The Last Witness (8 page)

‘I suppose we’ll have to go and see Frank MacDougall as soon as possible, sir,’ interrupted Daley. ‘How much does he know?’

‘That’s not clear, Jim,’ Donald replied. ‘He knows about the Dowies, however I’m sure that seeing his old partner in crime returned to life will be as big a shock to him as it’s been to us. Let’s get a coffee, gentlemen, then we’ll make tracks. We have plenty of time to try and work out how JayMac achieved this paranormal feat.’ Donald stood, picked up his files from the desk, and left the room.

‘And there you have it,’ said Daley.

‘Aye, simples,’ Scott said. ‘I’m tellin’ ye, Jim, this whole fuckin’ thing’s a nightmare. It gies me the shivers. I’ve been in the polis for a long time, an’ I’ve never seen the like.’

‘I’ve no idea how we’re going to keep this away from the media. That’s one part of his majesty’s job I don’t envy.’ Daley stood, then stretched and yawned. ‘I suppose we better get a coffee while we’ve a chance,’ he said to Scott who was rubbing his eyes with both hands.

‘It’s quite simple, Jimmy-boy – that’s just no’ goin’ tae happen. I’m surprised it’s no’ oot already.’ Scott shook his head grimly. ‘Dae me a favour. Can we take your motor tae Frank MacDougall’s? I’ve no’ got a clue where it is, an’ I just cannae cope wi’ any mair memos fae the gaffer.’

10

After consulting the large map on the wall in Donald’s temporary office, the three officers set off in Daley’s 4x4, much to the relief of his DS, who sat in the back looking idly out at the passing scenery.

‘I must say, Jim, you keep a nice car. Pity you can’t encourage the gentleman lurking in the back to do likewise,’ Donald said, as he glared at a Kinloch pedestrian peering at them as they stopped at the lights on Main Street. ‘Have these people never seen a policeman with braid on his cap?’ he pondered as they drove off.

‘Aye, just no’ one that looks like you,’ Scott offered from the back of the car, somewhat ill advisedly, in Daley’s opinion.

Donald turned around in his seat. ‘I beg your pardon, DS Scott?’

‘I mean, no’ used tae somebody that looks as good as you in uniform, sir.’

‘Shut up, Brian,’ was Donald’s concise reply.

As they drove out of Kinloch, the scenery changed. They were heading north on the west side of the peninsula; the restless Atlantic rolled in white breakers on the rocky coastline. The sea looked cold and grey, despite the blue sky;
distant islands broke the horizon, in front of which a red fishing boat was just visible, dragging nets amidst a cloud of riotous gulls.

The road was quiet despite being the main artery between Kinloch and the rest of Scotland. Daley knew this stretch well, having driven it often when returning home. Home.

In the last few months, he and Liz had become closer than at any other time in their marriage. The easy friendliness of the local people was genuine, as was their collective nosiness; Daley wondered what they really said about Liz and him in private, though he didn’t particularly care.

Liz’s new career as a wildlife photographer was taking off; already she’d had her work published in a couple of good magazines, eliciting impressive reviews. He’d been surprised at how little she seemed to miss living near the city, with all of its amenities so close at hand. She had recently taken her sister Annie on a shopping trip to Glasgow in the new Mini; they had stayed overnight in the Daleys’ home in Howwood, which Annie had admired greatly. On her return, Liz had told him how strange she felt, not being in Kinloch, and that she now considered it her home. He supposed, in a funny way, so did he.

He was distracted by Donald, who was attempting to operate the satnav on his iPhone – a task clearly beyond him.

‘These bloody things,’ he said. ‘Do you have the map, DS Scott?’

Daley saw Scott’s surprised look in the mirror.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Naebody telt me tae bring the map.’

‘I clearly remember instructing you to pick up a map from the bar officer,’ Donald said. ‘It’s beyond me why bloody
satellite navigation has passed this place by.’ He looked at his phone with disgust. ‘Of course, it doesn’t help when one’s subordinates can’t comply with basic requests.’

Daley could see Scott making a face behind his boss’s back.

‘If you take a look in the glove compartment, sir, I think there’s a map of the area in it,’ Daley said, preparing to overtake one of the few cars on the road.

Donald leaned forward, opening the glove box with the satisfying clunk of a well-engineered car. Daley watched him from the corner of his eye as he rummaged about.

‘I must say, Jim, it’s a veritable sweet shop in here,’ Donald said, removing what was left of a packet of biscuits and a chocolate bar.

