TWO
Detective Inspector Jim Daley
reflected on the dispiriting nature of trouser shopping, as he handed his credit
card over to the assistant in the fashionable clothes store.
In his twenties- even in his thirties- he
had been able to maintain a respectable waistline without the deployment of
starvation diets or drastic fitness regimens. Now in his early forties- as he
liked to think of forty three- and especially after giving up cigarettes, he
felt his stomach now capable of gaining inches overnight. It was not without a
little trepidation that he eyed a suit or a pair of jeans he had not worn for a
few weeks. Often, on trying to get them on, there would follow the desperate
tugging at a straining zip, a grunting wrestle with a recalcitrant waistband,
holding in both breath and stomach, as he fought to get the garment into a
position whereby he could move, sit, or stand without a trouser button shooting
into the air like a misdirected bullet; worse still, without hearing the
sickening rip of sewing tearing apart over a more than ample backside.
He had resolved therefore to make a new
start as far as trousers were concerned: go out and buy a pair that more suited
his thickening frame, regardless of how unpalatable the thought of having his
age and waist size matching was. After all, he would get older, diet and join a
gym, ensuring these numbers would diverge in an acceptable manner in the near
future.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a
fitting mirror as he left the shop. Was that fattening, middle aged man really
him? He consoled himself with the fact he was six feet three, still had his
hair and his own teeth. Sure, women found him attractive, just not the woman he
wanted to, or so it seemed. Tall, dark, getting fatter, older and handsome-
that summed up Jim Daley.
The theme tune from the Sopranos,
jolted him from thoughts of sartorial insecurity to an equally perplexing
subject: his wife Liz. She called infrequently when he was at work and he had
become used to these calls containing at least a modicum of bad or unwelcome
news.
“Hi, Liz, everything OK?” He always heard
himself sounding lame when he had to speak to her unexpectedly. He felt an
involuntary frisson of excitement at the sound of those familiar, well-spoken,
smoky tones.
“Oh hi, darling; that was quick. Are you
OK to talk?”
“Yeah, no bother, I’m actually…” habitually,
she gave him no time to finish his answer.
“Great, just to let you know, Jill wants
me to go up to the caravan at Granton for a few days. Anyway I thought, the
weather’s nice and its not as though we’ll be doing anything, so I’m leaving in
a couple of hours.”
Daley was used to a fait accompli. He
marvelled at the easy way Liz, again, managed to impart her intention to do as
she pleased, while at the same time make him feel as though he was in some way
responsible.
He attempted a rear-guard action: “I’ll
be home about five; we could go to the wee pub for a couple of drinks, or get a
curry or something- make a night of it. You could go up to Jill’s in the
morning.”
Without a pause, Liz’s reply was as
predictable as it was swift, “Oh, what a pity you didn’t mention it before.
She’s invited me to dinner tonight as well; Mark has some boring guest to
entertain. I’ve already said I would go- sorry, darling.”
“Oh- ok,” was all he could muster. He
guessed it was true what people said, once a partner had been unfaithful, it
was really difficult to regain the trust that was so important in any
relationship. Liz had been spectacularly unfaithful.
The first incident- he knew of- was with
her gym instructor. Sent home early by the Force Medical Officer after taking a
baseball bat across the head during a drug raid, he thought he heard noises as
he gained the stairs of their new detached home in the village of Howwood. The
vision of Liz on hands and knees on their bed while her paramour worked
energetically behind her was burnt onto his memory. Suffering from a hair
trigger temper as well as an acute headache, Daley proceeded to render the
third party insensible with a swift upper-cut, dragged him by the hair onto the
small bedroom balcony, and despatched him neatly over the railing and onto the
garden below.
The sight of a naked man struggling to
get up, with what looked like a broken leg, from a neighbours garden,
accompanied by the shrieks of an obviously frantic woman, constituted more than
enough reason for the good people of Howwood to call the Police. Eventually,
after much pulling of strings and dire warnings regarding the diminishment of
his prospects, a deal was done behind the scenes and Daley- forced to attend
anger management classes- was left to resurrect, as best he could, the remnants
of his career. Having reached Detective Inspector in his mid thirties, Jim
Daley could have reasonably hoped for Superintendent or beyond, before
retirement. This was now most unlikely.
As for Liz, she had vowed undying love
for him, citing boredom and loneliness as an excuse for her behaviour. Daley realised he was
wrong, however, his almost cloying love for her saw him take the only action
that seemed palatable: forgiveness.
