Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Yeah, strange one. How he knows about our renewables project up there, I’ve no idea. Maybe spotted research vessels in the sound or something?’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Didn’t you see his haircut? Fucking military. CIA, even – stands out a mile. This is getting hot, Elise. Too hot for me.’ He looked at her through bloodshot eyes. ‘I just got a message from my friendly copper. The spooks have found something on Kirsteen Lang’s hard drive.’

  ‘Mr Daley, you’re the local chief of police around here, am I right?’ asked the tall American, holding out his hand to shake Daley’s. Scott was squinting across the loch as he drew heavily on a cigarette, Daley waiting patiently at his side.

  ‘Well, yes. Not exactly how we would term it, but as close as we get to that kind of thing in this country,’ replied Daley, taking the man’s hand. ‘You are?’

  ‘Michael Callaghan. Please just call me Mike, everyone else does.’ He shook Daley’s hand vigorously. ‘Kinda lovely here, yeah?’ he observed, looking across the loch, burnished silver in the evening light. A family of swans, in search of bread crusts, swam towards the crowds spilling out of the hall. The noise of people talking and laughing carried across the water. One man, Arnie, was singing and dancing past the pier, much to the amusement of his friends.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Daley replied. ‘Interesting point you raised in there. You seem very well informed.’

  ‘Oh, just a concerned tourist, you know. I love it here; everything is so unspoiled and fresh. Sort of the way things are meant to be.’

  ‘Are you stayin’ for long? I’m Brian Scott, by the way.’ The detective also held out his hand for the taller man to shake. ‘I’m the deputy.’ He grinned.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been looking around for some business opportunities. I’m in the golf game. This place is like golf heaven. Do you know, I drove my first shot right across the Atlantic Ocean onto the green this morning? I know a lot of folk back home would love to do likewise.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t be in favour of wind turbines spoiling your view?’

  ‘Got it in one, Mr Daley. Got it in one. I won’t keep you guys from your business, it’s been great meeting you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you cops have your work cut out down here. Such a tragedy with the guy who set himself on fire. What a way to end your life.’ He looked at Daley levelly. ‘You’d have to be real desperate to want to do that.’ He smiled, then walked away.

  ‘Aye, cheerio,’ said Scott, under his breath. ‘If he’s a businessman, I’m in the Salvation Army.’

  ‘You know the Americans, Bri. But I agree, he does have a kind of military bearing.’

  ‘Military bearing? He looks like General MacArthur.’ Scott stubbed his cigarette out on top of a bin. A few yards down the street, Mike Callaghan ducked into a large black SUV and sped away.

  26

  Sarah MacDougall’s day began like all the others had over the past few months, and like they would continue to, she supposed, for a very long time. A harsh buzzer roused her from a fitful sleep and she eased herself over the side of the bed. In her mind, she went through her daily mantra, counting down the days until she was eligible for parole.

  She had been sentenced to six years for conspiracy to supply controlled drugs as well as a host of smaller charges. She knew that she was clever, much cleverer than the majority of her fellow inmates in Cornton Vale; many of whom were pitiful victims of society, rather than a danger to it. Yet here she was.

  Her love of reading had landed her a plum job as an assistant in the library. There, amongst the shelves, life seemed normal; she could almost be back at her expensive private school. The librarian was a civilian, and their chats about literature and life had brightened the dark world into which she had been thrust. She was studying philosophy now, a pursuit that unlocked the doors of her restricted world to infinite ideas and possibilities. It was an escape from her regimented routine, lived amongst people she, in the main, despised. Though she reminded herself that, such had been her father’s upbringing and subsequent career in crime, she was merely one step away from these people – removed by a single generation and a fortune in feloniously obtained money. What did she have to be so proud of ?

  Well, she had her brain, her intelligence.

