Dark Suits and Sad Songs (21 page)

‘DCI Daley here. I think we spoke yesterday.’

‘Eh, yes. Yes, of course. You arranged a visit at the request of a prisoner, I believe.’

Daley could hear voices in the background, but decided to press on. ‘I’ve been told to wait at the front gate – some kind of problem within the prison. Would it be possible to come in?’

‘Can you hold for a few seconds?’

Despite the secretary having placed her hand over the phone, Daley could make out muffled voices. He reasoned that emergencies were by no means uncommon in Her Majesty’s Prisons, so why did he feel so uneasy?

‘DCI Daley, I’ve just received clearance from the deputy governor. Please approach security at the gate. I’ll issue them with new instructions.’ The phone went dead.

Daley was ushered into the visitors’ car park by two prison officers, and then escorted on foot into the building. He noted an air of quiet urgency amongst the staff, though the young man who was his guide remained uncommunicative.

‘Chief Inspector, please come in,’ said Deputy Governor Malcolm, from behind his large desk. He looked about fifty but, Daley reckoned, was at least ten years younger. ‘I’m afraid to say that your trip would appear to be in vain,’ he continued, gesturing to Daley to take a seat.

‘Meaning?’ Daley asked, his heart sinking.

‘Sarah MacDougall was attacked just before you arrived, in the leisure block. I’m sad to tell you that as a result of the injuries she sustained she has passed away. Our staff did their best, but . . . We have two inmates in custody, and your colleagues from Stirling are on their way.’

Daley sat quietly for a few moments. He remembered the bright young woman he had first met in the remote farmhouse that had been her father’s bolthole. Another life wasted. All three of Frank MacDougall’s children were now dead, not one of them having reached the age of twenty-five. Only MacDougall’s wretched wife survived, living out her days in a nursing home as the disease that had put her there ate away at her mind. Considering the tragedy that had befallen her family, it was perhaps for the best.

‘I need to see her possessions,’ he said to Malcolm. ‘She asked to see me today, she had important information, so I would like to see anything that could point to what she intended to say.’

Had Sarah MacDougall been killed to stop her from speaking out? To be killed on the very day that she had requested to see him was surely no coincidence.

‘Who knew that I was coming to see her today?’

‘Oh, me, my secretary, a couple of other officers and other staff. I’d have to check. The librarian, too. Sarah was studying in the library – she was a trustee in there, as well. Would you like to see the crime scene?’

‘Not really. I’ll leave that to our colleagues in Stirling. I’d like to see her cell, though, then perhaps I can have a chat with the librarian.’

‘Yes, I’ll arrange it. I’d better have a quick chat with the
governor. Will you excuse me? He would pick today to be on leave. I’m sure it will be fine, though.’

‘Thanks,’ said Daley, as Malcolm walked out of the room. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, wondering what he could have done differently to save Sarah MacDougall’s life.

27

Scott was sitting in Daley’s office when DS Rainsford flung the door open. ‘I’ve just had headquarters on the phone. They’re looking for Chief Superintendent Donald. Do you know where he is?’

‘Nope, I’ve no’ set eyes on him,’ said Scott, putting down his mug of coffee with shaky hands. ‘Where’s his assistant, that Layton guy?’

‘Inspector Layton is looking for him too. Not a sign of him at the hotel. The manager tells me she hasn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon when he went back to his room, feeling unwell. She just assumed he was still holed up in there.’

‘What aboot his motor?’ asked Scott.

‘Still in the hotel car park,’ Rainsford shrugged.

‘I’ll have a scout around. He’s likely oot for a run or some-thin’. Trust me, you’ll no’ get shot o’ that bastard so easy. We can always hope he’s been abducted by aliens. I mean, that’s quite possible doon here. Especially after what I saw the other night.’

‘Not very helpful, DS Scott. Please let me know if you find him,’ said Rainsford, looking pointedly at Scott as he lifted the mug to his lips again, with a trembling hand.

‘Aye, you try getting shot, you posh bastard,’ he said, under his breath, as Rainsford left the room. ‘Maybe your hands would shake, tae.’

Scott thought for a moment. He wondered where Donald was; whatever he was doing, he didn’t want to be involved. These thoughts were dismissed when the phone on Daley’s desk rang.

‘Aye, DS Scott.’

