A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Noo, Miss, there’s nothing tae worry aboot.’ He fished his warrant card from his pocket. ‘See, I’m a policeman – p-o-li-c-e,’ he said slowly, hoping the woman would understand.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing with the soap dish?’

  Scott was momentarily taken aback by her broad Liverpudlian accent. ‘Aye, right. Och, I was just looking underneath it – for contraband, like.’

  ‘What kind of contraband could you fit under there?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what criminals can get up tae.’

  ‘But these people are all rich. Why would they need to steal anything?

  ‘You cannae be too careful.’

  ‘Does Captain Banks know about this?’

  ‘Eh, no – strictly undercover, lassie.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll need tae be getting on. A lot tae check, I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Yeah, especially if you’re going to look under every soap dish on this ship.’

  Scott smiled nervously and made for the door as quickly as he could, being careful to step over the vacuum cleaner as he left the cabin.

  He walked out into the passageway and turned left, heading for his own cabin. At the other end, Patrick O’Rourke watched him go.

  45

  Symington was studying the list that she’d given Daley while a team of detectives checked the town’s CCTV records of the day, looking for the man who had been described online – the tall, thin Afro-Caribbean.

  O’Rourke’s father had been shot by the RUC in the early 1970s, his uncle, too. His elder brother had been arrested, found guilty and consigned to the Maze prison, where at the tender age of sixteen he had died on hunger strike. There could be no doubt that it was these events that had led a young O’Rourke and his mother to seek sanctuary in America. But as Symington knew, deep emotional wounds, however noble or ignoble the cause, were likely to stay with an individual for life.

  She recalled the seminar she’d attended when still a serving officer in the Met. The majority of killers had been shaped by events in their past, and resentment, hatred, the need for revenge often lay dormant for decades. Could O’Rourke be such an individual?

  From Daley’s glass box she noted a flurry of activity in the CID office beyond. DS Potts hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Ma’am, I think we have him. I’ve printed out all the images we could find.’

  Symington looked at the photographs in order of their timeline. A tall, thin black man, wearing a faded red baseball cap, had walked casually down Main Street and into a bakery, emerged minutes later, and casually consumed a filled roll and a hot beverage.

  ‘Get me the footage please, Potts.’

  As he rushed off, she instinctively knew this was the man they were looking for. But something in his demeanour spoke of a person at ease, not afraid to hang about the centre of town, clearly not concerned that he was of interest to the authorities.

  Potts appeared back in the office. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am.’ She nodded her consent as the young detective deftly worked at the keyboard of the desktop computer. ‘Here, ma’am. This is what we have from when the subject was first sighted. I think you’ll find it very interesting.’

  Symington watched as the man walked north on Main Street, and then turned into Monument Lane. His gait was casual and unhurried. The screen flicked to another camera, one of those covering Kinloch’s small square. More distantly, but still clearly, the figure was visible entering the Douglas Arms.

  ‘Now we have a time lapse, ma’am,’ said Potts. He was fast-forwarding through the footage, making the figures coming in and out of the bar, or merely passing by, look comical, like those in a silent film from the distant past. When the clock on the screen had rushed through almost an hour, he slowed the footage back down.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Two seconds, please.’

  The lounge door of the Douglas Arms swung open. First through it was the tall figure of the man they’d seen earlier, followed by a smaller, weasel-faced individual.

  ‘Is that who I think it is, DS Potts?’

  ‘Indeed it is, ma’am. Peter Scally.’

  The police officers looked on as the two men made their way companionably back along Monument Lane. Again the scene changed, and now back on Main Street both Scally and his companion with the red baseball cap climbed into a taxi, the first one on the rank.

  ‘Okay, Potts. Get a team together. I want that taxi and its driver identified. As soon as we find out where they were taken, that’s where we’ll go.’

  As Potts hurried out of the office, the phone rang. When Symington answered, she heard the now familiar tones of Commander Brachen.

  ‘We’ve had more intelligence, Superintendent.’

  ‘Where from this time? The Disney channel?’

  ‘The source is the same as before.’

  ‘And what have they told you?’

  ‘Majid has been spotted. He’s in a small boat, last seen in Firdale harbour.’

  ‘How on earth has this information managed to cross the Atlantic and find its way back to you?’

  ‘I think the more pertinent question is why haven’t your officers been able to trace him before now? He has clearly been in the area since he disappeared from this vessel. I’m just glad he’s been found. You should be, too. He’s our second man, no doubt.’

  ‘But that man’s tall and thin.’

  ‘So says some dodgy website in America. No, I’m convinced this is our man. The frigate is heading in that direction now. As this Majid is seaborne, we can easily intercept him. Panic over, I’d say. Everything goes ahead as normal.’

  Symington was about to tell Brachen about the sighting of the other suspect, but something made her stop. Suddenly everything was beginning to fall into place too easily. And in her experience, if things seemed too good to be true, they probably were.

  Liz’s face was pale; even the bruises and abrasions looked less vivid. She was attached to a monitor with an IV in her left arm. Daley watched her for a while as James junior played quietly on the floor with a toy truck a nurse had given him. As he looked her eyes fluttered open and she stared straight at him – a wild look, almost as though she was seeing her husband for the first time.

