Well of the Winds Page 19

Scott and Symington were examining the silver lighter in the latter’s hotel room, avoiding the incident room which was now crawling with officers from the Met.

  As Scott took some pictures of the object, Symington’s mobile buzzed.

  Though she kept up a smile during the call and barely spoke, Scott noticed how pale her face had become. When the call ended, she did not say who the caller was; all she told the detective was that tonight would be their last on the island.

  ‘We’ll catch the mid-morning ferry tomorrow. I’ll have Jim send a car to pick us up from the ferry terminal,’ she said brightly – too brightly for Scott’s liking.

  ‘It’ll be nice tae get back to civilisation,’ he replied. ‘I want tae see how oor Jimmy’s getting on. Might go and stay with him for a few days, if I’m welcome, that is.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you be welcome?’

  ‘Och, the big fella’s always in one o’ his moods these days. Just wants tae stare into space and feel sorry for himself, if you ask me. He’ll realise I’m having none o’ it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Scott could see his colleague’s mind drifting off to something else. Judging by the slight tremor of her hand, combined with the anxious expression on her face, something else was giving her cause for concern.

  ‘Dae you mind if I ask a question?’ said Scott.

  ‘Sorry? No, yes, please do,’ she replied, flustered now that she realised he’d caught her in an unguarded moment.

  ‘You’ve not been yourself since they guys fae Special Branch arrived. If I was a betting man, I’d say you’re getting a hard time from them, or maybe just one of them?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, DS Scott. You don’t have to apply your detection skills to me. In fact, I’m having a drink with some of the boys tonight, by way of wishing them good luck.’ She leaned forward. ‘Of course, we’ll continue our own private investigation into events when we’re back in Kinloch.’

  ‘Listen, Carrie, I’ve been around women all my life. I know fine when something’s no’ right. It’s like the times I gie my missus a Christmas present and she opens her eyes wide an’ tells me she loves it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you’ve been married for as long as we have, every change in tone, tip o’ the heid and blink o’ the eye means something. I can see you’re as happy going oot for a drink wae these buggers as Ella was when I handed her that Fast Diet book last Christmas.’ He stood up. ‘Och, she tried tae tell me that it was just what she was after, but I could tell it was just a front – aye, despite her goin’ on aboot it a’ year.’

  ‘Bit insensitive, Brian.’

  ‘We decided a long time ago that Christmas was for the weans. We’d buy them decent presents, have a nice meal and a few bevies, but keep oor gifts tae each other as simple as we could.’

  ‘Right, and . . .’

  ‘Well, I swear, see ever since? She’s no’ been happy wae what I’ve dreamed up tae gie her.’

  ‘No? I wonder why?’

  ‘Anyhow, the look I saw on your coupon when you were on the phone there is the same as her indoors when it comes tae Christmas: putting a brave face on it.’ He looked down at her. ‘Tell me I’m no’ right.’

  She swallowed hard. Just as she was about to speak, her phone buzzed again. ‘It’s Jim. I have to take this.’

  ‘Okay.’ Scott shrugged.

  ‘So, you’ll rubber stamp this freedom of information request, ma’am?’ Daley listened for a few moments, then replied, ‘Good, good. I’ll get that car up to you in time to meet the ferry.’

  As he ended the call, he looked at the photocopy of the sketch Urquhart had made: the eagle with a swastika between its talons.

  His mind turned to Torquil McColl, gazing out of that high window, waiting for his life to end after years spent on the other side of the world. Everything had changed so much since McColl had been a young detective, sitting in this very station. To Daley, a child of the sixties, the war seemed distant: a thing of black-and-white films, the Airfix models he’d made, and the comic books he’d read. Yet the time between the end of the conflict and his birth was scarcely twenty years. Now that he was middle-aged, twenty years didn’t feel anything like it had when he was a boy. He was closer to the events that had shaped the modern world than he had thought possible.

  The phone interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Who? I’ve never heard of him,’ he said with more than a hint of irritation to the lad manning the office switchboard. ‘Oh, just put them through.’

  When he said hello and asked if he could help, the voice on the other end of the phone wasn’t that of a stranger, as he’d been expecting.

  ‘Why not just give your name, Mr Feldstein?’

  There was silence for a few moments, then the caller replied: ‘To safeguard you as much as myself, Mr Daley. I know how efficient you policemen are at logging calls – to whom and from whom and where from. You’ll want to keep any association with me in the shadows, I assure you, especially when you realise what is to come. I want to meet with you, but somewhere that no one will see us. I hope you understand the need for secrecy.’

  ‘The last time we met you pointed a gun at me. Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I did. But, please understand, the metaphorical gun you now have at your temple is much more dangerous then the little pea-shooter I threatened you with. After our meeting, I think you will understand this.’

  Daley racked his brains. Kinloch was a difficult place in which to be anonymous. ‘Do you have a good memory, Mr Feldstein?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, here’s where we’ll meet . . .’

  Brian Scott was sitting alone in the dining room of the Gairsay Hotel. On the other side of the bar he could hear the raucous chatter of the Special Branch team – expletive-ridden tall tales of heroic and not so heroic occurrences, the meat and drink of a night out with the boys in blue. Now and again he could hear Symington’s awkward laugh, but not very often. He still had the feeling that she was a reluctant participant, that she was putting a brave face on it.

