The Last Witness (2 page)

He raised his glass and smiled at the toast that had become a daily mantra. Outside, the clouds were growing darker; it looked like Marna would have to forego her swim and find solace solely in the gin, or perhaps a workout in the basement gym. He sighed and gulped down another mouthful of the whisky at the same moment as the doorbell rang.

‘Mair shit fae Amazon,’ he muttered, looking at the outline of the tall figure behind the glass-panelled front door. He had to fiddle with the chain and double locks before he was able to turn the large brass handle and swing the door open.

‘Good tae see yer keepin’ yer door locked, Gerald.’

The whisky glass dropped from his hand and onto the thick carpet as he tried to close the door. His visitor, though, was faster, and shouldered his way into the hall, knocking him against the wall.

The pain of the first strike of the machete on his unprotected skull sent flashes through his eyes, his left arm into convulsions, and weakened his knees. The second strike was less painful, his senses dulling as he slid down the wall of his hallway. After the third, he neither thought nor felt any more.

Calmly, his attacker dropped the murder weapon and, leaving the front door open and the dead man in full view of any passing neighbour, bounded down the front steps and along the path to his parked 4x4.

He opened the boot. Inside, Marna lay on her side, trussed in a kneeling position with her wrists tied to her ankles behind her back. The thick duct tape plastered over her mouth prevented her from crying out, allowing only the quietest whimper. Tears flowed from her wide, terrified eyes, mascara running into the mucus from her nose. Roughly, he pulled on the ropes that bound her, letting her fall from the car onto the road. Her scream of pain sounded only faintly behind the plastic tape. The woman’s head throbbed and her vision blurred. She could feel the rain on her skin; for some reason her mind scrolled back to a trip to miserably wet Largs when she had been a child – she could clearly see her mother’s face.

He bent forward and pulled the sobbing woman up onto her knees, then grabbed her roughly by her long peroxideblonde hair to make sure she was looking along the pathway and up the three front steps to her home. She breathed
heavily through her nose, partly through fear and partly necessity, as mucus was beginning to block her nasal passages.

‘There ye are darlin’.’ His voice was calm, and strangely unfamiliar now that she had become accustomed to the Aussie twang. ‘Just thought I’d gie ye a wee look at yer man. No’ at his best the now, eh?’ He tugged at her hair again as silent sobs racked her body.

He pulled up his jacket and removed a handgun from the waistband of his trousers.

She thought of her mother again: her hand wiping the rain from her face on the Largs seafront, holding her close to keep her dry.

‘Cheerio, ye fuckin’ pair o’ rats.’

The one shot from the pistol sent its report echoing down the quiet suburban street and a bullet into her temple.

He walked slowly back to the car, pausing to look up and grin at something unseen before jumping into the driver’s seat and speeding away, tyres squealing on the wet tarmac.

The dead woman’s eyes stared blankly at the ground on which she knelt, face down, all memories gone.

2

30 November, Kinloch, Scotland

His heart thudded against his chest in an alarming way, causing nearly as much discomfort as the tight boots on his feet.

‘We’re nearly there, darling.’ Her voice was clear; she was not in the least out of breath. ‘Another ten minutes and we’ll get a seat and open the flask.’

‘I . . .’ His breathing was laboured. ‘I . . .’

‘Don’t try to speak until we stop, love, or you might not get there at all,’ she giggled. ‘It’ll be worth it in the end – you’ll see.’ She bounded ahead as he stopped yet again to gulp down lungfuls of cold air.

Half an hour later he was beginning to feel just about normal. They were sitting atop a grassy mound at the summit of Ben Saarnie, a modest hill that overlooked Kinloch. The town lay before them in miniature: traffic, buildings and busy-looking people, almost like toys at this remove. He realised what a local he was becoming as he found himself able to recognise some of the cars and vans, picturing their occupants. Never let it be said that Jim Daley is not observant, he thought.

‘This was the site of an Iron Age fort, you know.’ She was taking photographs with an expensive digital camera. ‘Strange to think that hundreds of years ago people stood right here, breathing this air, just being alive. Don’t you think, darling?’

