The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

‘Oh, don’t look so crestfallen, DS Scott,’ Donald mocked. ‘I’m quite sure you’ll be able to get a dram or two later – in your own time.’

  Brian Scott opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it and decided to smile sweetly instead.

  He was a passenger in the front seat of the 4x4 as it churned its way up the muddy hill track.

  He hadn’t uttered a word of greeting to the driver. He didn’t feel like speaking. Somehow being here, on this jut of land, had brought a stillness to his soul, the same kind of peace felt by the desperate once they know their decision to take their own life is irreversible: the serenity of inevitability.

  He scanned his memory, wondering if he could bring to mind who had first identified these thoughts: Nietzsche, Freud, Jung? And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

  A wave of tiredness lapped behind his eyes. He removed his holdall from the foot well as the vehicle skidded to a stop before the front door of a run-down cottage, not dissimilar to the one he had recently used as his base in Ayrshire.

  ‘Wait here,’ he ordered, as he ducked out of the door and went to open the tailgate. He removed his things, then, instead of entering his new abode, went to the driver’s door, standing still as the window hummed open.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘From now on it’s the reverse of what we’ve been doin’. I want tae keep these bastards guessing, so I’ll be keeping a low profile for the next few days. Understood?’

  The driver nodded, so he carried on. ‘I want you to deliver our little package here, not tonight, later tomorrow sometime.’ Then, without any kind of farewell, he walked away, opened the front door of the cottage with a kick and disappeared inside.

  23

  Daley saw the reaction as soon as Frank MacDougall opened the door; the man seemed to crumple in front of him, as though he knew more bad news was imminent.

  ‘Ye better come in, Inspector Daley,’ said MacDougall, and showed him into the lounge where they had last met. ‘If this is aboot the kids, Mr Daley, there’s fuck a’ I can dae aboot it.’

  Daley shook his head and spoke quietly, in the official voice that he – and every other police officer – used at times such as these. ‘No, Frank, it’s not about the kids. I’m sorry to say that I have more bad news for you.’

  ‘Gie it tae me straight,’ MacDougall said, rubbing his forehead. His face seemed more gaunt, and he looked as though he’d aged in the short time since Daley had last seen him.

  ‘Your aunt Marion is quite seriously ill in hospital, Frank.’

  ‘And no’ of natural causes, I take it.’

  ‘No,’ said Daley. ‘She was attacked in her home by a man dressed as a police officer. Later, the suspect delivered her severed ear to our HQ and murdered one of my colleagues in the process.’ Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have been so blunt, but Frank MacDougall was no stranger to extreme violence.

  ‘So there’s no doubt then?’ he said, looking straight into the policeman’s face for the first time since his arrival.

  ‘We have photographic evidence that seems to confirm that this is, in fact, James Machie. I don’t know how it’s possible, but it would appear that he’s back, large as life.’

  ‘This is just the kinda shit that sick bastard thrives on, tae,’ MacDougall said shaking his head. ‘Will she be OK? I mean, she’s no’ goin’ tae die?’

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ Daley replied. ‘She’s in a pretty bad way, Frank.’ His reply was as honest and accurate as possible, given the information he had to hand.

  MacDougall walked over to the large window which looked down the hill and the open sea beyond.

  ‘You know me, Mr Daley, never scared o’ anythin’ in ma life. Nothing. But this . . . this is something entirely different. I’m no’ ashamed tae say, I’m oot o’ my depth here. What can I dae tae help my family? Is that bastard just goin’ tae pick them off wan efter the other?’

  ‘You could start by making sure that your children stay put in this house while we try and sort this all out, Frank. The protection squad tell me they both refuse to remain on the farm here.’

  ‘They’re both adults. What the fuck can I dae tae keep them here? They’ve both got new names. Fuck me, there’s no way JayMac would even recognise them, even if he knew where we were.’ MacDougall looked almost hopeful. ‘Remember, he’s no’ seen them for years.’ He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. ‘They hate each other, ye know.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘My kids. They can’t stand the sight of each other. Not since . . . well, not since we lost oor Cisco.’ He took another long draw on his cigarette. ‘Tommy knew whit he was up tae, getting’ involved in that scene, but he never let on. Sarah’ll no’ forgive him.’

