One Last Dram Before Midnight Page 25

  He sent his glowing cigarette butt spinning into the loch, where it fizzled out in the water. This thoughtless act momentarily disturbed a swan bobbing in the lee of the pier, itself a dim white glow in the inky night. She tucked her head back under one huge white wing, reassured that no real danger presented itself.

  All was quiet – or so it seemed.

  The rain had turned the roof slates of the sandstone building dark and slippery. Despite this, a sure-footed figure darted noiselessly upwards, stopping only when it reached the ornamental bell tower at the apex.

  Though slight in stature, this fleeting shape displayed admirable strength, shinning up a narrow roan pipe, then pulling something sharp and bright from the recesses of dark clothing.

  In seconds, with a muffled thud, the shadowy figure slipped out of sight through the tight gap of the blue-glazed window that opened into the bowels of Kinloch’s museum.

  Constable Frank Harvey yawned. His car was stuffy, and the thick jacket in which he luxuriated felt more like his duvet at home, where right now his new wife slept soundly. His mind drifted as he thought wistfully of the scent and heat of her body. What he wouldn’t give to be snuggling in at her back, he thought, loins suddenly astir.

  ‘Two-forty, two-forty!’ The tinny sharpness of the voice on the radio made him lurch from the dwam into which he had descended. The longing for his bed and carnal pleasure was replaced by a clearing of the throat, before he spoke into the radio on his lapel. ‘Two-forty, go ahead, over.’

  ‘Frankie, we’re showing an internal alarm at the museum. Have you spotted anything, over?’

  Harvey rubbed his forearm down the windscreen to clear the condensation. ‘No, can’t see a thing, the place is in darkness. Do you want me to go out and have a poke about, over?’

  ‘Nah, negative to that. Just been in touch with the keyholder. She tells me that there’s an intermittent fault on the system. Thought I’d get a heads-up from you, just in case, over.’

  ‘Ah, Roger. Make sure the kettle’s on, I’m due back in two hours, over.’

  ‘Roger to that. Enjoy, over.’

  Harvey yawned again and squinted once more out of the window. He convinced himself that the shadow he’d seen was nothing more than a streak of moisture making its way down the windscreen.

  Why they’d bothered to place a car outside the museum now was beyond him. The building and its contents – including that necklace about which there was so much fuss – had remained secure for decades. In his opinion it was unlikely things would change now.

  He must have dozed off, because again he was roused from dreams of tumbling about with his wife, this time by the jarring, persistent shriek of an alarm. Above the bolted front doors of the building, a red light flashed. The noise was now echoing among the neighbouring buildings and out over the loch.

  ‘Two-forty to control, over.’

  ‘Go ahead, over.’

  ‘Another code two-six, the main alarm, I think. Contact the keyholder, she’ll have to come out. I’m off to take a look, over.’

  As he exited the police car, the chill of the night air hit Constable Harvey just before the heavy blow to his head that sent him spinning into unconsciousness.

  Out on the loch, disturbed by the commotion, the swan flapped into the air, casting a spectral figure as she gained height over the town, heading for the high loch in the hills beside what had been the old Iron Age fort. There she would find peace; there, in the old place, she would be undisturbed.

  V

  Daley fumbled for the phone at his bedside. He was used to rude awakenings – all part of the job – but they still made his heart race.

  He listened for a few moments and gave only a brief reply. After a short time spent in the cold bathroom and a struggle with a difficult zip, he was off into the cool morning air, taking deep breaths to clear his head of the sleepiness he had not yet fully shaken off.

  The scene at Kinloch Police Office was verging on pandemonium. Some wise head had seen fit to inform the press, still gathered in the town, that the reason for their presence had just been spirited from its supposedly secure home and, worse still, from right under the nose of the constabulary.

