The Last Witness (6 page)

He sighed and reached for the back pocket of his trousers, where he habitually kept his wallet. Quickly though, he remembered that he’d had to change into the spare pair that he kept in his locker for emergencies. He had forgotten his wallet, and after searching every other pocket, only managed to produce a couple of pounds in change. He looked at Annie apologetically. ‘Sorry. I think we’d better make tracks. We seem to have a cash-flow problem.’

‘Indeed ye will not,’ declared Annie, placing two small whisky glasses on the table. ‘If I wiz tae refuse everybody
that had nae money in here a drink, I’d have been oot o’ work a long, long time ago, let me assure ye. Yous can owe me. It’s no’ as if I don’t know where to find ye.’

‘Well, I’ve jeest seen it a,” said the other customer, Jocky, shaking his head. ‘The polis in here steamin’ tappin’ money fir drink. Aye, I’ve seen it a’, right enough.’

‘Just you wait a minute,’ Scott said raising his finger to admonish his accuser.

‘Fir fuck’s sake,’ Jocky said, pointing at Scott’s trousers. ‘This fella’s pished his troosers an’ a – the polis has gaun tae the dogs, an’ nae mistake.’ He grimaced, looking at Annie, who looked somewhat surprised herself.

‘Hang oan a minute, you. That’s no’ pish.’

‘Best we take a seat, Brian,’ interrupted Daley, ushering his colleague to a table at the back of the bar.

‘Whit’s been happenin’ doon here, Annie?’ Scott shouted, anxious to stop the whispered conjecture as to the nature of the stain on his trousers that was now taking place between Annie and Jocky.

‘Och,’ answered Annie, somewhat stiffly, while vigorously polishing a pint glass with a white tea towel, ‘jeest the usual. Ye’ll mind o’ Peter Williamson that used tae come in here?’

‘Cannae say I dae,’ Scott mumbled as he took the first sip of the drink he didn’t really need.

‘Aye, ye dae – Peester, nice lad, a right worrier though. Well, he got himsel’ caught in his zip – if ye know whoot I mean.’ She smiled knowingly in the direction of the policemen.

‘You mean?’ Daley winced and gestured under the table.

‘Aye, exactly, Mr Daley. An’ whoot a performance it wiz tae.’ The smile had returned to Annie’s face, the issue of Scott’s trousers seemingly forgotten. ‘A’ I heard wiz this
screamin’ comin’ fae the toilet. I thought someone wiz bein’ murdered.’ She looked sheepishly at the detectives. ‘Anyhow, I ran in wavin’ that rolling pin I keep under the bar – in case o’ bother, ye understan’ – an’ there he wiz, the poor boy, proppin’ himself up against the wa’ wi’ his manhood stuck fast in his flies.’ She began to rub the glass with increased vigour, looking into the middle distance, as though bringing this graphic scene back to mind.

‘Whit happened tae the boy?’ Scott slurred, rubbing the stained area of his trousers as he pictured the episode.

‘Well, we’d tae send fir the paramedics,’ Annie replied, the smile now broad on her face. ‘Wance they’d stopped laughin’, they took the boy in hand, so tae speak.’ She let out a loud guffaw of laughter, which quickly spread to the other occupants of the bar.

‘Yous’ll never guess whoot they’re callin’ him noo in the toon.’ Jocky turned, somewhat unsteadily, on his stool in order to face his fellow customers, tears of laughter spilling down his cheeks.

‘Zip Up De Do Da,’ Annie shouted, stealing the punch line as they all descended into gales of laughter.

‘So was he all right?’ Daley asked.

‘Och aye,’ answered Annie. ‘Though he wiz walkin’ funny fir a couple o’ days, mind you. Mair embarrassed than anythin’ else, poor lad.’

‘We’ll get months mair fun fae that,’ said Jocky, holding out his glass as a silent request for it to be refilled.

‘Aye, so yous might.’ Annie replied, ‘Though fae whoot I saw, the boy’s got nothin’ tae be ashamed o’. In fact it’s nae wonder he got caught oot, if ye know whoot I mean.’ She winked in the direction of the policemen.

‘Whoot dae ye mean, Annie?’ Jocky swayed on his stool, a look of puzzlement on his face.

‘Well, pit it lake this if God had given you whoot he’s given Peester, we’d be callin’ you Jock the Cock, an’ no’ wee Wullie Winky.’

Despite the revelations of the last few days, even Daley had to laugh.

