Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Shut up, Gary,’ Fordham hissed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tell that fat bastard I’ll handle the Q&A.’ Wilson gestured to Murray, who had taken his chair behind the desk and was adjusting a microphone. ‘I’ve been standing in the hall. Lot of bloody press out there, more than you would credit. TV crews, too. Let’s see if we can turn this into something positive. Fuck knows, we need to.’

  ‘If this was a straightforward public meeting, one man and his dog would be here. One mention of little green men, and the whole bloody place turns out.’

  ‘Let’s be honest, Elise, the thought of visitors from space is a fucking lot more interesting than the dross you lot peddle. Who can blame them?’

  ‘You’re a real ray of sunshine, Gary.’

  But Wilson had stopped listening, looking at his phone instead. ‘My good friend in Police Scotland has just tipped me the wink as to what those numbers mean on the email found on Kirsteen Lang’s phone.’ He watched Fordham, gauging her response.

  ‘Really, what is it then?’

  ‘They’re map coordinates, Ordnance Survey. A point on the coast, not far from here, as it turns out.’

  ‘Oh,’ Fordham replied, her expression inscrutable. ‘Fancy that.’

  Wilson followed her to her seat. Nobody else would have spotted it, but he had. Elise Fordham was frightened.

  ‘Someone always takes the fall. It is the way things are. If you don’t want to fall, you stay away from the edge. In this matter, it is quite simple.’ The voice on the phone was foreign, yet it was familiar.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. For fuck’s sake stop speaking in riddles!’ shouted Donald. He was sitting on an old bench looking out over a rocky bay and towards the Atlantic. The sun shone a rich gold onto the slick, dark waves, seeming to transform them into molten metal.

  ‘We placed Daley in Kinloch for a reason. You said he said would clear out those who stood in our way. A proper policeman.’ He snorted his derision.

  ‘Yes, and he’s done a good job. He’s made significant arrests within the illegal narcotics chain; I’ve reported them to you. He removed the Machie threat, which could have caused you real problems. He’s the best detective I’ve worked with – tenacious, intuitive, smart. You must admit I chose him well.’

  ‘He has done well, apart from one or two exceptions, which we have been forced to clear up ourselves.’ The voice was slow and menacing, the Eastern European accent enhancing the sinister qualities.

  ‘Yes, and to do so in such a way as to place us all under scrutiny. We have to work within the confines of the law. Of course we know who is responsible for dealing drugs, but we have to have proof. It was stupid, really fucking stupid, to butcher that boy in the way you did. The shit is landing on my head; we’ll have half the force here soon,’ replied Donald, his voice cracking with stress.

  ‘Please don’t tell me my business. Messages have to be sent to those clever enough to read what they say.’ The voice was silent for a few heartbeats. ‘What was done, has to be undone.’

  ‘Fucking riddles again!’ Donald stood up, the golden sunlight flashing on the face of his expensive watch. ‘Tell me what you want me to do, then I’ll tell you if it’s possible.’

  ‘The road for us is now relatively clear. We can put the next part of our plan into place. We believe Daley has information that is detrimental to our project, and to you personally.’

  ‘What do you mean, detrimental?’

  ‘He has, or may soon have, information that will make life much more difficult. Quite simply, he is no longer an asset, he is a liability. We need to know how much he knows. We are working on that now.’ The man’s voice was cold. ‘The very man who has cleared the way for business to proceed will be the same man who will hinder it. Remember, he is not like you; he does his job well, then he goes home. He doesn’t check his foreign bank account, because he doesn’t have one.’

  ‘I can have him transferred – suspended, even. He’s been sleeping with a young colleague. He doesn’t think I know, but of course I’ve made it my business to know,’ said Donald, more confidently. ‘And in any case, what about the girl? I thought eliminating her was our priority.’

  ‘Circumstances change, so priorities shift to suit them. Daley’s knowledge is now our priority. It turns out that the girl is more interesting than we could have imagined.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fate has intervened. She has connections that could be beneficial to us.’

