Dark Suits and Sad Songs (27 page)

Wilson tucked the document and the picture of the young Elise Fordham neatly into the inside pocket of his jacket, left his office, and walked out of the Scottish Parliament and into the Edinburgh sunshine.

Stephen Taylor was breathing heavily as he left his car in the underground car park, only a couple of hundred yards from his destination, the Auld Hundred on Rose Street. He was nervous; he hadn’t slept since Alice had been taken, and he was particularly aware that his every move was being monitored by unseen cameras, and that the sound of his very breath could be picked up by the small device taped onto the hollow of his chest.

As advised, he began to hum the opening bars of ‘Message In A Bottle’, the first song from his youth that came to mind. He was about to start the second line when a tiny bleep from his chest indicted that his wire was operational and that his protectors, observers – whatever they were – could hear him.

Why had he been so stupid? Why had he put his family at risk by following a hunch? Did it feel any better now that his suspicions had been confirmed, and his beautiful daughter was in the hands of ruthless psychopaths?

He turned a corner and there was the Auld Hundred, solid and familiar. Under normal circumstances he would be looking forward to taking the weight off his feet and enjoying a cup of good coffee, or perhaps a glass of wine, and something to eat. Now, he was being watched by half of
Edinburgh’s police force, and trying desperately to save his daughter’s life.

He looked at his watch. He had been told to enter the bar no earlier or later than midday. He was early, so he turned and affected to look into a shop window, dismayed that his right leg appeared to be shaking uncontrollably. For the next few minutes, he barely took his gaze from the timepiece on his wrist.

Princes Street Garden was busy, the sun tempting its worshippers out into the dazzling light. Wilson sat on a bench and opened the copy of the
Scotsman
newspaper he had just purchased. He scanned the front page; the main news was a prediction as to how long this beautiful, and rare, taste of summer would last. He took his phone from his pocket and pretended to answer it. Folded neatly behind the device were the documents he’d removed from his office. He ended his call, laid the phone down on his newspaper momentarily, then put it back into the inside pocket of his jacket, careful to leave the neatly folded document behind.

He sat for a few more moments, pretending to read the newspaper. Then he stretched, yawned, got to his feet and walked off.

He was less than fifty yards away when a young couple clad in flip-flops, shorts and colourful T-shirts took his place on the bench. They kissed and looked out across the gardens, the young man whispering into his lover’s ear. They kissed again. After a few more minutes of public affection, they too got to their feet and walked away from the bench, a copy of the
Scotsman
tucked under the young man’s arm.

*

As the second hand of his watch touched twelve, Stephen Taylor walked into the Auld Hundred. He sat at the bar and ordered a vodka and tonic, smiling weakly at the pretty, tanned woman who was serving. As she busied herself pouring his drink, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Excuse me, I know this sounds stupid, but are you called Stephen?’

‘Yes,’ said Taylor, leaning slightly away from the barman, not knowing quite what to expect.

‘A man handed me this at the bus stop this morning, and told me to give it to the first guy who came through the door and ordered a vodka and tonic. He said to ask if you were Stephen. Is this some sort of prank or something?’ He handed Taylor a large manila envelope. There was something small but bulky inside, and Taylor opened the package with shaking hands, terrified that it might explode. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read.

In a few moments he had finished, then, as instructed, he read the page again, making sure he understood what had been said. Still trembling, he gulped at his drink, placed it back on the bar and walked out of the Auld Hundred, taking the envelope with him. When he got to the middle of the pedestrian precinct, he reached into the envelope and removed a small silver object.

With one flick, the lighter ignited; and as he held its flame to the envelope, it did, too. Distantly, he heard the sound of police sirens. As the first cars rounded the corner in a flurry of flashing blue and blaring sound, the envelope gave the last of itself to the fire and rose from Taylor’s hand as a floating sliver of ash in the golden light.

*

‘What the fuck is he doing?’ shouted McClusky, as he watched Stephen Taylor, who filled the large screen in front of him. ‘I thought we had officers in the street – where are they?’

‘Special Branch, sir. They won’t want to be identified as police officers in case the perpetrators are watching,’ said the sergeant sitting behind the control desk.

