The Last Witness (13 page)

‘That boy got the fright of his life, eh?’ Daley said, referring to the young lad who had been waylaid by the Support Unit at gunpoint on the hill, just over an hour before.

Aye,’ Scott chortled. ‘No’ the kind of assignation he was expecting. Mind you, that Sarah’s a bonnie lassie, an’ no mistake.’ He inclined his head in a way that said, If I were only twenty years younger.

‘And before you say it, you’d still be too old.’ Daley laughed. Anyhow, something’s telling me that young Miss MacDougall has her sights set rather higher than a detective sergeant with a glad eye and a fondness for strong liquor.’

‘I can hardly believe she’s related tae Frank and Betty. She’s nothin’ like them, or her granny, come to that,’ Scott said, now sitting up straight, with his feet on the floor, as though the shock of MacDougall’s well-spoken, cultured offspring was too much to get his head around.

‘Popular with the young men from Tarbert too,’ Daley said, referring to the fact that the young intruder had been on his way to meet Sarah MacDougall.

‘Did ye see her faither’s face when she said that there wiz nothin’ in it, an’ she just fancied a shag? I thought Frankie wiz goin’ tae blow up an’ never come back doon.’

‘Well,’ replied Daley, ‘there’s nothing like a night in the cells to cool your ardour.’

‘Of that there can be no doubt, James,’ Scott said, scratching his head and yawning. He was about to say something more, when Daley’s internal phone rang.

‘Hello, sir.’ Daley made a face at Scott to indicate that Donald was on the line.

‘I hear you’ve had some fun this evening. Who was this clown?’ Donald’s voice was loud enough for Scott to overhear.

‘A local boy, sir. He comes from Tarbert, the village just up the road. Lovesick for MacDougall’s daughter, by all accounts.’

‘I want you to keep him in custody as long as possible, Jim. Apply for a custody extension if necessary; I’ll use my influence if required.’ Donald sighed those last few words, as though he was weary of the pressure of command. It was not the attitude Daley associated with his superior.

‘What reason will I give the Sheriff, sir?’ Daley asked.

‘Be creative, Jim. Regardless of the fact that the boy is probably an in-bred halfwit, he’s seen too much. It must surely have dawned on him that it’s a little unusual that his girlfriend is being guarded by armed police. The last thing we need is for the local gossips to get going and the papers to get a sniff of what’s going on.’

‘Yes, sir. Surely this is more reason for Witness Protection to move them on, sir?’

‘You would think so, Jim, however, our friend MacDougall is digging in his heels. He claims that because of his wife’s mental state, her human rights would be infringed if she were to be moved at this time against her will. Mental cruelty, would you credit?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Human rights have always been at the forefront of Frank MacDougall’s mind,’ Daley said. Though MacDougall was not in the same league as JayMac for violence, he had nonetheless committed some crimes of sickening brutality.

‘Keep a hold of him as long as you can, Jim. I’ll busy myself with trying to get MacDougall and his clan as far away from Kinloch as possible, but rest assured, it will take time.’

There was a brief silence between the two men, a pause that would normally have been filled by some hubristic comment from the superintendent. The resurrection of James Machie
appeared to have troubled Donald more than Daley had realised.

Daley ended the call by wishing his boss goodnight.

‘Aye, an’ I’ll come up an’ tuck ye in and read ye a story,’ Scott added, when he was sure that the receiver was well and truly down.

‘Not sounding his usual self, Brian,’ Daley observed.

‘Nice to know even his magnificence has his off days tae,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve had a right hard night, Jim. How about we head doon for a couple o’ swift drams as a nightcap, eh?’

Giving the notion only the briefest thought, Daley nodded and stood up. He hauled the waistband of his trousers together, then, not without difficulty, managed to fasten the button.

‘Aye, the outdoor life doon here’s daein’ wonders for your physique, big man,’ Scott said with a grin.

‘Shut up and get your wallet out. I feel like a large malt.’

‘Is that the way of it?’ Scott grimaced. ‘I wish tae fuck I’d kept my mooth shut.’

‘I wonder just how rich you’d be if you had a pound for every time that thought crossed your mind, Brian?’ Daley smiled as Scott left his glass office, muttering under his breath.