  As the barman came through to the dining room, he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. An elderly couple, sitting opposite Scott, looked outraged at the language and were tutting to each other.

  Scott had noticed that the boss of the Special Branch contingent, DAC Bale, had taken his leave early – no doubt, like most senior officers, due to a mixture of discretion and fear of embarrassment at the antics of his junior colleagues. The only man Scott had ever seen buck this trend was the late and not much lamented John Donald. The late chief superintendent often let his façade slip on a night out with the boys, returning rapidly to type as a boorish, condescending bully. It was DCI Harry Chappell who reminded Scott of his dead ex-boss.

  He picked at his fish, swilling it down with the dregs of an unappetising glass of warm ginger beer and lime.

  ‘You want another?’ asked the young barman, spotting his glass was empty.

  ‘Aye, son. Maybe something different this time. What dae you suggest?’

  ‘Coke?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ replied Scott without any enthusiasm, wishing earnestly he could partake in a pint of decent lager instead of the succession of fizzy soft drinks he had to rely on to slake his thirst.

  As another burst of laughter issued from the other room, the barman brought his drink to the table. ‘You no’ joining your mates?’

  ‘No mates o’ mine, son. Rowdy lot, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied the young man cautiously. ‘I didna think the polis would behave like that.’

  ‘Bad apples in every barrel, my boy. These guys are from the Met. No’ good honest Scottish cops like myself.’ He grinned.

  ‘Do you want to see the dessert menu?’

  ‘Aye, go on. I might as well get my chops roon a decent sticky toffee pudding.’

  As he waited for the menu, he looked out of the dining-room window. It was dark now, a bright moon castin
g a silver sheen across the still waters of the bay.

  The elderly woman smiled at him as she and her husband made their way back to their room, having finished their meal. ‘Not exactly the quiet wee break we were hoping for,’ she said to Scott.

  ‘Sorry about that, ma’am,’ replied Scott.

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault, son. It’s good to see that some policemen are still polite and sober. Goodnight.’

  As he watched the couple go, he almost laughed out loud at the thought of being considered polite and sober. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a shadow passing the window. He was sure that it was Symington, and wondered where she was going in the dark. She didn’t smoke, so it wasn’t as though she was off to shiver in the designated smoking area, a little nook beside the hotel entrance that was blasted by the elements.

  Another figure passed the window. This time, he was sure that it was DCI Harry Chappell.

  ‘There you go,’ said the barman, placing a laminated list of desserts on the table.

  ‘Och, I’ve changed my mind, son. Think I’ll go and get a smoke then watch a bit o’ telly up in my room before I hit the scratcher.’

  ‘No bother.’

  ‘Here, take this, son,’ he said, handing the barman a five-pound note. ‘Get yoursel’ a drink later on. You’ll be needing it, having tae listen tae this mob for the rest o’ the night.’

  Scott squinted at the bar area. Sure enough, though a noisy huddle of Special Branch officers were seated around a table covered in crisp packets and pint glasses, there was no sign of Symington or Chappell.

  He walked out into the hotel lobby and through the front door, shivering at the chill in the evening air. The flash of his lighter briefly illuminated his face in the darkness. He took a long draw of his cigarette and stared up at the flickering scatter of stars in the velvet blue sky, savouring the moment of tranquillity.

  The anguished scream of a woman pierced the still night air.

  28

  Daley opened the gate that led onto the strand by the causeway. The smell of seaweed was strong, and a breeze ruffled his hair, prompting him to remember that it needed a trim. He had let himself go since Mary’s death, he knew it. He no longer had that guiding female hand, first provided by his mother, then his wife, and for all too short a time the young woman he would never see again.

  Again, he fought the good fight against the sadness that had plagued him for so long. He suspected he’d chosen the wrong job, and indeed married the wrong woman, and to have any chance of eradicating this deadened sensation from his life, he was going to have to draw on some resources he wasn’t sure he had. Even when he’d had the chance to start again, an opportunity to feel renewed with Mary, it had ended in tragedy. He longed for the blessed release of alcohol – the numbing of pain that a few glasses of whisky could temporarily provide. Then he remembered the haunted look in Brian’s eyes when his friend had been at his lowest point. If Brian, with his ebullient nature, could descend so far, only managing to drag himself clear of the abyss in the nick of time, what hope was there for him?

  He was distracted from these depressing thoughts as the clear beam of powerful Xenon headlights flashed over his head and a car drew up in the layby on the roadway above. Daley heard the dull clunk of an expensive car door closing, followed shortly after by the creak of the gate that he’d just come through.

  In a few moments, Feldstein appeared in the darkness, silhouetted by torchlight, which flashed briefly in Daley’s face.

  ‘What made you think of meeting here, Mr Daley?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ replied Daley. ‘If things are as you say, and meeting with you is so toxic, then we have limited options.’

  ‘This place plays a big part in what you are seeking.’

  ‘How do you know what I’m seeking?’