‘So we just allow a valuable piece of evidence to go up in smoke? Brilliant!’ McClusky watched as a police car skidded to a stop in front of Taylor, sending shoppers and tourists scurrying for refuge in shop doorways. One old man stood transfixed, slowly removing the old-fashioned cap from his head as his jaw dropped. For some reason, Taylor was standing with his hands raised in surrender, like a cornered murderer.

‘I want to talk to Taylor, now!’ McClusky ordered, as the controller replaced his headset and spoke urgently to the officers on the scene. Taylor was handed a mobile phone, and soon his voice sounded loud in the control room.

‘What did you just do, Mr Taylor?’

‘I was just doing as directed by the kidnappers. I was told to be at Haymarket station tomorrow at six p.m., and to burn the document and envelope with the lighter supplied. They made it clear that any deviation from their instructions would result in Alice being harmed. I wasn’t going to take that risk.’

McClusky studied Taylor’s face on the large high-definition screen, so sharp he could see beads of sweat on the man’s forehead and the enlarged pores on his nose. He realised Taylor was under pressure, but his policeman’s instinct told him there was more to what had happened; there was something furtive about his demeanour.

‘And that was all the note said, Mr Taylor?’

‘Yes, that was all it said.’

McClusky made a cutting motion across his neck to indicate to the controller that their conversation was over. Once the connection was broken, he said, ‘I want Taylor brought here. Get men into the bar – I want it closed and everyone, especially the guy who handed the note to Taylor, brought in. Got it?’

Stephen Taylor was shaking as he was led towards a police car. Despite being a conservative, middle-class, law-abiding citizen, he was now sure of one thing: the police were his enemy.

As he walked past the old man in the cap he smiled.

‘Aye, don’t you worry, son,’ the old man said, looked at him pityingly. ‘Fuck me, but they smoking laws are getting right oot o’ hand!’

34

The sea broke on the rocks of the tiny bay. Though he tried to stop the tide of memory from consuming him, he felt his thoughts drifting.

The rifle sits well on his shoulder, and is comfortable under his chin. He likes the cold feel of it, and its smooth, almost sensual, quality. He is ready for the recoil, which he reacts to like a boxer soaking up a punch, moving back with the motion to lessen the impact on flesh and bone. This weapon is an extension of himself: a sleek and deadly one
.

Focus, he chides himself. Don’t let these thoughts in.

A gust of warm wind rustles the tall pines and sends birds flitting from their branches, their indignant song punctuating the distant sound of gunfire from the ruined village far below
.

He has assembled the rifle with love and affection. This, though, is a hard-won love: he had been beaten until he learned to show the weapon due reverence, be able to bring it to life only by touch and feel, blindfolded; burned by cigarette ends until, with trembling hands he got it right, over and over again. He has suffered for the right to be its master, this weapon that has filled his hopes and dreams for so long
.

He watched a seal flop onto the shore, trying to stay in the here and now. There were beads of sweat on his brow.

He brushes away a fly as he squints into the sight. Two soldiers swagger across a yard, sending chickens flapping. The one with the braided epaulettes aims a kick at one of the unfortunate birds and laughs
.

He takes a deep breath, the way he has been shown. Just before he exhales, he squeezes the trigger gently. His shoulder shoots back and he lets his breath out in a loud sigh as the weapon discharges its deadly force. He keeps his eye tight to the gun sight to see the explosion of red as the soldier who had only seconds before tormented the harmless bird falls backwards, his head gone
.

Now he is the conductor of this symphony of death. Now he is the taker of lives, the captor of souls. Now he is the Dragon
.

That was long ago, and many lives have been extinguished since. He breathed deeply, relieved, as he looked out of the cabin window at the restless sea.

Silent stares greeted Daley as he walked into Kinloch Police Office. Sergeant Shaw drew in his breath rather than say good morning. Distantly, he could hear raised voices; following them, he found himself outside the door of Interview Room One.

‘And you’re one arrogant big bastard! I was arresting folk when you were shitting in a dirty cloot, you fucking arsehole.’ Scott’s raised voice was unmistakable.

