A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘But surely an issue with ownership?’ said Frinton.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The land, mate. I know UK has some possession up there, but I don’t think anyone would sanction wind turbines in such a fragile environment.’

  ‘Och, who’s tae see? A few o’ they explorers, a polar bear or two and some penguins?’

  ‘I thought you said the Arctic, Monsieur?’ said Chantelle. ‘Penguins live at the South Pole.’

  ‘He’s only having a laugh wae yous all,’ said Ella. ‘We’ve got well-developed plans tae make wind energy mair efficient,’ she added, trying to remember some of the basic points she’d tried to cram into her husband’s head.

  A waitress appeared at the table. ‘May I take your orders for the starter course? If you would like the alternative tasting menu, please just say.’

  ‘Here, I think we’re getting away wae it,’ Scott whispered into his wife’s ear while the rest of the table dithered over what to eat.

  ‘You’ve just telt them that penguins come fae the North Pole and that your faither whistled for the wind!’

  ‘Och, these kind o’ folk like the banter. Sure, they’re stuck in these big office blocks, and that. Must be good tae let your hair doon and have a laugh.’

  ‘You’re supposed tae be getting them tae buy oor windmills and blend in normally, no’ playing the village idiot. If you go on like this, I’ll fling you overboard myself.’

  ‘And what would madam like?’ asked the waitress.

  ‘Can I have the Caesar salad, please?’ said Ella.

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘I’m famished. Lobster for me, lassie, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘And would you like bread with that? We have an artisan range.’

  ‘We’ve just got a normal cooker. My wife wanted one o’ they Agas, but I put my foot doon. No, can I have chips wae mine?’

  The waitress looked momentarily astonished.

  ‘My husband will have some bread, please.’

  The waitress scribbled on her pad and moved on to Frinton.

  ‘Here, I wanted chips.’

  ‘Just try no’ tae make a fool o’ yourself any mair than you’ve done already.’

  ‘Huh, says you. Anyway, what dae you want me tae do?’

  ‘Just shut up would be the best strategy.’

  ‘Och, no. I’ve an idea that’ll blow their socks off. I’ve been looking at the internet. Trust me, dear.’

  Ella took a large gulp of her wine, almost draining the glass. ‘The first time you said that tae me was aboot nine months before oor eldest was born.’

  ‘See you, you can never let things go – after all these years . . .’

  ‘So, please, tell us more about this whistling, Mr Sinclair,’ said the sheik as the waitress trotted away with her orders.

  Ella Scott reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass to the brim.

  Cabdi observed what was going on in the Douglas Arms with great interest. Despite the drunken gabbling of the man he’d been forced to sit beside, his ear was tuned to listen for the voice he’d heard so many times over the phone. He’d tried to picture the face, but he knew that was a fruitless exercise.

  ‘What is it you do, son? I’ve got to say, you don’t look like a millionaire,’ said Scally.

  ‘I’m in medicine. I work for a company producing the latest treatments for diabetes.’ Cabdi had his cover story ready. His medical knowledge would be more than sufficient to fill any gaps, he reasoned.

  ‘Can you fix my knee, eh? I’d a hell o’ a job with it the last time I was up the hill.’

  ‘Oh yes, and when was that?’ The Somali’s interest was piqued.

  ‘Oh, the other night.’ Scally downed what was left of his whisky. He leaned into Cabdi. ‘I tell you, saw something I didna like, tae.’

  ‘What did you not like?’

  ‘Och, these two strange guys – in an auld van, they were. They had a fire going. Me and my grandson went doon to look at it once they’d gone. I found some bone.’ He stopped and took a swig from the glass of beer that had accompanied his whisky. ‘The next day, they pulled a body out of the Sound – aye, jeest beyond the island at the loch. Nae heid nor hands – aye, but they’ve identified him.’

  Cabdi felt his heart pound in his chest. Silently he cursed the soul of Faduma. This didn’t make sense.

  ‘Friend o’ mine, too,’ said Scally.

  ‘So, why are people ignoring you?’ Cabdi was trying to retain his composure.

