Dark Suits and Sad Songs (24 page)

Across from her, the huge bulk of the bald man, straight from her nightmares, snored, as his head lolled from side to side with the motion of the vehicle. He had laughed maniacally until the driver called out to him in a language she didn’t understand, though it sounded a bit like the Russian her father sometimes spoke when he was conducting business on the phone. This had calmed the monster, as she thought of him; in fact, he had been almost gentle when he’d tied her hands together.

Again her silent prayer echoed in her mind.

30

‘I need a favour, Philip, and I need it now,’ said Wilson, the mobile phone hot in his hand. In the last few hours he had been trying to make sense of what was happening, and what had happened in the last few days. The more he thought about it, the more worried became. ‘NKV Dynamics and Elise Fordham, what have you got?’ He listened, then thanked the man. ‘Listen, before you go, I need to know all you can find on our old colleague at the paper. All there is to know about Elise Fordham’s time there, OK? But, Philip, it’s sensitive.’

He put the phone down and stared down to the street from his hotel window. There she was, surrounded by cameras, journalists, her aides, security and the public – exactly where every politician wanted to be. He should have been on the street with her, but he’d feigned a migraine in order to stay in his room and collect his thoughts – work the problem, as an old editor who’d taught him the darker side of his craft, had called it. He was trying to work this problem, but something kept clouding his mind, obstructing his thought processes. He jumped as his phone rang again.

‘Yes, Philip, that was quick. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten the many skills I had to batter into that thick skull
of yours.’ He listened intently, then said, ‘Are you sure?’ After a short pause, during which he could feel his own jaw drop as he heard what the editor of his old paper had to say, he clicked the phone off and looked back out the window. Elise Fordham was still working the crowd; he could tell by the look on the faces of some of the journalists that she was doing well.

And to think I thought I knew you, he mused.

Daley pulled into the car park at Kinloch Police Office just after eight o’clock. The drive back would have been long, winding and monotonous had it not been for the glorious views. As he’d stared across the Atlantic towards the Irish coast, green in the haze, he could have been driving on one of the Greek Islands, or even the Caribbean. Even the town itself had an almost Mediterranean feel as he navigated the roundabout at the bottom of Main Street, the loch, bathed in golden light to his left. Through his open window he could smell summer: the warm salt tang of the sea breeze, overlaid by the odours of barbecues, petrol fumes and hot tar. The good folk of Kinloch sat on benches, or strolled along the seafront in various states of undress; one or two waved at him as he drove by.

He found Scott and Rainsford standing beside a clearboard adorned with various pictures and information, Cudihey’s face at the centre, like a fat spider at the heart of a complex web. In the background, the investigation team still toiled away, desperately trying to find a morsel of evidence that would help give meaning to their investigations.

‘All right, Jim?’ asked Scott. His face was flushed, his habitual bonhomie overlaid by a restlessness that was
immediately apparent. The bar’s open, Daley thought. ‘Done oor best here tae try and put everything intae place, as far as we can understand it, anyhow.’

‘OK. Any response from Interpol on the possible ID of the guy who kidnapped Alice Taylor, with Pavel Abdic?’ Daley noticed Scott and Rainsford exchange a look.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Rainsford. ‘But you’re not going to like it.’ Without stopping to hear Daley’s response, he bent over a computer, and a face flashed up on the large screen. ‘This man is known only as the Dragon. As you can see, sir, he fits the description of the eye witnesses present at Alice Taylor’s kidnapping, even down to the scar on his forehead.’ The screen showed a dark-haired, handsome man, with a lined face, a vivid red scar running almost horizontally along his forehead. He had a long, thin nose, high cheekbones and – even from the evidence of this blurred photograph – piercing eyes.

‘Are Interpol confident that Abdic is who we think he is?’

‘Yes, sir. Pavel Abdic and this Dragon are known confederates, both from the former Yugoslavia. The first record of them fighting together was as mercenaries in the Chechen War with Russia. It would appear that Abdic was captured by the Russians and left to the mercy of the FSB. So, miraculously, we find them being used as assassins and muscle, unofficially, but certainly under the command of the Russians in the second Chechen conflict.’

‘So they swap sides?’

