The Last Witness (17 page)

Daley was about to reply when a head appeared between him and Hamish, as another member of the public gallery chose his moment to join their conversation. Daley knew this man from the bar at the County Hotel; he was always friendly enough, though somewhat lacking in social graces. ‘Aye, congratulations tae ye, Mr Daley. Well done indeed,’ he grinned, pushing his arm forward to shake Daley’s hand. ‘Lead in the auld pencil, right enough. Mind you, that cannae be difficult wi’ a lassie as bonnie as yer wife,’ he continued, dropping his voice.

‘Thank you,’ replied a flustered Daley, wondering who else knew more than he did about his wife’s condition.

‘An’ how are you daein’, Hamish?’ the man enquired of the old fisherman, who was now chewing at his unlit pipe. ‘Nae wonder yer pipe’s gaun oot. I’ve had tae cut right back on the fags noo, tae, ever since poor Du—’ He didn’t finish the sentence; instead he cleared his throat exaggeratedly and looked at Daley. ‘Oh aye . . . Eh, I wiz goin’ tae anyway since the wife telt me I needed tae stop. Bad cough, ye know.’ He sat back in his seat sheepishly.

‘I’d have thought the good people of this town would be more interested in the fact I nearly got blown sky-high this morning,’ Daley remarked with a sigh.

‘Och, don’t be sayin’ that, Mr Daley.’ Hamish took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Naebody in Kinloch wid be as rude as tae mention such personal issues tae a man in your position. That would be hoor o’ a rude.’

‘But it’s OK to ask me about my wife’s pregnancy, about which you all seem remarkably well informed?’ Daley said.

‘Ye still havenae quite got yer heid roon’ the wee toon yet, Mr Daley.’ Hamish smiled. ‘There’s no’ wan business in the place – or hospital, come tae that – that doesnae have someone’s cousin, or sister, or mother, or auntie working in it. Dinnae look so pit oot,’ he continued, in response to the look of concern on Daley’s face. ‘Doctors, nurses, even policemen; they’re a’ good at their jobs, an’ keep their ain council, in the main. But ye must remember, there’s a’ways a body fae the toon sitting on their shooder, havin’ a wee listen, or a wee look. No’ wi’ any kind o’ malice aforethought, mind.’ He winked at Daley in self-congratulation at the use of the legal term. ‘Nah, rather jeest so we’re a’ up tae date wi’ whoot’s goin’ on in oor ain community. Aye, jeest the way of it,’ he concluded, taking another smokeless draw of his pipe.

‘To what end?’ Daley asked, mentally calculating just how many locals were employed at the local police office.

‘Och, jeest so we don’t appear rude, ye understand. For example, how wid ye have felt if ye’d had a’ this great news aboot a new wean bottled up in yer heart, an’ no’ a soul tae share it wi’? Ye’d have been fair scunnered, an’ that’s a fact.’

As Fearney fidgeted in the dock, the court officer took a seat at his desk, then shuffled through a pile of papers and opened up a laptop. Proceedings were about to begin.

Hamish leaned in towards Daley and nodded towards Fearney. ‘That’s a man on the edge. I’ve known Duncan noo
fir a guid many years, an’ I tell ye, he’s damn near lost a’ reason.’ Hamish shook his head in sympathy for the farmer. ‘No’ a bad man, Mr Daley, jeest a foolish wan. But dae ye no’ think there’s something else?’

‘Else? What do you . . .’ But Daley had to stop mid sentence, as the clerk was now calling the court to order.

The hearing hadn’t taken long. As expected, Duncan Fearney had pleaded guilty to the sale of contraband tobacco and cigarettes. In most circumstances, such was the gravity of his crime, he would have been remanded in custody, but Daley had earlier called the Procurator Fiscal, asking him not to oppose the inevitable bail request from Fearney’s solicitor. He sensed there was much more to this crime, and to have Fearney fretting away in the remand wing of Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow would do nothing to further the investigation. He would learn much more from observing Fearney’s actions while he was out on bail. Tobacco smuggling was now as big a business as illegal drugs; Fearney was just a hapless team player, so who was the captain?

Fearney stood on the pavement looking lost. One of his fellow Kinloch residents slapped him on the back and offered him somewhat resigned good wishes. The farmer had looked genuinely surprised when he had been granted bail; no doubt his solicitor had prepared him for jail. Indeed, the solicitor himself – a youngish man with a nervous twitch and thick glasses – looked mystified by events. As he lisped a few words to his client in the dock, Daley got the impression that here was a solicitor unused to many successful outcomes for those whom he defended.

