After a few moments, he encouraged the engine into life, released the fore and aft ropes, and eased the craft out into the bay. MacDougall knew this boat was capable of thirty-five knots, at least; he eased out the throttle, all the time looking at the instrument panel. He roughly calculated that it would take him just under an hour to reach the coordinates that had been texted to him from his daughter’s phone. It was an easy sail, straightforward, no hidden rocks, sandbanks or submerged wrecks. Getting there wasn’t going to be the problem – keeping Sarah alive was.
Machie had chosen the location well. With the infamous Corryvreckan whirlpool so close at hand it was most unlikely that they would be bothered by other shipping. He pictured – not for the first time – James Machie’s face, wondered how the years had changed him, honed his animal cunning, ruthless cruelty, his skill of being able to turn almost any situation to his own advantage. Yet, he had an Achilles heel: arrogance. JayMac had always been guilty of overconfidence, and that led to carelessness. Had Machie not been so relaxed about his ‘contacts’ in the police, and their ability to watch his back, the family empire would have reached new heights and none of them would have been forced into the scurrying retreat of each-man-for-himself self-interest. He would not be on a stolen boat with an assumed name. His sons would still be alive.
He thought again of Sarah. Machie would have no qualms about killing her in front of him. How could he bear to watch the life drain from those intelligent green eyes? Despite being surrounded by death and horror for most of his life, this was one pain that Frank MacDougall was determined not to endure.
A small plate above the console read Morning Prayer, the name also displayed along the side of the craft. The irony of this was not lost on the middle-aged man who piloted the vessel out to sea, silently praying for the apple of his eye, his daughter.
34
‘The bosses have been on from headquarters, sir,’ said DC Dunn, as she hurried to Daley’s side in the yard of Kinloch Police Office. ‘There’s been a development.’
Daley followed her through the security door and into the office. DS Brian Scott was standing in the large CID office, a fresh bandage around his head, looking like a tennis player from the seventies. Daley nodded curtly at him. Try as he might, the chief inspector could not accept that the disappearance of MacDougall was not, in some way, down to the collusion of his friend. He had run the circumstances behind the gangster’s flight through his mind over and over again; it still didn’t make sense.
‘Aye, right, there you are, sir,’ Scott said hesitantly. ‘We’ve been tryin’ tae get ye on the blower.’
‘I’ve been in the hospital, so it was switched off,’ said Daley, without looking at his DS. ‘Now, what’s been happening?’
‘A few minutes ago, HQ received an anonymous phone tip-off.’ Scott spoke in a businesslike manner that Daley wasn’t used to. ‘They’ve tried tae trace the call, but it was from a private payphone, and the caller didn’t stay on the line for long.’
‘So, what have we got?’ Daley said, looking impatient.
‘Take a look here.’ Scott led his boss over to a large map of the Kintyre peninsula that took up a sizeable part of one wall. Due to its scale, the cartography was detailed, showing the names of farms, historical features and the like. Scott stood beside the map, then, looking every bit the unlikely weather forecaster, began gesturing at details on the map. ‘Noo, a’ we have tae go on is basically a set o’ coordinates,’ he said, squinting at the large map. ‘DC Dunn, play the audio, please.’
The young officer pressed a few keys on her computer, and a familiar greeting played into the room. ‘Good morning, Police Headquarters, Pitt Street. How can I help you?’
There was a pause, then the sound of a breathy voice. ‘I have information about Sarah MacDougall.’ The man tersely gave a list of map coordinates, then slammed the phone down.
Scott stretched out his hand and landed a thick index finger on a patch off sea just of the coast of the peninsula. ‘That’s just aboot exactly the location mentioned,’ he said, holding his finger at the point for a few moments.
Daley walked up to the map, and looked more closely at where Scott was pointing. ‘What does that say?’ he said, running his finger along a Gaelic word.
‘Corryvreckan, sir,’ said DC Dunn. ‘It’s a whirlpool. Says on Wikipedia that it’s the third largest in the world.’
‘Whit the fuck’s Wikipedia?’ asked Scott.
