His wipers were working hard against the flurries of sleet that were being blown off the Atlantic Ocean straight into the windscreen of his aircraft. The point of no return arrived; he had to commit himself to the landing, or pull out and make another attempt. He decided on the former. He was buffeted again by a mixture of the Atlantic gale and the down force of his blades on the undulating deck. He held his breath, then – with a massive jolt – he was down safely.
He did not switch off the engine, as it had been made clear to him that this was an ‘up and off’ job. A small group of men were standing in the lee of a large shipping container that was chained to the deck. It struck him how little cargo there was on board. He guessed that the vessel was on its way to one of the big English ports to be loaded with thousands of computers, or machine parts, clothes, building materials – anything from a bewilderingly long list of items that formed the bedrock of global trade.
Two of the men ran towards the chopper, hunched down against the force of the blades. He could see the dark slate of the sea appearing in and out of view as the ship lurched in the swell. A lone gull struggled against the wind, indicating that they were not far from land – in fact, about thirty nautical miles from the north coast of Ireland.
He leaned over and opened the passenger door of the aircraft; a slight, swarthy man, wearing what could loosely be described as a naval uniform, stared up at him, tilting his head in a brief nod of recognition. He handed a small sports bag up onto the passenger seat of the craft, which the pilot unzipped, noting with pleasure the large wads of notes held in bundles by thick elastic bands. He had completed a few jobs for the voice over the phone and every one had been lucrative, every one had gone without a hitch: picking up a package here, putting down an unnamed passenger there. He knew it was all probably illegal but he had ceased to care; his attempt to survive in any style on his pittance of a pension was impossible. He had put his life on the line for his nation, and in turn he had received insultingly small recompense. He despised the life of a commercial helicopter pilot; while the remuneration was good, the hours were long and the jobs tedious. He had done enough of that in the Navy. Now it was time for the cream; this payday would see him through the next year, easily. This time next week he would be sailing his small yacht around the Bahamas – the only way to spend a British winter.
He nodded to the man who had handed him the bag of money, zipped it up, and placed it carefully under his seat. A second man, who looked to be in early middle age, with a shaven head and wearing dark aviator-style sunglasses, clambered into the seat beside him. He was wearing dark combat trousers and an expensive-looking dark blue all-weather jacket. He had a large holdall with him, which he placed in the foot well. Though his wiry frame was hidden under his clothing, the pilot could sense the raw power emanating from this individual; he looked dead ahead, straight-backed, as the pilot helped him into his harness.
The passenger placed the headset he had been given onto his head and, after being prompted, grunted in the affirmative to indicate that he could hear what his companion was saying.
The pilot had become used to carrying many different individuals in this way over the last few years; some chattered away nervously, either because they were excited by the prospect of a helicopter flight or nervous because of it. Others kept themselves to themselves; this passenger was firmly of the latter variety.
As he had been taught, so many years ago, he began to run through safety advice for the benefit of his new charge, in much the same way an air steward would on a commercial flight. He was mid flow when the man interrupted him by raising his hand, and for the first time turned to face the pilot.
‘Just start this fuckin’ thing an’ let’s get on with it.’
The man’s voice was gruff and he spoke quickly. He could have been Welsh, Irish, even a Geordie – it was hard to tell after such a brusque statement. The pilot had a feeling, though, that this man was a Scot – which made sense, as Scotland, the Ayrshire coast, to be precise, was their destination. He had already programmed the coordinates into his satnav system; they appeared to be heading for the middle of a commercial forest.
He did a last systems check, then slowly raised the helicopter from the deck. The wind buffeted the small aircraft sideways; though he had been ready for this, he still had to act quickly to adjust the trim. This done, they soared into the air and began their short journey.
His thoughts drifted back to the Bahamas. He could already feel the warmth of the sun on his neck.
The passenger looked out over the forbidding sea. He didn’t care much for flying and would be glad to be back on the ground. He was pleased that the pilot had taken the hint and shut up. It had been a long haul over the last few days; he had been on planes, boats, trains, fast cars and even another helicopter. But it would be worth it.
