Dark Suits and Sad Songs

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘You don’t understand, Gary.’

  ‘Oh, I understand very well. Your party is pushing for an independent Scotland, yet I have photos of you working secretly alongside the British security services. What exactly is it that you’re giving to them, Elise?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘But that’s how it looks. If I release these pictures, your career is over.’

  ‘What? But why would you do that?’

  ‘I know that you are familiar with Mr Visonovich. You met him a long time ago, during the Chechen war, when you were still a mere journalist.’

  ‘Aye, and he’s a ruthless bastard.’

  Wilson took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one which, despite her nausea and aching throat, she accepted with a shaking hand. ‘When pathetic Walter Cudihey smelled a rat and did some digging, he told you what he had found. You recognised Mr Visonovich’s name on the list of non-exec directors of NKV Dynamics.’

  ‘Very good, Gary.’

  ‘But I can’t let you jeopardise his position with NKV.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Tell me you’re not the one responsible for that maniac getting a foothold in our country. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

  ‘I know exactly what I’ve done. I’m making enough money to see me through a splendid retirement, one I’ll spend happily by the sea somewhere, the sun beating down on me, as far away from this miserable little country as possible.’

  ‘But why? How did you even get to know someone like that?’

  ‘You, like many of your fellow politicos, firmly believe that life begins and ends with your little capers; that nobody else could possibly manage to do anything you can’t second guess. You weren’t the only journalist who spent time abroad, you know. I was the correspondent for our little rag in Germany when they still had a big wall and two football teams. News from the east was always welcome, and I met a very helpful young KGB agent.’ Wilson smiled, showing his tobacco stained teeth.

  ‘So you’re working with Visonovich?’

  ‘He pays me to gather information that might be useful to him, to whisper a few well-chosen words in the right ears. I take care of problems for him. Problems like you.’

  ‘This guy will flood our country with drugs. They want to use us as a base to spy on NATO. Fuck me, Gary, they’ll turn us into a satellite state. Is that really what you want?’

  ‘Oh, not just me, Elise, though I suppose someone as clever as you has already worked that out. I’m merely doing the same job I’ve been doing for most of my life: I fix things, I get things done, things that others baulk at.’

  ‘And so you kidnapped and drugged me, you bastard.’

  Wilson blew a perfect smoke ring into the air, watching as it rose and dissipated. ‘Nothing worse than a traitor, Elise. We have lots of other stuff. Video, recorded conversations from phone taps – the works. All of them telling the same story: how Elise Fordham, the darling of the party, sold her country down the river for English gold.’

  ‘I’m not. What I’m doing is for the good of the country.’

  ‘And do you think the public will believe that?’

  ‘All you care about is yourself. What about Cudihey and Lang? Did you have them killed?’

  ‘No, in fact. We got lucky there. Poor old Walter had the hots for sexy wee Kirsteen – quite an obsession, in fact. A bit of pressure in the right place and up he goes like a bonfire Guy.’

  ‘And Lang?’

  ‘Pure luck.’ Wilson smiled again. ‘We would have had to do something about her. Though fuck knows the little bitch was ambitious enough to keep quiet, despite what lovesick Wattie had shown her.’

  ‘So you’re telling me it was just an accident?’

  ‘Yes, a tragic accident. Sad, isn’t it.’

  ‘Why, Gary? Why would you do this?’

  ‘We live in a changing world, Elise. You know that as well as anyone. A wee country like ours, we need friends. The special relationship is between Washington and London, not Edinburgh.’

  Fordham stubbed out her cigarette. Her worst fears had been realised, and she could do nothing about it. All she had worked for, believed in, would be thrown to the four winds unless she could do something.

  ‘And who are “we”, Gary?’

  ‘Just a happy little band of people in the know. We make things happen, influence events. You know what I mean.’

  ‘You’ll turn us into a failed state, corrupt and under the influence of the Bear. Fucking brilliant! Scotlandistan. Visonovich has already tapped into the intranet cable that carries NATO traffic between North America and Europe. Did you know that, Gary?’

