The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Aye, it’s been a long time, Frankie. A long time since you used tae kick ma arse up an’ doon that playground tae,’ Scott said with a grin.

  ‘Seems like a different world, eh?’ MacDougall stopped his pacing and looked at a painting of a seascape that hung on the wall. Waves crashing on an empty beach.

  ‘A bonnie painting,’ Scott said, struggling for something to say.

  ‘Looks like the way ma life’s goin’ tae be. Empty, wi’ nae cunt left in it.’

  ‘I know it’s no’ easy, Frankie. Naebody could’ve imagined anything like this would ever happen. It’s just unbelievable,’ said Scott, rubbing the old gunshot wound on his shoulder.

  ‘Well, it has. I’m telling you, Scooty, I’ve never been frightened o’ that bastard – no’ even when he wiz alive the first time.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, buddy. We’ll dae everything tae get Sarah back – the cavalry’s on its way right noo. Ye know fine oor Jim can sort this oot. Daley’s the boy.’

  ‘I know whit he’s efter, here,’ said MacDougall.

  ‘Who’s efter?’

  ‘JayMac,’ answered MacDougall. ‘He’s goin’ tae flush me oot using Sarah. He’s no’ daft. He knows it’s the only way he’ll get tae me.’

  Scott looked away; he knew what was coming. There was no way his superiors would allow MacDougall to be used as bait. They would negotiate with Machie if they could, or even threaten him, but the spectacle of two of Scotland’s most feared gangsters – one returned from the dead, the other from obscurity – battling it out on some lonely hillside in Kintyre would not be countenanced.

  ‘Ye’ll need tae help me, Scooty-boy.’

  There it was. Scott turned to MacDougall.

  ‘How’d ye mean, Frankie?’

  ‘Ye know as well as I dae that that prick Donald and whitever other big shot they bring doon here will never let me get near Machie. I need ye tae help me. Ye know fine ye’d be deid if it wisnae fir me.’ He stared at Scott, unblinking.

  ‘It’s no’ as easy as that, Frank. Ye know whit yer asking?’

  ‘Aye, I dae,’ MacDougall replied. ‘I’m asking ye tae get yer ain back for him almost blowin’ yer heid aff. Aye, dinnae worry, I’ve seen ye rubbing at that shoulder where he shot ye.’

  ‘So, no’ content wi’ nearly killing me, the bastard’s goin’ tae be responsible for losin’ me ma job an’ goin’ tae the slammer. No way, Francis, it’s no’ happenin’.’

  ‘So ye’ll let ma wee lassie die? Look at ma poor wife in there in yer medical room, dozed up tae the eyeballs with sedatives, so she’ll no burst her ain heid wi’ grief when she wakes up. I know ye, Brian. Yer the same as me; we’re fae the same street. Ye can pit the boy in the polis, but ye can never take him oot the scheme an’ away fae his ain people, man. Say whit ye like – yer wan o’ us.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ ye – it’s no’ happenin’,’ Scott replied, looking flustered.

  *

  Jim Daley was in his glass box; there was going to be little sleep for the police officers in Kinloch tonight. The town had been cleared, everyone ordered inside, and uniformed police were searching for Tommy MacDougall’s killer, who seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  He had jotted down on a piece of paper the names of the main players in this claustrophobic drama: MacDougall and his two dead sons, his missing daughter and his wretched wife; James Machie – JayMac; and then his own name, along with that of his DS, Brian Scott. But there was something missing.

  He had long since banished the conundrum of Machie’s resurrection from his thoughts. What he had to do now was to try and treat this case in the same way he would any other; by being thorough and methodical and waiting for that moment of inspiration that would click everything into place.

  Something was nagging at the back of his mind; something he’d missed, or simply not thought of at all. He wrote Duncan Fearney’s name next to that of Paul Bentham, the latter in brackets – his own method of indicating the deceased in such a document. He recalled the image of Bentham’s aggressive finger-pointing at Fearney as the CID car had bumped its way down the farm track. He remembered being shocked at the identity of the man lying dead in Fearney’s barn; he would have bet any money on its being that of the farmer but instead it had been the thick-set figure of Bentham, with half of his brains splattered across the whitewashed wall of Fearney’s byre.