On the horizon, he could see a flash of gold through the Stygian gloom; the weather looked to be better ahead. This pleased him, as he hadn’t enjoyed watching the pilot’s attempts to land the aircraft on the ship.
A few minutes later, a thin line of land was visible under the yellow-gold sky. He was aware that the aircraft was much more stable now, no longer being pushed and pulled in the air by unseen forces. The pilot remained silent; it had been impressed upon him that he was not to announce their arrival in UK airspace. They were now flying low over the waves as the land ahead loomed more distinctly. The noise of the blades could be felt as well as heard, thudding through him, syncopated and repetitive. It reminded him of some of the raves he had frequented in the early nineties. He smiled at the thought.
Maybe encouraged by this change in facial expression, the pilot took his opportunity to speak: ‘Another five minutes or so, and we’ll be there.’ He sounded hesitant, clearly unsure what response this statement would engender.
‘Aye, right’ was all he said, continuing to look straight ahead. His voice sounded strange in the headphones, tinny and distorted. He moved the holdall with his foot slightly.
After a few more minutes, their forward momentum slowed rapidly, and soon their progress was arrested altogether and they began to hover. He looked down through the semi-glazed floor of the helicopter; amidst a forest of pine trees was a clearing where a bright light was being directed at the aircraft. They began to descend and he felt a bump as the helicopter landed.
He could see the outline of a 4x4 at the edge of the clearing. The rain had stopped and the light diffused through the trees gave the forest scene an ethereal feel.
The pilot leaned across him and opened the passenger door the way someone would for an elderly person or a child in a car.
‘Shut this off a minute,’ said the passenger. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He saw the glint of avarice in the eye of the airman, who was no doubt well used to receiving large tips for such clandestine work. He nodded, then on flicking a couple of switches, the rotor blades slowed, then stopped.
Released from the harness by the pilot and having taken off the headset, the passenger stepped down from the aircraft, turning to remove his bag from the foot well. The air was cold and the scent of the forest pervasive; the smell of the pines reminded him of Christmas, which in turn induced a thirst for whisky.
The pilot smiled at him as he unzipped the bag, which was now on the seat he had just vacated, no doubt anticipating another bundle of notes.
The semi-automatic pistol was black, well oiled, and the attached silencer ensured that it issued barely perceptible pops as two neat holes appeared in the forehead of the pilot. Blood, bone and brain splattered the window of the helicopter. He put the gun carefully back into the holdall, placed it on the ground, and re-entered the aircraft to lean over the dead pilot. With his left hand, he pulled out the bag from under his seat, feeling the reassuring heft of the bundles of money inside.
‘Cheers, buddy,’ he said, backing out of the chopper. ‘Happy fuckin’ landin’s tae you an’ all.’
The pilot still had the shadow of a smile on his motionless face as a tr
ickle of black blood slid past his eye.
The man stood back, as though admiring his handiwork. He often wondered just when the brain stopped working; even though a bullet had fatally ruined it, was there still a scintilla of consciousness, flickering then failing like a guttering candle?
Somehow, he had managed to cut the tip of his index finger. He looked at it and smiled as he squeezed it between his thumb and middle finger, forcing the blood to flow more freely. He passed his injured finger across the dashboard on the passenger side of the helicopter, leaving a dark stain on the black plastic.
‘Hello, boys. I’m back.’ He grinned, and strode away from the helicopter and its dead occupant.
7
The two detectives made their way, somewhat unsteadily in Scott’s case, down Main Street. The air was cold, and, though it was barely four o’clock, the last rays of the sun turned the loch into burnished copper. The town’s Christmas lights were beginning to flicker into life, picked out in a series of glowing orbs in various colours, shapes and sizes that were strung across Main Street, progressing down the road towards the large Norwegian spruce at the centre of the luminous display. People waved to the two police officers from cars, vans and buses; Daley still found this overt friendliness rather claustrophobic, but was beginning to appreciate the general sentiment. One youth, however, shouted an indistinct insult from a half-opened car window, prompting Scott to stop, turn around and squint in an attempt to read the number plate of the offending vehicle.