  ‘You politicians, always the drama. It’s time for new alliances, Elise. Anyway, we’ve been a launch pad for nukes for too long. I believe it was your own party who railed against the conditions of membership of that little club. It’s time the tables were turned.’

  ‘Great. I suppose you’ve addressed the currency question, too. Rouble, is it?’

  ‘This coming from the party of no solutions.’

  She was about to reply when Wilson held one finger up against his lips to silence her. ‘This little episode needn’t stand in your way, Elise. Everyone is due a lapse of judgement sometimes,’ he said, gesturing towards the envelope. ‘Here’s what we’ll do.’

  Elise Fordham had overcome poverty, broken through the glass ceiling and worked until her whole body ached with fatigue, day after day, month after month, to get to where she was. Now she was trapped in this depressing little room with her erstwhile colleague, her career in tatters and her country – all she had ever really cared about – in peril.

  ‘I did what I did for my country, Gary. No “English gold” changed hands.’

  ‘Oh, not true,’ said Wilson. ‘While you were sleeping, my associates have been busy with your plastic, my dear. That’s why we needed to pacify you for a wee while. I wish I had a leaf out of your bank book. So rich, despite your socialist principles, eh?’ The smile faded from his face. ‘Now, it’s time we had a serious chat about how things are going to be from now on. This isn’t the end for you, Elise, it’s just the beginning.’

  44

  The little speedboat was sleek and fast. Green hills rolled above the breaking sea; short stretches of beach, dotted along the coast, shone like tiny white jewels, magnificent under a flawless blue sky. His thoughts were less idyllic, however. He thought about the girl – felt a twinge of pity for her, even – but she was a means to an end. He had to free his friend. He would free his friend – at any cost.

  The man who was currently paying him was pragmatic. He adapted to suit events and opportunities. The Dragon knew this man was capable of rising to the top, but still, he worked with him – not for him. Circumstances had changed for them both; and so their plan would change too.

  He gunned the throttle of the speedboat, raising its trim and the roar of its powerful engines. Soon, the Dragon would roar again.

  ‘Brian, I want you and Rainsford to work this problem. I’ve got to go out, I shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘Off on another secret meeting, Jim? Fuck me, anyone would think you’re havin’ an affair . . . Oh, eh, sorry,’ said Scott, suddenly realising the unintended accuracy of what he’d said.

  ‘Where’s Hamish?’

  ‘On his way. I eventually tracked him doon tae the doctors. He’ll be here any time.’

  ‘The coastguard and the Royal Navy are searching around Firdale where you nabbed that halfwit, so here’s hoping they come up with something.’

  ‘Aye, all very well, but they don’t even know what they’re looking for, dae they?’

  ‘That’s our job, Brian.’ Daley rose from his desk, picking up his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘The Semper Vigilo should be here soon. If we can’t do anything else, at least we can start looking.’

  ‘Another bloody boat,’ said Scott, referring to the police launch, on its way to Kinloch.

 
‘Afraid so, Bri. Right, I’ll be back in less than an hour. Keep at it. I might have a lead, but keep going. We’ve got to save Alice Taylor.’

  Scott nodded as Daley walked out of the CID Suite. Along the corridor, Daley turned into what had been MacLeod’s, then Donald’s and was now Manion’s office. The Assistant Chief Constable greeted him warmly, then produced a tiny recording device from his desk, which Daley fixed behind the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Good luck, Jim,’ he said. ‘I hope we can save this poor lassie, an’ nail that bastard Donald at the same time. Please don’t gie him my regards.’

  ‘Remind me to talk to you about a letter when I get back, sir.’

  ‘A letter, who from?’

  ‘Sarah MacDougall, sir. I should have told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I don’t think John Donald is alone in all of this, boss.’

  ‘And there’s information contained in this letter?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I would have used the normal procedure, but, well, these days . . .’