‘Mr Fearney,’ Daley hailed the farmer.

‘These are duty paid, inspector,’ Fearney replied, holding up a packet of cigarettes as proof, a look of fear spreading across his face.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Daley said, trying not to intimidate the man. ‘Just wondered if you needed a lift back home, I know it’s a bit out of the way.’ He smiled, with all the enthusiasm that he could muster.

Fearney looked about. ‘It’s true tae say I huvnae arranged a lift back. I never expected tae be goin’ back hame the day, inspector. The lawyer picked me up.’ He looked down at a small suitcase beside him on the pavement, shrugged his shoulders, and picked it up. ‘I daresay I’ll need tae take ye up on yer kind offer.’ he continued, with the resignation of a man whose life presented him with diminishing choices.

Daley motioned for him to follow him to the pool car – a replacement for the 4x4 destroyed in the explosion earlier – which was parked not far from the court building. He fished in his pocket for the unfamiliar key fob, taking it out, then pointing it in the general direction of the car, setting the lights flashing briefly and a small tone sounding from the horn.

As the pair drove through Kinloch, heading for the back road where Fearney’s farm was situated, the passenger said nothing. Daley noted how jumpy Fearney became as the road led them out of the town and into the countryside. He would frequently jerk his head, as if to shake out some thought trapped inside, and his hands were constantly moving. He rubbed his chin, cracked his knuckles, and dug his nails into his thighs.

‘I’m sorry fir being rude a wee while ago, Mr Daley,’ he burst out. ‘It’s been a bugger o’ a time fir me, I can tell you
that without fear or favour.’ The strain of the last few days could be heard in his voice.

‘Yes, I know you haven’t been in trouble before, Mr Fearney. It’s always harder for those who aren’t used to the criminal justice system. Many of the people I deal with on a regular basis couldn’t care less what happens to them; they’re as used to being in jail as in their own living room.’

‘Aye,’ said Fearney, letting out a deep sigh. ‘I’ve met some o’ them.’ He turned to look out of the car window. The fields, trees and bushes all bore a thin film of frost, reluctant to thaw; not something that normally happened in the relatively balmy environs of Kintyre. Daley looked at the temperature reading on the dashboard, noting that it was only one degree above freezing, and decided to take the edge off his speed.

‘Whit dae ye think will happen tae me?’ Fearney asked.

‘Hard to say,’ said Daley. ‘Your good record will go in your favour, though make no mistake, this is a very serious crime.’ He looked sidelong at his passenger, who was fighting back tears.

‘An’ if I wiz tae help ye oot – ye know, gie ye a wee bit mair information, like?’ Fearney enquired in a hopeful tone.

‘It’s not like the TV, Duncan,’ said Daley. ‘We don’t do deals. But I won’t lie to you; if you help us bring your suppliers to justice, it won’t do you any harm at all.’ He stole another quick look at his passenger, who had leaned his head back against the headrest.

‘I’ll need tae think aboot it a’, Mr Daley. These are no’ the kind o’ folk ye want tae be messin’ wi’, let me tell you.’ Suddenly he looked desperate.

Daley nodded sympathetically, recalling that Fearney had said hardly anything to the officers who had interviewed him
since his arrest, only answering to direct questions about his name, age, address and his acceptance of guilt.

‘If you give me a couple of days, I can try to help you, Duncan. Protect you from whoever it is that has been using you.’ Daley spoke quietly; he had decided to give Fearney enough time to make a move, however unlikely that seemed from the broken man in the passenger seat. He slowed the car down and turned onto the track that led to the farm. The road surface was pitted with deep potholes in which dirty brown water had gathered.

As they neared the place, he heard Fearney sharply draw in his breath and sit upright. Up ahead, in the muddy entrance to the yard, stood a man wearing a camouflage jacket, a shotgun split open in the crook of his arm. He stared blankly at the car as Daley drove past him to park in the untidy yard.

‘Friend of yours?’ he enquired of his passenger.

‘Aye, sort o’. He has the wee croft up on the hill, helps me oot noo and again,’ Fearney replied. ‘Jeest for bags o’ potatoes an’ the like,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Nae money changes hands.’ Daley noticed that, despite the chill of the day, beads of sweat were visible on his brow.

As the farmer left the car, Daley decided to do likewise; his instincts told him that, whoever the man at the gate was, his intentions towards Fearney were less than friendly. He ducked out of the door, leaving it open, and walked around the vehicle to where Fearney was standing, looking between Daley and his neighbour in an agitated manner.