Daley had decided it was time to get out of the office. He was tired, and his DS was getting drunk. He had a team of uniformed and CID officers heading off to raid a barn, which as a result of careful surveillance was known to contain a significant quantity of illegal cigarettes and tobacco. They had been watching the farmer and his operation for two months, hoping to net bigger fish. This had not happened, so Daley felt it was time to make an example of this particular offender. He knew for sure that there were many more culprits. He had found it strange that in the time they had been keeping an eye on this modern-day smuggler, the man seemed to have taken no deliveries and was simply running down his stock.
He worried about leaks within the office; though he did his best to banish this from his mind, it was always a possibility. In the few months he had been in charge of the sub-division, he had discovered that Inspector MacLeod’s legacy was most apparent in a lack of efficiency and obedience of Force Standing Orders. MacLeod, it seemed, had been happy to let everyone take care of their own work, as long as nothing went wrong and he was not shown up in a bad light. As a result, little proper police work had been done, save clearing the town centre of drunks on weekend nights and a perfunctory implementation of road traffic legislation – a mainly pro-forma pursuit requiring little in the way of detection skills. Daley was trying to give some of the younger members of his CID team more experience; the raid on the barn was being overseen by a young cop he had recently promoted to acting DS.
As the pair turned into the doorway of the County under the faux crenulations, Daley remembered his first visit to the establishment and its inquisitive clientele. It was perhaps for this reason that his visits to the hotel had been few and far between in the intervening months. He and Liz had dined there on a couple of occasions at the insistence of the latter, who had struck up a friendship with Annie, the hotel’s formidable yet welcoming chatelaine. Every time he entered the premises, he reminded himself that he wasn’t an anonymous punter in some city watering hole; rather, he was on display and a possible source of information for the gossip-hungry locals.
Despite having to remain on his toes, Daley couldn’t help a sneaking fondness for, in most cases, the guileless population of Kinloch.
The small wood-panelled bar was festive in its own way: various shades of threadbare tinsel meandered along the walls, and a cracked plastic sign proclaimed Happy Christmas in faded red letters. A couple of logs had almost burned themselves out in the fireplace and would soon need replaced lest the fire need mending. On the bar stood a moth-eaten imitation Christmas tree, adorned with a mismatched set of baubles and fairy lights, many of which didn’t work and had most certainly seen better days.
‘Aye, I can see ye lookin’, Mr Daley,’ Annie called out as she poured a pint for the only other customer in the bar. ‘They expect me tae buy the decorations oot o’ my ain pocket – an’ I tell you, there’ll be green snaw an’ yellow hailstanes afore that happens!’ Annie’s festive spirit had clearly yet to materialise. ‘Forbye,’ she added, holding her hand out for payment for the pint she had just placed on the bar, ‘this crew widna care if it wiz Oxford Street in here, as lang as they can get steamin’. Yer in fir a right treat, wi’ this bein’ yer first Christmas in the toon, an’ nae mistake.’ She eyed the change the customer had put in her hand warily. ‘An’ as fir you, Jocky Sinclair, you can jeest get yer hands back intae they pockets an’ dredge oot anither twenty pence. Ye know fine the prices went up last week. It’s no’ as though it’s the first time ye’ve been in since.’
The man dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of copper coins that he ruefully counted out and handed to Annie. ‘Aye, a happy Christmas to you an’ all,’ she said under her breath as she deposited the coins into the till.
Daley was about to order when she slammed the till shut and turned around. ‘Whoot the fuck have ye bin daein’ tae him?’ She was looking at Scott, who had begun to sway slightly at Daley’s side, the full effects of the whisky exaggerated by the short walk and the cold air.
‘Never you mind, lady,’ Scott slurred with some difficulty. ‘Just you get me an’ the big man here a couple o’ drams – and nane o’ that expensive shite he normally drinks, neither. A couple o’ low flyers will do nicely. Make them large yins tae, hen.’ Scott fumbled inside the pocket of his jacket in an attempt to retrieve his wallet.
‘You could say we’re having a bad day, Annie,’ Daley said by way of an excuse.
