The Last Witness: A DCI Daley Thriller Read online

  ‘Thought you might like some coffee after your drive, sarge,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Oh, sorry for interrupting,’ she added, noticing the serious expression on her superiors’ faces.

  ‘It’s OK, lassie.’ Scott rarely let anyone leave with a sore heart; unless they deserved to. ‘Mebbe this’ll keep me fae keelin’ o’er. Eh, Jim?’

  Dunn made her excuses then left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  ‘Nae sign o’ a biscuit, neither,’ said Scott, looking down at his coffee.

  ‘Here.’ Daley opened another drawer of his desk, removing a bottle of malt whisky. ‘I think you need that dram now, Brian.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, taking the bottle and removing the cork with a soft pop, then pouring a measure into his coffee until the mug very nearly overflowed.

  ‘It’s no’ just the fact that bastard shot me, Jim.’ Scott looked up, putting the steaming mug to his lips. Daley noted a slight tremor in his hand, which sent a drip of the whisky coffee down the side of the white mug. After a loud slurp, Scott put the mug down, letting out a long sigh. ‘Jim, we went tae his funeral. I saw him trundling doon the conveyor belt at the crematorium. He’s deid!’

  5

  Daley watched as Scott poured another hefty measure of whisky into his mug; there was no need for coffee now, the spirit was all that was required.

  They didn’t talk for a few minutes; they didn’t have to. Both knew what the other was thinking. It had been an unremittingly hard task to break the Machie family: dangerous, frightening, but ultimately successful. How could the spectre from their worst nightmares have cheated the grave and reappeared on a quiet Australian street? The sneer aimed by the murderer at the CCTV camera as he left the scene of horror in Ringwood East was burned onto Daley’s memory. Like every murder case he had been involved in: the sight of his mother lying dead in her bed; the face of a child suffocated with a pillow by a drunken father; like – like all too many scenes from Jim Daley’s career that played out unbidden before his mind’s eye.

  ‘I’ve got a top secret file fir you fae his majesty, Jim.’ Scott jolted Daley from his thoughts.

  ‘Yes, he told me,’ the DCI said wearily. ‘I don’t know what’s in it, but it can’t be any worse than what we know already. Can it?’ Daley looked into Scott’s face for the confirmation he knew he wouldn’t get.

  ‘Efter the day, I widnae be surprised by anything. Elvis is likely buskin’ doon the street.’ Scott’s weak attempt at humour told Daley how much he had been affected by the revelations. ‘Gie me a second. I’ll just nip oot tae the car an’ get it.’

  ‘I hope this won’t be like my promotion. Remember?’ Daley recalled how his sergeant had managed to lose a letter informing him that he had been promoted to Chief Inspector. Was that really only a few short months ago? It seemed like years.

  ‘Nah, dinnae worry. I thought he wiz goin’ tae make me chain it tae my wrist. He left me in nae doubt how important it wiz. I stuck it under my seat.’ Scott left for the car park.

  Daley eyed the bottle of whisky, still sitting on his desk. He had never really been a heavy drinker, though there had been times when he had resorted to the bottle in an attempt to anaesthetise himself against life. He supposed that he was lucky not to have the kind of personality that lent itself to addiction. Many of his colleagues, past and present, struggled with alcohol.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Daley’s glass door burst open, revealing a flushed DS Scott. ‘Ye’ll need tae gie me a hand here, Jim. The bloody file’s slipped under the seat an’ I cannae reach it. You’ll get it wi’ they long arms o’ yours.’

  Scott had driven down in his own divisional CID car, a vehicle that was easy to recognise, adorned as it was with small bumps and scrapes and almost camouflaged by a thick layer of dirt. It was no better inside: overflowing ashtrays added to the stench of stale tobacco smoke, and the floor looked like the object of an ardent recycler’s dream, littered with empty crisp and cigarette packets, Styrofoam coffee cups, a half-uneaten pie, and various other objects which remained unidentifiable.

  ‘Right, if ye can just get yer hand in here.’ Scott grimaced as he opened the car door and bent down, probing under the driver’s seat with an outstretched arm. ‘I can get my fingertips tae it, but I cannae get any purchase on the bloody thing.’