  ‘Liz, how do you feel?’ He walked over to her bedside and stroked the hair back from her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim.’

  ‘We nearly lost you, you know.’

  ‘It would have been better if you had – both of you.’ She looked sadly at her young son.

  ‘How can you say that? I know we’ve had our differences, but never, not for one second, did I wish you harm. I hope you believe me.’

  ‘But look what I’ve done to you. I treated you like shit for years, Jim, and you never gave up on me. Then I had the cheek to give you a hard time when you found the happiness you deserved.’ She turned her head on the pillow, her auburn hair fanning out across it. ‘I’m poison, regular poison – everything I touch withers and dies.’

  ‘You’re the mother of my child – our child.’

  ‘And what kind of mother am I? The kind that runs about with one man after another, that’s what. Well, I’ve paid the price for that, haven’t I? And deserved it, too.’

  ‘None of this is your fault. Married couples break up every day – find new partners. What happened to you was not your fault, or something you deserved. You were assaulted by a brutal criminal, simple as that.’ He closed his eyes to hide the growing anger he could feel building. Liz had known him for a very long time, and in her present state would quite possibly misinterpret his revulsion for the man who’d assaulted his wife as anger directed at her.

  She caught his arm and pulled him towards her, until their faces were almost touching. ‘I can’t do what you want me to do, I just can’t.’

  ‘I know it will be hard. But the law is on your side. Trust me, the only way you’ll feel any closu
re over this is if you are part of the process that makes sure he can never do to some other poor woman what he’s done to you.’

  ‘I haven’t been truthful with you, Jim.’ She stared at him.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  She held one finger to her lips and looked pointedly at their son.

  ‘Tell me what you mean, Liz,’ said Daley more quietly.

  ‘There’s more. I couldn’t face it – court, I mean.’

  ‘Couldn’t face what? You should shout it from the bloody rooftops, the beating this man – this animal – gave you.’ Daley’s teeth were clenched in anger.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and propped herself up in the bed to whisper into Daley’s ear. ‘He raped me, Jim. When I wouldn’t do what he wanted – after he’d beaten me – he raped me.’ She fell back on the pillow, her chest rising and falling as though she was struggling for air.

  Daley let go of her arm and took a step back, all colour draining from his face.

  ‘You see? Look at your reaction. How could I face that from everyone I know: my friends – my parents, for fuck’s sake. The pity, the disgust – I can see it written across your face, Jim. Don’t deny it, it’s so obvious.’ She began to sob. ‘And I didn’t come to Kinloch just so that the scars would heal and no one would see that I’d been battered. I came because I knew you’d keep me safe. I’m frightened, Jim – I’m terrified of him, can’t you see?’

  Daley staggered back, finding the edge of a chair and sitting down heavily. ‘I’m so sorry – I had no idea,’ he said, looking into space.

  ‘How could you have? Anyway, the whole event was brutal; the end was just – just the end. But cuts and bruises heal, even the shock of it all. You can pick yourself up and go on. Well, I think I can, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything else, Liz. I understand.’ Daley could feel his heart pounding in his chest. But this time it wasn’t due to his condition, but to the flame of his temper. He had the old sensation of rising out of the chair even though he hadn’t moved a muscle.

  ‘So, please understand why I can’t do what you and Carrie want me to do.’

  Daley looked at her. ‘No, I understand. Anyway, you have a lot of recovering to do. The doctors – I – want you to rest.’

  ‘I am so tired,’ she said, her voice tailing off.

  As she slipped back to sleep, Daley got up and stroked her hair once more. Gone were the feelings of resentment, of being cheated on, cuckolded. All he could see was the beautiful young woman who had bounced into his life and changed it for ever in a dark Paisley nightclub so long ago.

  ‘Come on, James. Mummy needs to rest to make her better. Come with Daddy, there’s a good boy.’

  As they left the side room and walked down the corridor, anyone who didn’t know the man would have seen a doting father with his adorable young son in his arms. What they would never see was the rage, the visceral hatred that he now felt in his heart and could feel burning behind his eyes.

  All the tiredness, the listlessness, that had followed his recent collapse had disappeared. Adrenaline had kicked in, and for DCI Jim Daley the fog that had clouded his thoughts for too long had cleared.

  46

  It’s strange how hollow I feel. I suppose you get caught up in plots and plans; the drama of it all carries you along, energises you. When the hard work is done – well, it feels rather flat.

  But of course, the thrill of execution may change that. He looked through the words he’d been writing.

  He wondered again if the people who would read this could possibly have any notion of the real motivation behind his actions.

  I’ve thought about survival – my own. Feelings of worthlessness that my mother instilled in me initially made this an easy, somehow obvious decision. But now – now, I hesitate, and I can’t quite understand why. Am I killing her along with the rest? Will this be the final act of defiance that sets me free from the bonds that have held me tight for so, so long? The knowledge that no matter what I achieve, what station in life I attain, it will never be – can never be – enough. Even from the grave her power has been stronger than my will to be free.

