The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Rab? You mean DS Rab White?’

  ‘Aye, Jim, oor Rab White. Fuck me, I just had a few pints wi’ him the other day . . .’

  Daley’s mind was racing. A murder and an attempted murder of two police officers with close connections, from the same division, on the same night. What were the chances? He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘The boss was being pretty mysterious on the phone,’ said Scott. ‘Tells us there’s details he can only discuss face to face.’

  Daley looked at Scott. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Brian?’

  ‘Aye. JayMac.’

  He made his way carefully down the steep, narrow pathway that wound down the side of the cliff. Beneath, the sea washed restlessly against the iron shore. Sharp black rocks and crags punctuated the waves at random intervals, standing out angrily against the grey of the ocean which was only a slightly darker shade than the sky above.

  He shivered involuntarily. He had never been comfortable at sea, having lived his life almost exclusively in land-locked domains. The concept of an endless expanse of water brought a twinge of fear to his chest, which he banished with his habitual resolve. All his efforts were for the greater good, to satisfy the cloying need for revenge. He strengthened his resolve. Nothing, nobody would stand in his way. He placed his fears in the back of his mind, where they would stay.

  He stopped for a while on the path; the descent was making his knees ache. He looked out over the sea. Where only yesterday a grey-green strip of land had been visible, there was now nothing. Waves and sky met at the horizon, giving the impression of a much more closed, less vast entity. He realised that this was merely illusion, and that his destination was in the same place as when he had last squinted at it through the small window of the cottage. Still, the notion of sailing off to the unseen was not a comforting one.

  He looked along the rest of the path, which zigzagged down towards the shore like a pale scar. Many of the men he had known carried such a disfigurement like a badge of honour. He strode on. The wind was keen on his face, flecked with water carried up from the sea below. He could taste as well as smell the briny air. Above him, gulls wheeled and squawked, wings held out straight and still as they soared heavenward on the breeze.

  As he progressed, he could feel the hard rock of the cliff path give way to a softer footing. The gradient grew dramatically steeper, and he found himself slithering down the remaining few feet of the path onto the rough shore, a mixture of rocks, sand and pebbles. He had to jump the last couple of feet onto the shingle, as the wind and waves had eroded the bottom of the path, taking what looked like a big bite out of the hillside.

  About two hundred yards down the beach he could see waves crashing against a dark arm of stone that jutted out into the sea. The structure looked more natural then man-made, though he knew it to have been constructed many hundreds of years ago by smugglers who had plied a lucrative trade all along the rocky west coast of Scotland. His time in the little cottage had been put to good use; he had filled his brain with more information, the assimilation of which had become his drug of choice. He smiled to himself at the thought of these men – men just like him – struggling barrels of whisky, rum or tobacco from the little quay, along the beach, and up the narrow cliff path. Crime paid, but it always came at a price.

  At the end of the little pier bobbed a small boat, white bodied, with a blue cabin. He crunched his way forward, stepping gingerly onto the ancient structure, slick with seawater and weed. As he edged along, he nearly slipped, cursing as he regained his balance. The boat bobbed against the pier, buffered against damage by two old tyres hung from its side.

  He sat down and thrust his feet into the boat in order to steady it, pulling the vessel tight to the little jetty with his legs, then slithered on board, dragging his heavy bag with him, which landed at his feet with a hollow thud. He made his way along the narrow deck and ducked inside the cabin, dragging the bag with him.

  After pulling the door shut, he surveyed his surroundings, surprised by the spaciousness of the cabin. Two chairs stood proud on metal plinths in front of a battered console upon which sat a polythene folder and a device that looked not unlike an unwieldy mobile phone from the early nineties. He unzipped the folder, removed its contents, and started to read.

  Basically, the task in hand was simple: the gadget was not a phone, but a satellite navigational instrument already programmed with his destination. He read the accompanying documents, which described how to use the technology and also included a mobile phone number. He pulled his own from his pocket and dialled.

