He started to run.
MacDougall moved quietly through the deserted corridors of Kinloch Police Office. He could hear the distant crackle and muffled tones of a police radio, so he turned away from the noise and slipped through a door into the male changing room. He passed his hand up the inside of the wall and located the light switch.
He was faced with an array of grey lockers. The room had the faint smell of dirty socks and damp clothing, sweat and disinfectant. All apart from two of the lockers were closed. He opened the first; it contained a large fluorescent jacket, a pair of black, well-polished boots, a torch with a rubberised casing, an unopened packet of cigarettes and an old newspaper. He picked up the cigarettes and walked to the next open locker. In it hung a complete uniform: trousers, a black shirt, an anti-stab vest and a cap. MacDougall pulled the uniform trousers from the hanger and examined them. They would be slightly big, but they would do; better too big than too small.
The first four strides of his escape bid went well; his fifth didn’t. Something caught under his right foot and he stumbled to the ground, the gravel chips stinging his hands as he tried to break his fall.
He lay face down, winded and struggling for breath on the cold ground. From nowhere, a powerful hand grabbed his stab-proof vest and dragged him onto his back. In the moonlight he could see the dark figure of a man, his face hidden by a balaclava.
‘Get up. Yer coming wi’ me.’ The young cop was hauled to his feet, then he felt the touch of cold steel on his cheek as the barrel of a handgun was thrust into his face.
‘Please, please don’t kill me,’ the cop whimpered.
Just as he was losing all hope, he saw flashes to his right and realised that, at last, the cavalry was on its way.
28
Daley was in the third car in the convoy from Kinloch Police Office. He squinted into the darkness as his and the other vehicles sped through the open gate and into the car park of the disused shipyard.
In front, the main Firearms Unit car swung across the road. Daley skidded his car to a stop and rolled out of the vehicle into a crouched position. His passengers followed suit, and all three men crouched behind the Firearms Unit car, as one of the unit’s officers gestured to them to stay down.
A van and two other cars raced into the yard behind them, stopping at the barricade of police vehicles. Sirens were silenced, though the night was illuminated by red and blue flashing lights.
Daley crept into the driver’s seat of the car and unhooked the radio from the dashboard. ‘DCI Daley to the Lima unit at Kinloch shipyard. Your position, please.’ The radio hissed without carrying a reply. He was about to ask the same question again, when he heard a shot.
MacDougall decided against wearing the fluorescent jacket, opting instead for a black uniform fleece over a stab-proof vest. The garment was a lot heavier than he had expected it to be, but he guessed that to stop a blade it would have to be robust. Now dressed in full police uniform, replete with cap, he made his way to the door of the changing room, switching off the lights before quietly opening the door. The corridor ahead was empty; on the wall in front of him was an illuminated sign that read Fire Exit. On the wall next to it was something else, printed on official notepaper and signed by the Chief Constable: This emergency exit is to remain closed at all times, unless in the case of a fire or similar occurrence. Opening this emergency exit will automatically activate the office alarm system.
MacDougall smiled to himself.
Daley was holding the loudspeaker attached to the Firearms Unit vehicle. ‘We are armed police. Put down your weapon, put your hands on your head and walk towards the police vehicles until I tell you to stop.’ He sounded considerably more authoritative than he felt.
There was no reply.
‘Keep trying the Lima unit on the radio,’ he told the uniformed cop standing next to him. ‘And where’s DS Scott?’ He looked behind him at the other police officers present. They shook their heads. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Just then, he heard a shout coming from what had been the main building of the shipyard, which loomed in the darkness ahead.
‘Police officer, don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ The young policeman was standing stock-still now, his hands on his head. ‘There’s a gun trained at my head,’ he shouted, realising that he had their attention now. ‘I have a message for DCI Daley. Please listen carefully. He’s going to kill me if I get this wrong.’
Daley held the mouthpiece to his chest, breathing heavily. Haunting images of too many dead faces once again flashed before him.