‘Indeed, but not just that. Interpol tell us that until his capture by the Russians, Abdic had been the senior of the two. He had been high up in the Serbian army, and fled when order was restored. By the time the pair get involved in the second
Chechen War he appears to have taken a subordinate role to the Dragon.’ Rainsford paused, lifting a piece of paper from a desk. ‘Interpol say, “We consider Pavel Abdic and the man known as the Dragon to be, if not agents of the Russian state, certainly to be in the pay of one of its most prominent individuals; namely, oligarch Arkady Visonovich. He cut his teeth in the KGB and got very near to the top of the FSB before things broke down. He then emerged from the post-Yeltsin era as a billionaire, one of Europe’s richest men. He made his money from grabbing huge tracts of the country’s mineral wealth during the power vacuum after the fall of communism. He has legitimate holdings in businesses throughout Europe and beyond – both openly and covertly – but is known to have associations with drug cartels in South and Central America, as well as in Europe, particularly in Northern Italy.”’ Rainsford looked up. ‘It goes on, sir, but basically, I think we can be sure that Alice Taylor is in real trouble.’

‘Yes, I think we can,’ said Daley. ‘Fuck! So why haven’t Interpol done something about this Visonovich guy?’

‘They can’t. A European arrest warrant was issued for him way back in 2000. He was wanted for war crimes in Chechnya, as well as involvement in organised crime in Sweden, Germany, Belgium . . . and more, sir. However, he doesn’t set foot outside the Russian Federation now, and they have ignored at least twenty attempts by various foreign governments to try and extradite him.’

Daley looked at the screen, now showing Visonovich’s picture. He had a round face, olive skin and narrow, slanting eyes. His hair, or what was left of it, stuck up in salt-and-pepper tufts above his ears and around the side of his head. ‘Why here? What is there for these people in this area?’

‘Hard tae say, Jim,’ replied Scott, who had remained uncharacteristically silent. ‘But when you see the way this boy Miller copped it, an’ oor friend Newell, well, it’s no’ the local thugs’ way of goin’ aboot things, is it?’

Daley swallowed. What he was hearing was almost unbelievable, but somehow it made sense. In light of what he knew about Donald, it made a lot of sense. ‘And what about Cudihey and his windmills?’

‘This Cudihey guy’s a mystery. As we said, Jim, whether he just had a wee notion for the lassie Kirsteen Lang, or they had some kind o’ relationship, who knows? Looking at him, and looking at her, you would say it was unlikely, but he was keen on her. That fuckin’ rubber doll is a’ the evidence you need of that.’ Scott screwed up his face at the thought.

‘But why there? Why all the photographs of that ship, the pictures taken at the beach? Why the caravan, come to that?’

‘You would say it was a wee bit too much o’ a coincidence. There’s another strange thing – no’ far fae the caravan we came across this wee compound. Here, take a look for yourself,’ said Scott, handing Daley some photographs. ‘The only thing we know is that it belongs tae the MOD.’

‘We’ll need to find out what it is,’ said Daley as he looked at the pictures.

‘The terminus of the cable we talked about, sir,’ said Rainsford. ‘I don’t think we’ll get much joy from the MOD, do you?’

‘Oh, another thing, Jim,’ said Scott. ‘Edinburgh’s preliminary investigations into Kirsteen Lang show something that might give us a lead.’

‘What?’

‘She was paying every month for a safety deposit box, an’ a high security one at that. The Edinburgh Financial Investigations team are on it right now.’ He was interrupted when the door to the CID room swung open and Inspector Layton entered.

‘Sorry to interrupt, gents. Can I have a word with you in private, DCI Daley?’

‘Yes, Inspector. Two seconds, please.’ Daley stood. ‘The girl has to be a priority. Even though she wasn’t taken here, I think it’s safe for us to assume that she is with the Dragon and Abdic. The questions is: are they back here?’

‘I spoke to Mr Taylor about half an hour ago. So far he has had no contact from the kidnappers,’ said Rainsford.

‘Poor lassie,’ Scott said, shaking his head. ‘What I don’t understand is, why would he be bothered aboot her noo, anyhow? He must realise that she’s identified this Abdic character. What have they got tae gain by taking her?’

‘Yes, that thought had crossed my mind, too. One other thing I want to know, doesn’t this Dragon have a proper name?’ Daley looked around for an answer.

