‘Put everything back where you left it, please, sir,’ ordered a middle-aged man with swept-back grey hair, a goatee beard and an English accent.
‘Indeed I will not,’ replied the superintendent. ‘I’m here on parliamentary, as well as Police Scotland, business. Just who the fuck do you think you are?’
‘I’m from MI5, the other officers here are from SIS. We have taken possession of this locus, as is our right on the basis of national security. I want your men to replace everything they have moved in the property and leave, as quickly as possible.’ McClusky was about to reply decisively in the negative when a familiar head popped around the bedroom door.
‘Please comply with these gentlemen, Donnie. Whatever’s been moved or bagged, put it back where it was.’ As quickly as he had appeared, the new Chief Constable of Police Scotland disappeared out of the door. McClusky, not taking his eyes from the dark-suited man with the goatee, straightened up and dropped the drawer on the bedroom floor.
‘Oops. I’m afraid I haven’t got any time for spooks,’ he said.
‘I don’t give a fuck, mate,’ replied the MI5 officer. ‘I’m not going to be picking it up.’
As McClusky left the flat with his police colleagues, he put his hand in his pocket and felt the smartphone. He had something to show Wilson; he just hoped it would be of some use.
‘Well, what happened?’ Wilson demanded, when McClusky called him later.
‘Not good, Gary. About ten minutes after we got there our friends from the south arrived with Lamont. My hands were tied. They took the lot.’ He paused, waiting for Wilson to answer, but nothing came. ‘I have got one piece of good news, though.’
‘Good news? What the fuck’s that.’ Wilson had been trying desperately to work out what was going on. The original interview of Kirsteen Lang by the bogus detective bore all the hallmarks of secret service involvement, but what were they after?
‘I managed to smuggle a smartphone out of the room. One of our IT guys had a look at it.’
‘And? For fuck’s sake, Donnie, this is not the midnight fucking movie, tell me what the fuck is going on!’
‘Och, the usual stuff, selfies, emails, social media, all of which we’re going through. One thing stood out, though. An email from Cudihey.’
‘Yes, and what?’
‘I’m sending it to your phone, have a look for yourself.’ A second later, Wilson’s phone chirruped to tell him he’d received an email.
From: Walter Cudihey
To: K G Lang
Subject: NKV Dynamics 6628232373
Wilson read the message three times. He recognised the name, but the number was a mystery.
‘So what do you think, Donnie?’
‘The name belongs to a company registered in Luxembourg who manufacture wave energy appliances. As for the number, well, it could be an invoice, or an international phone number. We’re still digging.’
‘Good work. At least we have something to connect this to. Could just be work-related, though. You’ll need to dig further with this. I’ve been delayed in this fucking tip overnight,’ said Wilson ruefully.
‘Why so?’
‘Don’t fucking ask. I’ll give you one piece of advice – never get involved with parliament, or worse still, politicians.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said McClusky. ‘We’ll have to be quick, though. Whatever we have, likely the spooks have it too. They’ve got her laptop and tablet, as well as all her personal papers. It won’t take them long to sift through everything.’
‘I don’t care what you have to do, or how you have to do it, work this problem for me, Donnie, and I’ll make sure you’ll get your reward.’ Wilson knew where he’d heard about NKV Dynamics recently; it had been at a party fundraiser in a posh Glasgow hotel. The speaker had been impressive, well-briefed, entertaining and moved amongst the corporate hosts with a confidence that he greatly admired. That speaker’s name was Elise Fordham.
Daley was in Scott’s room at the County Hotel. Despite being clean and tidy – obviously attended to by the hotel staff – the place stank of stale booze. He was staring at the television while Scott busied himself in the bathroom, from which issued a tuneless whistle punctuated by splashing and expletives.
Everything was impenetrable; nothing seemed to tie up. If the man on the boat that had sunk the Taylor family was who Interpol thought him to be, there could be no doubt that he faced one of the greatest challenges of his career. Certainly, the level of sadistic violence displayed in the two murders he was investigating was absolutely consistent with the kind of horror this man was famous for, but why here, why Kinloch? What on earth would bring one of Europe’s most wanted men to this little town?
