‘Aye, well, thanks for the lift, Mr Daley,’ Fearney announced loudly and deliberately. ‘But like I telt yer men, ye’ll get nae mair fae me, nae matter whoot ur the consequences.’ He smiled – nervously, Daley thought – at the man with the shotgun, who had now taken an aggressive stance, his hitherto disarticulated shotgun now in its firing position, held across his chest in his large hands.
Daley walked towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘Jim Daley,’ he said. ‘I’m the local chief inspector. How are you?’ He smiled at Fearney’s neighbour, who pointedly did not take up his offer of a handshake.
‘I’m careful whose hand I shake, mate,’ the man replied, with an arrogant look on his face, chin up. Stocky, of middle height, he wore filthy black wellington boots, into which his dark green waterproof trousers were tucked. His hair was shaved close to his head, and his face was just beginning to take on the jowly appearance of middle age. He looked as though he had once been powerfully built; fit, now running to fat, Daley knew all about that.
‘Mr Fearney tells me you help him out on the farm?’ said Daley. He stood three feet away from his camouflaged interlocutor, towering over the man.
‘Yeah, I do as it goes,’ he replied. ‘Is that a police matter, now?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You mean Dunky-boy here hasn’t told you?’ He turned to Fearney. ‘You ashamed of me, Dunky?’ He sneered at Fearney, who shuffled uncomfortably, looking as though he wished the ground would swallow him up.
‘Your name, sir,’ Daley repeated, this time more forcefully.
‘Paul. Paul Bentham, to be precise. Happy now?’ His accent was from somewhere in the south-east of England – not cockney, but not far off. ‘Nice of you to give me mate here a lift, but we’ve got a lot of work to do, especially since you’ve had ’im rotting in your cells at Kinlock,’ he snorted, mispronouncing the town’s name in an anglicised fashion.
‘What have you been doing with the gun, Mr Bentham?’ Daley looked at him coolly; already, he had developed a dislike for the man.
‘Oh, you know, Mr Daley,’ Bentham said, moving forward until he and the police officer were almost toe to toe. ‘Lot of vermin about right now – especially today, as it goes.’ His sneer transformed into a lop-sided grin as he stared up at Daley.
The chief inspector was beginning to feel increasingly irritated by Bentham, but rather than lose his temper, he forced himself to speak to the man quietly, leaning his head forward, so close that he could smell stale alcohol on the other man’s breath.
‘Have you got a licence for that, Mr Bentham?’ It was Daley’s turn to smile.
Bentham looked at the policeman for a few heartbeats, then answered: ‘Yeah, what d’you fink?’
‘Good, so you won’t object to producing it at Kinloch Police Office within the next forty-eight hours, then,’ he said.
Despite his best efforts, the smile on Bentham’s face faded slightly. ‘No problem. What time’s best for you, Mr Daley?’
Daley leaned his head back, rubbing his chin as though he was considering some intractable problem. ‘What about nine tomorrow morning?’ He smiled back down at Bentham, taking full advantage of his taller, heftier build.
The man was about to answer when Daley held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know you and Mr Fearney here have a lot to be getting on with, and I don’t want to keep you back.’
Fearney gave a nervous snort, clouds of cold breath issuing from his nostrils into the cold air.
‘I’ll have my officers attend your property instead. You know, check your firearm storage facilities and that your records are up to scratch – much easier than you having to trek all the way into the town.’ And with that, Daley turned on his heel and walked back to the car.
He opened the driver’s door and looked at Bentham again. His stance hadn’t changed, but he looked much less pleased with himself. ‘Were you a military man, Mr Bentham?’
‘Seventeen years in the Royal Marines, Mr Daley,’ he replied, the arrogant smile back on his face.
Daley merely raised his brows, and then nodded a farewell to Duncan Fearney, who muttered a muted thanks to the police officer.