  Today could change things for her, get her out of this place. She had worked to set her mind free; now it was time for the rest of her body to follow. Her father had told her secrets during their brief bid for freedom, before he had died in the sand; she had wrestled with this knowledge during her trial and incarceration. What she knew – the secrets she had been told – she was certain others would want to know. The question had always been when best to make this private knowledge public. At what point could it be used to her best advantage? What forces would be released by opening this Pandora’s box?

  Her knowledge had the power to change things – to set her free. But her possession of this information could also destroy her. As she pinned back her hair – dull now, with no expensive highlights or slick cut – she thought about the slim volume on the shelf in the library: her last will and testament. She wrote something on a scrap of paper, folded it, then tucked it into her pillow case. There it would remain until the evening. She did this every day, just in case. In the evening things would be different. Knowledge was power, and power would set her free. For the first time in a very long time, she felt her spirit soar.

  The radio programme he was listening to was retro and, for him, nostalgic. Songs from the eighties played as he drove along the beautiful winding road, away from Kinloch. Sunlight glinted on the waters of Loch Fyne, flashing through the trees, just like the strobing effects in the night club all those years ago when he had first set eyes on Liz. ‘We met at midnight in Paris,’ she used to say. It sounded sublime; many of her friends remarked upon its romance. What she omitted to tell them was that Paris was a club in the back streets of Paisley.

  It all seemed like a very, very long time ago.

  Could he rekindle his relationship with Liz? Would the spark of the love he felt for her, would always feel for her, be enough to set fire to their relationship again? And what about Mary? She had called him when he arrived home after the public meeting. She sounded sad, alone and confused; her voice was small when he declined the invitation to spend the night at hers. When he’d told her that he was to visit Liz the next day, she’d put the phone down.

  He turned the radio off. Nostalgia was all very well, but it was an indulgent emotion; what was tear-jerking poignancy for one brought a cold shiver of embarrassment to another. No matter what he decided to do, somebody was going to get hurt: Liz, Mary, himself, their baby – her baby. Frustrated at the circles in which he seemed to be turning, he tried to drag his thoughts back to work, and what Sarah MacDougall would say.

  There was something he was missing, he was sure of it. He had come to rely on his inner voice, the nagging doubt that told him all was not well, despite appearances. What had happened over the last few days had been bad, but he had the feeling that it was only part of a greater, much more sinister, whole. Cudihey’s death, the appearance of a known assassin on the streets of Kinloch, and the horrific executions of Malky Miller and Rory Newell all jostled for his attention. John Donald’s face kept flashing before his mind’s eye. Yes, he was being investigated, but it was all very subtle. Daley had thought about it a lot since Layton’s revelation; he reasoned that if senior management had thought Donald to be in some way compromised, they would never have let him loose as commander of a division in the new force. As always, wheels within wheels. He was sick of it, all of it; he could foresee the job to which he had given the best years of his life becoming more and more political, a setting for behind-the-scenes deals catered to the advancement of those who occupied executive positions, who were more worried about their pensions and reputations than their real purpose: to solve and prevent crime.

  He thought of Sarah MacDougall. She had lost everything, including her freedom.
He gunned the car along a straight section of road towards the white buildings of the village in the distance.

  His phone rang, and Rainsford’s voice spilled into the car, confident as always – another perk of private education.

  ‘Sir, I’ve just been warned off from any further investigation into the map found on Cudihey’s boat.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘ACC in charge of discipline. He was adamant, sir. Any information about it, or about the lights in the sky, is to be passed to him, then he will inform the relevant department.’

  ‘The MOD, no doubt.’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ said Rainsford. ‘Oh, one thing, though. I discovered that this is the line of a cable, but not an old telegraph as we had thought.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Apparently it was laid just after the end of the Second World War. That’s where my enquiries have to end, I’m sad to say. There was a lot of military activity around Kinloch in those days. Something to do with that, sir?’

  Daley thought for a moment. ‘You have a smartphone, don’t you? One of your own, I mean, not the one you’ve been issued with.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but . . .’

