The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

  Behind the band, flat-backed lorries made up the procession, each decorated according to different themes. A group of hairy-chested, bikini-clad men, all wearing long platinum-blonde wigs, gyrated under artificial palm trees on what looked like half a ton of sand. They held cans of beer and were obviously a little worse for wear, staggering as the vehicle chugged up Main Street, waving and shouting to the crowd.

  ‘They must be freezin’,’ Scott shouted in Daley’s ear, as he watched Donald give the little boy a nudge to try and make him let go of his coat. The women in front were busy throwing coins into charity buckets carried by men dressed as Santa Claus.

  ‘Credit where credit’s due, mind you,’ said Scott. ‘They’re a right community doon here – the way it used tae be.’

  Each float was accompanied by its own music, which blared out of speakers on the back of every lorry, making the din truly deafening.

  ‘A big hand fir the lassies fae the Douglas Arms,’ shouted Dan, as a float done up to look like a Restoration inn passed slowly by, populated by half a dozen women dressed in low-cut, lace-up bodices, who laughed merrily as they threw small toys into the crowd, sending the children of Kinloch into a frantic scramble. Daley could smell fried onions and burgers being cooked in a van further up Main Street; it would be doing a roaring trade. Despite his meal at the County, his stomach began to rumble. To his right, he could see Donald wiping furtively at a trail of snot left slathered across his coat by the little boy, who was now deep in the scrum of children trying to get their hands on one of the precious toys which were still being sent spinning into the crowd.

  ‘A big cheer for Santa!’ Dan announced, as the star of the parade rounded the corner. A large man dressed as Father Christmas sat in an elaborate grotto, replete with elves dressed in exceptionally short green skirts and matching hats.

  ‘This is practically pornography,’ declared Donald, as one of the elves raised her skirt even higher, to reveal suspenders holding up green fishnet stockings. She was rewarded with a lascivious jeer from the men in the crowd.

  ‘Aye, you’d know,’ said Scott under his breath. ‘There’s no’ enough o’ this type o’ thing noo’adays,’ he continued more audibly. ‘It’s great tae see the kids oot an’ aboot, an’ no’ wi’ their heids stuck intae some computer.’

  ‘Very laudable, I’m sure,’ the superintendent replied, again examining the hem of his coat with a look of disgust on his face.

  The women in front of them were making the most of the event by passing a bottle of sparkling wine around; they had come prepared with plastic glasses and two large bags of crisps. They chatted merrily, shrieking with laughter at the sights and sounds of the evening while their children played happily with their new toys, salvaged from the scramble.

  Daley took it all in with a burgeoning feeling of warmth and contentedness. Maybe it was down to the goodwill of the season, or perhaps the alcohol he had consumed, but more likely, he reasoned, it was the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself. He had become used to being a reluctant witness to all that was wrong with humanity; it was easy to become the jaundiced observer, with the expectation that things could only get worse, never better. But here and now, as part of this little community, he felt a surge of hope.

  Across the road, now that the procession had passed by, he spotted a man holding the hand of a toddler. The little boy was muffled against the cold with a blue bobble hat and a thick jacket. He stared up wide-eyed at the lights and the people as the man kneeled at his side, whispering in his ear and pointing to everything around them – helping this tiny, new mind make sense of it all. A broad smile was spread across the man’s face.

  Daley realised that he would soon be that man; he was about to jump onto the merry-go-round of fatherhood, with all of its attendant highs and lows. His heart began to beat more quickly as the responsibility of it all brought emotion welling up in his chest. One thing was certain: there were many worse places to bring up a child than Kinloch. This unique town appeared to have retained something lost by many other communities in the modern, complex world; a sense of belonging and home, of being part of something more. He beamed with pleasure.

  As Daley bathed in the glow of impending fatherhood, he didn’t notice that someone had appeared silently at his side. He turned to the figure and was pleased to find Hamish, puffing clouds of blue pipe smoke into the night air.

  ‘A fine sight, Mr Daley,’ he said. ‘Aye, fine, indeed.’

  ‘Yes, Hamish,’ Daley replied, still smiling at the little boy across the street who was now pointing excitedly at Santa.

  ‘No’ so nice fir Duncan Fearney, mind you, eh?’ Hamish turned his slanted gaze to the detective.

