Dark Suits and Sad Songs (8 page)

‘Aye, you’re on the right track there, Norrie,’ agreed one of the tall young men.

‘In whoot only could’ve been seconds, this ball o’ colour, whootever it was, jeest shot intae the air an’ came right at us. Came clear o’er the top o’ us, maybe two or three hundred feet above the boat. Aye, no’ a whisper, nothing, quiet as a moose.’

‘Have yous been on that Navy Rum again?’ someone called from the crowd.

‘I’ll jeest ignore that,’ Norrie said, with a glower in the general direction of the insult.

‘There was a hoor o’ a racket no’ long aft er, Norrie,’ said Kenny.

‘Aye, you’re right, son. A kinda rushing noise, like the wind, Mr Daley. An’ then, jeest a wee while later, this massive explosion.’

There was silence for a heartbeat, then, as though on cue, the voices raised into a rabble once more.

‘OK!’ Daley shouted, raising his arms. ‘I take it you’re all here to report similar experiences?’ This was greeted with shouts of agreement. ‘Right, in that case, I want each one of you to make a written statement. Sergeant Shaw here will take you one by one into an interview room. We have to do this in an ordered way, so please try to be patient. Norrie, you first.’

‘Aye, thanks, Mr Daley. I wisna sure whoot the polis would think o’ this. I’m glad it wisna jeest us that saw the bloody thing.’

‘No,’ Daley said, searching the worried faces. ‘I can tell you’ve all seen something, whatever it was.’

‘Aye, you have the right o’ it, Mr Daley,’ said Norrie, as he was being shown into an interview room by Shaw. ‘You’ll be wantin’ tae see Kenny’s video, tae, I’ve nae doubt.’

‘Video?’

‘Aye, he filmed maist o’ it on his phone, did you no’, Kenny?’

‘Aye, Mr Daley. I’ve got it a’ here.’ Kenny held his smartphone up for Daley to see.

‘Dae you no’ think you should be giein’ Mr Daley a call?’ Annie asked, looking at Scott with concern. He had polished off nearly a bottle of whisky and she noted that most of the plate of food she had placed in front of him had been left untouched.

‘Ach, it’ll be fine, Annie. You’re a dreadful woman for worrying,’ Scott slurred. ‘When you’ve known big Jimmy for a’ the years I have, well, you have a mutual respect, regardless o’ what pips are on whose shoulder, if you know what I mean. And if you don’t mind me sayin’, Annie, my dear, I’ve always thought you were a fine-lookin’ woman.’

‘Ach, away wae you, you auld charmer. I’ll get you a cup o’ black coffee, an’ we’ll phone the police office, how’s that?’

‘Black coffee, fuck all. I’ll have another quick dram; one for the ditch, you understand. Noo, where the fuck are they fuckin’ keys?’ Scott stood unsteadily, searching his pockets.

‘You’ll likely have lost them,’ Annie replied, patting the pocket of her jeans to make sure Scott’s car keys were still there. ‘I’ll need tae get another bottle. Jeest you wait there till I get back, I’ll no’ be long.’ She pushed through the door behind the bar and into the small office behind the reception desk. On the wall hung a list of names and numbers which Annie ran her finger down until she found the number for Kinloch Police Office.

Brian Scott didn’t notice his old friend and colleague when he entered the bar, engaged as he was in a heated debate with another customer about football.

‘It wouldnae matter what team it was, it’s still a disaster for the whole country.’

Daley noticed that his speech was slurred and his eyes were half shut in his red face. ‘Brian, can I have a word?’

‘What?’ Scott turned around so quickly on the high bar stool that he nearly took a tumble. His annoyed expression was soon replaced by a wide grin as he recognised Daley. ‘Big man, it’s yoursel’, come on in an’ I’ll get you a dram.’

‘It’s OK. Come with me.’

‘Aye, whit is it, big fella? No’ another pair o’ trousers away, I hope.’ Scott laughed uproariously at the thought.

‘Come on.’ Daley heaved his DS off the barstool by the scruff of the neck and marched him towards the hotel’s vestibule which was mercifully quiet.

‘Is there a fuckin’ fire or whit?’