The warm breeze through the open window made the stained net curtains billow into the room. He could hear the patter of smokers, customers from Annie’s bar, standing at the hotel’s front entrance, momentarily expelled from the enjoyment of one habit in pursuit of another.
Tomorrow he would make the long drive out of Kinloch to visit Sarah MacDougall in prison. He wondered how the young woman was coping with life behind bars. Ironically, she had found herself incarcerated only a few miles from the upmarket private school where she had been educated. She had lost her brothers and father in tragic circumstances, while her mother was now being cared for in a nursing home, her mind ruined by vascular dementia. Only the most resolute of individuals would be able to cope with such hardship. He hoped Sarah was one of them.
His thoughts turned to Liz and their child. Ever since he had submitted the DNA test, he had found himself thinking of the baby as his. He resolved to pay Liz a visit in their Howwood home, before he returned to Kinloch. Tomorrow promised to be an interesting, if arduous, day.
‘Did I tell you that Rainsford thinks he knows what the line on Cudihey’s map is?
‘No, what?’ shouted Scott.
‘Some kind of undersea communications cable. He’s looking into it now, though trying to get anywhere without crossing our friends at the MOD seems a difficult task.’ Daley rubbed at his chin, trying to figure out how everything fitted together. Now that the MOD and Special Branch were hovering on the periphery of the investigation, anything was possible.
‘Noo there we are,’ said Scott, bounding from the bathroom, replete in white shirt, dark suit and polished shoes. ‘I don’t want tae be oot o’ place at this meeting. It’s no’ often the likes o’ me get tae rub shoulders wae government ministers.’
Daley smiled. For some reason, his DS seemed inordinately impressed that he was about to meet Fordham at the public meeting in the town’s large George Hall. After tales of his experience with UFOs the previous evening, Daley felt it important that he relate them to Fordham in person. While Daley was no believer in the supernatural, it was undeniable that Scott and his companions, plus many other sincere Kinloch citizens, had seen something in the sky. The question was: what? The old airbase, now decommissioned, had been used to test military aircraft in the past, but since the RAF and USAF had abandoned it, he had been assured that it was only used for civilian purposes, including the local air service to and from Glasgow.
‘She’s a wee cracker, tae,’ said Scott, knotting his red tie in the wardrobe mirror, anticipating his meeting with Fordham. ‘I wouldnae mind a close encounter wae her, any night o’ the week.’
‘You’ve got the wrong colour tie on if you’re trying to impress her.’
‘Eh?’
‘Should have worn a yellow one, or tartan, maybe.’ Daley realised Scott’s interest in politics only extended to wondering how much booze and fags would go up in the budget. He was pleased that his friend appeared to have taken his advice and stayed clear of alcohol tonight. Scott was as bright and breezy as Daley had seen him in a long time.
‘Right, that’s the tie on. Just give me two seconds, and I’ll splash on some aftershave.’ Scott went into the small bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Daley got up off the bed with a groan. ‘Come
on, Brian, get a shift on. We’re going to be late.’
‘Hold your horses, big man.’ Scott opened the blue toilet bag on the counter beside the sink. Beside the aftershave, deodorant and toothpaste, an unopened half bottle of vodka called out to him. He closed his eyes and sighed. As he tried to get the top off, he was dismayed to note that his hands were shaking. ‘I’ll need tae get a scarf o’ my ain,’ he whispered to himself. He took a deep breath and cracked open the vodka, being sure to disguise the noise with a well-timed cough. He put the bottle to his lips and glugged down a couple of mouthfuls, screwing up his eyes as the spirit burned his throat. Almost gagging as he felt its warmth travel down to his stomach, he quietly screwed the lid back on and replaced the bottle at the back of his toilet bag, from which he removed another bottle containing a jade green liquid. He gargled with the mouthwash, then spat it out and wiped his face with a flannel. Already, the vodka had begun to enliven his senses; the anxious feeling at the pit of his stomach was fading as the quick fix of alcohol did its job.
