Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  As the water began to gurgle, Daley let his mind wander. There were many reasons a person might want to take their own life: debt, indiscretion, crime, a failed love affair – he knew all about that – or any number of other reasons. Why though, would anyone choose to end their life in such a prolonged and painful manner? He shuddered as he imagined the agony that Walter Cudihey must have endured as his life ended in a blaze of excruciating fire.

  As he walked back into the dim sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea – much to his chagrin, there was no coffee in the house – he was pleased to see Hamish sitting forward in his chair, a look of triumph on his face.

  ‘Aye, Mr Daley,’ he declared, taking the mug in his unsteady hand, ‘there is something, right enough.’

  ‘Good, carry on, Hamish.’

  ‘Well,’ the old man closed one eye, leaned towards Daley and spoke in low tones. ‘At one point he did get a wee bit melancholy – the drink can dae that tae any man. Anyhow, we had been laughin’ an’ jokin’ – rememberin’ the fishin’ an’ how things had gone doon hill, an’ how the world was goin’ tae hell in a handcart – bright stuff, you know,’ Hamish related, still with one eye closed.

  Daley wondered how cheery a conversation about the demise of the fishing industry could be, but said nothing.

  ‘Jeest a’ o’ a sudden, he got an attack o’ the glums – we were at the end o’ the bottle, right enough, an’ I must admit my ain mood went intae a bit o’ a decline.’ Hamish reached for his pipe and took a long puff, adding more blue fug to the room. ‘Aye, he got fair doon, as I remember. Telt me how he was thinking this would be his last trip doon the water, how things had gone astray, he’d done the wrang thing.’ Hamish stopped, eyeing Daley mysteriously.

  ‘Yes, good, Hamish. What had he done wrong?’

  After a short pause, Hamish flung himself back in the chair, sending it into a rapid rocking motion.

  ‘If you’re asking me for an opinion, I’ll tell you: the man was scared, aye, scared witless. Kept banging on about mistakes and the evil he’d brought on the world.’ Hamish took another puff. ‘Och, I’ve heard a fair amount o’ shite over the years fae folk who canna handle their drink, get the glums and start talking oot their ain rear end, but something aboot Mr Cudihey was different. I remember saying there was only one way he could cleanse his soul – efter whoot he’d done, of course.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Hamish suddenly sat up straight in his chair. ‘Well now, you see, that’s jeest the thing. For the life o’ me, I canna remember.’

  4

  The man struggled. His hands were tied behind his back with the same dirty rope that had been used to bind his feet. His legs and backside had gone numb with cold, semi-submerged as they were in the fetid bilge water that sloshed about the hold of the trawler. In the half darkness he could make out a heaving mass of grey-blue prawns, wriggling inside plastic boxes packed with ice, making a rustling noise he associated more with their land-bound insect cousins.

  He let out a silent sob, and tried again to free himself from his bonds. A large drip of water landed on his head; this had happened so oft en, and the water was so cold, that each drop felt like a hammer blow. The motion of the boat made him heave again; vomit stung the back of his throat and nostrils and dribbled down his chin.

  Suddenly, a metallic squeal rent the air and a shaft of bright golden light streamed into the hold as two figures descended the iron steps. The men, both shod in rubber sea boots, splashed thorough the water to where the trussed man lay.

  ‘You will be pleased to know that your journey is almost at an end.’ The tallest of the two men, silhouetted against the bright light, spoke in a distinct Eastern European accent. His companion let out a quiet snigger by his side.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, let me go,’ he managed to say, in what was meant to be a shout, but in reality emerged as a hoarse whisper, so ruined was his throat with vomit, saltwater and fear.

  ‘You will be free, soon enough. Though, I suspect not the kind of freedom you desire.’ The tall man spoke again, slowly and with the precision of someone speaking carefully in a foreign language. Again, his shorter companion guffawed.

  ‘Pavel, fetch him,’ the taller man commanded.