  ‘Keep plugging away on that. And use your mobile network, not the office wifi. To coin a phrase, “I don’t think we’re alone”.’

  Education and exercise, that’s what existed now for Sarah MacDougall. They couldn’t lock up her mind, and exercise helped her stay sharp. An enlightened approach to the imprisonment and rehabilitation of the prisoner in the twenty-first century meant that a well-equipped gym was available for those who didn’t want to see their bellies fold over the top of a pair of baggy leggings.

  Sarah put her head down as she pedalled hard, a constant need within her to better her performance on the exercise bike. She felt rivulets of sweat slither down her back as her breath shortened with the exertion. Soon, the natural high of an endorphin rush would help her cope with another day behind white walls, high fences and razor wire. She closed her eyes against the pain, shutting out the light in the bright room.

  She didn’t expect the blow which sent her face smashing into the bike’s console, though the pain it engendered changed her life in a split second. She opened her eyes just in time to see a glimpse of her own blood as it slid down the screen displaying her time, speed and distance. Her world slipped beneath her, as though she was suddenly travelling at immense speed. She felt nothing of the second blow that turned her world, once full of hope and potential, dark forever.

  Daley circled the looming edifice of Stirling Castle, following the road through a couple of roundabouts and over a bridge, then turned left, away from Scotland’s old capital and towards one of its biggest prisons. He was on a straight stretch of road now, though numerous mini roundabouts, traffic lights and slow buses hindered his progress.

  A flash of blue reflected in his rear-view mirror caught his attention. He took his foot off the accelerator and edged his car into the side of the road to let the ambulance rush past, the wail from its siren changing pitch as it drew level with him. He watched it thread its way through the traffic ahead in a flurry of lights and sound, and something cold gripped Jim Daley’s heart. He pressed his foot firmly back on the accelerator and the car lurched forward.

  Daley stopped at the front gate of HMP Cornton Vale just in time to see the ambulance disappear into the complex of white buildings. A security guard in a peaked cap and a white shirt with epaulettes walked towards the car. An identity tag swayed across his paunch as he neared the vehicle.

  ‘DCI Jim Daley,’ he said, through the open window, passing his warrant card towards the guard for examination. ‘I have an appointment to interview an inmate.’

  ‘Picked a bad time, DCI Daley,’ replied the security guard. ‘We’re in lockdown. There’s been an assault on one of the prisoners. Doesn’t sound good, but don’t quote me on that, will you, mate. Just pull your vehicle into the side over there, and we’ll be with you as soon as possible.’

  The churning feeling at the pit of Daley’s stomach told him that something was very wrong. He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled down his contacts list. His call was answered by a harassed secretary.

  ‘DCI Daley here. I think we spoke yesterday.’

  ‘Eh, yes. Yes, of course. You arranged a visit at the request of a prisoner, I believe.’

  Daley could hear voices in the background, but decided to press on. ‘I’ve been told to wait at the front gate – some kind of problem within the prison. Would it be possible to come in?’

  ‘Can you hold for a few seconds?’

  Despite the secretary having placed her hand over the phone, Daley could make out muffled voices. He reasoned that emergencies were by no means uncommon in Her Majesty’s Prisons, so why did he feel so uneasy?

  ‘DCI Daley, I’ve just received clearance from the deputy governor. Please approach security at the gate. I’ll issue them with new instructions.’ The phone went dead.

  Daley was ushered into the visitors’ car park by two prison officers, and then escorted on foot into the building. He noted an air of quiet urgency amongst the staff, though the young man who was his guide remained uncommunicative.

  ‘Chief Inspector, please come in,’ said Deputy Governor Malcolm, from behind his large desk. He looked about fifty but, Daley reckoned, was at least ten years younger. ‘I’m afraid to say that your trip would appear to be in vain,’ he continued, gesturing to Daley to take a seat.

  ‘Meaning?’ Daley asked, his heart sinking.

