A Breath on Dying Embers Read online

  Praise for Denzil Meyrick and the DCI Daley thriller series:

  ‘Absorbing . . . no run-of-the-mill tartan noir’

  The Times

  ‘You’ll have a blast with these’

  Ian Rankin

  ‘A top talent, and one to be cherished’

  Quintin Jardine

  ‘Spellbinding . . . one of the UK’s most loved crime writers’

  The Sunday Post

  ‘Universal truths . . . an unbuttoned sense of humour . . . engaging and eventful’

  The Wall Street Journal

  ‘A compelling lead . . . satisfyingly twisted plot’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Touches of dark humour, multi-layered and compelling’

  Daily Record

  ‘Striking characters and shifting plots vibrate with energy’

  The Library Journal

  ‘Daley is a character complete with depths, currents and sudden changes of the Atlantic ocean that crashes against Kinloch’s harbour walls. The remote peninsula and the claustrophobic nature of small-town life are perfectly painted.’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ‘If you like Rankin, MacBride and Oswald, you’ll love Meyrick’

  The Sunday Mail

  ‘Energetic, wry, and full of jolts’

  Waterstones

  ‘The right amount of authenticity . . . gritty writing . . . most memorable’

  The Herald

  ‘All three books have a strong sense of place, of city cops trying to fit in to a small, tightly knit rural environment’ Russell Leadbetter, Evening Times

  ‘Meyrick has the ability to give even the least important person in the plot character and the skill to tell a good tale’

  Scots Magazine

  ‘Following in the tradition of great Scottish crime writers, Denzil Meyrick has turned out a cracking, tenacious thriller of a read. If you favour the authentic and credible, you are in safe hands’

  Lovereading

  ‘DCI Daley is shaping up to be the West Coast’s answer to Edinburgh’s Rebus’

  Scottish Home and Country

  ‘Well crafted and engrossing . . . Meyrick is well into his rhythm’

  Journal of the Law Society of Scotland

  A note on the author

  Denzil Meyrick was born in Glasgow and brought up in Campbeltown. After studying politics, he pursued a varied career including time spent as a police officer, freelance journalist and director of several companies in the leisure, engineering and marketing sectors. Denzil’s debut novel, Whisky from Small Glasses, was Waterstones Scottish Book of the Year in 2015, and in 2018 The Relentless Tide was one of the Scotsman’s Books of the Year. Denzil lives on Loch Lomond side with his wife Fiona.

  Also available in the D.C.I. Daley thriller series

  Whisky from Small Glasses

  The Last Witness

  Dark Suits and Sad Songs

  The Rat Stone Serenade

  Well of the Winds

  One Last Dram Before Midnight (short stories)

  The Relentless Tide

  eBook only

  Dalintober Moon (short story)

  Two One Three (short story)

  Empty Nets and Promises (novella)

  Single End (short story)

  A BREATH

  ON

  DYING EMBERS

  A D.C.I. DALEY THRILLER

  Denzil Meyrick

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

  Birlinn Ltd

  West Newington House

  10 Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.polygonbooks.co.uk

  1

  Copyright © Denzil Meyrick 2019

  The right of Denzil Meyrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 1 84697 475 5

  eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 205 0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

  Typeset by 3btype.com

  Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

  To Raymond and Margaret Dow – here’s to all the good times, happy memories and friendship

  ‘On wrongs swift vengeance waits.’

  —Alexander Pope

  PROLOGUE

  1972

  The boy watched the soldier corner his older brother against what was left of the ruined building’s wall; there was simply no chance of escape. Soon, another camouflage-uniformed man joined his companion, panting after the chase, heavy rifle slung across his shoulder on a webbing belt.

  They began shouting, hurling abuse at the teenager, who was now cowering on his haunches, hands held in front of his face to fend off the blows he knew were to come.

  ‘Stop!’ the little boy shouted, running towards his brother.

  One soldier turned his head. He was laughing, talking to his comrade quickly in a way the boy’s young ears couldn’t comprehend. These men weren’t from where he lived.

  He tried to grab the leg of one of the soldiers, which made the man laugh even harder. Hard as the boy tried, he couldn’t move the older man, pull him back from his brother, who screamed as the other soldier kicked him hard in the thigh.

  ‘Run, quick – go get Father!’ his brother shouted, just before another blow, this time from a rifle butt, sent him sprawling, blood trickling down his face and onto the dusty ground.

  The little boy stared at the unmoving figure for a moment. The buckles on the soldiers’ belts and the grey metal of their weapons glinted in the hot sun; their breath was heavy as one patted the other’s shoulder companionably. But his brother didn’t move.

  The big soldier grinned at the little boy, displaying one gold tooth at the front of a row of yellow teeth. He picked up the struggling child and laughed in his face. His breath stank. Effortlessly, he threw the boy across the rubble of the old yard, where he landed with a thud that set stars spinning in his eyes, took his breath, and sent a sharp pain along his leg.

  The soldier shouted again as he struggled to his feet, and took a step towards him.

