A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘We’ll try and get closer. Look, there to the left, that wee mound. If we can get there unseen, I can use the night vision glasses. But we’ll need tae be right quiet.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can creep aboot wae the best o’ them, son.’

  Kevin gave his grandfather a knowing look before leading the way up the hill, crouching against its contours in the shadow of the gibbous moon. He soon waved Scally to a stop, pointing upwards, and the pair crawled up the small mound, staying as low as they could.

  ‘They’ve had a fire, anyway. I can still see the dying embers,’ whispered Peter. ‘And the tail lights. What can you see?’

  Kevin had the night vision binoculars to his eyes. ‘Two men wae hooded tops standing near the back of a van. They’re checking the fire oot.’

  ‘Whoot for?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to see, because the rear lights are flashing out my view. They jeest seem tae be poking aboot in the fire.’

  ‘They’ve likely had a barbecue.’

  ‘Oh, aye. You could barbecue half the toon in a fire that size.’

  ‘You’re getting too big for your boots!’

  ‘Quiet. They’re getting ready to leave.’

  Sure enough, the tone of the van’s engine rose a notch and soon the full beam illuminated the path in front of it. Slowly, the vehicle pulled away, the rattle of a venerable engine plain on the night air.

  ‘What will we do now?’

  ‘Hang on for a few moments, Papa. We don’t want to go down there in case they come back. Be patient.’

  They stayed crouched to the ground for a few moments, Kevin using the time to remove his rifle from its leather sleeve.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Better safe than sorry, Papa. These poacher guys don’t mess aboot. And if they see this it might gie them second thoughts if they fancy a go, you know whoot I mean?’

  Slowly, with only one shaded torch to guide them this time, they made their way down into the dip where the van had been. Kevin stopped a few times, but could hear no movement ahead. When they reached the spot where they’d seen the van, he pointed his torch at the ground. ‘They’re clever, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No tyre tracks.’

  ‘How did they manage that?’

  ‘They get onto a gravel track like this, then change into an old set of tyres with no tread. The gravel gives them purchase, and they don’t leave any trace.’ Kevin was now crouching beside the remains of the fire the men had left behind. ‘Kinda strange, is it no’?’

  ‘Whoot?’

  ‘Well, poachers don’t often light fires. They’ve used petrol, I can smell it.’

  ‘Aye, you might be right, son.’ Scally made his way to the fire, and began poking about in the warm ashes.

  ‘Whoot’s the white stuff, Papa?’

  Scally knelt down and picked a piece of charred material from the heart of what must have been a hot blaze judging by the way the ground had been burned and charred. He examined the rounded remnant in his gloved hand. ‘I’d say that was bone o’ some description. See, they have had a barbecue. Deer – maybe a sheep?’

  ‘You don’t roast meat on a petrol fire. Everything just tastes of fuel.’

  ‘Aye, good thinking, Kevin. But you must know how stupid some folk are. City boys up on the rattle, if you ask me, off wae a taste o’ petrol in their mooths.’

  Peter Scally hefted the charred object in his palm, then took his glasses from his pocket and examined it under the light of the torch.

  ‘What dae you think, Papa? Is it hot?’

  ‘Aye, jeest that, son. That was part o’ a deer skull, I’d bet my life on it.’ Peter Scally was breathing heavily.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Twenty-two years in Kinloch’s retained fire brigade, that’s how. You were jeest a wean when I retired. Och, you see all sorts.’

  ‘We better get the polis, Papa.’

  As Peter Scally rubbed his chin, still breathing heavily, Kevin cocked his head. ‘Quick, Papa. They’re coming back. I can hear the engine!’

  The pair dived back up the slick slope in the direction they had come. Scally lost his footing, but with strong arms his grandson pulled him up, until they were safely over the rise.

  As they looked down, the same van pulled up beside the fire.

  14

  The flat where missing crewman Majid had been spotted was on the first floor of a run-down block of flats on Long Road. Scott and three uniformed constables made their way up the dilapidated stone staircase as quietly as they could. As they were only one floor up, Scott had stationed another cop on the pavement below the flat, just in case this Majid decided to make a break for freedom by jumping out the window. As far as he could ascertain, there was no other route out of the apartment, bar the door.

