Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Right, how many do we have in CID here?’

  ‘Four, sir, me included.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Daley had to say in reply.

  They turned right into what Daley assumed to be the main street of the town, up a hill and towards a structure that looked like a cross between a medieval castle and a Victorian prison. Fraser turned the car through an open gateway and into a car park at the rear of the building.

  ‘Here we are, sir.’ Fraser was already getting out of the car. Daley was in the middle of insisting that he was perfectly capable of carrying his own bags when a dapper figure, dressed in the immaculate uniform of an inspector, emerged from a steel security door which led out onto the car park. A full head shorter than Daley, the well-polished peak of his hat was adorned with silver braid. He stopped short, obviously not expecting to see the other two officers.

  Daley was the first to speak. ‘Good morning, Inspector, Jim Daley. You have an unusual office here.’

  MacLeod eyed him suspiciously. ‘Daley, yes, of course, we’ve been expecting you, though why we need assistance from the city, I’ll never know.’ He had a similar accent to that of Lachie Bain at the airport, though higher pitched and faster paced. The sneering aspect to his face riled Daley immediately, though he tried hard not to let it show. He was irritated that while he had addressed MacLeod with his designation, his opposite number had seen fit only to grace him with his surname.

  MacLeod turned on his heel, and held the steel door open with eyes downcast, a reluctant invitation to enter the hallowed portals of his domain. ‘Fraser, take those bags to the CID room. Daley, you can follow me.’ Fraser took the luggage from Daley with a nervous look. MacLeod was doing his best to stamp his authority over the interloper. Daley refused to descend to his level, so much more meekly than he felt he followed MacLeod to his office, the door of which reminded him of Superintendent Donald’s: INSP. C. MACLEOD. SUB. DIV. COMMANDER was picked out in bold, larger than normal letters.

  ‘Sit.’ MacLeod’s instruction was terse, though Daley did as he was bid, while desperately trying to remember the mantra he had learned in anger management about the man who could keep his temper always winning the argument. MacLeod had removed his hat, exposing a bald head fringed by neatly cropped, silver-grey hair. ‘Now, let me make myself clear, I . . .’

  Daley held up his hand to indicate that he was not listening. ‘No, Inspector MacLeod, please let me make myself clear.’ Maybe some of those classes in temper control had worked, after all. ‘In the future when you address me, you will be good enough to use my designation, which is incidentally the same as yours.’ MacLeod opened his mouth to speak, but Daley raised his voice, making it clear that he was not finished. ‘You may be the Sub-Divisional Commander here, however, I am running a murder investigation, with which I require your every assistance. I’ll keep you informed of my requirements as and when they arise, and in turn I’ll keep you abreast of the progress of the investigation as I see fit. Now, is that understood?’

  MacLeod’s face was red, verging on purple. ‘Inspector Daley, I really must protest. Here in Argyll we have a different way of going about things. I am . . .’ Again his words were cut short.

  ‘You are subject to the Force Standing Orders of Strathclyde Police, the force of which you are part. I don’t give a shit what passed for organisation here in the old county days. If you have any problems with that I suggest you contact Superintendent Donald, who is ultimately in charge of this operation, and to whom I’ll be reporting regularly. I’ve got him on speed dial . . . here.’ He handed his mobile to MacLeod, who looked as though he was close to tears as he straightened himself up in his chair before eschewing the offer of the mobile phone.

  ‘Very well, Inspector Daley. I will accede to your requests. I have of course my own hotline to a superior.’ He smiled wanly, looked down at his desk, and opened a file.

  Daley stood up, then leaned forward, resting his large frame on rigid arms. His hands were now fists, knuckles white against the dark wood of MacLeod’s desk. ‘Fuck me about at your peril, you little prick.’ He turned and walked to the door which he opened as if to leave; there he stopped and turned to face his slack-jawed colleague. ‘Oh, and I’ll be wanting to meet with the local CID officers and two of your best uniformed constables – I’ll leave the choice to you – in half an hour. Please see to it. Now, where the fuck’s my office?’