  ‘It can’t be easy for them, all this forced togetherness.’

  ‘Aye,’ said MacDougall, not really listening to what Daley was saying. ‘He should never have risked goin’ back tae Glasgow. I warned him. Ach, he wiz a’ways a hothead. I’ll never know whit the fuck he thought he wiz goin’ tae achieve.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Daley.

  ‘We’re a’ fae different worlds, Jim. Me, I’m gettin’ tae be an auld man noo. Betty doesnae know if it’s New Year or New York. And Tommy . . . fuck me, we a’ know where Tommy wid be if he wisnae here – in the slammer, or shootin’ up in some close somewhere.’

  Daley had been listening to this familial introspection with the detached mind of the detective. Slowly, however, it dawned on him that fatherhood was a chancy business; the man before him bore witness to that. It would soon be his worry too.

  ‘Sarah deserves better than this,’ MacDougall said, picking up a silver-framed photograph of himself and his daughter. ‘She’s got it a’: beauty, brains, the lot. It’s her that suffers maist here. Smart as a tack. She’d gie Jamie Machie a run fir his money.’

  ‘She might have to if you don’t keep her here – just until this blows over, Frank.’

  ‘Blows over?’ MacDougall was incredulous. ‘He’s no’ a wee storm that’ll blow oot like the yins across the bay there. That bastard’s a fucking hurricane!’

  ‘Still,’ Daley said. ‘Better safe than sorry. Machie seems to be quite adept at achieving the impossible.’

  ‘How’s he done it, Jim?’ MacDougall looked suddenly desperate. ‘How the fuck has he done it?’

  ‘There’s only one explanation, Frank.’ It was Daley’s turn to look out to sea. ‘The man who was killed in the back of the prison ambulance wasn’t James Machie. However impossible that sounds.’

  ‘Aye,’ MacDougall agreed, looking suddenly thoughtful. ‘When I heard the bastard was dead, I suppose it lifted a hell o’ a weight aff my shoulders.’

  ‘We never did get to the bottom of who was responsible for his, well, assassination, in the first place, did we, Frank?’ said Daley, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Bit o’ a mystery that one,’ said MacDougall. ‘Listen, I’ll try ma best tae get the kids intae line, but ye’ve got to remember, they’ve got a right tae a life. It’s bad enough they’ve been cooped up here in the fuckin’ sticks, without telling them where they can go and whit they can dae. The Witness Protection mob are a’ready wantin’ us tae go intae hiding in a mair secure unit – some mothballed army base, or something. No way!’ MacDougall stubbed out his cigarette angrily.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you what danger you and your family are in,’ Daley said. ‘We just can’t call this one, Frank – can’t call it at all. I’ll never understand why you didn’t take the chance to go abroad.’ He scrutinised MacDougall. ‘All expenses paid.’ Something wasn’t right; his instincts told him so.

  ‘Fat lot o’ good it did Gerry Dowie,’ MacDougall replied, without a flicker of emotion.

  Daley couldn’t disagree.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ MacDougall said. ‘I know what Machie is capable of, make no mistake aboot that. I’ve also no intention of joining my brother,’ he said picking up a crystal
decanter filled with whisky. ‘A wee dram, before you go? I think we both need it.’

  Daley nodded.

  As the amber nectar burned its way down his throat, MacDougall’s home telephone rang. He answered, replying to the caller with only a grunt, and handed the cordless handset to Daley. ‘Looks like I’m yer new secretary.’

  ‘DC Dunn, sir.’ Daley could hear Donald’s voice booming in the background. ‘Couldn’t get your mobile.’

  ‘I can hear all is not well,’ said Daley.

  ‘There’s a problem at the firearms search, sir.’ Dunn sounded rattled. ‘DS Scott went to check it out, something to do with explosives, sir.’ She paused, and Daley could hear a fresh verbal onslaught in the background. ‘It’s OK, sir, nobody’s hurt, but the boss thinks you should attend . . . just in case.’

  ‘I’ll head over there now.’ Daley hung up and handed the phone to MacDougall.

