A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Aye, and is your arse hanging out the back o’ your breeks protocol tae? I take it you’ve got a clean pair o’ scants on, or it’ll no’ be pleasant for the poor bugger behind you.’ Scott laughed heartily at his own observation.

  ‘When’s the last time you wore a uniform?’

  ‘When they had silver buttons and a whistle. Those were the days, right enough – none o’ this T-shirt and zip nonsense. Proper kit, wae a proper tie – looked the part.’

  ‘Shame half the cops that were slopping about in them were pished on vodka.’

  ‘You couldnae beat the old voddie. Few glasses o’ that and a couple o’ Mint Imperials and no bastard knew you’d had a drink.’ Scott adopted a distant, wistful look.

  ‘Until you fell over.’

  ‘Och, that only happened twice – and one o’ they times it was down tae a bad curry I ate at a doss.’

  The door of Daley’s office was rattled by a sharp knock and Sergeant Shaw appeared. ‘That’s Chief Superintendent Symington and the Foreign Secretary arriving now, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant. Please tell her I’m on my way.’

  ‘Aye, as soon as he can get some WD40 on they troosers tae help them bend at the knees.’

  ‘Fuck off, Brian.’

  ‘Here, I hope you don’t go spouting that kind o’ language tae the Duke o’ Dingwallshire, or whoever it is. It’ll be the Tower for you, Jimmy boy.’

  Daley glared at his old colleague malevolently as he walked stiffly from the office in his skin-tight uniform.

  Scott sat behind his desk, chuckling to himself. Bugger that promotion lark, he thought. I would hate to be doing the kind of shit he has to do.

  He was just about to get down to the business of the day when the phone on Daley’s desk rang.

  ‘DCI Daley’s office.’

  ‘Sergeant, I’ve got a woman on the line – she sounds quite upset,’ said DC Potts, answering calls as Desk Sergeant Shaw attended to the Foreign Secretary’s visit.

  ‘What’s her name, son?’

  ‘I couldn’t quite make it out. She’s crying, you know.’

  ‘Och, put her through. But if this is a cat up a tree, or a wean with his heid stuck in a railing, you’ll hear all about it, Potts.’

  Scott listened to the clicks as the call was transferred. Sure enough, he could hear faint sobs on the other end of the line.

  ‘Yes, madam, DS Scott speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Brian, where’s Jim?’

  For a second, Scott was lost for words. Then: ‘Liz, is that you, dear?’

  ‘Brian, I’m in a terrible fix. Please help me. I need to speak to Jim.’ And DCI Daley’s wife convulsed into sobs once more.

  3

  Govanhill, Glasgow

  The man finished his piece to camera in heavily accented English, finger wagging as he spoke.

  Rant over, his companion behind the camera pressed a button on the side of the device and the red light blinked off. They began to talk quickly in a Somali dialect.

  ‘You did well, Faduma. Your passion will strike fear into our enemies when our job is done.’

  ‘More than that, I hope, Cabdi. It will send ripples around the world. It will make every one of the Infidel fear us more than ever. What we do will change everything.’

  Faduma stood easily from a cross-legged position. He was stocky but spare, his dark hair slicked back above a sallow, clean-shaven face. Though he was a Somali, he could have passed for someone from southern Italy.

  In contrast, Cabdi was African. He’d shaved off his tight curls, but boasted a long, untamed black beard. He was taller than his companion, with a straight-backed bearing and graceful, long-limbed gait that afforded him an air of elegance, enhanced by his calm, thoughtful mien. He strode across the spartan room and unpinned the black flag that had formed the backdrop of the video. He folded it reverently then kissed it, before placing it in an old chest of drawers.

  ‘This is what they will find,’ snorted Faduma. ‘Then, they will know.’

  Both men looked startled when the old letterbox sounded in the hall.

  ‘It is the post. Quickly. This could be what we were waiting for,’ said Faduma.

  For the initial phase of their mission, the pair had eschewed all forms of modern communication. No mobile phones, computers, or internet connection. In case of emergencies they had an old fax machine, one of the few methods of contact that couldn’t be monitored by the authorities. Their digital footprint was non-existent, with all their instructions coming via the Royal Mail. Ostensibly these missives looked for all the world like letters from family, asking after their wellbeing, or about life in the UK – even pleas for money. In reality, though, they were carefully coded messages, managing their every move.