  ‘How do you know about that, Hamish?’ Daley hissed into the old man’s ear. ‘Don’t answer that,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Just don’t let the boss hear you. He’ll have you up in the office being questioned as a possible accomplice before you know it.’

  ‘Aye, weel, he’ll need tae get past this lot first,’ commented Hamish, gesturing to the crowds with his pipe. ‘I remember in 1952, young Erchie Dougall went AWOL fae his National Service – jeest at this exact time o’ year.’ He smiled at Daley. ‘In them days, a’ we had wiz a big tree wi’ a few lights on it, doon at the cross – nane o’ this extravagance. Mind you, the folk turned oot jeest the same tae see the lights go on, an’ the star pit on top o’ the tree.’

  Daley listened patiently, knowing that Hamish would eventually reach some point pertinent to what they had been talking about.

  ‘So there wiz half the toon, gathered roon’ the tree – drink havin’ been taken, mind you. These two redcaps appeared; apparently they’d known aboot poor Erchie’s movements an’ had decided the time was ripe tae catch him, oot in the open, so tae speak.’ He had to raise his voice, as the pipe band was now blowing a particularly strident reel nearby. ‘So yer two men made their move. They grabbed oor Erchie an’ tried tae drag him intae custody an’ back tae the army, where nae doubt he wid have been fair badly treated fir his indiscretion.’

  ‘Being absent without leave is a bit more than an indiscretion, Hamish,’ said Daley with a smile. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Och, tae cut a lang story short, before they could get tae Erchie, they got mobbed by the crowd an’ flung intae the loch. Aye, they wirnae fae the toon, ye understan’. As ye know fine, we may fight like fury amongst oorsels, but woe betide any strangers that pick on one o’ oor ain.’ He smiled at Daley as he took another long draw of his pipe.

  ‘Very clever, Hamish. But I’m warning you, whatever you know about recent events, say nothing.’ Daley raised his brows at the old man.

  ‘Did I no’ tell ye: Duncan Fearney is a desperate man, Mr Daley, an’ as ye know fine yersel, desperate men dae desperate things.’

  ‘I would like to talk to you tomorrow, Jim,’ Donald slurred in Daley’s other ear. The effect of the quantity of wine the superintendent had consumed had now well and truly kicked in, no doubt accentuated by the cold evening. ‘Most important . . . Most sensitive. I . . .’

  ‘Let tomorrow deal with itself, sir,’ Daley interrupted, the feeling of contentment draining from him at the mere sound of Donald’s voice.

  ‘Tomorrow it is then,’ replied the superintendent with a small hiccough. The look of disdain reappeared on his face as the group of women in front, who had now donned party hats, burst into song.

  ‘Noo, ladies and gentlemen, can I have yer attention please!’ Dan’s voice boomed from the loudspeaker. ‘As yiz a’ know, the lights went on last week.’ This elicited a jeer from the crowd. ‘Noo, come on – it’s nae use blaming big Hughie. He just pulled the switch when he should ha’ kept his hand on his ha’penny.’ The crowd continued to grumble. ‘Well, when we switched them off again, everybody complained, so they were jeest left on.’

  To a background of ‘Get on wi’ it’, ‘That’s a load a’ shite!’ and ‘Away an’ bile yer heid!’, Dan, a determin
ed performer if nothing else, pressed on. ‘Since the lights are on a’ready, the community council have managed a wee surprise.’

  ‘Are they sober?’ shouted someone.

  Dan ignored this. ‘Tonight,’ he continued, ‘oor special guest comes a’ the way fae darkest Africa . . . Ladies an’ gentlemen, Tarzan!’ He roared into the microphone, and the PA system whined in protest. ‘Tarzan will descend via the wire, fae the top o’ Woolies – or whoot wiz Woolies – an’ land jeest here, where he will press the switch that will set off a fireworks display!’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Scott said in Daley’s ear. ‘I hope they health an’ safety boys have checked a’ this oot. The last thing we need is Tarzan splattered a’ over the boss’s good shoes.’

  ‘Are yous ready?’ Dan encouraged his audience. ‘Ten! Nine! Eight!’ The crowd joined in the countdown as a spotlight whirled to the top of the building across the street. ‘Seven! Six! Five! Four!’ Only then did Daley spot the thin wire, which angled down from the top of the building to the pavement below.

