A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ replied Banks, suddenly feeling awkward for reasons he couldn’t explain.

  He was about to change the subject and ask after the health of Mrs O’Rourke when a small, neatly dressed Asian woman, perfectly turned out for the game and sporting a bag full of the most expensive clubs, slapped the large American on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you ready to be soundly defeated, Mr O’Rourke?’

  ‘Mrs Khan. Now you’re the perfect example to us all when it comes to abstaining from alcohol. I wish I could take on board that simple advice, as we’d be halfway round the course by now, and I’d be closer to winning our bet.’

  ‘A small wager?’ asked Banks.

  ‘Fifty thousand US dollars – if you call that small, Captain?’ said Mrs Khan.

  ‘I’m in the wrong business,’ said Banks.

  ‘You are very good at your job, Captain. You have made us all feel very welcome and very safe on this beautiful vessel. I can’t say I’m a keen sailor, but you have allayed any fears I may have harboured, and now I feel completely at home at sea. It is not a person’s worth that makes him or her, but their integrity, and how they go about life and the treatment of others. We learn this from the Prophet, may peace be upon him.’

  ‘I still wouldn’t mind having a spare fifty K to risk on a wager.’

  ‘With the money this woman makes selling steel all over the world, fifty million dollars is chicken piss, buddy.’

  ‘You overestimate my wealth, Mr O’Rourke.’

  ‘Oh, I make it my business never to underestimate anyone.’

  Though he saw the huge grin spread across O’Rourke’s face, Banks detected a steeliness; probably the will to win at everything, regardless of the odds. ‘Ah, here come your friends from the government,’ he said, spotting a tall civil servant dressed appropriately in golf gear.

  ‘Good morning.’ Iain McMaster nodded a greeting to all three. ‘It’s my job today to show you the delights of the golf course at Machrie.’ Though his name was Scottish, his accent was crystal-cut upper-class English.

  ‘Show us the delights of the course, as well as promise huge profits for our companies in the United Kingdom, yes?’

  ‘You nailed it there, Mrs Khan,’ said O’Rourke.

  ‘Take my advice and don’t enter into the wager, Mr McMaster,’ said Banks.

  ‘Oh no, that would be impossible in just about every way. I’d like to say it was protocol, but with the stake being more than half my salary I feel it would be a reckless venture – especially given the standard of my game.’ He looked at his wealthy charges. ‘Right, shall we?’

  Though Khan smiled broadly, Banks was sure he could see the merest trace of a sneer on O’Rourke’s face – or perhaps it was just a rictus grin, the result of his only too obvious plastic surgery.

  Brian Scott sat in Daley’s glass box feeling less than comfortable. He’d already had to notch up the height of the swivel chair, and everything on the huge desk seemed too far away. He had to stretch to reach pens, papers – even the computer keyboard. Soon, the belongings of his old friend and boss were gathered in an easy-to-reach clutter around him.

  Even the coffee cup he was drinking from, white with a ‘J’ emblazoned on the side, seemed too big. He supposed this was all redolent of the huge gap the absence of Jim Daley left in his life and work.

  While waiting for a visit from Symington, he was taking the time to re-read the notes from Peter Scally and his grandson’s interview. Though their statements coincided almost exactly, he knew a man who wasn’t telling the truth when he saw one, and Scally had been lying – but about what, and why? Scott was sure he’d do anything to find a missing friend, but there was something amiss.

  He shouted through the open door of the glass box. ‘Hey, Potts, come in a minute, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Acting Inspector,’ said Potts as he entered the room.

  ‘First off,’ said Scott, ‘stop calling me Acting Inspector. You call me gaffer, an’ I’ll call you what I like – just the usual.’

  ‘Yes, Ac . . . gaffer.’

  ‘We’ll be here a’ day if I call you Acting Detective Sergeant Potts, and you return the favour.’ Potts stifled a grin. ‘Listen, I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘We spoke aboot Scally. Well, I want you tae find oot a’ you can aboot him. Past, present, what he likes tae eat, his mother’s maiden name – any gossip. Fuck knows, it’ll no’ be hard doon here. I’d dae it myself, but I’m tied tae this desk waiting for her majesty tae arrive. It’s nae wonder oor Jimmy gets so depressed.’