As the car churned down the rutted farm track, Daley looked in his rear-view mirror. Bentham was gesticulating at Fearney with a pointed finger, his face contorted in aggression. You’re not as smart as you think you are, Mr Bentham, Daley thought. His attention was dragged back to his driving as the offside front wheel disappeared down one of the deeper potholes with a spine-jarring thud. The policeman decided to proceed more cautiously.
21
The land in front of the small boat presented a looming, red-grey edifice. Seabirds soared skyward from their nests only to plunge back into the sea like small missiles, their wings tight to their bodies. After a few seconds, they would bob back to the surface with, if they were lucky, a writhing fish clasped in their yellow beaks. He wondered idly about the many things he didn’t know about the world – would never know – reasoning that even the greatest minds the planet had ever produced could only know a fraction of such a complex existence.
The satnav device was silent, showing only ‘Proceed on present heading’ on the luminous screen. He looked ahead through the window, trying to work out where he would be able to berth the boat. There seemed to be no break in the cliffs, which towered over the scene with an almost palpable, terrifying intensity. The fresh briny smell of the sea was gradually being replaced by something earthier – the taint of guano deposited over hundreds, perhaps thousands of years on the rocks before him, mixed with the sulphurous odour of rotting seaweed. The land also seemed to impart a kind of chill; not the same as the bracing wind on the sea, but a dank unseen hand whose clammy fingers grasped at the soul.
He shook himself from this torpor. For most of his life, such thoughts had played no part in his world; life was there to be lived, to grip onto and enjoy in an explosion of the senses. Drink, drugs, money, sex, power: all of these combined to create a boost to the ego that was hard to resist. However, as time rolled on, the drugs had to get stronger, the drink more plentiful, the sex increasingly perverse, the lust for power never-ending, only to stand still; the same joy, warmth, ecstasy, thrill – the feeling of invincibility – faded and turned in on itself in a voracious orgy of self-consumption.
He had only realised why this had happened when he started to read. The many quiet days had led to a thirst for something new: not a search for the next high, or submissive flesh, nor the lust for wealth and vengeance; the real power, the real thrill, came from knowledge, from understanding, from the ability to analyse and understand life itself. He had consumed philosophy and history with the same intensity he had once snorted cocaine; it had, in its own way, become just as addictive.
Would he have been able to feel the very soul of these silent rocks had he not read Kant, Wittgenstein or Nietzsche? Would he ever have felt this alive?
Like everything else in life, knowledge came at a price; as cocaine and drink ruined the body, thought and philosophy ate away at joy. The world was every bit as hard and unforgiving as he had suspected when he was a small child; only now, well, now he knew it to be infinitely more terrifying.
As the small boat ploughed slowly towards the red cliffs he reasoned, as he had so many times before, that to face the real challenge, the existential question that was posed to every living thing, he had to be free from the past – and that meant revisiting it.
He jumped as the satnav sprung into life.
22
Daley couldn’t remember when he had last seen Donald looking so careworn, and it was most unusual to see him out of uniform. He was wearing a dark grey suit, with a crisp white shirt – all well and good – but the pale grey tie was squint, hanging from the open neck of his shirt, and there was a tinge of salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. Daley saw the ghost of the overweight, untidy shift sergeant of many years ago manifest itself on the immaculately dressed man he
had grown used to.
Daley himself felt shaken up by the events of the previous few days. Since his home was now a crime scene and lacking windows, he had spent an uncomfortable night in the County Hotel. The peeling wallpaper and dirty net curtains had brought on melancholy, and he’d found himself being assailed by memories of the blood, gore and horror he had been forced to confront during his career. This was a sure sign that he was becoming stressed by this case.
‘At last,’ Donald declared, as DS Scott entered his temporary office, once occupied by the unfortunate Inspector MacLeod. Officially, as acting sub-divisional commander, the office should have been Daley’s preserve, but he preferred the low-key glass box within the CID office.
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Scott. ‘Had to organise a squad to conduct a firearms check.’
‘What?’ Donald looked exasperated. ‘Police officers lying dead and you’re checking people have a padlock on their gun cupboard? His face turned bright red, in stark contrast to the whiteness of his shirt. ‘And stop calling me boss. It’s sir or superintendent, you disrespectful prick.’
