The Last Witness (15 page)

‘Listen, it’s me, Jim,’ said Daley. ‘Liz and I are at the back of the house, in the garden. We can’t get round the front because of the fire, and Liz is too . . .’ He searched for the right words. ‘She’s in pain and she won’t make it up the hill. Someone’s going to have to get back here. She needs medical attention now!’ Daley was now shouting, and regretted it almost immediately as he felt Liz flinch in his embrace, then wail in pain.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Dunn, herself sounding close to tears. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll get a hold of the officers at the locus. The fire brigade and ambulance are on their way, and so is DS Scott.’

‘Please do your best. Please.’ Daley ended the call, as Liz seemed to go into spasm, her whole body bracing. He tried
to comfort her, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear. He held her close, trying to make sure that her bare legs were covered with as much of his jacket as possible. It was then he felt something slick on her thigh. It was clearly blood.

He redialled the phone and clutched it to his ear. ‘Brian, please get someone round here, to the back of the house. Liz is . . . She’s in agony. No visible injuries I can see, but she’s bleeding. We’re trapped.’ At his side, Liz seemed to be drifting into unconsciousness. ‘For fuck’s sake help me, Brian.’

‘Hang on, big man, hang on!’ Scott was now exiting the police car at the entrance to Daley’s driveway. He heard the line bleep dead as he rushed to the small huddle of people standing some distance away from the burning car.

‘Whit the fuck’s happenin’?’ he shouted to two young policemen and a senior fire officer who stood shielded from the flames by a police car.

‘We have to wait for my appliance to arrive. They’ll be here soon. We can’t risk trying to enter the property past the car in case of further explosion.’

‘Whit’s keepin’ them?’

‘They’re retained units. They have to form up at the fire station before they can leave. Let me assure you . . .’ He wasn’t given time to finish his sentence, as Scott pushed his way past him and the two cops.

‘Sergeant, I must insist that you stay clear of that vehicle,’ the fire officer called, as Scott edged up the hill towards the car, which appeared now to be blazing less furiously than when he had driven across the town, where it had been visible for most of the way.

‘You can insist whatever the fuck you like,’ Scott yelled, as he broke into a run.

Daley’s mind was racing. Every time he tried to move Liz, she begged him to stop. The pain she was feeling seemed to be getting steadily worse. He had decided to give it two more minutes, then, despite her pleas and the agony of his injured leg, he was going to have to take her to the front of the house and past the car. He tried to keep the thought of the explosion at the back of his mind.

Just as he was about to try and haul her up in his arms, he saw a figure appear around the side of the house.

‘Brian!’ Daley exclaimed. ‘Fuck, I’m glad to see you.’

It took Scott only seconds to work out what was going on. Liz’s face was deathly pale, and his boss and friend looked desperate and dishevelled, panic in his eyes.

‘Quick,’ said Scott, taking control of the situation, ‘grab her under her arms, Jim. I’ll take her legs.’

Liz groaned as the two detectives lifted her on the count of three. Daley was holding her under the arms as her head lolled on his chest.

‘Right, Jim, we’ll have tae risk it roon past the motor.’

‘OK,’ said Daley. ‘But I’ve hurt my leg, so don’t go sprinting off.’

‘Just you keep up, big yin,’ answered Scott. ‘Here goes.’

The two men bore Liz around the corner of the house, and into the light of the burning car. Daley was panting, sometimes moaning in pain, but he kept going, urged on by Scott. Even though the fire had died back considerably, a sickening stench of fuel filled the air.

‘I think it’s going to go up, Brian,’ Daley shouted.

‘Just keep goin’, Jamie,’ shouted Scott over his shoulder. ‘If the fuckin’ thing goes before we get her past it, fuck knows when we’ll be able tae get her help.’

They carried on, skirting the car by as great a distance as possible. They were just a few yards past the flaming wreck when there was a loud crack, accompanied by a blinding flash. Daley saw Scott fly forwards, still holding onto Liz’s legs, which dragged him down too.

Liz Daley screamed out in pain.

Donald was pulling into the car park at the back of Paisley HQ. He hated being roused from his sleep, especially by such news. An officer had died. There could be no worse scenario.

He was irritated to spot an ambulance filling his private parking space, so decided to leave his car in the next bay, belonging to a chief inspector he didn’t like.

