Dark Suits and Sad Songs (37 page)

‘Quickly!’ shouted Mason. ‘We’re compromised. We need to get into the life raft, now!’

Daley hauled himself to his feet with Scott’s assistance. The sea heaved, and the noise of wind and waves in the cabin managed to penetrate even Daley’s temporary deafness. The men stumbled along the deck, slipping and sliding in the heavy swell.

‘Stay there and hang on. If anyone goes over the side here, they’ve had it!’ shouted Mason, making his way down the rolling deck. Whether it was the icy wind or the salt spray, Daley’s head was beginning to clear. He looked back to see Scott and three other men huddled in a corner, clinging to various parts of the cabin. Daley lurched towards them just as a massive wave hit the side of the boat.

DC Dunn sat back in her chair. She’d heard a mayday call from
Semper Vigilo
and the response from the coastguard and other vessels nearby. Her heart was pounding; the memory of almost being dragged into the maelstrom that was Corryvreckan fresh in her mind. She thought only of Jim Daley now. The girl was dead.

The thunder was growing louder; lightning flashed, causing the office lights to flicker. Kinloch’s Main Street had been turned into a river; the sudden deluge of rain had already overwhelmed the town’s storm drains. Street lights popped into life as though under a night sky, not that of a summer’s afternoon.

As a coastguard message about the horrendous conditions at sea burst forth from the radio feed she was monitoring,
she pictured the wretched figure of Alice Taylor, slumped with exhaustion in a corner of the fishing boat set to become her tomb. Again, something about the gentle way the image had swayed didn’t ring true.

She was jolted from these thoughts by Mason’s voice, crackling over the radio feed. ‘All crew and passengers of
Semper Vigilo
now in life raft awaiting rescue near last known coordinates, over.’

Dunn breathed a sigh of relief, then looked down at her computer. She knew they were still in danger, so to take her mind off their plight, she rewound the image of the girl trussed up on the boat, stopping at a random point just over three hours ago. The picture swayed gently; she had been told this was because of an unsteady camera aboard the boat. She sent the footage spinning forward again until just before the screens had gone blank. There was Alice Taylor, her head bent forward on her chest, the room gently swaying.

50

There was silence aboard the lifeboat, save for the rain, wind and waves battering the sides of the vessel, and quiet commands from Coxswain John Campbell, the large man sitting at the helm, far from his usual ebullient self.

They had spent more than an hour in the freezing life raft, and Daley was only now beginning to stop shivering. As he looked across at Scott, it was clear he was still suffering. They had changed out of their soaking clothes and been given warm survival suits. Apart from minor cuts and bruises and mild hypothermia, they had survived the explosion of
The Girl Maggie
miraculously well.

Their deliverance was down to the fact that when the fishing boat had exploded, it had been on the crest of a high wave on the swell, and their vessel in a deep trough. Had
Semper Vigilo
not been cushioned by a wall of seawater, the sheer compression of the blast would have been enough to kill them.

But Daley could feel no joy at his escape from death.

‘We did all we could, big man,’ said Scott, his teeth chattering. ‘Everybody’s feeling it, Jim.’

He looked around the cabin at the cold, tired, miserable faces. Here he was again, lamenting the loss of another young
life; another to add to the long litany of lives he had touched, now all gone.

The thought had been in Daley’s mind for a very long time; now he was sure. He’d had enough of dealing with the worst that society could offer, the detritus washed up for him to remove. Aboard Kinloch’s lifeboat, as it ploughed on through heavy seas to harbour and home, Daley decided to leave his job. He no longer wanted to be a policeman. He wondered if he ever really had.

Elise Fordham stood before the crowd in the upmarket Edinburgh hotel. The lights on her were bright and warm, yet she shivered as she looked down at the lectern and her speech. To either side of the plinth, two screens stood ready to scroll her words down as she read them, making it appear that she was talking without notes.