  ‘Long story, young man – long story.’

  Just as Cabdi was about to reply someone spoke behind him, making him freeze.

  ‘Something the matter, lad? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, turning to look at a group of people who had just entered the lounge bar.

  *

  ‘So, as yous can see, it makes much mair sense tae use tidal energy than it does they windmills. The tide goes in and comes oot right regular. You don’t need tae whistle for that, eh?’ Brian Scott smiled with self-satisfaction.

  ‘What about the seabed ecology, mate? I mean, we’re losing more fish than we can handle already; can’t afford to kill off any more,’ said Frinton. ‘Look at our Great Barrier Reef – bloody tragedy!’

  ‘Och, the fish won’t mind aboot oor machines. They’re no’ daft, you know. Look how long they zoomers stand on the banks o’ rivers waiting for the fish tae bite. No, they’ll swim round them, dead gallus, like.’

  ‘For a man who makes wind turbines, you don’t seem very keen on them, Mr Sinclair.’ Sheik Ahmad looked at Scott sceptically.

  ‘It’s a bit like yous wae the oil, you know. It’s running oot, so you’ve got tae be ready for the next thing. Every businessman knows that.’

  As the sheik nodded thoughtfully, Ella Scott couldn’t help being impressed by her husband – and during their marriage, that had been a less than regular occurrence. It seemed that the little coaching he’d been given had rubbed off. She smiled proudly.

  ‘So likely yous will have tae up sticks and pitch your tents somewhere else – near the sea would be my recommendation.’

  Chantelle and Patti giggled at the look on Sheik Ahmad’s face. Slowly, his mouth had turned down and his expression had darkened.

  ‘I live in some of the most modern, expensive buildings on the planet, Mr Sinclair. I won’t be pitching my tent anywhere.’

  ‘I thought yous all lived in tents. Thon Colonel Gaddafi was never oot o’ his – until he got the rod right up his . . .’

  ‘Och, you’re jeest a hell o’ a man,’ said Ella with a nervous laugh, stopping her husband in mid-flow. ‘He’s an awful man, right enough.’ This time her kick made him yelp.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the waitress, looking at Scott warily. ‘Your Caesar salad, Mrs Sinclair, and for you the bisque, sir.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Scott. ‘There’s a mistake here – this is soup. I wanted the lobster.’

  ‘It’s lobster bisque, sir.’

  Scott sighed, looking forlornly at his plate. ‘Have you got the bread?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She handed him a side plate bearing two tiny flatbreads.

  Scott blinked at them, then looked back at the waitress. ‘I’ll need some chips right enough, please.’

  37

  Daley stared intently at the computer screen. He’d no idea how Symington had come across the detailed information about each passenger on the Great Britain, but it was comprehensive and obviously intended only for the eyes of the Security Service.

  He had a pad beside him with a short list of names he’d noted down – each possessed what could be considered points of interest, as far as security was concerned, at least. Though he was enjoying the task, just having something productive to do, he wondered why this information hadn’t been used by those who compiled it – or perhaps it had? It was clear that there was a small number of passengers on the cruise ship who had – to say the least – sha
dy pasts. However, in most cases they’d been respectable businessmen and women for a number of years.

  His mobile rang and he answered.

  ‘Anything, Jim?’

  ‘Yes – too much. Where did you get this, Carrie?’

  ‘Let’s say I have a very co-operative source on board.’

  ‘Some of these people have made their money doing some very dubious things.’

  ‘Oh, I knew that. It’s the exigencies of business, Jim. Our country has been dealing with mass murderers and dodgy regimes for years, you must know that.’

  ‘I’d hoped that things were improving.’

  ‘The way things are going here, are you kidding?’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that our government is perfectly aware of most of this stuff?’

  ‘You saw how they happily ignored the drone – covered it up. I think it’s safe to say that we have to look between the lines, Jim. If you come up with any names who jump out at you, let me know and we can have a closer look at them using our own intel.’

  ‘I’ve found a few already. Give me another couple of hours and I’ll get back to you. You never know, we might turn something up, ma’am.’ He paused. ‘Still nothing on our dead man, or Mr Pearson?’

