A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  5

  She winced as she secured the toddler in the car seat in the large SUV. The child fussed and moaned about wanting to be in the front, but she brushed this off with a sharp ‘No!’

  Gingerly, she took her seat behind the wheel, automatically checking her face in the mirror then grimacing at the woman who gazed back. One of her eyes was swollen, a bruised red, turning purple and yellow at the edges; not closed, but not far from it. Her brow was marked by small cuts and scrapes and one of her cheeks was swollen, giving her face a lopsided look.

  She felt her throat tighten as tears blurred her vision. Taking a deep breath, she wiped them away, cleared her throat, and tried to compose herself. She knew she had to leave soon; her mother would make her daily visit at any time, and she didn’t want to be seen in this state.

  She gripped the wheel, her right hand still sore from where he’d stamped on it. The painkillers had taken more than an hour to help her headache, and she reckoned that she’d have to buy something stronger from a chemist en route to ease the rest of her aches and pains.

  She looked at her son in the mirror. He seemed to be growing by the day – probably he’d be big like his father. Her thoughts drifted for a moment: memories of old times – different days. She knew she’d been a fool; recent experiences had taught her that. She’d thrown everything away just to play the field, find the next quick shag or pointless affair.

  This lifestyle had come at a price. The image of a lonely old woman filled her head. No lovers knocking at the door, or sending her messages on the phone. No fancy cars, or big holidays. A few old friends left who would always treat her kindly, but with suspicion; she’d tried it on with most of their husbands.

  But she wasn’t alone, was she? Her estranged husband had had an affair – perhaps more than one, who knew? She’d been rocked to the core when she found out that the man she’d married was seeing another woman. How could he, she’d thought. But she soon realised that his one dalliance was dwarfed by her sexual indiscretions.

  The pretty face of the young woman with the auburn hair popped into her mind. It was obvious that he’d opted for a younger version of her – even she could see the resemblance. But that tragic girl had been a kinder, better person than she’d ever be.

  Could she change – was it possible? She looked again at her reflection in the mirror, forcing herself to take in not only the injuries she’d sustained at the hands of her brutal, controlling lover, but what lay underneath. Her face was beginning to betray the inevitable signs of age: lines getting deeper on her brow; creases beside her eyes and at the corners of her mouth; a grey, almost drawn look; the absence of youth’s bloom. The answer was simple: she would have to change her ways.

  Where there had once been confidence, a certainty that all eyes would be on her when she entered any room, there was now doubt. Thoughts of the pity or scorn with which she would soon be greeted haunted her. She’d seen it a hundred times herself: Oh, look at her. Fuck, she’s lost it. Who’d have thought? This would be her fate.

  As she felt the tears again, she opened her expensive designer handbag and pulled out a pair of large sunglasses. They covered her swollen eye and almost obscured the swelling on her cheek. But that would bruise soon, and unless she wore a mask it would be impossible to hide. She brushed her hair down over her forehead to cover the scratches and cuts, checked her son once more in the rear-view mirror, then started the car.

  Just as she pulled out of her driveway she saw her mother’s car heading up the street. She waved enthusiastically, sure that a combination of the sunglasses, tinted windows and her mother’s failing eyesight wouldn’t reveal her plight. That had been a close call – too close!

  ‘Right, James, next stop Kinloch,’ said Liz Daley to the child already nodding off in the seat he’d almost outgrown.

  They thought the road would never end. Their route snaked between high peaks, past lochs and glens, through small villages and towns, all the time twisting and turning as they wound their way to their destination.

  ‘Another lorry,’ said Faduma, exasperated by their slow progress. ‘How many is that now?’

  ‘Many,’ replied Cabdi. ‘Even the magic you have worked on this old van will not be enough to allow us to pass them. Be calm, my brother; our journey is only as long as it will be.’

  ‘I do not have your self-possession, my friend. But my satnav tells me we are close to our destination – perhaps only ten miles or so.’

