Dark Suits and Sad Songs (6 page)

Wilson put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. ‘Get out,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Sorry?’

‘Get fucking out!’ roared Wilson, a look of sheer fury on his face. He walked around his desk and caught Dunsmore, who seemed momentarily paralysed, by the collar of his jacket and hauled him out of his chair, ushering him to the door. ‘Don’t go home until I tell you, you stupid bastard.’ Wilson opened his office door and propelled Vincent Dunsmore into the corridor.

‘So how have you been?’ asked Daley. The words sounded as though they were being spoken by someone else; his face felt prickly and there was an ache in the pit of his stomach.

‘Oh, you know.’ Liz’s voice was strained. In the background, he heard another voice hushing the baby.

‘Who’s with you?’

‘Mum’s come over for a while. You know, just to help out. This is a full-time job,’ she said, in a weak attempt at humour.

‘Brian’s coming back to work.’

‘Oh, really? Tell him I wish him well.’

There was silence; not unusual during their recent conversations. Daley looked at the calendar on his wall, casting about for something to say that didn’t sound lame or uninteresting.

‘I decided to agree to the test.’ Her voice was flat, matter of fact.

‘Really, what changed your mind?’ Daley was surprised. Liz had exploded when he suggested that they subject her baby to a DNA test. In his own mind, the detective was convinced that the child was the product of a relationship between his wife and her brother-in-law, Mark Henderson.

There was a pause. ‘I can’t stand this, Jim. I’m sad, lonely – I’m bloody devastated. My whole world’s collapsed and you know it. I love you, for fuck’s sake. We have a child, something you always wanted and you won’t see me, you won’t talk to me. You won’t even hold our baby.’ She started to sob.

‘I’m sorry, Liz. You know how I feel. You hurt me, you fucking destroyed me. Those pictures . . .’ He felt his throat tighten.

‘So he bought me a car. So I kissed him. So what! I didn’t have an affair with him, what more can I say?’

‘You and him have been flirting for years. It’s always made me feel sick, sick to my stomach. Do you know what it’s like to be in a room with you both?’ It was Daley’s turn to shout. ‘It’s as though nothing else in the world matters. You only have time for each other. The touching, the laughter, the banter, the gazing into each other’s eyes, the smiles you can’t keep off your faces. Me – or your sister, for that matter – might as well not exist. It’s all about Liz and Mark. You just fit. You look right together, in a way you and I
never have, never will. Even if you can’t see that, everyone else fucking can!’

‘I know about you and her.’

‘What?’

‘I know about you and your
new friend
. You’re not the only one who made friends in Kinloch, you know.’

‘Oh, so you listen to the tittle-tattle from here now?’ Daley was off his stride. This was something he’d dreaded, but with Liz back in Renfrewshire he’d put it to the back of his mind; distance had made his marital indiscretion seem almost acceptable. Besides, she had been the one who had rejected him first.

‘I’ll give you time to think about it. Not long though. You need to provide a sample of your DNA. If you don’t do this, Jim, that’s it. We’re finished. You can take up with that young girl properly, stop sneaking about. I’ll wait to hear your decision, but I won’t wait long.’ Liz ended the call.

He held the receiver in mid air for a moment or two. Was he more taken aback by the fact that Liz had agreed to the DNA test, or that she knew about his affair? Though he supposed that when it came to expertise in marital indiscretion, she was a master, so probably the former.

Tired, drained and desperate to leave the office, Daley headed out to meet the lifeboat in which Dr Spence was bringing back the body found in the sea not far from a deserted stretch of the Kintyre coastline. Despite his fatigue, his policeman’s intuition, a warning bell that something was not right was ringing in his head.

As luck would have it, when he pulled his car up by the pier, he spotted the distinctive orange-and-blue vessel
re-entering the loch. The light and warmth of the midsummer evening was soothing as he waited. In his head the endless merry-go-round of Liz, the baby, Mary Dunn and Brian Scott turned, each presenting their own problems as they passed. To add to this parade, the charred figure of Walter Cudihey and the stench his burning corpse had left hanging over the town for most of the day, imprinted itself on his brain. And now, here he was awaiting the delivery of yet another problem.