‘Right, Brian, listen to me.’ Daley’s expression was dark. ‘I know you’ve been through the mill in the last few months; nobody needs to tell me that. But I haven’t seen you sober in, well, since I can’t remember when. Every time I come to your house, no matter what the time of day, you’ve been on the piss. In your own time, that’s up to you, though after what your body’s been through, I’d have thought you would want to give it time to recover. Anyway,’ Daley talked over Scott’s protests. ‘
Anyway
, that’s none of my business. What is my business is when one of my officers, no matter who they are, turns up for duty in the state you’re in. What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

‘Ach, it’s being back – comin’ doon that road. You know yoursel’, a bloody nightmare. An’ me feeling like this,’ he rubbed at his stomach, ‘well, it’s enough tae send anybody ontae the bevy, is it no’?’

‘Right. This is where it starts and ends, Brian, have you got me? At least Annie had the good sense to give me a call and tell me what state you were in. When would you have stopped? When you fell over?’

‘Nah, nah, Jim, come on, man. A few drams tae take the edge off. It’s no’ easy for me being back doon here again, no’ after what happened. Even you must realise that.’

‘I know what it’s like, trust me. But you have to get back into it, OK?’ Daley’s tone was less harsh now. ‘Get back in the saddle, you got it?’

‘Aye.’ Scott shuffled from foot to foot, both hands in his pocket, looking at the floor like a naughty child. ‘C’mon, then. Gie me a lift up tae the office and we’ll get intae it, big man.’

‘Office? Bugger off! If I let you anywhere near a police office now, I’d get my jotters, quicker than you’d get yours, and rightly so. Get yourself up the stairs and into your bed. Watch TV, read a book, listen to the radio, anything, just don’t come back down here. I’ll see you up at the station at nine tomorrow morning. Sober. Got it?’ Daley grabbed Scott by the lapels and looked straight into his face. He could see Annie lurking behind the reception desk, pretending not to hear. ‘Will you make sure this bloody reprobate has nothing more to drink, Annie?’

‘Aye, yes, nae bother, Mr Daley. I’m . . . I apologise for lettin’ him get intae such a state. Och, it was so nice tae see him back in one piece. I should have thought aboot it mair.’

‘Don’t blame yourself, Annie. This here,’ he nodded to Scott, ‘is big enough and ugly enough to know better. Send him some dinner up to his room, please, and as much coffee as he can drink.’

‘Judas,’ Scott muttered under his breath, squinting at the hotel’s proprietor.

‘Enough! Get up those stairs!’ Daley shouted. He waited until he had seen Scott, somewhat unsteadily, ascend the staircase and head off to his room, accompanied by the sounds of the Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’ spilling from the bar’s jukebox.

In the inside pocket of his jacket, he felt his phone vibrate.

‘Daley.’ He listened intently for a few moments. ‘I’ll be there in two minutes. Watch him, please,’ he nodded to Annie, who smiled back, sheepishly.

11

Gary Wilson watched the CCTV footage again, this time with Superintendent McClusky, from the Edinburgh division. Having spent more than thirty years working in the city, there weren’t many cops he didn’t recognise, especially since, up until the formation of Police Scotland, he’d been in charge of recruitment for the old Lothian and Borders force.

‘Well, do you know him, Donnie?’ Wilson asked testily.

‘No. I’ve never seen him in my life. He’s definitely not one of ours, that’s for sure. What about the press? An undercover job, perhaps?’

‘No. Nobody will hold their hands up to it, and trust me, I’ve exerted all the pressure I can. Legally, that is. You’ve got contacts with our friends in dark places, though; can you do me a favour?’

‘Spooks? No way. Since the Edinburgh Agreement, everything’s closed down. The London-based intelligence agencies are, no matter what they say, in de facto hush mode. All friendly contact has disappeared.’

‘But it could be one of them, yes?’

‘Oh aye. When it comes to them, anything could be anything. But why?’

‘Cudihey.’ Wilson almost spat the name out. ‘There’s something about him I’ve missed. He wasn’t just some slap-headed yes man, counting down the days before he could retire to Skye, or some other shithole. There was more to him.’

‘There is another possibility, of course,’ McClusky said thoughtfully.

‘Which is?’

‘This Cudihey torched himself in Kintyre, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, as you can imagine, Gary, the amalgamation of our separate little bands hasn’t gone quite as smoothly as our well-spun PR would have you believe. Glasgow still consider themselves to be the centre of the universe, the arrogant bastards. I wouldn’t put it past them to have stuck one of their own men on the job, despite the new protocols.’

‘Well, check it out for me, will you? I need to know who and what I’m dealing with here. This is starting to make even the First Minister’s Office a bit jumpy. They haven’t told her in person yet, but they’ll have to soon. It’s a sensitive time for us all.’