  ‘Good. But remember, the road we seek is not signposted, so we have to be alert.’

  ‘Look for a cottage with a red door on the right, then turn left into a small lane. I haven’t forgotten, Cabdi. We will be away from cameras well before we reach Kinloch.’

  Though their progress behind the big timber lorry was exasperatingly slow, the miles counted down. At last, they saw a sign that said Kinloch was only five miles away.

  ‘There is the cottage,’ said Cabdi.

  ‘Yes, so we must turn here.’ Faduma pointed to a gap in the fence that ran along the left side of the road.

  Cabdi steered onto the rough track, which was clearly little used, grass sprouting from the ridge between the deep wheel ruts. The old Transit van began to bump and lurch alarmingly, sending items in the back tumbling.

  ‘Did you ensure the equipment was secure, my friend?’ asked Faduma.

  ‘Yes, yes – no need to worry. It will only be some of our camping equipment.’

  Still, despite this assurance, as the vehicle bumped and rattled along the single track, Faduma grabbed the door handle tightly, mouthing silent prayers.

  They drove past a ruined farmhouse, its roof collapsed into the shelter of stout stone walls that still stood against the gales and storms flung at them from the Atlantic Ocean, less than a mile away. Cabdi had to brake suddenly when a fat sheep ran across their path, making Faduma yelp in fear.

  ‘I never took you for a doubter,’ said Cabdi.

  ‘That is the last thing I am. You should know better than to question my faith, brother!’

  ‘In that case, relax. This path leads us to where we will camp. Remember, by the small loch, under the large hill. All is well, my friend.’

  6

  On board the Great Britain in Kinloch harbour, the reception was in full swing in the wood-panelled ballroom, which was festooned with paintings and photographic images from all corners of the British Isles. A gallery of chairs and tables ran round the room, bordering the dance floor, and a magnificent chandelier sparkled amidst the brightly coloured lights that hung from the ceiling. Smartly dressed waiters moved amongst the gathered elite, handing out tiny canapés or glasses of champagne and orange juice.

  Daley looked on as the Foreign Secretary worked the room. He appeared completely at ease, despite his large girth and short stature. On the other hand, the big policeman was keeping to the fringes of the event, standing as close to the portholes on the seating gallery as he could in an effort to hide the gaping hole in his uniform trousers.

  ‘You okay, Jim?’ asked Symington, braided hat in the crook of one arm, glass of wine in her other hand.

  ‘Yes, ma’am; just not my kind of thing, really.’

  ‘Well, they’re here for a few days, and from what I hear a lot of the passengers are keen to sample the delights of our distilleries and golf courses. So it pays for us to get to know who’s who, if you get my drift.’

  As Daley nodded in agreement, a tall, patrician figure made his way towards them. His white uniform shirt was pristine, bearing the epaulettes of a Royal Navy commander.

  ‘Now, you must be from the local constabulary,’ he observed in haughty tones. ‘I’m Commander Brachen – call me Tim – and I’m sure our paths will cross over the next three days, or so. Nothing to worry about, I wouldn’t think. Plenty of Royal Marines and some undercover intelligence and protection officers on hand.’ His smile was broad but lacked sincerity.

  Symington introduced Daley, then herself. ‘You can understand th
at we’re rather nervous – you know, with all these VIPs aboard. Especially knowing most of them will want to come ashore at some point.’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re a lively bunch – especially the Japanese, would you believe? We had a hard time with them in Glasgow. Had to put in longer than we’d planned because of the storm. They’re fine on spirits, whisky and the like, but give them proper beer and they’re bloody miraculous.’

  ‘I’ve read about that,’ said Daley. ‘It’s a genetic thing. Beer wasn’t a tradition in Japan, so they find it hard to hold.’

  ‘You’re on the ball, DCI Bailey.’