At that exact moment, all of his concentration was focused upon removing a Penguin chocolate biscuit from its packaging, his reward for the struggle up the hill. So he employed his habitual reply when he had not quite heard what had been said: something between a grunt and a word, ambiguous enough to be taken as the answer of someone who was actually paying attention.

‘I think I’ll get my tits out; it’s a really liberating feeling at this height.’ She smiled as she watched his continued attempt to get at the confectionery.

At last! He had broken into the wrapper and thought he better reply before he set about the contents. ‘Absolutely, Liz, aye.’ He then devoured half of the biscuit with one bite.

‘You’ve not been listening again,’ she said, with an I-told-you-so intonation.

‘Eh? Wha’ you say?’ He spat out a few crumbs as he looked up at her, his mouth full of chocolate.

‘Nothing, Jim,’ she laughed, putting the viewfinder back to her eye. ‘Just you enjoy some more empty calories.’

Suddenly the biscuit tasted sour in his mouth. This little hike was part of the fitness campaign that his wife had so generously devised for him. She reckoned that with regular exercise and an excruciatingly austere dietary regime, he could lose at least four stones before the spring. This was week three, and despite enormous blisters on his feet and a gnawing hunger that never abated, he had managed to shed only a paltry two pounds.

Undeterred, his spouse had shrugged her shoulders at the most recent weigh-in on their newly acquired bathroom scales and declared: ‘The first few pounds are always the toughest. After that it’s plain sailing.’

He wondered how she was so sure of this. In the many years he had known her she hadn’t put on an ounce of weight and had never,
ever
, been on a diet. However, to please her, and to bask in the joy of virtuousness, he continued to suffer the sore feet and rumbling stomach. Yuletide beckoned though, with its temptations of calorific indulgence and general sloth, never mind the immersion in various types of alcohol. He tried not to think about it.

The air was cold and exhilarating as they trudged down the hill. Daley’s knees throbbed in time to the rumble of his poorly nourished belly. There seemed to be a kind of blueness in the air, framing everything in a light that could only be that of a Scottish early winter. The still water of the sea loch below appeared more viscous than it should as it reflected the winter landscape; the scene was calm and glorious. Daley hadn’t noticed all of this on the way up, concentrating as he had been on reaching the summit without expiring, but he had to admit that his surroundings – and even, to some extent, the experience of hill walking – were stimulating. Was he beginning to fall into step with his wife’s pursuits at last?

Well, one step at a time.

Daley’s car was parked on a patch of waste ground near the farm gate that led to the hill. The new Toyota RAV4 had come with his new title of Chief Inspector, Sub-Divisional CID, as well as Sub-Divisional Commander (Acting), Kinloch, Y Div.

He had just found the car keys in the depths of his new ski jacket – XXL, very expensive and a present from Liz – when he heard the tinkle of his new iPhone, another trapping of his elevated job status. Strapping himself into the driver’s seat with one hand, he took the device from his pocket with the other, squinting at the screen to see that he had an email from his distant superior, Superintendent John Donald.

‘Hang on, please, Liz. I better take a swatch at this.’ As his wife sighed, he remembered how to retrieve emails and started to read.

From: Supt. J. Donald.

To: Chief Insp. J. Daley

Subject: Killing, Australia

Message: Thoughts – ASAP

Daley clicked on the attachment and the banner of the
Melbourne Star
newspaper burst into view. He slid his finger down the screen until the bold headline was revealed: COUPLE BUTCHERED IN CITY SUBURB. Then the byline:
Husband and wife business team executed in broad daylight
.

Daley scrolled further down, wondering what this distant murder had to do with him. But when two fuzzy, passport-style photographs slid into view, all confusion was immediately banished. His audible gasp attracted a questioning look from his wife, now fidgeting in the passenger seat.

‘Fucking hell’, was all he could say. ‘Fucking hell.’

3

The Semper Vigilo logo flickered on the outsized screen mounted on the wall of Kinloch Police Office’s dedicated audiovisual room.

‘That’s it, sir. The boss should be on in a couple of minutes.’ DC Dunn had just connected an internal Skype call to headquarters in Paisley. ‘Just give me a shout when you’re finished and I’ll log off.’ She smiled as she stood up, flattening the front of her trousers in the way Daley had become accustomed to in the last few months.

