Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  *

  ‘Welcome back, Brian.’ Annie held her arms out wide as Scott walked into the County Hotel’s vestibule. ‘How’re you daein’?’ She was genuinely pleased to see the detective.

  ‘I’ll be doin’ a lot better when I get a dram or two doon my neck. That bloody road doesnae get any better.’

  ‘Here, gie me your cases, I’ll get Bobby the cellar man tae take them up tae your room. C’mon in an’ get a bite tae eat, an’ a refreshment, tae. After a’, it’s nearly twelve, an’ you’ve had a long journey.’ Annie ushered him into the wood-panelled bar. ‘Whoot time is Mr Daley expecting you?’

  ‘Och, dinnae worry aboot oor Jimmy. He knows the score. I’m on light duties for the next few months, so I’ll just ease myself in tae things gradually.’

  ‘Here’s the menu,’ Annie said, sitting Scott at a table near the bar. ‘Noo, whoot can I get you tae drink. On the hoose, mind.’

  ‘Good stuff, Annie, I don’t mind if I do. A dram, please, better make it a double, since you’re offering.’ DS Scott smiled and sat back in his seat. The drive to Kinloch had been longer than he remembered. The road was a long and winding one, the scenery glorious and, since he hadn’t driven much in the last few months, he had decided to stop at regular intervals, get out of the car and have a smoke, as much to enjoy the view as to calm his trembling limbs.

  ‘There you go.’ Annie placed the small glass containing the large whisky in front of the policeman. ‘Noo, whoot are you wantin’ tae eat?’

  ‘Och, I’ll have a couple o’ drams first. An aperitif, Annie, eh?’ he laughed.

  ‘Whootever you say, Brian, whootever you say.’ She smiled broadly at her customer as he drained the glass and held it out to her.

  ‘I’ll have another one o’ them, my dear.’

  Despite the heat of the day, Malky was shivering when a sharp knock on the door momentarily banished his yearning for heroin. His visitor had arrived.

  His line of work meant Malky was security conscious; he had to unlock two heavy bolts, a mortice and a Yale latch, leaving the heavy chain in place, just in case. Through the crack of the door he saw two men, the taller of whom smiled.

  ‘Malky? I have the correct address, yes? Darren sent me.’ This was the pre-agreed code name, so Malky undid the chain and let them into his flat.

  ‘Right, guys, can I get you a beer or something? Or would you prefer something mair interesting?’ He smiled knowingly at the new arrivals.

  ‘Yes, I think the last option,’ said the tall man. Malky couldn’t place his accent, but reckoned he might be a Pole; some of the new Polish community in Kinloch were his customers. The other man, shorter and with muscles almost showing through his black leather jacket, was silent, though he had a grin plastered across his face.

  ‘Aye, nae bother, man.’ Malky hesitated for a heartbeat, then, deciding that these men were more likely to reward him than steal from him, reached behind the fire for the black cloth bag. ‘This is good stuff, man.’ His fingertips had just touched the bag when he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He tried to stand up straight, but already his balance had gone. He collapsed backwards, conscious but unable to move. He tried to scream, to shout out, but nothing but a breathy hiss issued from his mouth.

  ‘You have been injected with a muscle relaxant. There is no point trying to move.’

  In the background Malky heard a chuckle, deep and menacing. He felt his bowels empty.

  ‘You should have played our game, not yours. Too many of you scum think you can take us for fools and use our money as your own. Lessons have to be learned. Pavel.’

  The squat man bent over and something flashed before Malky’s eyes – the gleam of a serrated hunting knife. He tried to scream again, but nothing came; he struggled to move, but the only part of his body obeying his commands were his eyes, as he looked up in horror at the man with the knife.

  He felt the searing pain as the knife cut into his throat just above his Adam’s apple. Despite the powerful drug, his limbs began to twitch, the rest of his body weighed down by his attacker. The last sounds he heard were the desperate gurgle of air as his windpipe was cut and the laughter of his murderer, who, once he had slit the teenager’s throat, inserted his thick fingers into the livid wound.

  10

  Daley became aware of a commotion somewhere down the corridor from his office. As he walked towards the reception desk, the sounds of agitated voices, lots of them, grew louder.