Normally, DS Scott resided at the County when his peripatetic duties brought him to Kinloch. On this occasion, though, he decided to take up Daley’s offer to stay at his and Liz’s home, a well-appointed rented bungalow on the hill above Kinloch.

The two detectives sat on the decking at the front of the house, both wrapped up against the frosty night, while Scott smoked and fretted. After a couple of drinks in the County, Daley had decided it prudent to phone Liz, who arrived in her new Mini Countryman – a gift from her father – to pick them up. She had made lasagne, which, despite their stressful day, the detectives both tucked into heartily.

Daley had noted with concern that his wife was picking at her meal. Her ability to never gain so much as a pound in weight belied a healthy appetite; it was most unusual to see her staring gloomily at a nearly full plate of food.

He thought about this as he watched Scott’s cigarette smoke disappear into the starlit night. Below, the loch shimmered silver under an almost full moon; the island which stood sentinel as its mouth loomed black and silent.

‘This has a’ got tae be wan big scam,’ Scott declared, as, much to Daley’s chagrin, he flicked his cigarette butt over the garden fence and down the hill. Daley remained silent,
watching it splutter out of sight in a momentary shower of sparks. ‘Ye know yersel, they can dae a’ sorts o’ things wi’ computers these days. That CCTV film o’ him is likely just some kind o’ trick photography.’ Scott looked hopefully at his boss.

Daley sighed. He spotted Liz’s pale face at the kitchen window. ‘There’s no point trying to fathom this until we can get some more information from his majesty tomorrow. You can guarantee, there’ll be something he’s conveniently
forgotten
to tell us.’

‘Maybe you’re right, Jim.’ Scott lit another cigarette, puffing clouds of smoke out into the clear night. ‘I must admit, I’m pretty knackered. I’ll sleep the sleep o’ the just the night, for sure.’

‘Not something you do very often, Brian,’ Daley said, smiling. ‘No wonder you’re knackered – you’ve put away a hell of a lot of whisky.’ He raised his eyebrows at his DS.

‘Och, that’s nothin’ – the lasagne soaked it up. Don’t worry, I’ll be tip-top for the royal appointment the morrow. I’ve got some o’ that mouthwash in my bag. Bugger it,’ he said, flicking ash across the decking, ‘I’ve left the bloody stuff in the motor, back at the office.’

‘I’ve got a spare toothbrush,’ Daley offered as they stood up to go back inside.

‘Aye, that’ll be fine, but I’m no’ sae sure I’ll fit intae a pair o’ your scants.’

Daley laughed and shut the door with a slam that echoed down the hillside to the loch.

8

Glasgow

The night was still and frosty all over the west coast of Scotland.

The man sat in the battered old Honda with the engine running, keeping the heater on against the chill. He stared down the acetylene-illuminated street, watching as the occasional customer entered or left the bar, wrapped up in scarves and woolly hats. From time to time one or two determined smokers would huddle around a wall-mounted ashtray in order to exercise their habit. He reflected on how much the world had changed. What would his granny have thought about not being able to smoke in a pub? He remembered her clearly, sitting on her favourite seat at the bar, a Capstan Full Strength always drooping from her mouth as she gossiped with her fellow regulars. His face broke out into an impromptu smile at the memory. She had been his touchstone, his anchor in what had been a childhood blighted by drink, drugs and violence.

He remembered the day she died. He had felt as though suddenly and without warning the world had become small, cold and hostile. He stayed in his room for three days, not
wishing to see or communicate with anyone. Something in him had changed; he emerged on the fourth day having promised himself he would never be as vulnerable and alone again. Then, and every day thereafter, he had hardened his heart and banished his loneliness; thoughts of his grandmother had receded and had gradually become associated with Scotland’s collective nostalgia for sad songs, Hogmanay and times past.

It was nearly one in the morning, and the radio was playing Gerry Rafferty as one particularly booze-laden night owl staggered out into the cold. He briefly heard the dull murmur of drunken conversation and a refrain from the jukebox before the door swung shut. He watched the man fumble in his pockets, take a cigarette from a packet in his hand, and place it between his lips. A lighter flared then guttered, momentarily illuminating his face. The man stood unsteadily, arching his back as he drew deeply on the tobacco. He replaced the cigarettes and the lighter in his pocket and muttered something barely audible to himself, before hunching his shoulders and taking his first faltering steps towards home.