  Ignoring the questions, smartphones, cameras and microphones that were thrust in his face, Daley pushed his way into the CID suite and to his glass box from where he commanded the area. The light from the phone on his desk flashed red, indicating messages were ready to be listened to. A handful of yellow Post-It notes in the familiar hand of Sergeant Shaw adorned the blotter in front him. He removed a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and peered at them one by one.

  He was placing the notes in order of importance when Shaw pushed his way into the office, bearing a large cup of steaming coffee that was gratefully received by the detective.

  ‘How’s Harvey?’ he asked, taking his first slurp of the brew.

  ‘Just a little shaken, sir. He’s at the hospital now, but I don’t think here’s anything to worry about. The bugger’s got a thick enough skull to ensure that.’

  ‘And the necklace is gone, am I right? I don’t suppose he saw anything?’

  ‘Yes, it was the only item touched. Nothing broken, nothing else moved – just the necklace.’

  ‘Shit, I was hoping that this was just some daft prank – you know, the locals making their feelings known.’

  ‘No such luck, it would appear. We’ve a team down there with some of the museum staff now. I heard from them a few minutes ago – all’s well, apart from the necklace that is. We still don’t know how they got in and out, mind you, sir.’

  ‘We probably won’t discover that until it gets light.’ Daley sighed and shook his head. ‘What a place this is. I think we can bet our last dollar that this isn’t some opportunistic art theft. It’s folk from the town making sure their necklace stays put.’

  ‘That’s not what Ms Thornberry thinks, sir.’

  ‘Great, she’s quick off the mark. I thought it would be my job to go and tell her what happened. What are her suspicions?’

  ‘She’s of the belief that all the media coverage surrounding the necklace has drawn it to the attention of the criminal fraternity – those who supply the black market of rich collectors. She reckons they knew a soft target when they saw one. Just off the phone, in fact. She asked to speak to you urgently.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Daley replied wearily.

  Sergeant Shaw handed him a file. ‘Everything’s in here, gaffer. From Harvey reporting that he’d been assaulted, up until the time I phoned you. Thornberry and the press didn’t waste any time, but a local baker on the way to his work helped Harvey, so I suppose the grapevine did its job after that.’

  ‘As always – nothing’s safe here. Apart from the answer, that is.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Shaw raised his eyes. ‘I better go and restore whatever calm I can, sir.’

  As the desk sergeant slipped out of the door, Daley could hear raised voices from reception. He was just about to pick up the phone when it rang.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Symington, sir.’

  ‘Put her through,’ replied Daley.

  ‘Jim, good morning,’ said Symington, her voice crackling via a poor mobile signal. ‘We have a situation, I hear.’

  ‘You could say that, ma’am. I’ve just got in. If you give me half an hour or so, I’ll be able to brief you more thoroughly.’

  ‘But this necklace has definitely been taken, yes?’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  Symington’s next comments were lost by the signal that made her sound like an enraged Dalek. All Daley caught was ‘Nightshift ACC’s not bloody happy’, before the connection failed.

  He was about to dial her number to finish the conversation when his mobile pinged into life.

  En route. Should be with you in a couple of hours.

  The reason her mobile signal had been so poor was that she was already on the way to Kinloch. At least that’ll take care of the
press, thought Daley, looking for some light at the end of the tunnel. The facts were plain, though: with the media encamped on his doorstep, he’d dropped the ball. Daley chastised himself for being persuaded by the museum manager not to have a police presence in the library itself. Somehow, his instinct had told him all was not well – or soon wouldn’t be – but he’d been convinced by the argument that, if officers were placed in the building, all the internal alarms would have to be disabled.

  He shook his head.

  In the darkness, a hand delved into the wooden box and lifted the artefact with a delicate touch. The man clicked on a small lamp and peered at the necklace through a magnifying glass. Still threaded on a gold chain, each piece looked almost identical; tactile, smooth to the touch, just as though this precious piece of jet jewellery had been crafted by a modern machine correct to the tiniest fraction, not by a pair of human hands thousands of years ago.

