The Last Witness by Denzil Meyrick

not quite dark; the moon and even some stars were just visible through the orange glow of the street lighting. The sky was a deep blue, still illuminated by the last embers of the setting sun, which he could see looking west as he drove around the head of the loch, itself smoothly reflecting the many lights of the town.
    He remembered how much his mother had loved Christmas, and felt that peculiar twinge; a tiny pain, a reminder of the eternal absence of family, friends and colleagues who it was sometimes easy to forget he would never see again. It was so strange that people who hadoccupied your life so utterly, for so long, could just disappear, no longer present to chide, praise, advise, love, cheer, admonish. All that was left behind were fading photographs and memories – both good and bad – and this dull pain that afflicted the bereaved without warning, in the same way dreams of those long gone could spring unbidden into sleep, then linger and fade in the mind over hours or days. Some dreams one could never forget, either because they were so vivid, or they recurred over the course of a lifetime. Daley wondered why the populace of these dreams were so often the dead. Was it purely biology, or were they shadows of the people themselves, echoes of voices from a far distant void? Ghosts, he thought. I’m seeing too many ghosts today.
    As Daley approached the turn away from the loch and up the hill towards his home, his eye was drawn to a motionless figure with its hand raised in the air in a static wave. Hamish.
    Daley pulled over and got out of the car, walking over to his friend with his hand outstretched. ‘How are you, Hamish? Cold night.’ He shook the hand of the older man, whose tanned face was crinkled in a smile.
    ‘She’s a cauld one, right enough, Mr Daley,’ he said, producing his pipe from a pocket in his overalls and filling it from a pouch of tobacco in his other calloused hand.
    ‘I haven’t seen you for a while. You should come up to the house for a bite to eat.’ Daley issued the impromptu invitation with a smile.
    ‘They tell me ye’ve arrested Duncan Fearney, fae High Ballochmeaddie farm. Am I right?’ Hamish’s face had taken on a more serious expression.
    ‘You know I can’t speak about that, Hamish, no matter how accurate the gossip is around here,’ said Daley, knowingthat such an event would have registered in the town within hours, perhaps minutes, of it actually taking place.
    ‘You should know he’s a good man,’ Hamish observed, as though this was a fact that wouldn’t have necessarily occurred to the policeman. ‘Aye, an’ forbye, that he’s had wan hell o’ a sad life.’
    ‘You know my game, Hamish. I know good men sometimes do stupid things; but good or not, if they break the law, then it’s my job to put them before the courts.’
    ‘Aye, well that’s as may be. The fermers have a wile struggle tae make ends meet, these days, especially the wans wi’ the wee mixed ferms. Every bugger an’ his freens are efter their wee bit money. I’m no’ tryin’ tae influence ye, mind – jeest letting you know.’ He took a long draw of his pipe and puffed the pungent blue smoke back out in clouds.
    ‘Are you busy yourself?’ Daley enquired, anxious to change the subject.
    ‘Och, ye know me fine, Mr Daley.’ Hamish’s smile returned. ‘I’m aye busy wi’ somethin’. I wiz speakin’ tae that bonnie wife o’ yours the other day,’ he said, winking at Daley.
    ‘Yes, she told me,’ Daley replied, tapping Hamish on the arm. ‘Listen, we better get out of this cold. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
    ‘No, yer fine. Besides,’ Hamish said with a smile, ‘I widnae be sure if I’d end up on remand. Yous polis are arrestin’ decent folk left, right and centre, the noo.’ He winked again at the detective.
    ‘I’m sure you’d be fine,’ Daley said, walking back to his car. ‘I mean it about coming up for a meal. I’ll ask the boss when it’s most