  ‘I always think he’s quite cheery.’

  ‘Aye, well, you don’t know him like I do, son. What’s happening on the good ship bollocks today?

  ‘Er, just a few excursions to the golf, or distilleries, I believe, sir. All covered by the Security Service. We’re to be on alert if there are any problems, but according to one of the Marines I spoke to they’ve got half the army on standby and a frigate full of commandos out in the Sound. So I don’t think our services will be required.’

  ‘Still no sign o’ this Majid, then?’

  ‘Guy spotted in Oban fitting his description, but apart from that, nothing. The boys up here are doing the rounds to find out more.’

  ‘And these guys in the van, anything?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve checked locally, and the uniforms are out asking questions, but nothing.’

  ‘Well, if they exist, they had tae get here somehow. Circulate it to the rest o’ the force and start checking every bloody CCTV camera we can get a hold of up and doon that bloody road.’

  A small figure appeared behind Potts in the doorway. ‘Excuse me, Acting Detective Sergeant Potts,’ said Symington, pushing past the detective. Scott raised his brows at the title.

  She was out of uniform, wearing a black trouser suit. She looked around the room with a critical eye, and for a moment Scott could picture her predecessor John Donald.

  ‘Oh, something’s arrived from HQ for you, gaffer,’ said Potts, retreating.

  ‘Aye, well, away and get it, son.’

  As Potts closed the door behind him, Symington took a seat. ‘You really must use the correct ranks now you’re Sub-Divisional Commander, Acting DI Scott.’

  ‘Och, it’s an awfy mouthful, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s procedure. Please stick to it.’ She paused. ‘We should have DNA results on our corpse later today. I want to ID this man as soon as we can. Cameron Pearson’s son works in Glasgow and has given a DNA sample. He’s coming down to be with his mother. I hope it’s not him.’ She shrugged her shoulders in regret. ‘I’ll leave you in charge of that, anyway. I’ve a meeting with the Security Service this afternoon. I know they’ve spotted someone in Oban fitting Majid’s description, but I’m not holding my breath – certainly not after what happened to the owner of our local Indian restaurant, poor man.’

  ‘That was just some racist trying tae rock the boat. I put him in his place, ma’am.’

  ‘Not by shitting in his dinner, I hope.’

  ‘Noo, as I said that was just a turn o’ phrase. Och, you had tae be there – I telt you that already.’

  ‘I’m sure. Anyway, before we do anything, I want to take a quick trip up the hill to see how things are with DCI Daley. I’m sure you’ll be happy to accompany me.’

  ‘Aye, great. I meant tae go up myself, but you know how things have been, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the old story, Brian. With power comes responsibility. I’m sure you’ve heard it.’

  ‘It was one of John Donald’s favourite sayings, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps he wasn’t the best example . . .’

  Before she could finish her sentence, there was a sharp knock at the door, and Potts appeared, carrying a large box.

  ‘For you, gaffer.’

  ‘Aye, thank you, Acting Detective Sergeant Potts. Just put it down here.’

  Potts did as he was told, with a
half-smile at the sudden return of his temporary rank.

  ‘Your uniform, Brian. Better go and try it on. With our distinguished guests out in the loch, chances are you’ll need to wear it before long.’

  ‘Right, ma’am. I’ll just go to the changing room beside the canteen.’

  ‘Never had you down for a prude, Brian. I’ll pull the blinds and turn my back. Hurry up!’

  As she closed the blinds around Daley’s glass box, Scott opened the box with his ever-present penknife. Sure enough, a hat with silver braid was on top of the rest of the uniform.

  Soon, chided by Symington for taking so long, he was changed. Wearing any kind of uniform after all these years felt very odd, especially one with pips on the shoulders – he was more used to chips occupying that particular position.

  ‘Fits like a glove – who would have thought you could look so smart, Brian!’

  Scott pulled up one blind and looked at his reflection in the glass. ‘I’m like thon bugger Mr Ben.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Och, before your time, ma’am. Anyway, I’ll get my suit back on and we can head up tae see Jimmy – DCI Daley.’

