Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘That’s another thing, Chief Inspector, how the fuck did she get doon in the plane, and I had tae suffer that fuckin’ minibus fir hours on end?’ It was clear, as far as Scott was concerned, that very little had changed, and that an elevation to the rank of chief inspector barely warranted a mention.

  ‘Anyway,’ interrupted Pauline, ‘we better get a shift on. I’ve arranged this press conference for two o’clock, at the crime scene. Nice day and all that, more chance of getting TV coverage.’ She gave both policemen a superior smile. ‘So, chop-chop, DS Scott. Most of the work is done, and all you have to do is follow my instructions. Oh, can you read out loud?’

  On hearing the beginning of Scott’s expletive-rich reply, Daley decided to leave the pair to organise the press conference unaided. He took a few moments to ponder his good fortune. He had most certainly not expected to be promoted – ever, in fact, never mind now. He recalled Donald’s assurance that he had something ‘up his sleeve’, with which to counter the waspish MacLeod. The promotion must have been it.

  It changed a lot of things. His operational status would change. He would be forced to pay more than lip service to the bean counting he so despised. And what about his working relationship with Brian? He watched the combustible DS through his glass window, shaking his head, raising his eyes, and finger pointing. Beneath all the repartee, they made an effective team. Would this be their last investigation together?

  And what about Liz? She constantly berated him for his lack of progress through the ranks. He knew she would be pleased, but would her pleasure be felt on his behalf, or for herself? He would tell her about it later, after she and Mark had arrived. He didn’t suppose that Mark Henderson would give a damn whatever rank he achieved. He saw all policemen as poorly paid, unimaginative functionaries, their careers spent trying to stem the tide of human degradation. Not unlike those who cleaned the sewers or emptied bins; the only difference being they dealt with human effluent. They had talked about it late one night, when without an audience and after a few Highland Parks Mark had become almost human. The contempt he held for any kind of public service was obvious. He had told Daley that he could have done so much better in life, made so much more money – that this would have impressed Liz. Patronising prick.

  Daley stood with MacLeod, who appeared to be standing to attention in his well-pressed uniform. The pair had had a brief conversation earlier, when the Highlander had congratulated Daley on his promotion. It was clear he did not intend to call Daley ‘sir’, merely avoiding the need for its use by addressing him obliquely. They were on the shore overlooking Machrie Bay, where the body of Izzy Watson had been found. Pauline Robertson had persuaded everyone that the beach was an ideal venue for the press conference, somewhere that would stick in the public’s collective mind.

  Fraser stood beside Scott, who was, in turn, flanked by Watson and Pauline Robertson. The sea fizzed in soft white breakers on the shore behind them. The gulls performed aerobatics in the clear blue sky, their cries adding to what Robertson termed ‘a visually memorable happening’.

  MacLeod, though, was unconvinced. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he snapped, surveying the scene with a disgusted frown. Television technicians were setting up lights, microphones and cameras. Around thirty reporters, representatives of both the electronic and print media, were present, mingling on the beach in loose huddles, or standing alone with mobile phones clamped to their ears.

  One hack sat cross-legged on the sand, typing furiously onto a small laptop. Daley’s own mobile rang, and he could see MacLeod’s face recoil at the ringtone as he stomped off.

  ‘Jim, congratulations.’ Donald’s voice gushed out of the phone. ‘Well deserved, well deserved indeed. I’ve had it up my sleeve for a while, you know. Just a case of persuading the powers that be that it was the correct course of action et cetera.’

  Daley nodded, unable to answer the superintendent who was now in full flow.

  ‘Not too sure about this decision to let Scott loose on this press conference though, Jim.’ The voice had changed from one of warm congratulation to one of doubtful caution. ‘I mean to say, he’s not exactly what I would call the soul of discretion when it comes to contact with the public, never mind on television.’

  ‘Well, sir, I . . .’

  ‘However, on your head and all that. Big responsibility now, Jim – buck stops here. Do you have anything worthwhile?’