  Daley sat in the glass box that served as the inner sanctum for the senior officers within the larger CID room. He detested open-plan offices. The lack of privacy, the faux camaraderie, that feeling of enforced togetherness: all of which, in his opinion, only served to heighten resentment and ill feeling amongst ambitious officers, and promote a steep upward curve in the sedentary behaviour of more ‘easygoing’ colleagues. There was an absolute requirement for a good set of blinds, too. He noted that such had been thoughtfully provided in his box and he pulled and twisted the various cords in turn, ensuring he had at least a modicum of privacy.

  He was unhappy that MacLeod had aggravated him so readily, but he felt that their heated first meeting had clarified how he wished to proceed. To that end, he had been shocked to see just how little effort had gone into the operation from the Kinloch CID’s point of view. The large clear-boards, on which SOCO images of the victim, locus and eventually suspects were put, were in place but untouched. A computer database had been set up, but had pitifully little input for a case that was already twenty-four hours old. The four young DCs – three men and one woman – had conducted some door-to-door work, spoken to fishermen and other seafarers, and stopped cars at or near the spot where the body had been recovered: in short, they’d done the basics. The local investigation lacked any organisation or impetus: that was what he was here to provide.

  Through the narrow blinds he could see them now: four DCs and two uniformed officers. They looked so young. This was, he supposed, the curse of the older officer. He recalled vividly that his initial experience of CID work was one of drudgery: ploughing through endless files, records, bank statements, phone bills, CCTV footage – anything that could provide that crucial piece of evidence to crack an investigation. His opinions or theories had most definitely not been required.

  He opened his glass door, and the conversation between the local officers stopped. ‘As I’m sure you all know by now, I’m Inspector Jim Daley, and before anyone says it, yes, I do go to the gym daily.’ That got a laugh. ‘I’ll get to know you as we go along. Unfortunately, for reasons of logistics and manpower, we’re chasing our tail slightly with this one, however, we seem to be some way along the road.’ He walked over to a desk from which he picked up a large manila folder. ‘Constable Fraser, if you would be good enough to append these PM images to the second of our boards there in number order. Could you . . . sorry, what’s your name?’ He was looking at the DC, who was standing shyly to one side.

  ‘Dunn, sir, Mary Dunn.’

  Daley handed her the pictures of the victim that had been taken by SOCO on the beach. She affixed them to the first clear-board, and then stood waiting for further instructions.

  ‘OK, DC Dunn.’ He threw a white marker pen at the young detective, which she caught deftly. ‘Please write up all relevant information that we know for sure, such as time, date, method of discovery and so on. Which of you is the computer buff?’

  A slight, pale-faced DC, whose pock-marked face gave him the look of a teenager he couldn’t be, stuck his hand in the air. ‘Me, sir, Neil Cluckie.’

  ‘OK, Neil, you’re responsible for updating the database, at least until we can see where we’re going with this. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s required, but I know different investigators have different standards, so in this case I want everything put in there: who we interview, when and why, the statement itself, the opinions of the interviewing officers, feelings. I hope you all know how important feelings and instinct are in this job.’ Heads nodded vigorously. He walked over to the window, which looke
d from their elevated position straight down the sunny main street of the town. The road was busy with cars, the pavements an unexpected throng of people, which surprised him. ‘Is it always this busy here? Fuck me, there’s over two hundred shopping days till Christmas.’

  ‘It’s Thursday, sir,’ came the familiar voice of DC Fraser. ‘The local paper comes out about ten every Thursday morning. Everyone rushes out to buy it. It’s like a local community event.’

  ‘From my brief experience of your lovely town, I would have thought a newspaper was the last thing they needed. Everyone seems so well informed.’ Daley was only half joking. Tightknit they may be, but in small communities like this, information changed hands so much that some of it must eventually come the way of the police. He turned back to face his new team. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’

  It took him a couple of hours to get them on track. Cluckie remained in the office updating the database, while DCs Dunn and Keith, another large, agricultural type, were sent to every shop, pub, office and café, in fact anywhere that someone may have heard, seen or been told something of relevance. Daley called the Public Relations Unit and arranged for a press conference to be held in Kinloch the following day.