  He thought about the craftsman who’d made the object; wondered what he – or she – was like. Where had they learned their craft? Who had taught them? Was this their own design, or was it made to a set pattern – perhaps one of many? Certainly, it was unique among artefacts from the period. Had this artist been rewarded for their labour, or had the hand that made this beautiful thing been forced into servitude, either by a ruthless warlord or a wicked master?

  Perhaps the necklace was a simple item of devotion, a tribute to a long-forgotten deity? A precious thing of beauty then, the product of many hours of hard, exacting toil, given up to save a soul, or ensure a good harvest.

  But it hadn’t.

  He stared again, entranced by the ancient object in his hands, its perfect darkness almost pulling him in. One thing was certain, it had power – an almost tangible potency that his modern mind was unable to comprehend.

  ‘Fairer than the blackest gold,’ he whispered to himself.

  VI

  ‘This is a right balls-up,’ quipped Scott, his mouth half full of bacon roll, as he and Daley drove the short distance to the museum.

  The day had dawned bright, but large, dirty puddles at the roadsides glistened and bore testament to the heavy downpour during the night.

  ‘I think balls-up is rather understating the case,’ opined Daley. ‘Symington will be at the office at any time. Apparently the nightshift ACC wasn’t too happy, to say the least.’

  ‘Bad luck wae a’ they journalists here for the big handover, Jimmy. No’ the best time tae make an arse o’ things.’ Scott nodded his head sagely then looked around for something on which to rub his greasy hands.

  ‘Don’t you dare use my upholstery,’ cautioned Daley. ‘And I love the way you do this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shake your head like that when I’m in the shit.’

  ‘Just showing my support, big man. Tough at the top, eh? Especially when precious relics go walkabout on your watch wae the world watching.’

  ‘This from the man who’s never seen the inside of the disciplinary office!’

  ‘Nae need tae be like that. I’m the first tae admit that on occasion I’ve encountered certain difficulties along the way,’ said Scott, wiping his mouth with a tiny scrap of tissue he’d found in his pocket.

  ‘Certain difficulties! That’s like saying the last war was a bit of a scrap.’

  ‘Ach, I’m still here, am I no’? It’s a’ aboot the battle, no’ the odd skirmish here and there.’

  Eyebrows still raised, Daley found a parking space on the seafront opposite the museum and parked his SUV.

  As the men exited the vehicle, Daley noticed two men in SOCO overalls making their way up the roof of the building, using an improvised rope-and-pulley system. The slates looked dark and slick, and the men were clearly taking their time about this short ascent.

  ‘They’ll no’ get any joy up there if that’s where the bugger entered the building,’ remarked Scott. ‘It was a right bleacher wae rain last night. Woke me up, in fact. There’ll be nae prints tae be found outside after that.’

  ‘Cheery McCheery, eh? Come on, Bri. Oh, by the way, you’ve got tomato sauce on your shirt.’

  Daley left Scott wiping at the stain with the tiniest serviceable piece of the tissue he’d found and bounded across the road to the museum. He was pleasantly surprised to note that none of the ladies and gentlemen of the press were to be found hanging about outside. However, this pleasure evaporated as he walked straight into a scrum of journalists and cameramen in the foyer.

  With Scott having caught up, both detectives pushed their way through, ignoring questions and flashing lights, before arriving at the double glass doors where two stout constables stood guard. As they held back the press, Daley and Scott made their way into the heart of the museum.

  Two SOCOs were performing their tasks in and around the empty glass case that had once contained the necklace, now cordoned off by police tape. The manager, a gaunt, anguished-looking middle-aged man named Bennett, stood nearby, rubbing his hands nervously.

  ‘DCI Daley, glad you could make it,’ he said rather dismissively as they approached.

  ‘What have we found so far, Mr Bennett?’ asked Daley, trying his best to ignore the manager’s condescending manner.

  ‘Nobody’s seen fit to tell me anything. I’m just the manager, of course. What business is it of mine?’

