Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  Daley thanked the doctor, then turned back to the DS. ‘So what else do we know?’

  ‘I spoke to the pontoon manager on the phone a few minutes ago, sir. The boat’s called The Alba, she docked here yesterday lunchtime. A man named Walter Cudihey booked the vessel in and paid his berthing fees by credit card; the manager’s going to email me the details as soon as he gets into the office. I’m also checking with the RYA to see if he’s registered with them.’ He smiled confidently. ‘Apart from fire and rescue personnel dealing with the fire on board the vessel, nobody has touched it.’ Rainsford raised his brows and looked down his nose. ‘Thought it best we wait for you before commencing a search, sir.’

  Daley nodded curtly. ‘Yes, you did the right thing, DS Rainsford.’ The young detective sergeant had been in place for nearly four months; he was efficient, knowledgeable and bright, though something about his manner irritated Daley. Perhaps it was his honours degree in sociology, his trim physique, or his somewhat patronising manner – maybe a mixture of all three. He supposed he reminded him vaguely of his hated brother-in-law, Mark Henderson. In any event there was something about Marcus Rainsford that Jim Daley didn’t like. And he couldn’t ignore the obvious: simply, DS Rainsford, despite his undoubted intelligence and grasp of the minutiae of police procedure, lacked one thing – he wasn’t Brian Scott.

  It took over an hour for the body, by way of an impromptu hoist, to be removed from the loch, during which time SOCO officers arrived to carry out a forensic assessment of the craft and what was left of the pontoon. The body was being prepared to be taken to Glasgow by helicopter so that a detailed post mortem could take place. Locals lined the street as Daley drove up the hill and in through the gates of Kinloch Police Office.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ DC Dunn was already at her desk, her open laptop displaying some hazy black-and-white images. ‘I thought you might want to see this,’ she said, gesturing towards the screen.

  Daley leaned over her, placing his hand on the back of her chair to prop himself up as he squinted at the laptop. Her hair smelled of strawberries and he watched, absently fascinated, as she used the keyboard scrolling function with one long thin finger to rewind the on-screen footage.

  ‘Here, sir.’ The image froze, bringing to a halt a long array of numbers at the top of the screen which meant little to him; in the bottom right-hand corner, the time was displayed as 04:17:23. ‘This is footage from the CCTV camera at the head of the pier, sir. It covers the area quite well, though – well, you’ll see for yourself.’ She clicked an arrow on the screen and the image began to move.

  Though the picture was monochrome it was well defined. There was a flash as the cabin door of The Alba swung open, revealing a short, fat bald man, wearing a T-shirt and shorts, carrying a large square container in one hand. Daley watched as he jumped easily onto the pontoon and out of shot.

  ‘What now?’ he asked, for some reason looking at the top of Dunn’s head.

  ‘Just a second – keep watching, sir.’

  There was a flash which momentarily turned the laptop screen white. As the glare faded, the flames that now engulfed the yacht could be seen flickering on the extreme left of the picture.

  ‘There we have it,’ said Daley, standing up with a long sigh.

  ‘No, wait a minute, sir, that’s not all.’ Dunn set the image swirling backwards at high speed as she rewound the footage. Daley, leaning back over her again, looked on as the time on the bottom right of the screen scrolled backwards. ‘Once I isolated the actual event, I thought I’d do a quick recap to see what happened in the time prior to the fire.’ She looked up at Daley and smiled at him. ‘Watch.’ She stopped the footage at 02:07:48.

  Again the cabin door swung open, though this time no sunlight flashed against the porthole. Two men stepped onto the narrow deck of the vessel, one of whom looked very unsteady on his feet. Daley watched as this man was helped over the deck and towards the pontoon by the man with the bald head and Bermuda shorts. Dunn stopped the image, just as the unsteady figure stood up straight and looked in the general direction of the camera. There was no mistake – even at this distance, Hamish’s face was unmistakeable.

  ‘Oh no,’ Daley groaned.

  3

  She had never taken to Kirkintilloch; part of her still yearned for Glasgow’s East End. Her friends, her family – or what was left of them – just about everyone she cared for, lived somewhere in that much-maligned side of the city. The move to Kirky, as the town was known by most of its populace, had been a compromise.

  She supposed that while her children had lived at home she had been too busy to worry about her surroundings, but now that they had both spread their wings, she had much more time on her hands – well, much more time in the house, after all that had happened.

