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  ‘Yes,’ replied Mason. He turned back to the console in front of him, and with an urgency in his voice spoke into the microphone. ‘All stations, all stations. Code twenty-one, I repeat, code twenty-one. The Wills’ tobacco warehouse on the Garden Festival Site. Urgent assistance required.’

  It was the call every police officer subconsciously listened out for as they went about their business. Two radio messages would stop you in your tracks: the one with your own shoulder number, and a code twenty-one. One of your own – a fellow officer – was in danger. Every cop in the division and beyond able to attend would now rush to the scene.

  Daley could hear the first responses coming back loud and clear over the control-room speakers. Everything else would stop now, everyone focused on racing to the aid of a colleague.

  Daley sprinted out to the backyard. Already, a handful of uniformed cops were piling into a van, some still pulling on their uniform jackets, disturbed from a rest break.

  Daley clambered in behind them. Soon, with the siren wailing and blue lights flashing, they were making their way down Hope Street, dodging the Glasgow traffic.

  Daley looked out of the rear window. Sure enough, a line of police vehicles, marked and unmarked, were behind them. He bit his lip and prayed they’d be there in time.

  10

  Scott screamed in pain as the knife was inserted just below his right shoulder blade. Through his pain, he could hear Machie and his henchmen laughing at his plight.

  He was naked, strapped to the improvised dentist’s chair, his vulnerable flesh exposed to the cruelties of the Professor’s knife. This was the third wound he’d suffered, but each stab had been the worst pain he’d ever felt.

  ‘See what I telt you!’ shouted Machie. ‘The man’s a genius. Knows how tae gie you the agony, man.’

  His tormentor’s ugly red face appeared in front of Scott’s. ‘I’m making small incisions where muscles meet bone, Brian. Just tiny ones, mind you. Don’t worry, you’re not bleeding much right now. That’ll come.’

  ‘You’re one sick bastard,’ croaked Scott.

  ‘Now, time we had a wee look below the waist,’ the Professor said in a voice loud enough to send Machie into a paroxysm of laughter.

  ‘Oh, boys, wait tae yous see this. Your man’s going tae slice him where it hurts, noo!’

  Scott was still reeling from the pain of the first cuts as he felt the Professor run his hand down his back, onto his buttocks. He drew in a deep breath, screwing up his eyes, waiting for the agony to begin all over again.

  He never thought he’d pray to die, but now it seemed the only option.

  Distantly, through the horror, he could hear something, something familiar.

  The vehicle skidded on the dusty gravel outside the big warehouse. Daley could remember visiting the festival with Liz. When they had left the building it had stood as a reminder of Glasgow’s past, where tobacco in various forms was shipped in, then back out, transformed into cigars, cigarettes and a multitude of other products. It and whisky had made the city and some of its citizens rich.

  Now, despite everyone’s best efforts, there seemed only to be decay.

  He watched as two police officers battered in the big warehouse doors with a metal ram.

  In seconds, still with their lights flashing, police vehicles poured into the warehouse.

  When they stopped, Daley looked around, frantically. Uniformed police officers were pointing their torches into the gloom. For a second, Daley panicked. Did they have the wrong building?

  Suddenly, from much further into the warehouse, came a shout: ‘He’s here! Quick!’

  Daley rushed towards the voice, with a dozen other officers whose torches illuminated the scene.

  There, strapped to the frame of a chair, was Detective Constable Brian Scott, his body smeared in blood, head bowed.

  ‘Brian!’ shouted Daley, rushing to his friend’s side.

  The stricken man looked up, squinting into the torch light, and moved his lips.

  ‘Brian, what is it? What are you trying to say?’ urged Daley, fearing the worst. He leaned close into Scott’s face to try and hear what he was saying.

  ‘Have you got any fags on you, big man. I’m fair gasping here.’