  ‘Three! Two! Wan!’ All eyes were on the roof. ‘Ur ye up there, Tarzan?’ Dan shouted.

  Daley could see movement; Tarzan being strapped belatedly into his harness, he reasoned.

  ‘We’ll dae the countdoon again. Tarzan’s obviously been busy wi’ Jane,’ Dan quipped, to groans from the audience. ‘Ten! Nine! Eight!’

  Daley watched as a figure appeared at the edge of the roof. He squinted, as the crowd bayed for Tarzan to descend the wire. ‘Seven! Six! Five!’ Daley could make out a second person on the top of the building, though less obviously than the first as they were both dressed in black.

  ‘Four! Three! Two! Wan! Tarzan, come on doon!’ called Dan.

  After a short pause, the crowd began to clap, as with a shove from the figure behind, Tarzan began a slow descent. Something was wrong. As the bright spotlight picked out the detail, it was clear that the individual on the wire was limp, and not wearing a costume loincloth, but jeans and a hooded top that was pulled up over his face.

  Scott looked at Daley with a bemused expression. It was then, from the section of the crowd underneath the wire, that screams began to issue. Daley tugged at Scott’s sleeve, pulling him past the group of women, who were silent now, staring up at the descending figure. A girl ran towards Daley, screaming, holding her hands out; under the orange glow of the acetylene light her face appeared to be stained with black spots.

  ‘Help me,’ she shouted. The crowd started to surge away from where the wire terminated. Screams and shouts rent the cold evening air.

  Panic erupted as Daley and Scott fought their way towards the spot where the wire was anchored. Daley could see uniformed officers trying to calm the stampeding crowd, to little effect.

  Amidst the tumult, the detectives reached the hooded man, now slumped on the pavement, illuminated by a pool of light. Scott bent down and gently removed the hood, then immediately recoiled.

  ‘Jim, fucking hell. Fucking hell.’

  Daley looked down at the dead face of Tommy MacDougall, a neat slash in his throat. Livid black blood oozed from the wound, creating a dark puddle beneath his body.

  *

  As his phone rang in his pocket, Daley wondered why it sounded so loud. When he answered it, he realised why: the throng of onlookers on Kinloch’s Main Street had fallen silent. He looked at the faces in the crowd; all looked sad and shocked, and a number of people were crying. He looked up and was almost blinded by a fierce light; the corpse was now bathed in a white glow. He gestured to Scott to get whoever was operating the spotlight to switch it off. The detective sergeant hurried off, as more uniformed officers appeared and struggled to usher the townsfolk back home, while others rushed towards the building where Tommy MacDougall had been killed.

  Daley could hear the stress in his own voice as he answered the call.

  ‘Constable Ingram of the Protection Unit, sir.’

  ‘Can I get back to you? We have a bit of an ongoing situation here,’ Daley replied, as he spotted Superintendent Donald, flanked by two uniformed officers, trying to force his way through the crowds in pursuit of MacDougall’s killer.

  ‘Not really, sir. It’s urgent. The gaffer asked me to call you personally.’

  ‘OK, but be quick,’ Daley said.

  ‘Our subject has been contacted by a third party, sir. He says he’s holding the subject’s daughter captive.’

  Daley swore. ‘Fuck. When did this happen?’

  ‘About five minutes ago, sir.’

  If they had questioned whether Machie knew MacDougall’s whereabouts, there could be no doubt now.

  As Sergeant Shaw and a constable covered the body of Tommy MacDougall with a tarpaulin from one of the floats, Daley hurried across the road and tapped Donald on the shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ snapped Donald. His expression softened, slightly, when he realised he was addressing his DCI.

  ‘We need to get to the office right now, sir.’

  ‘But we’ve got a murderer to catch, fir fuck’s sake.’ Again, Donald sounded like the man Daley had first known more than twenty years before. A mixture of alcohol and murder had rubbed the polished edges from his new accent.

  ‘Frank MacDougall’s daughter has been abducted, sir.’

  The look on Donald’s face was one of mounting despair.