  A photograph on the mantelpiece caught her eye. The man stood straight; his arms pinned to his side, his hands, balled into fists with thumbs pointing to the ground, were adorned with white gloves. She smiled as she studied his chiselled features, only just visible under the black-and-white checked cap with the high brim and black polished peak. Even from here, she could make out the sharp crease in the uniform trousers and sleeves of the tunic. She smiled at the serious young face; an expression so at odds with what she knew of the man. The picture had been taken many years before; just after they had married, in fact. Her chest had filled with pride as she watched her man, Brian Scott, at his passing out parade from the police college. A tear meandered down her cheek.

  Her fond reminiscences were disturbed by a sharp knock on the door. Through the glass panelling she could make out the uniformed figure; the gold braid on the cap indicated that not just any officer had come to call.

  ‘Willie!’ She invited the immaculately dressed figure into her hallway. ‘I canna remember the last time I saw you. How’s Sheila and the weans?’

  ‘Aye, fine, fine. A’ grown up noo, same as yours. What aboot yoursel’, Ella, how are you coping?’ The man was tall and thickset; with one meaty hand, he pushed the cap to the back of his head and embraced her in a bear hug.

  ‘Put me doon, you big bugger,’ she squealed. ‘Come on in, take the weight off them huge feet o’ yours – an for fuck’s sake take that bunnet off, you look like the Duke o’ Edinburgh.’

  ‘Aye, these uniforms get mair fancy by the day. Did you ever?’ he said, pointing at the high-necked jumper that had replaced the tunic she’d just been looking at in her husband’s photo. ‘By fuck, they’ll have us wearing baseball caps next – especially since this Police Scotland palaver.’

  ‘But what’s a’ that jazz on your shoulder mean? I’ve been aboot the polis for a long number of years noo, an’ I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Ella stood back, admiring her old friend as she pointed him to the big leather recliner.

  ‘Ach, I’m Deputy Assistant Chief Constable, would you believe. What a bloody mouthful, tae. Chief Superintendent did me just fine. An’ I’ve got tae traipse a’ the way oot tae Kincardine every bloody day noo. I never liked Tulliallan when me an’ your Brian were probationers, an’ I’ve seen nothing in the last few weeks tae change my mind. All a piece o’ nonsense tae – every bugger knows fine that this new force will end up being headquartered in Glasgow, or not far away; it’s the only thing that makes sense. Mind you,’ he said, ‘we’ll get the usual bollocks fae the Edinburgh mob.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost touch with what’s goin’ on since – well, you know,’ she said, with a deep sigh. ‘Things have changed. I’ll no’ lie tae you, Willie, there’s been times when I just feel like stayin’ in my bed an’ pulling the covers over my heid.’ She sat down on the sofa opposite him.

  ‘Och, we all feel like that some days, Ella. We lost oor wee pal Jinky last week. Bugger me, I cried fit tae burst. Aye, a great pal he was, tae.’

  ‘No’ quite the same, Willie,’ Ella said, looking doubtful, as tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘What dae you mean?’

  ‘Well, don’t ge
t me wrong, I know fine how fond of him you were an’ that . . .’

  ‘Aye, you can say that again.’ Wullie rubbed at his forehead. ‘Oor Sheila couldna bring hersel’ tae clean his bedding. We were oot for a meal the other night an’ she found wan o’ his hairs on her skirt. We had tae go hame – beside hersel’, she was.’

  ‘Poor Sheila,’ Ella sympathised.

  ‘Of course, she wants another one, but have you seen the price o’ poodles noo. Bugger me, they’re wantin’ nearly a grand for the bloody thing! Proper poodles, mind you, none o’ these effeminate toy jobs. There was nothing effeminate aboot oor Jinky!’ he said, his face growing red at the thought of such an outrage. ‘I’m sorry, Ella, that was thoughtless of me. I shouldn’t be comparing oor Jinky tae what happened tae your Brian.’

  She looked at the black-and-white photograph again. The bright young face stared down at her from under the peaked cap. If only she could turn the clock back. ‘Don’t worry, Willie. Och, it’s been hard, you know . . .’ She burst into tears, prompting the big policeman to struggle out of his chair and embrace her clumsily.

  ‘There, there, Ella. Things will get better, they always dae. Just you give it time. I’ve got an idea . . .’