  ‘Move over.’ Daley ushered his DS out of the way. ‘This car just gets worse every time I see it. Have Health and Safety not been on your back?’

  ‘No, but yer man asked fir a lift intae the toon the other day,’ said Scott, referring to Superintendent Donald. ‘He wiz away tae some reception or other.’

  ‘I’m sure he was chuffed,’ said Daley.

  ‘No’ really. Anyhow, we got tae Back Sneddon Street, and he telt me tae stop, an’ fucked of an’ caught the train. Needless tae say, I got a memo aboot it the next day,’ Scott declared with a resigned look.

  ‘The contents of which you no doubt took onboard and complied with to the letter?’

  ‘Nah, I flung it in the bin. I’ve mair tae dae than valet cars – I thought you’d appreciate that mair than anyone, Jim.’ Scott looked nonplussed.

  Daley raised his eyebrows and smiled involuntarily, kneeling down at the side of the car and reaching under the driver’s seat. Sure enough, he could feel the edge of the file, just in reach.

  ‘Nearly got it, Brian,’ he said, his face reddening with the strain.

  ‘Gaun yersel, big fella, I knew ye wid be able tae get it wi’ they arms o’ yours,’ he said by way of encouragement. ‘Wan last push an’ ye’ll have it.’

  Daley’s arm was aching, but he stretched his hand as far forward as possible, managing to catch the edge of the file between his forefinger and thumb. He pulled it out from under the seat and, at the same moment, felt fresh air ventilate his backside as, with a glorious ripping noise straight out of the sound-effects department, his trousers split magnificently.

  He stood up, out of breath, then wordlessly handed Scott the file with a flat-lipped expression.

  ‘Well done, Jim. I knew ye wid dae it.’ Scott smiled as he took the file, marked ‘Highly Confidential’, from Daley. ‘Another pair o’ breeks away. Just as well ye got that promotion – troosers dinnae come cheap these days.’

  Daley looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Don’t say another word, Brian.’ He turned on his heel and headed back into the office, holding his torn trousers together at the back with his left hand. Scott followed, chuckling to himself.

  Daley broke the seal on the file with a penknife that he kept in his drawer. As he was doing this he regretted not putting away the bottle of whisky, as Scott was now helping himself to another large measure. There was no doubt about it, Scott was rattled – more than he cared to show.

  The file was reasonably slim, though began with a cover page emphasising its secrecy and how it should be disseminated, as well as the consequences of any revelation, even inadvertent, of the contents therein. There were also instructions detailing how the content should be stored once read, something Daley had never seen before.

  ‘C’mon, Jimmy-boy, gie us the bad news.’ Scott’s eyes had taken on a bleary look, no doubt caused by nearly a half bottle of single malt. Through his shirt, he was massaging the scar that JayMac’s bullet had left in his shoulder.

  Daley knew he was in trouble when he saw the first page of the file. Under a banner that read Her Majesty’s Home Office Witness Protection Programme, a black-and-white photograph of a man who looked to be in his mid fifties stared at the camera with a flat, almost disdainful expression.

  There was no mistaking Frank MacDougall.

  Daley read on, aware that Scott was employing his famous ability to read upside down nearly as quickly as he could normally. Most of the information was familiar; he knew how MacDougall and Dowie had turned on their former partners in crime in return for immunity from prosecution, consequently bringing down the entire organisation. There were details of the trial and the threats that had been made
to the witnesses and police officers, including himself and Scott.

  He then came to the section he knew nothing about.

  After the trials of the major players behind the Machie family were over and the accused – to a man – sent down for various terms not less than twenty-five years, the problem of what to do with MacDougall and Dowie presented itself.

  Dowie was keen to get as far away from Scotland as possible, eschewing the offer of a new identity somewhere in the UK. In a way, this suited the authorities, who most certainly did not want what was left of the Machie organisation uniting to find and kill either of their nemeses. Even though Daley now knew his fate, the details of Dowie’s placement formed no part of the information Donald wished to make him aware of, so had been redacted.

