The Last Witness (16 page)

‘Really, sir? How awful. I can’t believe I wasn’t informed,’ Donald replied, already feeling his pulse slow, and the panic
in his chest subside. Jim bloody Daley, he thought. Thank fuck, I thought it was all over for a moment.

Back in Kinloch, Daley was sitting beside his wife’s bed, holding her hand as she slept, a look of serenity on her face. A monitor flickered and bleeped at her side, though he was oblivious to it.

Two very distinct thoughts were competing for centre-stage in his mind: who had tried to kill him, and nearly succeeded in killing his wife, and how long had she known she was pregnant? The questions chased each other around his head like a dog after its own tail, and no answers came.

He felt her hand twitch in his. He looked at her face. Her eyelids were flickering. She had been given a very mild sedative in order to help her get over the trauma of the last few hours. This was the first chance he’d had to talk to her; if she woke properly, that was.

Her head turned on the pillow, and she began to move her lips, so dry they made a faint sound. He reached for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet, and brushed the hair gently from her eyes.

‘You’re OK, darling. I’m here. We’re going to be all right, all three of us.’ The last words were said quietly, almost a whisper; in fact he hadn’t meant to say them at all.

She opened her eyes, their cornflower blue starkly contrasted against her pale face.

‘You know then.’ Her voice was quiet; her expression spoke only of anxiety.

He smiled at her. ‘Yes, I know. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She closed her eyes, and Daley thought momentarily she had gone back to sleep, however, she began to smile herself.

‘It just never seemed to be the right time,’ she said hesitantly, looking up at him. ‘I . . .’ She began to cough, so Daley put his hand behind her head and lifted it gently off the pillow, putting the glass to her lips. She took a few sips, then he let her head gently back down.

‘All that morning sickness, being off my food . . . Didn’t you even notice I’ve not been drinking?’

‘Yes, well, no, actually,’ he replied, with a stage grimace.

‘Some bloody detective you are,’ she said, and her smile broke into weak laughter. Her husband laughed softly back.

When Daley arrived back at the Kinloch CID suite, he was surprised to see DS Scott, DC Dunn and another young DC busy sticking pictures onto a clearboard. There, in the centre, was his face – the image taken from his official warrant card picture – looking careworn and jowly. It crossed his mind that his hair didn’t look too good either, however, the site of his burnt-out car alongside a photograph of Liz brought him back to reality with a bump.

Many of his days in Kinloch were low-key affairs, involving the type of crime it was the CID’s bread and butter to solve: petty theft, assaults, the odd case of shoplifting or minor drugs offences. Today it was only ten thirty in the morning, and already someone had tried to kill him, nearly succeeded in killing his wife, and he had found out that he was going to be a father.

‘Whit are ye doing here, Jamie’ Scott said. ‘Ye should be back hame taking it easy, or beside that wife o’ yours. How is she, by the way?’ The DS winked. ‘Everything still hunky dory, you know . . .’ He pointed towards his belly, his brows raised in anticipation of news.

‘Everything’s fine, thanks,’ Daley replied, sitting down stiffly on a chair behind one of the work stations. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the officers, ‘carry on. Don’t let me stop you.’

Scott returned his attention to the task in hand, somewhat put out. ‘Aye, well, there ye have it. Despite the latest attempt tae kill oor boss, he’s still hail ’n’ hearty, though he’ll be needin’ tae buy another pair o’ troosers.’

DC Dunn tried to conceal a smile. ‘So glad you’re OK, sir, and Mrs Daley too.’

‘Right,’ said Scott. ‘Looks like yous two have plenty tae keep yiz goin’, so better get on wi’ it, eh?’ He smiled at DC Dunn, and turned to Daley with a more serious look on his face. ‘Better take a wee trip intae yer box, Jim,’ he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder, as though Daley might not be sure where his own office was located.

Once inside, Daley closed the blinds on his glass world. He had got used to the office, but hated sitting on display, like a dyspeptic goldfish. He lowered himself carefully into his own comfortable chair; his knees were still painful, and felt as if they were now stiffening up. He remembered his grandfather complaining about his painful joints.

‘What’s the problem, Brian?’ he asked, sure that nothing could be as bad as almost being blown up, then nearly losing his wife.

