The Last Witness (3 page)

‘Now hang on, Jim, I want you to take a look at this.’ Daley could see his boss fumble with something on his desk, then suddenly the ample cleavage of Donald’s assistant filled the screen.

‘Ah, well done, my dear.’ Donald’s face was just visible over her shoulder. ‘Tell me what you think.’ Daley assumed that he was not referring to the plunging neckline, which had now disappeared.

The screen went black momentarily, to be replaced by a black-and-white image of a street filled with large houses. A 4x4 sped up the road and came to a halt. A darkly dressed figure left the vehicle and disappeared from view. Daley noticed the clock on the top right of the image: 16:11, 28 November.

Time ticked by, and Daley was about to protest that nothing was happening, when the dark figure re-emerged from the right-hand side. The man disappeared behind the back of the vehicle and the tailgate was thrust upwards. Daley could see the car rocking slightly, then, to the bottom right of the picture, a blurred image appeared. Daley took a heartbeat to realise that it was a person’s head he had seen bounce off the pavement. During the next few seconds, the hardened police officer felt his bile rise and he had to look away.

Despite the blurred quality of the image, the explosion of the victim’s head was all too clear; the fact that the body remained in the kneeling position as the shattered head dripped gore onto the roadway made the scene even more grisly.

The dark figure walked towards the driver’s side of the car, this time facing the camera. He looked up and smiled. The screen, and Daley’s heart, froze in the same instant. ‘It can’t be, sir. The likeness is startling, but . . . it just can’t be.’

‘I understand your shock, Jim.’ Donald’s voice was disembodied; the freeze-frame image still filled the large screen. ‘As you can see, the boffins have cleaned it up and the resemblance is uncanny.’

‘It can’t be, sir,’ Daley repeated, staring open mouthed at the image.

Donald’s face gave nothing away. ‘It gets worse, I’m afraid. There’s something else.’

Something else? Daley, suddenly aware his mouth was gaping, shut it with a snap of teeth, making one of his fillings ache in protest.

‘Something very sensitive; so much so, it’s not something I can risk broadcasting on this . . .’ Donald made an airy
gesture with his hand towards the camera. ‘Foolishly perhaps, I have entrusted vital information to your peripatetic sidekick; he’ll bring it to Kinloch tomorrow. Needless to say, this information is highly confidential. Read everything, then we’ll talk some more.’ He looked to his right. ‘I have a meeting in Edinburgh in two hours – this single Scottish police force nonsense – so I have to dash. Good luck, Jim, and let me know when you’ve digested it all.’ He gave a forced smile, then, before Daley could open his mouth, the screen went blank and was replaced once again by the Semper Vigilo logo.

As he watched DC Dunn walk towards him with a mug of coffee Daley experienced a disturbing, out-of-body feeling.

He had never been afraid of ghosts – until now.

4

Daley had been sitting in his glass box within Kinloch’s CID room for what seemed like hours. He had resisted the urge to call DS Scott the previous evening, after his virtual meeting with Donald. He would discover the horrible truth soon enough, he thought.

Daley was a man who rarely felt frightened, but his experiences with the Machie family, especially JayMac, had caused him to experience the emotion acutely. It was not unusual for police officers to place themselves in danger’s way; in fact, it was an all too regular occurrence. More often than not the violence erupted suddenly, giving the cop little time to fret on personal safety. However, the levels of premeditated violence and downright depravity deployed by the notorious crime family in the running of their empire was, quite rightly, a factor that anyone who had dealings with them had been forced to take into account.

When JayMac and his associates had been at large, the job of every police officer in Glasgow was a much more difficult and dangerous affair. They had worked tirelessly to get a break – some vital piece of information that they could use to unravel the labyrinthine knot of evil over which the gang presided.

In the end it wasn’t a member of one of the dedicated squads of detectives who had cracked the case, nor was it a senior officer or member of UK security services. Daley’s right-hand man, a humble divisional DS, was responsible for the downfall of the clan.

DS Brian Scott had made the connection between a string of construction companies throughout the UK and the Machie crime organisation. Large plant vehicles such as cranes and diggers had been used to distribute hard drugs, cash and firearms around the country. When was the last time a cop stopped a low-loader bearing a huge piece of construction machinery? The answer was simple: never. More embarrassment was to come when various police forces realised that not only had they failed to detect this scam, they had actually provided officers to escort these ‘abnormal loads’ all over Britain’s motorway network.