  11

  Daley, Scott and their guest, Ian Burns, were in the Press Bar. It was almost a week since Scott’s ordeal, and Daley was pleased to see him looking more and more like his old self. Certainly, he looked the part now, gulping down a pint, with a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

  ‘Aye, sir, so they heard the cavalry on the way – you know, the sirens and that – and got oot a wee door at the back o’ the warehouse, and off.’

  ‘But we think we’ve identified the torturer. Alan McDaid, failed medical student,’ added Daley. ‘He was studying at Glasgow Uni when he lost the plot with drugs.’

  ‘And fell into the clutches of James Machie,’ said Burns.

  ‘Yes, exactly. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but no sign of him so far.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll see him again,’ said Burns. ‘You don’t think Machie will risk a guy like that exposing him. No, I think our Mr McDaid will be lying in some unmarked grave somewhere, in much the same way Machie himself will hide behind a multitude of alibis. He’ll have been miles away from the site when all this was going on, you’ll see.’

  They were silent for a moment, contemplating Burns’s theory.

  ‘Serves that Professor bastard right,’ said Scott, breaking the spell. ‘Here, what’s this I hear aboot Dines?’

  ‘DCI Dines has resigned. Family problems, apparently,’ replied Burns, his face expressionless.

  ‘Must have been bad for him to have sacrificed his precious career,’ remarked Daley.

  ‘Apparently a ledger appeared at Pitt Street – just out of the blue. Former property of the Magician, Provan.’

  ‘Really?’ said Daley

  ‘Yes, so they say.’ Burns sounded mysterious. ‘Records of payments made to those in the thrall of James Machie. It made for very interesting reading, so I’m told.’

  ‘Ya beauty,’ exclaimed Scott. ‘So they’ve got Dines banged tae rights, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say that, Brian.’ Burns smiled at Scott’s quizzical expression. ‘As I told Jim here, don’t ever look for neat conclusions in this job – you won’t get them. If you were the chief constable, would you really like it if the man you’d chosen personally to head up your elite investigative squad turned out to be a wrong ’un?’

  Daley smiled wearily. ‘Wonder how that came to light?’

  ‘Oh, DC Daley, the world is a fascinating place.’ Burns tapped his nose. His smile said, I know, but you’ll never know.

  ‘I see, sir. But he still gets off with it.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Big drop in his pension – the end of a potentially glittering career.’ Burns squinted at the bar. ‘Is that John Donald?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley. ‘DS Donald, now.’

  ‘As I said to you, Jim, there are three types of cop you can be. The useless buggers who just see it as a way of paying the bills and have no ambition and even less sense. Then there’s the good guys who see the whole thing as a calling – a service to keep people safe and keep the scum at bay.’

  ‘What aboot the third?’ asked Scott.

  Burns stared absently at Donald, who was laughing obsequiously at the lame jokes of a DCI beside him at the bar.

  ‘Oh, they just see the job as a means to an end. Yes, they’ll work hard to get up the greasy pole, but not out of any desire to help anyone but themselves. Being in the police gets them where they want to go – nothing more.’

  ‘And what happens when they get to the top?’ asked Scott.

  Burns returned Donald’s wave as Daley looked on thoughtfully. ‘Well, now, that’s when the problems start.’ He drained his glass and got to his feet. ‘Right, boys, it’s been a pleasure. But I’ve got to go now – off to book a holiday.’

 
‘Where you off tae, sir?’

  ‘Italy, next summer.’

  ‘For the World Cup, sir?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Shh,’ said Burns, holding his finger to his mouth. ‘Mrs Burns doesn’t know about that yet.’ He smiled. ‘And it’s Ian, not “sir”. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Thank you, Ian – for all you’ve done, I mean,’ said Daley sincerely.

  The men said their goodbyes. Daley and Scott watched Burns leave the Press Bar, off to enjoy the rest of his retirement.

  ‘Watch oot,’ said Scott.

  Daley looked up to see DS Donald making his way to their table.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the Teflon team,’ said Donald, with an unctuous smile.