  The bound man yelled in pain as, with remarkable strength, Pavel reached out and, with one arm, grabbed him by the bonds that fettered his hands and pulled him to his feet. His head swam as he was flung over broad shoulders and carried towards the light. His head bounced off the hull of the vessel as he was lifted onto the sunlit deck.

  Unceremoniously, he was thrust up against the fishing boat’s side, and again his head took a battering, leaving him weak; only Pavel’s iron grip on the collar of his filthy sea jacket prevented him from sinking to his knees.

  ‘You have been a messenger for us for a long time, no?’ the tall man said, staring straight into the face of his captive.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say. ‘I only made one mistake. I was under pressure.’ Though his voice was cracked, he spoke with an accent straight out of the English public school system. ‘You must understand how difficult it . . .’ He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as a blow thumped him in the solar plexus, expelling the breath from his lungs.

  ‘Not as difficult as things are about to become,’ said his captor. ‘You are about to send your most important message.’

  With that, blows began to rain down on the defenceless man, as he struggled for breath and consciousness. Soon, broken and bloodied, he lost his battle and descended into darkness. Untying his hands and feet, they went to work.

  Kirsteen Lang frowned as she opened the door to her small office. The window was closed and, though it was not yet midday, it was stiflingly hot. As she wrestled with the catch on the window, she cursed the lack of air conditioning in the admin department. Now she was an albeit temporary and very junior member of the First Minister’s retinue, she could look forward to a change of office, or even a desk in one of the more open-plan and exclusive areas of the building, for the time being, at least.

  She breathed in deeply as fresh air poured in through the window. From below she could hear a guide describe the building and its original design by the Spanish architect Enric Miralles, who died before its completion, to yet another group of tourists. She suspected that the many nagging flaws still contained within its walls were down to the fact that Miralles’ wife, who had taken over the project on her husband’s death, had not possessed the same eye for detail and design enjoyed by her late husband. She had overheard an MSP mention this briefly in the new, bright and open Festival café bar, only to be hushed by his colleague who, in a stage whisper, warned as to the dangers of straying from the tight bonds of political correctness. In fairness, though, this Scottish summer was proving unusually hot.

  Though she was a civil servant, she was drawn to what she perceived to be the glamorous world of politics and its habitués. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself taking deft control of First Minister’s Questions with a well-timed witticism or two; or causing a buzz in the halls and corridors of the building as she swept through, her own retinue in tow. After all, she reasoned, she was clever and well educated, unlike some of the ill-mannered, badly turned-out politicians, with halitosis, glottal stops and fifty-quid suits from Asda. In her opinion, to lack ambition in one’s mid twenties was to invite torpor and subsequent atrophy in middle age. A lack of ambition was something Kirsteen Lang could never be accused of.

  As she booted up her computer, she was startled by a loud knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called, expecting the spotty youth who delivered the interal mail. She was surprised to see a tall man in a dark suit squeeze his way into the room between the door and the filing cabinet.

  ‘Kirsteen Lang?’ The man asked, fishing into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DC Gillies, from Police Scotland,’ the young detective said, flourishing his warrant card. ‘I’m here to follow up o
n an inquiry from our colleagues down in Kintyre. Can I sit down?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The policeman sat down, then retrieved a notebook from his trouser pocket. His size made her office look even smaller; he looked out of place, like an adult sitting in a child’s chair during a visit to a primary school.

  Kirsteen smiled sweetly at the handsome detective and ran her hand through her long blonde hair. ‘How can I help you?’ she enquired.

  ‘I believe you have a colleague called Walter Cudihey?’ the policeman asked, looking straight at her. Despite his sharp suit, manicured fingernails and perfectly groomed hair, with commensurate designer stubble, Kirsteen identified a working-class Edinburgh accent, which reminded her of some of the MSPs she dealt with on a daily basis. She sat back in her chair, drawing her jacket over her chest, less keen now to impress.