As arranged, the SOCO van drew up beside him just as the lifeboat was being secured alongside the pier. As usual, its arrival had attracted a small knot of curious locals, anxious to discover the reason behind the vessel’s call-out.

‘How you daein, Mr Daley? Whoot’s happenin’?’ asked an old man. ‘Jeest doon tae see whoot’s aboard? Or mebbe you know that already,’ he said, eyeing the SOCO personnel as they donned their white overalls at the side of their van.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Wattie,’ Daley replied. He was in no mood to play pass-the-parcel in the endless round of local gossip; gossip that he was now an integral part of.

‘Aye, jeest as you say. Though it’s no’ much that worries me these days.’ The fisherman winked. ‘Naethin tae dae, and a’ day tae dae it. Mebbes a few too many drams, noo and again. A wee bit like your man, eh?’

‘What man?’

‘Och, your friend Hamish. Taking another go at it this aft ernoon; came oot the Douglas Arms like a steam train at full tilt. Aye, taking both sides o’ the road, would have taken three, no doot, if the option had been available tae him. Steamin’ drunk, aye, fair mortal.’

‘Well, each to his own, Wattie.’

‘Aye, I daresay you have the right o’ it there, Mr Daley.’ He rubbed at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘His faither died o’ the booze, you’ll be mair than aware, I don’t doubt. Two of his uncles, tae. Aye, the whole family are fair steeped in the drink, an’ that’s a fact.’

‘Well, thanks for the information. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.’ He smiled at Wattie, who winked back at him again. He tried not to listen to any of the gossip that passed his way, though, as a policeman, sometimes there was a kernel of truth to be sifted from the detritus. In any event, he was surprised to hear that Hamish was drinking heavily for a second day; strangely disconcerted, in fact. As he waved down to Dr Spence on the prow of the lifeboat, he put this to the back of his mind.

Along with the SOCO team, Daley climbed gingerly aboard the rescue vessel, anxious not to tear the backside of yet another pair of trousers. In his head, he could hear Brian Scott making some ribald comment about his physique. He had actually managed to lose some weight over the last few months, but this had been prompted by stress and the absence of his wife, rather than a diet or fitness regime. These days, when he looked in the mirror he saw a man who seemed to have aged five years in as many months. Despite everything, he was looking forward to seeing Scott again; the man who had been his touchstone for so much of his career. Someone to help bear the burden.

‘Down here, Jim.’ Spence led Daley down steep metal steps into the body of the boat. The cabin had been converted into an emergency room, ready to help save the lives of those who had been pulled from the sea.

A body lay underneath a green rubberised sheet on a metal gurney bolted to the floor.

‘I must say, Jim, I’ve read about this kind of thing. Never thought I’d be unlucky enough to come across a case of it though.’ Spence stood over the corpse. ‘I know you are, well, not the strongest stomached police officer I’ve ever come across. You might want to take a deep breath.’ He removed the green sheet.

Daley saw the body of a man, unusually placed face down on the gurney. Ordinarily, the many cuts and bruises across his legs and back would indicate a beating of some sort, though Daley was aware that all kinds of trauma could be inflicted on a cadaver at sea.

‘You’ll note this,’ Spence continued, pointing to the exposed backside of the corpse. Badly discoloured by the ongoing process of putrification, as well as exposure to salt-water, many contusions adorned the backside. Without warning, Spence leaned over the body and parted the cheeks of the dead man’s buttocks.

Daley could see something pale in colour, covered in blood and gore, but still discernible as foreign to the body.

‘What is that, Richard?’ Daley could already feel the bile in his throat.

‘I’m not sure yet, but my guess would be some kind of fast-acting, strong adhesive – super glue, if you like, probably augmented with some rubber adhesive material inside the rectum.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, no wonder you look surprised, Jim. A favoured method of execution employed by drug cartels of Mexico, Colombia and Russia, I believe. Very nasty. They usually
feed their victim up and insert the plug, oft en giving the victim something to induce diarrhoea. Of course, the bowels can’t void in the normal way, so they burst. Dreadful way to go. The cuts and abrasions to the backside have been caused by his desperate attempts to remove the obstruction, I suspect. Though it might not be what actually killed him. His internal injuries are so severe, he couldn’t have survived long – glue or no glue.’ Spence relayed this information in the detached way Daley was used to hearing from the many clinicians he had come into contact with over the years.