  Daley thought before he answered. A couple of Paisley DCs were currently questioning Bobby Johnstone, who had been asked to attend the station voluntarily. Daley had watched the young fisherman’s face when he and Scott had interviewed the brothers at Machrie Bay earlier. His instincts told him that they were mixed up in some way with Izzy Watson. He didn’t think either of them were murderers, but you had to be sure. Bobby was chosen, as it was clear that he would be a more malleable interviewee than his acerbic brother. Daley was waiting for news about it from Kinloch. He hoped, at the very least, they would manage to soften up Bobby. He would try again later. They had decided not to mention this development at the press conference. ‘A couple of leads, sir, nothing concrete. We’ve got the DNA of the men she had sex with, so here’s hoping. My team are on it now. I just want to get this circus out of the way first.’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, which was unusual. Normally Donald filled every available second of a telephone conversation with his own form of condescending brio. Alarm bells rang in Daley’s head.

  ‘Yes . . .’ The superintendent seemed to be playing for time. ‘I hear that your wife’s on her way there. Do you think that’s wise?’

  The cause of his superior’s uncharacteristic silence was now clear. Daley decided to meet it head on. ‘Look, sir, I of all people know that your network of informers is legendary, and I neither know nor care how you found out about this. My personal life is my own – murder investigation or not. In fact, she’s coming here on a totally unrelated matter. I hope you credit me with enough professionalism to be able to cope with members of my own family at close quarters while chasing a murderer. After all, sir, I do live with her back at home when I’m involved in investigations.’

  Donald hesitated again, but when he did speak his tone was equally serious. ‘I’ve invested a great deal of my personal credibility to get you this promotion, Jim.’ Gone were the honeyed congratulations. ‘And I know as well as you do that when it comes to Mrs Daley you can be . . . well, let’s just say . . . impetuous. Don’t get distracted by her, or your brother-in-law. I hope that’s clear?’

  As Daley muttered a sullen reply, the line went dead. He had to hand it to Donald – his intelligence network was second to none. More galling was the fact that his concerns were at least partly justified. He was already put off his stride by her visit, and the presence of the despised Mark did nothing to aid the situation. He silently berated himself for being so immature and turned his attention to the beach, where proceedings looked ready to commence. Scott was pawing the sand with his left foot, like an impatient dog, while Pauline Robertson flitted amongst the assembled journalists and TV crews, imparting final words of wisdom.

  Michael Watson stood silently beside Fraser, the embodiment of misery. Daley felt sorry for him; when the full extent of his wife’s lifestyle became public, he would suffer all over again. He knew how that felt.

  At the signal from a TV director, and a plaintive look in his direction from DS Scott, Pauline Robertson began her spiel to the cameras. ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Pauline Robertson, and I would like to welcome you to this press conference on behalf of Strathclyde Police. I would also like to introduce you to Detective Sergeant Brian Scott, who is part of the investigating team and will be conducting today’s proceedings. There will be a brief Q and A session at the end, during which I would be grateful if you would address your questions to me. Sergeant Scott . . .’ She gestured to the DS, whom Daley was pleased to note had buttoned up his collar and straightened his t
ie just for the occasion.

  Scott coughed and moved about uncomfortably from foot to foot. For a dreadful moment, Daley thought his hard-bitten colleague had lost his bottle, but after a particularly noisy clearance of his throat, he began. ‘Aye, eh, thank you, Paul—Ms Robertson.’ He coughed again, and then looked down at the clipboard he was holding, squinting at the paper in the bright afternoon sun. ‘I’m sure you’re all aware that a body was found here – aye, right here at this locus, the day before last.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Noo, after a series of investigations by oor team, we’ve been able to identify the victim.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘She is, or rather was, Mrs Isobel Watson, a thirty-one-year-old woman residing in Kinloch.’

  So far so good, Daley thought. He was surprised just how nervous his deputy appeared. He tried to remember a time when Scott had been in charge of such an event, and couldn’t think of any. Sure, he had sat at Daley’s right hand during press conferences in the city, but he hadn’t had to speak. Maybe he shouldn’t have ducked this.

  Scott continued haltingly with the more procedural content, such as dates and times, appeals to those who may have seen Izzy prior to her death and so on, then turned to Michael Watson. ‘With me is Mr Michael Watson, who is the deceased’s spouse. He would like to say a few words to you.’