  Was Bentham responsible for trying to blow his car to smithereens, or was it Machie? Certainly, all of the evidence pointed to Bentham placing the bomb; forensic teams had identified the detonators and explosives used as being identical to those found in Bentham’s cottage. However, if he was acting on Machie’s orders, as some kind of accomplice, why had he been killed? It didn’t make sense. And how did Duncan Fearney fit into the puzzle? Here was a man who defied definition: a mild-mannered farmer who apparently masterminded a considerable tobacco smuggling operation in Kintyre. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. What, if anything, connected these people?

  A knock rattled the door of his glass box as, without invitation, a slightly dishevelled John Donald strode in. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, his eyes were bleary, and he was in need of a shave.

  ‘Sir,’ said Daley.

  ‘Ah, Jim,’ said Donald, giving an empty smile. ‘Good to see you’re here trying to keep on top of things.’

  ‘You’ll recall, sir, that in the last couple of days we’ve had two murders here, plus a possible abduction, and my wife and I were nearly been blown to pieces.’

  ‘Quite, DCI Daley, quite,’ said Donald, taking a seat. ‘I’m afraid I have something more to relate to you. I did mention it during the pageant from hell, if you remember . . . Well, we might as well get this out of the way now. Who knows what horrors tomorrow will bring.’ He placed a grey file on the desk.

  ‘I sincerely hope this is not some bean-counting exercise, sir,’ said Daley, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘No, it isn’t, Jim, but I think you’ll enjoy it even less, I’m afraid to say.’ He pushed the file across the desk towards Daley.

  Daley held his gaze for a moment then opened it.

  ‘I was contacted by the Serious Fraud Office a few weeks ago, just before this sorry mess began.’ Donald looked strangely uncomfortable, as though being in the guest chair did not suit – or perhaps something else was bothering him. ‘Your brother-in-law, Mark Henderson, is under investigation for his business dealings with some very unsavoury individuals indeed. Knowing of his family connection to you, they flagged it up to me as your commanding officer. Of course I told them they need have no cause for concern, and that your relationship with him was, at best, strained. Their reply was this.’

  Daley was looking at a set of photographs, typical surveillance images, shot in rapid succession within a short time frame.

  ‘Henderson has been under scrutiny for some time. They hope to use him to snare a big fish; I know I needn’t elaborate on the details.’

  Daley had a strange feeling in his chest; a flutter that he knew was not medical in origin. A man and a woman were standing in the forecourt of a car dealership. As the images progressed, the two laughed and giggled together, then embraced and kissed, the man’s hand buried in the lustrous hair of his female companion. Another figure arrived in the next shot, handed something to the man, and in the following image was pictured shaking his hand.

  Daley flipped to the next photo. The man was holding a set of keys in front of the woman’s face; both were sporting broad grins.

  In the penultimate image, the woman was entering the Mini Countryman; in the final shot only her arm was visible, embracing the back of the man’s head as he leaned into the open window of the car to kiss her again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ Donald said, with what sounded like genuine sympathy. ‘I couldn’t keep this from you, not in the circumstances.’

  In silence, Daley looked from his boss back down to the images, and flicked through them again slo
wly. He studied the picture of the first kiss, his heart sinking further into his stomach. The man was Mark Henderson, Daley’s hated brother-in-law. The woman was Liz.

  Donald was getting up to leave when the police radio crackled into life.

  ‘Two one three to all stations – code forty-two. Repeat – code forty-two.’ The delivery was rapid and strained. ‘Police officers under attack. Shots fired.’

  Both Daley and Donald were on their feet as communications control, located in the Kinloch office, replied: ‘Two one three, your position please.’

  ‘On Low Mill Road—’ The message was interrupted by what could only be the report of a weapon.

  Daley grabbed the radio and he and Donald raced down the corridor and into the control room. The constable at the communications desk nodded at his superiors as they rushed in. The control room was purposefully dark; an ethereal blue glow was emitted from lights on the ceiling, which aided personnel as they monitored CCTV screens, computers and radio communications.

