Dark Suits and Sad Songs (7 page)

‘What then, the press? If it’s anything to do with Paddy Sinclair at the Daily Shag, I’ll string the bastard up.’

‘That’s just it, Elise. It would appear not to be our friends from the fourth estate, either. I’m still investigating, but unless it’s a deep-cover job from the BBC or Channel 4, or some freelance nut-job, I’m sad to say that we have something else to worry about. I’ll have a more definitive answer for you by close of play today. There’s something about all this I don’t like, though.’

Fordham stared at him blankly. He knew that, behind those dark eyes, she was already calculating the possible political consequences of the situation.

‘So, now the obvious question: who the fuck is it?’

He told her about the impromptu interview of Kirsteen Lang, as well as an update regarding the spectacular suicide of Walter Cudihey, all of which she took in without demur, sitting quietly behind her desk.

‘Oh fuck!’ she said loudly when he had finished.

‘I see you have reached the same conclusion as me.’

‘Spooks?’

‘If my enquiries with the TV people come up with nowt, then I think we have to view that as an extremely likely possibility.’

‘Is that the same as a potentially verified outcome?’

‘No, but getting there,’ he replied, smiling at her contempt for political double-speak.

‘OK. If so, who? Not MI5, I hope?’

‘Too early to say. I’m going to have to drop everything until we get to the bottom of this. I’ll need full access to Cudihey’s personnel file, as well as Kirsteen Lang’s. Oh, and anything from the Whip’s book of the dark arts, too, regardless of how closely guarded it might be. I’m sure you can arrange that.’

‘If I can’t, I’m sure the First Minister can.’

‘Bit early to get them involved, don’t you think?’

‘Aye, maybe, Gary. But if you don’t come up with anything concrete in the next few hours, I’ll need to flag it up. You know how things are just now. We’re all on our toes in case the dirty-tricks brigade from Westminster show their faces and try and ruin the project.’

‘Project Thistle, by any chance?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call it that, Gary.’ She smiled.

‘Freedom, by any other name. Anyhow, I’ll leave all the funny handshakes and secret codes to you lot. Give me a couple of hours; at least we’ll know by then who we’re not dealing with.’

‘Aye, good man,’ she sighed. ‘And do me a favour – find out exactly what we have on the ground down in Kinloch. Politically and otherwise, if you know what I mean.’

The door burst open to reveal a skinny young man in a bad suit holding three Styrofoam cups of coffee in two hands.

‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I couldn’t knock because of these,’ he continued, holding up the beverages as evidence.

‘Arsehole,’ Wilson said, as he pushed past him and through the door. ‘And who said you could have a fuckin’ coffee?’

Elise Fordham watched her young aide deposit the drinks onto her desk, then dismissed him. From the inside pocket of her tailored suit jacket, she removed a tiny key, then used it to unlock a small drawer in her desk. She retrieved a black diary from within, then reached into her handbag and, after some fumbling, produced a cheap mobile phone. She typed four capital letters, then sent the message to a number she had retrieved from the diary. The message read:
M O F Z
. She waited for it to send, then placed the diary and phone back into the drawer, which she locked.

As she lifted the coffee to her lips, she was perturbed to note that her hand was trembling.

9

At nineteen, his mind should have been occupied by thoughts of girls, sex, study, work, friends, family, a drink down the pub, football, holidays, music, clothes; any manner of things. Instead, all that mattered for Malky Miller was his next fix, a new opportunity to stick a needle into one of his diminishing number of useable veins, and feel the chemically induced orgasm overtake his senses. Well, that, and money, the commodity that facilitated his habit.

He’d had his first joint when he was in primary school; his father had been a user and his mother an alcoholic. He had grown up in Glasgow’s East End, in one of the city’s worst schemes; one blighted by violence, drugs and deprivation. Did citizens in the bohemian West End care that their fellow Glaswegians were dying of overdose, malnutrition, alcohol abuse, beatings, stabbings? Many of the middle class did their best to ignore these issues.

In an effort to rid the city of some of these ‘problem’ families, a plan was hatched. Why subject these people to the high-rise horror of badly maintained multi-storey misery, with zero amenities and even less hope, when they could be miserable elsewhere? The answer was simple: relocation.