  Suddenly, from the upper floor of the house, movement could be heard, accompanied by the sound of a choleric, throaty cough. Rapid footsteps rumbled down the stairs and in a heartbeat the lounge door was flung open to reveal a dishevelled man in dark blue pyjamas, sporting a large orange stain on the right lapel, his hairstyle that of the recently risen, its salt and pepper clumps matching his beard.

  ‘Just you get your hands off my woman, you big bastard.’ The man’s expression matched his language. ‘I might have known, the minute I try tae get a wee bit o’ extra shut-eye, the polis are right in here, trying tae get the knickers off my missus!’ Slowly, his frown turned into a broad smile. ‘How’re you daein’, Willie,’ he said, holding out his arms to the other man. ‘I thought that was your moanin’ voice I could hear fae up the stair. Come here.’ He enveloped the big man in an embrace, slapping his back.

  ‘You rogue. No’ had time for a wash an’ a shave in the last couple o’ days, I see. Aye, an’ you’ve had John Barleycorn for company up there, by the smell o’ things.’ The large policeman recoiled slightly at the odour of stale drink. ‘Aye, but it’s good to see you. How are you, Brian?’

  ‘Me? I’m just grand, Willie. No’ quite as grand as you, mind you. Fuck me, you look like Lord Nelson.’ Brian Scott, unkempt and stinking of alcohol, smiled at his oldest friend.

  ‘Now, Hamish, you’re going to have to tell me exactly what happened, from the time you met this man, to the time you left the boat,’ Daley said firmly. He was sitting in a low chair in the cramped lounge of the fisherman’s cottage. The room was dark, a haze of pipe smoke obscuring the old man who sat in the wooden rocking chair. A yellowing canvas depicting a fishing boat struggling through heavy seas hung over an old-fashioned iron fireplace. Adding to the sense of antiquity, two large oil storm lanterns hung either side of the painting on large protruding hooks. Neither polished nor prettified, they looked as though they had been used recently; which, Daley reasoned, they probably had. A fluorescent buoy stood next to an ancient radio, a plaster bust of Winston Churchill sat on a table constructed from old orange boxes, and a wooden fishing rod with a large brass reel stood propped against what looked like a coffin lid. The pervading odour was a mix of musty damp, the salt tang of the sea and the creatures that dwelt within it, overlaid by the woody scent of tobacco. In the gloom it was difficult to determine what was underfoot, but it reminded Daley of the beaten earth floors he had read about in novels of old Scotland. Between two frayed curtains, the sea was visible through a dirty window. Hamish’s isolated cottage was about a mile and a half outside Kinloch, on the shore opposite the island that loomed over the loch, an almost perfect haven in all weathers.

  On Hamish’s lap lay the most enormous feline Daley had ever set eyes upon. It was emitting a deep, resonant purr, casually observing the visitor through yellow eyes, half closed, yet alert.

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Daley nodding towards the animal.

  ‘Aye, his name, aye,’ said Hamish hesitating. ‘Hamish,’ he replied eventually, with a small nod. ‘Aye, an’ before you say it, jeest don’t bother. I know fine that it’s a wee bit indulgent tae call your ain pet after yoursel’, but jeest think aboot this; how many folk dae you know who name their children after themselves? Aye, a fair whack o’ them. There’s a family here called Robertson, an’ bugger me, hardly wan o’ them’s no called Davie. As you would say in the legal parlance, “my case rests, your honour”.’ That said, Hamish took a long draw of his pipe and blew out more pungent blue smoke. Daley swore that the cat looked at him with a distinct look of disapproval.

  ‘He’s some size.’

  ‘Aye, well spotted, Mr Daley. He’s the son o’ a wildcat, that’s how. I had this lovely wee cat called Sheena. Aye, fair bonnie she was tae. Anyhow, she went oot this day, an’ came back in a right distressed condition, a’ bites, and big lumps o’ fur pulled oot. Poor wee thing. At first I thought a dog or a pine marten had got a hold o’ her, but then every night I wiz woken up by this cry, like a wean in distress, it was, screaming fit tae wake the deid.’

  ‘What was it?’ asked Daley, interested despite himself.

  ‘The wild fella. On the third night I sneaked oot wae ma lantern, an there he was, slap-bang in the back green, as bold as brass; big, like a wee tiger – a Scottish wildcat. Well, I can tell you, it’s nae wonder oor Sheena took fright, a big bruiser he was. One o’ the most aggressive mating rituals o’ the animal kingdom; they pin their paramour doon an’ sink a tooth intae their neck tae pacify them until the deed is done. Anyhow, that’s what happened, an’ a few months later, Sheena produced this big bugger. Aye, an’ she never went back oot that door again, no’ once, despite me trying tae coax her.’