  ‘Oh, no, definitely keep it on, Brian.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know what they say: laughter is the best medicine. I’m sure your old friend will love the . . . the sight.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure.’ Scott looked at the face staring back at him from underneath the braided uniform cap and suddenly realised why he’d been happy as a detective sergeant for so many years.

  22

  Faduma slammed down the bonnet of the van irritably. ‘I need proper parts for this, I can keep it running for now, but I don’t know for how much longer.’

  Cabdi was staring at the sky through the gap in the trees. He acknowledged Faduma with a slight sideways nod of his head, eyes still fixed on the heavens.

  ‘Why do you never answer me, brother?’

  ‘I only answer when there is something to say. The vehicle has done its job, it doesn’t have much further to travel.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘When we launch the weapon, we will do our best to escape. But by now – certainly now a local man is missing – someone will be looking. I heard it on the radio earlier. Maybe not looking for us, but for anyone who can answer questions about his disappearance.’

  ‘So you have new instructions, yes?’

  ‘We flee once our job is done. We take the van to a place near the road, then set it alight.’

  ‘So you are trying to save us? I thought we were to be martyrs!’

  As though Faduma had said nothing, Cabdi continued: ‘Our job then is to make it difficult for the Infidel to find us – to use up their resources. Yes, we will be caught, but our masters have something else in mind after our job is done, and to do it we need to become the hunted.’

  Faduma scraped the toe of his boot in the dirt. He was tiring of the wait, his soul called out to him every night as he dreamed of the large ship ablaze, with those on board dying in agony amidst their filthy luxury. ‘The ship leaves in two days. We must act soon.’

  ‘We will act when our master tells us the time is right, Faduma.’

  The smaller man turned on his heel and walked back to the van. He was happier with his tools than he was with his companion now.

  He was just about to lift the bonnet when he heard Cabdi’s cheap cellphone ring. Faduma watched as the tall man answered the call, nodded, said something he couldn’t hear, then returned the device to his pocket.

  ‘So, do we have orders to go ahead?’ Faduma’s eyes were bright with bloody zeal.

  ‘No. Not today.’

  Faduma took in this information for a few moments then roared at the top of his voice, sending birds flying from the surrounding pine trees.

  ‘You want the whole world to know we’re here?’ said Cabdi, striding towards him, a look of sheer fury on his face. They began to tussle, and this time the wiry, taller man soon had Faduma pinned to the ground by his shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me, Faduma. You have a job to do, and so do I. But both of us are only packhorses, the lowest of the low. We do what we are told to do – we do it. You seem to have a problem with this. Why, brother?’

  Faduma struggled, but with surprising strength Cabdi held him tight on the rough ground, staring into his eyes unblinkingly. Soon he lost the urge to struggle any longer and surrendered to Cabdi’s will. ‘For a doctor, you can handle yourself, brother.’

  ‘I wasn’t always a doctor.’ The tall man stood, his towering figure now silhouetted against a shaft of sunlight. ‘I swear to you once more, do as you are told, Faduma. Only I have kept you alive, you know that?’

  ‘So, I want to kill the Infidel. Is that not why we are here?’

  ‘You were foolish and impulsive. You acted without thought. And, by doing this, you risked all.’

  ‘Why have we not struck back at our enemies? Surely the sooner this is done, the easier it will be?’

  ‘Because this is not what our master wants.’

  Faduma pulled himself back to his feet. ‘Tell me, Cabdi, who is our master?’

  ‘You ask too much.’

  ‘If you know, why shouldn’t I?’

  Cabdi stared at his companion, almost looking through him, as though lost in thought.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘All I know of him is his voice. That’s how all of this works, don’t you understand, Faduma? We work in groups – cells – of one or two. If we are taken and tortured by the Infidel, all we can tell them is what we were ordered to do, nothing more. No matter what they do to us, the men who are our leaders are safe simply because we don’t know who they are.’

  ‘I would never give them away – betray my masters – no matter what the cost. Never!’

  Cabdi looked up to the sky once more. ‘You would, my brother. At the hands of their torturers you would, trust me.’