Daley recalled JayMac’s sneer as this evidence was read out in court. For years, hundreds of the country’s boys in blue had inadvertently been making sure that the Machie family’s business operated smoothly.

He looked down at the notepad on which he had been absently doodling. Without realising, he had sketched a rough cross on the page. A cross very like the one fashioned in granite that stood sentinel over a grave in a Glasgow cemetery. He quickly banished the thought from his mind.

He was trying to focus on a report he was writing, detailing the evidence against a local farmer who had been distributing illegal tobacco, when the glass of his door was rattled by a knock. Despite the blinds, Daley recognised the formal tap-tap-tap that announced his DS.

‘How ye doin’, Jim?’ Scott stuck his head around the door. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking over his shoulder, ‘
sir
. Not tae worry, it’s only thon wee lassie, Dunn, in the office, an’ she looks like she’s fully occupied on the computer. Lucky her.’ Though a talented detective, IT specialist he was not.

‘Come in, Brian.’ Daley stood up from his large swivel chair. ‘How was your trip?’

‘How d’ye think? Fuckin’ terrible, as per usual. I’m goin’ tae ask his majesty if he’ll no’ think aboot payin’ me doon on the plane. That road wid try the patience o’ a saint. Ye never think yer goin’ tae get here, nae matter how often ye drive it. Ma arse is fair achin’.’ He rubbed his backside by way of emphasis.

Daley pulled the guest chair out from the other side of his large desk, and indicated to Scott he was welcome to take a seat. ‘I’ll get you a coffee, bit early for something stronger. You can get a wee dram down at the County later. Annie will be pleased to see you, no doubt.’

A smile crossed Scott’s face. ‘I cannae say I’m no’ looking forward tae a wee whisky, right enough. That’s the reason they drink so much doon here, they’re always worried aboot havin’ tae drive back up that fuckin’ road.’

Daley sat back down. He wasn’t sure how much Scott knew. He leaned forward, looking his friend in the eye.

‘It’s OK, Jim.’ Scott spoke before he did. ‘I know whit yer aboot tae tell me.’

‘You do?’ Daley was surprised.

‘Aye, of course. You don’t think his majesty wiz able tae pull the wool o’er my eyes fir long? Anyhow, wan o’ the new DCs fae Springburn heard a’ aboot it in the pub.’

‘I must say, Brian, you’re taking it all very calmly,’ said Daley. He wasn’t particularly surprised that Glasgow’s
underworld was already in possession of the information that Donald thought so essentially secret.

‘I daresay.’ Scott shrugged. ‘But at the end o’ the day, it’s no’ as though I wiz wan o’ Gerry Dowie’s big fans, as I’m sure ye appreciate, Jim.’

Daley looked at his nonchalant DS. His unconventional approach to most problems sometimes made him very hard to fathom, though it was probably part of what made him such an effective police officer.

‘And what about our other friend, Brian?’

‘She wiz a nice enough lassie,’ said Scott. ‘I knew her before she got hersel’ in tow wi’ that arsehole, you know.’

‘Who?’ Daley was surprised by the reply.

‘His wife, och, whit’s her name again?’ Scott looked to the ceiling for inspiration.

‘I wasn’t meaning her, Brian. I was talking about the murderer.’ It dawned on Daley that Scott’s network of informants was not keeping him as well briefed as he thought.

‘Oh, so they’ve got a body a’ready? Quick workers, these Aussies. Well done.’

Daley closed his eyes and sighed. He hadn’t been looking forward to this conversation.

‘Whit’s up, big man? Were ye oot on the batter last night? Yer as pale as a ghost.’

How apt, Daley thought. There was nothing else for it. He opened a drawer in his desk and took a red file from it, handing it across to Scott without comment.

‘I hate it when ye dae this tae me, Jim.’ Scott took the file and opened it, turning it on its end when he realised that the A4 image within was upside down. He screwed up his
eyes and peered down at the picture. ‘Wait a minute.’ He searched the inside pocket of his jacket and fished out what looked like a brand new glasses case.

‘Auld age comes tae us a’, Jimmy-boy. It’ll no’ be long until you get a pair o’ these an’ a’, especially wi’ a’ that reading ye dae when yer at hame. At least I gie ma eyes a rest when I’m no’ workin’.’ He donned the glasses, scrutinised the picture and dropped it instantly.

‘If this is your idea o’ a wee joke, let me tell ye, ye’ve come away wi’ much better.’ Scott’s face had taken on a pallid hue.