Despite the urgency of the call, and the seriousness of the situation, he had needed a shower to help clear his head. He was aware that he had consumed too much alcohol the night before, well over his self-imposed limit. He felt for the little canister of breath spray in his pocket, mentally cursing the fact that he had forgotten to squirt some into his mouth before he left the car. He thought about surreptitiously doing this as he made his way to the security door, however this plan was scuppered as the two-shift inspector appeared in the doorway, looking pale and drawn.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he called, somewhat uncertainly. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’

‘I hardly think “good morning” is appropriate under the circumstances, do you, Inspector Ray?’ Donald was on the offensive. The death of an officer was regrettable, most regrettable, however, his job was not to wallow in the misery of it all. His role was to take the situation forward, console
grieving relatives, identify what had gone wrong – who had made mistakes, and why? – and kick arses, while at the same time ensuring his was not on the line.

‘I want a full briefing, in my office, in five minutes,’ he growled, as he made his way through the bar office and towards the lifts.

‘Eh, well, that’s the thing, sir.’

‘Spit it out, man!’ Donald swung around like a guardsman on drill, looking at the harassed Ray under beetling brows. ‘What is
the thing
?’ Spittle bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

‘Sir, your office – the whole top floor, as well as the CID suite – it’s, well, it’s the crime scene.’ Beads of sweat were now visible on the man’s brow.

‘It’s
what
?’ said Donald, his eyes bulging from their sockets. ‘Is this what you couldn’t tell me over the phone?’

‘We’ve set up a temporary office in the shift sergeants’ room – I’ll show you along.’

‘I know where it is, Ray. Be there in five minutes, and bring me a fucking black coffee as well as a full and detailed report,’ Donald barked over his shoulder, as he stomped off to his new domain.

Daley sat in the waiting room of Kinloch’s hospital. The early morning sun shone through the window, sparkling off the leaves of the tree outside, which remained locked in the cold embrace of frost.

Both hands were now dressed in neat bandages, covering the sharp grazes he had sustained on the garden path. Had they not been so covered, he would have been wringing them together in worry. Liz was still with the doctors, who were
reluctant to say anything of any consequence or help to the stricken detective, who was left to fret, blinking in the early sunshine.

The waiting-room door was flung open, and Daley turned his head quickly, hoping to see one of the medical staff bearing good news. Instead, the figure of DS Scott was framed in the doorway, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he tried to manoeuvre himself and two coffee cups through the swing door without spilling anything.

‘I swear tae fuck, these places are designed tae make life mair difficult than it a’ready fuckin’ is. Two quid each for a cup o’ shite coffee? Blind robbery, man,’ he said, handing Daley one of the cups, which the latter grasped gingerly in his bandaged hand.

‘Did you manage to find out anything, Brian?’ Daley enquired anxiously.

‘Nah, no’ a fuckin’ dickie bird. These bastards are tighter than a whippet’s arse. Just buy a nurse a cup o’ coffee up in the city and ye can get the whole medical history o’ anybody you want. No’ here, Jim. Sorry, buddy.’ He noticed Daley’s expression change from hope to despair.

‘She was in so much pain, Brian. I can’t work out why – it’s not as if she could have been affected by the blast. I mean, she was in the bedroom at the back, and it was virtually untouched.’ Daley’s voice tailed off as he looked back out of the window at the frozen tree and the sharp peak of Ben Airich behind.

They remained in silence for a few minutes, apart from the intermittent slurping of Scott drinking his coffee.

Suddenly the door swung open again, sending Daley to his feet as he saw a white-coated doctor stride into the room, a
clipboard clutched in his right hand. Scott, just about to take another gulp at his coffee and startled by the sudden arrival, contrived to spill half of the beverage down his shirt and tie, though he kept the oaths that followed at a barely audible level.

‘Any news, doctor?’ Daley’s face was ashen; his right hand trembled as he held the coffee cup.

‘Mr Daley.’ The doctor looked at him over a pair of small-framed glasses that gave the impression that he was older than his actual years. ‘Could we speak in private?’ He cast a glance at Scott, who was still wiping coffee from his tie while mouthing obscenities to the floor.

‘Sorry?’ Daley was momentarily confused. ‘No, it’s fine. Anything you have to say can be said in front of my friend here. Anything.’

