Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘No, thanks, Mr Munro,’ said Daley, then changed his mind. ‘Actually, would you be able to lend me some kind of jacket or something?’ He remembered his trip on the lifeboat and the chill he had felt while at sea, despite his survival suit.

  Munro dashed back to the shop, before returning with a red garment wrapped in a clear plastic bag. ‘An excellent seagoing fleece, Mr Daley’ – he tossed the package at the detective – ‘water-resistant an’ everything, an’ a snip at a hundred an’ twenty pounds. Do you have the cash on you, or will I open up an account?’

  ‘An account please, Mr Munro. We are in a hurry.’ Daley couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Aye, very good. I hope you have a life jacket for the chief inspector, Hamish?’ he enquired cheerily.

  ‘Why?’ Hamish’s head poked out from the wheelhouse. ‘What will it cost if we have to buy one fae you? A thousand pounds? Don’t you be worrying, Anda Munro, you’ve made all the money you will out of us today. Now, get back in your shop an’ keep countin’ yer fortune. And think on forbye, there are nae pockets in a shroud.’ All the while, Hamish was moving nimbly around the small vessel, having grasped the urgency of the situation.

  Munro’s reply was drowned out by the loud rumble of the boat’s engine firing into life in a cloud of blue smoke. He untied the rope that was securing the craft to a stubby bollard and threw it onto the deck at Daley’s feet. ‘God speed, Mr Daley,’ he shouted, loudly enough to be heard over the engines, and waved languidly as the small boat turned from the pier and headed out of the harbour into the open sea.

  Just as they neared the mouth of the harbour, Daley’s mobile rang. ‘What’s happening, boss?’ Scott’s voice was loud and clear despite the rattle of the boat’s engine.

  Daley informed his DS that he had found a vessel and was now en route to Abb’s Skerry, a journey that Hamish reckoned would take about forty-five minutes.

  ‘Aye, well you’ll be there before us.’ Scott sounded concerned. ‘The weather’s closing in, a real sea haar. It’s not safe for the helicopter, and we’re waiting for the lifeboat. She’s towing a boat back into Kinloch. The upshot is I’m not sure when we’ll be leaving. But I’m told it’ll only take aboot an’ hour when we do get going.’

  ‘We’ll need armed officers on the boat, Bri.’ Daley was trying to visualise what he was about to face without thinking of Liz, a task that he was finding impossible. ‘I’ll have to work things out on the hoof.’

  The answer from Scott was garbled. They had just left the mouth of Firdale Bay and the mobile signal was rapidly disappearing. He could make out Scott’s plea for him to be careful, then the connection was broken. He checked the screen: NO SIGNAL.

  ‘Can I use your radio, Hamish?’ Daley shouted to the sailor.

  ‘Well, that’s a wee bit tricky, Mr Daley.’ Hamish rubbed his chin with a grimace.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’m no’ big on people interfering with my movements. There’s aye somebody tryin’ tae tell you whoot tae dae o’er the airwaves. Dae ye ken, Mr Daley?’

  ‘You mean you’ve no radio, Hamish,’ said Daley in a resigned tone.

  ‘No.’ Hamish was being canny. ‘We’ve got wan, it’s jeest no’ workin’ very weel, at the moment.’

  Daley stared ahead. What was that saying he had first been made aware of in anger management? We are where we are. How appropriate.

  In the distance he could see where the blue sky ended. It was as though a giant wad of cotton wool had been left on the horizon; there was no way to discern where the sea ended and the sky began. Daley remembered his history – when sailors were genuinely afraid they would sail off the edge of the world – and thought if anything had happened to Liz, this would be a cruelly apt metaphor.

  21

  Seanessy leaned over Liz, his face in hers. His breath was foul, and she could count the individual blackheads that peppered his bulbous nose. The shack had become even gloomier inside, and despite her predicament she reasoned that the weather outside had clouded over. What time was it now?