‘Who would know of Machie’s movements apart from himself?’ said Daley. ‘And just why would he leak them to us?’
‘Beats me, Jim,’ Scott replied, some of the tension between them abating. ‘Ye never know wi’ that bastard. The worst bit is, they want us tae commandeer a boat an’ go an’ check it oot.’
‘They want what?’
‘Aye, they cannae get the Force boat doon here fir four hours, an’ the chopper’s busy wi’ a search for a missing wean o’er at Motherwell. We’re it.’
‘And just where are we to find this boat?’
‘Oh, that’s all sorted. Dae ye mind the guy doon the quay wi’ a big RID.’
‘RID?’
‘Aye, thon big speedboat affair,’ said Scott, displaying what he thought to be sound nautical knowledge.
‘RIB, Brian. Rigid Inflatable Boat.’
‘Is that no’ whit I said?’
Despite himself, Daley couldn’t hide a smile. ‘Here we go again.’
‘I’ve rounded up the firearms boys, but as fir tactics, well, that’s your department, gaffer. Whit is it yer man a’ways says?’
‘With power comes responsibility.’ Daley shook his head, and headed for his glass box.
The small vessel began to yaw as they approached their destination. From nowhere the sea had whipped into white-capped restlessness, out of kilter with the flat calm of the cold, windless day.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Sarah, staring out of the small cabin window.
‘Whit are ye on aboot? It’s no’ the sea that ye need tae worry aboot. In any case, this is whit they call the Grey Dugs, no’ even the whirlpool proper. We’ll just need tae keep an eye oot fir Daddy.’
In the distance, it looked as though the sea had been raised, was higher somehow. Sarah opened the small door to the rear of the cabin. She had felt fine for most of the journey, but the sudden restlessness of the sea was making her feel queasy. Hold on, she told herself. Hold on.
Without warning, the little craft was rocked by a wave and Sarah fell against the side of the cabin, banging her head against the wooden panelling.
‘Yee-ha!’ Machie roared, holding onto the small ship’s wheel, his legs planted firmly apart to aid his balance. ‘Makes ye realise yer alive, eh?’
‘Do you never tire of being an arsehole?’ Sarah spat out the words.
‘If nobody did stupid things, nothing intelligent would ever get done,’ he replied, having to shout now because of the noise of the sea, and the moaning, cracking and creaking coming from what seemed like every part of their tiny boat.
‘Spare me the fucking Wittgenstein,’ she shouted. ‘You really are as mad as everyone says, aren’t you?’
‘What makes ye think that?’ he shouted in reply, as he stared out of the sea-splattered window, a smile playing across his lips.
‘Mr Newell,’ Daley shouted as he hurried down the pontoon. DS Scott, DC Dunn and three members of the Firearms Unit jogged in his wake, all dressed in red survival suits, replete with heavy, water-resistant fleeces borrowed from the Lifeboat Station. The straps on Daley’s lifejacket were already chafing at his crotch through the thick material of the suit. Even underneath the padded lifejacket, Daley could plainly see the bulge of his stomach, which he patted with grim resignation. Briefly he wondered why the diet his wife had forced him on wasn’t working, then banished the thought from his mind, as it brought with it the aching in his stomach that accompanied any reminder of Liz.
‘Glad to see you’re all kitted
out correctly,’ Newell answered. He cut a tall, patrician figure in his dark blue survival suit and red life jacket. He held out his hand to help a nervous-looking DC Dunn aboard. ‘The sea is cold at the best of times, and at this point in the year it’s perishing – incredibly dangerous, in fact. I’ve got to say, this is not a mission of choice for me.’
‘Aye, but the money’s no’ bad,’ retorted Scott, shambling along the pontoon, waiting his turn to get aboard.
‘No pockets in a shroud, Sergeant Scott,’ Newell replied, without a change of expression.
The low murmur of chatter made Daley turn round; he didn’t know why he was surprised that the crowd on the esplanade was so large. This was Kinloch, after all; everyone knew what was about to happen before it actually did.