Small towns on the edge of Scotland’s economy, where fishing, crofting, distilling, small-scale mining or ship building had once provided a good living, could be allowed to thrive again, this time as support networks for stricken fellow Scots. Hence, working on the principle that exposure to sea air and sound rural values, combined with a change of scene and distance from malevolent influences, could only be of benefit, many of the most troubled individuals Glasgow had to offer found themselves breathing in the tang of the ocean and taking in the views of green fields, dark hills and big skies.

Sadly, instead of integrating their new inhabitants into the community, these towns and villages found themselves increasingly blighted by the same problems that had prompted this urban exodus in the first place. Doors once left unlocked were firmly bolted; the friendly faces in the street turned into those of people the locals neither recognised nor liked the look of. The smart tenement flats that lined the main streets, where well-to-do merchants once brought up their families became dens where crime and depravity flourished, and from which only grasping landlords profited.

Malky Miller was a fine example of this. He had been placed in ‘community care’ by social services when he was seventeen, then moved to Kinloch, where he could be more closely monitored by social workers and hopefully given a fresh start away from the influence of his troubled family. In his second week there, a friend of his had caught the bus from Glasgow and brought Malky his first haul of drugs to sell. Now, two years on, with many customers and much less danger than in the city, Malky had become one of Kinloch’s most affluent dealers.

Today, he was going up a level; such was his success that he was being rewarded with a visit from the boss, or someone so close to the boss that it made no difference. He had tidied up his flat in anticipation. Consisting only of a living room with a curtained-off galley kitchen, a tiny toilet and shower room, and a bedroom just big enough to contain the double bed, this housekeeping hadn’t taken long. Sweaty, and a bit shaky after his exertions, he sat on his large recliner and stared at the huge flatscreen TV that dominated the room and was, apart from the Audi A3 parked down the street, one of the few trappings of his financial gain. Had the children of Glasgow’s deprived families been properly educated and mentored, some of them would undoubtedly have become captains of industry, such was their acumen for business. The ruthlessness and greed that drove Malky differed little from his peers working in financial services all over the world, though it was just possible that Malky was a more likeable person, a trait that made him good at selling.

Fighting the desperate desire to shoot up – he wanted to be straight for his visitor – he sprang up from the recliner and walked across the room. In front of an old fireplace sat a three-bar electric fire which Malky reached behind to produce a black cloth bag. He looked into it and smiled. The heft of notes, drugs and requisite paraphernalia felt good in his hand; though not his only stash, this was his biggest. He checked them all, many times, every day, just to make sure they were there. He replaced the bag behind the fire, stood up, felt dizzy, then returned to the recliner as quickly as he could. He hoped they would come soon. He needed a fix.

*

‘Welcome back, Brian.’ Annie held her arms out wide as Scott walked into the County Hotel’s vestibule. ‘How’re you daein’?’ She was genuinely pleased to see the detective.

‘I’ll be doin’ a lot better when I get a dram or two doon my neck. That bloody road doesnae get any better.’

‘Here, gie me your cases, I’ll get Bobby the cellar man tae take them up tae your room. C’mon in an’ get a bite tae eat, an’ a refreshment, tae. After a’, it’s nearly twelve, an’ you’ve had a long journey.’ Annie ushered him into the wood-panelled bar. ‘Whoot time is Mr Daley expecting you?’

‘Och, dinnae worry aboot oor Jimmy. He knows the score. I’m on light duties for the next few months, so I’ll just ease myself in tae things gradually.’

‘Here’s the menu,’ Annie said, sitting Scott at a table near the bar. ‘Noo, whoot can I get you tae drink. On the hoose, mind.’

‘Good stuff, Annie, I don’t mind if I do. A dram, please, better make it a double, since you’re offering.’ DS Scott smiled and sat back in his seat. The drive to Kinloch had been longer than he remembered. The road was a long and winding one, the scenery glorious and, since he hadn’t driven much in the last few months, he had decided to stop at regular intervals, get out of the car and have a smoke, as much to enjoy the view as to calm his trembling limbs.

‘There you go.’ Annie placed the small glass containing the large whisky in front of the policeman. ‘Noo, whoot are you wantin’ tae eat?’