‘DS Scott was carrying out my instructions, sir,’ said Daley, in defence of his friend. ‘And this is not just a normal firearms check. I’ve a feeling we could be on the way to uncovering more levels of the tobacco smuggling operation.’ He continued in a flat tone that spoke more of his desire to assert his authority than it did the sharing of information.
‘In light of recent events, and bearing in mind that guns are involved, I hope you have insured that the proper safeguards are in place?’ Donald said. ‘The last thing I need is another dead policeman.’
‘Nae worries there, sir,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve sent two o’ the off-duty firearms boys off wi’ the team, an’ the DS in charge is armed, tae, so they’ve got plenty o’ firepower if things go wrang.’ He sounded rather pleased with himself.
‘Whatever, whatever.’ Donald waved one hand in the air, as he used the other to massage his brows. ‘I have some more bad news – well, more detail about the bad news you already know.’
‘We’re all ears, sir,’ said Daley.
Donald looked at him angrily. ‘So that’s it, is it? Senior officers in my division spreading fucking gossip and confidential information to each other, while I’m left in the dark like an arsehole.’ Donald slammed his fist into the desk, sending a tartan paperweight crashing to the floor.
‘Sorry, sir?’ said Daley, a mystified expression on his face. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but I’ve had more on my mind today than “fucking gossip”, as you put it.’ He was trying hard to keep the irritation from his voice but, as usual with Donald, he was finding it an onerous task.
Flopping back in his chair like a deflating balloon, Donald held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture that was as close to an apology as he was ever likely to make, and stared grimly at the ceiling. ‘This morning I had a visit from the Chief Constable. When Rab White was shot, the killer decided to leave his mark at the scene.’ He picked up a file from the desk and opened it carefully, eyeing its contents as though they still shocked him, though it was clearly not the first time he had viewed them.
‘Sir?’ Daley looked perplexed.
Donald removed a large photograph from the file and handed it across the desk to Daley, who looked at it steadily. Scott looked over his shoulder. Daley let out a long sigh, while his DS let out a groan.
‘Taken with White’s own phone camera, then left at the scene,’ said Donald.
‘Well, sir – let’s be honest – even though this is the last thing any of us wanted, are you really surprised?’
‘Shocked, surprised, baffled: who the fuck knows what to think, Jim?’ replied Donald. ‘It’s one thing seeing a CCTV image from twelve thousand miles away, but looking at that man’s face as he gloats over the body of one of my men, in the corridor of my own police office – well, to say it’s disconcerting is putting it mildly.’
‘Disconcertin’!’ exclaimed Scott. ‘Fuck me, I’m disconcerted by the cost o’ a pint, or my gas bill. This isnae disconcerting – it’s fucking terrifying.’
Donald sat forward in his seat, laid his elbows on the desk. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I think we’re facing the biggest and most dangerous challenge of our careers here.’ He looked in turn at his two subordinates. ‘What happened to you in the early hours, Jim, is just the beginning. Here we are, fish in a barrel, so to speak; all the people JayMac hates the most gathered together in Kinloch. Sitting ducks.’
‘Ye’ll need tae make up yer mind, sir. Are we fish or ducks?’ Scott replied, seemingly in all sincerity.
Donald stared at the DS, his face expressionless. Daley waited for the inevitable explosion, but when it happened, it took both he and Scott completely by surprise.
The superintendent threw his head back and began laughing, quietly at first, then a full belly laugh, his shoulders quivering as his face reddened and tears came to his eyes. ‘You really are a prize prick, Brian,’ Donald wheezed. ‘A real arsehole.’
It didn’t take long before Daley felt his face break into a smile, and then he too began to laugh.
Scott looked at them both, shaking his head. ‘I must admit, that’s no’ the response I wiz expectin’.’
‘Hysteria, Brian, pure hysteria,’ replied Donald through a series of coughs. ‘Nothing more, I assure you.’