Since then, even when close friends and colleagues had alerted him to
likely dalliances, he chose to ignore them, having neither the strength nor
will to do the sensible thing and leave her. Though he would never let her
know, he was head over heels in love with her, and, even though he barely
believed it himself, was prepared to accede to almost anything in order to keep
their relationship afloat.
She said and did all the right
things: she showed great interest in him, they made passionate love, declared
satisfied happiness, promised unerring loyalty; all to no avail. Now trust was
absent, only the slavery of obsession remained.
Daley was forced to endure the nods and
winks of colleagues; the police of course being a small community where gossip was
rife. Had Liz been less attractive her indiscretions would have probably gone
unnoticed, however, such were the rumours of her wanton nature, every man
colleague now reckoned that they had a chance with her.
“Anyway, you know what the traffic’s like
in the morning.” Liz pronounced morning
with that annoying intonation that had crept into everyday usage from the
popularity of Australian soap operas, as though the knowledge or concept
of the morning was something entirely
alien to the listener. The habit annoyed Daley, who hardened his reply.
“Yeah, whatever you think, Liz. When will
you be back?”
“Oh, you know, darling- go with the flow-
you know me.” He did. “Anyway, better dash. I’ve left one of those boil in
the microwave curries out for you. Bell
Daley stood with the handset to his ear
for a few moments. So little said; so much left unsaid: it summed up their
marriage. He walked back to the car park, made a mental note to get his car
washed, then drove to the station.
Jim returned to his office by
way of the coffee machine. On gaining the second floor he could clearly hear
the dulcet tones of his DS as he swore volubly at his computer.
“You know, I’m buggered how they think
that getting us tae dae all this typing ourselves is cost effective.” DS Brian
Scott, was more agitated than normal, which was indeed saying something. “When
I joined up you jeest had tae scribble something doon and wait for some daft
wee lassie in the typing pool tae dae the business. Noo, well I’ll tell ye, Paisley ’s goin’ like a fair, while I’m up here learnin’
tae be a fuckin’ secretary.”
“Ah, DS Scott,” Daley aped the clipped
Kelvinside tones of their boss, “it’s incumbent upon us all to integrate with
new policing methods.” He smiled at Scott’s exasperation.
“Aye, fuck him tae. Its getting tae be
you need a degree in this shit jist tae dae yer ain job.” Scott was smiling in
spite of himself. An IT specialist he most certainly was not; he most certainly
was however, a highly effective, sometimes inspired police officer. His brusque
manner, and tendency to ignore the rule book, had hampered his progress through
the ranks; he would no doubt, end his career as a DS. Daley felt that it was a
role that had been tailor made for his gritty determination, and valued his
assistance more than he would ever admit. Simply, they made a good team.
Daley walked to the large paper strewn
desk in the office he shared with Scott. A yellow Post-it note placed on
top of a mountain of files announced: Numpty wants to see you!- in
Scott’s bold, untidy hand.
“When did his magnificence call?” Daley
enquired, looking up just in time to see Scott’s computer screen turn a
brilliant blue.
“Oh, jeest efter you left; he’s in a
right stooshie aboot somthin’.” He didna’ even pull me up aboot whit a coup
this place is,” he swung his chair around to face Daley, left hand outstretched
in gesture of disbelief at his computer screen. “I mean whit the fuck’s this a’
aboot?”
Draining his coffee, Daley got up and
walked to Scott’s desk, where he deftly pressed a few keys on the computer,
turning it back to the report on which the DS was working.
“Just how many computer courses have you
been on?- it seems like dozens.”
Scott’s face took on a look of rueful
resignation, “ Aye, a few, but you’ve got tae remember, Jim, every time I get a
chance tae go up tae the college its mair like a break from my dear lady wife.
That’s a great wee bar they’ve got there; an’ well, by the time yiv sobered up
in the morning, yiv well an’ truly lost the thread aboot whit the fuck they’re
on aboot.”
Daley chuckled to himself as he took the
lift to the top floor of the building. As the elevator doors swished open he
yet again marvelled at the steep upward curve in the standard of opulence in
this portion of the station. Gone the bare functionality of the other three
floors, to be replaced by dark wood panelling, tasteful paintings, picked out
by soft up-lighting, thick carpeting punctuated by tall, verdant pot plants.
