Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  Was the jump from death to sex his mind’s way of telling him that his relationship with his wife was at an end – dead? Then he remembered the child who had stared at him so recently. He could see the world in that one tiny, crumpled face.

  He looked up, just in time to see the flash of a shooting star arcing across the darker sky to his right, where night still had purchase.

  Lights in the sky.

  For Brian Scott the day began with an aching head, but not in the usual way. As he struggled up and sat on the side of his bed, he realised the pains in his forehead had more to do with its connection to a journalist’s nose than to booze.

  He was pleased that, though he had been drinking the previous evening, he could remember absolutely everything that had taken place: conversations, faces, places, even going to bed. Progress, indeed.

  As his bare feet slapped across the cool tiles of the en suite, he heard a sharp knock on his door. Cursing, he padded back across his bedroom and opened it a crack. There, immaculately groomed and fresh-faced, stood DS Rainsford.

  ‘Aye, son, how can I help you? I’d invite you in, but I’m in my scants,’ said Scott, noting the uniformed officer standing behind Rainsford.

  ‘This isn’t a social call, DS Scott,’ Rainsford replied. ‘There’s been a complaint about you, of assault. I need you to come with me.’

  ‘What?’ Despite his state of undress, Scott flung the door open and took a step towards the younger man, his bare toes almost touching the other man’s tan brogues. ‘If you’re talking aboot that lowlife bastard Wiley, you can forget it.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Mr Wiley. A young woman has made a complaint that you sexually assaulted her in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘What? Aye, very good. And just where did this assault take place? In the bar doonstairs, wae half o’ Kinloch watching? Wake up, son.’

  ‘Step back inside, DS Scott. I need to search your room, as accusations of the use and possession of controlled substances have also been made.’ Rainsford looked down his nose at Scott.

  ‘Right, I get it. Listen, I found a wad o’ cannabis resin in a journalist called Wiley’s pocket last night, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Did you charge Mr Wiley, or lodge this evidence at the office?’

  ‘It was the middle o’ the night, so I just cautioned Wiley and let him on his way,’ said Scott, already sensing the trap.

  ‘That’s not my information, DS Scott. A Miss Tracy Black has come forward to say that you invited her to your room last night on the pretext that you wanted to buy a class C controlled drug from her. Before the transaction was completed, you pinned her to your bed and sexually assaulted her. Now, please come with me, Brian. Or do I have to arrest you formally? Constable Latimer, please conduct a search of DS Scott’s room.’

  ‘You might have been tae university, son, but you are one stupid fuck,’ shouted Scott as Latimer forced past him and began rummaging about in the hotel bedroom.

  ‘I’m just following procedure,’ said Rainsford. ‘Something you seem incapable of.’

  ‘Whoot’s all this?’ Annie was hurrying down the corridor. ‘I heard voices.’

  ‘It’s a police matter, madam,’ said Rainsford. ‘I apologise for any disturbance. DS Scott, please get some clothes on and come with me.’

  Scott looked between the tall young man and Annie. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, just a misunderstanding. Dae you know a lassie called Tracy Black? Well, she’s telt this fuckin’ idiot here that I bought drugs fae her, and tried tae assault her. That’s right, is it no’?’ he asked Rainsford angrily, struggling into his trousers.

  ‘Yet again, most unprofessional, DS Scott,’ said Rainsford. He turned to Annie and said, ‘Please ignore what you have just been told, madam.’

  Annie was about to make her opinions known when a shout from inside Scott’s room silenced the three on the landing.

  ‘I found this, Sergeant.’ PC Latimer handed Rainsford a small black ball, wrapped in cling film. ‘Found it in DS Scott’s trouser pocket,’ he said, then looked at Scott and shrugged apologetically.

  Rainsford rolled the ball around in his right hand, peeled off some of the plastic, and sniffed. ‘DS Scott, I am arresting you on suspicion of the possession of a controlled substance under the terms of The Misuse of Drugs Act 2005. Please come with me.’

  Just then, from behind Annie, a bright flash drew their attention. Standing down the hotel corridor with a photographer stood a slight man with a broad plaster over his nose.

