He had a natural aptitude for fixing things. From childhood his father had encouraged him to become familiar with the workings of the ancient Toyota pickup that they used to take livestock and the few things they were able to grow to market in the nearest town in Somalia. How he’d enjoyed the first day he’d been able to get the old pickup going when his father had fallen ill and it refused to start for his mother. He was only eleven years old, and his father, from his sickbed, had been proud.
But though he’d rallied, Faduma’s father was never the same after his illness. He became thin and listless, leaving the work on the farm to his wife and children. Faduma could picture him, with his light skin, just like his own, lounging on the steps of their home and chewing on a long piece of grass while Faduma, his mother and his two younger brothers did what they could to keep the family fed and a roof over their heads.
His father came from Morocco, Faduma knew that – in fact it was about all he did know about his father. It was why both he and his eldest son had lighter skin than his mother and the rest of the village. They were different, and because of it Faduma had suffered a difficult passage in the tiny hut that served as a school, teased and shunned in equal measure because of the lightness of his skin.
But as he grew, he found that the young women of the village found his looks attractive, and he learned the secrets of life from a girl of seventeen years when he himself was only thirteen.
He could still see her as she lay dying a mere two months later.
In the night men had come to their village – white men. They had weapons, and forced the villagers to gather in a little square in front of the schoolhouse. The young women were raped in front of their families. Later, one by one, everyone was killed.
As the horror erupted, he’d backed away from it, unseen by the men with machine guns, who were more eager to take their turn with the next woman than to watch for a skinny teenager making his way silently into the undergrowth behind the school where all the children used to play.
Then, like now, he’d stood motionless, taking in the horrific scene, his eyes brimming with tears. He saw a white man hold a pistol to the head of the girl who had made him a man. Her flesh had already been torn and bruised by her tormentors when they’d raped her. He recoiled in horror as her head disappeared in a flash of crimson blood, grey brain and white, shattered bone.
He had looked across the square to where his father stood, mute, head bowed, and he was ashamed of him. Why did he not fight back? There were weapons in the village – the men outnumbered the small group of killers who were now wreaking havoc amongst all the people he’d ever known. Why did they not fight back?
As the bile rose in his throat at the shame he felt for his father’s mute acceptance of the death and destruction that swirled around him, he saw his father raise his hand. No shower of blood and brain this time, just a neat black hole in his temple. He had to stifle a scream as his father’s legs gave way and he crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
Forcing his limbs to move, Faduma crept away, keeping as low as he could. Soon, the screams, the sound of gunfire and the laughter of the white killers who had fallen on his village like a sudden sandstorm retreated. All was quiet, but his life was changed for ever.
Afterwards, he’d heard the term ‘mercenaries’ for the first time. The men who had raped and murdered his family, the people of his village – everyone he knew or cared about – were mercenaries from the West. The burning hatred of them and their kind had never left him.
It was as though that night had never ended, the sun had never risen. For this moment, here on a high hill above a small town in this strange country, where the sea shimmered in the haze, was, for him, the end of days.
He pressed the ignition button on the handset. Each of the four rotor blades set at the corners of the drone burst into life as he stood on the small promontory just beyond the treeline, a jutting platform of rock, perfect for his mission.
Daley gazed out over the loch, his son in his arms, binoculars trained on the ship on the calm water below.
‘Here, do want to look at the big ship, James?’ He held the binoculars in front of the toddler’s eyes.
The little boy giggled at the new experience. ‘It’s bigger, Daddy!’ he announced through the laughter. ‘How did you make it bigger?’
‘Magic, son – sheer magic. Here, let Daddy have another look.’
Daley could see a launch disgorging its passengers at the sea door of the vessel – the same one he and Symington had been ushered through when they had visited. He remembered how the sides had towered over them like a tall building as they stepped off the small service vessel and into the vast ship.
He tried to make out who was who, and was convinced that Symington, dressed this time in her dark trouser suit, was again boarding. He knew that she planned to brief the security people aboard about the murder of Cameron Pearson, and was sure that it was she who now disappeared out of view as though swallowed by some great sea creature.
The binoculars were expensive, a gift from Liz when they’d first moved to the house on the hill. Since arriving back from hospital he’d used them more than ever before, fascinated by the Great Britain out on the loch.
He also felt useless.
Seeing Brian Scott had been – as it always was – a tonic. But the sight of the pips on his friend’s shoulder reminded him that no one is irreplaceable. He was sure that, left to his own devices and unique style, Scott would make an excellent replacement, but part of him hated the thought that his own career might now be over. Everything he had – his future, such as it was – to be decided on the whim of the medical profession.
Yes, he’d have a generous pension and lump sum. Yes, he’d be able to potter about reading books – maybe even travelling to the places he’d always wanted to see. But he was too young to retire.
His thoughts drifted back to a stooped old man in a shed at the bottom of the garden. Ian Burns, no longer a senior detective, had spent his days there, with only the daily newspaper and the wireless for solace; poor replacements for the world in which he’d been so expert, adept and self-assured.
At least Burns had had a happy marriage.