  The little boy took one more look at his motionless brother, then ran, ran as fast as he could, to find his father.

  1

  Detective Chief Inspector Jim Daley sat at his desk in his glass box, blinds down. With two fingers of his left hand, he was taking the pulse on his opposite wrist. His heart was thudding in his chest, and the wheeze of his breath troubled him.

  He was already regretting his decision to walk to and from work every day. It had been a week now, and he felt no fitter; truth be told, he felt worse.

  Pulse taken – it was far too fast – he moved his chair closer to the big desk, inadvertently knocking a pen to the floor. When he bent to pick it up, a flurry of white dots sparkled across his vision and he felt momentarily dizzy.

  Shit, he thought. High blood pressure, the curse of his family – well, his father’s side at least. He sat back in the chair and the dizziness passed. Daley took deep breaths, anxious now. His father had died young, and he wasn’t keen to follow in the family tradition.

  The big detective booted up his desktop computer and searched ‘high blood pressure’. Each result he read was more apocalyptic than the last. Quickly, he returned to his home pa
ge, desperately trying to force thoughts of his own mortality from his mind. He checked his pulse again – faster still. He began to breathe more heavily – short, sharp gulps of air now. He could feel that his face was red hot; there was a slather of clammy sweat across his brow.

  A sharp knock on the door and it swung open: Detective Sergeant Brian Scott, framed in the bright light of the main CID office.

  ‘Do you know how much a pint of milk is noo? I’m sure it’s no’ that price back in Glasgow. Bloody daylight robbery doon here.’ He sat on the other side of Daley’s desk, loosening his tie. ‘Here, I’ll away and get us some coffee in a minute.’

  ‘No coffee,’ said Daley, more sharply than he intended.

  ‘Eh? Don’t ask me tae get you a dram at this time of the morning. I’m telling you, next thing you know it’ll be that wee Mexican band at the bottom of the bed.’

  ‘Mariachi.’

  ‘Mari who?’

  ‘That’s the name of the bands – the Mexican ones with the big guitars.’ Suddenly Daley felt slightly better.

  ‘Aye, well, if you don’t want coffee, it’s tea or that white shite they call mushroom soup from thon machine: that’s all that’s left. What’s it to be?’

  ‘Just a glass of water, please, Brian.’

  Scott hesitated for a minute. ‘Oh, I get it. Big night last night, eh? Bit thirsty, are we?’

  ‘I just want some water. How hard can it be?’

  ‘Hang on, big chap. Cool your jets – you’ll gie yourself a heart attack. Your coupon’s as red as a beetroot, by the way.’

  Daley sighed. ‘It’s this bloody cruise ship. It’s been preying on my mind all night.’

  ‘Och, that’s nothing compared to what we’ve had tae face in the last few years. A bunch of overfed business types off on a jolly round Britain, playing golf and getting pished at the country’s expense. What’s there to worry about?’

  ‘It’s a trade delegation, Bri. Government ministers, top civil servants, business folk from across the world – there’s even a minor royal. It’s part of the big push for world trade. And they’re here for three days.’

  ‘Och, there’ll be special protection officers from the Met – spooks and all sorts. Anyway, herself is on the way doon, is she no’? This is her pigeon.’

  ‘Symington? She’ll be all braid and polished buttons. Trust me, all the hard work will land on us.’

  ‘What hard work, Jimmy? They sail in the loch, have a party . . .’

  ‘A reception.’

  ‘Right, a reception, then – still just a big party tae me. It’s like The Love Boat wae Glenmorangie and putters.’

  ‘They’ll be to and fro to the golf clubs, wandering around the town – you know what this place is like. It’ll be on me when a Japanese billionaire gets a black eye in the Douglas Arms.’

  ‘Is that one o’ they euphoniums?’

  ‘Euphemisms. And no, it’s not. The whole thing makes me uneasy.’

  ‘Everything makes you uneasy.’

  ‘With good cause, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well, it’s true we’ve no’ had the easiest of billets here so far.’

  ‘So far!’

  ‘Och, it’s not been too bad. If you discount the resurrected gangsters, murdering druids, rapists, assassins, Nazis and serial killers, it’s been a breeze.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Oh, and they archaeologists.’

  Before Brian Scott could detail any more of the unexpected horrors they’d faced in Kinloch, the phone on Daley’s desk burst into life.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Daley, automatically sitting up straighter in his seat to take a call from the Acting Chief Constable. He mouthed the rank to Scott, who grimaced, got up and went in search of coffee and water.

  ‘Now, Jim,’ said Haskell, in temporary charge of Police Scotland while his superior faced allegations of inappropriate behaviour with a lap dancer in a club owned by the Paisley mob. ‘I know you’re the very chap to have your finger on the pulse of all this VIP stuff.’

  Daley raised his eyes at the unfortunate metaphor, but merely muttered in the affirmative.

  ‘Just heard that the Foreign Secretary will be making a flying visit while the Great Britain is in port at Kinloch.’