  ‘Have you got anything to say, Detective Sergeant Scott?’ said Wiley.

  The door to the room opposite Scott’s cracked open, and the head of a bespectacled Japanese tourist poked through it. He looked astonished as he saw Scott being led away with a policeman’s hand on his shoulder, a camera flashing as the photographer took shot after shot. Scott’s loud objections filled the air with expletives that the bemused guest did not understand.

  ‘It’s a lovely day,’ said Annie, with a forced smile. ‘If you’re on your way tae breakfast, I recommend the kippers, jeest in yesterday.’ She cleared her throat, smiled again, then left the man scratching his head in the corridor.

  33

  Superintendent Donnie McClusky stared at a bank of large screens in the AV room of Edinburgh Police Office. The various camera feeds showed different sections of Rose Street, including the front of the Auld Hundred bar and restaurant. In the footage from inside the premises he watched a woman mopping the floor while a man placed bottles on a high shelf.

  ‘When does the action start?’ he asked.

  ‘Taylor is en route now, sir,’ answered a uniformed police sergeant behind a console, wearing a pair of headphones. ‘We have him wired, but as he’s driving at the moment all we can hear is Ken Bruce on Radio 2. I’ll patch the audio through when he’s parked.’

  McClusky looked around the room. Call the new police force what they liked, this was a Lothian and Borders operation. Strathclyde had failed to save Alice Taylor, and now that the problem had landed in his lap, he intended to illustrate just how superior the men from the east were. He sat on a swivel chair and looked on idly as a pretty young woman walked down Rose Street.

  Gary Wilson reasoned that he was much happier back behind his desk in the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh, though happy perhaps wasn’t the most appropriate word to describe his feelings.

  He stared at the blurry photograph in front of him with a burgeoning sense of alarm. She was much younger and had blonde streaks through her long hair, but there was no mistaking Elise Fordham. She was shaking the hand of a swarthy man in khaki uniform as he smiled at her, surrounded by other men in uniform cradling firearms. In those days, few outside the Russian Federation had known Arkady Visonovich; he was merely a quick-witted former KGB enforcer, making himself useful to the right people. Wilson studied the photograph. Fordham’s smile looked genuine, friendly even, and its warmth was returned by Visonovich.

  He had used most of the resources at his disposal in order to make sense of what was happening. On the face of it, this was a picture of a young journalist, sent by a Scottish newspaper to cover the Second Chechen War, shaking hands with a junior Russian commander. Nothing unusual; journalists were encouraged to get as close as possible to those on whom they reported, especially in a war zone, where sound contacts might not just mean good stories, but rescue from difficult or potentially deadly situations.

  Wilson picked up a document from his desk. It was a financial investigation into the board of a holding company, Axiom BV, registered in Rotterdam. About half way down the list was the name Arkady Visonovich, listed as a non-executive foreign associate director. On paper it didn’t mean much; he was just another wealthy man with a dodgy past, and most probably present, involved in international business. It was as an old economics professor had told him: global trade was the last bastion of man’s savagery. Wilson turned the page and scanned the companies listed under the Axion BV umbrella, a
nd there it was, as plain as day: NKV Dynamics.

  Wilson tucked the document and the picture of the young Elise Fordham neatly into the inside pocket of his jacket, left his office, and walked out of the Scottish Parliament and into the Edinburgh sunshine.

  Stephen Taylor was breathing heavily as he left his car in the underground car park, only a couple of hundred yards from his destination, the Auld Hundred on Rose Street. He was nervous; he hadn’t slept since Alice had been taken, and he was particularly aware that his every move was being monitored by unseen cameras, and that the sound of his very breath could be picked up by the small device taped onto the hollow of his chest.

  As advised, he began to hum the opening bars of ‘Message In A Bottle’, the first song from his youth that came to mind. He was about to start the second line when a tiny bleep from his chest indicted that his wire was operational and that his protectors, observers – whatever they were – could hear him.