  ‘Yes, he’s my boss,’ she replied, with a cool smile. ‘Though, actually, I’m on secondment to the First Minister’s office at the moment,’ she added.

  ‘I see.’ The young detective looked down at his notebook, seemingly unmoved by the eminence of Kirsteen’s temporary appointment. ‘I’m afraid to say, I have some bad news for you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Kirsteen felt a twinge in her stomach.

  ‘Mr Cudihey died this morning. Our inquiry is at an early stage at the moment, though I think it’s safe to tell you that he appears to have taken his own life.’ The detective removed a pen from the inside jacket of his pocket. ‘Can I ask you a few questions about your colleague?’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes, of course.’ Kirsteen tried to compose herself, despite feeling the discomfort of another bead of sweat making its way between her breasts.

  He was face down in powdery white sand and the sun was warm on his bare back, the sea lapping at his feet. He tried to move, but the effects of the beating sent sharp pains through his whole body, and his head ached. He waited for another blow, dreading the return of his tormentors. As he listened, only daring to take shallow breaths, all he could hear was the gentle swish of the surf and the cries of seabirds wheeling overhead.

  What seemed like an eternity passed. The tang of the ocean mixed with the smell of his vomit and blood. With hope rising in his chest and despite the pain in his arms and back, he tentatively raised his head, using his right hand as a prop. His low perspective offered him a restricted view of an expanse of white sand, which glowed in the bright sun like snow. A low rocky hill beyond formed part of the rough machair.

  Feeling safer by the moment, gingerly he tried to force himself up from the sand. Carefully, he let himself fall onto his side, so that he could inspect his surroundings. Relief flooded his soul as he realised he was alone on a deserted stretch of beach. He had survived; the thought thrilled him.

  Then he retched violently, coughing up blood and phlegm onto the sand. Pain flared through his body and he struggled to breathe. He looked down at his bloodied body and saw that he was completely naked. Bruises showed on what little of his skin wasn’t covered in congealed blood; his blood. He could see that the sand around him was darkening. He needed to find help, or he would bleed to death right here, with only the gulls to witness it.

  But he couldn’t move. He managed to shuffle around to face the sea and was heartened to see no vessel on the water, save a distant oil tanker, miles out in the blue haze.

  I’ve survived! It was a punishment, but I’ve survived!

  He felt the need to pass wind, but something was wrong. There was a pain; something was lodged between his buttocks. He was suddenly uncomfortable on the soft sand. In agony again, he reached down and managed to run the tip of his fingers along the crack of his backside. There it was: a hard, immovable plug, rough like a rock, protruding from his anus. He scraped and pulled to no effect, other than sending pulses of pain through his body.

  He suddenly felt sick, the pain in his stomach made him cry out. Not only had he been beaten, but they’d poisoned him. He needed to shit – but he couldn’t. He felt a sickening rumble through his stomach and intestines. If his bowels started to move, they would rupture, killing him slowly and painfully. Unless all the blood drained from him first.

  Another flash of agony made him scream.

  His sob of realisation sent seabirds squawking over the little island and high into the blue sky. He was going to die here.

  5

  On the way back from Hamish’s, Daley stopped at the pontoons to see how the search of Cudihey’s yacht was progressing. The boat had been moved to a pier unaffected by the fire, so Daley was able to walk to the side of the vessel. It was now almost lunchtime and the hot sun was high in a flawless blue sky. Though the crowd of onlookers had dispersed, a few individuals still lingered on the esplanade that overlooked the loch, anxious to glean any information they could about the events of earlier that day. Feeling too warm, he took off his suit jacket and slung it over one shoulder.

  One of the SOCO team, red-faced inside his hooded overall, greeted him.

  ‘Hot work, Sergeant McCaig?’ Daley asked with a smile, noting the officer’s nametag. ‘Turned up anything of significance?’

