Dark Suits and Sad Songs (26 page)

Daley hesitated. ‘I don’t want to leave you upset like this.’

‘Get out!’ she shouted. ‘Now!’

Daley got up from his chair and looked at Mary. She had buried her head in her knees, still drawn up to her chest, and was sobbing uncontrollably. He held his hand out to touch her auburn hair, but stopped himself. ‘Will you be OK?’

‘I’m fine, just leave.’

With great willpower, Brian Scott managed to drag himself from the bar after just three more drinks. In all honesty, he was fed up looking at Wiley’s sneer every time he happened to glance in his direction.

‘Yous both look wild and tired, Brian,’ said Annie, as he made to leave the bar and go back to his room.

‘Aye, force o’ work, you know how it is. You’ve had a busy night yoursel’, by the looks o’ things.’

‘Aye, I have that,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘It’s my night off the morrow. There’s a new Chinese restaurant jeest opened doon at the other end o’ Long Road.’

‘Oh aye,’ said Scott, trying to locate his cigarettes.

‘I jeest wondered if you fancied a wee meal, jeest as friends, you understand. You look as though you could dae with a good feed.’

‘Eh, aye, I mean why not, eh? Be nice tae dae something for a change, rather than just sit aboot the pub and work. Better no’ make it too early, mind. You know the hours I have tae keep.’

‘What aboot half eight?’

‘Aye, that should be OK. Unless we bump into a wee green man in the street, that is. I’ll gie Jim the heads up tomorrow.’

‘Great, it’s no’ a date then.’

‘No, it’s no’. We both know a date’s just another word for a casual shag, these days,’ said Scott with a grin. ‘I’ll get you in here, eh? I’m just heading for a quick smoke before I hit the sack. See you tomorrow.’

He left Annie behind the bar, and made his way to the smoking area at the back of the hotel. He jumped when somebody spoke from the shadows.

‘Your boss doesn’t like a slice of the truth, does he, DS Scott?’ Despite the slurring, Wiley’s voice was unmistakable.

‘You bastard. If I was you, I’d get tae ma bed before they aliens get hold o’ you an’ take you to the Planet Arsehole, where you belong.’

Wiley moved to stand in front of the detective, close enough for Scott to make out his bloodshot eyes.

‘You pricks are all the same. Just love the fact you’ve got a warrant card in your pocket and a wee bit of power. Aye, well, things are changing, Brian. Cops like you and Daley are dinosaurs, from another age. The new force is full of graduates, folk with brains, not backstreet bully boys like yourself that somebody was stupid enough to give a uniform to, back in the day.’ He leaned in closer. ‘I’m making it my business to expose bastards like you, make sure this new police force is a fresh start.’

‘Very commendable, I’m sure, Ronnie,’ said Scott, taking a long draw of his cigarette. ‘Since my career’s near up, I hope you’ll indulge me one last time?’

‘With what? The phone number for the bookies or the snooker halls where the rest of the down-and-out ex-cops hang out? No problem.’

‘No, with this.’ Before Wiley could move, Scott smashed his forehead into the other man’s nose, sending him tumbling backwards with a sharp crack.

‘You fuckin’ bastard, it’s broken,’ screamed Wiley, his voice muffled by his hands on his nose and the blood in his throat.

‘You need tae watch doon here, Ronnie. The polis are just no’ daein’ their jobs, know what I mean?’ Scott kneeled over his victim. ‘Might have been one o’ they wee green men, eh.’ He thrust his hand into Wiley’s pocket and pulled out a small ball; dark and hard and covered with cling film. ‘I’ll just keep a hold o’ your stash o’ dope, Ronnie. Just in case you fancy a wee complaint against Her Majesty’s Constabulary. Though I’m sure naebody saw nothing. That’s the problem
wae these attacks outside pubs, I’ve just stopped bothering wae them altogether. You have a good sleep now.’ Scott got to his feet and walked back into the hotel, leaving Wiley whimpering on the ground.

32

Not for the first time, as he stared across the loch in the early hours of another golden dawn, Daley wished he hadn’t stopped smoking. He was sitting on the decking outside his home, high on the hill overlooking the loch and the town beyond. To his left, the island that sheltered Kinloch from an angry sea’s wrath loomed dark and immovable; he could see the white dots of sheep grazing near its loaf-shaped summit. Directly across the still waters, the dead of Kinloch lay under the burgeoning light of a sky that offered the hopes, fears and promises of another day for those who lived and breathed. For those in heavenly repose, the summer’s warmth was but a long-forgotten whisper on the the wind.