  After four rings, the phone was answered. ‘Aye, it’s me,’ he said to the voice on the other end. ‘I’m on this fuckin’ boat. I’ve got the kit.’ He paused, listening to the reply. ‘Aye, whitever,’ he said testily. ‘Just make fuckin’ sure yer there before I am.’ He ended the call, and put his phone in his pocket. Picking up the satnav device, he switched it on with the red LED button. Slowly, a map, with numbers and directions, appeared on the screen. He pressed another button and waited. In a matter of seconds, the device emitted a chiming noise, the screen changed, and a large arrow hovered around a point above which the word ‘destination’ was picked out in green script. Slowly, more writing scrolled up the screen: Make sure the arrow continues to point at the destination. Based on a constant speed of 15 knots, you will reach destination in 2hrs 5mins. Then the screen flickered and changed: Your final destination is McDonnall’s Bay, Kintyre.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Follow the yellow brick road, eh, Frankie-boy?’

  20

  Daley sat in the public gallery in Kinloch Sheriff Court. The room was Victorian, with wooden panelling and benches, and a vaulted ceiling. Ornate carving adorned the Sheriff’s bench and the dock, where a miserable Duncan Fearney looked out over the courtroom, nervously twisting his fingers together. The usual aroma of disinfectant, age and muted fear permeated the air.

  Daley had taken an interest in the Fearney case for a number of reasons – not least of all because he felt some sympathy for the man – but his internal alarm was sounding, telling him there was more, much more, to this than met the eye. The detective had checked Fearney’s records and had found a solitary conviction for speeding in the late eighties. Taking advantage of local knowledge gleaned from some of the long-serving cops in Kinloch, it appeared as though this foray into organised crime was entirely at odds with the man’s character. As Daley eyed the forlorn figure in the dock, he reminded himself that the farmer would not be the first, or the last, individual lured by the beckoning finger of easy money. Though his head remained down, Fearney occasionally looked up from under his brow, his eyes fleetingly connecting with those of the detective. Gone was the sullen resentment at being caught; he now bore a look of utter hopelessness.

  The Sheriff was in heated discussion with the Procurator Fiscal, which was delaying the start to this preliminary hearing and giving the local populace the chance to enter the public benches to support their fellow Kinlochian; something, Daley knew, that was not unusual.

  His mind was jumping between the death of Rab White, his wife’s pregnancy and their narrow escape from death when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Hamish’s slanted eyes staring at him from his parchment-coloured face.

  ‘Aye, Mr Daley, how are ye the day? I hear ye had a wee bit o’ excitement earlier on.’

  ‘Hello, Hamish.’ Daley smiled, pleased to see a friendly face. ‘We had a narrow escape, but Liz is OK. She’ll be in hospital over the next couple of days – just for observation.’

  Hamish looked at him for a few moments, said nothing. ‘And how about the wean?’ His tone was conversational, as though there was nothing remarkable about his question.

  ‘How the f—’ Daley stopped himself, remembering where he was. ‘How do you know about . . . I’ve only found out myself . . .’ He was yet again astonished by the older man’s apparent ability to read his mind. ‘Did Liz tell you?�
�� he asked in an angry whisper, annoyed that his wife might have chosen to discuss her pregnancy with this old man before her husband.

  ‘No’ she did not. An’ don’t you be giein’ her a hard time o’ it, for she didnae say wan word tae me on the subject.’ Hamish was adamant. ‘When ye’ve seen as many new lives brought intae the world as I have, ye get used tae a’ the signs.’ He smiled, pleased with his own sagacity.

  ‘Was that what you were trying to tell me when I offered you a lift?’ Daley was calmer now, as he recalled his most recent conversation with Hamish.

  ‘Jeest you keep yer han’ on yer ha’penny, inspector. It’s no’ guid for a man at your time o’ life tae be gettin’ intae such a stooshie. No’ noo yer goin’ tae be a faither, at any rate.’

  Daley was about to reply when a head appeared between him and Hamish, as another member of the public gallery chose his moment to join their conversation. Daley knew this man from the bar at the County Hotel; he was always friendly enough, though somewhat lacking in social graces. ‘Aye, congratulations tae ye, Mr Daley. Well done indeed,’ he grinned, pushing his arm forward to shake Daley’s hand. ‘Lead in the auld pencil, right enough. Mind you, that cannae be difficult wi’ a lassie as bonnie as yer wife,’ he continued, dropping his voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied a flustered Daley, wondering who else knew more than he did about his wife’s condition.