  ‘This place stinks of piss,’ said a young constable, screwing up his face.

  ‘You’ll have my boot up your arse if you don’t shut it, piss, or no’,’ said Scott in a loud whisper. ‘The last thing we want is this bugger getting on his toes ’cos he hears us coming.’ He turned to a tall, thin PC with a spotty face. ‘Right, Davison, when I nod my heid you chap the door. We’ll hide roon the corner here in the shadows.’

  ‘How will I see you nod your head if you’re in the shadows?’

  ‘I’ll poke it oot intae the light, dumbo. Just get on wae it!’

  Constable Davison took his allotted position at the front door of the flat, which was on an open landing, the only light coming from the moon and the dim sodium glow of street lights to the front of the building. He looked anxiously into the shadows until Scott’s head appeared, nodding vigorously.

  With a gloved fist, he rapped on the door. ‘Is there anybody in? It’s the police. Open up right now!’

  Scott shook his head and made a slashing motion across his throat as he hurried across to the doorway. ‘What did I say? Don’t let on we’re the polis!’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Just we get told to identify ourselves at police college.’

  ‘Aye, well you’re not at police college now. Wait.’ Scott put his ear to the door. ‘Right, there’s somebody moving about.’ He pushed Constable Davison out of the way, and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘We know you’re in there, Mr Majid. Open the door, and let’s get you back aboard that bloody boat – ship,’ he roared, not forgetting to correct himself.

  He listened again. Someone was definitely moving about in the hall. ‘One last chance. Come out, or I’ll have no choice but to force entry!’ Banks had alluded to the fact that Majid was in possession of some equipment belonging to the Great Britain. And for security reasons alone, they had to find their man.

  Beside him the radio Davison was carrying burst into life. ‘Three-six-one to DS Scott. A light’s just come on in one of the rooms. I can see it from the street, over.’ It was the officer on the pavement in front of the building.

  ‘Right, boys, get the door in. Use the rammer!’ commanded Scott. He stood back and the two stouter constables – not Davison – got to work on the flat’s door with a metal ram. After a few lunges, wood splintered and the door broke open. Soon police torches threw bright beams of light across the hallway, where a small dark-haired man cowered against a table.

  ‘Please, do not kill me!’ he shouted in an Asian accent.

  ‘Grab him!’ shouted Scott. Quickly, they burst into the hall. One of the cops located a light switch and the scene was fully illuminated by a bare bulb at the end of a cord flex. Davison dashed forward and grabbed their quarry by his stained vest. The unfortunate captive wailed, appearing more intent on keeping his boxer shorts from falling to his feet than evading justice. ‘I surrender. Please, don’t harm me!’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Davison. ‘That’s Mr Sanjeev from the Indian Star.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Scott.

  ‘He’s the guy that owns the Indian restaurant on the seafront. He does a brilliant lamb pathia.’

&nb
sp; Scott stared at the small man. ‘So it is, Davison. Right, you, where’s your friend Ranjeet?’

  ‘Who?’ Mr Sanjeev was wide-eyed with fear.

  ‘Majid, Sergeant,’ said Davison.

  ‘Aye, where’s this Majid?’

  ‘Ranjeet, Majid? I don’t know anyone with those names. Not in Kinloch, anyway,’ said Mr Sanjeev desperately.

  ‘Right, come clean, noo,’ said Scott. ‘I’ll have none o’ this nonsense. You should know better, you a local businessman an’ all.’

  Just as he was about to order a thorough search of Mr Sanjeev’s house, another voice sounded from behind.

  ‘Aye, good, you got him.’ An elderly man in a red tartan dressing gown was standing at the doorway of the property, a broad smile spread across his craggy, unshaven face.

  ‘What dae you mean, got him?’ said Scott.

  ‘Yer man there. One of your constables showed me a picture of him in the Douglas Arms earlier. I was looking out o’ my flat window across the road when I saw him here heading up the close. I jeest got right on the phone tae the station. Is he one o’ they extremists?’