The man in the car smiled as he turned off the radio, released the car’s handbrake, then, with the dull clunk of an old gearbox, put the vehicle into first and pulled slowly away from the kerb.

If the pedestrian noticed the car as it idled past him, he didn’t falter from his head-down plod. As he progressed down the street, the chunky sole of his boot caught a broken section of the pavement, making him trip and swear.

The driver slowed to a stop thirty yards in front of the staggering figure, switched off the engine and lights and exited the Honda. He stepped onto the pavement, towards the man moving haltingly past a row of empty, boarded-up shops.

They were only a few feet apart when the man from the car, in a darting motion, flunged towards the pedestrian and thrust a broad-bladed hunting knife into the unsuspecting man’s belly. A look of horror suffused the dying man’s face as he clawed at the knife handle, and a trail of steaming urine threaded from his ankle down his boot and onto the pavement.

The attacker didn’t bother to remove the knife from the man’s stomach, merely pushed him backwards, turned on his heel, and strolled back to his car before driving sedately away.

Blood bubbled at the mouth of the man lying on the cold dark pavement; the desperate tremble of his hands as they clawed at the handle of the hunting knife, slowed, then stopped.

After what had been a frosty night, Daley had to drive gingerly down the driveway that led from his house to the main road. He made a mental note to call Liz and tell her how slippery the conditions were when he got to the office.

The view across the loch and down to the town was magnificent: the sky was an almost Caribbean blue and the light from the sun glinted off the frosted hillsides and played on the mirror-still surface of the loch. Everything felt clean, fresh and renewed. But bold and bright as it was, Daley still had the heater blasting into the car, keeping the two policemen warm as well as dispelling the ice which slid slowly down the windscreen.

Daley’s heart was still heavy, and as he looked across at his DS, slumped gloomily in the passenger seat, he recognised that they were both suffering from the same malady: James Machie.

People waved and nodded as they sat at the traffic lights on Main Street. Scott snorted as the car coming towards
them ignored the red signal all together, cruising past them with a hearty wave.

‘I take it that Green Cross Code punter never made it here?’ Scott spoke for the first time since they left Daley’s house.

‘These lights have only been up for a couple of months. It takes them a wee while to get used to new traffic management measures,’ Daley replied, glad to be talking about something that wasn’t James Machie.

‘When I wiz a young cop, I’d have been standing there a’ day tae get a few bodies.’ Scott remembered how young police officers had been encouraged to report as many misdemeanours as they could, learning to construct a proper case, regardless of its nature.

‘Brian, if we prosecuted everyone who jumped these lights or committed minor traffic offences here, the court would be a 24/7 job. Have you never listened to your man’s “pragmatic policing” speech?’

‘Ye know yersel, Jim, I listen tae him as little as possible.’ Scott shook his head.

The lights changed, and they drove up the street and turned through the open gate into the car park at the rear of Kinloch police office, situated on the crest of the hill looking down Main Street.

‘Well, you’ll get the chance to listen to him all day today, my friend,’ Daley said as he parked the car in the space reserved for the sub-divisional commander. The detectives exited the vehicle then, after Daley had punched the security code into a wall-mounted keypad, pushed open the heavy security door to the office.

Daley noticed the hush that had pervaded the building, normally a lively, even happy, workplace. This morning
everyone seemed subdued. As he passed the bar office, the desk sergeant drew his forefinger across his brow and inclined his head to indicate that a senior officer with a braided cap was present: Donald.

Though Daley was acting divisional commander, he had based himself, quite naturally, within the glass box in the CID room. When Superintendent Donald arrived, he would occupy the boss’s office. As expected, he was sitting boldly behind the desk once occupied by Inspector MacLeod.

‘Ah, there you are. At last,’ Donald murmured, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘I’m surprised to see you, sir. I thought you were flying down.’

‘I arrived just under an hour ago. I have so much on I decided to drive down early. The roads are so much quieter. I had hoped that your day would have begun long before the time designated to pick me up.’ Donald was in an imperious mood, which didn’t bode well. ‘Things have moved on rather rapidly, I’m afraid to say. Come in here, both of you, and shut the door.’

Daley could hear Scott mutter under his breath as he shut the door firmly. There was only one seat in the room, apart from the one occupied by Donald, so Daley indicated to Scott that he should take it.

‘What’s wrong with you, DS Scott?’ Donald enquired. ‘No doubt nursing a gargantuan hangover, judging by the look of your bloodshot eyes. Please do your best not to breathe in my direction.’