  The small reception area that greeted visitors to Kinloch Police Office was packed with people. Behind his high counter, Sergeant Shaw was doing his best to be heard, to no avail. When Daley walked into the room behind him, the racket grew louder.

  ‘Aye, wae my ain eyes, I tell you. As plain as the nose on your face!’ one man shouted.

  ‘I couldna believe it neither, Norrie,’ a woman agreed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, an’ I don’t want tae again . . .’

  The rest was lost in the clamour of voices; Daley could see more people trying to get in through the door. Fearing a stampede, he stood beside Shaw and held his arms out. At six feet three, he more or less dominated the room, apart from a couple of gangly youths, who looked impossibly tall.

  ‘Right!’ Daley shouted. ‘What’s this all about? Norrie, you first.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s like this, Mr Daley,’ said Norrie, a balding middle-aged fisherman. ‘You know fine I’m no’ prone tae any kind o’ histrionics. I’m a straightforward, honest man.’ At that, there was some sniggering. ‘That incident wae the quotas was nothing tae dae wae me. I was asleep below deck when the fishery officer came aboard.’

  ‘Please, ladies and gentleman,’ Daley called, ‘can we just hear what Norrie has to say.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Daley. Tae cut a long story short, we had a bit o’ engine trouble last night, and by the time we’d fixed the bloody thing it was well efter midnight. Me an’ the boy were jeest passing Paterson’s Point on the way hame, aboot three this morning, when we saw it.’

  ‘Saw what?’

  ‘They lights in the sky, Mr Daley. They were in the distance, at first, flashing lights o’er Arran. Is that no’ right, Kenny?’

  ‘Aye, you’re on the right track there, Norrie,’ agreed one of the tall young men.

  ‘In whoot only could’ve been seconds, this ball o’ colour, whootever it was, jeest shot intae the air an’ came right at us. Came clear o’er the top o’ us, maybe two or three hundred feet above the boat. Aye, no’ a whisper, nothing, quiet as a moose.’

  ‘Have yous been on that Navy Rum again?’ someone called from the crowd.

  ‘I’ll jeest ignore that,’ Norrie said, with a glower in the general direction of the insult.

  ‘There was a hoor o’ a racket no’ long aft er, Norrie,’ said Kenny.

  ‘Aye, you’re right, son. A kinda rushing noise, like the wind, Mr Daley. An’ then, jeest a wee while later, this massive explosion.’

  There was silence for a heartbeat, then, as though on cue, the voices raised into a rabble once more.

  ‘OK!’ Daley shouted, raising his arms. ‘I take it you’re all here to report similar experiences?’ This was greeted with shouts of agreement. ‘Right, in that case, I want each one of you to make a written statement. Sergeant Shaw here will take you one by one into an interview room. We have to do this in an ordered way, so please try to be patient. Norrie, you first.’

  ‘Aye, thanks, Mr Daley. I wisna sure whoot the polis would think o’ this. I’m glad it wisna jeest us that saw the bloody thing.’

  ‘No,’ Daley said, searching the worried faces. ‘I can tell you’ve all seen something, whatever it was.’

  ‘Aye, you have the right o’ it, Mr Daley,’ said Norrie, as he was being shown into an interview room by Shaw. ‘You’ll be wantin’ tae see Kenny’s video, tae, I’ve nae doubt.’

  ‘Video?’

  ‘Aye, he filmed maist o’ it on his phone, did you no’, Kenny?’

  ‘Aye, Mr Daley. I’ve
got it a’ here.’ Kenny held his smartphone up for Daley to see.

  ‘Dae you no’ think you should be giein’ Mr Daley a call?’ Annie asked, looking at Scott with concern. He had polished off nearly a bottle of whisky and she noted that most of the plate of food she had placed in front of him had been left untouched.

  ‘Ach, it’ll be fine, Annie. You’re a dreadful woman for worrying,’ Scott slurred. ‘When you’ve known big Jimmy for a’ the years I have, well, you have a mutual respect, regardless o’ what pips are on whose shoulder, if you know what I mean. And if you don’t mind me sayin’, Annie, my dear, I’ve always thought you were a fine-lookin’ woman.’

  ‘Ach, away wae you, you auld charmer. I’ll get you a cup o’ black coffee, an’ we’ll phone the police office, how’s that?’