Marion MacDougall lay on the floor of her living room. It looked really strange from this angle, and she felt confused and cold. The right side of her head throbbed, and she could feel a warm stickiness on her arm. She knew she was only able to see out of one eye, because when she closed her left everything went black, shot through with flashes of red and yellow.

She tried to move her legs, but the pain that shot through her body was excruciating. Even breathing was difficult; the
air got stuck in her throat as though her whole chest was blocked by a massive weight.

‘More bad news for the economy . . .’ The voice belonged to the nice Welshman who read the ten o’clock news. She couldn’t work out how it was so late. It was cold – very cold – though somehow it didn’t seem to trouble her in the way it normally did.

Out of the corner of her eye, at the very periphery of her vision, she could see something white: yes, a white circle. She tried to steady her breath and focus. The way her remaining vision was blurring, this might be her only chance, her only opportunity to survive, to do something to save her life before her world went black for good.

She managed to move her arm, even though the pain was so acute it made her feel sick. Slowly, she managed to hook her thumb around the chain that held the white disc around her neck. She retched a foul mix of bile and blood, which spilled out over her false teeth and down the side of her face onto the floor. She didn’t have much time. Instead of pulling the chain towards herself, she pushed her hand away, feeling the links pass over her thumb, still hooked around it. Though doing this caused her pain, it didn’t make her feel so nauseous.

Suddenly, the chain pulled tight, biting at her neck and making her almost pass out in agony. Her breath was short now, but she had managed it; the white disc was under the palm of her hand. She forced it down, hearing the little bleep that indicated it had worked. Soon, very soon, help would be on its way. But would it come soon enough?

17

They went into the County Hotel through the heavy old door, on which someone had scrawled Merry Christmas!!! in fake snow from an aerosol can. A large, artificial tree stood in the vestibule sporting a selection of baubles – not one of which matched the next.

A low murmur of voices issued from the serving hatch to the small bar, indicating that Annie was reasonably busy for this time of night. A large man nearly knocked Scott over as he pushed past the detective, heading down the corridor towards the toilets. Shouts of ‘He’s got the skitters’ and ‘Willie’s jeest shat himsel” accompanied the stricken man, as his drinking buddies at the bar speculated as to the state of their friend’s health.

As the two policemen appeared at the bar, however, the atmosphere changed. Everyone fell silent.

Unabashed, Scott strode in, removing his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers as he went. He chose a position in between two of the hotel’s more regular customers, whom he recognised, and nodded a hello to each in turn.

‘Aye, lads, a cold yin the day, is it no’?’ Scott rubbed his hands in anticipation of the whisky that would hopefully warm the parts not every spirit could reach. He was slightly
surprised by the lack of response from the drinkers but his attention was soon taken up by Annie’s appearance through the door behind the bar.

‘Whoot can I get ye, sir?’ Annie asked stiffly, polishing the bar counter without looking directly at her new customer.

‘Two large malts, darlin’, an’ one for yersel, efter you bein’ so kind the last time I wiz in.’ Scott’s smile elicited little response.

Daley had made his way to the table at the back of the bar, where he usually sat with Liz. She had accused him of purposefully selecting this perch, better to study his fellow drinkers. Maybe he had, though it was also true that this table was furthest from the bar, and the army of those who were not only willing to eavesdrop, but to make comment on conversations that he’d hoped were private. Only a few weeks before, during a discussion with Liz about his interminable diet, an old woman had leaned across from another table and advised Liz that if she expected her sex life to remain active, she better ditch the calorie-controlled regime and feed her man ‘a good plate o’ mince an’ tatties’.

Daley smiled at the old man who sat nearby nursing a small glass of whisky, head turned away, which was unusual for one who was usually so cheery and pleasant.

‘I’m thinkin’ some bastard must be deid,’ Scott announced as he placed two glasses on the table in front of Daley, both brimming with whisky. ‘Even yer lassie Annie’s no’ her usual bubbly self.’ He sat down on the chair opposite his boss, and then turned to note that nearly everybody in the room was looking at them.

‘Something’s up, that’s for sure,’ said Daley.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the two policemen drank in silence, Scott looking over his shoulder from time to time at the collection of stony faces staring back.

‘I’m goin’ for a pee, big man,’ Scott said to Daley, and made his way out of the bar.