‘Och,’ said Scott, sitting opposite him and leaning forward on his chair, ‘yer man’s on his way doon. Aye, an’ no’ in guid trim neither, I can tell ye.’

‘Not with any faux sympathy for me,’ Daley replied with a snort.

‘No. Well, that’s no’ tae say he’s no’ worried aboot whit happened tae you an’ the missus, but he’s got other problems tae sort oot tae.’ Scott looked upset, head down, staring blankly at a spot on Daley’s desk.

‘Spit it out, Brian.’ Daley’s eventful morning was starting to catch up with him, and he was brusquer than he intended.

‘Rab White’s been murdered – shot deid – in the CID office in Paisley last night.’

‘Rab? You mean DS Rab White?’

‘Aye, Jim, oor Rab White. Fuck me, I just had a few pints wi’ him the other day . . .’

Daley’s mind was racing. A murder and an attempted murder of two police officers with close connections, from the same division, on the same night. What were the chances? He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

‘The boss was being pretty mysterious on the phone,’ said Scott. ‘Tells us there’s details he can only discuss face to face.’

Daley looked at Scott. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Brian?’

‘Aye. JayMac.’

He made his way carefully down the steep, narrow pathway that wound down the side of the cliff. Beneath, the sea washed restlessly against the iron shore. Sharp black rocks and crags punctuated the waves at random intervals, standing out angrily against the grey of the ocean which was only a slightly darker shade than the sky above.

He shivered involuntarily. He had never been comfortable at sea, having lived his life almost exclusively in land-locked domains. The concept of an endless expanse of water brought a twinge of fear to his chest, which he banished with his
habitual resolve. All his efforts were for the greater good, to satisfy the cloying need for revenge. He strengthened his resolve. Nothing, nobody would stand in his way. He placed his fears in the back of his mind, where they would stay.

He stopped for a while on the path; the descent was making his knees ache. He looked out over the sea. Where only yesterday a grey-green strip of land had been visible, there was now nothing. Waves and sky met at the horizon, giving the impression of a much more closed, less vast entity. He realised that this was merely illusion, and that his destination was in the same place as when he had last squinted at it through the small window of the cottage. Still, the notion of sailing off to the unseen was not a comforting one.

He looked along the rest of the path, which zigzagged down towards the shore like a pale scar. Many of the men he had known carried such a disfigurement like a badge of honour. He strode on. The wind was keen on his face, flecked with water carried up from the sea below. He could taste as well as smell the briny air. Above him, gulls wheeled and squawked, wings held out straight and still as they soared heavenward on the breeze.

As he progressed, he could feel the hard rock of the cliff path give way to a softer footing. The gradient grew dramatically steeper, and he found himself slithering down the remaining few feet of the path onto the rough shore, a mixture of rocks, sand and pebbles. He had to jump the last couple of feet onto the shingle, as the wind and waves had eroded the bottom of the path, taking what looked like a big bite out of the hillside.

About two hundred yards down the beach he could see waves crashing against a dark arm of stone that jutted out
into the sea. The structure looked more natural then man-made, though he knew it to have been constructed many hundreds of years ago by smugglers who had plied a lucrative trade all along the rocky west coast of Scotland. His time in the little cottage had been put to good use; he had filled his brain with more information, the assimilation of which had become his drug of choice. He smiled to himself at the thought of these men – men just like him – struggling barrels of whisky, rum or tobacco from the little quay, along the beach, and up the narrow cliff path. Crime paid, but it always came at a price.

At the end of the little pier bobbed a small boat, white bodied, with a blue cabin. He crunched his way forward, stepping gingerly onto the ancient structure, slick with seawater and weed. As he edged along, he nearly slipped, cursing as he regained his balance. The boat bobbed against the pier, buffered against damage by two old tyres hung from its side.

He sat down and thrust his feet into the boat in order to steady it, pulling the vessel tight to the little jetty with his legs, then slithered on board, dragging his heavy bag with him, which landed at his feet with a hollow thud. He made his way along the narrow deck and ducked inside the cabin, dragging the bag with him.

After pulling the door shut, he surveyed his surroundings, surprised by the spaciousness of the cabin. Two chairs stood proud on metal plinths in front of a battered console upon which sat a polythene folder and a device that looked not unlike an unwieldy mobile phone from the early nineties. He unzipped the folder, removed its contents, and started to read.