‘Go ahead.’ His voice sounded loud in the still air. ‘What does he want?’
The young policeman half turned his head, listening to someone behind him. ‘He wants to swap,’ he answered, his voice wavering with fear.
Daley looked at his colleagues. ‘OK,’ he replied. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘He wants you, sir.’ The policeman’s voice was thin and pitched higher now. ‘He’ll give you five minutes before he kills Dawson . . . then another five before he kills me.’
Daley took a deep breath. Red and blue lights shimmered in clouds of freezing breath in the cold night air. He had hoped that only one of the officers had been involved. ‘He’ll have to give me a couple of minutes.’
‘He’s saying five minutes until he kills Dawson, sir, no bargains.’
‘Fuck it,’ said Daley, turning around. ‘Get me Donald, right now.’
Superintendent Donald stood in the dark room. The fire alarm was sounding, and a red light flashed on the ceiling of the office. He smiled as he saw the dark Astra pull out of the office car park and down Kinloch’s Main Street. As the rear lights of the car disappeared from view, the door to his office burst open and the bar officer rushed in.
‘Sir, we’ve just found DS Scott unconscious in the family room, and MacDougall’s gone.’
‘What?’ Donald exclaimed. ‘How? Where’s Scott now?’
‘In the medical room, sir. The force doctor’s on his way. Sir, also, I have DCI Daley on. There’s a hostage situation.’
‘A what?’ Donald blinked, as though he was finding this information much harder to assimilate than the news about MacDougall’s flight.
‘Here, sir,’ said the bar officer, handing the superintendent a phone.
‘Go ahead,’ Donald said into the receiver.
‘The two members of Lima unit have been taken hostage, sir, and he’s threatening to shoot them.’ The strain in Daley’s voice was apparent, but he was concise and focused. ‘It’s a straight swap – me for them. Get yourself over here and take operational charge.’ The last few words were a command, then the line went dead.
‘Jim!’ Donald shouted. ‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed, and smashed the handset onto the desk. ‘Get me a car!’
‘Should we inform headquarters about MacDougall, sir?’
Donald hesitated. ‘Yes, yes, do that. Broadcast MacDougall’s disappearance too. Go on then,’ he shouted, as the bar officer waited to see if he would receive any further instructions.
Donald pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, dialled a number and held it to his ear. ‘What the fuck is going on? This is not what we talked about.’ He listened for a moment, then rushed from the office.
Brian Scott lay on the trolley bed in the police office’s medical room. His thoughts were muddled by the blow he had taken to the head, though the consequences of his actions had become apparent as soon as he had regained consciousness. He could hear the sounds of a commotion in the hall, which he knew was more than likely something to do with MacDougall. His personal radio was sitting on the small table beside his bed. As he leaned over to pick it up, pain surged through his head, his vision shot through with sparks and flashes.
After a second attempt, Scott fumbled the device into his shaking hands and switched it on. Mercifully, as the device lit up, the noise of the office alarm ceased, and he was able to hear the divisional radio traffic. It took him a few moments to work out what was happening.
; Donald’s voice was booming from the radio: ‘Donald to DCI Daley, come in, over.’ He sounded brusque, a tone Scott recognised immediately, having so often been on the receiving end of it. ‘Donald to all units at Kinloch shipyard, on no account is DCI Daley to effect the hostage exchange. I repeat, on no account must this go ahead.’
Silence.
Scott held his breath and rubbed his throbbing right eye as he waited for his friend to answer.
When the reply came, it wasn’t from Jim Daley. ‘DC Waters to Mr Donald – too late, sir. The swap of hostages is taking place now.’
Scott didn’t wait to hear Donald’s response as he struggled from the bed. He stood, then felt faint and had to lean against the wall for a few moments to regain his balance.
‘Fuck’s sake, Jim, what’re ye doin’, man?’ he muttered as he made his way from the medical room.
29
Daley walked slowly towards the two young police officers, one of whom was moaning weakly and being supported by the other.