  ‘Och, I’m sure you’re right. We can speak aboot it when you get back. Who knows, your man Donald might just blow the whole thing sky high. This letter, gie me it now an’ I’ll take a look while you’re away. It’ll save time, an’ that’s no’ a commodity we have a lot of right noo.’

  ‘Here,’ replied Daley, fishing into his pocket and handing a small key to Manion. ‘Top drawer of my desk, tucked at the back.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I better go, sir. I hope Donald can give us something about the girl.’

  Daley shut the door firmly behind him as he left, leaving Manion eyeing the little key. ‘Aye, good luck, son,’ he whispered under his breath, with a shake of his head.

  Daley pushed open the heavy security door that led to the car park, almost knocking over the young woman standing on the other side.

  ‘Sorry, I . . .’ Daley stopped. Before him, stood DC Dunn, the pallor of her face exaggerated by her auburn hair and dark trouser suit.

  ‘Mary, I have to dash now, but can I talk to you? Soon?’ Lightly, he pressed his hand to her arm.

  ‘Is your wife coming back?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Then there’s nothing to talk about. Would you excuse me, sir, I need to get back to my desk.’ She looked at him with cold eyes, then slid gracefully into Kinloch Police Office without a backward glance. As he jumped into his car he felt a deep sadness at the pit of his stomach, and his head started to spin. Seeing her walk away from him was like saying goodbye. It affected him in a way he hadn’t expected.

  He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts to Alice Taylor, a girl with only hours to live unless he could do something about it. He wondered how long it would take her to regain consciousness and finally realise how close to death she was. Death. There it was again; its cloying presence was never far. A trip to the seaside with his mother flashed into his mind. Her hand wiping the rain from his face. The memory disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  The Dragon cut the engine of the speedboat, slowly bringing it to a halt. The loch was calm, glinting under the midday sun. He scanned the seafront; near the town, he could see children in a play park, their screams and laughter echoing out across the water. Two women, one pushing a pram, were walking into the town; thin ribbons of blue cigarette smoke rose over them. Beyond the park, some young men were playing football; he saw arms raised to heads and groans of disappointment as the ball shot between the two piles of bags stacked up as impromptu goalposts. An old man looked on, no doubt remembering his own days of laughter and fun.

  In this country, you don’t know how lucky you are, he thought. His own childhood had been a brutal fight for survival, not games of football in the sunshine.

  He looked towards the end of the promenade. On a bench, the last one before the paved walkway gave way to the rocky shore beyond, sat a man who appeared to be staring straight at him. Undeterred, he lifted the slim metal case from the floor of the boat, opened it, blinking as the bright sun glinted from the gun sight. Methodically, he began to assemble the weapon.

  Daley parked his car on the pavement opposite the promenade. He had no time to concern himself with parking etiquette; every minute wasted saw Alice Taylor’s chances diminish.

  As he pulled himself stiffly out of the car, he noted that to the east, beyond the island at the head of the loch, dark clouds were amassing. He looked across the promenade to the solitary figure sitting stiffly on the last bench.

  John Donald heard Daley’s footsteps as he stared out across the loch to the small white boat. He could see the figure aboard leaning on the gunwale, for all the world soaking up the blazing sun. He drew in a deep breath just before his view was obscured by the bulky figure of the man he’d known for so long towering over him.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Daley. ‘I don’t want any shit, nor have I time for a lecture – or excuses, come to that. You told me you had information about the girl. I need it now.’

  Donald coughed nervously. ‘Jim, I need a few moments. I mean, I have to say something to you, before . . .’

  ‘Fuck you! I don’t have time for this. If you have any decency left, tell me where Alice Taylor is.’

  Donald remained still for a moment, then rose from his seat, backing slowly away from Daley. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I really am. This is the last thing I wanted, please believe me.’ Donald’s voice wavered as he backed further away. He stopped, glanced across the loch for a moment, and with a gesture that Daley had seen a thousand times, raised his hand and swept it over his slicked-back hair.

  Before Daley could ask what was happening, there was a brief, high-pitched whine, followed by a sickening thud.

