The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Get your father, boy,’ Donald instructed.

  ‘Don’t ye mean, “Can I please speak with your father, Mr Robertson?” The young man aped Donald’s Kelvinside tones, an arrogant look crossing his gaunt features.

  ‘Just fucking get him, you little bastard. Now!’

  The door closed again, and the officers heard the young man shouting for his father as the woman wailed in the background.

  ‘Whit’s this Mr Robertson guff?’ Scott asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Use some common sense, DS Scott. The whole idea behind having a new identity is that you go somewhere nobody knows you and start a new life. Logic would dictate that a change of name would be rather important, otherwise your enemies need only look up the phone book or the electoral register to find you.’ Donald glared at the sergeant. ‘And put that bloody fag out,’ he added for good measure.

  During this exchange of information, Daley was busy taking in his surroundings. The farmyard was covered in crumbling tarmac, broken and rutted in places. Not only were there no dogs, there were no other animals – not even a chicken, or ubiquitous farmyard cat. What looked like a plough lay propped up against one of the outbuildings, its original yellow colour barely visible through a thick coating of rust. In his experience, farms normally exuded a gut-wrenching odour of dung and slurry; it was obvious that whatever Frank MacDougall was doing to sustain the Robertson family, it most certainly did not involve any agrarian toil.

  ‘I wonder what’s behind the house?’ Daley said.

  ‘Half a ton o’ cannabis an’ a Sherman tank, likely,’ said Scott, reluctantly extinguishing his cigarette on the ground with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, DS Scott,’ said Donald. ‘Those on the witness protection scheme are very closely monitored to ensure that no such criminal behaviour takes place.’

  ‘Aye, an’ I’m Miss Marple.’

  Before Donald had the opportunity to answer, footsteps sounded loudly behind the door and it was flung open to reveal another figure, almost identical in build and height to the previous man, with the same cadaverous face, though this time bearing the evidence of a further thirty years of hard living. Before them was one of Glasgow’s legendary criminals: Frank MacDougall.

  He looked at the three police officers one by one.

  ‘I must be going up in the world, right enough,’ he said and smiled at Donald. ‘An inspector comes tae call, eh, John.’ Donald winced at the over-familiar greeting. ‘An’ Jim tae.’ He nodded a greeting at Daley. ‘I remember when ye were still walking the beat up Toonheid way. By fuck ye’ve fairly piled on the weight.’

  Scott laughed at this, and MacDougall turned next to him. ‘Scooty, my man.’ MacDougall stepped from the doorway and embraced the detective sergeant. ‘How’s it goin’, buddy?’ He seemed genuinely pleased to see Scott, much to the chagrin of Donald, who viewed the scene with obvious distaste.

  ‘Listen, Frankie, we need tae come in, we’ve got something tae tell ye,’ said Scott, a sombre look on his face.

  ‘Fuck me, yer no’ comin’ tae tell me I’ve no paid a parking ticket. Come on.’ He stood aside to welcome them in. ‘Tommy, son,’ he shouted, ‘make sure you get the instant coffee oot, the polis are here.’ He ushered the officers into the hall, at the end of which stood the woman, rubbing her hands together and looking at her visitors with apprehension.

  Their host opened a glass-panelled door and led them into a capacious living room, replete with exposed beams, inglenook fireplace, expensive-looking ornaments, tasteful paintings and an enormous television. The ramshackle exterior of the house was certainly not reflected in its interior, which reminded Daley of the houses he’d seen in the lifestyle magazines Liz brought home.

  Looking at the woman he now realised was Frank’s wife, he found it difficult to imagine that the décor of the room was down to her good taste. She was perched on one of the leather recliners, wringing her hands and looking anxiously at her visitors.

  MacDougall noticed Daley looking at his wife. ‘On ye go, honey, an’ get me an’ these gentlemen some coffee,’ he said gently, walking over to her and helping her out of the chair. ‘Tommy’ll gie ye a hand.’

  ‘Are ye gettin’ done again, Frankie?’ she asked, looking from him to the policemen. ‘Are they comin’ tae take me hame?’

  MacDougall walked her to the door. He spoke softly into her ear, kissed her on the head, and showed her out.

  ‘Whit’s wrang wi’ Betty?’ Scott asked, looking seriously at MacDougall.