  The British were too busy tracing mobile phones or browsing history. Ironically, it would be the efficiency of their own postal service that would lead to destruction and death.

  Both men worked quietly, competently and well: Faduma in a garage, Cabdi as a junior doctor in a Glasgow hospital, where his caring manner, sound medical knowledge and friendliness were respected by patients and colleagues alike. Their flat was almost empty, save for two beds, a fridge, a table, a small chest of drawers, a radio and a few chairs. They walked lightly in the world, with basic bank accounts, legitimate documentation and passports. They were careful to lead ordinary, unassuming lives. They paid their rent and other bills on time, were on good terms with their neighbours, and even volunteered at a local food bank.

  The old Transit van parked outside in the crowded Glasgow street was their only means of transport. Though battered and rusting, it was mechanically sound, thanks to the attentions of Faduma, who had learned his trade as a mechanic in Somalia.

  Faduma opened the letter, his eyes widening as he read the words. ‘I was right. This is it, Cabdi!’ He passed the letter to his friend, hands shaking with excitement.

  The old van was about to take them on a long and winding journey, a journey that would lead to martyrdom, eternal paradise, and for some – many – deserved sorrow.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Daniel Brand, the short, stout Foreign Secretary, shaking Daley’s hand with a firm grip. ‘I see you have the same problem as me.’ He patted the stomach that hung over the waistband of his dark suit trousers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley. ‘The perils of middle age.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve tried all the diets out there, trust me; from that bloody no-bread nonsense to the one where you eat bugger all for a couple of days a week, and anything else you want for the rest of the time. All bloody nonsense.’ Brand had a broad Mancunian accent, and – to Daley at least – was not what he’d expected. At least the big detective was relieved that he wasn’t alone in having a paunch.

  ‘When would you like to visit the vessel, sir?’ asked Symington, dressed as Daley had expected in a neat, perfectly presented uniform, the braid on her hat shining brightly.

  ‘I could do with a decent cup of tea and a sandwich before we go. I’m not keen on being on water, Chief Superintendent, and I’m not sure how my stomach will cope with eating and drinking when we’re aboard. If you could provide something for my protection officers too, I’d be much obliged.’ Brand’s two Met protection officers had been consigned to Kinloch Police Office’s family room while he chatted with Symington and Daley.

  ‘We’ll round up something from the local bakery,’ said Daley. ‘Any preferences?’

  ‘Pies – every local bakery does a good pie. I dare say it’s all bloody hummus and tiny bits of lamb in a bloody jus on the Great Britain. Honestly, you sit down for a four-course meal in these places and come back hungrier than when you arrived. Fine dining, my arse!’

  Symington smiled with everything but her eyes. It was clear to Daley that Brand wasn’t quite the political sophisticate she’d been expecting, though he himself had instantly warmed to the man. It was strange meeting well-known people who were seen regularly in the media. Quite often,
in his experience, they were the polar opposite to any preconception he’d had prior to seeing them in the flesh. Brand certainly came into that category; Daley had always reckoned him to be a rather dour, hard-nosed individual. But it was always hard to define the man or woman behind the politician. He did know that for a fact.

  Symington answered a call and turned to Daley. ‘It’s DS Scott, DCI Daley. Something important. Can you see him before we head down to the pier? I’ll organise something to eat with Sergeant Shaw.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be as quick as possible,’ said Daley, wondering just what was of such importance that he had to be dragged away from the Foreign Secretary. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Brand nodded and smiled as Daley left the room in search of Brian Scott.

  ‘What’s up, Brian? I’m under pressure here.’ The big man sounded rather irritable, Scott thought.

  ‘It’s Liz, Jimmy. Just had her on the phone. In some state, so she was.’

  ‘Huh. Looking for a babysitter at short notice. It’s not as though we haven’t spent enough time and money on lawyers working out who gets James and when. She’s out of luck this time. If she wants to bugger off on holiday with her posh boyfriend she’ll have to find someone else.’

