Dark Suits and Sad Songs (5 page)

‘Aye, he was in good form.’ Manion sounded doubtful. ‘No’ quite himsel’, you understand. But no’ too bad neither.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I haven’t spoken to him for a couple of weeks.’

‘Well, you’ll get a chance tae, soon enough. I’ve managed tae persuade him tae come back tae work. Light duties, you understand. Mainly office-based work – tae start off wae, anyhow.’

Daley was surprised that Scott had decided to come back. Nearly every time he’d spoken to his friend recently, he’d been drunk, swearing he was going to take the compensation package on offer and quit the force all together. ‘How is he? I mean, getting shot is as traumatic as it gets, sir.’

‘Och, you know oor Brian, restless as usual. Aye, an’ when he’s time on his hands, you know fine what he gets up tae. He’s driving Ella mad; pissed a’ day. He needs tae get back tae work, or else he’ll be needing a new liver.’ Manion’s chuckle was mirthless.

‘So, some light duties at HQ, sir?’

‘No, not quite. He’s needing a change o’ scene mair than anything else. You’ll have your hands full o’er the next few days, wae a’ that’s going on. Who better than your old buddy tae help you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Daley, surprised by this news. ‘But what about the investigation?’ Since his recovery from gunshot wounds, Scott had been questioned by officials anxious to know how he had been overpowered by a man in protective custody, allowing him to escape. ‘And what about Superintendent Donald?’

‘You leave John Donald tae me, Jim,’ Manion replied confidently. ‘An’ remember, he’s
Chief
Superintendent, noo that he’s king o’ his ain castle.’

‘I’ll give Brian a call,’ Daley said, relieved that Manion was in charge of Scott’s rehabilitation. Underneath his rough and ready persona lurked a keen mind and determined personality; he was more than a match for Daley’s superior, John Donald, despite Donald’s eminence in the new Police Scotland set-up. ‘When can I expect him?’

‘Tomorrow, Jim. No time like the present, as my old granny used tae say. Mind, you reel him in, though. He can coordinate things at the office. This Cudihey thing is perfect fodder for him just noo. It’ll free you up tae get on wae the investigation on the ground, knowing Brain will have the admin covered.’

‘Really?’ asked Daley, only partially in jest. ‘Admin is not exactly his strong suit, sir.’

‘Och, he’ll be fine. Any problems, just gie me a wee shout,’ Manion said, brightly. ‘We owe him, Jim. Did I tell you,’ he continued, his voice less cheerful, ‘we lost oor wee poodle?’

After a lengthy conversation as to the devastation wrought by the death of the much-loved family pet, Daley heard Manion hesitate.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’ve been given quite a task, Jim,’ said Manion in more hushed tones. ‘Aye, by the new Chief Constable himself, would you believe?’

‘Task?’

‘Let’s say that you’re not the only one tae notice that things are not how they should be around oor friend John Donald. My job – aye, quietly, so tae speak – is tae get tae the bottom of it. I know I can count on you and Brian – well, hopefully Brian, if he can pull himself together and stay off the bottle. You’ll be hearing much mair about it shortly.’

The call ended, and Daley took time to absorb what he’d just been told. He was pleased that DS Scott was returning to work, though on the last few occasions he had seen his old friend, Scott had most definitely not been himself. He supposed, if nothing else, he could use Scott as a sounding board, much in the way he had always done. As far as paperwork was concerned, he’d leave that to someone else.

The fact that Manion was heading a high-level, albeit clandestine, investigation into Chief Superintendent Donald was surprising, but welcome, news. He and Daley had got to know each other through their mutual friendship with Brian Scott. Manion was a down-to-earth, no-nonsense cop of the old school. What he lacked in finesse, he more than made up
for with experience and gut instinct. Even better, at last Daley had someone at a senior level that he could trust.

In the few hours since the young detective had departed, Kirsteen Lang had been through nearly all of her social media archives: photos, conversations, posts, records of places she’d been – her whole life over the last year or so. She had carefully edited the part of her affairs that, however remote the possibility, she didn’t want anyone poking their nose into.

She sat back in her chair; the job was done.

A ping from her PC alerted her to a new email. She swapped screens, to find a message from the First Minister’s office. She was to report there as soon as was convenient to speak to a communications officer.