‘Aye, I hope Willie Mason shites on ye,’ uttered a disembodied voice.

‘Right, that’ll be enough,’ called Annie, though lacking her usual vigour. But it was enough to break the spell, and the murmur of low voices resumed.

As Daley swirled the spirit in his glass, Annie made her way out from behind the bar and towards his table, flicking her cloth at unseen detritus as she progressed.

‘Will ye be for another?’ she asked coolly, as she lifted Scott’s unattended glass from the table, wiped it with her cloth and placed it on a fresh beer mat.

‘Yes, if you can be bothered,’ replied Daley, slightly irritated by the reception he was getting in what had become his favourite watering hole.

‘Listen,’ whispered Annie, ‘ye cannae expect folks tae welcome yous wi’ open erms, when yer giein’ poor Duncan Fearney such a hard time. He’s a nice man – very popular in the toon. Aye, an’ he’s had a hard time o’ it, since that wife o’ hees ran off wi’ the AI man.’ Point made, Annie turned to go.

‘Wait a minute, Annie,’ Daley said, looking serious. ‘I like coming in here, and you’ve always made me very welcome, but you must know, I’ve got to do my job, and no matter if nobody talks to me in Kinloch again, that’s what will happen.’

Annie, looking slightly flustered, sat down on the chair that had been vacated by Scott and leaned in towards Daley.
‘Aye, I daresay, Mr Daley, but ye’ve got tae realise how close the folk here are. Hurt wan, an’ ye hurt us a’. D’ye know whoot I mean? An’ anyhow, the boys appreciated whoot the big fella did for them . . .’ Annie stopped abruptly, avoiding any eye contact with the policeman.

‘What you mean to say is that they got cheap fags from him,’ Daley said, staring at the blushing Annie.

‘Noo, I didnae say anythin’ o’ the sort, Mr Daley. Fuck me, but yous polis are slippery right enough,’ she said, regaining some composure. ‘I never says anythin’ o’ the sort.’

‘No, of course you didn’t,’ Daley replied. ‘But I hope you understand my position, Annie?’

She rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘Aye, I suppose we’ve a’ got oor ain jobs tae dae. We’ll say nae mair aboot it. I’ll have a word wi’ the boys.’ She made to leave but Daley had another question.

‘Can I ask you what an AI man is?’

‘AI?’ Annie smiled. ‘Artificial insemination, Mr Daley. He’s the man who goes roon servicing the coos, if ye know whoot I mean. They ca’ him the Bull o’ Kintyre.’

Daley watched her leave, trying not to laugh, as he reflected on how it must feel for your wife to run off with the man responsible for impregnating Kintyre’s bovine population. When Scott returned from the toilet, he told him the story. The detective sergeant’s hearty laugh broke through the drinkers’ low chatter as, gradually, the atmosphere in the little hotel bar returned to normal.

DS White was fed up. He hated the nightshift, especially when it meant having to sit at his desk for its entirety, keying reports into his computer, the screen of which flickered at
him interminably and worsened the throbbing headache he had suffered since arriving at Police Headquarters in Paisley earlier in the evening.

He was in the midst of typing up an especially complex fraud case, in preparation for a report being sent to the Procurator Fiscal’s department. The deputy fiscal he was forced to deal with was as pedantic as he was petty, and not averse to sending back the work of hard-pressed detectives for correction like a scolding headmaster. He and White carried on what could best be described as a silent war of words, each trying to outdo the other with the accuracy of their report or the importance of their perfectionist demands.

White sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, yawning at the same time. The lure of the coffee machine was strong. As the words on the screen in front of him began to swirl and blur, he stood, fishing in his trouser pocket for the correct change with which to buy the only beverage that would see him though the long night ahead.

As he left his desk and headed along the corridor to the drinks machine, a group of policemen were queuing patiently outside at the rear door of the office. Their conversation was low and intermittent as one of them punched the security code into the keypad on the wall. The officers were on their meal break; the strong smell of kebabs and Chinese food issued from the various brown paper bundles and white plastic bags they were carrying.

The keypad bleeped, releasing the deadbolts of the heavy steel door, allowing the first in the queue to pull it open. The phalanx of hungry policemen filed in, leaving the freezing cloud of their accumulated breath behind them as they entered the warmth of the inner sanctum of the police office.