Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘No, I’m not, but I canna wait tae find oot,’ said Scott. ‘I’m counting the days till I retire.’

  ‘Ah yes. I imagine your kind of job is, well, very stressful.’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Scott dismissively.

  ‘Well, of course. As I said, I spend quite a lot of time here, so I was wondering if I could be of any assistance. You know, local colour and the like. I’m afraid I haven’t any more to offer than that. I wasn’t here when the body was found – school reunion, a pain really, but nice to see the old faces.’

  Daley could see that the ‘local colour’ remark was amusing Scott, who was associating the comment with Seanessy’s attire. He spoke quickly, before Scott could comment. ‘You were at school here, Mr Seanessy?’

  ‘Eh, yes and no. The reunion was back in Cambuslang, where I grew up. But yes, in a manner of speaking. I was a teacher at the local high school here – chemistry – pretty dull really. I’m afraid the stress got to me though. I took early retirement a couple of years ago. I live over there – love the sea – wonderful, don’t you think?’ He pointed back along the beach to a small whitewashed cottage set back from the shore on the machair.

  ‘A mite chilly in the winter, eh?’ said Scott.

  ‘The body was found the day before yesterday. How long were you away?’ persisted Daley.

  ‘Let me see,’ mused Seanessy. ‘Five days in total. I was told about it this morning in the local Co-op. An ex-pupil on the checkout – she knew I lived near where the body was found – looking for gossip probably.’

  ‘So, nothing suspicious in the few days before you left?’ said Scott.

  ‘No. Nothing at all. As you can imagine, anything out of the ordinary here sticks out like a sore thumb.’

  For appearance’s sake Scott took a note of Seanessy’s contact details.

  ‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr Seanessy. We know where to find you should we require any . . . colour.’ Daley made it obvious that that was the end of the conversation by turning round to look at the progress of the Johnstone brothers.

  ‘Yes, quite. You must be busy men . . . I conduct the odd wildlife tour, if, eh, you ever get time.’

  Scott gave him a withering look, and Seanessy muttered goodbye and walked back towards his cottage in a blaze of colour.

  ‘Fuckin’ weirdo.’ Scott’s uncharitable appraisal was no surprise.

  ‘Are you trying for that PR posting again, Brian? Please remind me not to recommend you.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me, Jim. I’ve got that letter from His Majesty for you. Fancy envelope, looks mucho official. It’s in the glove compartment o’ that minibus. Remind me and I’ll gie it tae you when we get back.’

  The Johnstone brothers were making their way slowly up the beach. They were deep in conversation, a conversation that was becoming heated. They were both of average height with sandy-red hair. However, one of them was muscular with a broad tanned face, while his brother was remarkably slim, his oilskins hanging off his slight frame. He had a sharp, intelligent look, and judging by the body language was very much in charge. Both brothers had the weathered complexion associated with those who spend long hours at sea.

  Daley recognised them immediately. ‘Gentlemen, did you enjoy your trip to Glasgow?’

  The brothers looked at each other, then the thin one spoke. ‘Right, I remember you.’ He turned to his brother. ‘The plane, do you mind, Bobby?’

  The thick-set man, now identified as Bobby, scratched his head. ‘I canna say I dae, but as usual you’ll be right.’

  His brother looked at him sharply, and it seemed that the two were about to resume the heated discussion they had been having on the way up the beach, until Scott intervened.

  ‘Whitever, lads,’ he said dismissively. ‘Now, you’ll baith be aware that the body of a woman was found in this wee bay a couple o’ days ago. Now if yous were on the plane with the inspector here, I’m thinking that you’ll no’ have seen too much. How long were you away fir? And when did you leave?’

  Scott’s ability to get to the point seamlessly always impressed Daley. He reminded him of the men who helped at the fun fair when he was a boy: ‘the shows’. Now there was a treat which every child had looked forward to, in the days before a quick hop across the Channel to Disneyland Paris or a run to one of the many theme parks that had sprung up around the country were possible. Despite the obvious excitement of their young charges, these men always looked thoroughly bored with life, spinning the waltzer or manning the dodgems in a perfunctory manner. Scott gave the same impression, conducting the most serious inquiry as though he would rather be in bed, or in the pub – virtually anywhere else in fact. Daley had to concede though, that the approach got results.