  ‘An’ how are you daein’, Hamish?’ the man enquired of the old fisherman, who was now chewing at his unlit pipe. ‘Nae wonder yer pipe’s gaun oot. I’ve had tae cut right back on the fags noo, tae, ever since poor Du—’ He didn’t finish the sentence; instead he cleared his throat exaggeratedly and looked at Daley. ‘Oh aye . . . Eh, I wiz goin’ tae anyway since the wife telt me I needed tae stop. Bad cough, ye know.’ He sat back in his seat sheepishly.

  ‘I’d have thought the good people of this town would be more interested in the fact I nearly got blown sky-high this morning,’ Daley remarked with a sigh.

  ‘Och, don’t be sayin’ that, Mr Daley.’ Hamish took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Naebody in Kinloch wid be as rude as tae mention such personal issues tae a man in your position. That would be hoor o’ a rude.’

  ‘But it’s OK to ask me about my wife’s pregnancy, about which you all seem remarkably well informed?’ Daley said.

  ‘Ye still havenae quite got yer heid roon’ the wee toon yet, Mr Daley.’ Hamish smiled. ‘There’s no’ wan business in the place – or hospital, come tae that – that doesnae have someone’s cousin, or sister, or mother, or auntie working in it. Dinnae look so pit oot,’ he continued, in response to the look of concern on Daley’s face. ‘Doctors, nurses, even policemen; they’re a’ good at their jobs, an’ keep their ain council, in the main. But ye must remember, there’s a’ways a body fae the toon sitting on their shooder, havin’ a wee listen, or a wee look. No’ wi’ any kind o’ malice aforethought, mind.’ He winked at Daley in self-congratulation at the use of the legal term. ‘Nah, rather jeest so we’re a’ up tae date wi’ whoot’s goin’ on in oor ain community. Aye, jeest the way of it,’ he concluded, taking another smokeless draw of his pipe.

  ‘To what end?’ Daley asked, mentally calculating just how many locals were employed at the local police office.

  ‘Och, jeest so we don’t appear rude, ye understand. For example, how wid ye have felt if ye’d had a’ this great news aboot a new wean bottled up in yer heart, an’ no’ a soul tae share it wi’? Ye’d have been fair scunnered, an’ that’s a fact.’

  As Fearney fidgeted in the dock, the court officer took a seat at his desk, then shuffled through a pile of papers and opened up a laptop. Proceedings were about to begin.

  Hamish leaned in towards Daley and nodded towards Fearney. ‘That’s a man on the edge. I’ve known Duncan noo fir a guid many years, an’ I tell ye, he’s damn near lost a’ reason.’ Hamish shook his head in sympathy for the farmer. ‘No’ a bad man, Mr Daley, jeest a foolish wan. But dae ye no’ think there’s something else?’

  ‘Else? What do you . . .’ But Daley had to stop mid sentence, as the clerk was now calling the court to order.

  The hearing hadn’t taken long. As expected, Duncan Fearney had pleaded guilty to the sale of contraband tobacco and cigarettes. In most circumstances, such was the gravity of his crime, he would have been remanded in custody, but Daley had earlier called the Procurator Fiscal, asking him not to oppose the inevitable bail request from Fearney’s solicitor. He sensed there was much more to this crime, and to have Fearney fretting away in the remand wing of Barlinnie Prison in Glasgow would do nothing to further the investigation. He would learn much more from observing Fearney’s actions while he was out on bail. Tobacco smuggling was now as big a business as illegal drugs; Fearney was just a hapless team player, so who was the captain?

  Fearney stood on the pavement looking lost. One of his fellow Kinloch residents slapped him on the back and offered him somewhat resigned good wishes. The farmer had looked genuinely surprised when he had been granted bail; no doubt his solicitor had prepared him for jail. Indeed, the solicitor himself – a youngish man with a nervous twitch and thick glasses – looked mystified by events. As he lisped a few words to his client in the dock, Daley got the impression that here was a solicitor unused to many successful outcomes for those whom he defended.

  ‘Mr Fearney,’ Daley hailed the farmer.

  ‘These are duty paid, inspector,’ Fearney replied, holding up a packet of cigarettes as proof, a look of fear spreading across his face.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Daley said, trying not to intimidate the man. ‘Just wondered if you needed a lift back home, I know it’s a bit out of the way.’ He smiled, with all the enthusiasm that he could muster.