  ‘The young woman, the keyholder from last night – it wasn’t you, obviously,’ said Daley.

  ‘Oh, well done. No, it wasn’t. One can’t possibly be on call every night of the week. There are three of us who take it in turns. The keyholder last night was Tracy Robertson, my assistant. Though what she could have done to prevent this awful, awful theft is beyond me. Especially when one considers that the police officer stationed right outside could do nothing.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have led my officers to believe that the internal alarm that sounded at three in the morning was down to a systems fault, for starters. And, knowing this to be the case, you should definitely not have discouraged me from placing a couple of officers in the building overnight, in case they set off the internal alarms.’

  ‘Knowing what to be the case?’

  ‘Knowing that your alarm wisnae working,’ said Scott, distinctly unimpressed by the manager’s attempt to transfer as much blame as possible towards the police.

  ‘I had no idea there was such a fault, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Daley. ‘You’re telling me that, as manager of this establishment – hardly the largest museum in the world – you had no idea that there was an intermittent fault in your alarm system?’

  Bennett sniffed, raising his nose in the air. ‘Correct. At no time did Miss Robertson, or anyone else come to that, inform me of an alarm malfunction. Of course, if they had, I’d have made sure that the problem was rectified.’

  Daley stood for a moment, looking around. ‘This Tracy Robertson, is she here?’

  Bennett looked at his watch. ‘No, not yet. She doesn’t begin work until nine – it’s only just before eight.’

  ‘I don’t need a time check,’ barked Daley. ‘Call her now and get her here as soon as possible.’ He turned away to catch the SOCO supervisor, whom he’d spotted on the other side of the room.

  Bennett shook his head. ‘My goodness, is your boss always so rude?’

  ‘Oh, that wisnae him being rude.’

  ‘Really? I’ve a good mind to have a word with his superior regarding his high-handed attitude.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘I wouldnae do that if I was you.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because then he’ll get really rude, and trust me, you don’t need that.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, officer?’ said Bennett, taking one step back.

  ‘Is that you off tae call this Miss Robertson? Just be a good chap and toddle along noo.’

  ‘Toddle along? How dare you!’

  Scott edged towards the museum curator. ‘Let’s get things crystal clear, okay?’

&n
bsp; Bennett, being slowly backed up against a wall, gulped.

  ‘On your watch, that necklace – priceless, so I hear – has gone walkaboot. Am I right?’

  ‘Well, one could argue –’

  ‘Never mind arguing, Mr Bennett.’ Scott’s face was now only inches from the curator. ‘All my gaffer has tae dae is say, “Och, thon museum bloke widnae let me put constables in the museum on the night o’ the robbery.”’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Obviously, he widnae put it quite in they words. I’m using my ain terminology, if you like.’

  ‘What else is he likely to say?’ said Bennett, the perilous situation he found himself in dawning for the first time.

  ‘Now, I cannae predict that.’

  ‘Well, what would you say, given such circumstances?’

  ‘I’d likely just say, get yoursel’ tae f–’

  ‘Brian!’ shouted Daley. ‘Come over here, would you?’

  Turning to face his boss, Scott shouted back, ‘Aye, gie me two seconds.’

  When he turned back to finish his conversation with Bennett, he smiled, spotting the skinny little man scurrying into a room marked ‘Private’.

  ‘You cannae learn it a’ in books,’ he said quietly to himself as he walked across the room towards Daley, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

  ‘Look at this, Brian,’ said Daley, holding up a small cellophane evidence bag.

  ‘What is it?’

  It was made of white rubber, with a short spout sticking up from a bulbous body. ‘SOCOs found it about half an hour ago, in the middle of the floor. Is that right, Sergeant Comyns?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I spoke to the cleaner and she’s sure it wasn’t here last night. She says she’d definitely have found it when she was hoovering. It’s a dark-coloured carpet, so not hard to believe her. It was the first thing we spotted when we began work on this side of the floor space.’