The Last Witness (7 page)

Scott opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to interrupt as Donald carried on, barely pausing for breath.

‘In the very early hours of this morning, a forty-nine-year-old man was found dead in a street in the East End of Glasgow
with a seven-inch blade still lodged in his solar plexus.’ Donald looked at the men for a reaction, but gave them no time to comment. ‘Two hours earlier, a helicopter was discovered by a night orienteer – whatever the fuck that is – in a clearing in the middle of forestry in South Ayrshire. The pilot had been despatched professionally by two shots to the head.’ Donald looked out of the office window, down Kinloch’s Main Street.

‘Not something that happens every day, sir,’ Daley commented, feeling that he had to say something.

‘Indeed not, Jim. Most unusual.’ Donald was clearly troubled, which worried his subordinates. ‘Under normal circumstances these events, as distasteful as they are, would have been viewed as being wholly unconnected; that is, until one looks at the last known movement of the helicopter and the identity of the murdered man in Glasgow.’ Donald paused, displaying the skills of the storyteller. ‘Peter MacDougall, petty crook, drug dealer and, most pertinently, younger brother of Frank – who needs no introduction.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’ Scott was sitting forward in his chair, looking at the floor.

‘I believe the deceased was a friend of yours, DS Scott?’ Donald said.

‘I widnae say “friend” as such, sir,’ Scott replied, clearly affected by this news. ‘I wiz at school wi’ him. We grew up in the same street, that’s all.’

‘Well, far be it from me to pry into your tortured personal relationships, Brian. That is, unless something inappropriate has been going on, in which case . . .’

‘Sir,’ Daley interjected firmly, not bothering to hide his irritation, ‘this is not getting us anywhere. Please can we just get on with it?’

‘How forceful, Jim. Your new management responsibilities must be suiting you. The CID team from Cumnock have been working on this all night. The helicopter was registered to a Henry Parr, a retired Royal Navy pilot, who passed some of his time by carrying out commercial contracts – ferrying golfers about and so on. However, at first glance it would appear he worked only infrequently, spending much more time at his holiday home in the Bahamas.’

‘Which is hard to do when you only have a navy pension to sustain you,’ Daley observed.

‘Exactly,’ Donald affirmed. ‘On examination of the aircraft’s satnav, it would appear he spent a few minutes at a point somewhere off the North Antrim coast, a specific position he had programmed into the machine. That was prior to landing in Ayrshire – his final flight.’

‘And Peter MacDougall – do we have anything more on his murder?’ Daley enquired.

‘Your colleagues at London Road are working hard on that, but you know the East End, Jim. Nobody saw anything, and the CCTV coverage isn’t exactly comprehensive. Most of the street is derelict. All we know is that he left the pub along the road minutes before he was killed.’ Donald sat back in his chair. ‘Because of the delicate situation concerning his brother, the WPP have asked me to pass on the news about Peter.’ He steepled his fingers in front of his face, waiting for a response.

‘We’ve got tae break cover an’ tell Frank that his brother has been killed?’ Scott was incredulous. ‘Can they no’ dae that themselves?’ he added, shaking his head.

‘At last, it speaks,’ Donald said. ‘The murder of Peter MacDougall has changed things: Witness Protection was reasonably relaxed, as I told you both yesterday, after the
murder of the Dowies. That is now no longer the case. The form is that if they believe there is a viable threat to someone on the programme, they liaise with local law enforcement, wherever that may be. In this case, gents, that is us. It’s our pleasant duty not only to inform him that his brother has been murdered, but tell him about “you know who” and persuade him that another change of identity and location would be, well, most prudent.’

‘Prudent?’ said Scott. ‘If I wiz him I’d be on my bike quick smart, an’ nae mistake, before this ghost, or whitever it is, comes knockin’.’

Daley walked over from the window where he had been standing and leaned on Donald’s – his – desk. ‘I’m still all at sea with this, sir.’ He pointed his finger into the desk. ‘For a start, if this is JayMac – and surely that is open for debate at the very least – how has this happened? People don’t just come back from the dead.’ He looked down at Donald, who squirmed in his chair, not enjoying the dynamic.

‘Apairt fae the big man,’ Scott said, drawing the attention of both of his colleagues.

‘The big man?’ asked Donald.