  ‘Aye, it’s true whit they say, Mr Daley.’ MacDougall smiled. ‘A policeman’s lot is no’ a happy one.’

  Even though it was just after three in the afternoon, the daylight was beginning to fade as DS Brian Scott and a local DC drove past the Fearney farm, then up a dilapidated track to Bentham’s cottage.

  His mobile rang. ‘Hi, Jim,’ Scott answered. ‘How did Frankie take the news?’ He listened for a few moments. ‘When you get tae Fearney’s farm, gie me a bell. I’ll get one o’ the boys tae come and pick ye up in a Land Rover. Ye’ll never make it up this hill in a normal motor.’ He was jolted by yet another deep pothole, as though to confirm the statement. ‘They’ve found somethin’ up here. No’ sure what yet, but I’m just aboot tae find oot.’

  Scott ended the call and replaced the phone in his trouser pocket; he normally kept his phone in his jacket, however Donald had insisted that he and his driver wear flak jackets. Already, he was beginning to feel constricted by the tight body armour; he tried to wriggle it into a more comfortable position.

  A member of the Firearms Unit was waiting at the front door of the cottage, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s goin’ on here, and why a’ the mystery?’ asked Scott as he alighted from the Land Rover.

  ‘Take a look fir yersel, gaffer.’

  The cottage, which looked rundown from the outside, was remarkably tidy inside. Similar to Frank MacDougall’s property. What was it with these people who lived in the middle of nowhere?

  Tidiness was where the comparison with the MacDougall residence ended. No designer furniture here. The front door led straight into a small living area, off which was situated a curtained-off kitchenette and a wooden staircase. Underneath the latter a door lay open to reveal a small bathroom. In the hearth, the remains of a log fire glowed feebly, yet it felt more chilly inside the dwelling than out.

  Scott took in the scene with a professional eye, but nothing untoward presented itself. The carpet was a dark red colour, worn in places, but clean; there was no dust on the table in the middle of the room, and on a threadbare couch a collection of magazines was neatly piled. All was tidy and ordered, though the lack of pictures or decoration gave the distinct impression that no woman shared this space.

  He could hear footsteps and voices above, so he and the young DC ascended the creaky, uncarpeted staircase. Now upstairs, Scott, who at five feet ten wasn’t particularly tall, had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The small landing was narrow with two doors leading off it, through one of which he could see a couple of people. An armed firearms officer loomed in the doorway, stooped and awkward.

  ‘A’right, Stephen?’ Scott recognised the armed officer as one of the men who had shared his recent scare at MacDougall’s property. ‘Whit’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Take a look,’ said the policeman, crouching back further into the room and giving them space to enter.

  Scott ducked through the low doorway, and instantly his breath was taken away by the arsenal of weaponry piled along one side of the small room. The face of the young cop from Kinloch who was acting DS was pale and serious.

  ‘What should we do, Sergeant?’ he asked, looking bewildered.

  ‘First of a’,’ said Scott, ‘I want everybody oot, apart from Stephen fae the unit. One of ye get down tae Fearney’s farm and wait for DCI Daley.’

  There followed pushing, shoving and muttered apologies as five grown men attempted to move in the cramped space. Eventually, only Scott and the firearms officer remained in the room, as the others creaked their way down the rickety staircase.

  Scott looked at Stephen, who was now kneeling over the stash of weapons. ‘What d’ye reckon, big man?’

  ‘I reckon we’ll need more bodies,’ the cop answered. ‘Aye, an’ no’ the local plod either. This little lot will need to be checked over for possible booby traps, unsafe weapons, explosives. That looks like Semtex.’ He pointed to a pile of metal boxes. ‘And I recognise this too.’ He pointed to a stainless-steel box the size of a large matchbox, with red, yellow and green wires protruding from one end.

  ‘Spill the beans, fir fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It’s a motion sensor detonator,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at Scott, who was squinting at the device in the poor light. ‘The kind terrorists use to blow up cars. Old style – from the seventies, or early eighties, by the looks of it. It’s primitive, but it’ll still kill you.’

  All of a sudden, Brian Scott felt very cold, and very unsafe.

  Daley took in the hoard with a shake of his head. His first impression of Paul Bentham had not been a good one, but he hadn’t suspected that the man packed this amount of firepower.