  ‘Vascular dementia,’ he replied sadly. ‘Started when we moved here – you know, just forgetting stuff, birthdays, folks’ names – but she gradually got worse. Take a seat, gents, by the way,’ he said, sitting in the recliner his wife had just vacated. ‘Of course, we had tae take her tae a hospital in London, in case anybody spied her, ye know?’ He was addressing Scott solely. ‘Normally, this kinda thing doesnae happen until yer auld age. She’s just been unlucky.’

  ‘I’m sorry tae hear that, Frankie,’ said Scott. ‘I wiz just tellin’ the boys whit a stunner she wiz.’ He smiled at MacDougall.

  ‘Aye, she wiz that.’ MacDougall looked away, a glittering tear visible in the corner of his right eye. ‘Anyway, fuck this, boys, eh?’ His smile returned as he wiped a tear away surreptitiously with the back of his hand. ‘If this is a delegation tae tell me mair aboot Gerry Dowie, I’m no’ interested. Dinnae get me wrang, I liked the boy, but in oor game – well, ye know yersel, boys, it’s an occupational hazard. I’m sorry fir his wife, mind; she didnae deserve that.’ He looked regretful, meeting each policeman’s eye with a steely gaze.

  Donald, who had remained standing, stepped forward, which Daley recognised as a precursor to a lecture.

  ‘I have some bad news for you, Mr Robertson.’ Donald spoke formally, using MacDougall’s pseudonym.

  ‘Don’t worry, big man, I can take it,’ MacDougall replied cockily, though with a changed, more concerned expression creeping across his face. ‘Just gie it tae me wi’ baith barrels.’

  ‘It’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that your brother, Peter, was murdered last night in Glasgow,’ Donald said, no emotion apparent in either his voice or expression. ‘You have my sympathies.’

  MacDougall threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

  It was Scott who spoke, anxious to break the silence. ‘I’m sorry tae, Frankie. He wisnae the worst, big Peter.’ he said, with genuine sorrow.

  ‘Nah, he wiz just a fuckin’ fool.’ MacDougall looked back at the policemen. ‘I knew somethin’ like this wid happen tae him, wi’oot me there tae watch his back, the stupid bastard. I’m surprised it’s taken this long.’ He stood, brought out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, opened it, and offered them around. Scott accepted greedily without looking at Donald, who merely raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  Scott was just lighting up as the door was flung open to reveal a young woman dressed in designer jeans and a tight-fitting shirt. Her hair was honey-blonde; her face round and pretty, dominated by large blue eyes. She bore none of the signs of addiction or debauchery that addled the complexion of the young man they had seen a few moments ago. She eyed her visitors without expression as she made her way across the floor to her father’s side.

  ‘What’s wrong, Daddy?’ she asked, in tones so well modulated that Scott looked at her with puzzlement.

  ‘Bad news, honey, bad news,’ said MacDougall, holding her to his thin frame. ‘Yer uncle Peter’s been killed.’ And, as if she held the key to the floodgates, he started to sob silently into her shoulder.

  ‘Sit down, Daddy,’ she implored her father. He took her advice, sitting back on the recliner, head in hands, his shoulders shaking.

  ‘Thanks very much, gentlemen,’ she said coolly. ‘You’ve done what you came to do, now just go and leave us in peace.’

  ‘In fact, we haven’t,’ replied Donald, equally coolly. ‘We need to speak more to your father – in private.’


  ‘I think that’s for my father to decide, don’t you?’ She answered defiantly, looking at her father, who was trying to compose himself.

  Daley pondered the difference between her and her ill-mannered brother; it was clear that something in this girl’s upbringing differed entirely from that of her sibling. Donald was insensitively drumming his fingers on the arm of the leather chair on which he was now sitting. Brian Scott, on the other hand, looked upon the scene with what Daley knew was genuine sympathy. His DS had grown up with many of the people it was now his job to bring to justice; in most cases, when their paths crossed professionally, it was treated by both parties like part of the job. He had watched Scott laugh and joke, even sympathise, with people who many others would consider the scum of the earth. Daley also knew that when it came to the crunch and the chase was on, no quarter would be given by either side. The bonds of childhood and community didn’t always apply though; JayMac had tried to kill Scott. Now that he appeared to have miraculously cheated the grave, he would likely try again.

  ‘Aye, Sarah, on ye go, honey,’ said MacDougall gently. ‘Away an’ see if ye can calm yer mother doon. That kind o’ thing’s no’ one o’ yer brother’s talents.’