  The man Daley now knew to be Camel answered. ‘We were up at the fitba’. Wish we’d never bothered – the game wiz shite.’

  ‘So you’re Rangers fans, eh?’ At last, a smile from the taciturn Scott.

  ‘Nah,’ Bobby answered with a grin, ‘I’m a hoops man, he’s the Hun.’

  Scott looked bemused. ‘But Celtic wirna playing this week. Did you just go fir the trip?’

  ‘Nah.’ The grin remained on Bobby’s face. ‘We take it in turns. Wan week we go tae Parkheid, the next tae the evil empire.’ At this his grin turned to a gurn.

  ‘Whoot he means is we don’t suffer fae the same level of bigotry here as you lot up in Glesca.’ Camel was clearly the more intellectual of the two.

  ‘The next thing ye’ll be telling me is that ye all go tae the same schools,’ Scott proffered, with a look of scorn.

  ‘Aye, we dae. Nae room for a’ that sectarian stuff here, Constable.’

  It seemed that Scott had met his match. Camel was as adept at sarcasm as he was with the intricacies of religious division in the west of Scotland.

  ‘Sergeant, son, Detective Sergeant. You’ve still no’ telt me when you left for the game. Just get on wi’ it.’

  Camel’s sharp features lit up with the smile that said 1–0. ‘Day before yesterday, on the efternoon flight. We get a hotel deal off the internet, check in, get something tae eat, head tae the game . . .’

  His brother stopped him in full flow. ‘I get pished, he helps me back tae the hotel, and we come hame on the flight the next morning. That way, we’re back in time for the creels. Nae worries.’

  ‘Do either of you know Izzy Watson?’ Daley threw this question in unexpectedly amid the banter. ‘Her husband’s Michael Watson. He used to fish from Kinloch, works out of Dublin now – a local guy.’

  Some cases came to their conclusion on the back of a mere nuance: a gesture, a careless utterance, a facial expression. Daley witnessed what he considered a contender as the smile left the face of Bobby Watson. He lowered his head and looked at his brother.

  ‘Aye,’ said Camel. ‘Everybody knew Izzy. She wiz, well, very friendly.’

  Some of the tension left Bobby’s face at his brother’s obviously flippant remarks.

  ‘Friendly in what way?’ Daley acted as though he hadn’t picked up on the implication of Camel’s last statement.

  ‘She wiz a whore. She wiz aye gaggin’ fir it.’ Camel’s smile was broad and supercilious. ‘It wiz a fuckin’ shame fir Mecky, but whoot guy’s gonna look a gift horse in the mooth, eh? She wiz a wee cracker.’

  Daley let the conversation peter out. In the awkward silence that followed, he watched Bobby as he looked back out to sea, more serious than his brother. Camel simply looked at the two policemen with a fixed smile.

  ‘You keep saying she was – why is that?’ Daley’s expression was blank.

  ‘That’s easy. There’s been a woman found deid, an’ there are polis all o’er Mecky’s hoose, aye, an’ his mother’s hoose tae. I’m a lobster fisherman, no’ a polis, but I can still work that oot.’ Camel held up a mobile phone, his smile again one of triumph. 2–0.

  ‘What about you, Bobby? How well did you know Izzy Watson?’ Daley waited for an answer as the young fisherm
an’s gaze remained on the sea.

  Eventually he turned back to Daley and answered. ‘She wiz a nice lassie. No’ right wi’ the drink, but jeest a nice lassie, that’s all.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  Daley noticed how uncomfortable the young man seemed in contrast to his mocking brother. The pair had very different opinions of Izzy Watson. ‘You both seem very young to have your own boat. I mean, can’t be cheap – all the kit.’ He gestured out to their boat, now bobbing near the beach, the pink and orange buoys to which the fishermen’s nets were attached jostling alongside seaborne gulls.

  ‘Oor faither left it tae us when he died.’ Camel yet again spoke for the pair. ‘I wiz twelve, Bobby wiz ten. Whoot’s the point o’ school when you’ve got a career oot here? We baith left the school as soon as we could, an’ we’ve been at this ever since.’ His summing up of their lives to date had a precision to it. Even in this brief encounter, Daley could sense that a sharp intellect was at work.