  ‘To be honest, not a lot,’ McCaig replied, pulling back his hood to reveal a thick head of close-cropped, curly hair. ‘The usual kit you’d expect: clothes, navigation equipment, a few books, some stores, probably more empty whisky bottles than is healthy. Apart from that, not much. Oh, apart from these items.’ He delved into his pocket and pulled out a small flash drive and a piece of paper that looked as though it had been torn from a book. ‘He obviously has a bloody good camera, so I took the liberty of downloading the images from the flash drive for you to have a look at,’ McCaig continued. ‘Mainly landscapes, from what I can see – one beach in particular, by the looks of things. Only one image of an actual person, a young woman, a pretty one, at that. That’s all that was on there, no sign of the camera itself. I’ve emailed the images to the office.’ He handed Daley the small device.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, pocketing the flash drive. ‘No notes, logbooks, personal papers, things like that?’

  ‘Not unless they’re well hidden. We’re in the process of stripping things down to the bulkheads, so if anything turns up, I’ll let you know. All we’ve found is this.’ He handed Daley the piece of torn paper inside a polythene evidence bag. It turned out to be a page from a road atlas, showing much of the west coast of Scotland. A line drawn in red ink from the edge of the page, ending at a point in the north of the Kintyre peninsula, was the only point of interest.

  ‘Any idea what this depicts?’

  ‘No. I’ve made a copy and sent it to you, too. We’ll analyse it and see if we can find anything from the paper itself. Long shot, though.’

  Daley made his way back to his car, which was parked at the head of the pier. It was truly a beautiful day. He gazed out across the loch to the island at its head, as gulls shrieked and soared. He wondered if the weather was fine where Liz was and how she – they – were getting on. He banished the thought from his mind.

  *

  ‘Sir.’ DS Rainsford put his head inside the door of Daley’s glass box. ‘We had ACC Manion on the phone when we were out. He asks if you can give him a call ASAP.’ He handed Daley a yellow Post-it note. ‘Any joy with the old boy?’

  ‘No, nothing. The problem is he’s sure Cudihey mentioned something, but he can’t remember because he was so pissed. Hopefully his mind will clear, though I’m not counting on it.’

  Daley thought for a few moments after Rainsford left . What did Willie Manion want with him? He hoped he was not about to be asked more intrusive questions about his private life. He picked up the phone and dialled the number that Rainsford had given him. After being put briefly on hold by a brisk secretary, ACC Manion spoke.

  ‘Jim, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, sir. Just fine. Congratulations on your promotion.’

  ‘Yes, cheers, Jim. And to you, too, after the happy, well, you know . . .’ His voice tailed off, as though he had j
ust realised that he’d said something wrong. ‘All happening doon there in Kinloch, I hear,’ Manion continued, more brightly, anxious to move the subject on.

  ‘Yes, sir, a suicide. A spectacular one at that.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I was calling, Jim. A lot of interest from the press already, would you believe. Anything that involves politics attracts them like flies.’

  ‘Yes, and don’t tell me – it got leaked to the papers.’

  ‘Exactly that, Jim. You know fine what they’re like in yon parliament. Mair holes than Swiss cheese. I suppose I shouldn’t be sayin’ things like that – not wae my new job an’ a’.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Daley. ‘How are things with Police Scotland? I haven’t even got my new warrant card yet.’

  ‘Aye, I think it’s fair tae say that we’ve encountered a few difficulties. No’ least that carry-on wae the new logo. That’s what happens when you get a load o’ policemen pretending they’re businessmen, eh, Jim? Anyhow, we’ll have tae move carefully with this suicide. I know the guy wasn’t a big player in government, but anything with a whiff o’ distaste aroon politicians an’ they get jumpy. I’ve already had the First Minister’s office on the phone. So be careful, Jim, if you don’t mind. I’ll be dealing wae this, so just gie me a shout tae let me know how things are getting on.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ Daley replied. ‘You said you had a couple of things to discuss?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right, Jim.’ Manion hesitated, and Daley feared more questions about his private life. ‘I was oot seeing your wee pal earlier.’