‘Aye, ye know – JC.’ Scott sat back in his chair. ‘Jesus, ye know?’

‘Perhaps you missed your calling, Brian. Maybe you’d have made Archbishop of Canterbury if you had taken the cloth,’ Donald said.

‘Aye, well.’ Scott was not to be outdone. ‘Mebbe we’ll need tae gie him a call, see if he can perform wan o’ they exorcisms.’

Donald snorted in derision and was about to speak when a knock sounded at the door. After Donald barked a
perfunctory ‘Yes?’, DC Dunn walked in, pausing near the door, where she smoothed some unseen creases in the front of her dark blue skirt.

‘Just to let you know, sir,
sirs
’, she began, plainly nervous around Donald, ‘the presentation is ready.’ She nodded her head obligingly and Daley thought for one awful moment that she might curtsy, but Donald dismissed her in the same offhand manner in which he bade her enter and she left hurriedly.

‘I felt it would be beneficial if we were to look back in time,’ Donald said, picking up papers from his desk. ‘Try and find some way that this – if it is him – could have happened. Come with me.’

They trooped from the office, Donald taking the lead. Behind him, Scott shrugged at Daley and raised a two-fingered salute behind the superintendent’s back.

‘And you can stop that insubordination immediately, Brian,’ Donald said, not bothering to turn around and sweeping open the door of the audiovisual room. ‘In fact, I want a word with you, DS Scott – in private.’ He looked at Daley, who excused himself, and led Scott into a nearby empty room.

Daley, not trying to hear what was being said, couldn’t help being surprised at the bile expressed by the superintendent. It was clear that, despite Scott’s careless attitude, he was most certainly not flavour of the month with his boss.

9

DC Dunn was in the room, leaning over the computer that controlled all things audiovisual. Donald placed his arm around her shoulder, speaking to her in hushed tones as though what was about to be revealed was a state secret. Daley was sure he saw the young woman flinch as Donald’s hand snaked over her back. How many times had he seen these manoeuvres from his boss?

Donald turned away from Dunn and indicated that his detectives take a seat. ‘I think it important that we fully rebrief ourselves with what happened six years ago,’ he said grandly, as though addressing a packed auditorium. He looked to Dunn. ‘I take it you’re finished? Just tell me which button to press, then kindly absent yourself.’

‘Press any button to start, and the same to stop,’ the flushed DC replied, clearly uncomfortable in her superintendent’s presence.

‘Great!’ Donald exclaimed. ‘Off you pop now.’ He leaned over the keyboard, glasses perched on the end of his nose, as DC Dunn made a hasty exit.

‘Off ye pop,’ Scott whispered as she was leaving. ‘It’s like fuckin’
Downton Abbey
.’

‘An excellent programme,’ Donald replied. ‘But less of
your sarcasm, DS Scott. If I recall, we still have to sort out the little matter of your yearly assessment which, I can assure you, does not make for pleasant reading.’ He paused, mind now back on the complexities of the computer. He pressed a button and the huge screen flickered into life. ‘I’ve put this together by way of an aide-memoire, so to speak,’ he said and took a seat between Daley and Scott.

The familiar face of a well-known Scottish newsreader appeared on the screen, looking noticeably younger than when Daley had seen her a few nights previously, when he had been watching TV with Liz.

She began to speak: ‘Infamous gangland figure James ‘JayMac’ Machie was sentenced to five life terms in prison at Glasgow High Court earlier today. He and almost fifty members of the Machie organised crime family have been on trial over the last four months in what has been the largest such proceeding in Scottish legal history. The gang, responsible for murder, extortion, the supply of illegal drugs and money laundering, as well as a further seventeen charges, are likely to collectively serve over a thousand notional years in prison.’

The visuals switched from the newsreader to footage of Machie being removed from court by five uncomfortable-looking security guards. Though handcuffed, he was spitting and shouting oaths at the cameramen, journalists and sundry onlookers, some of whom shouted support. His demeanour was at odds with his expensive Italian suit; his screwed-up features spoke only of vitriol and revenge. Daley saw Scott squirm in his seat.

The scene cut out and was replaced with footage of a Glasgow street. The battered white vehicle that had mounted the pavement exposed the horror that had been perpetrated
there; the vehicle was riddled with bullet holes, the crumpled doors hanging open to allow a view of the blood-soaked interior. A group of men dressed in white crime scene overalls were doing their best to cover the vehicle with a blue tarpaulin; a police tow truck was positioned to the front of the ruined van. Blue lights flashed from numerous police vehicles at the scene.