  ‘What? Oh, never mind the bloody girl, do what you want with her. I’ll suspend Daley. I’ll throw so much at him, his career will be over. I can link him in some way with his brother-in-law, who is under investigation, as well as the young DC he’s been fucking.’

  ‘And you think honest policemen with ruined careers don’t talk, or pass on their information to the press or colleagues? To anyone who will listen? We will find out what information Daley is in possession of, then we will make decisions based on that. You will help us in all of this. Find out what he knows!’

  Donald’s phone went dead. The Chief Superintendent sat down with a thud and held his head in his hands as the sun sparkled on the ripples of the calm ocean.

  25

  ‘As we all know, there are many strange things that we don’t understand. We need only take one look at the government in Westminster to confirm that creatures from another planet are already with us,’ said Fordham confidently, her voice booming from speakers placed around the large hall. She paused, slightly disappointed by the ragged snigger her joke had elicited. ‘More seriously though, today I have been in contact with the RAF and our much-esteemed Astronomer Royal, Professor Black. He tells me that at this time of year, there are many extraterrestrial phenomena, with perfectly plausible explanations. For instance . . .’

  Elise was stopped mid flow as Norrie got to his feet in the middle of the hall. ‘I’m no’ bothered whoot some arsehole wae a fancy title has tae say,’ he said. Cameras flashed, and, out of the corner of her eye, Elise Fordham caught the Japanese cameraman shift his focus from her to the rotund middle-aged man in the short-sleeved shirt and tie, knotted so badly that it was no more than a hand’s length. ‘I was commisioned by the polis themselves tae take a detective oot tae sea tae get the handle on whoot was goin’ on,’ shouted Norrie, his voice amplified by a boom microphone held over his head by a young man in jeans and a T-shirt. He looked pleased with this announcement, and eyed the hall with pride. ‘It’s the second time I’ve seen it, an’ there’s nothin’ at a’ natural aboot whoot’s up there!’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Fordham, trying to be heard above the din of applause. ‘Of course, I have by no means made up my mind as to what’s been happening here over the last few nights.’

  ‘I seen them tae,’ a young woman with white-blonde hair and a thick fringe shouted. Again, one of the two boom operators rushed down the hall and held the microphone over her head. ‘Me an’ Alistair were jeest oot for a wee stroll up at the plantin’, an’ there it was – huge. I nearly sh—I mean, I got a hoor o’ a fright.’

  ‘Aye, but whoot aboot the lights in the sky?’ shouted a stocky man with dark hair, sitting at the front of the audience wearing a replica Scotland football shirt, much to the delight of the Kinloch audience, who roared with laughter.

  ‘Jeest you shut it, Arnie,’ the girl replied. ‘I’m telling you, Mrs, these lights were weird!’

  ‘OK, as I say, I want to hear from you all in the fullness of time . . .’ Again Fordham was stopped in her tracks as a middle-aged woman stood, her hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail. ‘I was talkin’ tae Norrie the day, an’ I’m telling you, my tumble dryer stopped at jeest the same moment he was looking at they lights. Aye, an’ it’ll no’ go back on again. Whoot dae you intend tae dae tae compensate me for that?’

  ‘Aye, good try, Jean,’ shouted Arnie. ‘My car broke doon tae, an’ a wee green man ran intae oor hoose and stole ten grand oot o’ the
kitchen press. Can I get some o’ this compensation?’ Arnie’s fellow townsfolk laughed again, as Fordham shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot on the stage.

  ‘All right,’ she said with a smile, holding her arms out in an attempt to quieten the hall. ‘I know it might sound ridiculous to some of us, but it’s clear that many of you have had an unusual experience in the last few nights. I can assure you that I’m taking this very seriously indeed. Over the next few days, my colleagues and I will be looking into what’s been happening,’ she continued, pleased at the general murmur of consensus in the hall, ‘and members of my department will hold regular surgeries in the town hall so that folk can come and tell us what they’ve seen, or ask any questions they like.’ At last, she was getting her point across, which was a great relief.