  But I’m a coward. Maybe that’s what she most despised in me. I knew she always thought me a weak, fretful child. No wonder! I was forced to believe that anything I did was wrong, that my very existence was something of which I should be ashamed.

  Well, dear Mother, look on. I’m not going to sacrifice myself at your altar of inadequacy, however much I remember your goading me to end my life. You’ve gone, and now I end the saga, the first act of my life that has seen me despise myself, no matter what I attain.

  Now, it ends.

  He took the faded photograph from his pocket and stared at her face. This was all he had left of her now, this sliver of paper bearing the image of the woman whose will had – partly, at least – brought him to this point.

  But, he supposed, it wasn’t merely the hatred of what she’d made him that drove him. It ran much deeper.

  He looked at the face one last time, then let it flutter down to the restless waters of the loch, where it floated for a heartbeat, but was soon consumed by the waves.

  Now she was gone, only the final act remained to be played out. Instead of being on stage, though, he would act out the rest of the play under his own direction. The role had changed; this time he was master of his own destiny.

  As the waves hissed across the shingle beach and the squealing seabirds soared, Cabdi gathered his thoughts. He cursed his height, his build, his colour. Not that he was ashamed of them in any way; he just wanted to be able to blend in with the crowds he knew were about to gather on the pier.

  If he could not do what had to be done, then someone else must.

  Suddenly, the answer was clear. We must all answer for our sins, he thought.

  He emerged from his hiding place and ran across the rocky foreshore, up the hill and over the fence. Soon he was back in Peter Scally’s van, the reek of petrol somehow even stronger now he had spent time in the clear sea air.

  He turned over the engine and headed back to Kinloch.

  ‘Right, DS Potts, are we ready?’ said Symington.

  ‘Just about, ma’am. The team are being issued with firearms and vests.’

  Her phone rang. ‘Symington,’ she said. Her expression changed. ‘But, sir, we know where the suspect went and who he was with. This is happening on our streets, in our town – in our jurisdiction!’ She listened for a few more moments and then ended the call abruptly with a cursory ‘yes, sir’.

  ‘Stand everyone down, DS Potts.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

  ‘This sensitive situation is to be handled by the Security Service. We, it seems, are not to be trusted to face such a task.’

  ‘But this is a basic operation, ma’am. Even I’m no stranger to this kind of thing.’

  ‘It’s political, Sergeant. The top brass have taken fright. The government is clearly shutting this all down.’

  ‘So the safety of the passengers on the Great Britain – of the people of this town – is secondary to how things appear?’

  ‘Well put, Potts, and very true.’

  ‘I know what DS Scott would say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bugger them – if you’ll pardon the language, ma’am.’

  Symington thought for a moment. ‘Fortune favours the brave, Sergeant. Get me a vest. You and I are going to pay Mr Scally and his new friend a call.’

  Potts smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  *

  Back home, Daley stood in his lounge, overlooking the loch. The Great Britain still dominated the scene, its sharp modern lines incongruous against the soft backdrop of the hills. It reminded him of the science fiction films he’d seen where an alien craft visits an unprepared Earth. The mega-wealthy passengers on the ship might as well have been from another planet when compared with the local populace.

  He looked across at his son, who was
lying asleep on the couch. For the first time he realised how much like Liz he looked. Yes, he had some of his father’s characteristics, but in the main James junior was the image of his mother.

  He couldn’t rid himself of the image of her lying frail, bruised and battered in the hospital bed. He swallowed hard in order to try to contain the emotion, but it was no good. Nothing could erase his hatred for the man who had done that.

  He sat down at the computer and booted it up. In an attempt to regain some kind of equilibrium, he did the only thing he knew how: sought sanctuary in his work. He’d downloaded the information Symington had given him, and decided that he might as well do something positive. He had covered most of the VIPs aboard, just a few to go. Then, as a cursory check, despite knowing that the crew had been vetted by the Security Service, he thought he might as well provide a second eye. But as he scrolled down the list of names, he could not rid himself of the desperate look in his wife’s eyes.

  ‘Bad news, ma’am,’ said Potts.

  ‘Is there any other kind in this place? I’m not surprised DCI Daley had heart problems.’

  ‘HQ are asking why we’re drawing firearms. Sergeant Shaw was obliged to inform them, ma’am.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Symington banged her fists on the desk in front of her. ‘We’re not as good at this as DCI Daley and DS Scott, are we?’

  ‘DI Scott, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, quite right. We’re still not as clever as them, whatever their rank.’

  ‘Experience, ma’am – they’ve plenty of that. And, well . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A sometimes healthy disregard for the rules.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We don’t need permission to wear body armour – notify HQ, that is.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘How brave do you feel, DS Potts?’

  ‘About the normal level, ma’am.’

  ‘Good enough for me, Sergeant. I’ll be Jim and you can be Brian.’

  ‘Great,’ replied Potts, not particularly meaning it.

  ‘Just let me make a call.’ Symington dialled the mobile number she had for Brachen. He replied almost instantly. ‘I have information for you.’