Basically, the task in hand was simple: the gadget was not
a phone, but a satellite navigational instrument already programmed with his destination. He read the accompanying documents, which described how to use the technology and also included a mobile phone number. He pulled his own from his pocket and dialled.

After four rings, the phone was answered. ‘Aye, it’s me,’ he said to the voice on the other end. ‘I’m on this fuckin’ boat. I’ve got the kit.’ He paused, listening to the reply. ‘Aye, whitever,’ he said testily. ‘Just make fuckin’ sure yer there before I am.’ He ended the call, and put his phone in his pocket. Picking up the satnav device, he switched it on with the red LED button. Slowly, a map, with numbers and directions, appeared on the screen. He pressed another button and waited. In a matter of seconds, the device emitted a chiming noise, the screen changed, and a large arrow hovered around a point above which the word ‘destination’ was picked out in green script. Slowly, more writing scrolled up the screen:
Make sure the arrow continues to point at the destination. Based on a constant speed of 15 knots, you will reach destination in 2hrs 5mins
. Then the screen flickered and changed:
Your final destination is McDonnall’s Bay, Kintyre
.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Follow the yellow brick road, eh, Frankie-boy?’

20

Daley sat in the public gallery in Kinloch Sheriff Court. The room was Victorian, with wooden panelling and benches, and a vaulted ceiling. Ornate carving adorned the Sheriff’s bench and the dock, where a miserable Duncan Fearney looked out over the courtroom, nervously twisting his fingers together. The usual aroma of disinfectant, age and muted fear permeated the air.

Daley had taken an interest in the Fearney case for a number of reasons – not least of all because he felt some sympathy for the man – but his internal alarm was sounding, telling him there was more, much more, to this than met the eye. The detective had checked Fearney’s records and had found a solitary conviction for speeding in the late eighties. Taking advantage of local knowledge gleaned from some of the long-serving cops in Kinloch, it appeared as though this foray into organised crime was entirely at odds with the man’s character. As Daley eyed the forlorn figure in the dock, he reminded himself that the farmer would not be the first, or the last, individual lured by the beckoning finger of easy money. Though his head remained down, Fearney occasionally looked up from under his brow, his eyes fleetingly connecting with those of the detective. Gone was the sullen
resentment at being caught; he now bore a look of utter hopelessness.

The Sheriff was in heated discussion with the Procurator Fiscal, which was delaying the start to this preliminary hearing and giving the local populace the chance to enter the public benches to support their fellow Kinlochian; something, Daley knew, that was not unusual.

His mind was jumping between the death of Rab White, his wife’s pregnancy and their narrow escape from death when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Hamish’s slanted eyes staring at him from his parchment-coloured face.

‘Aye, Mr Daley, how are ye the day? I hear ye had a wee bit o’ excitement earlier on.’

‘Hello, Hamish.’ Daley smiled, pleased to see a friendly face. ‘We had a narrow escape, but Liz is OK. She’ll be in hospital over the next couple of days – just for observation.’

Hamish looked at him for a few moments, said nothing. ‘And how about the wean?’ His tone was conversational, as though there was nothing remarkable about his question.

‘How the f—’ Daley stopped himself, remembering where he was. ‘How do you know about . . . I’ve only found out myself . . .’ He was yet again astonished by the older man’s apparent ability to read his mind. ‘Did Liz tell you?’ he asked in an angry whisper, annoyed that his wife might have chosen to discuss her pregnancy with this old man before her husband.

‘No’ she did not. An’ don’t you be giein’ her a hard time o’ it, for she didnae say wan word tae me on the subject.’ Hamish was adamant. ‘When ye’ve seen as many new lives
brought intae the world as I have, ye get used tae a’ the signs.’ He smiled, pleased with his own sagacity.

‘Was that what you were trying to tell me when I offered you a lift?’ Daley was calmer now, as he recalled his most recent conversation with Hamish.

‘Jeest you keep yer han’ on yer ha’penny, inspector. It’s no’ guid for a man at your time o’ life tae be gettin’ intae such a stooshie. No’ noo yer goin’ tae be a faither, at any rate.’