  ‘Daley, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Brachen waved his hand airily, eyes focused on what was happening in the rest of the room. ‘You’ll understand that while I’m not in nominal command of this vessel, it’s all things through me, do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Symington. ‘I believe the shipping line wanted to retain their own captain, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. That’s him over there.’ Commander Brachen nodded across the room to where a man in an ornate Merchant Navy uniform with a gaudily braided cap was chatting easily with Charlie Murray, Kinloch’s own political tour de force. ‘Captain Banks – nice chap. Bloody good seaman, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘I sense a but coming,’ said Symington.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is. I dare say you have a similar view of private security firms: fine in their own way, but hardly professional. He and his crew – mostly Asians – are doing the legwork when it comes to cooking, cleaning, service, and the like. My men observe, of course, but I’d have been much happier with a fully professional seafaring crew.’

  ‘By that you mean a Royal Navy one?’ said Daley.

  ‘Bang on, Bailey. Still, one can’t always get what one wants in this life. Rest assured that if anything were to go wrong, I’d take command and consign the merchant squad to their quarters. But, as I say, nothing’s likely to happen. We’re shadowed by a frigate, as well as the onboard security I’ve mentioned. I make sure that Banks sticks to his guns, so to speak, and off we go. Quite the jolly for me, in fact.’

  ‘Well, when your guests are ashore, I’d appreciate a briefing from whoever is in charge of security. If that’s possible, Commander Brachen?’ said Symington.

  ‘Oh, certainly.’ He craned his head to look round the large room. ‘Her name is Annabelle Tansie; I think one would best refer to her as a spook – MI5, you know. I don’t see her, but I’ll dig her up before you go and arrange a meeting. Now, must circulate, you know how it is.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You don’t appear to have moved from that spot, Bailey. No sea legs, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The police officers watched Commander Brachen as he made his way through the crowd.

  ‘Arrogant prick,’ said Symington quietly.

  ‘At least he got your name right.’

  ‘True. Are you sure you’re okay, Jim? You do look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a uniform malfunction, ma’am.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’ve ripped my trousers.’

  ‘Oh.’ Symington struggled to stifle a laugh. ‘Yes, I did notice your uniform was on the neat side.’

  As she looked away in an attempt to hide her amusement, Captain Banks made his way towards them.

  ‘DCI Daley. Jim.’ The policeman held out his hand and received a firm handshake in return. ‘This is my superior, Chief Superintendent Symington.’

  ‘Carrie,’ she said, also shaking the captain’s hand.

  ‘Banks – Magnus Banks. I used to be in charge of this vessel.’

  ‘You still are, surely?’ said Symington.

  ‘In name only. I saw you chatting to Brachen. He’s the real OIC.’ Banks shook his head.

  ‘A clash of personalities?’ asked Daley, instantly warming much more to the captain than he had to the Royal Navy commander.

  ‘You could say that. I’ve got a good twenty years on him – he’s just a boy, really.’

  Daley noted that he had a Scottish accent – watered down, with some anglicised vowels, but Scottish nonetheless. ‘What part of Scotland are you from, Captain?’

  ‘Oh, please call me Magnus. I’m an East coaster – Peterhead. Brought up to be on the water, one way or another. I’ve sailed this coast many times, but this is the first time I’ve put in at Kinloch. It’s a beautiful loch. I can’t wait to get ashore.’

  ‘You and the passengers, I gather,’ said Symington warily.

  ‘Ha, I can see why that would make you nervous. It’s like the Tower of Babel on board. Mind you, it usually is, but unusual to have such an exalted passenger list.’

  ‘How many nationalities?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Twenty-four, at the last count. All with their own likes and dislikes. I must say, for business people, it’s bloody hard to get them to mix. Love to stay in their own little groups.’

  There was a murmur in the crowd.

  ‘Look out,’ said Banks. ‘Here’s the duke and duchess. We’ll all be invisible from now on.’

  As they looked across the room, a short, thin man with sparse dark hair and glasses was making his way down the winding staircase beside a woman rather taller than himself. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a slightly gaunt face, while his wife, who appeared significantly younger, wore a dress of royal blue, her blonde hair topped by a sparkling tiara.

