the water, you understand. The Monk heard a great calamity fae upstairs – he was in the flat below – so he went running up. Och, whoot a sight; her lying roasted, wearing only whoot God gied her
tae. I don’t know whoot he thought was worse.’ Hamish grimaced.

‘Fuck me,’ said Scott, horrified by the mental picture Hamish had conjured up for him. ‘What a tale. You said she was discovered by a monk?’

‘No, no.
The
Monk; his nickname. No’ many folk in the toon without some kinda nickname or other. They called him that cos o’ the big bald spot on the back o’ his heid; been there since he was a boy. Mind you, there was nothing monkish aboot his behaviour, if you know whoot I mean.’ He winked.

‘Meaning?’ Scott asked.

‘Well, now you see, it wiz lucky poor auld Mrs McSorley wisna breathing, that’s a’ I’ll say aboot it.’

‘I thought she was an auld woman,’ said Scott, mystified.

‘Aye, so she wiz, but that wiz nae barrier tae the Monk. Shag a barber’s—’

‘You two, shut up and come over here!’ shouted Rainsford. Uninterested in Hamish’s tale of tragedy, he had made his way further along the fence. When Hamish and Scott caught up with him, he pointed to a small white plaque, attached to a gate with double padlocks.

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF DEFENCE: KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

‘Not what we expected,’ said Rainsford.

‘No, certainly no’,’ Scott observed. ‘What the fuck is it?’

‘Strange that Lang would have her photo taken with this in the background,’ said Rainsford, pointing to a blur in the photographs, visible just behind the girl in every shot.

‘Ach, maybe just a coincidence. We’ll need tae find oot
what this is all aboot though, just in case,’ said Scott, peering through the fence at the metal building.

‘Look up there.’ Hamish pointed across the heather with his pipe to where an old-fashioned blue caravan sat under a knoll, about half a mile from where they were standing. ‘How dae we no’ jeest take a wander o’er there? You would think that whoever’s in there will know aboot this place.’

‘For a fisherman, Hamish, you make a fine policeman,’ said Scott. ‘Come on an’ we’ll gie this a look. It doesnae look tae me like that caravan’s a tourer. In fact, how did it get here?’

They made their way across the heather, to the flurry of wings and anxious squawks of birds nesting nearby.

‘I hope it’s not boggy,’ remarked Rainsford. ‘These shoes cost me a bloody fortune.’

‘You should buy them fae Asda, like me,’ said Scott.

Daley had a heavy heart as he drove down the road, Stirling Castle behind him. Thoughts of John Donald reverberated in his head; at worst, his superior was involved with organised crime, taking backhanders in return for information, or maybe getting members of the underworld out of a tight spot with the police. Judging by Sarah MacDougall’s note, the situation was more serious and widespread than he would have thought possible; corrupt senior policemen – perhaps even very senior policemen – and beyond. She had said that this cancer, whatever it was, reached the very highest level. Did this mean something bigger than the police?

Now, armed with this information, who could he trust to tell about it? Nobody knew the contents of Sarah’s letter but
him. He had left the prison before any of the investigating officers could ask any awkward questions. No doubt these questions would arise, but by then, he would have had time to think.

Daley had always deplored corruption. When he was a young cop it had been normal for some of the more senior men to overlook the flaunting of licensing laws by certain publicans, in return for free booze or fags, though that was the very tip of the iceberg. Vital pieces of evidence went missing; cases were found as ‘not proven’ in court, based on technicalities; suspicious mistakes were made by police officers who should, and did, know better.

He hated the feeling of isolation, of not knowing to whom he could turn. It made him feel angry and stressed, but much worse, it made him feel scared.

He looked at his watch. If he drove straight back to Kinloch, he could be there in around three hours, where he could make a start on deciding just how he was going to use the new information.

Then he thought of Liz.

He’d promised to visit her. They had a lot to discuss; so many things had gone wrong with their marriage that it would be hard to know where to start. He was angry about the affair he suspected she’d had with her brother-in-law. Though he’d had an affair, too – was still, maybe, and perhaps wouldn’t stop having one. He was fond of Dunn, very fond, but did he love her with the heart-aching passion he had for his wife? Did that even exist any more? Yet he couldn’t bear the idea of his marriage being over; the thought made his head spin.

He had to see her. He saw a sign for Glasgow, and his heart
started to pound. He was going to see Liz, and the baby. He was going home.

Scott peered through the dirty windows of the caravan, shading his eyes from the glare of the bright sun with both hands and trying to see inside. Filthy net curtains made this an impossible task, though with Rainsford banging on the door, it was pretty certain that nobody was at home.

‘Try the door,’ said Scott, having given up on looking through the windows.

‘Should we? I mean we’re on shaky ground, no warrant et cetera,’ Rainsford replied.

‘Fuck me, son, can you no’ hear the cries for help?’

Hamish smiled at this example of pragmatic policing at work, as Scott tried the handle of the door, with no success.

‘Have you got a penknife, Hamish?’

‘Aye, noo hold on. I’ve got a wee selection o’ tools here.’ Hamish delved into the bib pocket of his dungarees. The first item he produced was a rusty-looking bodkin, which he handed to Scott.

‘Is this for darning your socks? You must know somebody with fuckin’ big feet.’

‘You’re not going to pick the lock, are you?’ asked Rainsford.

‘Nah. I’m going tae peel an apple.’

Hamish’s rummage turned up a packet of fisherman’s lozenges, a Jew’s harp, pipe tobacco and a pair of ancient spectacles before he produced a Swiss Army knife, which looked remarkably well maintained.