Even the civilian staff were of a seemingly more aesthetically pleasing
variety; an attractive woman in a tight fitting skirt wiggled past him in a
cloud of expensive perfume that reminded him of Liz.
Behind the closed door the sound of
giggling female was plain. The name plate read simply: ‘Superintendent John
Donald. Commander Div. CID.’ Daley knocked loudly three times.
After a few moments of mumbled voices,
the familiar come, served as an invitation for Daley to enter. He opened
the door, stepping inside straight backed and confident.
Donald was sitting behind an impossibly
large desk that made even this large office seem reduced. Yet another
attractive female stood over him clutching a file, looking intently on as the
Superintendent busily appended his signature to a document.
“Ah, Jim,” Donald’s eyes flitted towards
him then back to his papers. He gestured airily with his left hand, “make
yourself comfortable while I satisfy the rapacious appetite for my time this
young lady seems to harbour.”
Same old, same old. Jim was used
to his boss’s eccentricities; indeed, it felt much as though he had worked for
this man for most of his career. As a young probationary cop Donald had been
his shift sergeant, on his first posting to Paisley CID, as a raw DC, Donald
was his DS. Not long after his promotion to Detective Sergeant in ‘A’ Division
in Glasgow
The man that sat in front of him now
though, bore hardly any resemblance to the foul-mouthed, over-weight philistine
figure of, what seemed like,so long ago.
Steadily, he had ironed out all of his
imperfections. He stopped drinking, took up running, golf, and squash;
consequently losing piles of weight. He spent a great deal of time abroad or
under a sun-bed insuring that his permanent tan was indeed, ever present. Even
his hair had undergone a similar transformation: gone, the thick black curls
paired close to the scalp; now thinning, his gelled back coiffure made him look
like a hackneyed version of an East-end gangster.
His manner had changed accordingly too,
the harsh accent of Glasgow’s East end, modulated to the clipped tones of
middle class Bearsden, taking him much further socially than it had done in
geographic reality. His notorious temper was kept in check by smarmy sycophancy
to superiors, or aloof arrogance to those of a lesser rank. Daley though, had
never been in any doubt as to how thin this veil was; indeed, Donald was as
notorious for his self-seeking ruthlessness, as he was for being a mediocre
police officer transformed into a truly talented administrator and political
bon vivant. The letters BA, LLB after
his name bore testament to the determined hard work it had taken to climb from
the mire of a piss poor childhood, to his current middle class magnificence.
Donald flourished his signature at the
bottom of the document then flamboyantly waved the paper in the air to dry the
fountain pen ink he had used.
“Now, Di, don’t be frightened to bring in
as many papers for me to sign as you want; my door is always open, you know.”
He leered a smile at the young woman who nodded dutifully, then left the room,
Donald appraising her departure with the fixed gaze of a satyr.
“Now, Jim, sorry about that, breaking in
a new girl, so to speak; one long round of paperwork in here. Now where did I
put that… ah, here it is.” He lifted a black file from the desk and removed
what looked like a number of printed
emails. “Bit of bother in our new dominions; Kinloch to be exact. There’s no
point me blustering on, scan these and we’ll get on wi’ it.”
Daley noticed how the polished edge of
his accent had tarnished slightly since the secretary had gone. For many, this
would have appeared to be an acknowledgement of their shared past, to Daley
however, it was more of an indication of how far down he was in the pecking
order. Donald obviously felt there to be little point in turning on the charm
for his senior DI. He opened the file and began to browse it’s contents.
After a few minutes he looked up from the
papers and cleared his throat to divert Donald’s attention from the copy of Perfect
Home magazine, his superior was avidly consuming.
“Oh right, Jim. So, there you have it.
Bit of a crisis down there in terms of manpower and experience too. The
sub-division is run by a teuchter called Charles MacLeod- a right little shit-
the very worst kind of social climber. They have a DS who is no more use than
ornament, and a few eager young DC’s. Do you remember Davie Fraser from ‘A’
Division?- his nephew’s there.”
“If he’s anything like his uncle, the
pubs will be doing a fine trade.” Daley had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Strathclyde Police had undergone yet
another phase of reorganisation in an attempt to save money. His Division had
been amalgamated with what had been the old Argyll Constabulary, meaning that
headquarters in Paisley was now responsible for parts of the West Coast of
Scotland that few could pronounce, never mind find on a map.