  ‘No, our corpse on the hill is a mystery. Ordinarily, I’d go to the press, but as you know, with the restrictions placed on us, that’s impossible. Though they’ve been fishing about.’

  ‘And Pearson?’

  ‘Again, nothing. Whoever killed him knew their business well. Not a fleck of forensic evidence. We’ve taken some DNA from the van and clothing found at the campsite, but no matches. And there’s nothing anywhere to identify them – not as much as a note, or a wallet – nothing.’

  ‘What’s Brachen saying?’

  ‘He’s changed his tune; nothing to worry about now. Obviously pressure from on high – big pressure.’

  ‘And still no sign of the other man I saw on the hill?’

  ‘Not for want of trying. The Marines are all over the place, but they haven’t found a thing.’

  ‘Someone knows what they’re doing, ma’am. Maybe has help?’

  ‘Yes, I think that too, but what can we do? Our hands are tied – that’s why what you and Brian are doing is so important.’

  ‘Yes, because you can be sure that if anything goes wrong the blame will soon land at our door.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘And how’s Brian getting on?’

  ‘No idea. He’s going to call me later. I’m due back on board tonight for supper with the captain.’

  ‘Very nice. Do you think he’ll be able to give you any more intelligence under the counter?’

  Symington smiled as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Very clever, Jim.’

  ‘It was a process of elimination – it’s not as though I haven’t done it before.’

  She hesitated. ‘Jim, can you talk? I mean is Liz there?’

  ‘She and James are having a lie-down – sleeping it off, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Does the name Alexander Manston mean anything to you?’

  As soon as he heard it Daley felt a twinge in his chest. ‘Yes, I know who Alexander Manston is, ma’am.’

  ‘I thought you might. Listen, Jim, Liz has been calling him – leaving threatening messages. He called me today to make a complaint.’

  ‘What! Complaint – him! The bastard. If I ever get my hands on him, I swear I’ll kill him. I don’t give a fuck about the consequences!’

  ‘Calm down, Jim. Think of your health. I hate this guy as much as you – all the men who do this. I saw Liz’s face. We spoke; I’ve a good idea what happened. If we could only get her to open up, we could go on the offensive.’

  ‘She won’t do it.’

  ‘Why, is she scared?’

  ‘Scared that people will find out.’

  Symington took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes I can understand that.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen it before with abused women, you know, over the years. You’ve done this job longer than me, you must have seen your fair share too.’ She could feel her throat tighten and hoped Daley hadn’t detected it.

  ‘She doesn’t want to lose face. Up there, with her family and friends. I’m sure you’ve seen that before too, Carrie.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But if we could only persuade her, Jim. Do you think if I have a word, away from everything? Over a drink, or something – I don’t know.’

  ‘You could try, though another drink is the last thing she needs.’

  ‘I’ll phone her tomorrow – you know, when she’s feeling a bit better.’

  ‘When she’s not drunk, you mean.’

  ‘I know it’s difficult, trust me. But give her some space, okay? You never know, she might change her mind.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath, Carrie. But I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I just hope Manston doesn’t try anything. He’s got plenty of money, and we all know with money comes influence.’

  ‘Leave him to me. You’ve enough on your plate. Keep digging, but if for one second it feels too much I want you to stop, and that’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Daley with a smile. ‘I’ll call you soon with any names that come up.’

  He ended the call and began to key the computer. The screen flashed into life, and he began to scroll down. The name O’Rourke was next on the random list. He began to read.

  ‘Daddy!’ James Daley junior toddled into the room rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Come on, son. Did you have a good sleep with Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s still tired.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Daley stared at the little boy.

  ‘I tried to wake her up, Daddy, but she just stayed asleep.’

  ‘You stay here. Look, play with Panda for a minute.’ Daley handed his son the fluffy toy and left him on the floor humming softly to himself as he rushed off to see Liz.

  She was lying with her head to one side, one arm dangling over the bed.