He always looked at graveyards with the same melancholy. Was it here that his eternal resting place lay, soft and silent but surely waiting for him? Maybe, somewhere over there, his very own piece of earth, the soil to which he would return, was ready for him. Somewhere, the tree that would be his coffin was growing tall and strong, until the axe of his death brought it down.

He tried to force out these thoughts, only for Alice Taylor’s pretty young face to parade before his mind’s eye, followed
by John Donald, the Dragon, Liz and Brian Scott. The grotesque corpse of Walter Cudihey; Malky Miller with his tongue pulled through the gore of his own neck; the look of agony on Rory Newell’s face; the clever, beautiful, but misguided Sarah MacDougall, dead on a mortuary slab with her head caved in; and only a few miles away, Kirsteen Lang, a young woman he had only read about and seen, full of life, in photographs, now still and lifeless.

He thought of Mary, the smell, taste and touch of her, the warmth between them as she straddled him with her long legs and worked hard and slow to bring them both to climax, all the time arousing, mesmerising him. He could see her long auburn hair splayed across a white pillow as she lay sleeping after they made love. Why was it that, so often, when he thought of death, he remembered sex.

He still missed Liz, yearned for her, even, but how could he feel for someone else in this way? He knew of men who sought solace in the arms of other women to escape the mundane day-to-day treadmill of their marriages; the thrill was all in the search for new, yielding flesh. He was not like that. The mere act was without thrill unless he felt something more. And he had obviously felt something more for his young colleague. Many would have ended their illicit relationship without a second thought; he couldn’t. He knew that in similar situations, Liz had disposed of lovers without a shred of regret.

Was the jump from death to sex his mind’s way of telling him that his relationship with his wife was at an end – dead? Then he remembered the child who had stared at him so recently. He could see the world in that one tiny, crumpled face.

He looked up, just in time to see the flash of a shooting star arcing across the darker sky to his right, where night still had purchase.

Lights in the sky.

For Brian Scott the day began with an aching head, but not in the usual way. As he struggled up and sat on the side of his bed, he realised the pains in his forehead had more to do with its connection to a journalist’s nose than to booze.

He was pleased that, though he had been drinking the previous evening, he could remember absolutely everything that had taken place: conversations, faces, places, even going to bed. Progress, indeed.

As his bare feet slapped across the cool tiles of the en suite, he heard a sharp knock on his door. Cursing, he padded back across his bedroom and opened it a crack. There, immaculately groomed and fresh-faced, stood DS Rainsford.

‘Aye, son, how can I help you? I’d invite you in, but I’m in my scants,’ said Scott, noting the uniformed officer standing behind Rainsford.

‘This isn’t a social call, DS Scott,’ Rainsford replied. ‘There’s been a complaint about you, of assault. I need you to come with me.’

‘What?’ Despite his state of undress, Scott flung the door open and took a step towards the younger man, his bare toes almost touching the other man’s tan brogues. ‘If you’re talking aboot that lowlife bastard Wiley, you can forget it.’

‘This has nothing to do with Mr Wiley. A young woman has made a complaint that you sexually assaulted her in the early hours of this morning.’

‘What? Aye, very good. And just where did this assault take place? In the bar doonstairs, wae half o’ Kinloch watching? Wake up, son.’

‘Step back inside, DS Scott. I need to search your room, as accusations of the use and possession of controlled substances have also been made.’ Rainsford looked down his nose at Scott.

‘Right, I get it. Listen, I found a wad o’ cannabis resin in a journalist called Wiley’s pocket last night, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Did you charge Mr Wiley, or lodge this evidence at the office?’

‘It was the middle o’ the night, so I just cautioned Wiley and let him on his way,’ said Scott, already sensing the trap.

‘That’s not my information, DS Scott. A Miss Tracy Black has come forward to say that you invited her to your room last night on the pretext that you wanted to buy a class C controlled drug from her. Before the transaction was completed, you pinned her to your bed and sexually assaulted her. Now, please come with me, Brian. Or do I have to arrest you formally? Constable Latimer, please conduct a search of DS Scott’s room.’

‘You might have been tae university, son, but you are one stupid fuck,’ shouted Scott as Latimer forced past him and began rummaging about in the hotel bedroom.

‘I’m just following procedure,’ said Rainsford. ‘Something you seem incapable of.’