‘An even worse day fir you, Jim,’ Scott hiccupped. ‘I’ve left my wallet up in the motor. I took it oot at Invereray when I stopped fir chips, an’ flung it intae wan o’ they door pockets. Ye’ll have tae dig deep yersel.’ Scott looked at him with a resigned expression that reminded Daley vaguely of Stan Laurel.
He sighed and reached for the back pocket of his trousers, where he habitually kept his wallet. Quickly though, he remembered that he’d had to change into the spare pair that he kept in his locker for emergencies. He had forgotten his wallet, and after searching every other pocket, only managed to produce a couple of pounds in change. He looked at Annie apologetically. ‘Sorry. I think we’d better make tracks. We seem to have a cash-flow problem.’
‘Indeed ye will not,’ declared Annie, placing two small whisky glasses on the table. ‘If I wiz tae refuse everybody that had nae money in here a drink, I’d have been oot o’ work a long, long time ago, let me assure ye. Yous can owe me. It’s no’ as if I don’t know where to find ye.’
‘Well, I’ve jeest seen it a,” said the other customer, Jocky, shaking his head. ‘The polis in here steamin’ tappin’ money fir drink. Aye, I’ve seen it a’, right enough.’
‘Just you wait a minute,’ Scott said raising his finger to admonish his accuser.
‘Fir fuck’s sake,’ Jocky said, pointing at Scott’s trousers. ‘This fella’s pished his troosers an’ a – the polis has gaun tae the dogs, an’ nae mistake.’ He grimaced, looking at Annie, who looked somewhat surprised herself.
‘Hang oan a minute, you. That’s no’ pish.’
‘Best we take a seat, Brian,’ interrupted Daley, ushering his colleague to a table at the back of the bar.
‘Whit’s been happenin’ doon here, Annie?’ Scott shouted, anxious to stop the whispered conjecture as to the nature of the stain on his trousers that was now taking place between Annie and Jocky.
‘Och,’ answered Annie, somewhat stiffly, while vigorously polishing a pint glass with a white tea towel, ‘jeest the usual. Ye’l
l mind o’ Peter Williamson that used tae come in here?’
‘Cannae say I dae,’ Scott mumbled as he took the first sip of the drink he didn’t really need.
‘Aye, ye dae – Peester, nice lad, a right worrier though. Well, he got himsel’ caught in his zip – if ye know whoot I mean.’ She smiled knowingly in the direction of the policemen.
‘You mean?’ Daley winced and gestured under the table.
‘Aye, exactly, Mr Daley. An’ whoot a performance it wiz tae.’ The smile had returned to Annie’s face, the issue of Scott’s trousers seemingly forgotten. ‘A’ I heard wiz this screamin’ comin’ fae the toilet. I thought someone wiz bein’ murdered.’ She looked sheepishly at the detectives. ‘Anyhow, I ran in wavin’ that rolling pin I keep under the bar – in case o’ bother, ye understan’ – an’ there he wiz, the poor boy, proppin’ himself up against the wa’ wi’ his manhood stuck fast in his flies.’ She began to rub the glass with increased vigour, looking into the middle distance, as though bringing this graphic scene back to mind.
‘Whit happened tae the boy?’ Scott slurred, rubbing the stained area of his trousers as he pictured the episode.
‘Well, we’d tae send fir the paramedics,’ Annie replied, the smile now broad on her face. ‘Wance they’d stopped laughin’, they took the boy in hand, so tae speak.’ She let out a loud guffaw of laughter, which quickly spread to the other occupants of the bar.
‘Yous’ll never guess whoot they’re callin’ him noo in the toon.’ Jocky turned, somewhat unsteadily, on his stool in order to face his fellow customers, tears of laughter spilling down his cheeks.
‘Zip Up De Do Da,’ Annie shouted, stealing the punch line as they all descended into gales of laughter.
‘So was he all right?’ Daley asked.
‘Och aye,’ answered Annie. ‘Though he wiz walkin’ funny fir a couple o’ days, mind you. Mair embarrassed than anythin’ else, poor lad.’
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 4