‘I’ll do what I can, Gary.’

‘I would be most grateful. Some nice security consultancy contracts in the offing,’ Wilson smiled, ‘ideal for a newly retired senior officer.’

‘Message received and understood.’ McClusky nodded and stood up, replacing his braided cap on his head.

Once he’d gone, Wilson took a battered diary from his desk, thumbed through the pages, then picked up his phone.

After a pause, he said, ‘Well, how the devil are you, John? Or should I say Chief Superintendent Donald.’

*

As Daley entered the hallway of the flat, his first thought was how different the dwelling’s interior was compared to the dingy, rundown close and staircase that he had just walked through. Though lacking any personal touches, such as paintings or photographs, the flat was well decorated; the carpets thick and clean, the walls freshly painted.

He was still angry at DS Scott, though he was intrigued by the call from DS Rainsford who’d been vague. Daley wondered why.

As he walked into the lounge, the answer was obvious. There, amidst a small knot of police officers, lay the body of a young man. He was covered in blood, his eyes frozen wide in horror. It took Daley a few heartbeats to realise what was different about this murder victim, what was making the bile in his throat rise even more than normal. The victim’s tongue was protruding, not from his mouth, but from a livid slash in his neck, through which it had been pulled.

‘An Italian necktie, sir.’ Rainsford’s voice sounded loud in the quiet horror of the flat. ‘Florentine mafia, or Colombian, modus operandi, I believe. This isn’t just a murder, it’s a punishment. And a warning, sir.’

Not for the first time in his career, Daley had to remove himself from the scene. Standing on the filthy landing, he took deep breaths and added another grim image to the nightmare gallery of violent death he had accumulated over the years.

‘Fucking Kinloch.’ Chief Superintendent John Donald swore under his breath as he looked out from his top-floor office in his new domain, the headquarters of the Argyll and West Dunbartonshire Division of Police Scotland. He took in the
busy road that ran in front of the large building, and the rooft ops of the town of Dumbarton beyond. This was his own fiefdom now; in effect, he was more like the autonomous chief constable of a small force, rather than a divisional commander, under the old regime. This was all he had ever wanted, all he had worked for over the last twenty-eight years. But he had never been so miserable. Everything, he realised, came at a price; he had the job, the power, the kudos, and now it was time for that price to be paid.

He looked again at the piece of paper in his hands. The spectacular suicide of a civil servant, and what could only be termed as the executions of two others, all in and around Kinloch. His nightmares were now manifesting themselves in cold-blooded reality. To make matters worse, the murky beasts of politics had their noses in the trough, and none other than Gary Wilson – surely the darkest purveyor of the dark arts – was leading their line. There were few individuals who genuinely frightened John Donald; Gary Wilson was very near the head of the queue, alongside one or two people Donald didn’t want to think about, especially not now.

There was a quiet tap at the door. ‘Come in,’ he shouted.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir.’ A tall, thin man in the uniform of an inspector entered the room. His grey hair matched his face, which was lined and careworn; he looked like a man in his mid-sixties, rather than the forty-something-year-old he was.

‘Yes, what now, Layton? World War Three broken out on Kinloch’s seafront, no doubt.’

‘No, sir. I have a request for information, sir.’

‘From who?’

‘Narcotics and Organised Crime, at the Met, sir.’

‘Oh fuck. Give me it.’

‘Here, sir.’ Layton handed Donald a red file.

Donald read the document, Layton standing at his side and looking straight ahead. ‘Book me on the early flight to Kinloch in the morning, Layton. Also, make sure one of these bastards picks me up at the airport and books accommodation. Make the arrangements with Daley directly, he knows my preferences.’ Donald dismissed his underling, who left as quietly as he had entered.

He sat behind his desk, put his head in his hands, and let out a long sigh. ‘Fucking Kinloch.’

12

He had always considered boats the best way to move about; so anonymous, not observed by CCTV cameras, or nosey cops, or even many members of the public. The boat was nice, not ostentatious, but just big enough for him and his companion to be relatively comfortable as they went about their business. They would change boats in a while, as they had their previous craft.

He looked up at the thickset frame of his friend, Pavel, standing behind the wheel. Layers of solid flesh bulged where the back of his neck should have been. He was wearing a thick jumper against the chill of a misty morning, under which the broad knots of his arms were still obvious. His frame was squat, almost square. Two years in an FSB cell in Moscow had robbed him of both his empathy and his voice; the only sound he made now was laughter, the volume of which indicated his mood.