‘Off ye pop,’ Scott whispered as she was leaving. ‘It’s like fuckin’ Downton Abbey.’
‘An excellent programme,’ Donald replied. ‘But less of your sarcasm, DS Scott. If I recall, we still have to sort out the little matter of your yearly assessment which, I can assure you, does not make for pleasant reading.’ He paused, mind now back on the complexities of the computer. He pressed a button and the huge screen flickered into life. ‘I’ve put this together by way of an aide-memoire, so to speak,’ he said and took a seat between Daley and Scott.
The familiar face of a well-known Scottish newsreader appeared on the screen, looking noticeably younger than when Daley had seen her a few nights previously, when he had been watching TV with Liz.
She began to speak: ‘Infamous gangland figure James ‘JayMac’ Machie was sentenced to five life terms in prison at Glasgow High Court earlier today. He and almost fifty members of the Machie organised crime family have been on trial over the last four months in what has been the largest such proceeding in Scottish legal history. The gang, responsible for murder, extortion, the supply of illegal drugs and money laundering, as well as a further seventeen charges, are likely to collectively serve over a thousand notional years in prison.’
The visuals switched from the newsreader to footage of Machie being removed from court by five uncomfortable-looking security guards. Though handcuffed, he was spitting and shouting oaths at the cameramen, journalists and sundry onlookers, some of whom shouted support. His demeanour was at odds with his expensive Italian suit; his screwed-up features spoke only of vitriol and revenge. Daley saw Scott squirm in his seat.
The scene cut out and was replaced with footage of a Glasgow street. The battered white vehicle that had mounted the pavement exposed the horror that had been perpetrated there; the vehicle was riddled with bullet holes, the crumpled doors hanging open to allow a view of the blood-soaked interior. A group of men dressed in white crime scene overalls were doing their best to cover the vehicle with a blue tarpaulin; a police tow truck was positioned to the front of the ruined van. Blue lights flashed from numerous police vehicles at the scene.
‘Fuckin’ hell, it’s a’ oor yesterdays,’ Scott blurted, unconcerned on this occasion by Donald’s presence.
The camera refocused on another reporter, again familiar, though looking younger. ‘Behind me are the remains of the prison ambulance in which notorious Glasgow gangster James ‘JayMac’ Machie died in a hail of bullets just over an hour ago. He was being transported back to his cell in Barlinnie prison after attending the city’s Royal Infirmary with a suspected heart attack.
‘Though details are sketchy, it is believed that two police outriders, two prison officers and a private security guard were also killed in the attack which involved as many as ten masked men driving a stolen city taxi, heavy goods vehicle and an Audi car. It is thought that the well-planned execution could be the work of rival gangsters who still feared Machie, even though it’s highly unlikely that he would have been freed from prison for many years, if ever.’
The camera panned out to reveal a uniformed police officer, replete with gold braided cap; there was no mistaking Donald.
‘With me is Superintendent John Donald, deputy divisional commander of the central police division. Superintendent Donald, what is your understanding of these dreadful events?’
Daley watched as Donald raised his brows and, instead of addressing the reporter, looked straight into the camera. ‘The events of this morning are tragic in the extreme, especially for the families of my two officers, prison staff and the private security guard who lost their lives trying to protect Mr Machie.’ He stopped, disgusted, and turned back to the reporter.
‘Do you have anything to say to the Machie family, now that it has been confirmed that James Machie died in the attack, Superintendent Donald?’
Again, Donald chose to turn to the camera with his answer.
‘In my job, dealing with the aftermath of violence is, sadly, an almost daily occurrence. Of course the death of any individual in such circumstances is most regrettable; I’m sure your viewers will agree, though, that some deaths are more regrettable than others. I will reiterate that my thoughts are with the families of the dead officers and the murdered security guard. That’s all I have to say.’
The camera panned one more time to the wrecked ambulance, then the picture faded out. A re-run of the CCTV footage from Australia played next. Daley glanced at Scott, who was now sitting forward on his seat; this was the first time he had been shown the murders in Ringwood East.