‘Get your hands above your head,’ a disembodied voice commanded, echoing in the former shipyard outbuildings.
Daley did as he was told. He was almost level with his colleagues, staring past them into the shadows, trying to get a glimpse of the gunman.
‘Just Daley, towards me,’ said the voice. ‘You other two, stay where you are.’
Daley didn’t move. ‘I won’t take another step unless you allow my officers here to get to safety,’ he said.
‘You’re in no position to bargain,’ came the terse reply from the darkness.
‘On the contrary,’ answered Daley. ‘If any harm comes to any of the three of us, my officers are under orders from me to shoot.’ There was steel in the chief inspector’s voice.
After a pause, the gunman ordered the uniformed officers to continue to safety. Daley noted the relief on the face of his young colleague as he struggled to drag his charge behind the barrier of police cars.
‘Keep coming, Daley,’ the voice echoed, as the detective marched slowly into the darkness.
Daley could barely see anything; he had entered a cavernous three-sided shed, the roof of which blocked the winter moonlight that illuminated the scene outside.
‘Stop right there,’ a voice, close by, ordered.
Daley couldn’t be sure, but the harsh tones were definitely familiar. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘You must realise this situation is hopeless. Give up and—’ He wasn’t given time to finish.
‘Shut up and listen.’ The voice was closer now. ‘I want to tell you something.’
Donald arrived at the shipyard in a squeal of brakes, swerving his car into place behind those already at the scene. Like his DCI a short time earlier, he rolled out of the car and ducked towards the firearms vehicle ahead. A spotlight had been set up, illuminating the narrow pathway that led into the corrugated iron shed.
‘Just what the fuck is going on?’ Donald demanded.
‘DCI Daley has just entered the building, sir,’ replied one of the officers on the scene.
‘Fucking brilliant. Just what we need, ridiculous heroics, the stupid c—’ He stopped, aware that a DC was gaping at him, unused to hearing senior officers describe other senior officers in such a way. ‘Give me a sitrep now.’
Daley had often wondered why silence was described as deafening; now he knew. It could have been one minute since his captor had last spoken, or it could have been five; it was hard to be sure under the circumstances. He forced himself to concentrate, to focus on the dynamics of the situation and how best to change them in his favour. He decided to say nothing, to ask no questions. He remembered a lecture on hostage incidents at Tulliallan, the force’s training centre; the best thing to do was to hold back, encourage and cajole. It was all he could do to try and save his own life. Just as he was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of his decision to remain silent, the man spoke again.
‘You’re brave, Mr Daley, I’ll gie ye that.’ Whoever was speaking was on the move, the scuff of his footsteps echoing around the large empty space.
‘If you’re referring to me being willing to swap with those for whom I’m directly responsible, it’s more to do with duty than bravery,’ he replied, almost certain that he could make out movement to his left in the gloom.
‘Duty?’ the man questioned. ‘Duty comes in many forms, Mr Daley.’
‘Meaning?’ Daley batted the question back.
‘Meaning, duty isn’t merely the preserve of police officers,’ the man said, moving into view.
‘I daresay,’ replied Daley, less edgy now that he could see his abductor. ‘Though if you think shooting police officers and taking them hostage is dutiful, I would think again.’
‘A means to an end, nothing more,’ the man replied, now only feet away from the detective.
Daley still couldn’t place the man’s voice, which was muffled behind a black balaclava. But he did know one thing: this was not James Machie.
Donald gave hushed instructions to the two officers from the Firearms Unit. Once he was finished, both armed men darted out from behind the barrier of police cars towards the rusted container that had provided a hiding place for one of their number only a short time ago.
Donald moved next to speak to the young cop who had just regained his freedom and was now shivering in the back of the police van. His injured colleague had been immediately removed from the scene for urgent medical attention.