  ‘It’s not that, Jimmy. She sounded . . .’

  ‘She sounded the way she always sounds. Surely you get it by now, Brian. She’s a manipulator – ask your Ella. I know she’s never liked her; I wish I’d been as smart. It would have saved me a lot of heartache.’

  ‘I’m telling you – I’ve known her for a long time tae. There was something different about her this time. Fair sobbing, she was, big man.’

  ‘Histrionics, Brian.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s all an act. I’ll phone her when I get a minute.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘Okay, got it. Right, I need to get back and head on to this bloody cruise ship. What happened to normal policing, eh?’

  ‘It stopped in 1987.’

  Daley rushed out of his glass box, leaving Brian Scott with an uneasy feeling – a feeling that, over the years, he’d learned to hate, and with good reason.

  4

  With what they needed packed tightly into the van, Faduma and Cabdi left the sprawl of the central belt as they headed on to Loch Lomondside.

  The traffic was slow. Cabdi wound down the window, and the pair luxuriated in the clean smell away from the city. Both of them had grown up in Somalia’s countryside, and felt much more at home away from the urban crush.

  Faduma checked his new satnav. ‘Still more than two hours of driving, I think. We can swap in an hour or so, if you want?’

  ‘No, I enjoy this,’ said Cabdi. ‘Driving frees my mind. It’s like a trance.’

  ‘We are nearer to paradise in the open places.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘You look so different without your beard, my friend.’

  ‘It marks me out too easily. Though, I admit, to part with it struck at my heart.’

  The pair continued on their journey for a few more miles, before Cabdi slowed the vehicle down.

  ‘What is wrong?’ asked Faduma anxiously.

  ‘Up ahead – can you see? A flashing blue light.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Faduma squinted into the distance. His eyesight was poor, and he hated wearing glasses. That spoke of weakness, and he was not a weak man.

  As the slow line of traffic snaked on, eventually the reason for the flashing blue light became clear. One car, a white family saloon, was on its side, a large dent on the bonnet. On the opposite side of the road, a large lorry was parked at a precarious slant on the grass verge, large front bumper buckled and battered.

  Ahead, a police officer indicated that they stop. He made his way to the driver’s side of the van, indicating that Cabdi should wind down the window.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the Somali in as casual a manner as he could muster.

  ‘As you can see, gentlemen, there’s been an accident. We’re operating a convoy system, so if you wait, a police van will lead you past the scene. Okay?’ The policeman was eyeing the old van with curiosity.

  ‘Yes, of course. I hope no one’s hurt. I’m a doctor, and would be happy to help, if required.’

  ‘Thank you, but medical assistance has arrived. No serious injuries. People are still a bit shocked, and the car driver has a broken wrist, but they’ve been lucky.’

  ‘Thank God,’ replied Cabdi. ‘We shall wait for the escort vehicle.’

  ‘Good. Thank you, sir – doctor,’ the policeman said, correcting himself. He smiled and walked past them towards the car behind.

  ‘Why did you tell him you were a doctor?’ asked Faduma. ‘We must try to remain as invisible as we can.’

  ‘Did you not see him looking at the van? As soon as I mentioned I was a doctor, he stopped. Everyone trusts a man who saves lives.’

  The pair waited to be escorted past the accident under the shadow of Ben Lomond. On the loch, a passenger steamer made slow progress to its destination as a dark shadow passed across the sky; the eyes of its passengers focused on their unfortunate land-bound fellow travellers.

  Soon, the pair were back on the move behind a police van.

  ‘Were you scared, Faduma? Did you think they were looking for us?’

  ‘For a moment, yes.’ The reply was flat.

  ‘We are being watched over by a higher power. Have faith, brother.’

  As always in Kinloch, word had spread that the Foreign Secretary was in town, and crowds were gathering on the pier from where the party was to embark onto the Great Britain.

  ‘Man, but she’s a fine sight, indeed,’ said Hamish, puffing on his pipe.

  ‘I hope you don’t mean Elsie Macmillan, Hamish. You’re too old tae have a glint in your eye,’ observed Annie.

  ‘No, nor glint in my eye. I mean that cruise ship. Lovely lines. A fine vessel.’