  ‘Black coffee, fuck all. I’ll have another quick dram; one for the ditch, you understand. Noo, where the fuck are they fuckin’ keys?’ Scott stood unsteadily, searching his pockets.

  ‘You’ll likely have lost them,’ Annie replied, patting the pocket of her jeans to make sure Scott’s car keys were still there. ‘I’ll need tae get another bottle. Jeest you wait there till I get back, I’ll no’ be long.’ She pushed through the door behind the bar and into the small office behind the reception desk. On the wall hung a list of names and numbers which Annie ran her finger down until she found the number for Kinloch Police Office.

  Brian Scott didn’t notice his old friend and colleague when he entered the bar, engaged as he was in a heated debate with another customer about football.

  ‘It wouldnae matter what team it was, it’s still a disaster for the whole country.’

  Daley noticed that his speech was slurred and his eyes were half shut in his red face. ‘Brian, can I have a word?’

  ‘What?’ Scott turned around so quickly on the high bar stool that he nearly took a tumble. His annoyed expression was soon replaced by a wide grin as he recognised Daley. ‘Big man, it’s yoursel’, come on in an’ I’ll get you a dram.’

  ‘It’s OK. Come with me.’

  ‘Aye, whit is it, big fella? No’ another pair o’ trousers away, I hope.’ Scott laughed uproariously at the thought.

  ‘Come on.’ Daley heaved his DS off the barstool by the scruff of the neck and marched him towards the hotel’s vestibule which was mercifully quiet.

  ‘Is there a fuckin’ fire or whit?’

  ‘Right, Brian, listen to me.’ Daley’s expression was dark. ‘I know you’ve been through the mill in the last few months; nobody needs to tell me that. But I haven’t seen you sober in, well, since I can’t remember when. Every time I come to your house, no matter what the time of day, you’ve been on the piss. In your own time, that’s up to you, though after what your body’s been through, I’d have thought you would want to give it time to recover. Anyway,’ Daley talked over Scott’s protests. ‘Anyway, that’s none of my business. What is my business is when one of my officers, no matter who they are, turns up for duty in the state you’re in. What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Ach, it’s being back – comin’ doon that road. You know yoursel’, a bloody nightmare. An’ me feeling like this,’ he rubbed at his stomach, ‘well, it’s enough tae send anybody ontae the bevy, is it no’?’

  ‘Right. This is where it starts and ends, Brian, have you got me? At least Annie had the good sense to give me a call and tell me what state you were in. When would you have stopped? When you fell over?’

  ‘Nah, nah, Jim, come on, man. A few drams tae take the edge off. It’s no’ easy for me being back doon here again, no’ after what happened. Even you must realise that.’

  ‘I know what it’s like, trust me. But you have to get back into it, OK?’ Daley’s tone was less harsh now. ‘Get back in the saddle, you got it?’

  ‘Aye.’ Scott shuffled from foot to foot, both hands in his pocket, looking at the floor like a naughty child. ‘C’mon, then. Gie me a lift up tae the office and we’ll get intae it, big man.’

  ‘Office? Bugger off! If I let you anywhere near a police office now, I’d get my jotters, quicker than you’d get yours, and rightly so. Get yourself up the stairs and into your bed. Watch TV, read a book, listen to the radio, anything, just don’t come back down here. I’ll see you up at the station at nine tomorrow morning. Sober. Got it?’ Daley grabbed Scott by the lapels and looked straight into his face. He could see Annie lurking behind the reception desk, pretending not to hear. ‘Will you make sure this bloody reprobate has nothing more to drink, Annie?’

  ‘Aye, yes, nae bother, Mr Daley. I’m . . . I apologise for lettin’ him get intae such a state. Och, it was so nice tae see him back in one piece. I should have thought aboot it mair.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Annie. This here,’ he nodded to Scott, ‘is big enough and ugly enough to know better. Send him some dinner up to his room, please, and as much coffee as he can drink.’

  ‘Judas,’ Scott muttered under his breath, squinting at the hotel’s proprietor.

  ‘Enough! Get up those stairs!’ Daley shouted. He waited until he had seen Scott, somewhat unsteadily, ascend the staircase and head off to his room, accompanied by the sounds of the Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’ spilling from the bar’s jukebox.

  In the inside pocket of his jacket, he felt his phone vibrate.