  The cat turned its head towards Daley and stared at him with its piercing yellow eyes. ‘He’s a beauty, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Aye, I can see you’ve twigged the coffin lid, tae, Mr Daley.’ Hamish sucked on his pipe. ‘I’ve been meaning tae make mysel’ a new table for a while, an’ auld Kennedy the undertaker gied me that lid a few years ago. Thon table o’er there is only a temporary job. That said, I think I made it in nineteen fifty-nine, so it’s done the job, would you not say?’ The old man smiled, his sallow skin creasing around his slanted eyes. Daley, though, detected something different about the man’s pallor: a grey tinge unusual for an individual who spent so much time outdoors, especially now, in midsummer.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Ach, jeest too much o’ the water o’ life, Mr Daley. Everything in moderation they say, aye, but when the giving hand keeps giving, well, it’s hard tae refuse.’ He shrugged, as if to say he had resigned himself to the inevitable.

  ‘Right, let’s go back to the start, Hamish.’ Daley was anxious to continue, despite his friend’s hangover. ‘You met him on the quay yesterday, is that correct?’

  ‘Aye, you have the gist o’ it there, right enough.’ Hamish took another long draw of his pipe, sending blue clouds of smoke into the stuffy room. ‘He asked if there was a ship chandler in the toon, so I directed him o’er tae Sean Hall’s place, jeest across the road fae the pontoons. When he came back wae his stores, me an’ him got talkin’ – as you do, Mr Daley.’ The old man smiled again. ‘I was repairing my nets, an’ he seemed maist interested in the whole process. No’ somethin’ you see much o’ noo; the buggers jeest throw their broken nets o’er the side an’ go an’ buy new yins.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame their mothers.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘You know yoursel’, Mr Daley, once you get a dram or two doon your neck the banter always gets better.’ The old man closed his eyes for a second, as a broad smile spread across his face. Just as Daley thought he must have fallen asleep, he spoke again. ‘Aye, guid co
mpany he was. An’ forbye, he kept a guid bottle tae. Nane o’ your blended poison. An expensive malt, Mr Daley, you’d have enjoyed it yoursel’, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘That’s great, Hamish,’ Daley said, wanting to move the old man off the topic of malt whisky. His expression was enough to spur Hamish on to more pertinent recollections.

  ‘Quite stout, tae, Mr Daley,’ said Hamish. ‘Looked a lot aulder than he actually was – only fifty-something, if I recall. Mind you, he worked for the Scottish government, I daresay that’s enough tae age any man.’

  ‘Yes, we found that out earlier. Did he seem in any way depressed, or down, Hamish?’

  ‘No, not at a’. The very opposite, in fact. Good man wae a story.’ Hamish suddenly flung his head back and laughed. ‘Did you ever hear the one aboot the fisherwife and the kipper?’ he asked Daley, who frowned. ‘However, there was somethin’.’ Hamish leaned forward, as though about to share a great secret, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

  ‘Yes. What?’ Daley bent towards him conspiratorially, hopeful that the old man had remembered something of relevance.

  Just at the point Daley thought he was about to speak, Hamish suddenly sat back and reached for the battered blue mug on the small table beside his rocking chair, then looked most disappointed to discover it contained no more of the tea that had been assuaging his whisky-induced drooth.

  ‘Here,’ Daley said, holding his hand out, ‘I’ll get you another mug of tea. You have a good think about what happened last night. This is really important, Hamish.’

  He left the old man puzzling as he made his way to the room next door that served as the kitchen. Though the surroundings looked much as they must have done fifty years before, Daley was relieved to see that everything was clean and tidy. A row of newly washed, if somewhat chipped, dishes stood in a grey plastic rack, the only modern implement in the room. He found a squat electric kettle, tarnished silver, similar to the one his mother had used when he had been a boy, filled it with water from a brass tap, then set the kettle to boil by plugging it into a socket that had no on/off switch. Hamish the cat, who had followed him, sat next to the kettle with the same still self-possession of his owner. He only moved when the detective lifted his hand to give him a pat, displaying a most magnificent set of fangs, and emitting a menacing hiss.