Free The Last Witness by Denzil Meyrick Page B

Scott?’ Donald said as he knocked on the door and straightened his uniform.
    Scott was about to protest, when the door cracked open and the face of an elderly woman peered out. Her hair was grey and unkempt, and her bulging eyes stared fearfully at the policemen standing at her door.
    ‘Betty, is that you?’ Scott asked, with a look of surprise on his face.
    ‘Aye, an’ what if it is?’ the woman replied.
    ‘Dae ye no’ recognise me? It’s me, Brian Scott, Tam’s boy. We used tae live two doors doon fae you, remember?’
    With a look of panic, the woman slammed the door; Daley could hear her sobbing as she slid the bolts back into place.
    ‘An old neighbour?’ Donald enquired. ‘Friends reunited, indeed.’
    ‘I cannae believe it,’ Scott said, shaking his head. ‘Ye widnae think it, but she wiz one o’ the best-looking lassiesin Glasgow when I wiz a boy. She’s a bit older than me, right enough, but I can still see her headin’ aff tae the dancin’, all dolled up. Total stunner.’ He shook his head.
    ‘Well, whatever happened to her in the intervening years, it would appear that she has swapped stunning for stunned,’ Donald commented with his habitual acidity. ‘Looked to me as though she didn’t have a clue what day it was, never mind who we are.’ He went to knock again, though hesitated when he heard a loud male voice shout from inside.
    ‘Wait a minute, I’m just coming.’ The voice was deep, harsh and straight out of Glasgow’s East End. The door opened to reveal a thin-faced young man, who looked to be in his mid twenties. ‘Mair filth,’ he said, curling his lip at the sight of the police officers.
    ‘Get your father, boy,’ Donald instructed.
    ‘Don’t ye mean, “Can I please speak with your father, Mr Robertson?” The young man aped Donald’s Kelvinside tones, an arrogant look crossing his gaunt features.
    ‘Just fucking get him, you little bastard. Now!’
    The door closed again, and the officers heard the young man shouting for his father as the woman wailed in the background.
    ‘Whit’s this Mr Robertson guff?’ Scott asked, lighting a cigarette.
    ‘Use some common sense, DS Scott. The whole idea behind having a new identity is that you go somewhere nobody knows you and start a new life. Logic would dictate that a change of name would be rather important, otherwise your enemies need only look up the phone book or the electoral register to find you.’ Donald glared at the sergeant. ‘And put that bloody fag out,’ he added for good measure.
    During this exchange of information, Daley was busy taking in his surroundings. The farmyard was covered in crumbling tarmac, broken and rutted in places. Not only were there no dogs, there were no other animals – not even a chicken, or ubiquitous farmyard cat. What looked like a plough lay propped up against one of the outbuildings, its original yellow colour barely visible through a thick coating of rust. In his experience, farms normally exuded a gut-wrenching odour of dung and slurry; it was obvious that whatever Frank MacDougall was doing to sustain the Robertson family, it most certainly did not involve any agrarian toil.
    ‘I wonder what’s behind the house?’ Daley said.
    ‘Half a ton o’ cannabis an’ a Sherman tank, likely,’ said Scott, reluctantly extinguishing his cigarette on the ground with the toe of his shoe.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, DS Scott,’ said Donald. ‘Those on the witness protection scheme are very closely monitored to ensure that no such criminal behaviour takes place.’
    ‘Aye, an’ I’m Miss Marple.’
    Before Donald had the opportunity to answer, footsteps sounded loudly behind the door and it was flung open to reveal another figure, almost identical in build and height to the previous man, with the same cadaverous face, though this time bearing the evidence of a further thirty years of hard living. Before them was one of Glasgow’s legendary criminals: Frank MacDougall.
    He looked