  ‘Meaning?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Meaning you’re one pair of lucky bastards.’ He tapped Scott on the shoulder. ‘I know you’re hand in glove with Machie and MacDougall. Don’t think that little stage show fooled me. All done for effect, nothing else.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Scott. ‘You’re off duty, right?’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘Well, here’s what I’m saying. Why don’t me an’ you take a wee walk oot the back, while I kick you good-looking?’

  Donald raised an eyebrow and turned to address Daley. ‘And you, the hero of the hour, eh? I have you marked, James Daley, had you down from the start. Don’t think for one minute you’ll get any further than a DC. I don’t care how much you suck up old Burns’s arse. He’s yesterday’s man. The future’s right here.’ He thumped his forefinger into his chest.

  ‘Aye, well, in that case, here’s tae the past,’ said Scott, raising his glass.

  As they watched Donald thread his way back to the bar, Daley muttered under his breath: ‘Who do you think phoned me, Brian?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You know, the day you were under the knife. Who tipped us the wink?’

  ‘I’m buggered if I know,’ said Scott with a shrug.

  Daley looked at him for a few moments. ‘It was Frank MacDougall, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m just glad whoever it was did what they did, or I’d be like a teabag, the noo.’

  Daley grinned at his friend. He supposed it was an answer he’d never get. He suspected the boys from the single end would always stick together when push came to shove. Pragmatism: there was that word again.

  ‘Here, you, away an’ get the pints in. I’ve got a right thirst.’

  Whatever horror he’d faced in the warehouse, Daley was glad to see that Brian Scott was back to his normal self.

  And here is a taster of Denzil Meyrick’s next D.C.I. Daley thriller, Well of the Winds (publication date 6 April 2017):

  Kinloch, 1945

  The spring evening had given way to a night illuminated by a full moon, intermittently obscured by dark scudding clouds. Elsewhere, a bright night like this was dreaded: cities, towns and villages picked out in the moonlight, prey to waves of enemy bombers, or worse still, the terrifying whine of the new super weapon: the doodlebug. Not so, here on Scotland’s distant west coast – here, there was a safe haven.

  Out on the loch, the man could see a dozen grey warships looming, framed by the roofs and spires of Kinloch and the hills beyond that cocooned the town. Crouched behind a boulder down on the causeway, he watched the breeze tugging at the rough grass that gave way to the rocky shoreline and the sea hissing and sighing.

  In the distance he heard the stuttering engine of a car making its way along the narrow coast road from Kinloch, which skirted the lochside before disappearing into the hills. The headlights cast a weak golden beam, sweeping across the field behind him. The engine stopped with a shudder and the lights flickered out as the vehicle came to a halt in the little lay-by beside the gate to the causeway. The man held his breath as a car door opened and then slammed shut.

  It was time.

  He’d always known this moment would come, but a sudden chill in his bones compelled him to draw tighter the scarf around his neck. He reached into the deep pocket of his gabardine raincoat, feeling the reassuring heft of the blade. He closed his fist over the wooden handle and waited, heart pounding.

  He saw the beam of a torch flash across the waves and gasped as a creature – most likely a rat – scurried away from the light. He inhaled the cool air, tainted by the stench of rotting seaweed. The footsteps were getting closer now, scuffing across the rocks in his direction. He heard a man clear his throat.

  ‘Hello . . . are you there?’ The voice was deep and resonant with no hint of trepidation. For a heartbeat, he wondered how the end of existence could creep up so suddenly – unbidden and unannounced. Was there no primeval instinct at work, protecting frail flesh, bone and breath? How could the path of one’s life come to a sudden dead end without even the tiniest hint?

  He stepped out from behind the boulder, shielding his eyes from the glare of the torch now directed straight into his face.

  ‘What in hell’s name are you doing here?’ Though the question was brusque, the voice was calm, almost uninterested. He watched as the man turned the beam of the torch back along the way he’d come and firmly pulled down his trilby when a gust of wind threatened to send it spinning into the waves.