  ‘You know who I am, Mr Duncan. I served you with a chicken curry and extra chips on Saturday. You’re a regular customer!’

  Scott looked at the man in the dressing gown. ‘Is this right? Dae you know Mr Sanjeev?’

  ‘Aye, I dae so. Does the best curry this side o’ Glasgow, so he does.’

  ‘So how then did you tell us this was the man in the photograph?’

  ‘Och, it was his spitting image.’

  ‘This was the man I showed you, Mr Duncan.’ One of the constables produced an image of a gaunt-faced male, no older than thirty-five, with a full long beard.

  ‘How could you think this was the man we were after?’ said Scott.

  ‘You know fine how slippery these buggers are. I reckoned that he had a false beard on in that photograph.’

  ‘And lost twenty years in age. You’ve led us on one o’ they wild goose hunts!’

  ‘Have you checked his shoes? They put the bombs in them, you know.’

  ‘That’s just racism, Mr Duncan,’ said Davison.

  ‘Aye, it is that. You apologise to Mr Sanjeev here – come on!’ said Scott with a scowl.

  ‘I’m no’ going near him. Likely have explosives in his knickers. They’re wily as fuck. I’m surprised at you lot.’

  ‘You will have no more extra chips in my establishment, Mr Duncan,’ shouted Sanjeev. ‘In fact, you’re banned from my restaurant for ever.’

  ‘Oh no, you canna dae that. Am I no’ right, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, you’re no’,’ said Scott irritably. ‘Just get back doon they stairs and home before I charge you wae being in possession of an offensive dressing gown.’

  Duncan looked around at the police officers and shook his head. ‘No wonder innocent folk get killed wae you polis no’ caring aboot these exterminists.’

  ‘Extremists!’ said Scott.

  ‘See, you even know it yourself. Free curries, is it? Well, don’t blame me when the whole town is lying in ruins.’

  ‘If you ever come to my shop again, I will shit in your curry,’ yelled Sanjeev.

  ‘And what dae you have to say about that, Sergeant? A plain threat to my health – not tae mention they hygiene regulations. What dae you intend to do, eh?’

  ‘I’ll shit in it tae.’

  Duncan’s mouth flapped open and closed, its owner momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Right, Constable Davison, show Mr Duncan home.’

  ‘I’m staying put. It’s my right as a concerned citizen.’ Duncan jutted out his chin, pulling tight the cord on his dressing gown as if to emphasise his determination.

  ‘Fine, have it your own way, Mr Duncan. Constable Davison, throw Mr Duncan doon they stairs,’ said Scott.

  Duncan hesitated for a moment, then turned quickly and rushed down the winding staircase as fast as his carpet slippers would allow.

  ‘They definitely didn’t teach that at the police college,’ said Davison.

  *

  Peter Scally and his grandson looked on as two men exited the old Transit van and inspected the remains of the fire, poking their toes into the ashes. The bright moon now illuminated the scene; Kevin had no need of his night vision glasses.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing?’ whispered Scally.

  ‘I think we’re about tae find oot.’

  One of the men, tall and thin, picked up something from the charred grass then walked across to the van and opened the passenger door to get back into his seat. Scally and Kevin looked on as the smaller man stared at the ashes of the fire before he too returned to the vehicle.

  ‘They’d forgotten something, I reckon,’ murmured Kevin.

  ‘Och, maybes they’re jeest being environmentally friendly, son. You know what it says on all they posters you see noo – you know, tidy up after yourself when camping. Likely that’s what they’re doing.’

  ‘Huh, you’ve fair changed your tune. Thugs fae Glasgow oot on the drink having a fly barbecue – now they’re members o’ the Green Party.’

  ‘Och, I’m no’ right sure now, Kevin. I think maybe a’ the excitement o’ the night jeest made me a wee bit dramatic. And anyhow, you know fine what my eyesight is like these days. You’ve got right suspicious since you started this gamekeeping lark.’

  ‘I can’t tell you whoot they were at. But I’m here tae gamble they’re up tae no good, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Wait noo, Kevin. Your mind can fair work up tae mischief up here in the hills in the dark. Best left tae their ain devices, if you ask me.’