‘It’s ACC Manion. He asked for DCI Daley, but when I said he wasn’t in, and you were, he asked for you, Sergeant,’ the PC on reception duty informed him.

‘Oh, right, put him through,’ said Scott. ‘How you, Willie, what can I do you for?’

‘Hello, Brian. Listen, I need tae talk tae you. I hear Jim’s off somewhere today, am I right?’

‘Aye, he’ll be back the night or tomorrow morning. What’s the problem? Want his mobile number?’

‘No. You’ll do,’ Manion replied. ‘The forensic boys have come up with a few things fae this Kirsteen Lang’s computer. It would appear she and Mr Cudihey were mair friendly than we thought. She was away sailing with him, at any rate. We found a lot o’ pictures on her hard drive she’d no’ managed tae erase.’

‘This is the lassie that was killed in the RTA yesterday?’

‘Aye, Brian, that’s her.’

‘Why would she erase a’ the stuff from her computer?’

‘Now, if I knew that, I’d be as clever as you. I’m emailing some stuff doon. Some o’ these pictures look as though they’ve been taken on the coast round Kintyre, or so I’m reliably informed by the expert in topography, or whatever it’s called. I want you tae have a look an’ see if you can pinpoint where, Brian.’

‘Aye, nae bother, Willie. I’ll take a look an’ get back tae you. There’s an old guy here, a retired fisherman, sounds right up his street. All very mysterious. I know Jim’s no’ happy wae this case.’

‘Who would be, Brian? I could dae without this myself. In my experience, mention the word politics an’ all the shit o’ the day appears. See what you can do for me, eh?’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Oh, did I tell you, Brian, we’re off tae get another poodle at the weekend. He’ll no’ replace wee Jinky, mind. But och, the hoose was just empty, you know what I mean?’ He went on to describe the pain of life without the aforementioned Jinky bounding about.

‘Right enough, Willie. Aye, great stuff, just what you need. It’ll be great tae see the new addition tae the family, so tae speak. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.’ Scott grimaced as he finished the call with his old friend. ‘I hope this new poodle doesnae stink and lick my face the way the last fuckin’ one did,’ he muttered under his breath as he went in search of Manion’s email.

Daley looked around the cell. It was neat, tidy and bright. Had it not been for the peephole in the door and the bars on the windows, he could have been in a downmarket hotel room. A single bed sat against the wall under the window. A wardrobe stood in the opposite corner, beside which was a desk and chair, with a mirror on the wall behind. Under the desk was a set of drawers which Daley opened to begin his search. The first two contained underwear, socks, prison issue T-shirts and jumpers; nothing of significance. On the top of the desk was a cheap writing pad, beside a framed
picture of a teenage boy wearing a muddy football kit. Despite never having met him, Daley recognised Cisco, Sarah’s older brother, who a few years after that picture was taken would be butchered in the stairwell of a Glasgow high rise. Daley looked at the young face with the broad smile. Not for the first time in his life, he thought about destiny. What was the destiny of the small child who had changed his life? What was his, come to that? He tried to focus on the job in hand and take his mind from the distraction of Liz.

The contents of the second pair of drawers were more interesting. Letters and photographs were neatly stacked next to a pile of books. Daley skimmed through the letters – many from friends, and a couple from Sarah’s mother, written in a child’s hand – then looked through the books. Novels by Jane Austen, Proust and Thomas Hardy sat beside books on philosophy, politics and economics. Daley sighed again; what a waste of a life. He held each book by the spine and flicked through the pages in case anything had been placed between them; on initial investigation, at least, nothing was apparent.

On the small cabinet beside her bed, Sarah MacDougall had placed two framed photographs and a small radio. The first photo showed a group of girls in school uniform; he spotted a young Sarah in the middle. The second was of her parents; Frank and Betty MacDougall stared out in monochrome, both smiling. Despite her expression Daley thought he could see unhappiness in the woman’s eyes.

A further two slim drawers in the cabinet contained very little. Apart from another couple of books and three magazines – two on current affairs and one on history – there was
a notepad with some doodles and a packet of chewing gum. It looked as though his search would be futile.

‘The Stirling boys will want to bag this lot up,’ Daley said to the prison officer standing at the door.

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Are you finished?’