‘Och, I’ll have a couple o’ drams first. An aperitif, Annie, eh?’ he laughed.

‘Whootever you say, Brian, whootever you say.’ She smiled broadly at her customer as he drained the glass and held it out to her.

‘I’ll have another one o’ them, my dear.’

Despite the heat of the day, Malky was shivering when a sharp knock on the door momentarily banished his yearning for heroin. His visitor had arrived.

His line of work meant Malky was security conscious; he had to unlock two heavy bolts, a mortice and a Yale latch, leaving the heavy chain in place, just in case. Through the crack of the door he saw two men, the taller of whom smiled.

‘Malky? I have the correct address, yes? Darren sent me.’ This was the pre-agreed code name, so Malky undid the chain and let them into his flat.

‘Right, guys, can I get you a beer or something? Or would you prefer something mair interesting?’ He smiled knowingly at the new arrivals.

‘Yes, I think the last option,’ said the tall man. Malky couldn’t place his accent, but reckoned he might be a Pole; some of the new Polish community in Kinloch were his customers. The other man, shorter and with muscles almost showing through his black leather jacket, was silent, though he had a grin plastered across his face.

‘Aye, nae bother, man.’ Malky hesitated for a heartbeat, then, deciding that these men were more likely to reward him than steal from him, reached behind the fire for the black cloth bag. ‘This is good stuff, man.’ His fingertips had just touched the bag when he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He tried to stand up straight, but already his balance had gone. He collapsed backwards, conscious but unable to move. He
tried to scream, to shout out, but nothing but a breathy hiss issued from his mouth.

‘You have been injected with a muscle relaxant. There is no point trying to move.’

In the background Malky heard a chuckle, deep and menacing. He felt his bowels empty.

‘You should have played our game, not yours. Too many of you scum think you can take us for fools and use our money as your own. Lessons have to be learned. Pavel.’

The squat man bent over and something flashed before Malky’s eyes – the gleam of a serrated hunting knife. He tried to scream again, but nothing came; he struggled to move, but the only part of his body obeying his commands were his eyes, as he looked up in horror at the man with the knife.

He felt the searing pain as the knife cut into his throat just above his Adam’s apple. Despite the powerful drug, his limbs began to twitch, the rest of his body weighed down by his attacker. The last sounds he heard were the desperate gurgle of air as his windpipe was cut and the laughter of his murderer, who, once he had slit the teenager’s throat, inserted his thick fingers into the livid wound.

10

Daley became aware of a commotion somewhere down the corridor from his office. As he walked towards the reception desk, the sounds of agitated voices, lots of them, grew louder.

The small reception area that greeted visitors to Kinloch Police Office was packed with people. Behind his high counter, Sergeant Shaw was doing his best to be heard, to no avail. When Daley walked into the room behind him, the racket grew louder.

‘Aye, wae my ain eyes, I tell you. As plain as the nose on your face!’ one man shouted.

‘I couldna believe it neither, Norrie,’ a woman agreed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, an’ I don’t want tae again . . .’

The rest was lost in the clamour of voices; Daley could see more people trying to get in through the door. Fearing a stampede, he stood beside Shaw and held his arms out. At six feet three, he more or less dominated the room, apart from a couple of gangly youths, who looked impossibly tall.

‘Right!’ Daley shouted. ‘What’s this all about? Norrie, you first.’

‘Aye, well, it’s like this, Mr Daley,’ said Norrie, a balding middle-aged fisherman. ‘You know fine I’m no’ prone tae any kind o’ histrionics. I’m a straightforward, honest man.’
At that, there was some sniggering. ‘That incident wae the quotas was nothing tae dae wae me. I was asleep below deck when the fishery officer came aboard.’

‘Please, ladies and gentleman,’ Daley called, ‘can we just hear what Norrie has to say.’

‘Thank you, Mr Daley. Tae cut a long story short, we had a bit o’ engine trouble last night, and by the time we’d fixed the bloody thing it was well efter midnight. Me an’ the boy were jeest passing Paterson’s Point on the way hame, aboot three this morning, when we saw it.’

‘Saw what?’

‘They lights in the sky, Mr Daley. They were in the distance, at first, flashing lights o’er Arran. Is that no’ right, Kenny?’