‘OK, your choice,’ said the young man as he consulted the clipboard, squinting through his spectacles. He flipped over a page, which he took a few moments to scan.

‘Say whit ye have tae say, buddy.’ Scott was anxious to see his friend put out of his misery, a sentiment that Daley echoed, along with a silent prayer.

‘Well, as you know, Mrs Daley fell heavily, causing her a great deal of pain; something that, considering her condition, is highly dangerous, both for her and . . .’

‘Her condition?’ Daley sat down with a thud, as more coffee splashed onto the floor of the waiting room. ‘She’s not been right for weeks – no appetite, being sick, really pale. What is it she has? Please say it’s not cancer.’ He looked imploringly at the doctor, a facial expression that was somehow at odds with his bulky, lived-in appearance.

‘Cancer?’ It was the doctor’s turn to look confused. ‘No, no, nothing of the kind. Though it is fair to say that your
wife has had quite an ordeal. She’s relatively young and fit, so, somewhat miraculously, given the shock as well as a small loss of blood, both she and the baby are absolutely fine.’

Daley tried to speak, but only a croaked whisper would issue from his mouth. He looked at Scott wide-eyed.

‘Ahem,’ Scott cleared his throat noisily. ‘I think whit Jim’s tryin’ tae say is: whit baby are ye on aboot?’

‘Oh,’ muttered the clinician, now grasping the situation. ‘Your wife is almost four months’ pregnant, Mr Daley. Not the most traditional way of finding out, I grant you, but still, the secret’s out now. Congratulations are in order.’ He smiled awkwardly at Daley, who was looking utterly bemused.

‘Aye,’ said Scott, smiling, ‘as my auld mother used tae say: ye never know just whit a day will bring.’ He walked over to Daley and slapped his back. ‘You’re tae be the proud faither – an’ no’ a pair o’ breeks tae yer name, hardly.’ He looked down at what remained of Daley’s trousers, both knees of which had been ripped to shreds.

19

Donald looked round the shift sergeants’ room absentmindedly; he reflected that he was now spending as much time in Kinloch as here, in Paisley HQ.

He decided to have the largest desk – the one he had chosen to use – moved to the far wall, in an attempt to recreate the gravitas of his own office. He pulled a girlie calendar from the top of a filing cabinet and threw it deftly into a metal wastepaper basket, a curl of distaste playing across his lips. He gathered various dirty coffee mugs, old newspapers, sweet wrappers and other detritus together and left them on the desk nearest the door. He was about to make a call for someone to come and clear them away when the phone rang.

Donald, used to seeing the caller ID displayed on his own telephone, picked the handset up and answered hesitantly. The tone of voice on the other end was enough to set Donald’s teeth on edge. The patrician timbre could only belong to Sir Charles Hastings, the Chief Constable.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Donald gushed down the phone. ‘A most miserable day.’ As soon as he had spoken the words, he regretted them; they seemed much too banal considering what had happened to one of his fellow officers during the night.

‘And set to get a great deal more miserable, John,’ Hastings bellowed in reply. ‘I’ll be with you in about an hour. In the meantime, I want you to lock down the office, transfer all divisional operations to the sub-division. These incidents could well turn out to be the worst and most damaging points in our careers . . .’ The rest of his words were lost to the superintendent, whose analytical mind had latched onto the word ‘incidents’.

‘Incidents plural, sir?’

‘Yes,
incidents
, man! Don’t tell me you haven’t been informed about events in Kinloch?’

At the mention of Kinloch, Donald’s stomach began to churn and he felt his legs weaken. He dropped into his swivel chair, off which he nearly skidded such was the force with which he had sat down. ‘No, sir. What with the murder of an officer in this office during the night, I’m afraid I have been rather preoccupied . . .’ God, was this it?

‘You better get a grip there, John,’ Hastings roared.

‘Well, it is over a hundred miles away, sir,’ Donald said, floundering, and feeling more like a condemned man than he had hitherto in the whole of his career.

‘Not in Kinloch! In your own bloody office! I found out over an hour ago. What the hell are your people doing? You should have been briefed with developments long before now. Not like you to run a slack ship, Superintendent Donald, not like you at all.’

‘Yes, sir . . .’

‘DCI Daley’s car has been blown up by some device or other. Bloody lucky he and his wife weren’t killed, by all accounts.’