Daley looked about. ‘Yes, just about, I think.’ He looked at the bed; as unlikely as it was that something would be hidden in or around its frame, he thought he might as well be thorough. He bent down, gingerly, and looked under it; the space was empty. He stood, threw the duvet cover and pillows onto the floor, then lifted the mattress and searched underneath and around it; again, nothing. As he lifted the bedding to throw it back onto the bed, something fluttered from the pillowcase – a small scrap of paper. Daley quickly reached for it.

CVL:Phil/231-01

Daley thought for a moment, looking around the small cell. ‘Right, lock this up until Stirling CID are ready to have a look,’ he ordered. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I want to go to the prison library.’

Scott was in the passenger seat alongside Rainsford, who was driving.

‘So you reckon you know where this is?’ he said, turning to the man in the back seat.

‘Och aye,’ said Hamish. He was still studying the image Scott had given him, in which a pretty girl with a tanned face and blonde hair smiled at the camera. Behind her, the sea and the coastline were easy to make out. ‘That hill’s Dundraven,
an’ that’s Dundraven beach. If I had a penny for a’ the times I sailed past there, I would be a rich man noo, and nae mistake.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Rainsford in his clipped tones. ‘I must admit, I thought this was going to be a wild goose chase.’

‘Have faith, son,’ chided Scott. ‘It’s no’ a’ contained in books an’ the internet, you know.’

‘Indeed it’s no’,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t know whoot end is whoot when it comes tae computers, but I can navigate this coast wae my eyes closed, an’ that’s a fact.’

They drove on for a short while until Hamish pointed out a lay-by ahead, where they parked. At the far end of the lay-by, a small gate opened up onto a rough track, down which they set off. The sky was deep azure, the long grass a vibrant green, and the scents of honeysuckle and the sea heavy in the air. They followed the track to the top of a small hill, which revealed a breathtaking scene. A long stretch of white sand bordered the calm ocean. In the distance, islands could be picked out in the shimmering haze, one of them with a series of dramatic conical peaks.

‘Aye, in front o’ you are the Paps o’ Jura,’ said Hamish, pointing with the stem of his pipe. ‘Beside it, the wonderful island o’ Islay.’

‘What’s that landmass over there?’ asked Rainsford, clearly impressed.

‘The Emerald Isle.’ Hamish’s eyes creased into a smile. ‘Aye, Ireland. Right bonnie, is it no’?’

‘Who needs the Costa del Sol when you’ve got this on your doorstep, eh?’ said Scott, filling his lungs with the heady scents of sea and shore.

‘Who needs the Costa del Sol, period?’ said Rainsford.

The three men made their way towards the shore, with the buzz of insects, the insistent call of seabirds, and the lazy swish of the tide as their soundtrack.

Daley immediately knew why Sarah had sought the library as her refuge. It could have been any library, almost anywhere in the world. Apart from the barred windows, and white utilitarian buildings beyond, it would be easy to forget that you were in the heart of a prison.

A woman with short dark hair, who looked to be in her early thirties, approached Daley, holding out her hand for him to shake.

‘Elaine Wright. I’m the librarian here,’ she said with a weak smile. Her eyes were puffy and she looked as though she’d been crying.

‘Nice to meet you, Elaine. I’m DCI Daley. You knew Sarah MacDougall reasonably well, I believe?’

‘Yes.’ A tear made its way down her cheek. ‘It’s so terrible, what happened to her. I can’t believe it.’ She wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. ‘She was such a lovely, clever girl.’

‘Yes, she was,’ said Daley. ‘She would come here most days, I take it?’

‘She was a trustee, Inspector Daley. So she was here nearly every day. As you can see, we’re not exactly rushed off our feet, so she spent a lot of time reading. She had started a course on philosophy, too. I have the details here,’ she said, bending down behind her desk.

‘Can you make any sense of this?’ Daley handed her the piece of paper, retrieved from Sarah MacDougall’s pillowcase.

The librarian studied it for a second, then smiled. ‘Yes, this is one of our library references, for a book on philosophy, as you might expect. If you follow me, I’ll show you.’

Daley did as he was told and followed the librarian through the maze of shelves.

‘Here we are,’ she announced. She reached down to the bottom shelf and pulled out a book: a faded copy of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s
On Certainty
. She handed it to Daley, looking suddenly uncertain.

Daley felt the heft of the book in his hands for a few heartbeats, before turning it upside down by its spine and leafing through the pages with his thumb. As he had expected, a tiny envelope – most probably homemade – fluttered to the ground. In neat, rounded handwriting it was addressed to DCI Daley.