The action played out silently on the big screen. As Marna Dowie’s head exploded once more and JayMac made his way to the front of the car, his look to the camera was frozen and enlarged; into place beside it slid another picture – JayMac, looking up into the camera as he was led into incarceration after his trial almost six years previously. Perhaps it was the similar pose that made the likeness so striking.
Donald stood up and turned to face his detectives. ‘Well, gentlemen, are either of you in any doubt as to the identity of the man we have just seen?’ He inclined his head.
‘No,’ said Brian Scott. ‘It’s him; there can be nae doubt. I’ve known him since I wiz a boy.’ He looked down, interlocked the fingers of both hands, and cracked them in a way that always set Daley’s teeth on edge.
‘Splendid,’ said Donald. ‘A rare outbreak of consensus between us, DS Scott.’ He went to sit behind a desk located under the big screen. ‘All three of us are experienced police officers, as well as rational human beings. Well, in the main,’ he said, eyeing Scott. ‘Employing the processes we have spent our working lives using, it is up to us not to wonder at the apparent resurrection of JayMac, rather to deduce how he did it. Any suggestions?’
Daley leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. ‘The only possible explanation is that the man who died in the prison van was not Machie.’ He craned his head forward, looking at Donald.
‘Yes, I had reached a similar conclusion. What about you, Brian?’ Donald enquired.
‘Aye, all very well, but I saw him – come tae that half o’ the force saw him, an’ a’ the pathologists in Glasgow, the press, his family, every fuckin’ body. It wiz him on that slab, I fuckin’ swear it.’
‘And yet, you also affirm that the man in the Australian footage is him. Make up your mind, DS Scott.’ Donald looked down at the desk and sighed. ‘Our job is to deal in the here and now, and, as unpalatable as it may be, we have to deal with this second coming, or however you would like to term it.’
‘I wid prefer not tae term it anything,’ said Scott. ‘If ye remember, sir, he nearly killed me, and threatened tae make a better job o’ it the next time.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to go and see Frank MacDougall as soon as possible, sir,’ interrupted Daley. ‘How much does he know?’
‘That’s not clear, Jim,’ Donald replied. ‘He knows about the Dowies, however I’m sure that seeing his old partner in crime returned to life will be as big a shock to him as it’s been to us. Let’s get a coffee, gentlemen, then we’ll make tracks. We have plenty of time to try and work out how JayMac achieved this paranormal feat.’ Donald stood, picked up his files from the desk, and left the room.
‘And there you have it,’ said Daley.
‘Aye, simples,’ Scott said. ‘I’m tellin’ ye, Jim, this whole fuckin’ thing’s a nightmare. It gies me the shivers. I’ve been in the polis for a long time, an’ I’ve never seen the like.’
‘I’ve no idea how we’re going to keep this away from the media. That’s one part of his majesty’s job I don’t envy.’ Daley stood, then stretched and yawned. ‘I suppose we better get a coffee while we’ve a chance,’ he said to Scott who was rubbing his eyes with both hands.
‘It’s quite simple, Jimmy-boy – that’s just no’ goin’ tae happen. I’m surprised it’s no’ oot already.’ Scott shook his head grimly. ‘Dae me a favour. Can we take your
motor tae Frank MacDougall’s? I’ve no’ got a clue where it is, an’ I just cannae cope wi’ any mair memos fae the gaffer.’
10
After consulting the large map on the wall in Donald’s temporary office, the three officers set off in Daley’s 4x4, much to the relief of his DS, who sat in the back looking idly out at the passing scenery.
‘I must say, Jim, you keep a nice car. Pity you can’t encourage the gentleman lurking in the back to do likewise,’ Donald said, as he glared at a Kinloch pedestrian peering at them as they stopped at the lights on Main Street. ‘Have these people never seen a policeman with braid on his cap?’ he pondered as they drove off.
‘Aye, just no’ one that looks like you,’ Scott offered from the back of the car, somewhat ill advisedly, in Daley’s opinion.
Donald turned around in his seat. ‘I beg your pardon, DS Scott?’