At the front of the audience sat Gary Wilson, his face impassive, save for the hint of a sneer that she wasn’t sure was real or imagined.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your kind reception,’ she began. ‘I hope you’ll feel it was merited after I’ve bored you to tears for the next few minutes.’ There was laughter at this, the exaggerated kind from people who had been drinking and were out to encourage the woman who stood before them. Fordham took a sip of water from the glass in front of her and started to speak. Her cheek was still sore from the blow from Wilson, but the bruise was artfully concealed with make-up. ‘Everyone in this room, regardless of politics, is a proud Scot . . .’ The screens scrolled, and she waited until the roar of approval died down. She was doing what she had for years, but this time the circumstances were
very different. She glanced briefly at Wilson, then carried on – bright, confident, amusing, and glad to be back in control. Words spilled forward on the screen in front of her.

Daley climbed into the police car with Scott. They had been taken to Kinloch’s cottage hospital after landing on the pier. Daley’s cut face had been attended to, swabbed lest any of the glass from the shattered window of
Semper Vigilo
had embedded itself. Both he and Scott were still wearing the orange survival suits they had been given aboard the lifeboat.

‘You coming in for a dram, big man?’ asked Scott as the car, driven by a young cop, pulled up outside the County Hotel.

‘No, thanks, Brian. I just want some time to myself.’

‘Aye, well. Remember, you’re no’ tae blame. We did a’ we could. Aye, an’ nearly got drooned for oor pains.’ Scott patted him on the shoulder, then left the car and walked towards the hotel, his survival suit bright in the gloom.

As he was driven past the loch, Daley noticed a patch of livid sky above the island, beyond which lay the open sea. Though the torrential rain had stopped, the wind was still strong, whipping up crested waves that lashed against the sea wall. All of a sudden they had been transported from July to January, or so it seemed. Winter had arrived in his soul, of that there was no doubt.

As they drove up the steep lane that led to Daley’s home he was surprised to see a light in the window. A grey 4×4 stood outside.

He left the car, thanking the driver and, realising he didn’t have his key, knocked at the door. He was bathed in warmth
and light as the door opened. Framed in the doorway was Liz, holding their child. Though there were dark shadows under her eyes, she looked beautiful.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said, kissing his forehead. ‘I know what’s happened. They told me when I arrived.’ She hesitated. ‘We can talk about it if you like. Remember, I know you and I’m here now. So, come in, there’s something in the oven for you.’

As he walked in, she handed him the child, his son. The baby squinted at him, then just as he thought the little face was going to crumple in tears, a huge smile beamed, transforming his features, and the boy gurgled happily.

She’d been away for months, but here she was, here
they
were. Jim Daley had a family again.

‘To conclude, I would like to say something – something very important.’ The words on the screen stopped; the operator had noticed that what Elise Fordham was saying didn’t match the script. ‘I love my country. My whole life, not just my political one, has been devoted to our nation, please believe me.’ She looked straight at her audience, all except for Wilson, who was squirming in his seat, trying to catch her eye. ‘Some time ago, it came to my attention that all was not well, that there were those at the very heart of our government, our civil service, even our police force, who were hell-bent on taking this nation in a direction that, should they succeed, would prove ruinous.’ The audience gasped, and Wilson froze, held down by Fordham’s protection officers, who pinned him to his chair.

‘In the next few days and weeks, you will hear a great deal about me.’ Fordham stared down at Wilson. ‘The things that are true, I did for the best, for my country. I did them to stop
this nation and her people from becoming pawns in a deadly game between good and evil.’ The audience were uneasy, looking at each other in silent astonishment.

‘Today, I spoke with our Justice Secretary, a man I trust, and who you will remember was almost forced from his position earlier this year, over accusations contrived by those who sought to bring him down and replace him with their own man,’ she said, noting the flashing light on top of a TV camera. ‘As of now, he has, as is his right under our constitution, suspended all operations in our parliament, and has asked the Commissioner of London’s Metropolitan Police Service to investigate members of Police Scotland, our civil service, and, I am so sad to say, colleagues of mine, friends and fellow statesmen I thought I could trust. We must – we simply must – cut out this cancer!’

No sooner had these words left her mouth than all hell broke loose.

‘Lies, all lies, I can prove it!’ shouted Wilson as he was bundled away. Dragged past tables of astonished diners, he spat and kicked, his eyes bulging in fury. Journalists and photographers mobbed the podium. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted.