  ‘I’ve got a question.’ Suddenly a familiar voice sounded behind her, as Charlie Murray spoke. ‘You say you’ve been having a wee chat wae the Astronomer Royal. Is that man in London, or in Edinburgh? So, depending which of them you spoke tae, who funds a’ this regal stargazing? And can we expect it tae continue under this government, or will it a’ continue tae be an exclusively royal pastime?’ His political point made, Murray sat back from the microphone to hear the response.

  Fordham gave her trademark crooked smile as she started to answer the question, a smile that said, ‘I’m going to answer your ridiculous question, but it’s hardly worthwhile.’

  Wilson – who’d watched this tactic a hundred times – looked on, trying to stop his lip from curling in distaste at the scene unfolding before him. Fordham was doing her best to try and maintain some kind of order. Murray, large and immovable behind the table, was adroitly turning the political point scoring in his favour. Despite his many years in politics, Wilson had never witnessed such familiarity within such a large crowd; nearly three hundred people were behaving as though they were sitting in their front rooms having a casual chat, not in the presence of one of Scotland’s political masters – not to mention the world’s media. He nudged Ian McIntyre, who was sitting beside him, nervously fiddling with a pen.

  ‘Come on, man, speak up, attract the Chair’s eye,’ he whispered from behind his hand. ‘You need to give the Minister some help here.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ replied McIntyre, dropping the pen and putting his microphone to his mouth. ‘Mr Chairman, I would like to make a point,’ he said, pulling at his moustache nervously.

  ‘Aye, go ahead, Ian,’ Murray replied, looking on with raised eyebrows. ‘I’m sure Miss Fordham will be happy tae gie her throat a rest.’

  ‘An’ gie us peace,’ shouted Arnie. ‘On yoursel’, Ian, boy. Gie it the full bhuna!’

  ‘Well, the way I see it,’ said Ian, squirming in his seat, ‘the way I see it is that . . .’ Suddenly he sat bolt upright. ‘You’ll need tae excuse me, Mr Chairman, I’m no’ feeling very well.’ He rushed out of his chair in a flurry of scattered pens and paper, sending the microphone to the stage with a hollow thud and whine of feedback.

  ‘The toilet’s jeest doon the stair an’ tae your left,’ announced Murray through his microphone, as McIntyre disappeared through the curtains at the back of the stage. ‘I hope there’s plenty bog paper in there, tae. You’ll need to get something done wae they bowels o’ yours, son.’ The hall exploded in laughter.

  Wilson took in the scene with a resigned look on his face. Just below him, at the side of the hall, he watched a Japanese reporter talk to his cameraman, directing him to take a sweeping shot of the whole audience. A fucking laughing stock, he thought to himself, as Fordham looked over and shrugged her shoulders. She was a talented orator but Kinloch would have tested the rhetorical talents of Martin Luther King, Jr. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

  Vodka stopped the memories during the day, but they invaded his dreams as he slept.

  He is herded onto the lorry with the rest of the men. He had been punched in the face by a Serbian soldier and his jaw no longer works properly. He looks on in despair as an old man is battered to the ground, beaten and kicked until his pitiful attempt to defend himself ceases.

  A toddler is swung through the air, her chubby ankles held by a laughing soldier. Her screams are silenced as he lets go and her tiny skull shatters against a wall.

  Everyone looks old, even the young men. He knows them all, but they look different, bones where once was flesh, their familiar faces aged almost beyond recognition. Only the soldiers are tanned, fat and smiling.

  He is pushed onto a truck behind a boy two years older than him. He knows him from school. He smells the stench and sees the dark stain of shit on the boy’s jeans.

  ‘We’re going to die,’ the boy cries.

  Screams rend the air as the trucks pull away. Women – old, young, mothers, wives, daughters – reach out, desperate to save their menfolk. He watches as a woman is hit with the butt of a rifle. She spits blood and teeth onto the road.

  They are on the road now, threading between burned-out cars, debris from ruined houses, more soldiers and rotting corpses, around which flies buzz and swarm in the summer heat. A pretty girl is on her knees, two soldiers standing over her, one holding her head. The soldiers on the lorry cheer as they drive past.

  He jolted awake with a start. He was lying on a bunk in the fishing boat; his throat was dry and he had a familiar sadness in his heart, a sadness that had been with him for so long that he couldn’t remember life without it.