  ‘Two one three, I repeat, your position please.’ The constable sounded tense, his face a mask of concentration. After an agonising pause, the radio monitors crackled back into life, sounding louder than usual in the communications room.

  ‘Position is Low Mill Road, at the shipyard. Request immediate assistance, repeat, immediate assistance. Assailant is armed, and—’ Just as the officer was about to complete this sentence, another shot sounded.

  Daley turned to Donald. ‘We’ve got two armed men from the unit guarding the office, and two at the County. I need one from each unit with me. Please authorise it, sir.’ Donald nodded his compliance. ‘And get the bar officer to break out the arsenal, sir. I want any personnel on duty with valid firearm authority armed now.’ Donald nodded again and hurried off. Daley then requested a radio mic and an open channel. ‘This is DCI Daley to all sub-divisional units. Attend Low Mill Road at the old shipyard. Officers under fire. I repeat, officers under fire. Use extreme caution. Armed units are on their way.’

  He issued some more instructions to the communications officer, then, as he was leaving the comms suite, almost collided with DS Scott.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on, Jim? Is it Machie?’

  ‘I don’t know, Brian. I thought you were back at the hotel. Quick, get yourself a vest and a sidearm. Come on.’

  For a few moments, Brian Scott stood still in the doorway to the comms suite, stroking his chin and looking grim. He sighed, and then with a shake of his head followed his boss to the armoury.

  27

  The shivering constable was crouched behind a rusted metal tank, left behind in the grounds of the disused shipyard. He was trying not to breathe heavily, lest a cloud of his frozen breath reveal his hiding place. He and his colleague had been sent in search of the murderer of Tommy MacDougall. A few locals had spotted a man running from the scene and into an as yet unidentified pick-up. Even though it had been considered likely that the perpetrator of this most public crime would attempt to make his escape by road or sea, in an effort to get as far away from Kinloch as possible, when the two young constables came across a vehicle matching the description of the pick-up in the car park of a disused shipyard, they had decided to investigate. When a shot rang out in the darkness, both police officers had darted for cover, regretting the fact they had not asked for back-up, as they had been ordered to do in the event of any kind of discovery.

  He had heard a yelp from his partner when the second shot echoed around the old sheds which had once housed Kinloch Shipbuilders. Then, for the last few minutes, there had been silence.

  At his back, he could hear the dark waters of the loch lapping at an old slipway. He continued to take short breaths, waiting for help to arrive. At least, he reasoned, he had managed to send his message for help.

  A sudden noise to his left almost made him yelp in fear. He turned towards its source, only to see a large black rat scurrying down the slipway and along the shore beyond. He had expected to find a man with a gun standing over him, ready to take his life. As he tried to recall the lessons taught him at the police college about how to behave in such situations he found he was struggling to stave off tears.

  Where the fuck are you? he thought. Come on, come on. Please!

  Then he heard something else, something faint. He held his breath and listened carefully; a groaning noise was coming from somewhere to his right. It must be his colleague, whom he assumed had been hit and was now writhing in pain.

  Another noise, clear and quite unmistakable, carried across the cold night air. Someone was walking towards him.

  As police officers, both in and out of uniform, jumped into cars and vans, DS Brian Scott tarried, watching Jim Daley drive away with a uniformed constable and a member of the Firearms Unit. He had drawn a weapon on Donald’s authority, since he lacked the relevant paperwork, which, he reflected, was probably in the chest of drawers in the spare room of his house in Glasgow.

  The backyard of Kinloch’s police office was bathed in the orange glow of the powerful outdoor lights; Scott could see the tracks of cars and vans imprinted on the frost that covered the black tarmac.

  ‘Fuck, I need tae go an’ check somethin’, Norrie,’ he said to the bar officer as he walked back down the corridor. ‘By the way,’ he shouted, stopping and turning for a moment, ‘is it OK tae take yer motor? Those bastards have fucked off an’ left me stranded.’