  The medium-sized but luxurious cruise liner Calypso Star had been requisitioned by HM Government and rebranded to accommodate a selection of mega-wealthy business people from across the globe. Palm trees and Caribbean sunsets had been hastily replaced by Union flags and bucolic scenes of the British Isles as every stop was pulled out in an effort to attract business to a country on the lookout for new cash and trading opportunities. As the ship was now a temporary ward of the Royal Navy, many of their number were on hand to make sure things went well. The Calypso Star’s captain and some of the crew were still in place, but an RN lieutenant commander stood on the bridge, scrutinising every move, while the White Ensign flew proudly at its stern.

  ‘How’s the Foreign Secretary arriving, sir?’ asked Daley.

  ‘On the police helicopter with your divisional commander. They’ll be there in an hour or so.’

  ‘Shall I meet them, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course – your little kingdom, Jim.’ Haskell hesitated. ‘And, as you have a dual role – head of CID and sub-divisional commander – better get a uniform on, eh? Number ones, DCI Daley. Symington will brief you further when she arrives. Good luck!’

  As Daley heard the call click off, he felt his heart rate rise. Would his uniform fit? It had been touch and go the last time, and that was a while ago. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.

  2

  They say it’s hard to hate for a lifetime; that old age turns angry, turbulent youths into servile, contented old men, the fire in their eyes long extinguished.

  I don’t agree.

  I’m writing this by way of an explanation rather than an excuse. Why excuse yourself for something that has always been your intention? The very notion is perverse. Mistakes, accidents – a lack of forethought: those are the things that can be excused. I seek no such forgiveness.

  An old man from the village where I was born taught me a lesson at a young age: ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ Though belief and conviction can be painful, demanding and at times sickening masters, one can never deny the hold they have over you.

  My beliefs, my seeking of true, elemental justice, have taken me to a place I never thought I would travel and forced me to do something unimaginable to the young man I once was. My mind, my thoughts – my very soul – were all forged in the white heat of hatred and man’s inhumanity to man.

  Justice must be done before my days are over. Otherwise, my life – and many other lives – will have been lived in vain.

  As you read what I write, you will, hopefully, gain understanding. I desperately want you to know, maybe agree with why I do what must be done. I don’t know who you are – I will never know. But you must try to see through my eyes, to feel my pain, my hatred; to endure the voices, the faces, the screams and the horrors that have plagued me all these years.

  To you, my reader, I tell all. Please be kind enough to be my confessor.

  I will tell you more when the thoughts come.

  As he wrote the last words, he could feel a gentle calm descend. The first step in any journey is always the most arduous, he reasoned. Whether mountains are to be climbed, rivers crossed, or obstacles overcome, the will to set the wheels in motion creates the momentum that will run, rumble and lead you on until the end.

  He laid the old pen down, sat back in his seat and took a deep breath, inhaled until his ribs ached. He held this breath for a few moments then let it out slowly, expelling the tension from his body. He was fit for his age – had worked hard at it for years – and was happy when he contrasted his wellbeing to that of other men of his vintage, despite the poverty that had haunted his youth, and the gnawing hunger he could still easily recall.

  He picked up the picture on his tiny desk. The fa
miliar, open, pretty face stared back at him with a monochrome, enigmatic smile frozen in time – frozen like his heart. He traced the lines of her face with the tip of his finger through the glass of the frame. Though he’d done this countless times, when he closed his eyes the movement reminded him of touching her face: smooth, soft, warm. A gentle, kind face; the face he’d loved then and would love until the end of his days.

  He put the frame to his lips and kissed the image. But where once there had been soft sweetness now there was only cold, unyielding glass.

  He opened a small drawer and placed the frame face down inside. He closed the drawer and sighed. He did not wish her to witness what was to come.

  Then the thought came to him in a flash. The letter he’d begun wasn’t for some faceless interlocutor – no, it was to her. His mother. He would explain and justify his reasons to his dead mother. She would be certain to understand; and through that comprehension, his soul would be at peace at last.

  Via the prism of a son’s letter to his mother, the world would understand why he did what had to be done.

  ‘Ouch! Touch and go there, big man,’ said Scott as he observed his superior squeezing into his best uniform. ‘I cannae understand why anyone thinks they T-shirts look smart, eh?’

  ‘No, I’m with you there,’ replied Daley, desperately trying to fasten his uniform trousers under the bulge of his stomach.

  ‘Bad news, Jimmy.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You going for the under-the-belly strategy. That’s the last step on the road. It’ll be they elasticated troosers next. The battle’s lost, old buddy.’

  Daley’s face was crimson by the time he managed to secure the trouser button. With a firm grip, he hauled at the zip until it was almost in position – almost. ‘There,’ he panted. ‘Uniform on.’

  ‘Mair like a second skin. Hope you’ve no’ tae take a bow or that in front o’ this fifty-second cousin o’ the Queen.’

  ‘Why? I don’t have a problem with it. It’s just part of protocol.’