‘Ah, yes.’ It was Daley’s turn to look flustered. ‘Just for emergencies – in case we get stuck in the snow, you know.’

‘Some diet, big man,’ Scott laughed in the back. ‘Lettuce an’ grapefruit for tea, then oot tae the car for a poke o’ sweets an’ a Mars Bar. Nae wonder the weight’s no’ comin’ aff.’

Choosing to ignore the derisory comments on his secret sugar stash, Daley slowed down at a sign pointing to a side road.

‘This is the turn-off. He lives in a converted farmhouse along the road. It’s a Gaelic name. Can you remember it, Brian?’ Daley caught Scott’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

‘More chance of you giving up chocolate, I would imagine,’ Donald snorted.

‘Gie me a minute,’ Scott said, desperately trying to remember even an approximation of the name, and failing.

A few seconds later, they saw the farm in the distance. A large black Range Rover was parked at the end of the driveway.

‘I take it they’re being guarded by Witness Protection at the moment, sir?’ Daley enquired.

‘Yes, until this evening, when we have to take over that unwanted task.’

Without answering, Daley slowed the car and turned into the drive, only for the Range Rover to move across, blocking the way.

Two men got out of the black car; one of them patted his jacket, perhaps to warn the interlopers that he was armed.

Daley pressed the button on his door to lower the window.

‘What’s your business here?’ the man in the suit said abruptly in a London accent, leaning his head into Daley’s car and taking note of the passengers.

Daley removed his warrant card from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Strathclyde Police. Our business is with the occupant of this house – not you – so could you please let us through?’

‘Not before I see everyone’s ID.’ He thrust his hand through the window in expectation of Donald and Scott’s identification.

Donald raised his brow and fished his warrant card from a uniform pocket. The man scanned it without comment.

In the mirror, Daley could see Scott frantically searching for his ID; he had gone through his jacket with no result, and was now leaning on one elbow in an attempt to gain access to the back pocket of his trousers.

‘Hang on, hang on, I know I’ve got the bloody thing here somewhere,’ he said, now leaning on the opposite elbow to search another trouser pocket.

‘Typical,’ said Donald, turning around to better witness the struggles of his detective sergeant. ‘You know I can have you disciplined for not carrying your appointments.’

The man leaned his head further into Daley’s car, glowering at Scott. ‘Come on, Jocky-boy,’ he said. ‘Get a move on. We’re out of here in six hours, get our arses back to civilisation.’

Donald released his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Daley watched as his boss walked calmly in front of the vehicle towards the two men.

‘Listen to me, you cocky English bastard.’ Donald was clearly in no mood for compromise. ‘Get your arse back into that car and move it out the way, before I arrest you both for breach of the peace. And rest assured,’ he continued venomously, ‘I’ll be making a full report to your superior on my return to the office.’ He dismissed the Witness Protection officer with a wave of his hand.

‘Aye, ye’ve got tae gie him his due,’ Scott observed, calmer now he’d abandoned the search for his warrant card. ‘It’s nae bother tae him tae get his point across.’

‘Ah, but don’t think he’ll forget you’ve not got your ID,’ replied Daley.

‘Oh, I know, Jim,’ said Scott. ‘I know fine.’

With Donald back in the car, they continued uphill towards the farm, Donald muttering about insubordination and lack of respect.

The landscape was bare; the farmhouse and a couple of small outbuildings, in clear need of care and attention, nestled under the brow of the hill. The area looked barren and windswept, with no sign of trees, bushes or any other type of vegetation.

A mud-splattered 4x4 stood in front of the house, alongside an old pick-up, which was fitted with a caged back, most
likely for the transportation of livestock. Daley noted the absence of barking dogs, something he always associated with working farms.

As Donald marched to the front door, Daley turned around; Frank MacDougall might live in humble surroundings, but the view he had over the Atlantic was truly magnificent. The red fishing boat could still be seen, though now a pinprick, against the islands, which appeared somehow closer and more imposing from this elevation. Daley wished he had brought a jacket; he could see his breath cloud in front of him. Scott was stamping his feet to keep warm, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

‘Try and look more like a police officer and less like a travelling salesman, will you, DS Scott?’ Donald said as he knocked on the door and straightened his uniform.

Scott was about to protest, when the door cracked open and the face of an elderly woman peered out. Her hair was grey and unkempt, and her bulging eyes stared fearfully at the policemen standing at her door.