  ‘What did your father die of?’ Scott intervened. He and Daley were so used to working together that their interview technique was easily intertwined, each man instinctively knowing what the other was trying to achieve.

  ‘Whoot’s that got tae dae with anything?’ Bobby was on the defensive.

  ‘The drink,’ Camel blurted out, clearly annoyed at the question. ‘He drank himself tae death. Aye an’ he’s no’ alone roon’ here.’

  ‘I see. And is that why you don’t drink?’ Daley’s question to Camel was direct.

  ‘I can see how you got tae be an inspector. Aye, that’s how I don’t drink. Noo, if you don’t mind, we’ve got mair creels tae dae . . .’

  ‘Just one last question.’ Daley wasn’t giving in at Camel’s request. ‘When did you last see Izzy Watson?’

  Bobby looked nervous, and tried to give a stuttering response; his brother quickly hushed him. ‘Last weekend. She wiz in Pulse, you know, the nightclub?’

  ‘What about you, Bobby? You don’t seem as sure as your brother.’ Scott was playing the game well.

  ‘Aye, the same. I wiz with my brother the other night.’ Both officers noted his uneasiness.

  ‘By fuck, Camel, fir a man that doesna drink, you spend a helluva lot o’ time in pubs, eh?’ Scott again echoed Daley’s thoughts.

  ‘There no’ a lot else tae dae here, or has your nose fir shite no’ detected that yet?’

  Daley saw Scott’s face change fleetingly, but he managed to keep his cool. ‘You can gie me your addresses, an’ the name o’ the pubs you drink in, just in case we need tae speak tae you again.’

  The brothers shared a house in Kinloch and, as could have been predicted by anyone who knew of the partisan nature of pub-going in the town, spent their leisure time between the Royal, the Douglas Arms and Pulse.

  The two policemen watched as they waded out to the boat, started the noisy diesel engine, and went about the business of lobster fishing.

  ‘Someone’s no’ tellin’ the truth.’ Scott needed no confirmation from his boss.

  The young constable was walking slowly towards them down the beach, carrying two cups of coffee.

  ‘Here, well done, son. Mebbe yer no’ such a fuckin’ idiot efter a’?’

  The constable smiled at the backhanded compliment. ‘Got them in the incident van up on the road.’

  Scott hadn’t thought of that.

  9

  Back at Kinloch Police Office, Daley was confronted with the prospect of the looming press conference. It was not that he was a particularly nervous performer, or that he was of the shy-and-retiring fraternity. No, rather he was tired of all the experts who would generally mill around before, during and after such an event took place, offering nebulous pointers and pieces of ‘useful’ advice. Everyone it seemed, from the chief constable to the office janitor, became an expert when the bright camera lights burst into life and the gentlemen of the press arrived. He and Scott had already recognised a couple of red-top hacks in town.

  Daley resolved to change tack as far as the press conference was concerned. He had noticed that more and more of these affairs were being conducted by lower-grade officers. It was high time Scott got more used to the limelight. It would be useful experience for him, as well as being a relief for his immediate superior.

  Normally, these events were organised by the Superintendent Donalds of this world. They would sit by, faces the picture of gravity, as some poor DCI or DI sweated under the glare of television lights, answering the probing questions of inebriated journalists, always conscious of the dark ranks of their friends and colleagues marking the performance in the shadows, busy formulating an aggravating litany of ‘handy hints and tips’. Well, woe betide them today. He looked surreptitiously across the room at his DS as he rifled through a mountain of paper and envelopes, trying to find the one that Donald had entrusted to him to deliver. Needless to say, the air was a particularly bright shade of blue.

  ‘You know, I don’t know where the fuck anything goes. I left the bloody thing in the glove compartment, I’m certain.’ Paper and brown envelopes were piling up on the floor at his feet; two Paisley DCs looked on disinterestedly as they chewed on bacon rolls. ‘Aye, an’ you pair can just get off your backsides an’ get o’er here an’ help me. You wid think we’d been livin’ in that minibus fir three years, the fuckin’ state it’s in. We only got it at six this morning. Get cracking.’