‘Come on, Brian!’ Daley shouted.
24
‘OK, Elise, tell me again about NKV Dynamics,’ said Wilson. His voice was barely above a whisper but it still held a menace that made Fordham squirm. They were sitting in the lounge of their hotel, hastily booked, next door to the George Hall, where the impromptu public meeting, called by locals worried by strange lights in the sky, was about to be held.
‘What’s to tell, Gary? I take it you’ve Googled them, so what more do you want me to add?’ Fordham replied, smiling at a woman who was staring at her from across the room.
‘I know all the public shit, that’s easy. What are they all about? What is it the public aren’t told? Do you really think I’ve been involved with politics this long without realising there’s always more to it than that? Give me the full story, Elise, not the fucking waffle you feed this lot,’ he said, at the same time smiling across the room at the staring woman, who was now whispering into the ear of the man beside her, without taking her eyes off Fordham.
‘They’re a renewables company, you know that, Gary. They manufacture wind and wave power technology. One of the top players in Europe. We’re in partnership with them to exploit our brilliant natural resources. They are also bidding for more contracts around the coast. We’re going to turn Scotland into the greenest, most energy-efficient country on the planet. Did you know that this country could produce all of its electricity from green sources in twenty years if this works out the way we want?’
‘I suppose these undersea contraptions are preferable to the monstrous windmills you’re throwing up everywhere, but don’t fob me off, Elise. When we get back tomorrow, I’m going through this with a fine-tooth comb. I want to know everything there is to know about NKV Dynamics.’
Elise Fordham removed her gaze from the woman across the room, who was now pointing them out to a bemused young waiter. She looked at Wilson levelly.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know if we’re going home tomorrow, Gary. Please don’t make a scene,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
‘I hope you’re fucking kidding,’ he whispered, finding it more difficult to plaster a grin across his face.
‘No, I had a word with the First Minister’s Private Secretary. He’s considering whether or not we should stay here a bit longer – to take the flak over this UFO stuff. Apparently the press are sending journalists in their droves down here. There’s to be news crews from Japan, the States and Bolivia here tonight, apparently.’
‘Eh? I’m supposed to brief you on what the press is doing, not the reverse. If you ask me, this is a publicity disaster waiting to happen. We should get as far away from here as we possibly can. I’m going to phone the FM’s office.’
‘Listen, Gary. I don’t need to tell you how unfortunate Cudihey’s suicide and Kirsteen Lang’s death are for us. This UFO thing is heaven sent. Everybody wants to talk about little green men, and the more they want to do that, the happier I’ll be. Now, come on, we need to get into the hall before the hordes descend.’ She stood up, smoothed down the front of her skirt and walked across the room, smiling benignly at everyone as she went. Wilson, left sitting on his own, felt more unsettled than at any other time he could remember. He just couldn’t work out why.
As Daley and Scott walked through the vestibule and into the large hall, they were impressed to see how busy the place was. Over half of the seats were filled with locals whose murmurings created an excited buzz in the large space.
‘I’m thinking this Minister better be up tae speed wae what’s going on, or this mob’ll eat her for breakfast,’ said Scott, waving a greeting to two uniformed constables standing in front of the stage. ‘I wonder if she read my report?’
‘It was passed to her,’ replied Daley. ‘Though in my experience of politics, be prepared for their version of events bearing little resemblance to what happened to you on the boat, Brian.’
‘How you, Mr Daley,’ said a familiar voice from behind the detective.
‘Hamish, how are you?’
‘When this business is over, I’ll be needing a wee word with you, as nae doubt your able assistant here has telt you.’
‘Oh fuck,’ said Scott. ‘Sorry, Jim, I forgot a’ aboot it. Your man here’s remembered what he forgot. I meant tae tell you earlier.’
‘You mean your conversation with Cudihey, Hamish?’ asked Daley
‘Aye, jeest that. It came tae me in a fit o’ inspiration when I was oot on the boat. I’m thinking that they lights in the sky had something tae dae with it, right enough.’ He removed the pipe from his pocket, and sucked at it, unlit, as he stared around the room.