  Frank MacDougall, however, was a very different matter. He had two sons and a daughter, all of whom had been threatened, so needed to be given a new life and identity too. MacDougall had turned down any offer of relocation abroad. Not only did he wish to stay in the UK, he wished to remain living in Scotland. Daley scanned the attempts that had been made to dissuade him from this decision, all to no avail. He had turned down Portugal, Turkey, even relocation to Sweden. Daley, on reading the lengths the British government were willing to go to protect their star witness, wondered – not for the first time – why he was doing the job he was. Would a grateful government resettle him and his entire family in a European destination of his choice with a self-filling bank account for the rest of his life? The answer was instant: no.

  Daley merely grunted as Scott informed him that he was going to take a toilet break, and left his glass box.

  He read on, to discover that MacDougall’s oldest son, Cisco, had quickly tired of the safe house in which the family had been placed – on an ex-army base near London – and jumped the wall one night. He was found with his throat cut in the stairwell of a Glasgow tenement two days later. Daley was mildly surprised that he had heard nothing of this at the time, though reasoned that, because of the circumstances, the revenge killing had probably been covered up. The top men of the Machie family may have been out of the way behind bars, but their legacy lived on.

  He turned another page, already feeling the tightness in his throat that presaged bad news.

  Then, almost inevitably, there it was. Frank MacDougall’s pleas to be relocated somewhere in Scotland had been reluctantly acceded to. He and his family had been given the new identity they had been promised, and sent to an isolated part of the mainland.

  Frank MacDougall had been living on a farm only nine miles from Kinloch for the last five years.

  Daley pushed the file away, rubbing his temples, trying to take everything in. As he was doing this, the door burst open, revealing his DS, who, not unusually, was swearing under his breath.

  ‘See they fuckin’ taps in that toilet,’ he said, rubbing at a large dark patch that had spread over the front of his light brown trousers with a paper towel. ‘As soon as ye turn the bloody things on, they go aff like a bloody geyser. I look as though I’ve pished mysel’.’ He stopped rubbing when he saw the look on Daley’s face and the discarded file lying on the desk before him.

  ‘Sit down, Brian,’ Daley said wearily. ‘I’ve got something more to tell you that you’re not going to like. Bring me that mug from the top of the filing cabinet, would you? I think I need a drink now.’

  Both detectives sat nursing their coffee mugs of malt whisky in silence.

  Daley could not believe that he was about to be flung back into what had been the most miserable time of his police career. He looked at Scott from under his brow; his friend was staring into his mug, swirling its contents around, deep in thought. Of all the police officers involved with the fight to bring JayMac and his crew to justice, they had loathed Brian Scott the most, and he had nearly paid the ultimate price for his efforts. Scott had grown up with many of the criminals, so in their minds, using the perverse logic that infused the criminal community, he was as big a rat as Dowie and MacDougall.

  The shrill ring of the telephone made them both jump. Daley answered, to be informed by the internal operator that Donald was on the line. He OK’d the call, pressed the conference button on the keypad and held his finger to his lips in an attempt to prevent Scott from muttering his usual oaths while he was on the phone to their superior.

  ‘Ah, Jim.’ Donald’s voice sounded loud in the glass box. ‘I take it that Tweedle-Dum has managed to perform the simple task I placed before him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley, winking at his scowling DS. ‘In fact, he’s sitting opposite me at the moment.’

  Not in the slightest put off by this information, Donald continued seamlessly. ‘I hope he’s not smoking. I had the misfortune of having to travel half a mile in that coup of a car we foolishly let him drive – I very nearly died from a mixture of asphyxiation and botulism,’ he said sarcastically, almost inducing Daley to a sudden outburst of laughter as Scott made an obscene gesture at the telephone.

  ‘I’ve read and digested the contents, sir. Do you wish me to memorise and destroy?’ Daley decided to deploy his own brand of sarcasm.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d consider this a laughing matter, Jim, especially since the prime target for the next horror killing is well and truly on your patch.’

  Donald never failed to sound like a patronising schoolmaster, which always made Daley bridle. ‘I’m beginning to realise why I’m here, sir,’ he said, contempt thick in his voice.