‘I hope yous are of a religious bent,’ a grizzled man in a thick jumper and flat cap shouted, the stub of a well-smoked cheroot clasped between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Where yous are aff tae, ye’ll need the Almighty tae keep ye safe. Is that no’ true, Alistair?’ He pointed what remained of his cheroot at a man who was standing a few feet away.
‘Aye, they do that,’ said Alistair. He was a tall, thin man, and as if to exaggerate his long, grey face, he wore a leaden-coloured raincoat. ‘They tell me that the Tartan Shroud is at its worst for many a year,’ he said mournfully. ‘That’s her nickname, ye know.’ He tried to catch Daley’s eye.
‘No’ it’s naw,’ called another voice from the crowd, a woman this time, short and fat, wearing a bright yellow fleece. ‘She’s called the Speckled Lady, every bugger knows that.’
‘Yer arse, Ann McCardle,’ said a young man wearing a black donkey jacket over his blue bib and braces, the yellow badge on which picked him out as a council employee. ‘The Cauldron o’ Sorrow – that’s what you’re looking for.’
‘Away,’ said an old woman at the front of the crowd, turning her head to disagree with the others. ‘It’s ca’ed the Widow’s Plaid, so many men have been lost there o’er the years. My granny telt me hersel’, an’ let me tell ye, she wisnae a wummin prone tae exaggeration, no, nor gettin’ things wrong, neithers.’
‘A bit like yersel, Jessie,’ shouted someone. ‘Unless ye’ve had a few too many doon in the Douglas Arms.’ This elicited roars of laughter.
The next person to speak did so in a voice so quiet that Daley couldn’t make out what was being said. The crowd silenced, and then parted, to reveal the weathered face of Hamish, who was, as usual, puffing on his pipe, sending clouds of pungent blue smoke into the cold, late-morning air.
‘No’ tae worry, Jessie, yer grandmother wiz a lovely wummin. Aye, just lovely. I mind o’ her when I wiz in the school,’ he said, much to Jessie’s edification, who agreed with silent nods of the head. ‘I mind her fine, doon the pier greeting the sailors wi’ a wee smile an’ a cup o’ tea. Aye, she gladdened many a mariner’s heart before they were sent tae an uncertain fate oot on the boundless depths o’ the broad ocean.’
‘Aye, an’ no’ jeest wi’ cups o’ tea, neithers,’ the man with the cheroot said, turning an alarming shade of red as he burst into laughter and went into a paroxysm of coughing. ‘I heard she strapped the mattress fae her bed tae her back, afore she headed doon tae the quay.’
‘Aye, Donnie.’ Hamish waited until the laughter died down again, and the small crowd had settled. ‘You’ll be the expert in mattresses, right enough. Every bugger knows yer lazy arse is never off one.’
The crowd, even some of those busy on the RIB, laughed at that.
‘At least I’m no’ some cod psychic.’
‘I widnae have thought you’d know the difference between a cod an’ a flounder,’ Hamish said quietly, puffing on his pipe. ‘Was it no’ you who sold that American tourist a’ that bream an’ telt him it wiz wild Scottish salmon? Or maybes that wiz some other crooked fusherman wi’ a great gut who stank o’ cheap cigars.’ The old man’s face broke into its usual grin.
‘Ye auld bastard,’ the red-faced man growled, throwing down his cheroot and trying to force his way through the crowd towards Hamish.
‘Noo, Donnie, think before ye act, man,’ Hamish said, as the burly man shouldered his way towards him. ‘Daein’ me physical herm, in front o’ the constabulary wid be even mair stupid than that fling ye had wi’ yer wife’s sister. Aye, an’ only you an’ yer ain conscience know jeest whoot a marital flux that must have caused.’ At this, the crowd drew in a collective gasp.
Unperturbed by the continued threats of violence from Donnie, Hamish made his way onto the pontoon towards Daley.
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, Hamish. What is it?’ the detective said.
‘I’ll jeest say this, Mr Daley,’ said Hamish, leaning his head close to the police officer in a most conspiratorial manner. ‘Nothin’ is ever quite whoot it seems.’ He patted Daley on the shoulder then walked back onto the esplanade, where he was soon lost in the crowd.