  Why had he been so stupid? Why had he put his family at risk by following a hunch? Did it feel any better now that his suspicions had been confirmed, and his beautiful daughter was in the hands of ruthless psychopaths?

  He turned a corner and there was the Auld Hundred, solid and familiar. Under normal circumstances he would be looking forward to taking the weight off his feet and enjoying a cup of good coffee, or perhaps a glass of wine, and something to eat. Now, he was being watched by half of Edinburgh’s police force, and trying desperately to save his daughter’s life.

  He looked at his watch. He had been told to enter the bar no earlier or later than midday. He was early, so he turned and affected to look into a shop window, dismayed that his right leg appeared to be shaking uncontrollably. For the next few minutes, he barely took his gaze from the timepiece on his wrist.

  Princes Street Garden was busy, the sun tempting its worshippers out into the dazzling light. Wilson sat on a bench and opened the copy of the Scotsman newspaper he had just purchased. He scanned the front page; the main news was a prediction as to how long this beautiful, and rare, taste of summer would last. He took his phone from his pocket and pretended to answer it. Folded neatly behind the device were the documents he’d removed from his office. He ended his call, laid the phone down on his newspaper momentarily, then put it back into the inside pocket of his jacket, careful to leave the neatly folded document behind.

  He sat for a few more moments, pretending to read the newspaper. Then he stretched, yawned, got to his feet and walked off.

  He was less than fifty yards away when a young couple clad in flip-flops, shorts and colourful T-shirts took his place on the bench. They kissed and looked out across the gardens, the young man whispering into his lover’s ear. They kissed again. After a few more minutes of public affection, they too got to their feet and walked away from the bench, a copy of the Scotsman tucked under the young man’s arm.

  *

  As the second hand of his watch touched twelve, Stephen Taylor walked into the Auld Hundred. He sat at the bar and ordered a vodka and tonic, smiling weakly at the pretty, tanned woman who was serving. As she busied herself pouring his drink, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, I know this sounds stupid, but are you called Stephen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Taylor, leaning slightly away from the barman, not knowing quite what to expect.

  ‘A man handed me this at the bus stop this morning, and told me to give it to the first guy who came through the door and ordered a vodka and tonic. He said to ask if you were Stephen. Is this some sort of prank or something?’ He handed Taylor a large manila envelope. There was something small but bulky inside, and Taylor opened the package with shaking hands, terrified that it might explode. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read.

  In a few moments he had finished, then, as instructed, he read the page again, making sure he understood what had been said. Still trembling, he gulped at his drink, placed it back on the bar and walked out of the Auld Hundred, taking the envelope with him. When he got to the middle of the pedestrian precinct, he reached into the envelope and removed a small silver object.

  With one flick, the lighter ignited; and as he held its flame to the envelope, it did, too. Distantly, he heard the sound of police sirens. As the first cars rounded the corner in a flurry of flashing blue and blaring sound, the envelope gave the last of itself to the fire and rose from Taylor’s hand as a floating sliver of ash in the golden light.

  *

  ‘What the fuck is he doing?’ shouted McClusky, as he watched Stephen Taylor, who filled the large screen in front of him. ‘I thought we had officers in the street – where are they?’

  ‘Special Branch, sir. They won’t want to be identified as police officers in case the perpetrators are watching,’ said the sergeant sitting behind the control desk.

  ‘So we just allow a valuable piece of evidence to go up in smoke? Brilliant!’ McClusky watched as a police car skidded to a stop in front of Taylor, sending shoppers and tourists scurrying for refuge in shop doorways. One old man stood transfixed, slowly removing the old-fashioned cap from his head as his jaw dropped. For some reason, Taylor was standing with his hands raised in surrender, like a cornered murderer.

  ‘I want to talk to Taylor, now!’ McClusky ordered, as the controller replaced his headset and spoke urgently to the officers on the scene. Taylor was handed a mobile phone, and soon his voice sounded loud in the control room.

  ‘What did you just do, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘I was just doing as directed by the kidnappers. I was told to be at Haymarket station tomorrow at six p.m., and to burn the document and envelope with the lighter supplied. They made it clear that any deviation from their instructions would result in Alice being harmed. I wasn’t going to take that risk.’