  Ignoring the remark, he rushed him from behind. He hooked his left arm around the man’s stout neck and snaked his right arm across the man’s waist. Up and twist, right under the ribcage, as he’d been taught – plunging into him again and again. There was only fleeting resistance as the long sharp blade did its job. The man had been completely unprepared for the attack – just as they’d said he would be. His victim tensed, then went limp. A gurgle – almost a plea – came from the depth of his throat, as his life drained away. Aided by his assailant, who took his weight, the dying man sank to the ground.

  He dragged the body behind the boulder that had been his hiding place, almost losing his balance when a deep sigh – the last sign of life – issued from the victim’s gaping mouth. Leaving the corpse propped up behind the boulder, he stood up straight and took deep gulping breaths.

  He waited, with only the thud of his heart in his ears and the restless surf for company.

  It had been as easy as they’d predicted.

  In what must have only been minutes, but seemed like hours, he heard another car making its way slowly along the narrow road towards him.

  His job was done. The greater good had prevailed – the greater good must always prevail.

  Gairsay, an island off the coast of Kintyre, the present day

  Malcolm McAuley whistled along to the tune on the radio. It was his last delivery of the day. He collected the post off the first ferry at seven every morning in his guise as the island’s only postman. When he’d taken on the job, almost ten years ago, his task had been the delivery of letters, but now that his fellow islanders were taking advantage of online shopping, he delivered mainly parcels. With fewer than two hundred souls on Gairsay, an island just over five miles long and one and a half broad, his daily routine rarely took more than an hour.

  It was how he liked it. McAuley had many other tasks to perform in the course of his day.

  He turned the Royal Mail van onto the rough track that led to Achnamara, the farm belonging to the Bremners. He’d known the family all of his life, as he had most of the island’s residents. He always remembered old Mr Bremner with a smile. Though he rarely spoke about his past, the islanders speculated that he’d escaped the coming storm in Germany in 1940. The rumour was that, with his wife, he had made the hazardous journey across war-torn Europe, before reaching safety and a new home on this tiny island off the west coast of Scotland.

  Though they made little of it, ornaments and other religious paraphernalia in their home made it obvious that the Bremners were Jewish. However, the family, keen to play their part in the community, had soon begun attending the kirk, like everybody else, treating the services as more of a local event than an act of religious devotion. They were good, kind
people, who had quickly become part of the tight-knit island community.

  Achnamara, like the rest of the farms, had once belonged to the company who owned the island. In the main, they were benign landlords, though through a series of tough factors they made sure that the land they owned yielded all it could. Back in the forties, when old Alex Grieve and his wife – childless and worn out by years of hard toil – had become unable to work the farm to its full potential, they’d been quietly retired and a place found for them in a small cottage in Gairsay’s main settlement, the village of Prien. The Bremner family had moved in to Achnamara, and had been there ever since, eventually buying the farm from the island’s proprietors in the sixties.

  Though similar offers had been made to other tenant farmers, they’d been unable to find enough cash, so the six other farms on Gairsay remained in the hands of the company, until the island was bought by its population in 1999, a landmark purchase in Scotland that heralded similar transactions by remote communities across the country.

  Old Mr Bremner had died in the late eighties, but his wife Jan was still alive and thriving in her old age. The work of the farm was now shared between her son, Randolph, and grandson William. Three generations occupied the main farmhouse and a bungalow nearby. Though farming was their main livelihood, they also fished for crab and lobster, using a small boat they kept tied up to a rickety pier by the shore.

  The package McAuley was carrying today was addressed to Jan, so he looked forward to a chat with the old woman over a cup of tea and a slice of the delicious cake that always seemed to be in plentiful supply.

  The main farmhouse was newly whitewashed and looked as pristine as ever. Unusually, there was no sign of life in the yard, though McAuley heard a cow lowing balefully in an outbuilding.

  He collected the small parcel from the back of the van and rapped on the front door, which was painted bright red. As was his habit in almost every dwelling on the island when there was no reply, he turned the heavy brass knocker, engraved with the family name, and opened the door.