Though Daley was again sharing a house with his wife, the situation was far from permanent. He and Liz had barely spoken a word to each other since Scott and Symington had left. While he revelled in Scott’s temporary promotion – one likely to become full-time, Daley reckoned – he could see only sullen resentment on his wife’s face. Even in her reduced state, nothing had changed. She was only here now because she couldn’t face her parents, her friends from the badminton club in Bridge of Weir, or the rest of the ladies who lunched, while her face was still battered and bruised.
When he’d first seen her, his blood had boiled. For a fleeting moment he had seen her vulnerability, and the old feelings of protectiveness and a hint of affection had touched his heart.
However, in hospital he’d had time to think. She hadn’t come to him for protection, or even some kind of frayed love; no, she’d had nowhere else to go. He was sure that once the physical wounds healed, she’d head back up the road and behave as though nothing had happened. He’d been glad when she’d put on her big sunglasses an hour ago and announced she was going to the shops. He hoped she wouldn’t rush back.
Though she refused to tell him who’d attacked her, he now knew – or at least could make a well-informed guess. He had used his contacts – both police officers and informers – to find out who was likely to have been responsible. It had taken a few hours and a dozen phone calls from his hospital bed to discover that her erstwhile boyfriend was a dentist called Alexander Manston. He owned a number of thriving practices throughout the Greater Glasgow area, and lived in some splendour on the Clyde coast – just Liz’s type.
And he had form. He’d been cautioned twice over domestic abuse claims, and a case brought against him by a young colleague been found not proven, that notorious quirk of Scottish la
w that saw far too many guilty men and women escape justice, in Daley’s opinion.
So Daley knew the likely assailant’s name, his history of similar offences, and where he lived and worked. Though he hadn’t confronted Liz on the subject yet, he was going to.
‘Daddy, Daddy, what’s that flashing?’ his son shouted, pointing excitedly across the loch to the hill beyond.
Daley trained the binoculars on the area where the sun appeared to be twinkling on something metallic. He could just about make out the figure of someone standing stock-still on what looked like level ground, and he eased the little lad back to the floor in order to better focus on the spot. Though it took a few seconds, he soon found the person again. He was sure it was a man with dark hair, and on the ground beside him something metallic was indeed catching the late afternoon sun.
It’s just somebody having a look at the boat, he reasoned. But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Something he couldn’t explain marked this distant figure out as being of interest. He remembered Scott talking about two men in a van seen in the hills the night before; he thought about the murdered man whose body had been found in the Sound. No, something wasn’t right, he could sense it.
He walked across the lounge, lifted the phone, and dialled the familiar number of Kinloch Police Office.
26
The man made his way through the engine room of the Great Britain attracting no attention. His job – on this ship, at least – was to deal with the rubbish. It was a much harder task than many might imagine. With hundreds of passengers, plus crew and security personnel, the waste generated was monumental.
His job was to make sure that the appropriate rubbish ended up in the incinerator, and that what could be recycled was separated out and stored until it could be dealt with at the next large port they docked in on their tour round the British Isles. He would trundle off the ship with a full waste truck and head back with an empty one.
The sight of the man in the green boiler suit was in no way out of the ordinary, so he moved about unseen. He spot-checked every area of the great ship from time to time, just to ensure no waste was building up that could be a potential fire or hygiene hazard. Now, on the latest such trip, he slipped a canvas bag into a small gap between a power console and a bulkhead.
He ducked through an unsealed bulkhead door and into the part of the ship where most of the electrics were contained. It was from this cavernous space that vital functions such as heat, light and kitchen power, as well as navigation, engine ignition and computer systems were to be found. If the large engines were the beating heart of the vessel, this was where its brain drew strength.
He looked about. Not far off, he could see an engineer working on something with a welding torch. Blue sparks flashed through the air as the masked man did his job. He turned to a large fuse box, opened it with an Allen key, then eased open the hinged fascia. In a few moments, his job there was done, and he started walking purposefully along the mezzanine decking. Checking again that no one could see him, he ducked under a huge panel of switches. In less than two minutes that task too was complete.
As he ascended the stairs out of the bowels of the ship, one alarm sounded, then another, which made him smile. Now it was back to rubbish collection – for now, at least.
Faduma looked up as the drone rose high in the air, his heart thudding in his chest.
With his glasses on, he squinted between drone and ship, and was about to move the device forward from its hovering position when he heard a noise coming from the trees behind. Cabdi was running at him, shouting, eyes bulging, a ferocious look on his face.
Faduma laid the handset on the ground, leaving the drone hovering. ‘It’s time, brother. We just do what we were sent to do!’ From his pocket he removed a knife, bringing Cabdi to a halt a few feet from him on the rocky ledge.
‘Don’t be stupid, Faduma. This will ruin everything! Bring the drone back down. If you do, I promise that no one will know – I will not tell our master, I promise.’
‘We came here for one thing and one thing alone. We are to kill these people; we will defend our beliefs and avenge all those we have lost. We must do it now!’
‘But what about our master? How do you know he is safe?’ Cabdi kept his eyes trained on the blade of the knife as he spoke.
