The Last Witness (14 page)

The last of their number was about to pull the door closed, when a uniformed cop raced across the car park, carrying a large carrier bag.

‘Cheers, mate,’ the man said breathlessly. ‘I’ve got an item to be delivered to the office of Superintendent Donald, from the divisional commander at Baird Street. Where is it?’

Anxious to tuck into his kebab, the cop held the door open and directed the newcomer towards a flight of stairs. ‘Up to the third floor. You’ll get access to the boss’s floor via the CID suite. There’s always some of those lazy bastards up there at night hiding oot o’ the cold.’

‘Aye, brand new,’ said the visitor. He took the stairs two at a time, the carrier bag swaying to and fro at his side.

‘Fuck!’ DS White swore as he heard the buzzer at the door of the CID suite. He had just sat down to his coffee, and was about to try and buy his wife’s Christmas present online before returning to his dreaded fraud report. He put the coffee down beside his computer terminal, got up stiffly, then threaded his way through the unoccupied work stations towards the door at the end of the long room. The uniformed cop was staring through the security glass, the black-and-white check of his hatband showing brightly in the subdued light.

‘Can I help?’ White asked, peering at the cop, whom he didn’t recognise.

‘This is for Superintendent Donald,’ the man announced, holding the carrier bag up for inspection. ‘Fae the gaffer at Baird Street. Nice wee Christmas present, I’ll wager.’

‘Just gie me it here,’ White demanded, more curtly than he intended. He had enough to get done, without acting as an unofficial Santa for the boss.

‘If ye don’t mind, my instructions are tae plank it doon on his desk personally. Ye don’t know oor boss. He doesnae trust his ain granny.’

White thought for a moment, then decided it would save him a trek up the stairs and allow him to drink his coffee before it was cold. He let the uniformed messenger into the CID office and led him to the lifts that provided exclusive access to the offices of the senior officers. He keyed in the security code and, almost instantly, the lift door sighed smoothly open.

‘Just take the lift up, third door on the left, past the pot plants. His name’s on the door. And don’t worry, the bastards never lock their doors.’

‘Right enough,’ grinned the cop. ‘A’ these polis aboot, whit could possibly go wrong? No’ a bad lift either. I’ve been in much worse. No’ the slightest stink o’ piss.’ He laughed as the lift doors closed with a dull thud.

White wandered back to his desk, where his coffee was still steaming in the Styrofoam cup. He sat down, picked up the beverage and stretched his legs out under the desk. As he took his first swallow, he felt a pang of unease he couldn’t explain. He took another sip – more than he had intended, burning his tongue – and looked at his watch. The cop had only been on the top floor for a couple of minutes but he knew how nosey his colleagues were. The last thing he wanted was for an officer from another division to get caught poking about in the bosses’ domain. He now regretted not delivering the item himself, so he walked to the lift and keyed in the code.

A red arrow blinked at him, indicating that the lift was on its way. With the visitor, he reasoned. He heard the
mechanism clunk. Suddenly, the doors slid open; sure enough, the uniformed cop was standing at the back of the lift, not holding the carrier bag this time, but something else, something dark and shiny.

‘Right, you,’ said White, anxious to be rid of this unexpected visitor.

Before he could say any more, the man raised his arm and pointed a sidearm, with silencer, at the shocked detective.

‘What the—’ The expletive was never given voice as a neat black hole appeared in White’s forehead, forcing his head back with a snap. He swayed on his heels; his last tear was of dark blood that dribbled out of his left eye and down his cheek. Then he dropped backwards to the floor, his head bouncing twice on the thin carpeting like a deflated ball.

The uniformed man bent over White’s lifeless body. He removed a mobile phone from the detective’s pocket, studied it momentarily, then held it up in front of his face, smiling as the flash went off with the sound of an old-fashioned camera shutter. He placed the phone on the dead man’s chest, then walked back through the CID suite, clicking the door open from the inside, then pulling it shut with a clunk as he lefft.

Daley couldn’t sleep. He was plagued by something intangible; a thought he couldn’t quite get to grips with, that wouldn’t show itself in the clear light of his mind.