‘Thanks. Any chance of a coffee? Or is that a sexist request you’re not prepared to comply with?’ He smiled at the young policewoman, who made a face at him as she left the room.

There was a faint
ding
from somewhere, and the logo was replaced by the familiar figure of Superintendent John Donald, sitting behind his desk and speaking to someone out of shot, unaware that he was being watched by his longsufering DCI.

‘Where did you pick up these skills, Jackie?’ He was smiling unctuously at the unseen figure. ‘Buggered if I can get anything out of the damned thing. Don’t suppose you fancy giving me a quick tutorial after work? Over a drink or two perhaps?’

Daley coughed diplomatically, making his boss jump in surprise.

‘Ah, Jim. Silent but deadly, as always. As you no doubt heard, I’m trying to get to grips with this new technology. I sincerely hope that you’re doing your bit in this regard? You got the new phone-i-thing, I take it?’

‘Yes, I’ve got the phone-i-thing, thanks,’ was Daley’s curt answer. It’s not the technology you’re trying to get to grips with, you old lech, he thought. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t worked out how to perform a virtual knock yet,’ he said, smiling into the camera.

‘Yes, well, no doubt an issue of protocol with which we will have to deal.’ Daley could see that his superior was trying to contain his embarrassment. ‘Anyhow, to business. My time is precious, as I’m sure yours is, to a certain extent. As big a shock for you as it was for me, I don’t doubt?’

Daley raised his eyebrows, adjusting to the sudden change to the real subject of their call. ‘You could say that, sir.’

Donald looked at something on his desk. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not the only shock you have in store.’ He smiled back from the large screen.

Daley had mixed feelings about this kind of virtual meeting with Donald. On the upside, he didn’t have to suffer his close presence, but seeing Donald framed on the massive screen made Daley feel that he was having a conversation with some sort of minor deity.

‘As you know,’ Donald continued, ‘Gerry and Marna Dowie were partly responsible for one of the biggest successes we’ve ever had against organised crime in this country.’ He looked back into the camera, prompting Daley to nod obediently.

‘And then they were killed in a car accident on one of the Costas, while in witness protection – or so we were led to believe,’ said Daley.

‘Yes, apparently their security was compromised in Spain, so this ruse was thought up as a cover. A new life down under.’

‘Which clearly didn’t work.’ Daley sat back in his chair, remembering the pictures from the crime scene that Donald had emailed him. The violence was sickening and brutal; the fact that it had taken place in a suburban street in the middle of the afternoon made it seem even worse.

‘Our colleagues in Melbourne are no strangers to gangland violence, but I’m told even they were shocked, not just by the crime, but also the audacity with which it was carried out.’ Donald had raised his right eyebrow, indicating to Daley, who had known him for a long time, that he agreed.

‘I suppose our connection to all of this is pretty tenuous now though?’ Daley was anxious to cut to the chase.

‘No. Not at all, I’m afraid to say.’

Daley’s heart sank.

‘For a start, you and DS Scott were instrumental to the case that brought the Machie family down.’

How could I forget? thought Daley.

‘And of course, certain threats were made to you personally, from the dock, if I remember correctly.’ Donald smiled again, as though to drive this point home to his DCI.

The trial of the key members of the Machie family and their associates had gone down in history as one of the most successful blows to organised crime ever administered in the UK, one that exposed the tendrils of the family’s empire from Aberdeen to Exeter.

The case was mainly predicated on testimony from longtime gang member Gerald Dowie and his mentor, Frank MacDougall, two of Scotland’s most notorious criminals. Both men had been part of the Machie clan for many years; it had been their arrest by Daley and Scott, and subsequent deals with the fiscal that had seen them enter the witness protection programme with immunity from prosecution, in return for providing information leading to the capture of senior members of the crime organisation.

Their evidence was spectacular. Top men like Gavin Nash and Danny Whitaker were set to spend most of the rest of their lives behind bars. And, the jewel in the crown, self-styled Godfather James ‘JayMac’ Machie was sent down to serve no less than five life sentences. Daley could still see him as he vowed vengeance on both himself and Scott, his face a study of absolute, cold hatred, as he was being taken down at Glasgow’s High Court.