Fordham stood back from the lectern and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. The last thing in the world she had wanted to say, but the most important.

When Mary Dunn’s mobile rang she rushed across to where it sat on the kitchen counter in her little cottage. She had hoped it was Jim Daley; it wasn’t. A young doctor she had met at a party nearly a year before was calling. He’d asked her out a couple of times since, but she’d always been busy.

The voice at the other end of the phone was hesitant. ‘I’ve been invited to a wedding, and the reception is tomorrow night.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I was hoping you might do me the great honour of accompanying me.’

She smiled at his formal manner, and the nervousness in his voice. She was about to say that she was working, too busy, but then thought, why not. She couldn’t waste her time waiting for something that was never going to happen.

She thought of Daley, sitting beside the body of Superintendent Donald, stunned and bewildered. Her heart lurched in her chest and she gulped her tears away. The man she loved, so much that it ached in her chest, had been saved then lost – to her, at least – on the same day.

He was at home now with his wife and son. Life had to go on.

51

Daley was woken in the early hours of the morning by the cries of his son. From what Liz had told him, it seemed that Jim Daley Junior was as restless as his father.

Daley picked up the little bundle, cradling him over his shoulder, and took him into the kitchen to prepare a bottle, the way Liz had shown him. It was almost quarter to four, and already a pale light spilled through the windows. The storm had blown over, and all was quiet. Summer had returned to Kinloch, but Daley’s heart still felt cold.

When Brian Scott awoke, he did so feeling thirsty, disorientated and with a thumping head. He had become used to the after-effects of alcohol, and on the very rare occasion that he didn’t wake up with a hangover, felt as though something was wrong. He dragged himself out of bed and padded through to the bathroom.

The more drunk he had become the previous evening, the more he had thought of John Donald. The man who had tormented him for so long was gone. But had the bullet that killed him really been meant for Jim Daley? They had been dealing with one of the most ruthless and efficient assassins
in the world. Did these people make mistakes? Did they ever hit the wrong target?

He stared at his lined face and bleary eyes in the mirror. Alcohol’s effects were pernicious; he felt depressed, anxious, at odds with the world. The only cure was more booze, and the cycle would start again.

‘I will be needin’ a fucking scarf soon,’ he said to his reflection, as he lifted the razor to his face with a trembling hand.

Daley made his way through the scrum of reporters already gathered outside Kinloch Police Office. He brushed aside their shouted questions, turning to face one insistent hack with a glare. He’d heard about Fordham’s extraordinary statement on the radio news. He wondered how the scandal would affect the new Police Scotland; what was clear, as Sarah MacDougall had said in her letter, was that Donald had most certainly not been working alone. He would have questions to answer about John Donald, and about Sarah’s letter. If it helped rid the police of the people who sought to undermine it from within, so be it.

He had just sat down at his desk when the large figure of ACC Willie Manion appeared in the doorway.

‘Aye, good, Jim. Back in the harness already. We’ll no’ have many days as bad as that again, I hope.’

‘No,’ said Daley. ‘I sincerely hope not.’

‘Do you know about this bloody scandal, this Fordham woman?

‘Yes, sir. I do. If you got the chance to read Sarah MacDougall’s letter, you’ll see that it hasn’t exactly come as a surprise.’

‘Aye, right enough. That’s what I want tae say. We need tae get this bugger Abdic up tae Glasgow. An’ I’ll tell you, Jim,
though I’m ashamed tae say it, I don’t know who we can trust. I want me and you tae do the job.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Daley, somewhat taken aback by Manion’s proposal. ‘Do you really think things are that bad?’

‘Fuck knows, that’s just the thing. I want Abdic safely under lock and key in Glasgow, then I can try and find oot how rotten oor job has become. Lucky me, I’m the one they’ve chosen tae open this Pandora’s box.’

‘Well, I did think it was no coincidence that you were having so much to do with the Donald situation, sir.’

‘Aye, when a’ the smart arses wae the degrees an’ the contacts cannae be trusted, send for the old boys, eh? Anyhow, until we know just how hellish things are, we’ll take it on ourselves tae get that bastard somewhere secure.’