‘I asked Interpol that very question, sir,’ said Rainsford. ‘It would appear that his actual identity is unknown, though it’s believed that he was orphaned during the war in the former Yugoslavia in the early nineties, when he was about ten, or so. The intelligence is that Abdic saved his life and brought him up as a kind of protégé.’

‘Aye, an’ noo he’s the boss,’ said Scott.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Daley turned to Layton. The pair walked into Daley’s office; Layton closed the door firmly behind him as Daley took a seat and indicated that Layton do the same.

‘I thought you should know, sir, that as of this afternoon, Chief Superintendent Donald has been suspended.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir. Orders from the Chief Constable.’

There’s someone higher
. Daley remembered Sarah MacDougall’s note. He still had it in his pocket.

‘So, where is he now?’

‘Not sure, sir. Apparently he signed himself off sick this morning. He has to appear in front of a disciplinary panel next week; assuming, of course, that he is fit to do so.’

Daley thought for a moment, but decided to say nothing about the contents of Sarah MacDougall’s letter.
Trust nobody
.

‘Thank you, Inspector Layton. I take it you’ll be heading back to HQ?’

‘No, not immediately. I’ve been instructed to remain behind for a while, to carry out certain investigations. Oh, and to assist you in any way you see fit.’

‘Investigate me, you mean?

‘No,’ replied Layton, his face betraying no emotion.

Stephen Taylor paced across the floor of his large office in the heart of Edinburgh, a small piece of paper in his hand. He read it again.

Go to the Auld Hundred Bar on Rose Street at opening time tomorrow morning, twelve o’clock. Sit at the downstairs bar and order a vodka and tonic. You will be handed a note. Finish your drink and take it out into the street to read. Follow the instructions carefully. If you bring anyone into the premises with you, or fail to follow these instructions exactly, your daughter will die
.

The message was concise and to the point. He wondered why they had chosen the Auld Hundred. When they went shopping in the city his wife liked to have lunch in the restaurant upstairs; she loved the sticky toffee pudding.

He looked at the ceiling of his office in despair; why hadn’t he been more careful? Why had he let her go to a friend’s house? If she wasn’t returned safely these questions would haunt him for the rest of his life. He had assumed that once they had left Kinloch and returned to Edinburgh they were out of danger. Even the police had been relaxed, though they had posted a car outside their Duddingston village home, just in case. Why had he listened to her? Why had he given in? They had been so careful that no one apart from both families knew where Alice was going.

What did they want from him? He looked at the phone on his desk. They hadn’t told him not to inform the police, just to have no one with him in the bar. He pressed a button on the phone console. ‘Gillian, get me the police, please.’

Daley watched Layton as he left the room. He wasn’t naïve enough not to realise that if they suspected Donald of impropriety, they would investigate anyone close to him, especially the senior officers under his command. But he had nothing to hide. He was far more worried about Alice Taylor than any investigation into his probity.

Daley looked at his watch; it was almost nine p.m., though outside it was still daylight. He walked back into the CID
suite. ‘How long will it take us to get to that caravan and this compound you’ve discovered?’

‘Aboot twenty minutes in the car, then a long traipse through the heather,’ groaned Scott. ‘Why?’

‘Me and you are off for a wee wander then. Come on.’ He picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and looked at Scott, who hadn’t moved. ‘What’s the problem, Brian?’

‘I’m dead on ma feet, here. Can we no’ check it out tomorrow?’

‘No time like the present. We shouldn’t be much more than an hour if we get a move on. Hurry up.’ Daley walked to the door. And the less time you have to drink yourself into oblivion, he thought, the better. ‘Half of Police Scotland is out looking for Alice Taylor. I need to clear my head.’

Soon the pair were in the car and driving out of Kinloch, Scott looking out at the passing scenery, saying nothing. They drove for about twenty minutes, as Scott had predicted, before the DS broke his silence.

‘In here, Jim.’ Daley pulled the car into a lay-by, and then followed Scott, who was still quiet, down the grass track and onto a stretch of white sand. The sea had taken on a darker hue now and the distinctive Paps of Jura were shrouded in a purple cloak through which pinpricks of light were beginning to show, as the stars began to shimmer through the short hours of darkness.