  ‘Well, if you say so,’ said Kevin doubtfully.

  ‘Anyhow, the last thing we need is tae get involved wae a gang o’ poachers. You’ll know better than me, but I hear they can be ruthless bastards.’

  ‘So, it’s poachers, noo. You change your mind fae one minute tae the next, Papa.’

  As they looked on from the height of the knoll, the lights of the van flashed into life and the old engine rattled back into operation. They turned the vehicle round on the grass near the fire then made their way back down the rough gravel track.

  ‘I’m no’ happy, Papa. There’s something no’ right aboot what they were up tae.’

  ‘Och, I widna be fretting o’er much, Kevin. Some strange things happen in the hills. Auld Bertie Mason used tae go up Ben Saarnie every month and howl at the full moon – regular as clockwork.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Aye, absolutely, he did. Sure that’s how he got the nickname the Howler.’

  ‘Is he still at it?’

  ‘No, he’s been deid a few years now. He got drunk one night when he was at that caper and fell in thon wee loch. They found him the next day, the empty bottle of whisky fair floating by his body. That was the end o’ the howling.’

  ‘And what aboot Cameron? We’ve still no’ seen hide nor hair o’ him, Papa.’

  ‘We’ll have another poke about, but I’m thinking he’ll be tucked up in bed beside Maggie right this very minute.’

  ‘You’ll no’ be happy at that, eh?’

  ‘I’m perfectly happy. You should do yourself a favour and stop listening tae the gossips in this toon. Anyhow, I’m no’ keen tae spend much mair time up here, no’ wae these two strange buggers floating aboot in that van. We’ll take a look o’er at where I saw the gull and follow the path a whiles. I reckon that’s us done oor bit.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. Mind, if Cameron’s no’ hame, we’ll have tae call the polis by the morning.’

  ‘Jeest you leave that tae me, son. I’ll sort things oot. Come on, let’s get going. I’m too auld for a’ this night-time adventuring.’

  There was nothing to be seen at the top of the hill, on the path Cameron Pearson would likely have taken. As they trudged back towards Kevin’s SUV, Peter Scally looked up at the night sky. Life was strange, he thought. ‘They say there’s billions o’ suns up there – countless number
s, Kevin.’

  ‘Is this you at the philosophy, Papa?’

  ‘Ach no, I suppose I was jeest wondering where I fit intae it all. You’re a young man wae the world stretching oot in front o’ you. Me, my adventures are mostly by.’

  ‘Apart fae a quick roll in the byre wae Mrs Pearson, eh?’

  ‘See, if you were normal height instead o’ being one o’ they giants that kids grow intae, noo, I’d get up and skelp your lug good and proper.’ But when he thought of Cameron Pearson, the smile on Peter Scally’s face was soon gone.

  15

  Liz Daley sat beside her husband’s hospital bed, holding his hand as he slept. She’d spent a restless night at home in Howwood, ignoring continuous phone calls from her mother.

  James Daley junior was safe with Ella Scott back in Kinloch, and she was determined to make up for the argument that had led to Jim’s collapse. She’d done it again – made everyone’s lives worse.

  ‘Liz,’ said Daley, coming to, moistening his dry lips as the machine at his side bleeped and occasionally chimed.

  ‘Hi, Jim. How do you feel?’

  ‘Fine – normal. I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘I spoke to one of the nurses when I arrived. You’ll go for a few tests today, and depending on what they find you might be discharged later on.’

  Daley sighed. ‘But what will they find?’

  ‘You have to be positive, Jim. People collapse for all kinds of reasons that aren’t serious. I’ve fainted loads of times.’

  ‘But you never got helicoptered to hospital and wired to this . . . this bloody thing.’

  ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry,’ she replied, a tear winding its way from behind her sunglasses.

  ‘And you still haven’t told me who did that to you, Liz. I’m a detective, remember; I have friends in the police across the country. I’ll be able to find out. You’d be better just telling me and getting it over with.’

  She shook her head. ‘Listen, I want you to forget about this. I should never have come to Kinloch. It was just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing – just ignore me.’