The Last Witness (33 page)

Daley fished into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a large black-and-white photograph, which he handed to his wife.

‘In your case, very civil,’ he said as she looked at her own image, kissing Mark Henderson, his hand buried in her hair.

Daley walked away.

When he returned to the office, he was dismayed to find Superintendent Donald sitting behind his desk.

‘Ah, Jim. How are things at the hospital?’ Donald looked up at him over a pair of reading glasses.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Writing my report.’ Donald leaned back in Daley’s chair, which squeaked in protest. ‘I knew I would find all I needed here. Young Miss MacDougall has already provided some interesting information,’ he said with a self-satisfied smile. ‘Turns out one particular piece of scum – Andy Lafferty, Dowie’s son-in-law – was the initial connection between
Sarah and Machie. He assisted in the ambulance “assassination” and confirmed Cisco’s suspicions that Machie was still alive. Also provided Machie with the Dowies’ new hiding place. All very helpful. Pays to strike while the iron’s hot. Sarah was
most
cooperative.’

‘You’re all heart,’ said Daley. ‘She’s just witnessed her father being killed.’

‘Needs must, Jim.’ Donald was unrepentant. ‘We all have to do our bit to improve performance. Things are changing. Scotland is about to change. Myself and other senior police officers and members of the security service up here have decided to steal a march on the establishment down south – get ahead of the game, so to speak – in preparation for a new independent country. We will have a new agency, united against crime, whether it be large or small.’

‘And what if the vote is no?’ Daley asked.

‘We’ll see.’ Donald smiled smugly. ‘Even in that unlikely event, the genie is out of the bottle. The old order changeth, James, and I for one don’t expect to be left behind.’

‘Really,’ said Daley, his blood starting to boil. The old order had been changing for a long time for Donald, who had been using the phrase for as long as Daley could remember.

‘Listen, Jim, today has been a great success. We’ve ended this awful Machie resurrection; we even know how he did it. Just shows you how much things have changed in the last fifty years. They used to breed like bloody rabbits in the slums of Glasgow. Kids brought up by grannies and aunties, conniving midwives and priests keeping the secret. Nobody knew where they were. We can’t blame ourselves for not discovering the long-lost twin theory.

‘There will be an investigation into the behaviour of the prison staff who were guarding Machie, of course. The most likely theory is that he swapped with his somewhat naïve twin during the hospital visit. Hence all the cash at the farm. Anyway, we’ll soon find out the truth.’

‘There are a lot of things that will have to be investigated, sir,’ said Daley, remembering Duncan Fearney’s last words.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, get the fuck off my chair and out my office.’

After a few tense moments, Donald stood up. ‘I know you’re under pressure, Jim. Worried about Brian, oh, and Liz, no doubt, so I will let this little outburst go.’ He walked to the door. ‘But only this once.’ He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

Daley sat down heavily in his chair, unpleasantly warm from Donald’s backside. He felt profoundly depressed. His marriage to his pregnant wife was probably over. His best friend was hovering on the verge of death. And another traumatic case had clawed at his soul.

He opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. The half-empty bottle of whisky rolled back to reveal the small note that had been tucked underneath it. Daley recognised Scott’s scrawl.

If you’re reading this, I’m in bother. Donald made me spring MacDougall. An unofficial order, he said. He’s up to something. I need help, Jim. B
.

It was then that it struck Daley: the convenient death of Duncan Fearney, the tracking device in MacDougall’s pocket.

John Donald. JD. The same initials as MacDougall’s spirit of choice: Jack Daniels. Were the dying man’s words a veiled message, or just a coincidence?

‘Oh, you’ll know him.’ Duncan Fearney’s last words sounded in his head.

Daley was well into the whisky, but instead of dispelling his fears the alcohol was having the opposite effect. The faces of his wife, Mark Henderson, Donald, Duncan Fearney, James Machie and Frank MacDougall coalesced in a sickening parade before his mind’s eye.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Daley, still distracted by his thoughts.

The door opened to reveal DC Dunn, wearing an Arran jumper and tight jeans, hands thrust into the pockets.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ she said. ‘Is it OK to come in for a minute?’

‘Of course, in you come.’

‘I just wanted to . . . to thank you for saving my life.’ She tried to smile, but broke down into tears. ‘I’m so sorry about D.S. Scott.’ A large purple bruise covered her right cheek and her face bore a number of cuts and scrapes, testament to her ordeal.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the seat at the other side of his desk. ‘Do you drink whisky?’

‘I’m in the CID, of course I drink whisky.’ She regained her composure and beamed through her tears.

Daley removed another glass from the filing cabinet and filled it with a good measure of the expensive Springbank single malt. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to the DC. ‘You look like you need it.’

They sat quietly on either side of the desk for a few moments, letting the spirit do its job.

Daley watched Dunn. She closed her eyes every time she sipped her drink. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed
before: the button nose, the high cheekbones, the sweep of auburn hair. She was the very image of the young woman he had fallen in love with years before. He felt a pang as he remembered the first time he had met Liz.

‘Here’s to you, sir,’ she whispered, raising her glass as her face broke into a shy smile. ‘And thank you.’

‘A pleasure, my dear. Cheers.’ Daley raised his glass and looked straight into her beautiful ice-blue eyes.

Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to Hugh Andrew and all at Polygon for signing me up and ensuring DCI Daley lives on. A special mention for my editors, Alison Rae and Julie Fergusson, who have worked so hard. It’s great to be in the hands of such professional and capable people.

I am also very grateful to my wonderful and wise agent, Anne Williams of the Kate Hordern Literary Agency; indeed to Kate herself.

I endlessly appreciate my family, Fiona, Rachel and Sian; without their support in art, as in life, I would be diminished and hapless. I find it sad that my parents, Alan and Elspeth Meyrick, didn’t meet Daley, Scott, Hamish et al, but then again, maybe they have. God bless them.

To the good folk of the real Kinloch – Campbeltown in Kintyre. Despite being ignored, ill used, starved of funding and attention and generally placed at the bottom of the list as far as government is concerned, there thrives a community as warm as it is resilient. You will travel far and wide to meet folk as kind, entertaining, funny and unique; here is a place
apart. If you find yourself with itchy feet, direct them to ‘The Wee Toon’, for Campbeltown and its environs are as beautiful as they are unspoilt, a treasure trove of history and culture. I can only strive to do you justice through your fictitious cousins. Thank you all so much for your support and kindness.

D.A.M.

Gartocharn

June 2014