‘Well, that’s something at least,’ observed Daley. ‘I’ll take a statement off you later, as soon as we get out of here.’
‘An’ how’s your heid?’ asked Hamish, pointing his pipe at Scott. ‘I had a right drooth when I woke up this afternoon. Mind you, nothing like a few drams and an evening sail tae let you know you’re alive, an’ nae mistake.’
‘Aye, well, you did have a few, Hamish,’ Scott said, clearing his throat. ‘I hope we’ll get some kind of explanation fae the politicians tonight,’ he added, quickly changing the subject.
‘You never know,’ said Daley, looking at his DS knowingly. ‘Three Men in a Boat, eh?’
‘Four men, Mr Daley. Well, three men an’ a boy, right enough.’ Hamish smiled.
‘Here, we better get a seat before there’s none left,’ said Scott, walking over to the nearest row of seats.
‘Aye, lead on, Mr Scott, lead on.’ Hamish followed the detective, leaving Daley stroking his chin. Scott should have told him that Hamish had remembered his conversation with the wretched Cudihey, whether it turned out to be of significance or not. He had hoped that, once back in the swing of things, following the usual routines and procedures, Scott would have toned down his drinking. It was increasingly obvious that this was not the case. Despite the application of mouthwash, Daley had noted the fresh taint of alcohol on his colleague’s breath before they left his hotel room. He remembered an old sergeant’s words: ‘When you start planking the bevy around the house, you know fine you’ve got a problem.’
It was clear that Brian Scott was keeping booze in his bathroom. Daley let out a sigh and took a seat.
Elise Fordham looked out from a chink in the curtains; the room beyond seemed much more cavernous than it had looked from the outside. Row upon row of seats were filled; it was obvious that the citizens of Kinloch were most anxious to hear what she had to say about the UFO sightings. She was no stranger to public speaking, but even she was surprised by the attendance. She spotted four camera crews setting up their equipment, while beyond, on a balcony at the end of the hall, a spotlight was being focused. Soon its light would fall on her.
A table and four chairs had been arranged on the stage. At least the short notice meant none of her political foes had made it to Kinloch. The stage party was to consist of her, Wils
on, Charlie Murray, who would chair, and a man with a ginger moustache, Ian McIntyre, chairman of her party in Kinloch. At least she would have someone local guaranteed to support her; though he seemed nervous, agitatedly fiddling with a row of pens sticking from the breast pocket of his jacket, while pacing up and down the stage.
Murray stalked across the stage towards her. Despite his bulk, he walked easily and looked utterly at home, about to face the large audience. On seeing him approach Fordham, Wilson quickly finished his telephone conversation and hurried to the Minister’s side.
‘Poor Ian gets himsel’ in a wild state before these kind o’ events,’ observed Murray, looking over to the younger man, who, eyes closed and head raised, appeared to be either trying to memorise something he wanted to say, or offering up a silent prayer. ‘I’ll dae the introductions, an’ outline jeest whoot’s been happening in the sky. Then you can say whoot you want.’
‘What about Mr McIntyre?’ asked Fordham.
‘Och, nae doubt he’ll have something tae offer, though I canna be sure if it’ll be any use or no’. Aye, he’s fair excitable, but I thought it was only fair tae have some kind o’ political balance on the platform. Especially since you an’ me come fae opposite sides o’ the debate, so tae speak.’ He grinned. ‘Ian, come over, son. It’s time we got this show on the road. An’ if you’re needing tae go tae the lavatory, noo’s the time. I’ll no’ need tae remind you o’ that embarrassment up in Firdale during the last election campaign. Fuck me, you near shat yoursel’.’
McIntyre visibly jumped, before making his way towards the rest of the group.
‘Brilliant,’ whispered Wilson into Fordham’s ear. ‘Our man’s a gibbering oaf with loose bowels. Ever felt as though you were being set up?’
Dark Suits and Sad Songs Page 14