‘What is going on?’ asked Daley, bursting into the room. Scott was sitting opposite DS Rainsford and a visibly uncomfortable DC Dunn, who avoided Daley’s gaze as he took in the scene. The red light on the recording console flashed to show that the interview was being taped.

‘For the record, DCI Daley has entered the room at 08:55 hours,’ stated Rainsford.

‘Turn it off.’

With raised eyebrows and a frustrated sigh, Rainsford looked at his watch. ‘Interview paused at 08:56 hours.’ He leaned across the desk and switched off the tape. ‘Sir, I really must insist, this is a gross breach of procedure. DS Scott is under arrest. I’m merely doing my job – I would appreciate it if you would let me do so unhindered.’

‘DC Dunn, please leave the room,’ said Daley, keeping his gaze fixed on Rainsford. Dunn stood, smoothed the front of her trousers, then departed.

‘Thank fuck you’re here, Jim,’ said Scott.

‘Shut up, Brian. May I remind you gentlemen that we have multiple murders, an apparent suicide and a missing girl to find, not to mention lights in the sky and all the rest that’s going on. I cannot believe I’ve walked in here to see my two senior detectives in these circumstances. Speak, DS Rainsford, and make it fucking good.’

Rainsford sat down and crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘Sir, first let me say that I have been unhappy with certain aspects of the way you run the sub-division. I believe your casual approach has got us to where we are now.’ He nodded across the table to Scott.

‘What?’ Veins were beginning to show on Daley’s forehead.

‘Too often, matters of procedure and professional etiquette are ignored.’

Scott rubbed his chin. ‘I really wouldnae go there, if I was you, son. Trust me.’

‘See, this is what I mean. Here is this man, under arrest and being questioned, and you burst in and stop the whole thing. I will have no choice other than to take this matter
further, along with other matters pertaining to personnel in this office.’

‘Meaning?’ Daley asked, standing over Rainsford now, as Scott grimaced at the other side of the table.

‘If I need to spit it out, I will.’ Rainsford rose from behind the desk again and stared directly into Daley’s face. ‘Your conduct with DC Dunn is not only unprofessional, it is unacceptable. I have been wrestling with my conscience for some time over this; now is the time for action.’

Daley leaned on the table with both arms outstretched, his head bowed like a boxer on the ropes, struggling to regain his composure after being battered by his opponent.

‘Get oot, son,’ said Scott, looking up at the younger man. ‘Honestly, get oot while you can!’

‘Yes, I’ll get out – with great pleasure, in fact. But I’m going to report this sorry mess to a senior officer at division,’ said Rainsford, picking up his phone and notebook from the desk in front of him.

Daley lunged across the table at him, sending the recording equipment clattering to the floor. Rainsford, caught off guard, staggered backwards and thumped against the wall. Daley kicked away a chair and charged at the young detective, grabbing his neck and forcing him back as Scott tried desperately to get in between the two men.

Daley’s eyes were bulging, his teeth bared in anger, white against his crimson face. He leaned into Rainsford, his hand around the detective’s throat.

‘Jim, for fuck’s sake, calm doon!’ Scott shouted, doing his best to force Daley away from his quarry. ‘This’ll no’ sort anything oot.’

As Daley tightened his grip on Rainsford’s throat, the
door swung open and Sergeant Shaw stuck his head into the room. ‘I have Edinburgh CID on the phone, sir. They say it’s urgent,’ he said nonchalantly, as though walking into a room to find his sub-divisional commander throttling a junior colleague was the most normal thing in the world.

Daley released his grip, and Rainsford began choking and gasping for the air he had been deprived of. ‘You two stay here!’ he said, as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Scott picked up one of the upturned chairs and put it in front of Rainsford. ‘Here, son, you better take a seat. You look as though you need it.’

‘That guy is certifiable,’ said Rainsford, still breathing heavily and rubbing the red weal on his throat.

‘Aye, well, I did try tae warn you. What have I telt you? Polis work’s no’ a’ done by the book, son. Aye, an’ it doesnae a’ come out of one neither. I’d nothing tae dae with that lassie, an’ that dope came fae Wiley, the journalist who just happened tae be in the hall as you so kindly arrested me.’