Liz’s breath was soft on his bare arm, her face illuminated by a shaft of silver moonlight that had found its way through a gap in the curtains. He looked at his watch. Nearly five. He decided that more sleep was going to be elusive so, slowly and gently, he dislodged Liz’s head from his shoulder, then slipped out from under the duvet.

Instead of heading for the en suite, he padded along the hall to the master bathroom. Duncan Fearney was due in court that morning, and he wanted to attend, not only to see how the farmer was dealt with but also to have a chat with the Procurator Fiscal – a reasonable man, who was as helpful as he could be, given the difficult job he had. From what Daley knew of Fearney, it seemed most unlikely that he was the mastermind behind the pernicious trade in illegal tobacco, despite being the main source. Someone in this community knew more than they were letting on; Daley was determined to find that person and make sure that the luckless farmer didn’t suffer the consequences of his activities alone.

Showered, he brushed his teeth, sprayed on deodorant, slapped aftershave on his face and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Parts of his torso that had once looked firm and athletic now looked flabby, pale and somehow arranged in a different way. His hair, which had just been cut, had lost its dark sheen, and was now flecked with grey. He rubbed his hand over his stubbly jaw. He kept an electric razor in the drawer of his desk at the office, so, as was often the case, decided to run that over his face when he was at work.

Holding a towel around his waist, he padded back to the bedroom, sliding back the door of the built-in wardrobe to reveal his suits, shirts and jackets. He pulled a black suit from a hanger – currently his favourite, as it had a roomy waistband – selected a plain white shirt, then removed his underwear, socks and a tie from various small drawers dotted about the bedroom. The last such drawer he came to squealed on metal runners as he opened it. An anxious glance at Liz
revealed that she was still sound, albeit muttering something in her sleep. He leaned over her, to try and catch what she was saying so that he could wind her up with it later.

He could see her eyes moving frantically under her lids.

‘It’s a baby . . .’ she slurred, and a smile spread across her face.

Daley shook his head. Knowing his wife’s distaste for the whole idea of children, he thought it ironic that she was dreaming about them. Could it be her body clock trying to work on her subconscious? Somehow, knowing his wife, he doubted it.

Dressed, he grabbed his car keys from the table beside the front door and stepped out into the starlit morning. He had parked close to the house, to minimise the walk to the front door in the low winter temperatures. The car had an anti-frost system, so the windscreen was clear. As he approached the vehicle the doors opened automatically, even though the key was in his pocket. He sat in the driver’s seat and buckled up, then pressed the ignition button. Nothing. He tried again, this time switching on an interior light to enable him to take a look at the complicated dashboard of the vehicle. Still nothing.

So much for the state-of-the-art keyless ignition, he thought to himself as he got out of the car and slammed the driver’s door. Daley stood momentarily beside it, deliberating whether or not to call the nightshift car to pick him up, before remembering his podgy reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier. He opened the door again and removed the thick jacket that he kept in the car for emergencies. He would walk the mile and a half to work; that would help fight the flab. In a temper, he set out down the frosty driveway, trying not to slip on its gleaming surface.

A sudden flash flickered in his peripheral vision, followed by a mind-shatteringly loud explosion, the force of which sent him hurtling to the ground. For countless moments he tried to drag his thoughts into the here and now. Slowly, he pulled himself to his knees, turned stiffly around.

His new divisional car was now a ball of fire, burning so brightly he couldn’t see the house beyond.

‘Liz!’ he cried out, scrambling to his feet, shielding his face from the heat of the flames.

18

He had the presence of mind to remove the phone from his pocket and call Kinloch police. After a short conversation with a shocked constable, he shoved the device back into his jacket and tried to edge nearer to the blazing car. The driveway was narrow at this point, and he was afraid that the fuel tank had yet to explode, but his only thought was for his wife. He decided to risk it.

As he edged past the vehicle, he came within a few feet of the fire; the heat seared at his skin and took his breath away. He could hear, feel and smell his eyebrows and hair singeing in the intensity of flame, and he very nearly slipped on the grass, now slick and wet, the fire having already melted the night frost. He stumbled on. In seconds that seemed more like hours, he was beyond what was left of his vehicle and running towards the house. Twisting shadows danced over the front wall of his home. The large front window was gone, and Daley now stumbled over part of the wooden decking that had been damaged in the blast.