  ‘I canna see it for a’ that smoke from your damned pipe. You should try that vaping.’

  ‘Vaping? Is that they young fellas wae the beards who blow oot great clouds o’ steam that smell like strawberries? If you ask me, it’s mair like the Flying Scotsman than enjoying a good smoke.’

  ‘Aye, they do make them in different flavours. Oor Cissie swears by the apple and cinnamon yins.’

  ‘Well, if they start doing them in a whisky flavour, I’ll consider it. In the meantime, I’d much rather have a good black shag.’

  Annie observed her oldest customer with a raised brow for a few moments. ‘It’s the only shag you’ll be getting this side o’ the pearly gates,’ she muttered.

  ‘I might be a grand old age, Annie, but there’s bugger a’ wrong wae my lugs.’

  ‘Naw, jeest the rest o’ you that’s falling tae bits.’

  ‘Talking of falling tae bits, there’s oor chief inspector. Man, he looks fair done in – pale as a ghost.’

  ‘Aye, and that uniform could do wae a bit o’ letting oot.’

  ‘Och, what he’s needing is a good woman. Too many drams and junk food. The only time a decent meal crossed his lips was when I was up there on the hill feeding him.’

  ‘It was always going to be a temporary arrangement, Hamish.’

  ‘True, true. But it’s a fine view he has from the decking. The toon looks right bonnie in any weather fae up there.’

  ‘You’re lucky no’ tae be in an old folks’ home – you should count your blessings.’

  ‘If it was up tae that niece o’ mine I’d be tied tae the toilet in one o’ those places, fair filled wae drugs tae keep me right pliant.’

  ‘Instead you’re filled wae whisky every night you leave the County. Oh, there’s the Foreign Secretary – there, beside thon Symington lassie.’

  ‘Another one who could benefit fae a diet o’ fish.’

  Annie stood on her tiptoes. ‘You’re right. He’s no’ very big, is he? Well, up the way, a
t least.’

  ‘Away, ya fat bastard!’ shouted a member of the crowd.

  ‘Och, that’s no way tae greet a dignitary at all. When I was young they’d have had you up in front o’ the sheriff for less.’

  ‘See Mr Daley fair pulled his stomach in when he heard it.’

  ‘It’s a’ this caper aboot body image. I read it in a magazine at the dentist. Folk have a different idea o’ themselves than the reality. Some better, some worse. Poor Mr Daley is in the latter category, I’m thinking.’

  As the Foreign Secretary waved to the crowds before stepping aboard the launch that would take him to the Great Britain, there was a feeble round of applause.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll no’ droon,’ shouted another wag. ‘Float like a seal, so you will!’

  Hamish shook his head again. ‘An’ this used tae be a fair genteel wee toon.’ He turned to Annie, looking for a reply, but she was scanning the dignitaries as they boarded the small boat. ‘Missing Sergeant Scott, are you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know fine whoot I mean. Since that nice wife o’ his moved tae the toon you’ve been like a sore wae a bare heid.’

  ‘You’ve got that the wrong way round, Hamish.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘And anyway, I’m quite fond of Ella. She’s a right nice woman.’

  ‘Shame she didna marry someone else though, eh?’

  ‘You’re havering – it’ll be the lack o’ booze. I need tae get back to work anyway. Are you coming?’

  ‘Och, pension day’s no’ until Tuesday. It’ll be a dry sail for me until then.’ Hamish looked wistfully out to sea as he took one last draw on his pipe.

  ‘A dry sail, indeed. Come on, you’ll need a dram tae get over a’ this excitement – government ministers an’ that.’

  ‘Jeest a fat wee barrel, if you ask me.’

  ‘Whoot happened tae a’ the dignity?’

  ‘The poor bugger can’t hear me now, so it won’t rip his knitting in any way. Right, let’s get up the road and I can take advantage o’ that dram you just promised me.’

  As Annie and Hamish headed back to the County Hotel, the launch made its way through the choppy grey water, heading against the tide towards the cruise ship anchored near the head of the loch. No one noticed that one of the passengers was desperately trying to avoid presenting his back to the company. DCI Daley’s uniform trousers had finally split as he clambered aboard.