  ‘What talents?’ she replied. ‘When you discover anything he’s actually good at, be sure to let me know.’ She paused, taking her father’s hands between her own. ‘Are you sure you want me to go?’

  ‘Aye, doll. We’re nearly done anyhow. Off ye go.’ MacDougall squeezed his daughter’s arm and motioned for her to leave the room.

  ‘Your daughter and son are very different,’ Donald observed after she had gone.

  ‘Aye, ye could say that,’ he replied, his face still tear-stained. ‘A’ doon tae her granny. Sarah wiz a clever wee lassie; fae the minute she went tae primary school, the teachers wid comment on it. My mother wiz determined she should get oot o’ the scheme, get a chance in life . . . And I had plenty dough.’ He smiled at Donald, who was more than aware where the dough had come from. ‘We sent her tae a private school in Perthshire. As ye can see, the wee Glesga lassie wi’ skint knees and a snotty nose came back a young lady. This fuckin’ prison is destroying her. She cannae even go tae university, or get a job, because of a’ that’s happened.’ He glared angrily at Donald.

  ‘Aye, but why the fuck did ye no’ go abroad when ye had the chance, Frankie?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Betty, really’ was his resigned reply. ‘She never liked being away fae hame, even on holiday. She cried her eyes oot when it a’ went mental. There was nothin’ I could dae. They suggested the weans go away themselves, but none o’ them wanted tae. Oor Cisco paid the price for that.’ MacDougall looked as though he carried the world on his shoulders.

  ‘Maybe you should have considered an alternative career, Mr Robertson,’ Donald interrupted.

  ‘Fuck off wi’ this Robertson shite,’ MacDougall shouted. ‘Ye know my real fuckin’ name – use it. Anyhow, just say whitever it is ye want tae say, an’ leave me in peace, will ye? Ma heid’s fuckin’ burstin’ noo.’ He stood and walked over to a cabinet, taking out a bottle of whisky. ‘Who’s for a wee goldie?’ he asked, looking around at the policemen.

  Scott was about to nod, when Donald replied for all of them. ‘We’re on duty, Mr MacDougall. Anyway, we have something serious to discuss with you.’

  ‘Serious? Yous have just telt me ma brither’s been murdered – how much mair serious can it get?’

  ‘We have an idea who is responsible for your brother’s death, and the murders of Gerald and Marna Dowie,’ Daley said, a look of regret on his face.

  ‘If I wiz you, Frankie, I wid pour masel’ a fuckin’ bumper,’ said Scott. ‘Be prepared for a shock.’ MacDougall looked at Scott quizzically, though took his advice and returned to the recliner with a small glass filled almost to the brim.

  ‘We have good reason to believe, no matter how fantastic it sounds,’ began Daley, ‘that all three, and another unconnected man, were murdered by James Machie.’

  MacDougall sat forward in his seat, looking at the policemen one by one. He took a long gulp of the whisky, then wiped his lips dry with the back of his hand. ‘I widnae have thought ye’d be party tae somethin’ like this, Scooty,’ he said, his anger showing in his narrowed eyes. ‘A’ these fuckin’ mind games mean fuck a’ tae me noo. Save it for the kids yous arrest fir shoplifting, cos I’m no’ interested. OK?’

  ‘That’s just it, Frankie,’ Scott replied. ‘It’s no’ mind games. It’s true. I’ve seen the evidence wi’ ma ain eyes.’

  MacDougall was about to speak when Betty entered with a large tray on which were balanced mugs, spoons, a sugar bowl, a coffee pot and a plate of biscuits. Either from shock at the sudden entrance of his wife, or horror at the resurrection of Machie, MacDougall let the whisky glass slip from his fingers to the polished wood floor.

  As her husband retrieved the glass, Betty MacDougall placed the tray on the coffee table and began murmuring in hushed tones. ‘There’s two sides tae him, constable. Oh, aye, two sides.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Daley.

  But Betty just shook her head and left the room.

  ‘What does she mean by that?’ said Daley.

  ‘Ach, somethin’ just no’ connecting right; that’s the way she is now.’ But, mind, that bastard could be quoting you Shakespeare one minute, then trying tae cut yer fuckin’ heid aff the next. We a’ used to think he wiz a schizo – ye know? – split personality. Maybe that’s whit she’s tryin’ tae say, the poor soul.’ MacDougall stared at the door his wife had just closed.