  McClusky studied Taylor’s face on the large high-definition screen, so sharp he could see beads of sweat on the man’s forehead and the enlarged pores on his nose. He realised Taylor was under pressure, but his policeman’s instinct told him there was more to what had happened; there was something furtive about his demeanour.

  ‘And that was all the note said, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Yes, that was all it said.’

  McClusky made a cutting motion across his neck to indicate to the controller that their conversation was over. Once the connection was broken, he said, ‘I want Taylor brought here. Get men into the bar – I want it closed and everyone, especially the guy who handed the note to Taylor, brought in. Got it?’

  Stephen Taylor was shaking as he was led towards a police car. Despite being a conservative, middle-class, law-abiding citizen, he was now sure of one thing: the police were his enemy.

  As he walked past the old man in the cap he smiled.

  ‘Aye, don’t you worry, son,’ the old man said, looked at him pityingly. ‘Fuck me, but they smoking laws are getting right oot o’ hand!’

  34

  The sea broke on the rocks of the tiny bay. Though he tried to stop the tide of memory from consuming him, he felt his thoughts drifting.

  The rifle sits well on his shoulder, and is comfortable under his chin. He likes the cold feel of it, and its smooth, almost sensual, quality. He is ready for the recoil, which he reacts to like a boxer soaking up a punch, moving back with the motion to lessen the impact on flesh and bone. This weapon is an extension of himself: a sleek and deadly one.

  Focus, he chides himself. Don’t let these thoughts in.

  A gust of warm wind rustles the tall pines and sends birds flitting from their branches, their indignant song punctuating the distant sound of gunfire from the ruined village far below.

  He has assembled the rifle with love and affection. This, though, is a hard-won love: he had been beaten until he learned to show the weapon due reverence, be able to bring it to life only by touch and feel, blindfolded; burned by cigarette ends until, with trembling hands he got it right, over and over again. He has suffered for the right to be its master, this weapon that has filled his hopes and dr
eams for so long.

  He watched a seal flop onto the shore, trying to stay in the here and now. There were beads of sweat on his brow.

  He brushes away a fly as he squints into the sight. Two soldiers swagger across a yard, sending chickens flapping. The one with the braided epaulettes aims a kick at one of the unfortunate birds and laughs.

  He takes a deep breath, the way he has been shown. Just before he exhales, he squeezes the trigger gently. His shoulder shoots back and he lets his breath out in a loud sigh as the weapon discharges its deadly force. He keeps his eye tight to the gun sight to see the explosion of red as the soldier who had only seconds before tormented the harmless bird falls backwards, his head gone.

  Now he is the conductor of this symphony of death. Now he is the taker of lives, the captor of souls. Now he is the Dragon.

  That was long ago, and many lives have been extinguished since. He breathed deeply, relieved, as he looked out of the cabin window at the restless sea.

  Silent stares greeted Daley as he walked into Kinloch Police Office. Sergeant Shaw drew in his breath rather than say good morning. Distantly, he could hear raised voices; following them, he found himself outside the door of Interview Room One.

  ‘And you’re one arrogant big bastard! I was arresting folk when you were shitting in a dirty cloot, you fucking arsehole.’ Scott’s raised voice was unmistakable.

  ‘What is going on?’ asked Daley, bursting into the room. Scott was sitting opposite DS Rainsford and a visibly uncomfortable DC Dunn, who avoided Daley’s gaze as he took in the scene. The red light on the recording console flashed to show that the interview was being taped.

  ‘For the record, DCI Daley has entered the room at 08:55 hours,’ stated Rainsford.

  ‘Turn it off.’

  With raised eyebrows and a frustrated sigh, Rainsford looked at his watch. ‘Interview paused at 08:56 hours.’ He leaned across the desk and switched off the tape. ‘Sir, I really must insist, this is a gross breach of procedure. DS Scott is under arrest. I’m merely doing my job – I would appreciate it if you would let me do so unhindered.’