  ‘Liz, Liz!’ he shouted, trying to rouse her. When there was no response he took hold of her shoulders and shook her. Though her eyelids flickered, she remained unconscious.

  Daley looked on the floor beside the bed. Poking out, just under the spread of the duvet cover, lay two empty blister packs. The paracetamols they had once contained were gone.

  ‘No, Liz. No!’ He hefted her into his arms and half carried, half dragged her into the lounge. With one hand he picked up his phone, scrolled down the contact list and pressed call. ‘I need an ambulance, now. Please hurry!’

  James Daley junior burst into tears.

  *

  O’Rourke had seen enough of Kinloch. It was just an extension of the forced camaraderie of the cruise liner. He wanted to be alone, and he knew just where he wanted to do it.

  He left the crowded Douglas Arms, walked up the narrow lane past the square and ended up back in Main Street. To his right, three taxis sat at a rank. The driver of the first car, a thin man in his early sixties with fading red hair, was leaning in the passenger window of the car behind.

  ‘Hey, buddy, you on hire or what?’

  The man hurried back into his cab, taking time to stub out his cigarette on the way.

  ‘How’ye,’ came the usual local greeting. ‘Where are we for?’

  ‘Machrie. I’d like to take in some fresh sea air.’

  ‘Aye, nae bother. We’ll be there in a jiffy. Nice hotel there, noo. Just done up. Me and the wife had a great night for oor anniversary there a few weeks ago.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ O’Rourke jumped into the back of the cab and the driver pulled off, performing a casual U-turn in the busy street.

  ‘You’ll be off the boat, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Well spotted.’ O’Rourke tried to indicate that he’d rather pass the journey in peace, but the driver persisted.

  ‘Me and the wife are off tae the reception
on board tonight.’

  ‘You guys have all the fun of the fair.’

  ‘No’ jeest anyone gets an invite, you know. It’s because I was on the community council for years. I’m fair looking forward tae it.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ replied O’Rourke sarcastically.

  ‘See how the other half live. Hey, you’ll have a few bob aboot you, right?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tip you. But do me a favour, buddy, cut the chat. I just want some peace and quiet – appreciate the scenery, you know.’

  ‘Aye, nae bother. Message received and understood, sir.’

  Though his driver maintained a bright sense of bonhomie, O’Rourke could see him glowering in the rear-view mirror, his brows furrowed. O’Rourke sat back and took in the scene from the car. The road they were travelling was long and straight, the landscape flat up to the hills that cocooned them. It was like travelling through a massive amphitheatre.

  He cracked the window open; the salty smell of the sea filled the car and at the same time jogged his memory. Soon they were in the outskirts of the village of Machrie.

  ‘Where dae you want dropped off ?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Is there somewhere outside the village, somewhere quiet where I can just sit and think?’

  ‘Aye, sure. Jeest gie me a couple o’ minutes.’

  They drove past the hotel and golf club, through what was left of Machrie, then onto a single-track road. The driver pulled into a layby and brought the car to a halt.

  ‘Here, you’ll no’ find much mair quiet than this.’

  They had pulled up beside an old wooden bench seat. Time and tide had eaten away at it, but it still looked serviceable.

  ‘This will be fine, thank you, driver.’ O’Rourke leaned across the back seat and offered a handful of notes to the man behind the wheel.

  ‘Oh, wait, that’s too much.’

  ‘Then don’t charge me when you take me back. Give me an hour and pick me up here, okay?’

  ‘Aye, don’t you worry. It’s time I’d a break anyhow. I’ll jeest dodge doon tae the hotel and get a snack. See you in an hour – and thanks for this, very generous.’ He held up the money.

  O’Rourke stepped out of the taxi and watched it drive away. He stood for a while, breathing in the sea air. It reminded him of being young and visiting a place that looked just like this. He stared across the short stretch of sea to the coast of County Antrim, now looking even closer than it had during his round of golf with the formidable Asian businesswoman. Faces flashed across his mind – happy faces, soaking up the sun, filling buckets with sand, paddling in the cool water, searching for crabs in seaweed-strewn rock pools under shifting skies; blue then grey.