“Quite so, quite so, Jim; poor man. I
think his liver is on the way out; never met a man who loved a drink more,”
Donald looked rueful. “Anyway, I’m reliably informed his nephew is cut from
entirely different cloth.”
Daley hoped so; his experience of Davie
Fraser was one of having to follow him from bar to bar when he was a young cop,
watching the man supposed to be showing him the ropes steadily becoming more
inebriated and objectionable by turns.
“Do you mind me asking what this has to
do with me?” He knew what the answer was going to be, however being direct
would mean Donald would be unable to dollop his usual helping of sugar onto an
unpalatable request.
“Straight to the point, Inspector Daley;
that’s what I like to hear.” Daley had the impression that Donald was a bit
disappointed, and would rather still have the chance to dish out his usual
speeches on duty and chances for advancement, that were the normal precursors
of a shit job. “I need someone there with a bit of experience- get this solved
quickly- prove to these yokels that our way is the best way. Fuck knows, we’ll
have to get them to tow the line somehow; this affords us the perfect
opportunity.”
“So you want me down there, sir?” Daley
moved the conversation away from a lecture on the difference in policing
methods between city and county divisions.
“Yes, Jim, in fact I would like you down
there first thing tomorrow morning. The body is on the way to the mortuary in Glasgow
Daley paused momentarily to take this in.
He was being sent to a far outpost of the empire to investigate a murder that
could take forever, while the wayward Liz was at the other end of the country
doing- well he dreaded to think.
“I see, sir. What about personnel?” was
all he could think to say.
“I’ve have you booked on the first flight
in the morning. You will of course be much better informed after the PM. Take a
look on the ground yourself; then we’ll decide who we can spare to send down
there with you-take that file. I’ll send anything else we’ve got downstairs. No
doubt we can spare Tweedle Dum and a few other bodies, should the situation
require it.” Donald had, what could best be described as a strained relationship
with DS Scott.
Daley’s mind returned to the images he
had seen on the emails: a young woman, ligature, body dumped at sea, and a
locus distant from usual amenities; he mentally surmised that this was not
going to be an easy enquiry.
“Have the support unit been informed yet,
sir?” He was referring to the group of elite Strathclyde Officers who
specialised in various disciplines now required of a modern police force: firearms, dog branch,
crowd control, underwater unit etc. Daley reckoned the latter would be handy
bearing in mind the apparent circumstances surrounding the death.
“Not as yet, Jim. I think it wise to wait
until we have some kind of results from the PM, no matter how preliminary. Of
course you realise, in terms of expenditure this is going to be a killer; we’ve
already had a full SOCO team down there. The burden of expense falls to us, the
investigating department. I hope you will bear that in mind when you’re on the
ground?”
“As you know, sir, cost is always to the
forefront of my mind during every enquiry.” Daley smiled openly, knowing his
boss was more than well aware about his attitude to the bean counters many
senior officers had been forced to become.
“Luckily,” Donald chose to ignore the
irony of the last statement, “because this is new territory so to speak, we are
able to introduce a degree of flexibility into our spend. However, Jim, the pot
is by no means bottomless; please take that on board.”
Daley was about to make some sarcastic
reply, when Donald began to speak again on an entirely different subject
without the need for an intake of breath; he, it seemed, had developed all the
skills of the politician.
How is Liz? everything back to normal in
that department?”
Daley bridled as the leer returned to
Donald’s face. Only a few weeks had passed since Liz had flirted outrageously
with the superintendent at a retirement
party. The couple had rowed late into the night when they returned home, Liz
claiming that she was only trying to advance his career with a little
networking; yet another modern term he
couldn’t stand. Anyway, Donald’s body language had pointed to the fact that
networking was the last thing on his mind. Loyally, DS Scott had administered a
left hook to a colleague who had insinuated that something illicit was afoot.
“Mrs Donald and I really must have you
for dinner.”
Mrs Daley’s more likely to have you
for breakfast, he thought, somewhat uncharitably.
“Anyway, better get on, we both have
plenty to do. Oh, by the way, pick your tickets up from Kirsty next door- she’s
had them googled or something- and don’t forget to keep me informed; googles
will do. Don’t take any shit off that little bastard MacLeod. Any trouble there
and I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“Good hunting, Jim.” The Superintendent
stood, hand outstretched. Daley shook it in acceptance of the tacit dismissal.
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