Her heart sank.

She pulled her large, expensive leather bag from the floor, plunging her hand inside in search of her make-up bag. She looked at herself in a hand mirror; apart from looking slightly pale, she was happy with what she saw. Her lips were red and full, and her eyes sparkled, framed by mascara and some subtle eye shadow. A quick touch up here and there and she was ready.

Kirsteen walked out from behind her desk and opened the door of her office, hesitating for a moment to take a deep breath, before making her way down the corridor. Whatever happened, she was determined that nothing would spoil her chances. Not the police, not Walter Cudihey – not anyone.

6

The Taylor family sailed up the west coast of Scotland every year. Most years were wet, cold and – in the main – miserable. Grey sea and greyer sky, punctuated by moments of sheer beauty on the rare occasions the sun decided to bestow its warmth.

This year was different. This year blue skies were the norm. As family patriarch Stephen Taylor, like his father before him, had always maintained, there was nowhere in the world more beautiful on a sunny day than the western seaboard of Scotland. As the sun beat down from the blue sky, with just enough of a breeze to drive the small yacht on, for once, the rest of the Taylor family agreed.

Alice Taylor was perched on the bow of the vessel, her head raised high, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Occasionally, the sea sent refreshing flecks of water over her tanned skin and short dark hair. This was to be her rest, her calm before the storm of exams she would face over the next few years. At fifteen, she was half aware that this was the last summer of her childhood, though she would never have admitted this out loud to her sophisticated peers at the smart private school she attended in Edinburgh.

Her attention was caught by a welter of gulls hovering, diving and squawking over the water about a hundred yards
in front of their boat. She strained her eyes to see what was causing the commotion and could just make out something floating between the waves.

‘Dad!’ she called. ‘Come and have a look at this!’

Stephen had also spotted the gulls and was almost at her side when she shouted. He stood tall at the bow, supporting his spare frame with a mast stay. ‘Steer to port, Andrew,’ he called to his son, now at the tiller. ‘I want to try and circle round whatever that is in the water.’ His son shouted back, and the deck took on a slant as the boat arced towards the gulls, which were unperturbed by the proximity of the vessel.

As they edged nearer, the frenzy of seabirds was almost deafening. ‘Looks like something’s dead up there, Alice. Probably a seal or something. Maybe it’s best that you go to the wheelhouse and help your brother; might not be a pretty sight.’ As he spoke, a putrid stench enveloped the boat.

‘Oh, that’s horrible!’ exclaimed Alice, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

Stephen Taylor said nothing. From his vantage point, as the boat began to circle the patch of discoloured water, it was obvious why the gulls were so animated.

‘Get into the wheelhouse now!’ He glared at Alice, the tone of his voice enough to ensure she complied instantly with his request. ‘Tell your mum to bring me the radio, quickly!’

As the Taylors’ yacht slowly circled, the body of a naked man was now unmistakeable, floating in a patch of ruddy brown seawater.

*

‘Kirsteen, come in.’ Despite his slight frame and diminutive stature, Gary Wilson had become a force to be reckoned with in Scottish parliamentary circles. He was the press troubleshooter; the go-to man should anything untoward threaten the government, or worse still, the First Minister. Although he was not in charge of the communications department, it was rumoured that he had turned down the post on many occasions, preferring a role in the shadows, where practitioners of the dark arts of press and political manipulation flourished. His job description was ‘Special Advisor – Media’, nebulous enough to allow him an almost unlimited remit. A hard-bitten, fifty-something, ex-tabloid journalist from Glasgow, he had seen it all, done it all and scooped it all. Now his job was to hush it all up. It was a job he excelled at. He relished the power, the cachet and the fact that he didn’t have to rely on an increasingly precarious newspaper industry for his daily bread. His nickname, Stalin, spoke volumes. He knew where all the bodies were buried, and made it his business to reward a large number of casual informants for any information that further added to his burgeoning black book, in which misdemeanours, indiscretions and dark secrets waited until the time they could be deployed against politicians, members of the press, government mandarins, or anyone who stood in his or, more pertinently, his boss’s way.