  He saw his phone flash on the Formica table in the centre of the cabin. He looked at the device. His instructions had changed. He remembered the overweight man in the police uniform as he looked at the picture on the screen. Everything changed; it was the way of things. He was pragmatic.

  ‘An’ as I’ve said before, tae the council, aye, an’ even the polis, there’s no way I can run my business for much longer until these roads get sorted,’ shouted a tall man. ‘Aye, folk are still wantin’ taxis, but I canna afford tae keep up wae the repair bills. These aren’t jeest potholes, I saw wee Erchie the accordionist oot swimmin’ in one the other day.’ More laughter rippled through the hall.

  Fordham looked around at Charlie Murray, who merely sat back in his chair, allowing the meeting to chair itself. She knew he was revelling in her discomfort. She had already been harangued about the cost of bus travel, complaints about health care, a perceived lack of tourism, the colour of the newly refurbished town hall, and a question from one woman about whether the local supermarket would be stocking her preferred soap powder soon, as there hadn’t been any for weeks. Through all of this, Murray had remained silent, making no attempt to discourage such off-topic questioning.

  Fordham caught sight of Wilson’s exasperated expression, and knew it was time to end the meeting. As adroitly as she could, she thanked the audience for coming and assured them that she was taking matters very seriously.

  ‘As I have already stated, I will make sure that these phenomena are investigated over the next few days, and if any of you have further disturbing experiences, do not hesitate to report them to the police, or to bring the matter up at the regular consultations that I will initiate over the next few days.’ She paused for effect, hoping at least to end the meeting in a controlled and professional way. ‘Never forget that, no matter what, our government is busy making sure your rights, safety and prosperity are always at the very top of our agenda.’ She stepped back from the microphone to indicate the meeting was over.

  Just as desultory applause was beginning to spread through the hall, Fordham was dismayed to see a tall man in a smart suit, his hair cut distinctively short, stand up, his hand raised. A boom microphone was quickly propelled above his head.

  ‘Could I ask one question, please?’ he asked in a measured and instantly recognisable American accent.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled from the stage, ‘though could you make it brief ? I have a number of other pressing matters to attend to, I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Absolutely, of course. I would just like to know if
the community here in Kinloch will profit from the massive wave and wind energy initiative currently being researched ahead of development on the coast a few miles north of here?’

  Amidst the subsequent hubbub, Murray leaned forward in his seat and spoke loudly into his microphone. ‘Everybody will need tae be quiet an’ let the Minister answer the gentleman’s question.’

  He hadn’t reckoned with her political talents though. Fordham leaned toward the microphone and simply said, ‘I’m not quite sure to what exactly the gentleman refers, however if it is a question about the government’s continued efforts to create for this country a sustainable and ecologically moral power network, then I must tell him that currently everything is under discussion and all possibilities are being examined. The coast of Kintyre is no different to the rest of our coastline here in Scotland. We know that such research will lead to us becoming self-sufficient in green energy by the second half of the twenty-first century.’ Then, without taking a breath, she thanked the audience again, turned on her heel and made her way back through the curtains at the back of the stage, quickly followed by Wilson, who glared at Murray as he passed.

  ‘An’ that, as they say, is that,’ said Murray, as less than enthusiastic applause echoed briefly around the George Hall.

  ‘I sincerely hope you’ve got some fags on you, Gary,’ said Fordham as she made for the door.

  ‘Here,’ he replied, ushering her into the dressing room. ‘Our friends from Kinloch will try to pigeonhole you at the back door. We’ll stay in here for half an hour or so, until they get fed up. I’ll tell the minders to wait in the corridor and keep the locals at bay.’ With that, he slid a silver bolt in place, locking them in the narrow room. ‘Catch,’ he said, throwing a cigarette to Fordham.

  ‘What about the smoking ban, Gary?’

  ‘After the shambles you’ve just presided over, smoking behind the bike shed will be the least of your worries,’ said Wilson in a harsh whisper, as he spun a white lighter across the small space between the Minister and himself. ‘Everything was bad enough before Uncle Sam chipped in.’