  ‘If you think I knew anything of this, Jim, you are mistaken. Fra—’ Donald stopped suddenly, changing his mind. ‘The subject’s whereabouts were as much of a mystery to me as they were to you. In fact, I wish they still were.’ Somehow Daley believed his boss’s sincere tone. ‘If it’s any consolation, I have approached the witness protection programme to advise them that, under the current circumstances, he be moved to somewhere we have better resources. I await a reply.’

  There was a silence between the men for a few moments before Daley spoke, sounding resigned. ‘They won’t do that, sir. They’ll consider him as safe here with his cover as he’s going to get.’

  ‘You always were a pessimist, Jim. Anyhow, I want you to lock that file in the safe in the meantime, out of harm’s way, so to speak. I’ve decided to come down tomorrow – we’ll pay a visit to our old friend together.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just fuckin’ great,’ Scott murmured, forgetting that the call was in conference mode.

  ‘And that will be quite enough analysis from you, DS Scott. Better you spend some time cleaning out that car of yours. I’m flying down in the morning, so I’ll need the use of a vehicle. Make sure it’s shipshape. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Eh, aye, sir.’ Scott shook his head with a grimace. ‘I really meant, that’s just whit we’re needin’, you know, tae gie us a hand an’ that.’ He smiled encouragingly, as though Donald might be able to see him through the phone.

  ‘Bollocks,’ was the rapid reply. ‘Just you make sure you’re at the airport at ten tomorrow, sharp, with a clean car.’ There was a loud click as the phone in Donald’s office was slammed down and the conversation with distant Kinloch was over.

  ‘Pit ma foot right intae that, did I no’, Jim?’

  ‘Yup,’ was Daley’s concise but adequate answer. He got up from behind his desk and asked Scott to accompany him along the corridor to the safe. Scott dabbed the front of his trousers with the paper towel as they walked. DC Dunn couldn’t hide the look of disgust on her face as they passed her in the corridor.

  ‘Before ye say anything, it’s no’ whit yer thinking – it’s they taps in . . .’ Scott stopped as she held up her hand by way of saying that no explanation was necessary and then continued down the corridor, failing to suppress a snigger.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Scott lamented. ‘That evil bastard back fae the deid, an’ everybody thinks I’ve pissed mysel’.’

  ‘I think you and I will take a wee trip down to the County,’ said Daley. ‘Someth
ing tells me we’re not going to have much more opportunity. Well, for the time being anyway.’

  ‘If things go the way they did the last time, we might no’ get an opportunity, full stop. How the fuck is this a’ possible, Jim? The man’s deid an’ gone, nae doubt about it.’ Scott’s face was a mask of concern. ‘You saw the back o’ that prison ambulance – naebody got oot o’ that alive. Fuck me, I even saw him at the mortuary that night – or whit wiz left o’ him. They were cuttin’ oot his heart, or whitever the fuck they do. I saw it, Jim – an’ come tae that, so did you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Daley replied vaguely.

  ‘Ye didnae what?’ Scott was mystified.

  ‘I saw the back of the ambulance, but I never went to the mortuary. I left that dubious pleasure to you and the gaffer, if you remember?’ Daley’s weak stomach for forensic pathology was well known.

  ‘Aye, right enough. Ye must hae been the only cop in Scotland that wisnae there. It wisnae a pretty sight, I can tell ye.’

  ‘All the more mystifying how he has apparently managed this resurrection,’ Daley mused, with a sigh.

  ‘It cannae be him, Jim. They can dae all sorts these days wi’ plastic surgery. Must be some nutter – an obsessive or something. Fuck knows we’ve seen plenty o’ those in oor time,’ Scott said grimly as he continued to rub his trousers.

  6

  The helicopter swayed alarmingly as its pilot tried again to land his aircraft on the helipad of the large container vessel. The wind was reasonably brisk, but his main problem was the swell, which caused the deck of the ship to rise and fall dramatically. He needed all of the experience that his years in the Royal Navy had provided. Not many private pilots, as he was now, would have contemplated landing a chopper in such conditions. He had been reluctant but, for the money that was on offer, he was willing to take the risk.