  Daley decided that now was not the best time to tell Scott of his decision. Instead, he called Crichton. After a few pleasant minutes on hold listening to Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony, the pathologist’s familiar tones jolted him back to life. ‘You out for one of those fly puffs on that pipe, Andy?’

  ‘As a feat of detection, that has a certain paucity, Jim. You might even solve a case at this rate. Now, how can I help you?’

  Daley watched as Scott threw a banana skin at one of the DCs then answered. ‘I’m just wondering if you’ve had any luck with getting any identifiable DNA from those semen samples? I could really use it just now.’

  ‘Well then, you’re in luck.’ The pathologist sounded chirpy. ‘We extracted successfully from all three. They’re being compared with our database samples now. I can’t guarantee that we’ll come up with a match, but a step forward, what?’

  The old-fashioned expression amused the inspector. ‘What’s the easiest and quickest way for me to get a DNA sample to you for testing, bearing in mind where I am at the moment?’

  ‘In that part of the world, Jim, we usually have the force doctors do the necessary. The chap down there’s quite obliging.’ He hesitated. ‘Can’t remember his name for the life of me. May I enquire if this will be a voluntary sample, or one you’ve managed to get from something?’

  ‘No, just a suspicion.’ Daley was shaking his head, even though Crichton could not see him. ‘We’ll get the sample one way or the other.’

  ‘In that case, my advice is to contact your man down there. Get him to call me first. Some of these hick docs are a bit ham-fisted when it comes to this sort of thing. I’ll keep him right.’

  Daley had no sooner put the phone down than the door to the CID office burst open to reveal a short middle-aged female dressed in a dark suit, which looked as though it was about to burst at the seams. The jacket was so tight that her ample bosom bulged out of her unbuttoned white blouse. Her hair, cut in a bob, was obviously dyed, as it appeared to be almost navy-blue in colour, and her pale face was dominated by a bright-red lip-glossed mouth. A pair of extra-large sunglasses gave her the look of a malevolent bug, which, Daley reckoned, was exactly what she was.

  ‘Fir fuck’s sake,’ was Scott’s predictable response. ‘I didna know they’d given you a long-range broomstick.’

  The assembled DCs chortled heartily.

  ‘And I didn’t know that the police were still employing deadbeat alcoholics.’

  Suddenly Daley wished he had taken the opportunity to speak to his DS earlier. ‘Pauline, hello. Pleasant journey?’

  Th
e PR officer grunted an unintelligible response, and stood in the middle of the floor taking in her surroundings. She had a large leather bag over her right shoulder, and a wheeled suitcase stood, precariously angled, at her side. ‘I see you chaps have been able to replicate the usual standard of organisation, despite the change of venue.’ She was looking at the detritus that surrounded Scott. ‘Now, I’ll need some kind of desk, in this . . . this shambles. Preferably as far away from him as possible.’ She pointed at DS Scott. ‘Please, no matter the circumstances, do not be tempted to bring anyone from the press in here. The state of this place would be headline news.’ Pauline Robertson had unequivocally made her presence felt.

  ‘Aye, well, just you remember, that while you’re prancing aboot wi’ a’ they chancers, we’re busy solving a murder. So keep your opinions tae yersel’.’

  Daley reasoned that there was no time like the present, and calmly invited both Pauline and Scott into his glass-walled office. Once his proposal to make Scott the PR liaison offer was made clear, the pair sat in what could best be described as stunned silence.

  ‘I must admit, this is not what I expected. Does no one have anything profane to shout?’ Daley’s sarcasm was intended to provoke a response.

  Pauline was the first to speak. ‘I suppose with your newfound eminence, it would be pointless to argue.’ Both policemen looked at her blankly. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know yet? I got the memo this morning before I caught the plane.’

  ‘Oh fir fuck’s sake, Pauline, just get on wi’ it. Has he got a knighthood or something?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. So you really have no idea, Chief Inspector Daley?’

  Daley took a second or two to assimilate the information.

  ‘Of course, that broon envelope His Highness gave me. It must be your promotion. Well done, Jimmy boy,’ Scott said, somewhat irreverently, as he stood to congratulate his colleague.

  ‘Yes, congratulations, I’m sure. I’m just pleased I was the bearer of such good news.’