‘Yes, I’ve read about this, too. It’s oft en a punishment for senior gang members who stray, or informers, I believe.’ Daley gulped, doing his best to stave off nausea.

‘Apparently they oft en jump on the victim’s stomach in order to cause greater pain, though it’s impossible to tell if that’s what’s happened in this case. Jim.’

Daley was kneeling now, looking at the dead man’s face, lying side on. ‘I know this man. It’s Rory Newell.’

Daley hurried back up the steep metal steps and into the glorious evening sunshine, and spewed copiously over the side of the lifeboat, much to the interest of the small group of Kinloch residents who were looking on.

As he tried to compose himself, Daley remembered the desperate search for Rory Newell. He had stolen his uncle’s RIB and disappeared during Daley’s first investigation in Kinloch. Daley had suspected that his links with drug dealers had been responsible for his disappearance then, and now he knew.

The thought of the punishment dished out to Rory Newell made him retch again.

‘Aye, canna say I’ve seen that before,’ said Wattie, shaking his head. As he watched the stricken police officer retch again, others in the crowd added to the general murmur of agreement.

8

He pulled the car over in a lay-by about three miles outside Kinloch. His breath was heavy and he could feel beads of sweat making their way down his forehead. His mouth was dry, but with none of the bitter taste of stale alcohol that he had become so used to over the last few months. He inhaled deeply, desperately trying to stave off the panic he felt in his stomach, a feeling that had been steadily growing since the previous evening when his wife had told him that there was no way he was getting a drink; certainly not before the long drive he had in front of him early the next morning.

He tried to compose himself by winding down the car window and taking in the warmth and scents of summer in Kintyre. He reasoned that there were much worse places in the world to start back at work. He took one last gasp of fresh air, wound up the window, turned up the air conditioning, then gunned the accelerator.

Scott sighed as Bob Marley’s classic blared from the car stereo. ‘You got it wrang there, son. It was the deputy that took the bullet, no’ the sheriff,’ he whispered to himself.

For Brian Scott, reality beckoned.

*

Gary Wilson’s lip curled in distaste as he took in the modern art that covered the walls in the office of the Minister for Rural Affairs, Food and the Environment. Forced to have some of the available catalogue of paintings on the wall of his own domain, he had opted for a photographic silhouette of the New York skyline, rather than this ridiculous tumble of swirls, geometric images, clashing colour and confusion.

He wondered why someone like Elise Fordham would tolerate such rubbish. In his opinion, she was one of the party’s rising stars; politically aware, intelligent, tough and unflappable. She was not afraid to stand on toes, politically or literally, a quality no politician could possibly do without if they wanted to scale the ladder to success. To him, she most closely matched the First Minister in terms of political sure-footedness and the ability to crush opponents with incisive wit and withering put-downs, or to use that same quality to deflect criticism when the nonsense came from her own side.

‘Morning, Gary.’ Fordham swept in, a nervous political advisor in tow. ‘Make yourself useful and get me and Gary a drink. Coffee?’ She looked at Wilson with a smile, acknowledging his nod. ‘The usual for me, and no fuckin’ sugar this time!’ The thin young man in the cheap, ill-fitting suit almost bowed his way out of her presence as she closed the door behind him.

Fordham spoke in much the same way she always had. She was from a tough, former mining village in the heart of Lanarkshire, and it showed: no airs, no graces, straight to the point. Despite this formidable exterior, in her mid thirties, with short dark hair, dark eyes and soft features, she was able to use her femininity to great advantage, should she want to. Only an eye as jaundiced as Wilson’s detected the hint of a
double chin on her smooth round face, put there by hard work, long days and a poor, eat-on-the-run diet. Like Wilson, she was a former journalist; from his own paper, in fact. Unlike him, she was a graduate in the politically ubiquitous PPE: politics, philosophy and economics. Despite this, he still liked her and thanked the heavens that this growing crisis came within the remit of her ministry.

‘Right, Gary, down to business. This bastard Cudihey is going to be an embarrassment, right?’

‘Slightly more than that, it would appear,’ he replied, looking up at the ceiling. ‘There has already been an intervention from a third party purporting to be the local plod, but on examination nothing to do with them.’