  ‘Aye, some haul, Jim,’ said Scott, unable to peel his eyes from the collection of automatic and semi-automatic weapons, metal ammunition boxes, explosives, loose grenades and other deadly military paraphernalia.

  Daley had just spoken to Donald, who had ordered the property shut down and guarded until a specialist team could come down from Glasgow. The inspector from the Firearms Unit had arrived just after Daley, and declared that he could see nothing of imminent danger.

  ‘Worth a few bob if sold to the right people, Brian,’ said Daley. ‘Come on, nothing more we can do here. I want to check in on Duncan Fearney on the way back. If anyone knows where Bentham could have disappeared to, he’s the man.’

  The detectives got into a marked Land Rover, leaving two detectives and two armed firearms officers behind to guard the scene.

  ‘Don’t yous get lonely now,’ Scott shouted from the driver’s window, as he revved the engine and pulled slowly away from the cottage.

  After a short but uncomfortable journey, they drove into the farmyard.

  ‘No sign o’ life,’ said Scott as they exited the vehicle.

  The freshly painted yellow door stood out in the gloom. Daley knocked loudly, while Scott cupped his hands and peered in through a dirty window. From a large shed across the muddy yard, cattle lowed pitifully. Scott, having seen nothing through the window, walked towards the cowshed, screwing up his nose at the smell of manure.

  ‘I’m no expert, Jim,’ he shouted, ‘but these poor beasts need milking, don’t you think?’

  Daley walked to the entrance to the shed. A dozen or so cows were penned into separate compartments were lowing agitatedly. He could see by their distended udders that they hadn’t been attended to recently.

  ‘You check inside the barn, Brian. I’ll see if there’s another way into the house,’ said Daley. His instinct told him all was not well. The image of Bentham threatening Fearney, viewed from the rear mirror of his car the day before, replayed in his mind.

  Scott’s muttered oaths as he entered the cowshed were soon drowned out by the noise from the animals, as Daley hurried towards the farmhouse. Down a muddy track, he could see a large circular structure, painted blue. It looked a bit like a massive paddling pool, the like of which children cooled off in on hot summer days.

  He cursed as filth splattered onto his trousers, and he wished he had remembere
d to bring a pair of wellies.

  The slurry tank was higher than it looked, well over head height, so he looked around for some way to gain access to the top, to allow him to see inside. He had nearly given up when he discovered a metal ladder attached to the far side.

  The rungs of the ladder were slippery with dirt and dung; his foot slipped on the second rung, nearly sending him tumbling. The stench was truly appalling.

  Daley craned his neck over the side, and almost fell backwards again as the putrid odour hit his nostrils. The slurry was a greenish brown colour; a layer of pungent steam hung over the tank. The movement of a shiny beetle caught his eye as it meandered across the crusted surface, making Daley’s heart lurch.

  ‘Jim! Quick, o’er here!’

  Daley half scrambled, half fell down the slick ladder, hurrying to respond to the urgency in Scott’s tone. He had assumed Bentham had done a runner – maybe he’d been wrong.

  Scott was standing at the entrance to the cowshed. ‘Look, Jim. It’s not good.’

  The noise from the cattle and the stench of dung was an assault on the senses, as Daley followed Scott deeper into the shed. The distressed beasts observed the two men with large rheumy eyes, steam from their breath billowing up into the cold air. A faint yellow glow came from a single lightbulb.

  Daley’s eye was drawn to the whitewashed wall at the far end of the building. Amidst the smears of cow dung another, darker stain was slathered across the wall: blood. Beneath it, a crumpled body lay on the floor. Half of his face was missing, sprayed across the byre.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Scott. ‘This Fearney character hasn’t had much luck. But at least we know who we’re after now – that Bentham guy.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Daley, desperately trying to swallow back the bile he could feel stinging at his throat. ‘That is Paul Bentham.’

  24

  Tommy MacDougall revved the engine of the car and gunned it down the farm track. The bright headlights picked out two armed police officers, trying their best to remain inconspicuous, loitering inside a lean-to shed attached to a barn that backed onto the narrow roadway. Their breath was fleetingly illuminated in the halogen light.