It took a few moments for the laughter to dissipate. There followed a silence, as though each of them were coming to terms with what had happened and what was likely to happen.
‘How did you find out about the ear, Jim?’ Donald asked, in an almost friendly way.
‘What ear?’ replied Daley.
‘“All ears”, is that not what you said?’
‘An expression, nothing more, I can assure you, sir,’ said Daley.
‘An inspired and most prescient one,’ said Donald. ‘Our midnight murderer left a package on my office desk before he killed DS White. Of course, they had to get the bomb squad to give the place the once over, so I’ve only just discovered its contents, and who those contents are likely to belong to.’
‘Sir?’ said Daley.
‘The box contained a severed ear. It had been hacked off only hours before delivery,’ said Donald. ‘As you know, the Chief Constable is all over this now, as are the Serious Crime Squad, and would you believe, in what can only be described as a miracle of detection, they have managed to locate its owner.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Scott, a look of disgust on his face.
‘Marion MacDougall, an eighty-two-year-old widow, who lives alone in the Springburn area of the city,’ said Donald. ‘No doubt an old acquaintance of yours,’ he added, looking directly at Scott.
‘Dae ye mean Frank’s auntie, by any chance, sir?’
‘The very woman, DS Scott. She was found by her carer yesterday, beaten half to death and missing her right ear.’
‘First his brother, now his aunt,’ stated Daley. ‘One thing puzzles me though, sir.’
‘Just one thing, Jim? You surprise me.’ Donald’s return to sarcasm hadn’t taken long.
‘If JayMac knows Frank’s whereabouts, why doesn’t he just come after him, rather than work his way through his family?’
‘Why does the cat play with the mouse before biting it in two?’
‘Or maybe he doesn’t know where Frank is, an’ he’s just tryin’ tae flush him oot,’ Scott said, a hopeful note in his voice.
‘If that is the case, DS Scott, how do we explain what happened to your colleague’s car yesterday, right here in Kinloch?’
‘Sir,’ said Daley, ‘at what time was DS White killed?’
‘Two in the morning, Jim. His assailant was identified leaving the office on CCTV camera at 0206 hours.’
‘In that case, it couldn’t have been this ghost of JayMac who planted the bomb under my car. It must have been done between nine, when I got home, and five in the morning when I was about to leave – unless he has a helicopter, which I’m sure s
omeone would’ve heard or seen. There’s no way he could’ve been responsible for the assault on Mrs MacDougall and the murder of DS White, and still had time to plant explosives under my car. We’re a hundred and fifty miles away. It’s impossible.’
‘Indeed, DCI Daley,’ smiled Donald. ‘Something I had already deduced, of course. There are only two possible answers to this particular conundrum . . .’
‘He’s got help. The bastard’s no’ only back fae the died, he’s got the band back together!’ interrupted Scott.
‘That, or whoever tried to kill me has nothing to do with JayMac, and it’s an unhappy coincidence,’ Daley reasoned.
‘Unhappy indeed, Jim,’ Donald agreed. ‘But who else would want to blow you up?’
Daley shrugged. ‘Apart from the recent tobacco case, I’ve not exactly been putting myself about in Kinloch over the last few months.’
‘We’re still on the trail o’ they drug smugglers,’ Scott said enthusiastically. ‘Still no’ a hint o’ getting’ tae the bottom o’ it, mind you.’
‘Mmm.’ Donald tidied up his files and closed the laptop on his desk. ‘I think that will have to go on the back burner for now. It would appear we have a much more deadly problem on our hands.’
‘Dae ye want me tae get oot an’ gie Frankie the bad news, boss,’ said Scott. ‘I mean, sir.’
‘No,’ said Donald. ‘You keep your eyes on what’s happening with this firearms operation. Jim, go and break the news to Mr Robertson, if you would. I’d like you to report on how he takes it. And get him to keep those bloody children of his under control. The Protection Unit tell me they’re coming and going as though there was nothing wrong.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Daley. ‘I’ll get out there now.’
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 14