Liz
. . . He felt throat-clenching fear – visceral and debilitating. He tried to swallow back a sob as he searched in his pockets for the key to the front door that, miraculously, remained solid and intact. In the distance, he could hear the
wail of sirens as he finally managed to fumble the key from his pocket and into the lock.

‘Liz!’ he called out, now standing in their lounge, which was transformed by the light from the leaping flames outside, the crackle of fire, and the smell of burning fuel, plastic and upholstery that was beginning to make him choke.

He ran through the hallway and flung open the door to their bedroom. Away from the dazzle of the fire he could see nothing. He ran to the bed, searching frantically with arms outstretched, like a child looking for a favourite toy in amongst the sheets. But the bed was empty.

He raced into the kitchen. The pale light of a distant moon fought for supremacy with the blaze cast into the sky on the other side of the house.

There, halfway up the small hill at the end of the garden, he could see a pale shimmer.
Liz!

He flung the back door open and jumped down the short flight of four steps onto the path; his right knee buckled agonisingly under his weight and sent him tumbling to the ground. He pulled himself up, his hands grazed and stinging from his attempt to break his fall on the frozen pathway.

‘Jim!’ Liz shouted, her voice strained. She was standing bent over, both hands clutching her stomach, wearing only her nightdress. ‘Please, get an ambulance. Please.’

DS Scott found it hard to force open his eyes. He had opted to stay in the hotel that evening rather than accept the invite to his boss’s home. His experience on the hill above Frank MacDougall’s farm had somehow eased his mind; he was sure mistakes had been made and the dreaded JayMac remained the ashes he had seen him returned to at the
crematorium in Glasgow, all those years before. This was all an elaborate hoax: a deadly effective one, but a hoax nonetheless. These thoughts rushed through his mind like draining water, as the loud knocking on the door of his hotel room roused him from the deep pit of a whisky-fuelled slumber.

‘Aye, aye, I’m just comin’. Is there a fuckin’ fire or somethin’?’ he shouted, immediately regretting all that he had drunk the previous night after Daley had returned home. In all honesty, that was part of the reason he had decided to stay at the hotel – to have a good bevy and try and forget James Machie had ever existed, never mind been resurrected.

He turned the key in the door, easing it open to reveal a whey-faced constable, standing tall in the hotel corridor.

‘You’ll need tae get dressed, Sarge. There’s been an explosion at DCI Daley’s house.’

‘A whit?’ Scott could barely talk; his tongue seemed to be welded to the roof of his mouth. ‘If this is some wind-up, son, I’ll kick yer arse frae here tae Paisley.’ But the look on the young policeman’s face was enough to send Scott in a frenzied search for his clothes.

Daley had removed his jacket, which he draped over Liz’s shoulders. He didn’t want to go back into the house, as he wasn’t sure if a further, more catastrophic explosion would take place when the car’s fuel tank caught. For the same reason, he didn’t want to go to the front of the property, as they were at least now being shielded from any possible blast by the bulk of the house. The only other way out was up the steep little hill upon which they were now sitting.

‘Liz, we’ll need to climb up the hill, then go across the fields to get out of here. There’s no way we’ll make it past the car, and I don’t want to risk it.’ He tried to sound as encouraging and calm as possible, and mentally thanked God for his police training. He was worried about Liz, who was now sitting on the cold ground, hunched over in his jacket and in obvious pain, the source of which she refused to discuss. He assumed that she was in shock, however, he realised that she needed urgent medical attention.

‘I don’t think I can, Jim,’ she gasped. ‘Please, please, do something.’ She began to sob.

His throat constricted as he searched his mind for some solution. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket once more, noticing that the screen was cracked, probably a result of the tumble he had taken on the back garden path. Thankfully, it looked as though it was still operational.

‘Good morning, Kinloch Police Office.’ The voice was calm, yet the strain was apparent to anyone who knew DC Dunn.