‘I know it’s hard to take in. I’ve only just found out yesterday, myself. That is a video still of the murderer of Gerald Dowie and his wife, taken outside their home straight after the killings.’ He felt sorry for Scott, who was now visibly shaken.

‘It cannae be, just cannae . . .’ Scott started to massage his right shoulder with his left hand, wincing slightly. ‘Ye know, I’ve no’ felt a peep oot o’ this fir mair than three years. Just wan look at that face an’ the thing’s throbbing like f—’ He was stopped by a knock at the door and the emergence of DC Dunn, bearing two steaming mugs of coffee.

‘Thought you might like some coffee after your drive, sarge,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Oh, sorry for interrupting,’ she added, noticing the serious expression on her superiors’ faces.

‘It’s OK, lassie.’ Scott rarely let anyone leave with a sore heart; unless they deserved to. ‘Mebbe this’ll keep me fae keelin’ o’er. Eh, Jim?’

Dunn made her excuses then left, closing the door quietly behind her.

‘Nae sign o’ a biscuit, neither,’ said Scott, looking down at his coffee.

‘Here.’ Daley opened another drawer of his desk, removing a bottle of malt whisky. ‘I think you need that dram now, Brian.’

‘Aye,’ he said, taking the bottle and removing the cork with a soft pop, then pouring a measure into his coffee until the mug very nearly overflowed.

‘It’s no’ just the fact that bastard shot me, Jim.’ Scott looked up, putting the steaming mug to his lips. Daley noted a slight tremor in his hand, which sent a drip of the whisky coffee down the side of the white mug. After a loud slurp, Scott put the mug down, letting out a long sigh. ‘Jim, we went tae his funeral. I saw him trundling doon the conveyor belt at the crematorium. He’s deid!’

5

Daley watched as Scott poured another hefty measure of whisky into his mug; there was no need for coffee now, the spirit was all that was required.

They didn’t talk for a few minutes; they didn’t have to. Both knew what the other was thinking. It had been an unremittingly hard task to break the Machie family: dangerous, frightening, but ultimately successful. How could the spectre from their worst nightmares have cheated the grave and reappeared on a quiet Australian street? The sneer aimed by the murderer at the CCTV camera as he left the scene of horror in Ringwood East was burned onto Daley’s memory. Like every murder case he had been involved in: the sight of his mother lying dead in her bed; the face of a child suffocated with a pillow by a drunken father; like – like all too many scenes from Jim Daley’s career that played out unbidden before his mind’s eye.

‘I’ve got a top secret file fir you fae his majesty, Jim.’ Scott jolted Daley from his thoughts.

‘Yes, he told me,’ the DCI said wearily. ‘I don’t know what’s in it, but it can’t be any worse than what we know already. Can it?’ Daley looked into Scott’s face for the confirmation he knew he wouldn’t get.

‘Efter the day, I widnae be surprised by anything. Elvis is likely buskin’ doon the street.’ Scott’s weak attempt at humour told Daley how much he had been affected by the revelations. ‘Gie me a second. I’ll just nip oot tae the car an’ get it.’

‘I hope this won’t be like my promotion. Remember?’ Daley recalled how his sergeant had managed to lose a letter informing him that he had been promoted to Chief Inspector. Was that really only a few short months ago? It seemed like years.

‘Nah, dinnae worry. I thought he wiz goin’ tae make me chain it tae my wrist. He left me in nae doubt how important it wiz. I stuck it under my seat.’ Scott left for the car park.

Daley eyed the bottle of whisky, still sitting on his desk. He had never really been a heavy drinker, though there had been times when he had resorted to the bottle in an attempt to anaesthetise himself against life. He supposed that he was lucky not to have the kind of personality that lent itself to addiction. Many of his colleagues, past and present, struggled with alcohol.

‘Fuck’s sake.’ Daley’s glass door burst open, revealing a flushed DS Scott. ‘Ye’ll need tae gie me a hand here, Jim. The bloody file’s slipped under the seat an’ I cannae reach it. You’ll get it wi’ they long arms o’ yours.’

Scott had driven down in his own divisional CID car, a vehicle that was easy to recognise, adorned as it was with small bumps and scrapes and almost camouflaged by a thick layer of dirt. It was no better inside: overflowing ashtrays added to the stench of stale tobacco smoke, and the floor looked like the object of an ardent recycler’s dream, littered with empty crisp and cigarette packets, Styrofoam coffee cups, a half-uneaten pie, and various other objects which remained unidentifiable.