For a split second, a look of puzzlement crossed Faduma’s face. It hadn’t occurred to him that the man whose orders they obeyed might be aboard the vessel. ‘You are just trying to trick me. Why would our master be there?’
‘He is. Before we attack, he must make his escape. If he does not, our mission around the world will be in tatters.’
‘Liar!’ Faduma lunged at Cabdi with the knife.
Daley had his binoculars trained on the scene on the hillside beyond the loch, one hand holding the phone to his ear.
‘Jimmy, what’s up?’ Scott’s familiar voice was loud on the other end of the line.
‘Brian, something’s going on up the hill – Gullion – near the peak. There’s a ledge in the clearing beyond the treeline. I can see a drone or something hovering, but . . .’
‘But what, big man?’
‘There might be two of them, Brian. It’s hard to tell against the tress from this distance. I’m remembering what you were told about the guys in the van. Paparazzi – worse?’
‘Right, Jimmy. Keep your eyes peeled. I’ll get off the line and alert the Great Britain. I’ll get back to you, big man!’
Scott searched the big desk for his notebook, finding it under a blue file. He dialled the number quickly. ‘Captain Banks, son – and it’s an emergency!’ he said to the comms operator on board.
‘Yes, sir.’ The line went quiet.
As he listened to some innocuous hold music, Scott reached for the radio on the other side of the desk. ‘DI Scott to all stations. We have sightings of one, perhaps two individuals with a drone on Gullion Hill, at the treeline. There’s some kind of outcrop just near the summit. I want a team up there PDQ.’
‘Banks here, can I help you?’ The voice came from the phone held to Scott’s ear.
‘Sir, we have a problem. A drone’s been sighted on the hill to your starboard – I think – the side wae the graveyard on the hill. We suspect it might be photographers, but who knows? Can you inform onboard security – quickly?’
‘Yes, certainly. I’ll do it now. I’ll get back to you!’
Scott could hear the urgency in Banks’s voice.
Sergeant Shaw rushed into the glass box. ‘Right, Brian. I’ll take a team up with DS Potts. I can’t say how quick we’ll get up there, mind; there’s a track so far, but the rest is on foot.’
‘Dae your best, son. Here, and you take charge. Potts is too wet behind the ears for this caper. I’ll have tae coordinate here – unless you want tae do it, eh?’
‘Your call, Inspector.’ Shaw shrugged his shoulders.
Scott paused for a heartbeat. ‘Right, you get behind this desk. Jimmy’s got eyes on from his hoose – you’ve got his home number, aye?’
‘Yes – leave it with me, Brian. Good luck!’
Scott rushed from the CID suite in search of the rest of the team.
Cabdi and Faduma were wrestling on the ground, the buzz of the drone sounding on the air.
Faduma tried to lash out at Cabdi’s face, but the tall man was surprisingly quick, and lurched to one side in the nick of time.
‘You will have to kill me, Faduma. I will never let you do this now.’
‘You are a traitor – you serve more than one master. I’ve known it all along!’
‘You are a fool!’ bellowed Cabdi, catching Faduma on the side of the face with a glancing blow and sending him flying to the rocky ground, the knife spinning from his grasp. He thought he was about to be killed, but Cabdi loped away, searching the ground for the drone’s handset.
Dizzy, suffering the after-effects of Cabdi’s blow, Faduma was desperate now. Frantically, he groped around, looking for the knife
. Instead his hand brushed across a rock, and he wrenched it free. Unsteadily, stumbling a couple of times, he managed to get to his feet.
He squinted, trying to locate Cabdi, and spotted him leaning over the place where he’d laid down the handset. His world still in a spin, he limped towards him, the rock he’d dislodged held in both hands.
As Cabdi began to get up, clutching the handset, Faduma brought down the rock, hard against the man’s skull.
Cabdi tottered for a heartbeat, but like a tree felled by a woodsman’s axe he collapsed to the ground, the light gone from his eyes.
The handset also landed on the rough ground, and without looking Faduma could hear the modulation of the drone’s motors.
He looked into the sky, squinting again in the brightness. The machine was dropping, heading in his direction in a skewed, swaying flight. As his vision cleared, he knew what he must do. Not without effort, he stood, holding the handset, trying to get the drone back under control.
For a moment it swung wildly in the air, but Faduma managed to steady it and sent it back across the town far below, towards the loch and the Great Britain, gleaming white on the blue water.
It was now that his hours of practice bore fruit. Almost automatically, through the pain in his head, and the flashes and sparks across his eyes, he guided the drone to the point he knew to be the optimum position from where he could fly it down into the ship.
Pausing the drone in mid-air, he paused and took a few deep breaths. Eyes moving again from drone to ship, he steadied the small device. After one more gulp of air, he thrust the joystick on his console forward, sending the drone accelerating down towards the Great Britain.
But as he squinted, desperately trying to focus on the target in order to witness the death of those on board, he heard a noise from behind. Before he could turn round, he felt a heavy push to the small of his back.
A Breath on Dying Embers Page 13