  Watson’s head had been bowed throughout Scott’s preamble, and remained so for a few seconds after he had been introduced. Suddenly, to the flash of cameras, he raised it. He had clearly been crying, and the dark rings around his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep. However, he stood squarely on the sand, jutted his chin out, and began to speak. For the first time Daley saw him resemble his mother. ‘Izzy wiz everything tae me an’ oor wee boy.’ His accent was thick, and it was clear that the composure he was maintaining was a great struggle. ‘I jeest ask the person who did this tae come forward.’ There was a sudden change in his expression; he lowered his eyes and the register of his voice. ‘An’ I’m telling whoever did this wan mair thing. The polis will find you, and when they dae, I’ll get tae you somehow and kill you wi’ my bare hands, ya bastard!’

  A number of things happened at once. Watson’s next words were mercifully cut off by an alert sound engineer, camera flashes erupted into life, and Pauline Robertson stepped hastily in front of the stricken man. Assembled journalists and TV crews issued a collective gasp, and DS Scott looked directly at his boss, his face set in a rictus grin.

  Order was eventually restored, and the press conference was concluded. Pauline Robertson took Watson aside, while a number of the TV journalists gave their piece to camera, one in particular gesturing over his shoulder to where Watson was being consoled by the PR officer, his body yet again wracked with convulsive sobs.

  Fraser was standing stock still in his allotted position, looking left and right without turning his head. In the heat of the moment, he reminded Daley of a grotesque mime artist he and Liz had once seen in Paris.

  Scott made his way through the scrum of hacks, not without some difficulty. He looked as though his television demeanour was in great danger of slipping into his more habitual glare with a side dish of expletives.

  As Daley pushed his way across the sand towards his DS, he felt his mobile vibrate in his trouser pocket. He took the phone from his pocket and grimaced as he read ‘Donald’ on the screen.

  ‘Excellent. Well done to you all. That was more entertaining than these interminable soaps my wife inflicts on me every evening. I thought Brian Scott looked as though he’d only just been taught to speak English, and as for the victim’s husband, well . . .’

  ‘The guy’s under a lot of pressure, sir. I mean . . .’ He was not given the time to make any excuses.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that that little pantomime went out live on the BBC news channel, as well as Sky and some more of these dreadful satellite stations. You should’ve been up there, Jim. Scott was as much use as a chocolate watch. You’ll be hearing more about this, I can assure you.’ With that, the line went dead.

  Scott appeared from the scrum of journalists, policemen and members of the public, tugging his tie loose from an unbuttoned collar. ‘That wiz a fuckin’ nightmare, Jim. I never want to have tae dae that again. Fir a start, I couldn’t read a word off that sheet of paper cos o’ the sun. And as for that Watson guy, he’s no’ the full shilling. Its nae wonder his wife was on the flighty side . . .’ Remembering Daley’s marital situation, he coughed diplomatically and changed the subject. ‘Wiz that you on the phone tae His Majesty? I suppose he’s plenty tae say on the matter. I’ll be in fir a right roasting when I get back up the road.’

  ‘Don’t worry on that score, Brian. The blame is squarely at my door as far as he’s concerned.’ As though things couldn’t get any worse, he looked round to see a smug Inspector MacLeod strolling up the beach towards him and the hapless Scott. Daley reasoned that attack was the best form of defence. ‘Before you say anything, Inspector, don’t bother. We’ve got enough on our plate here without your petty shit.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir, I think the press conference was highly effective. I mean who’s going to forget that? Surely the whole point of such an exercise is to jog people’s memory, no?’ That said, he carried on up to the road, where he got into a marked police car driven by a constable.

  ‘Aye, fuck me, Jim, a nest of vipers here an’ no mistake. Is he Norwegian? Me and the wife were there on holiday two years ago, mind? He’s a dead ringer fir them.’ Scott lightened the mood just as Daley’s mobile vibrated again in his pocket. This time it was the office. Camel Johnstone wanted to speak to him urgently.

  10

  Camel was sitting in one of the interview rooms with his feet up on the table as Daley and Scott entered. Scott casually shoved the fisherman’s legs on his way to his seat, nearly forcing the young man off his chair.