  ‘Sarah MacDougall was attacked just before you arrived, in the leisure block. I’m sad to tell you that as a result of the injuries she sustained she has passed away. Our staff did their best, but . . . We have two inmates in custody, and your colleagues from Stirling are on their way.’

  Daley sat quietly for a few moments. He remembered the bright young woman he had first met in the remote farmhouse that had been her father’s bolthole. Another life wasted. All three of Frank MacDougall’s children were now dead, not one of them having reached the age of twenty-five. Only MacDougall’s wretched wife survived, living out her days in a nursing home as the disease that had put her there ate away at her mind. Considering the tragedy that had befallen her family, it was perhaps for the best.

  ‘I need to see her possessions,’ he said to Malcolm. ‘She asked to see me today, she had important information, so I would like to see anything that could point to what she intended to say.’

  Had Sarah MacDougall been killed to stop her from speaking out? To be killed on the very day that she had requested to see him was surely no coincidence.

  ‘Who knew that I was coming to see her today?’

  ‘Oh, me, my secretary, a couple of other officers and other staff. I’d have to check. The librarian, too. Sarah was studying in the library – she was a trustee in there, as well. Would you like to see the crime scene?’

  ‘Not really. I’ll leave that to our colleagues in Stirling. I’d like to see her cell, though, then perhaps I can have a chat with the librarian.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll arrange it. I’d better have a quick chat with the governor. Will you excuse me? He would pick today to be on leave. I’m sure it will be fine, though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Daley, as Malcolm walked out of the room. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, wondering what he could have done differently to save Sarah MacDougall’s life.

  27

  Scott was sitting in Daley’s office when DS Rainsford flung the door open. ‘I’ve just had headquarters on the phone. They’re looking for Chief Superintendent Donald. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Nope, I’ve no’ set eyes on him,’ said Scott, putting down his mug of coffee with shaky hands. ‘Where’s his assistant, that Layton guy?’

  ‘Inspector Layton is looking for him too. Not a sign of him at the hotel. The manager tells me she hasn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon when he went back to his room, feeling unwell. She just assumed he was
still holed up in there.’

  ‘What aboot his motor?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Still in the hotel car park,’ Rainsford shrugged.

  ‘I’ll have a scout around. He’s likely oot for a run or some-thin’. Trust me, you’ll no’ get shot o’ that bastard so easy. We can always hope he’s been abducted by aliens. I mean, that’s quite possible doon here. Especially after what I saw the other night.’

  ‘Not very helpful, DS Scott. Please let me know if you find him,’ said Rainsford, looking pointedly at Scott as he lifted the mug to his lips again, with a trembling hand.

  ‘Aye, you try getting shot, you posh bastard,’ he said, under his breath, as Rainsford left the room. ‘Maybe your hands would shake, tae.’

  Scott thought for a moment. He wondered where Donald was; whatever he was doing, he didn’t want to be involved. These thoughts were dismissed when the phone on Daley’s desk rang.

  ‘Aye, DS Scott.’

  ‘It’s ACC Manion. He asked for DCI Daley, but when I said he wasn’t in, and you were, he asked for you, Sergeant,’ the PC on reception duty informed him.

  ‘Oh, right, put him through,’ said Scott. ‘How you, Willie, what can I do you for?’

  ‘Hello, Brian. Listen, I need tae talk tae you. I hear Jim’s off somewhere today, am I right?’

  ‘Aye, he’ll be back the night or tomorrow morning. What’s the problem? Want his mobile number?’

  ‘No. You’ll do,’ Manion replied. ‘The forensic boys have come up with a few things fae this Kirsteen Lang’s computer. It would appear she and Mr Cudihey were mair friendly than we thought. She was away sailing with him, at any rate. We found a lot o’ pictures on her hard drive she’d no’ managed tae erase.’

  ‘This is the lassie that was killed in the RTA yesterday?’

  ‘Aye, Brian, that’s her.’

  ‘Why would she erase a’ the stuff from her computer?’