  26

  It was pitch-black outside. She looked around the dank and dreary room. A small table lamp illuminated the tiny kitchen where she sat; damp streaked the whitewashed brick walls of the room above an old cooking range, which was dirty and rusting. A cracked Belfast sink was piled high with unwashed plates and pots. She watched a spider, its web spread across one corner of the ceiling, as it progressed steadily along a silken thread to where a wretched fly struggled for its life.

  ‘No’ whit yer used tae, I daresay.’

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘but it’s good to see how the other half live.’

  ‘Ye really are up yer ain arse, aren’t ye?’ he said. ‘Who would’ve thought Frankie-boy could have produced a stuck-up wee lassie like yourself?’ He laughed at the thought.

  ‘Who would’ve thought someone like you would be reading Wittgenstein?’ She nodded at the well-thumbed paperback on the table.

  ‘Everything that can be said, can be said clearly,’ he answered, his expression unreadable.

  ‘How clever,’ she said. ‘You must be so proud of yourself.’

  He stood up, looming over her, and she noticed an old scar on his neck, red and puckered with marks left by poorly executed stitching.

  ‘See, where me and yer faither came fae, reading a book wiz only marginally better than bein’ a poofter, know what I mean?’

  ‘My father prefers Jeremy Kyle and football. He’s not much of a reader. I very much doubt if he knows what mathematical philosophy is, never mind Wittgenstein.’

  ‘Oh, ye’ve a lot tae learn, darlin’. Never be surprised by anything your faither can dae.’ He ran his hand over the dark stubble on his head. ‘That wiz wan o’ ma big mistakes.’

  ‘Only one? Are you sure?’ She smiled. She supposed she had never thought of her father in those terms; as someone cold, calculating and callous, like the man who stood before her now.

  He leaned in close. ‘I’ve made some. Who’s no’? Ye never know, ye might have made wan yersel.’

  ‘I read a paper recently,’ she declared.

  ‘Oh aye. Whit wan – The Sun or the Racing Post?’

  ‘The paper was part of my OU Sociology course, actually.’

  He laughed mockingly.

  ‘People like you could’ve done it all, been what they wanted to be: business, politics, anything. You would’ve thrived and been successful.’

  ‘People like me?’

  ‘Yes, sociopaths.’

  ‘Aye, did ye not know I used tae own wan o’ the most successful construction companies in Scotland, darlin’?’ he replied, removing a cigarette from a packet and lighting it with a Zippo.r />
  ‘So why didn’t you go straight? You could’ve been rich now – rich and free – never having to look behind your back.’

  ‘Aye, very good.’ He exhaled a trail of smoke. ‘Have ye any idea how fuckin’ borin’ that wid’ve been – not tae mention poorly rewarded? Can ye see me sitting behind a desk wi’ a computer an’ some wee whore secretary on ma lap?’

  ‘Actually, I can. Right up your street, I would imagine,’ she said smiling.

  ‘Ye see wrang, then,’ he said.

  ‘No one can think a thought for me, in the same way no one can don my hat for me,’ she answered.

  ‘Aye, smart, right enough. Well done, darlin’. Let’s hope ye manage tae keep that clever wee head intact,’ he said, then left the room.

  As she watched him go, her smile faded.

  Frank MacDougall paced around the family room at Kinloch Police Office. His tears had dried, leaving his eyes red and puffy. He had raged, screamed and even started punching a wall, which had left raw gashes on the knuckles of his right hand.

  Donald, acting on instructions from on high, had moved quickly to have MacDougall and his wife rushed in an armed convoy to the police office, where they were to remain for the time being.

  ‘Two o’ ma weans deid and another missing,’ he moaned, rubbing his face with both hands. ‘I don’t give a fuck whit anyone says, Scooty, I’m no’ moving oot o’ this toon until ma wee lassie’s found, even if I’ve tae go an’ get her masel’.’

  ‘Listen, Frankie,’ said Scott, who had chosen to stay with MacDougall, much to Donald’s irritation. ‘Whit good can ye dae? Think aboot it, man. Think o’ yer wife, fir fuck’s sake . . . An’ stop calling me Scooty.’ Scott, a father himself, found it impossible even to contemplate what his childhood neighbour of so many years ago was going through.

  ‘A’ these years on the opposite side o’ the fence fae each other, an’ noo here we are, in this fuckin’ awfy place, stalked by that bastard,’ said MacDougall.