‘I mean, no’ used tae somebody that looks as good as you in uniform, sir.’
‘Shut up, Brian,’ was Donald’s concise reply.
As they drove out of Kinloch, the scenery changed. They were heading north on the west side of the peninsula; the restless Atlantic rolled in white breakers on the rocky coastline. The sea looked cold and grey, despite the blue sky; distant islands broke the horizon, in front of which a red fishing boat was just visible, dragging nets amidst a cloud of riotous gulls.
The road was quiet despite being the main artery between Kinloch and the rest of Scotland. Daley knew this stretch well, having driven it often when returning home. Home.
In the last few months, he and Liz had become closer than at any other time in their marriage. The easy friendliness of the local people was genuine, as was their collective nosiness; Daley wondered what they really said about Liz and him in private, though he didn’t particularly care.
Liz’s new career as a wildlife photographer was taking off; already she’d had her work published in a couple of good magazines, eliciting impressive reviews. He’d been surprised at how little she seemed to miss living near the city, with all of its amenities so close at hand. She had recently taken her sister Annie on a shopping trip to Glasgow in the new Mini; they had stayed overnight in the Daleys’ home in Howwood, which Annie had admired greatly. On her return, Liz had told him how strange she felt, not being in Kinloch, and that she now considered it her home. He supposed, in a funny way, so did he.
He was distracted by Donald, who was attempting to operate the satnav on his iPhone – a task clearly beyond him.
‘These bloody things,’ he said. ‘Do you have the map, DS Scott?’
Daley saw Scott’s surprised look in the mirror.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Naebody telt me tae bring the map.’
‘I clearly remember instructing you to pick up a map from the bar officer,’ Donald said. ‘It’s beyond me why bloody satellite navigation has passed this place by.’ He looked at his phone with disgust. ‘Of course, it doesn’t help when one’s subordinates can’t comply with basic requests.’
Daley could see Scott making a face behind his boss’s back.
‘If you take a look in the glove compartment, sir, I think there’s a map of the area in it,’ Daley said, preparing to overtake one of the few cars on the road.
Donald leaned forward, opening the glove box with the satisfying clunk of a well-engineered car. Daley watched him from the corner of his eye as he rummaged about.
‘I must say, Jim, it’s a veritable sweet shop in here,’ Donald said, removing what was left of a packet of biscuits and a chocolate bar.
‘Ah, yes.’ It was Daley’s turn to look flustered. ‘Just for emergencies – in case we get stuck in the snow, you know.’
‘Some diet, big man,’ Scott laughed in the back. ‘Lettuce an’ grapefruit for tea, then oot tae the car for a poke o’ sweets an’ a Mars Bar. Nae wonder the weight’s no’ comin’ aff.’
Choosing to ignore the derisory comments on his secret sugar stash, Daley slowed down at a sign pointing to a side road.
‘This is the turn-off. He lives in a converted farmhouse along the road. It’s a Gaelic name. Can you remember it, Brian?’ Daley caught Scott’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
‘More chance of you giving up chocolate, I would imagine,’ Donald snorted.
‘Gie me a minute,’ Scott said, desperately trying to remember even an approximation of the name, and failing.
A few seconds later, they saw the farm in the distance. A large black Range Rover was parked at the end of the driveway.
‘I take it they’re being guarded by Witness Protection at the moment, sir?’ Daley enquired.
‘Yes, until this evening, when we have to take over that unwanted task.’
Without answering, Daley slowed the car and turned into the drive, only for the Range Rover to move across, blocking the way.
Two men got out of the black car; one of them patted his jacket, perhaps to warn the interlopers that he was armed.
Daley pressed the button on his door to lower the window.
‘What’s your business here?’ the man in the suit said abruptly in a London accent, leaning his head into Daley’s car and taking note of the passengers.
Daley removed his warrant card from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Strathclyde Police. Our business is with the occupant of this house – not you – so could you please let us through?’
‘Not before I see everyone’s ID.’ He thrust his hand through the window in expectation of Donald and Scott’s identification.