  Fearney looked about. ‘It’s true tae say I huvnae arranged a lift back. I never expected tae be goin’ back hame the day, inspector. The lawyer picked me up.’ He looked down at a small suitcase beside him on the pavement, shrugged his shoulders, and picked it up. ‘I daresay I’ll need tae take ye up on yer kind offer.’ he continued, with the resignation of a man whose life presented him with diminishing choices.

  Daley motioned for him to follow him to the pool car – a replacement for the 4x4 destroyed in the explosion earlier – which was parked not far from the court building. He fished in his pocket for the unfamiliar key fob, taking it out, then pointing it in the general direction of the car, setting the lights flashing briefly and a small tone sounding from the horn.

  As the pair drove through Kinloch, heading for the back road where Fearney’s farm was situated, the passenger said nothing. Daley noted how jumpy Fearney became as the road led them out of the town and into the countryside. He would frequently jerk his head, as if to shake out some thought trapped inside, and his hands were constantly moving. He rubbed his chin, cracked his knuckles, and dug his nails into his thighs.

  ‘I’m sorry fir being rude a wee while ago, Mr Daley,’ he burst out. ‘It’s been a bugger o’ a time fir me, I can tell you that without fear or favour.’ The strain of the last few days could be heard in his voice.

  ‘Yes, I know you haven’t been in trouble before, Mr Fearney. It’s always harder for those who aren’t used to the criminal justice system. Many of the people I deal with on a regular basis couldn’t care less what happens to them; they’re as used to being in jail as in their own living room.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fearney, letting out a deep sigh. ‘I’ve met some o’ them.’ He turned to look out of the car window. The fields, trees and bushes all bore a thin film of frost, reluctant to thaw; not something that normally happened in the relatively balmy environs of Kintyre. Daley looked at the temperature reading on the dashboard, noting that it was only one degree above freezing, and decided to take the edge off his speed.

  ‘Whit dae ye think will happen tae me?’ Fearney asked.

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Daley. ‘Your good record will go in your favour, though make no mistake, this is a very serious crime.’ He
looked sidelong at his passenger, who was fighting back tears.

  ‘An’ if I wiz tae help ye oot – ye know, gie ye a wee bit mair information, like?’ Fearney enquired in a hopeful tone.

  ‘It’s not like the TV, Duncan,’ said Daley. ‘We don’t do deals. But I won’t lie to you; if you help us bring your suppliers to justice, it won’t do you any harm at all.’ He stole another quick look at his passenger, who had leaned his head back against the headrest.

  ‘I’ll need tae think aboot it a’, Mr Daley. These are no’ the kind o’ folk ye want tae be messin’ wi’, let me tell you.’ Suddenly he looked desperate.

  Daley nodded sympathetically, recalling that Fearney had said hardly anything to the officers who had interviewed him since his arrest, only answering to direct questions about his name, age, address and his acceptance of guilt.

  ‘If you give me a couple of days, I can try to help you, Duncan. Protect you from whoever it is that has been using you.’ Daley spoke quietly; he had decided to give Fearney enough time to make a move, however unlikely that seemed from the broken man in the passenger seat. He slowed the car down and turned onto the track that led to the farm. The road surface was pitted with deep potholes in which dirty brown water had gathered.

  As they neared the place, he heard Fearney sharply draw in his breath and sit upright. Up ahead, in the muddy entrance to the yard, stood a man wearing a camouflage jacket, a shotgun split open in the crook of his arm. He stared blankly at the car as Daley drove past him to park in the untidy yard.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ he enquired of his passenger.

  ‘Aye, sort o’. He has the wee croft up on the hill, helps me oot noo and again,’ Fearney replied. ‘Jeest for bags o’ potatoes an’ the like,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Nae money changes hands.’ Daley noticed that, despite the chill of the day, beads of sweat were visible on his brow.

  As the farmer left the car, Daley decided to do likewise; his instincts told him that, whoever the man at the gate was, his intentions towards Fearney were less than friendly. He ducked out of the door, leaving it open, and walked around the vehicle to where Fearney was standing, looking between Daley and his neighbour in an agitated manner.