  It turned out that the two uniformed cops had to spell another who was guarding the locus; and in the likely event of the investigation continuing over the weekend, all three would be required to bolster what seemed like a considerable show of strength in the face of the unruly revellers of the town. In short, he was woefully undermanned. He sent an email detailing this fact, along with a short summary of his run-in with MacLeod to Superintendent Donald. Pass the buck – he had enough to do without coping with bruised egos or preening selfishness. He was pretty sure that Donald would appreciate all this.

  His next visit was to the harbour master. Now they knew that the body had spent at least twelve hours in the sea, he wanted some idea as to where their victim may have entered the water. ‘The harbour master’s office is on the pier, right?’ This question was addressed to Fraser, whom he had chosen as his local guide and adviser.

  ‘Yes, sir. Do you want to check into the hotel en route? It’s on the way.’

  ‘Not just now, Archie. Get one of the uniforms to take my bags down, and tell them I’ll want some food later. I fancy a stroll down to the pier. It’s a nice day after all, and I want to try and get a feel of the place.’

  They left the station, passed the local court and some lawyers’ offices, and then headed down Main Street, Kinloch.

  ‘Well, at least the office is close to the court. No excuse if you’re late, mind you.’ Daley spoke easily with Fraser, sensing that he had already gained the younger man’s trust. He felt sympathy for the DC; having to deal with the peccadilloes of MacLeod could not be easy.

  ‘Aye, sir, the town centre is pretty compact. It’s mostly over this side of the loch, and mainly residential over the other side. A few shops, a hotel, nothing much.’

  ‘Hello, Inspector!’ Two elderly women were shuffling towards them, arm in arm. ‘We’re all glad you’ve come down to sort this out. What a dreadful, dreadful crime.’ The plumper woman, who was short with round glasses, was doing the talking; her thin, white-haired companion was nodding furiously, drawing in sharp breaths by way of agreement with her friend.

  ‘Thank you, ladies.’ Good PR was essential in isolated areas, but it was clear that he would have no need to announce his arrival to anybody. ‘I hope that if you hear anything you’ll tell my officers – no matter how trivial.’ He smiled indulgently at the pair.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, Inspector, we’re well acquainted with your handsome constable. You could say he’s a drinking companion of ours. Is that not right, Archie?’ The plump old woman smiled broadly at the DC, displaying an assortment of brown teeth in various stages of decay, whilst her companion continued to nod sagely, drawing her breath in as occasion demanded.

  Daley wondered just how many shades of red his colleague’s face was capable of displaying, as they made their excuses and continued down the street. ‘Nothing to be embarrassed about, son. When I was your age I liked them a wee bit older too.’

  Fraser turned suddenly, about to reassure his new boss that he only saw the old women in the pub now and then, when, by the look on Daley’s face, he realised he was being wound up. ‘Oh, very good, sir. Aye, very good.’

  The day was warmer still, as it was now mid-afternoon. They made their way through what was now the town’s centre, passing the County Hotel where Daley was to be accommodated. Like many others in Kinloch, the building was red sandstone, however a faux Juliet balcony and equally contrived crenellations had been included in the architecture, in an attempt to give the hotel a Scottish Baronial feel. If failing in that regard, it did ensure that the façade was difficult to miss.

  As they progressed, they were greeted with nods and hellos. A group of smokers outside one of the many bars regaled them with shouts of ‘Here’s the cavalry’ and ‘Fuck me, a proper polis in the toon at last’. Unperturbed, the pair crossed a well-tended roundabout and made their way to one of Kinloch’s two piers.