‘You’re sure there’s access along the shore to the rear of that building?’ Donald asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, swallowing heavily. ‘We’ve had some bother with local kids since the business closed, so I check that side of the site regularly.’ He was doing his best to keep it together in the face of his superior.
‘Good,’ said Donald, staring into the darkness across the black water of the loch that hissed along the pebbled shore.
Many years of the best criminal education had taught Frank MacDougall to be resourceful. He knew he would have to ditch the Astra, so he drove to the edge of the town and parked in an anonymous side street lined with cars. Many of the vehicles were relatively new, so he discounted them; modern locks and alarm systems were the preserve of the new breed of thieves, who used the latest techniques to breach the enhanced security systems. In his youth, Frank MacDougall had been one such opportunist – an expert with a bent coat hanger, hammer or screwdriver – able to remove a car radio in seconds, then sell it on for a few quid to buy dope or a few pints.
He parked the car next to a decrepit model of a more venerable vintage, then exited his vehicle and flipped open the boot. The low light in the trunk revealed a tartan travelling rug and a number of empty supermarket shopping bags. He fiddled with the carpeting, which lifted easily away to reveal a recess into which was strapped a small toolbox.
MacDougall smiled as he forced the screwdriver into the door lock on the driver’s side, then gave it a sharp tap with a small hammer. Instantly, the locking keys sprang up, enabling him to tug the door open. He sat in the car, bent forward, cradling his face against the wheel, while he worked busily underneath the steering column. After a few seconds, the car gave a throaty rattle. He felt a sudden surge of nostalgia as he quietly closed the door, then pulled out into the street. Here’s to the good old days, he thought. It would be a few hours before his crime was discovered, by which time he would be ready to face the past in a different way.
Daley’s captor grabbed his sleeve and pulled him across the floor to where a steel chest and an upturned cable drum sat side by side, palely illuminated by a beam of moonlight slanting through the gloom from a window high on the side of the building.
‘Sit down,’ commanded the man, gesturing with the gun.
Daley did as he was bid, taking a seat on the cable drum, which felt cold and damp through his trousers.
The man was silent for a moment, then began to speak, this time in whispered tones. ‘It’s amazing what coincidences life throws up,’ he sighed
, sitting down heavily on the metal chest opposite Daley.
‘In what way?’ asked Daley, watching his breath rise through the blue moonlight.
The man didn’t respond. With one hand, he grabbed the balaclava under his chin and pulled it roughly over his head.
Even in the poor light, the face of Duncan Fearney was unmistakable.
Donald tapped his fingers on his knee as he mulled over his many problems. He had tired of the double life he was leading, which had at first so appealed to both his ambition and greed. Now here he was, freezing his bollocks off in a disused shipyard, in the middle of the night, in a town he hated, while his insanely brave DCI performed all kinds of heroics that could well bring the world crashing down around them both.
He felt his phone vibrate, so he removed it from his pocket and stared at the bright screen. I need more time. The writing jumped out at him in the darkness of the police car. He threw the phone onto the passenger seat – he couldn’t deal with that right now – then brought the police radio to his mouth.
‘Donald to unit personnel, report, over.’
The radio hissed into life. ‘At the rear of the building now, sir. We’re trying to gain access to a window on the wall, stand by.’
Donald didn’t bother to reply. He thrust his feet out in front of him and leaned back in the seat, eyes closed, head shaking slowly from side to side.
30
‘Duncan,’ Daley said, ‘what are you doing?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that question for a long time, Mr Daley,’ Fearney replied, his voice heavy with regret.
‘A man like you, what could possibly have prompted all of this?’
‘I’ve not lived in Kinloch all my life, you know,’ said Fearney, seemingly not listening to Daley. ‘Married a local lassie, a farmer’s daughter. I grew up on a farm as well, up country, just south of Oban.’
‘I suppose affairs of the heart will take you anywhere,’ said Daley, trying to keep his tone light.
‘Aye,’ Fearney replied after a pause. ‘Some things just eat away at you, Mr Daley – at your soul, I mean.’
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 19