  Faduma watched Cabdi as he walked away, stopped, then knelt in prayer. Despite the strength of the man, despite his conviction, Faduma was restless. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his soul.

  He had to act.

  Liz Daley opened the front door of the house on the hill, James Daley junior peering from behind her legs.

  ‘Chief Superintendent, how nice to see you again. Please come in.’ She stood aside and let Symington and the uniformed officer with her in. She glanced at the man in the braided cap then took another look. ‘Brian?’ An astonished expression crossed her face.

  ‘Aye, don’t faint, or that. It is me. Just act normal as you can – nothing to see here,’ said Scott, removing his cap as he crossed the threshold.

  ‘Muncle Brian!’ shouted the toddler, rushing to greet him.

  ‘How are you, son?’ Scott picked James up and held him above his head. ‘You’re getting big, my boy. Too heavy for me, eh?’ James chuckled.

  ‘Would it be okay to have a word with Jim, Mrs Daley?’ said Symington. ‘I know he’s on sick leave, but I thought we should pay him a visit, even if it’s just to show him this marvel.’ She turned to Scott.

  ‘Aye, it would be great to see him, Lizzie.’

  Still open-mouthed, Liz turned and led them up the hallway towards the lounge.

  Lying across the full length of a leather sofa, DCI Jim Daley had a large hardback book propped on the bulge of his stomach and a pair of round reading glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in the book he was reading. He looked up quickly when his visitors came in.

  ‘Jim,’ said Symington. ‘You’re looking well, I’m pleased to say.’

  ‘Thanks, ma’am.’ He laid the book on the floor and made to get to his feet, but Symington stopped him.

  ‘No, stay where you are, Jim. We’ve just come to say hello.’

  Daley took up a seated position, removed his glasses and smiled. ‘Thanks for coming, Carrie. You’ve met my wife, of course.’

  ‘Yes, yes indeed.’ The senior police officer smiled at Liz aga
in.

  ‘What, nothing to say tae your old pal, Jimmy?’

  Daley squinted in the sunshine pouring through the picture windows that looked across the loch to the hills beyond. First, a broad grin crossed his face, then a chuckle, followed by a full-blown laugh. Though he tried to speak, he doubled over.

  ‘Jim, are you okay?’ Liz rushed to his side. But it was soon clear that the tears streaming down the big policeman’s face were those of mirth, not pain.

  ‘Is it Hallowe’en?’ he managed to say through the guffaws of laughter.

  ‘See, I just knew this was how it would a’ play oot,’ said Scott flatly. ‘One sight o’ me wae some pips on my shoulder an’ it’s like Hallowe’en.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Daley. ‘Sorry, Brian, but it’s the last thing I expected to see.’ Helplessly, he burst into another paroxysm of laughter.

  ‘Come here, ya big bugger.’ Scott handed James Daley junior to his mother and rushed over to his old friend, enveloping him in a bear hug. ‘Man, I thought we’d lost you the last time I was in this room.’ A tear made its way down his cheek, but for different reasons from those of his best friend.

  A mobile phone sounded, and Symington thrust a hand into her handbag. She listened for a few moments, thanked the caller, then replaced the phone in her bag.

  Sensing her change in mood, both Daley and Scott looked up.

  ‘What’s up, ma’am?’ said Scott.

  ‘The results of the DNA test on our corpse are through. It’s the body of Cameron Pearson. So, we now have a local murder to solve, as well as a missing sailor.’

  23

  As was the way of things in Kinloch, word had already seeped out that Cameron Pearson was dead and the headless corpse which had been dredged up in the Sound belonged to him.

  Still sceptical, in her position behind the bar Annie looked unimpressed.

  ‘And jeest how did you hear this, Neil?’ she said to the thin man at the counter.

  ‘I telt you already, Annie. I was just going intae Kerr the bakers for a roll and sausage when this bloke stops me an’ asks if I knew Cameron. Aye, says me. The next thing he’s asking me a’ kinds o’ questions. When I asked him why, he said he worked for the papers, and that heidless body was poor Cameron.’ He shook his head. ‘Och, man, it’s enough tae make you want tae get fair pished, so it is.’