‘Aye, well, thanks for the lift, Mr Daley,’ Fearney announced loudly and deliberately. ‘But like I telt yer men, ye’ll get nae mair fae me, nae matter whoot ur the consequences.’ He
smiled – nervously, Daley thought – at the man with the shotgun, who had now taken an aggressive stance, his hitherto disarticulated shotgun now in its firing position, held across his chest in his large hands.

Daley walked towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘Jim Daley,’ he said. ‘I’m the local chief inspector. How are you?’ He smiled at Fearney’s neighbour, who pointedly did not take up his offer of a handshake.

‘I’m careful whose hand I shake, mate,’ the man replied, with an arrogant look on his face, chin up. Stocky, of middle height, he wore filthy black wellington boots, into which his dark green waterproof trousers were tucked. His hair was shaved close to his head, and his face was just beginning to take on the jowly appearance of middle age. He looked as though he had once been powerfully built; fit, now running to fat, Daley knew all about that.

‘Mr Fearney tells me you help him out on the farm?’ said Daley. He stood three feet away from his camouflaged interlocutor, towering over the man.

‘Yeah, I do as it goes,’ he replied. ‘Is that a police matter, now?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘You mean Dunky-boy here hasn’t told you?’ He turned to Fearney. ‘You ashamed of me, Dunky?’ He sneered at Fearney, who shuffled uncomfortably, looking as though he wished the ground would swallow him up.

‘Your name, sir,’ Daley repeated, this time more forcefully.

‘Paul. Paul Bentham, to be precise. Happy now?’ His accent was from somewhere in the south-east of England – not cockney, but not far off. ‘Nice of you to give me mate here a lift, but we’ve got a lot of work to do, especially since
you’ve had ’im rotting in your cells at Kinlock,’ he snorted, mispronouncing the town’s name in an anglicised fashion.

‘What have you been doing with the gun, Mr Bentham?’ Daley looked at him coolly; already, he had developed a dislike for the man.

‘Oh, you know, Mr Daley,’ Bentham said, moving forward until he and the police officer were almost toe to toe. ‘Lot of vermin about right now – especially today, as it goes.’ His sneer transformed into a lop-sided grin as he stared up at Daley.

The chief inspector was beginning to feel increasingly irritated by Bentham, but rather than lose his temper, he forced himself to speak to the man quietly, leaning his head forward, so close that he could smell stale alcohol on the other man’s breath.

‘Have you got a licence for that, Mr Bentham?’ It was Daley’s turn to smile.

Bentham looked at the policeman for a few heartbeats, then answered: ‘Yeah, what d’you fink?’

‘Good, so you won’t object to producing it at Kinloch Police Office within the next forty-eight hours, then,’ he said.

Despite his best efforts, the smile on Bentham’s face faded slightly. ‘No problem. What time’s best for you, Mr Daley?’

Daley leaned his head back, rubbing his chin as though he was considering some intractable problem. ‘What about nine tomorrow morning?’ He smiled back down at Bentham, taking full advantage of his taller, heftier build.

The man was about to answer when Daley held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know you and Mr Fearney here have a lot to be getting on with, and I don’t want to keep you back.’

Fearney gave a nervous snort, clouds of cold breath issuing from his nostrils into the cold air.

‘I’ll have my officers attend your property instead. You know, check your firearm storage facilities and that your records are up to scratch – much easier than you having to trek all the way into the town.’ And with that, Daley turned on his heel and walked back to the car.

He opened the driver’s door and looked at Bentham again. His stance hadn’t changed, but he looked much less pleased with himself. ‘Were you a military man, Mr Bentham?’

‘Seventeen years in the Royal Marines, Mr Daley,’ he replied, the arrogant smile back on his face.

Daley merely raised his brows, and then nodded a farewell to Duncan Fearney, who muttered a muted thanks to the police officer.

As the car churned down the rutted farm track, Daley looked in his rear-view mirror. Bentham was gesticulating at Fearney with a pointed finger, his face contorted in aggression. You’re not as smart as you think you are, Mr Bentham, Daley thought. His attention was dragged back to his driving as the offside front wheel disappeared down one of the deeper potholes with a spine-jarring thud. The policeman decided to proceed more cautiously.

21

The land in front of the small boat presented a looming, red-grey edifice. Seabirds soared skyward from their nests only to plunge back into the sea like small missiles, their wings tight to their bodies. After a few seconds, they would bob back to the surface with, if they were lucky, a writhing fish clasped in their yellow beaks. He wondered idly about the many things he didn’t know about the world – would never know – reasoning that even the greatest minds the planet had ever produced could only know a fraction of such a complex existence.