  When each man had helped himself to coffee, and in Scott’s case a large quantity of biscuits, they resumed the conversation.

  ‘C’mon, lads,’ MacDougall said quietly. ‘How can it be? I saw the back o’ that van on TV. Yous must’ve seen the body. Surely ye did a post mortem?’

  ‘Nobody wishes that JayMac still occupied the grave more than me,’ replied Donald. ‘Please take a look at this, if you require personal assurance.’ The superintendent removed a document from the file he had brought with him and handed it to MacDougall.

  After a few heartbeats he looked up. ‘When wiz this taken?’

  ‘That is an image taken from the CCTV footage of the scene of Gerald and Marna Dowie’s murder in Australia a few days ago. It’s been enlarged and enhanced, but let me assure you that nothing has been done to alter the detail.’

  MacDougall threw the photograph onto the coffee table and downed his coffee. ‘This, my friends, is my worst fuckin’ nightmare.’ He placed the mug on the table with a trembling hand.

  ‘We will be taking over the responsibility for you and your family’s personal security this evening,’ Donald stated formally. ‘In fact, I am detailing DS Scott here as your personal liaison officer. He will be in charge of the officers from the Support Unit who are coming down to do the job. I trust you have no complaints?’

  ‘If I’ve got tae have cops aboot, better it’s Scooty than anybody else,’ MacDougall said, forcing a smile.

  ‘I wish ye’d telt me,’ said Scott, eyeing his boss with displeasure.

  ‘Logic, DS Scott, logic. As you are every bit as much in the firing line as our friend Mr MacDougall here, surely it’s the safest place for you to be, accompanied by a battalion of armed officers? Now let’s get back to Kinloch,’ he said, standing up. ‘Good day, Mr MacDougall.’ He turned to walk towards the door.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ MacDougall looked troubled. ‘How are we goin’ tae dae this? I mean, Tommy and Sarah go oot, tae Tarbert an’ that. Whit aboot them?’

  ‘The WP officers leave at six tonight. When we take over we’ll give you and your family a full briefing,’ replied Donald.

  Daley nodded a farewell at MacDougall as he followed Donald out of the room. Scott tarried, the two old neighbours embracing before he too turned to go.

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ Scott said, now sitting in the back of Daley’s car.

  ‘No need, DS Scott. O
r should I call you Scooty?’ Donald replied.

  As Daley drove out of the farmyard, he looked in the rear-view mirror. Sarah MacDougall was standing in the yard beside the dirty car, watching the policemen go.

  11

  The man stood at the cliff edge, looking out over the sea. He had a mug of coffee in his hand; the steam rising through the cold air took the chill from his face, just as the beverage warmed his insides. The sea was an iron grey, almost matching the sky. An island shaped like a bread roll rose black from the water: Ailsa Craig. Behind it, a thin strip of land was visible through the gloom: Kintyre. A large bird swooped then dived into the sea not far from the shore, the chill of winter was in the air. Even though it wasn’t much later than mid afternoon, the brightness of the day was beginning to leach from the sky. Soon the orange glow of thousands of streetlamps would fill the heavens, obliterating the light from countless stars.

  He finished his drink, tipping the dregs onto the barren ground, then walked the short distance back to the cottage, which was perched in splendid isolation near the cliff. Just as he was about to enter, the ringing of the mobile phone in his pocket made him stop. Automatically, he looked at the screen, though the identity of his caller was obvious – only one person had the number of the pay as you go device. He answered with a grunt, sighed at the information being passed to him.

  ‘Just make sure you stand up to your side o’ the bargain,’ he said. He waited for the brief reply then ended the call.

  Inside, the cottage was spartan. The main room housed the living area and kitchen, which could be curtained off if required. A small TV sat on a rickety table, under which piles of DVDs were cluttered. A dusty couch and armchair sat in the middle of the floor at right angles to one another. The fireplace, instead of real flames, housed an aged and rusting electric fire, two bars of which glowed brightly, emanating a faint buzz.

  He wasn’t good at being on his own, being inactive, left to thoughts of the past, present and future. As he pondered the wisdom of the course he had embarked upon in the last few days, his rising fury confirmed the decision. He remembered once watching a television documentary about sharks; how they had to keep swimming to survive – that’s the way he felt. He longed to be on the move, to do the things he had promised himself he would do, before disappearing again to start a new life where, this time, no one would ever find him.