  ‘I know. You might not have realised yet, but you will. Whether what you find will be something you can believe is another matter. Have these.’ He handed Daley a folder. ‘Things are worse than we thought. We have so much to defend. Our world has changed so little in the last seventy years, Mr Daley. Much less than you think. Powerful people hand things down the line. They’ve learned to hide their intentions by peaceful means, not undercover of the horror of war.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, Mr Feldstein.’

  ‘Imagine this. You fight to bring a criminal to book for years – most of your life, in fact. After a battle that not only nearly destroys you, but your own people, too, you have them. They are removed from society, never able to wreak the havoc they have created.’

  ‘Sounds like my life.’

  Ignoring the detective, Feldstein carried on. ‘Then, just as the last of them die, you discover that the snake has a long tail. A tail that will grow for ever, encircling the world. And you are too old to fight any more.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Please, you have to be less melodramatic. I don’t have time for this,’ Daley replied testily.

  ‘Ask yourself why your investigations into a missing family on a tiny Scottish island have been usurped. Not only by Special Branch, but now your Security Service.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Eyes and ears, Mr Daley. In my organisation, in yours, in Special Branch, even in your precious secret services. It’s how the world works.’

  ‘And why on earth would what happens in this little corner of the world have significance, especially given the nature of the things you describe?’

  ‘Quite simply, everything is connected. More now than ever before. But everything has a starting point.’

  ‘And an end point?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Feldstein walked slowly towards the edge of the shore as the waves withdrew from the shingle. ‘This is where Urquhart died.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen his file.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘Yes, but the one I have – and you now mostly have – is not redacted.’

  ‘And if I find something – if – what can I do, if things are at the levels you say?’

  ‘You’ll find a way. I have read much about you, Mr Daley, about your determination and courage against the odds. To fight someone like Visonovich and win, even temporarily, is an achievement.’

  ‘You are well informed.’

  ‘It won’t last for ever. Everyone is in danger. You must already realise that the Bremner family have been removed – destroyed by their own. What chance do we stand?’

  ‘I’m sorry, this is messing with my head. I’m in charge of a quiet police station in a quiet town, in a quiet part of the world. How can this affect me?’

  ‘Quiet now, but not always so quiet, I think.’ He reached out, shook Daley by the hand. ‘I wish you good luck, the very best of luck. Wait a few minutes before you leave this place. We won’t meet again, Mr Daley.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that.’

  ‘When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to see into the future – your own, at least. Like the little boy with his finger in the dam, you can only hold back the black water for so long. In the end, it consumes us all.’

  ‘And may I ask how you can access the backdated files from my police force, and I can’t?’

  ‘Who said it was a police file? Read it, Mr Daley. Read it and understand it, for the struggle now passes to you.’

  Mystified, Daley watched Feldstein disappear into the darkness. The vehicle soon sped away.

  Just as Daley was about to walk back onto the road from the strand, another car drove past, its lights flashing across the fields. Clutching tightly the thick file that Feldstein had given him, he shivered.

  At the far end of the car park, a flash of movement caught Scott’s eye.

  He could hear a strangled voice pleading, ‘Get off me, you . . .’ A male grunt, the sharp slap of a hand across a face, followed by another squeal, made Scott sprint towards the voices.

  He could now see two figures, one pinned by the ot
her to the bonnet of a car, in a commotion of flailing legs and arms in the moonlight.

  He pulled at the clothes of the uppermost figure, who spun round.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ said Chappell, just before his face contorted in pain as Scott kicked his right knee with all the force he could muster.

  Instead of falling to the ground, Chappell growled, squatted forward, making himself low, then forced his head into Scott’s solar plexus, expelling what little breath the detective had left and sending him tumbling backwards in the darkness. Chappell jumped heavily on top of him.

  ‘Not spent much time in a rugby scrum, have you?’ growled the Englishman. He caught Scott a glancing blow across the bridge of his nose with his forehead, sending yellow flashes across the Glaswegian’s vision.

  Chappell straddled his victim and lifted his balled fist high above his head, ready to bring it down on Scott’s unprotected face. Scott was quicker. He freed his arms, clenched his fists together and, pushing with all his might, brought them up sharply under Chappell’s chin, sending his head flying back. The Cockney reeled backwards, giving Scott time to wriggle from underneath his bulk, and get painfully to his feet.

  Scott could feel someone tugging his arm, and in the heat of the moment, full of adrenaline, he raised his bunched fist in order to defend himself.

  ‘Brian, enough!’ shouted Symington, her voice shrill, face ashen.

  Chappell was struggling onto his side now, trying to get back to his feet. Before he could do so, Scott caught him again with a sharp kick to his lower back that left him spread-eagled on the gravel.

  Scott knelt over him, grabbed a handful of his oily hair, and pulled his head back. ‘You’re right, you bastard. Never played rugby in my fucking life, but I grew up in a scheme in the East End o’ Glasgow. You rugger boys should gie it a go – might improve your game.’

  ‘Brian, for the last time, stop! That’s an order!’

  Scott stood up, dabbing at the blood he could feel streaming from his nose, and turned to his chief superintendent. ‘What the fuck is going on, ma’am?’ he wheezed. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’