  ‘Daley.’ He listened intently for a few moments. ‘I’ll be there in two minutes. Watch him, please,’ he nodded to Annie, who smiled back, sheepishly.

  11

  Gary Wilson watched the CCTV footage again, this time with Superintendent McClusky, from the Edinburgh division. Having spent more than thirty years working in the city, there weren’t many cops he didn’t recognise, especially since, up until the formation of Police Scotland, he’d been in charge of recruitment for the old Lothian and Borders force.

  ‘Well, do you know him, Donnie?’ Wilson asked testily.

  ‘No. I’ve never seen him in my life. He’s definitely not one of ours, that’s for sure. What about the press? An undercover job, perhaps?’

  ‘No. Nobody will hold their hands up to it, and trust me, I’ve exerted all the pressure I can. Legally, that is. You’ve got contacts with our friends in dark places, though; can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Spooks? No way. Since the Edinburgh Agreement, everything’s closed down. The London-based intelligence agencies are, no matter what they say, in de facto hush mode. All friendly contact has disappeared.’

  ‘But it could be one of them, yes?’

  ‘Oh aye. When it comes to them, anything could be anything. But why?’

  ‘Cudihey.’ Wilson almost spat the name out. ‘There’s something about him I’ve missed. He wasn’t just some slap-headed yes man, counting down the days before he could retire to Skye, or some other shithole. There was more to him.’

  ‘There is another possibility, of course,’ McClusky said thoughtfully.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘This Cudihey torched himself in Kintyre, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, as you can imagine, Gary, the amalgamation of our separate little bands hasn’t gone quite as smoothly as our well-spun PR would have you believe. Glasgow still consider themselves to be the centre of the universe, the arrogant bastards. I wouldn’t put it past them to have stuck one of their own men on the job, despite the new protocols.’

  ‘Well, check it out for me, will you? I need to know who and what I’m dealing with here. This is starting to make even the First Minister’s Office a bit jumpy. They haven’t told her in person yet, but they’ll have to soon. It’s a sensitive time for us all.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Gary.’

  ‘I would be most grateful. Some nice security consultancy contracts in the offing,’ Wilson smiled, ‘ideal for a newly retired senior officer.’

  ‘Message received and understood.’ McClusky nodded and stood up, replacing his braided cap on his head.

  Once he’d gone, Wilson took a battered diary from his des
k, thumbed through the pages, then picked up his phone.

  After a pause, he said, ‘Well, how the devil are you, John? Or should I say Chief Superintendent Donald.’

  *

  As Daley entered the hallway of the flat, his first thought was how different the dwelling’s interior was compared to the dingy, rundown close and staircase that he had just walked through. Though lacking any personal touches, such as paintings or photographs, the flat was well decorated; the carpets thick and clean, the walls freshly painted.

  He was still angry at DS Scott, though he was intrigued by the call from DS Rainsford who’d been vague. Daley wondered why.

  As he walked into the lounge, the answer was obvious. There, amidst a small knot of police officers, lay the body of a young man. He was covered in blood, his eyes frozen wide in horror. It took Daley a few heartbeats to realise what was different about this murder victim, what was making the bile in his throat rise even more than normal. The victim’s tongue was protruding, not from his mouth, but from a livid slash in his neck, through which it had been pulled.

  ‘An Italian necktie, sir.’ Rainsford’s voice sounded loud in the quiet horror of the flat. ‘Florentine mafia, or Colombian, modus operandi, I believe. This isn’t just a murder, it’s a punishment. And a warning, sir.’

  Not for the first time in his career, Daley had to remove himself from the scene. Standing on the filthy landing, he took deep breaths and added another grim image to the nightmare gallery of violent death he had accumulated over the years.

  ‘Fucking Kinloch.’ Chief Superintendent John Donald swore under his breath as he looked out from his top-floor office in his new domain, the headquarters of the Argyll and West Dunbartonshire Division of Police Scotland. He took in the busy road that ran in front of the large building, and the rooft ops of the town of Dumbarton beyond. This was his own fiefdom now; in effect, he was more like the autonomous chief constable of a small force, rather than a divisional commander, under the old regime. This was all he had ever wanted, all he had worked for over the last twenty-eight years. But he had never been so miserable. Everything, he realised, came at a price; he had the job, the power, the kudos, and now it was time for that price to be paid.