‘Whoot’s all this?’ Annie was hurrying down the corridor. ‘I heard voices.’

‘It’s a police matter, madam,’ said Rainsford. ‘I apologise
for any disturbance. DS Scott, please get some clothes on and come with me.’

Scott looked between the tall young man and Annie. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, just a misunderstanding. Dae you know a lassie called Tracy Black? Well, she’s telt this fuckin’ idiot here that I bought drugs fae her, and tried tae assault her. That’s right, is it no’?’ he asked Rainsford angrily, struggling into his trousers.

‘Yet again, most unprofessional, DS Scott,’ said Rainsford. He turned to Annie and said, ‘Please ignore what you have just been told, madam.’

Annie was about to make her opinions known when a shout from inside Scott’s room silenced the three on the landing.

‘I found this, Sergeant.’ PC Latimer handed Rainsford a small black ball, wrapped in cling film. ‘Found it in DS Scott’s trouser pocket,’ he said, then looked at Scott and shrugged apologetically.

Rainsford rolled the ball around in his right hand, peeled off some of the plastic, and sniffed. ‘DS Scott, I am arresting you on suspicion of the possession of a controlled substance under the terms of The Misuse of Drugs Act 2005. Please come with me.’

Just then, from behind Annie, a bright flash drew their attention. Standing down the hotel corridor with a photographer stood a slight man with a broad plaster over his nose.

‘Have you got anything to say, Detective Sergeant Scott?’ said Wiley.

The door to the room opposite Scott’s cracked open, and the head of a bespectacled Japanese tourist poked through it. He looked astonished as he saw Scott being led away with a
policeman’s hand on his shoulder, a camera flashing as the photographer took shot after shot. Scott’s loud objections filled the air with expletives that the bemused guest did not understand.

‘It’s a lovely day,’ said Annie, with a forced smile. ‘If you’re on your way tae breakfast, I recommend the kippers, jeest in yesterday.’ She cleared her throat, smiled again, then left the man scratching his head in the corridor.

33

Superintendent Donnie McClusky stared at a bank of large screens in the AV room of Edinburgh Police Office. The various camera feeds showed different sections of Rose Street, including the front of the Auld Hundred bar and restaurant. In the footage from inside the premises he watched a woman mopping the floor while a man placed bottles on a high shelf.

‘When does the action start?’ he asked.

‘Taylor is en route now, sir,’ answered a uniformed police sergeant behind a console, wearing a pair of headphones. ‘We have him wired, but as he’s driving at the moment all we can hear is Ken Bruce on Radio 2. I’ll patch the audio through when he’s parked.’

McClusky looked around the room. Call the new police force what they liked, this was a Lothian and Borders operation. Strathclyde had failed to save Alice Taylor, and now that the problem had landed in his lap, he intended to illustrate just how superior the men from the east were. He sat on a swivel chair and looked on idly as a pretty young woman walked down Rose Street.

Gary Wilson reasoned that he was much happier back behind his desk in the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh,
though happy perhaps wasn’t the most appropriate word to describe his feelings.

He stared at the blurry photograph in front of him with a burgeoning sense of alarm. She was much younger and had blonde streaks through her long hair, but there was no mistaking Elise Fordham. She was shaking the hand of a swarthy man in khaki uniform as he smiled at her, surrounded by other men in uniform cradling firearms. In those days, few outside the Russian Federation had known Arkady Visonovich; he was merely a quick-witted former KGB enforcer, making himself useful to the right people. Wilson studied the photograph. Fordham’s smile looked genuine, friendly even, and its warmth was returned by Visonovich.

He had used most of the resources at his disposal in order to make sense of what was happening. On the face of it, this was a picture of a young journalist, sent by a Scottish newspaper to cover the Second Chechen War, shaking hands with a junior Russian commander. Nothing unusual; journalists were encouraged to get as close as possible to those on whom they reported, especially in a war zone, where sound contacts might not just mean good stories, but rescue from difficult or potentially deadly situations.

Wilson picked up a document from his desk. It was a financial investigation into the board of a holding company, Axiom BV, registered in Rotterdam. About half way down the list was the name Arkady Visonovich, listed as a non-executive foreign associate director. On paper it didn’t mean much; he was just another wealthy man with a dodgy past, and most probably present, involved in international business. It was as an old economics professor had told him: global trade was the last bastion of man’s savagery. Wilson
turned the page and scanned the companies listed under the Axion BV umbrella, and there it was, as plain as day: NKV Dynamics.