  Donald’s eyes were wide and staring as he looked at his former DCI.

  45

  Hamish looked at the pathetic figure of Alice Taylor in the lopsided cabin, eyes now half open. He puffed at his unlit pipe, Scott and Rainsford watching him hopefully.

  ‘Aye, it’s a long time since I saw that cabin,’ said Hamish. ‘Well, the inside o’ it, anyhow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Scott, puzzled by the certainty in the old man’s voice. ‘Hope you’ve not been oot on the bevy again. This is serious. That poor lassie will die if we cannae find her.’

  ‘Yes, Hamish. No time for mucking about, here,’ added Rainsford.

  Hamish took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Aye, thanks very much. If you remember, it’s yous who are the polis, an’ I’m here giein’ you a hand. If I didna know whoot boat that was, I widna say I did. It’s auld Joe Gilchrist’s fishing boat, I’d lay my life on it.’

  The two detectives looked at each other.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Rainsford.

  ‘Och, it’s no’ that hard. It was the last o’ its kind left fae the auld design made at the shipyard here. Can ye no’ see the corner o’ that table, an’ the linoleum on the walls and floor, tae. It’s the way they made them in the sixties. He nursed it through the years, kept it going after he retired, as a hobby, you understand. The Girl Maggie, aye, that’s the name o’ her.’

  ‘So, what happened to the boat when Mr Gilchrist died?’ asked Rainsford.

  ‘Och, his family selt it tae some private collector who goes around the country buying auld fishing vessels, all sorts. Some folk have so much money they don’t know whoot tae dae with it, except throw it doon the drain. Aye, I wish they would throw some o’ it my way.’

  Rainsford wrote a description of the vessel, then rushed off to alert the various agencies searching for Alice Taylor.

  ‘You’ve come up trumps this time, auld fella,’ said Scott. ‘We might know what boat she’s in, but bugger me, I wish I knew where it was.’

  ‘When I last saw the vessel, she was . . . Noo, let me think.’

  Scott was barely listening. The old man’s help had been invaluable, but he didn’t have time for one of his forays into nostalgia.

  ‘Aye, she was anchored jeest off the second waters. Still looked good,
though the red paint looked a wee bit faded.’

  ‘An’ I’ll bet the Beatles were number one an’ I was in nappies, tae. What year was this, Hamish?’

  ‘Aboot two days ago.’

  ‘What! Did you say two days ago, or two decades?’

  ‘Two days. Jeest off the Second Waters, like I said. I hadna seen her for a long time . . .’

  Before Hamish could finish, a police-car siren sounded and Rainsford swung the door open.

  ‘Quick, Brian, there’s been a shooting on the promenade. The gaffer’s involved,’ he shouted, then turned on his heel and ran back out of the office.

  Years of training had left their mark on Brian Scott: whatever the news, good or bad, he reacted instantly. But this time, for a few seconds, he froze.

  The eyes were dull and blood was trickling out of the mouth of the man lying on the paved promenade beside the last bench.

  Out on the loch, a white speedboat turned in a wide arc, adjusted its trim as it sped up, and roared away. Gulls screamed as dark clouds from the east obscured the sun and darkened the day.

  Sirens wailed as three police cars and a van screeched to a halt on the roadway and men in dark suits ducked across the grass towards the bench.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ shouted Scott, as he dived out of the car DC Dunn was driving. She paid no attention to him, climbing out of the driver’s side and dashing across the road, neither shutting the door, nor looking for traffic. As she ran, Scott could hear her sobs.

  The dark pool of blood around the dead man’s body had spread across the promenade, and was dripping over the edge and down into the loch.

  Scott’s vision swam as he took in the scene. Faces, people, shouts, screams: all seemed distant as he stared at the dead body of the man he knew so well, the man he had worked with for so many years.

  ‘Jim, fuck me, Jim!’

  Daley was sitting on the grass, his knees raised to his chin. Mary Dunn fussed over him through her tears, kissing his cheek, all pretence gone.