  ‘Here,’ his colleague shouted as he fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for his car keys, then threw them to Scott. ‘An’ don’t bring it back covered in shite,’ he said, as Scott gave him a thumbs-up and continued down the passageway.

  He opened the door to the CID office and walked into Daley’s glass box where he cast about on his boss’s desk for a pen. He jotted down a few words on a discarded envelope, and then walked over to a filing cabinet where he knelt down and opened the bottom drawer. There was nothing in it apart from a bottle of whisky. He placed the note under the bottle and carefully closed the drawer.

  The young constable wanted to scream. He berated himself for ever joining the police as he took shallow breaths. His whole body was now trembling with fear and cold. He tensed again as he heard the scraping of a heavy sole on gravel near the slipway, just on the other side of the metal container against which his whole body was pressed, like a climber halfway up a treacherous rock face. Without warning, he felt a strange warmth descend down his leg, then realised, to his horror, that he was pissing himself. Urine exited his left trouser leg and spilled over his ankle and shoe, sending a small cloud of steam into the freezing darkness.

  The groaning he had heard a few moments ago began again, low and intermittent, as his colleague struggled with pain and consciousness.

  As he heard the footsteps of his tormentor moving away from his hiding place and towards the stricken man, he felt a surge of horror. He took a deep breath, then crept slowly around the side of the container, a squelching noise issuing from his left shoe. He fumbled in his belt for the pepper spray that he carried as a matter of course, removed the canister slowly from the webbing, and cringed when the Velcro fastening ripped noisily as he slid the little vessel into his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was some kind of defence, and it might give him a chance against the man with the gun.

  He edged his head round the side of the metal box, his fingertips sticking to the icy metal. He could see a man clad entirely in black, standing with his back to him, a handgun held at his side.

  The young constable took a deep, anguished breath.

  Scott pushed open the door to the family room to find Frank MacDougall lying on the sofa, his hands cupped behind his head. He looked exhausted, but there was something – a sharpness to his features perhaps – that induced fear in the watcher. Frank MacDougall had been dragged down by tragedy, but he was most certainly not out.

  ‘Scooty, ma boy, whit took you so long?’ he asked, remaining in his recumbent position.

  ‘This,’ replied the policeman, opening hi
s jacket to reveal the shoulder holster that held his sidearm.

  ‘Did ye make it yersel?’

  ‘I wiz trying tae work oot how much time I’d spend inside,’ Scott answered, his expression dark. ‘Here.’ He threw the car keys to MacDougall. ‘The black Astra in the yard. Ye’ll need tae get past the bar office, mind.’

  ‘I widnae worry, Brian,’ MacDougall answered coolly. ‘If every copper that ever helped me had been sent doon, there wid be nae room in the pokie fir honest criminals. I’ve managed tae break intae plenty places o’er the years, so I dare say I can break oot o’ here.’

  ‘Aye, that’s as may be,’ Scott said, removing the pistol from its holster. ‘Come on, ye know whit has tae happen noo.’

  MacDougall looked up at the policeman, still not moving. ‘It’s just as well none o’ us know what’s in the future, Brian,’ he said, his face momentarily sad, then, with an agility that defied his years, he stood up in one fluid motion and took the pistol from Scott’s shaking hand.

  ‘Yer no’ the only man here wi’ weans,’ Scott said quietly, then turned his back on the gangster.

  ‘Right enough, Scooty.’ MacDougall smiled. ‘But yer the only wan wi’ a heart.’ He raised the gun and slammed the handle into Scott’s skull.

  There was no sound from his colleague, or his tormentor. In the moonlight, he could make out the line of a path in the low grass bank that bordered the shore. He was a good sprinter; he’d won prizes for it at school, and could outpace any of his teammates in the local football team he turned out for. He would be able to cover the short distance across the gravel yard and onto the path in no time, his flight almost masked by the darkness.

  He took a deep, silent breath and eased up from his crouched position, wincing in fear as loose gravel cracked under his shoes. But no noise came to him on the still night air. Above him, stars twinkled in the deep, dark blue of the night sky.