  ‘The allure of these people never fails to amaze me,’ said Banks. ‘Pleasant enough, mark you. But they seem utterly detached from the real world. Maybe it’s just me. The sovereign does her job – no doubt about it. But these distant cousins . . . Anyway, I’d better go and do my duty.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Symington, smoothing down her uniform skirt, and making Daley’s heart sink at the memory of another woman he’d known who did just that habitually.

  For some reason, memories of Mary Dunn had been crossing his mind more often recently. He supposed that now the initial period of shock and grief was over, he was able to think about her without his heart breaking. Sometimes it still did, and sometimes it was as though she’d never been.

  ‘I take it you’re staying put, Jim,’ said Symington with a grin.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. For the best, I think. I’ll just observe from the sidelines.’

  ‘Very wise, DCI Daley.’ She smiled broadly at him before turning to follow Captain Banks, heading for the growing throng around the duke and duchess.

  7

  Cabdi and Faduma had unloaded most of the contents of the old Transit van, and were now erecting a large tent. They did this quickly and efficiently, as they’d practised many times. They were working to a tight schedule. Everything had to be in place if their mission was to be a success.

  The tent secure, Faduma opened an aluminium case. Within was a large drone, together with a control handset. Having made sure the device was intact, he set the case down on the camping table his partner had just unfolded.

  Cabdi smiled. ‘Ready for the test flight? Good. That is a job best left to you, brother. You are the expert. My mission is to put everything in place. Now I want to have a walk and take a look at our surroundings.’

  ‘Agreed. I will wait here for you. I expect we’ll receive instructions soon.’

  ‘Yes, brother, I’m sure we will.’ Cabdi took a cheap mobile phone from his pocket and inserted the SIM card and battery, which he had removed earlier.

  ‘It looks so old-fashioned.’

  ‘It is, Faduma. But it works, cannot be traced to us. From here we will get our instructions.’

  ‘So they will come through you?’

  ‘One device is enough. The more phones there are, the more likely it is that we will be caught.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But here in the West, where so many people have their heads stuck in mobile phones, I wonder how one device could be traced. ’

  ‘Very easily, trust me. They are controlled, these people
, Faduma. They are told what to think and what to feel. They have lost contact with what is important in life.’ Cabdi muttered a prayer.

  ‘While you are away I shall pray, too.’

  ‘Do so, brother. Pray for us all and that our mission goes well.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘And remember, always Somali. Even if someone is listening to us, what chance is there that they will have our tongue?’

  ‘You are wise, brother.’

  ‘But you, Faduma, are a genius with electronics and mechanics.’ Cabdi nodded over to the old van.

  ‘Please. I am a modest man. I do what I can, that is all.’

  ‘And no one can do it better. Of that I am certain.’

  ‘Thank you for your kindness. Good luck, brother.’

  Cabdi left the tent, the small phone in his long-fingered hand. He sniffed the air; in a way, it reminded him of home. He could smell animals – sheep, he thought. They smelled like the goats his father had kept.

  His father. Without the hard, ceaseless work of that man, he would never have had the chance to become a doctor. He’d have been a goatherd, just like his forefathers. While they had known little of the world, he knew much. And what he knew had taken him down the path he was now treading – the path that would take him where it would.

  He studied the landscape: the small lake; the gently rolling fields where animals grazed peacefully; the hill behind their campsite – rounded at the top.

  Cabdi began to climb steadily uphill, his long limbs eating away at the metres. Every so often, he would stop and look round, making sure he wasn’t being observed. When he was sure, he continued on the narrow path, no doubt beaten down by many, many feet over hundreds of years. He’d seen such paths at home, trails pushed into the landscape by numberless feet over the ages. In a way, he felt more at home in this place than he’d been for years. But he had to focus, concentrate on what had to be done – what he had to do. Again, he offered thanks.