‘Fuckin’ hell, it’s a’ oor yesterdays,’ Scott blurted, unconcerned on this occasion by Donald’s presence.

The camera refocused on another reporter, again familiar, though looking younger. ‘Behind me are the remains of the prison ambulance in which notorious Glasgow gangster James ‘JayMac’ Machie died in a hail of bullets just over an hour ago. He was being transported back to his cell in Barlinnie prison after attending the city’s Royal Infirmary with a suspected heart attack.

‘Though details are sketchy, it is believed that two police outriders, two prison officers and a private security guard were also killed in the attack which involved as many as ten masked men driving a stolen city taxi, heavy goods vehicle and an Audi car. It is thought that the well-planned execution could be the work of rival gangsters who still feared Machie, even though it’s highly unlikely that he would have been freed from prison for many years, if ever.’

The camera panned out to reveal a uniformed police officer, replete with gold braided cap; there was no mistaking Donald.

‘With me is Superintendent John Donald, deputy divisional commander of the central police division. Superintendent Donald, what is your understanding of these dreadful events?’

Daley watched as Donald raised his brows and, instead of addressing the reporter, looked straight into the camera. ‘The events of this morning are tragic in the extreme, especially for the families of my two officers, prison staff and the private security guard who lost their lives trying to protect Mr Machie.’ He stopped, disgusted, and turned back to the reporter.

‘Do you have anything to say to the Machie family, now that it has been confirmed that James Machie died in the attack, Superintendent Donald?’

Again, Donald chose to turn to the camera with his answer.

‘In my job, dealing with the aftermath of violence is, sadly, an almost daily occurrence. Of course the death of any individual in such circumstances is most regrettable; I’m sure your viewers will agree, though, that some deaths are more regrettable than others. I will reiterate that my thoughts are with the families of the dead officers and the murdered security guard. That’s all I have to say.’

The camera panned one more time to the wrecked ambulance, then the picture faded out. A re-run of the CCTV footage from Australia played next. Daley glanced at Scott, who was now sitting forward on his seat; this was the first time he had been shown the murders in Ringwood East.

The action played out silently on the big screen. As Marna Dowie’s head exploded once more and JayMac made his way to the front of the car, his look to the camera was frozen and enlarged; into place beside it slid another picture – JayMac, looking up into the camera as he was led into incarceration after his trial almost six years previously. Perhaps it was the similar pose that made the likeness so striking.

Donald stood up and turned to face his detectives. ‘Well, gentlemen, are either of you in any doubt as to the identity of the man we have just seen?’ He inclined his head.

‘No,’ said Brian Scott. ‘It’s him; there can be nae doubt. I’ve known him since I wiz a boy.’ He looked down, interlocked the fingers of both hands, and cracked them in a way that always set Daley’s teeth on edge.

‘Splendid,’ said Donald. ‘A rare outbreak of consensus between us, DS Scott.’ He went to sit behind a desk located under the big screen. ‘All three of us are experienced police officers, as well as rational human beings. Well, in the main,’ he said, eyeing Scott. ‘Employing the processes we have spent our working lives using, it is up to us not to wonder at the apparent resurrection of JayMac, rather to deduce how he did it. Any suggestions?’

Daley leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. ‘The only possible explanation is that the man who died in the prison van was not Machie.’ He craned his head forward, looking at Donald.

‘Yes, I had reached a similar conclusion. What about you, Brian?’ Donald enquired.

‘Aye, all very well, but I saw him – come tae that half o’ the force saw him, an’ a’ the pathologists in Glasgow, the press, his family, every fuckin’ body. It wiz him on that slab, I fuckin’ swear it.’

‘And yet, you also affirm that the man in the Australian footage is him. Make up your mind, DS Scott.’ Donald looked down at the desk and sighed. ‘Our job is to deal in the here and now, and, as unpalatable as it may be, we have to deal with this second coming, or however you would like to term it.’

‘I wid prefer not tae term it anything,’ said Scott. ‘If ye remember, sir, he nearly killed me, and threatened tae make a better job o’ it the next time.’