Kirsteen trembled slightly as Wilson showed her to a chair. He seated himself in front of her, behind his large and imposing desk. She knew that her seat being closer to the ground than his was a deliberate ploy to undermine her confidence, and maybe even to compensate for his lack of
height. However, as Kirsteen licked her dry lips, she acknowledged that it was working.

‘Now, Kirsteen.’ Wilson’s voice was low and barely audible. ‘Tell me about Walter Cudihey.’ He steepled his fingers in front of his lips and stared down at her.

‘Oh, it’s so sad. I only heard this morning.’

‘How, may I ask?’ Wilson’s expression didn’t change.

‘From a detective,’ Kirsteen hesitated. ‘He came to see me earlier. I . . .’

Without taking his eyes from hers, Wilson reached across his desk and picked up his phone. ‘I want Dunsmore in my office in fifteen minutes,’ he said, with no little malice. ‘I left clear instructions this morning that if the police appeared asking questions about the Cudihey situation, I was to be informed. Everything through me!’ He slammed down the phone.

‘Sorry, did I do the wrong thing?’ Kirsteen asked, her heart thumping in her chest.

‘That all depends on what you said.’ He sat back in his large chair, passing his hand over his close-cropped scalp. ‘Please, do tell all.’

Despite herself, Kirsteen gulped. She took a deep breath, knowing that her whole career – her future – was in the balance.

Daley listened quietly. Richard Spence, the duty force doctor was speaking from Kinloch’s lifeboat, on the way back from picking up a body found in the sea by a passing yachtsman.

‘Not happy about this at all, Jim,’ he said in quiet tones. ‘When will you be leaving the office?’

‘It’s nearly seven already,’ Daley replied. ‘I’m only here because of what happened earlier. Best not to say too much on the boat. Walls have ears, if you know what I mean.’

‘And so do portholes,’ Spence replied, alluding to the notorious thirst for gossip amongst Kinloch’s populace, seven of whom were the crew sailing the boat he was now on. ‘Suffice it to say, you’re going to have to get SOCO down again.’

‘Really? Well, that won’t be a problem. They haven’t left yet.’

Daley ended the call and sat back in his swivel chair. It was feast and famine working here. Weeks went by doing little apart from making sure due process was being followed – his duty as acting sub-divisional commander – and investigating minor theft s and assaults and flushing out petty criminals. Routine police work; nothing different to the problems that any detective, anywhere in the country, expected to deal with on a regular basis. He had managed to bring many of the town’s petty dealers to book, as directed by Donald, but that had been easy. Then this: two bodies in one day.

The phone on his desk buzzed.

‘Yes. What now?’ he asked, irritably.

‘A personal call for you, sir.’ The desk sergeant’s voice was strangely hesitant. ‘Your wife, sir.’

Daley froze.

‘Sir?’

‘Put her through,’ he ordered. As the phone clicked, he heard Liz’s voice, and the cries in the background made him shudder. The baby.

7

‘So you looked at his warrant card, and then?’ Wilson was leaning on his desk with both arms straight, staring down at Vincent Dunsmore, head of the parliament’s security detail, who was visibly squirming in his chair.

‘He showed me his warrant card and told me that he was investigating a minor theft from one of the committee rooms – a member’s handbag. She had reported it an hour or so before,’ Dunsmore said, his jowly face crimson with stress and discomfort.

‘Don’t such matters normally get referred to you, rather that the police?’

‘Well, yes. However, it’s not uncommon for members – especially new ones – to automatically call the police if they feel they have been the victim of crime. It’s not something that happens very oft en, to be honest.’

‘Don’t fucking smile at me, you twat!’ Wilson bellowed. ‘I asked you personally to take charge today. I told you that we had a potential problem and that the fucking police and press were likely to be swarming about. You let a cop into the building to question one of our staff about a very delicate matter before I’d even had the chance to brief her.’

‘Ah,’ Dunsmore’s face reddened further, ‘more bad news, I’m afraid.’

‘What? For fuck’s sake, what other fuck-up could you possibly have made in the last few hours?’

‘I’ve been checking with the local CID. They didn’t send anyone to interview Kirsteen Lang,’ said Dunsmore quickly, as though anxious to confess.

‘Oh, brilliant.’ Wilson put his hands on his hips. ‘So if this guy wasn’t a fucking detective, who the fuck was he?’

‘We . . . we can only assume that he was a journalist.’