‘Betty, is that you?’ Scott asked, with a look of surprise on his face.

‘Aye, an’ what if it is?’ the woman replied.

‘Dae ye no’ recognise me? It’s me, Brian Scott, Tam’s boy. We used tae live two doors doon fae you, remember?’

With a look of panic, the woman slammed the door; Daley could hear her sobbing as she slid the bolts back into place.

‘An old neighbour?’ Donald enquired. ‘Friends reunited, indeed.’

‘I cannae believe it,’ Scott said, shaking his head. ‘Ye widnae think it, but she wiz one o’ the best-looking lassies
in Glasgow when I wiz a boy. She’s a bit older than me, right enough, but I can still see her headin’ aff tae the dancin’, all dolled up. Total stunner.’ He shook his head.

‘Well, whatever happened to her in the intervening years, it would appear that she has swapped stunning for stunned,’ Donald commented with his habitual acidity. ‘Looked to me as though she didn’t have a clue what day it was, never mind who we are.’ He went to knock again, though hesitated when he heard a loud male voice shout from inside.

‘Wait a minute, I’m just coming.’ The voice was deep, harsh and straight out of Glasgow’s East End. The door opened to reveal a thin-faced young man, who looked to be in his mid twenties. ‘Mair filth,’ he said, curling his lip at the sight of the police officers.

‘Get your father, boy,’ Donald instructed.

‘Don’t ye mean, “Can I please speak with your father, Mr Robertson?” The young man aped Donald’s Kelvinside tones, an arrogant look crossing his gaunt features.

‘Just fucking get him, you little bastard. Now!’

The door closed again, and the officers heard the young man shouting for his father as the woman wailed in the background.

‘Whit’s this Mr Robertson guff?’ Scott asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘Use some common sense, DS Scott. The whole idea behind having a new identity is that you go somewhere nobody knows you and start a new life. Logic would dictate that a change of name would be rather important, otherwise your enemies need only look up the phone book or the electoral register to find you.’ Donald glared at the sergeant. ‘And put that bloody fag out,’ he added for good measure.

During this exchange of information, Daley was busy taking in his surroundings. The farmyard was covered in crumbling tarmac, broken and rutted in places. Not only were there no dogs, there were no other animals – not even a chicken, or ubiquitous farmyard cat. What looked like a plough lay propped up against one of the outbuildings, its original yellow colour barely visible through a thick coating of rust. In his experience, farms normally exuded a gut-wrenching odour of dung and slurry; it was obvious that whatever Frank MacDougall was doing to sustain the Robertson family, it most certainly did not involve any agrarian toil.

‘I wonder what’s behind the house?’ Daley said.

‘Half a ton o’ cannabis an’ a Sherman tank, likely,’ said Scott, reluctantly extinguishing his cigarette on the ground with the toe of his shoe.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, DS Scott,’ said Donald. ‘Those on the witness protection scheme are very closely monitored to ensure that no such criminal behaviour takes place.’

‘Aye, an’ I’m Miss Marple.’

Before Donald had the opportunity to answer, footsteps sounded loudly behind the door and it was flung open to reveal another figure, almost identical in build and height to the previous man, with the same cadaverous face, though this time bearing the evidence of a further thirty years of hard living. Before them was one of Glasgow’s legendary criminals: Frank MacDougall.

He looked at the three police officers one by one.

‘I must be going up in the world, right enough,’ he said and smiled at Donald. ‘An inspector comes tae call, eh, John.’ Donald winced at the over-familiar greeting. ‘An’ Jim tae.’ He nodded a greeting at Daley. ‘I remember when ye were
still walking the beat up Toonheid way. By fuck ye’ve fairly piled on the weight.’

Scott laughed at this, and MacDougall turned next to him. ‘Scooty, my man.’ MacDougall stepped from the doorway and embraced the detective sergeant. ‘How’s it goin’, buddy?’ He seemed genuinely pleased to see Scott, much to the chagrin of Donald, who viewed the scene with obvious distaste.

‘Listen, Frankie, we need tae come in, we’ve got something tae tell ye,’ said Scott, a sombre look on his face.

‘Fuck me, yer no’ comin’ tae tell me I’ve no paid a parking ticket. Come on.’ He stood aside to welcome them in. ‘Tommy, son,’ he shouted, ‘make sure you get the instant coffee oot, the polis are here.’ He ushered the officers into the hall, at the end of which stood the woman, rubbing her hands together and looking at her visitors with apprehension.