Donald raised his brow and fished his warrant card from a uniform pocket. The man scanned it without comment.
In the mirror, Daley could see Scott frantically searching for his ID; he had gone through his jacket with no result, and was now leaning on one elbow in an attempt to gain access to the back pocket of his trousers.
‘Hang on, hang on, I know I’ve got the bloody thing here somewhere,’ he said, now leaning on the opposite elbow to search another trouser pocket.
‘Typical,’ said Donald, turning around to better witness the struggles of his detective sergeant. ‘You know I can have you disciplined for not carrying your appointments.’
The man leaned his head further into Daley’s car, glowering at Scott. ‘Come on, Jocky-boy,’ he said. ‘Get a move on. We’re out of here in six hours, get our arses back to civilisation.’
Donald released his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Daley watched as his boss walked calmly in front of the vehicle towards the two men.
‘Listen to me, you cocky English bastard.’ Donald was clearly in no mood for compromise. ‘Get your arse back into that car and move it out the way, before I arrest you both for breach of the peace. And rest assured,’ he continued venomously, ‘I’ll be making a full report to your superior on my return to the office.’ He dismissed the Witness Protection officer with a wave of his hand.
‘Aye, ye’ve got tae gie him his due,’ Scott observed, calmer now he’d abandoned the search for his warrant card. ‘It’s nae bother tae him tae get his point across.’
‘Ah, but don’t think he’ll forget you’ve not got your ID,’ replied Daley.
‘Oh, I know, Jim,’ said Scott. ‘I know fine.’
With Donald back in the car, they continued uphill towards the farm, Donald muttering about insubordination and lack of respect.
The landscape was bare; the farmhouse and a couple of small outbuildings, in clear need of care and attention, nestled under the brow of the hill. The area looked barren and windswept, with no sign of trees, bushes or any other type of vegetation.
A mud-splattered 4x4 stood in front of the house, alongside an old pick-up, which was fitted with a caged back, most likely for the transportation of livestock. Daley noted the absence of barking dogs, something he always associated with working farms.
As Donald marched to the front door, Daley turned around; Frank MacDougall might live in humble surroundings, but the view he had over the Atlantic was truly magnificent. The
red fishing boat could still be seen, though now a pinprick, against the islands, which appeared somehow closer and more imposing from this elevation. Daley wished he had brought a jacket; he could see his breath cloud in front of him. Scott was stamping his feet to keep warm, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.
‘Try and look more like a police officer and less like a travelling salesman, will you, DS Scott?’ Donald said as he knocked on the door and straightened his uniform.
Scott was about to protest, when the door cracked open and the face of an elderly woman peered out. Her hair was grey and unkempt, and her bulging eyes stared fearfully at the policemen standing at her door.
‘Betty, is that you?’ Scott asked, with a look of surprise on his face.
‘Aye, an’ what if it is?’ the woman replied.
‘Dae ye no’ recognise me? It’s me, Brian Scott, Tam’s boy. We used tae live two doors doon fae you, remember?’
With a look of panic, the woman slammed the door; Daley could hear her sobbing as she slid the bolts back into place.
‘An old neighbour?’ Donald enquired. ‘Friends reunited, indeed.’
‘I cannae believe it,’ Scott said, shaking his head. ‘Ye widnae think it, but she wiz one o’ the best-looking lassies in Glasgow when I wiz a boy. She’s a bit older than me, right enough, but I can still see her headin’ aff tae the dancin’, all dolled up. Total stunner.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, whatever happened to her in the intervening years, it would appear that she has swapped stunning for stunned,’ Donald commented with his habitual acidity. ‘Looked to me as though she didn’t have a clue what day it was, never mind who we are.’ He went to knock again, though hesitated when he heard a loud male voice shout from inside.
‘Wait a minute, I’m just coming.’ The voice was deep, harsh and straight out of Glasgow’s East End. The door opened to reveal a thin-faced young man, who looked to be in his mid twenties. ‘Mair filth,’ he said, curling his lip at the sight of the police officers.
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 6