35
As the small boat heaved, so too did Sarah MacDougall. She had been at sea many times in the last few years, but this was, by far, the worse she had ever felt. The old tip was to keep one’s eyes on the horizon, but here the horizon didn’t exist: all that she could see through the cabin window were brief glimpses of the dark, tumultuous sea, as the little craft was hurled to the top of one wave, then cast to the depths in the trough that followed. The contents of her stomach were long gone, deposited over the side into the roiling waters; the acidic bitterness of bile burned her throat as she retched again. Hold on, she mouthed to herself.
‘No’ long now.’ He turned to her, eyeing her plight with a cold sneer. ‘C’mon, darlin’, we don’t want you lookin’ a’ pale and uninteresting for poor Daddy.’
‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ she replied weakly.
Frank MacDougall held on tight to the wheel of the cabin cruiser as the boat was buffeted by the angry stretch of water he had just entered. Ahead, the sky glowered, presiding over a seascape that he would have thought impossible only a few short minutes before. The satnav continued to bleep contentedly, indicating that he was holding the right course.
He held a clear picture of his daughter in his mind. She was everything to him. Of course, he told himself, he loved his wife, but her decline had been rapid and his overwhelming emotion towards her was one of pity. Sarah was young, beautiful and confident, the kind of child everyone coveted but was so rarely blessed with. His stomach turned at the thought of what Machie might have in store for her. He had regrets – every parent does – but his had now manifested in a spectacular way.
As he clutched the ship’s wheel with white knuckles, he thought of his two dead sons. Was he sorry they were gone? Well, yes, of course he was. Was he proud of either of them? The answer was most definitely in the negative. As human beings, they had both reminded him of his younger self: brash, arrogant, cruel and stupid. Too stupid to realise that while crime could provide all the trappings of a successful life, the essence of success lay in the realisation of achievement. What was a new car, a big house or designer suit without the inner knowledge, the personal satisfaction, that these things were the proceeds of hard work and talent? Not the product of another’s misery or, worse still, their demise. He had grown more and more jaundiced by life within the Machie crime family and consequently had given little thought to turning informant when arrested by his old neighbour Scott for drug trafficking. There had been only one way out, one way to stay out of prison and the thirty-year sentence that would have swallowed him up. In the end he had betrayed a monster.
And now that monster had his daughter.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, the motion of the vessel seemed to ease. Almost imperceptibly at first, then all of a sudden the waves seemed much less large and intimidating; the sea no longer battered off the cabin window, nor were they cast into shadow by the stomach-churning descent into the depths of the trough.
He loomed over her, smiling, as though reading her thoughts. ‘Now then,’ he said, braci
ng himself against the slight swell with one arm against the wall. ‘By my calculations, we’ve got a wee bit o’ time before Daddy arrives.’
‘So?’ She looked up at him defiantly. ‘Oh, sorry, shall we have a quick philosophy seminar?’
‘I wiz thinking o’ somethin’ a wee bit mair intimate,’ he said, easing over to the young woman.
‘Meaning?’ She looked up at him.
He grabbed her roughly by the hair, pulling her head towards his crotch with one hand, as, with the other, he undid his zip.
The engines on the powerful RIB throbbed as the ad hoc police squad sailed towards the exit of Kinloch harbour. Skipper James Newell was strapped into a high seat behind a white dashboard displaying the vessel’s instrumentation. The police officers were on the open deck, secured into seats on which they sat astride. Newell had explained that as they could reach almost fifty knots, the unusual nature of the seating was essential, enabling them to steady themselves as the RIB careered through the waves.
‘Yer man wisnae kiddin’ on aboot the cauld,’ said Scott, holding onto the handrail which protruded from the seat in front. ‘I’m freezing ma bollocks off a’ready.’
‘I’m not sure you should even be here after your knock on the head,’ Daley replied.
‘Aye, well, here I am.’
Daley cursed as the phone in his pocket vibrated. He awkwardly retrieved it from a deep pocket of the survival suit, then scrolled through the email he had just received from the police up in Oban.
The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Page 22