  The air was a heady mix of ozone, fish and the diesel fumes emitted by a small number of wooden fishing boats. The raucous shouts of crewmen, radios playing music – all drum ’n’ bass – and swooping, squawking seagulls wheeling, diving, made for a din. Daley surmised that their arrival had coincided with the fishing boats landing their catch of the day. He was instantly transported back to his childhood, standing on this very pier with his grandparents: his granny, short, bustling and stout, and his grandfather a thin, almost skeletal figure, tall for his time and dressed in keeping with the period, in an old grey suit, the trousers of which were held up by thick maroon braces. Papa George laughed wheezily as he drew on a Capstan Full Strength. To the young Daley he had seemed like an old man; in fact he was destined not to see his fifty-seventh birthday, his lungs wrecked by years of heavy smoking and a lifetime spent down the coalpits of North Lanarkshire.

  Daley walked slowly over to the side of the pier and planted his foot on an iron stanchion built into the side of the construction that allowed boats to affix extra moorings in case of bad weather. Dark, oily water lapped at the jetty. The afternoon was warm, scent laden – almost idyllic. He looked out over the water to the head of the loch, which was about a mile away. His thoughts returned to the investigation and he shivered involuntarily as he turned to Fraser. ‘The people here might be a bit dodgy, but the scenery is beautiful.’

  They made their way along the pier towards a green building in which the harbour master had his office. A sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar sat outside the office complex, which was shared with the RNLI and Marine Scotland, as well as other private companies. Fraser led the way through a white door and into a corridor. At the very end, a varnished wooden sign was attached somewhat incongruously to a plain white door, announcing in gold letters: CAPT. A. FLYNN. HARBOUR MASTER. Fraser knocked, and a disembodied voice bade them enter.

  Flynn was a small, neat man, dressed in what could be taken for the uniform of a Royal Naval Officer. His shirt was perfectly ironed, as were his trousers, and his shoes gleamed. His cap was a pristine white over a shiny black peak, which reflected a badge embroidered with a golden anchor. He was fair-haired, with a neatly clipped beard. Putting the man in his fifties, Daley wondered idly whether or not both hair and beard were dyed.

  The office, which smelled strongly of pipe tobacco, looked as if it had been furnished sometime before the war. A large wooden bureau sat solidly at the end of the room, adorned by a muddle of papers, pens, books and a laptop computer, looking out of time. At right angles to the bureau, facing the window, sat an even older desk which bore further detritus. Next to it, sitting in a basket chair at the desk, an old man with a parchment-coloured face directed his startlingly blue-eyed gaze at the newcomers. His steady, unblinking appraisal gave the impression of great wisdom; he didn’t attempt a welcome and remained motionless in hi
s seat.

  ‘Hello, Inspector.’ The harbour master held out a meaty, calloused hand. ‘Alan Flynn, pleased to meet you.’ He gestured the policemen towards two rickety-looking chairs. ‘Sorry about the mess. I do try to tidy up from time to time, but bugger me, when I dae, I can never find a bloody thing. So much paperwork in this job, you wouldna believe.’

  ‘I’m sad to say I would believe.’ Daley shook Flynn’s hand. ‘I think the police force could break all records as to the use of unnecessary paper.’ He sat down heavily, suddenly feeling tired.

  ‘Just so, Inspector, preaching to the converted. Now, how can I be of assistance to you?’

  Daley pondered the contrast between the neat man and the chaos he appeared to work in. ‘I have an idea how long our victim spent in the water and I know you’ve already talked with DC Fraser here’ – Flynn was nodding, but looking as though he had something important to say – ‘however I’d be most grateful if you could go over things with me.’ He lifted his hand palm up, indicating to Flynn that he acknowledged that he was desperate to talk.

  ‘You see, that’s just it, Inspector.’ Flynn was now standing over the laptop at the untidy desk. ‘In my opinion . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Flynn’ – Daley realised just how tired he was – ‘as you know, we’re conducting what is a murder inquiry. I would be obliged if you addressed your thoughts to us in private.’ The old man didn’t take the hint.

  ‘Of course, Inspector, how stupid of me. Hamish, I told you the inspector would want to talk to me by myself. Why don’t you get up to the fish shed and make sure that none of these rogues are up tae no good? Watch out for that Lady Kate mob, they’re aye at it.’