Free Dark Suits and Sad Songs by Denzil Meyrick Page B

wide in horror. It took Daley a few heartbeats to realise what was different about this murder victim, what was making the bile in his throat rise even more than normal. The victim’s tongue was protruding, not from his mouth, but from a livid slash in his neck, through which it had been pulled.
    ‘An Italian necktie, sir.’ Rainsford’s voice sounded loud in the quiet horror of the flat. ‘Florentine mafia, or Colombian, modus operandi, I believe. This isn’t just a murder, it’s a punishment. And a warning, sir.’
    Not for the first time in his career, Daley had to remove himself from the scene. Standing on the filthy landing, he took deep breaths and added another grim image to the nightmare gallery of violent death he had accumulated over the years.
    ‘Fucking Kinloch.’ Chief Superintendent John Donald swore under his breath as he looked out from his top-floor office in his new domain, the headquarters of the Argyll and West Dunbartonshire Division of Police Scotland. He took in thebusy road that ran in front of the large building, and the rooft ops of the town of Dumbarton beyond. This was his own fiefdom now; in effect, he was more like the autonomous chief constable of a small force, rather than a divisional commander, under the old regime. This was all he had ever wanted, all he had worked for over the last twenty-eight years. But he had never been so miserable. Everything, he realised, came at a price; he had the job, the power, the kudos, and now it was time for that price to be paid.
    He looked again at the piece of paper in his hands. The spectacular suicide of a civil servant, and what could only be termed as the executions of two others, all in and around Kinloch. His nightmares were now manifesting themselves in cold-blooded reality. To make matters worse, the murky beasts of politics had their noses in the trough, and none other than Gary Wilson – surely the darkest purveyor of the dark arts – was leading their line. There were few individuals who genuinely frightened John Donald; Gary Wilson was very near the head of the queue, alongside one or two people Donald didn’t want to think about, especially not now.
    There was a quiet tap at the door. ‘Come in,’ he shouted.
    ‘Sorry to bother you, sir.’ A tall, thin man in the uniform of an inspector entered the room. His grey hair matched his face, which was lined and careworn; he looked like a man in his mid-sixties, rather than the forty-something-year-old he was.
    ‘Yes, what now, Layton? World War Three broken out on Kinloch’s seafront, no doubt.’
    ‘No, sir. I have a request for information, sir.’
    ‘From who?’
    ‘Narcotics and Organised Crime, at the Met, sir.’
    ‘Oh fuck. Give me it.’
    ‘Here, sir.’ Layton handed Donald a red file.
    Donald read the document, Layton standing at his side and looking straight ahead. ‘Book me on the early flight to Kinloch in the morning, Layton. Also, make sure one of these bastards picks me up at the airport and books accommodation. Make the arrangements with Daley directly, he knows my preferences.’ Donald dismissed his underling, who left as quietly as he had entered.
    He sat behind his desk, put his head in his hands, and let out a long sigh. ‘Fucking Kinloch.’

12
    He had always considered boats the best way to move about; so anonymous, not observed by CCTV cameras, or nosey cops, or even many members of the public. The boat was nice, not ostentatious, but just big enough for him and his companion to be relatively comfortable as they went about their business. They would change boats in a while, as they had their previous craft.
    He looked up at the thickset frame of his friend, Pavel, standing behind the wheel. Layers of solid flesh bulged where the back of his neck should have been. He was wearing a thick jumper against the chill of a misty morning, under which the broad knots of his arms were still obvious. His frame was squat, almost square. Two years in an FSB cell in