  ‘I don’t know where you grew up, son – likely in some fisherman’s shack – but see where I come fae, ye pit yer feet on the ground. Got it?’

  Camel’s sharp features accentuated a sneer. ‘Aye, whatever. Anyway, I came here tae talk tae your boss, no’ you.’ His heavy-lidded gaze turned to Daley.

  ‘Well, make it quick, and make it good.’ Daley was in no mood for a game of verbal fencing with Camel. ‘And if you’re here to plead a case for your brother, you can forget it.’

  ‘If ye listen tae whoot I’ve got tae say before ye accuse my brother, ye might learn something.’ Camel was clearly agitated beneath his façade of bravado.

  ‘We’re all ears, son.’ Scott sat directly across from the fisherman, his arms folded; Daley beside him. The newly promoted chief inspector held his hand out, palm up, inviting Camel to speak.

  ‘Ye might as well know, I wiz havin’ an affair wi’ Izzy Watson.’

  Daley and Scott stayed silent, a tactic they used automatically when someone was embarking on a confession. Often people, burdened by the information they were keeping secret, wanted some kind of confirmation that they were now absolved of the guilt that they felt. In short, if you interrupted a confessor confessing, the well could dry, instantly.

  ‘I must admit, I’d hoped fir mair o’ a reaction.’ Camel was leaning back, arms crossed, with no trace of emotion on his sharp face. He had clearly come to say what he had to say, and that was it.

  ‘So Bobby’s not who we’re looking for?’ Daley kept his expression neutral. He had misjudged the younger brother’s body language on the beach; either that or Camel was making a desperate attempt to save his sibling. Somehow, Daley didn’t think so.

  ‘Listen.’ Camel sat forward. ‘I know you guys will probably have evidence that I slept wi’ her the day she disappeared, so why are we fucking about? This has got nothing tae dae wi’ Bobby. He just canna help looking guilty, he’s always been the same. Jeest let him go. I’m yer man. I promise ye though: she wiz alive an’ kicking when I last saw her.’ He looked directly at Daley with the unnerving, steady gaze that the policeman had first noticed on the beach that morning.
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  ‘So, if you don’t mind, maybe you can fill us in on your little dalliance? Where and when did this act of passion take place?’ Daley knew instinctively that the fisherman was telling the truth.

  ‘Dalliance? I’ve never heard it called that afore. If you must know, I couped her o’er the bins at the back o’ Pulse.’

  ‘Nae bother tae you, son, eh?’ said Scott. ‘Never mind a bit of romance an’ a’ that shite.’

  ‘They ca’ it the Honeymoon Suite. It’s no’ Paris in the spring, but the owner turns a blind eye. An’ well you know how it is when passion strikes, boys, or are yous both too auld tae remember?’

  Daley rose from his seat and slammed the desk with his clenched fist, an action that Camel was clearly not expecting as he pushed himself quickly back from the desk, an open-mouthed look of astonishment on his face.

  ‘I’ve had just about enough of your childish sarcasm, son,’ roared Daley, the veins now standing out on his neck. ‘A woman’s lost her life, and a wee boy’s lost his mother, never mind her husband, whom you obviously don’t give a fuck about. Now, I’ll give you another chance to answer our questions, this time with the tape on. Remember, son, before we start – right now, after your big confession – you’re the prime suspect. So take that fucking stupid grin off your face and try to get yourself out of the mess you’re in, or the only crabs you’ll be catching will be off some lonely psychopath with a three-day growth and a life sentence. Get it?’

  Camel, chastened by Daley’s outburst, went on to tell them more about Izzy Watson’s life than could have been hoped for. It was apparently not unusual for her to arrive in the club with one man, and then visit the Honeymoon Suite with another. It seemed as though her life was well and truly out of control. Camel confirmed that she was addicted to crack and regularly snorted coke. She paid for this, he said, by acting as a sort of unofficial prostitute, with drugs the reward for sexual favours. He had paid for his romantic interlude at the bins with a wrap of cocaine he had picked up in Glasgow. He also gave the officers an impromptu and extensive list of other men with whom she had similar ad hoc arrangements.