  ‘What are you thinking about, you whore?’ Flecks of spittle sprayed into Liz’s face; her stomach churned in revulsion. She remained silent. ‘Wondering what’s going to happen to you, I’ve no doubt.’ Seanessy grinned maniacally, displaying a mouthful of uneven yellow teeth. ‘First, we’re going to have some fun, you and I. Fun. The kind of fun you would never have with someone like me. Look at me, you bitch.’ He grabbed her chin, pulling her face in line with his. She had to blink his spittle from her left eye.

  He took something from his trouser pocket. She gasped as he bent over her, a Stanley knife brandished in her face. ‘You’re just like them all. Young or old, you’re all the same, eh?’ His eyes looked as though they were on stalks: bulging, the pupils mere pinpricks. ‘Nice when you’re little girls: happy, funny, pretty – all you want to do is play at being mummy,’ he snarled, still gripping her chin so that she couldn’t move her head. ‘Then you start to bleed, and we all know what you think about then. Time for a change, pretty one.’ In one swift movement, he let go of her face, grabbed the neck of her T-shirt and slit it open with the sharp knife, revealing the white of her bra against her tanned skin. He grabbed her left breast and began to knead it roughly.

  Liz closed her eyes tightly. This was her – every woman’s – worst nightmare. For the first time, she realised what was going to happen: she was going to suffer, and then she was going to die.

  The weather had worsened. Within a few minutes of leaving Firdale, a thick mist engulfed them. Daley could barely see from one end of the boat to the other; the scene that had seemed wide open and infinite had now been reduced to a patch of black oily water with hardly a ripple on the surface. The strangest thing was the silence. No squawk of gulls, rush of wind, or crash of breakers onto the shoreline. Nothing. It was like being enclosed in a tiny bubble of life on a silent ocean. Despite the expensive fleece, Daley shivered with cold. Only the noise of the engine was audible, and even it appeared deadened.

  ‘This will slow us up a wee bit.’ Hamish’s voice at his shoulder made him start. He turned round to face the old sailor. The smell of pipe smoke had replaced the stench of diesel, and any sea tang was now strangely absent.

  ‘How the hell do you know where you’re going in this?’

  ‘It’s no’ a case o’ jeest knowing where you are, Mr Daley, mair a case o’ feelin’ it.’ His face creased into its habitual slit-eyed smile.

  Daley looked at him. Despite the desperate nature of the situation, the older man remained utterly unfazed, almost serene. ‘You do know what’s at stake here, Hamish? This is more than a case for me now. If he harms her . . .’ The meaning was implicit.

  Hamish sucked on his pipe a couple of times, and just when the detective thought he was not going to answer, he spoke. ‘In life, Mr Daley, all we have to hold ontae is the certainty of death.’ His eyes were bright blue and at their most piercing. ‘If she’s deid, you’ll know – even if she’s in pain, you’ll know. But I’ll tell you this, Chief Inspector, if a’ you can dae is picture her lying deid on a mortuary slab, then deid she’ll be – aye, as sure as ye killed her yersel’.’ His gaze was unflinching. ‘That Englishman wrote aboot there being mair things on heaven an’ earth . . . well, let me tell you: it’s no’ jeest heaven an’ earth, it’s in the mind tae.’ He removed the pipe from his mouth, still staring at the policeman, and casually tapped it on the hull of the boat. Such was the stillness, Daley could hear the fizz as the spent ash hit the water.

  Hamish turned on his heel and headed back towards the wheelhouse. Daley looked back out to sea and remembered making love to Liz in the hotel room. The warmth, the smell, the very touch of her filled his senses. Suddenly he felt a calm resolve, as though he had been emboldened by the old fisherman’s words.

  Liz was aware of a thumping noise on the wall of the shack, which made Seanessy stop what he was doing and listen. She was breathing heavily, and despite hersel
f was crying silent tears of fear and humiliation. Her tormentor had sliced into her bra, exposing her breasts, and he was devouring them visually as one would an expensive meal, actually salivating at the prospect of having her.

  He’s going to rape me, she thought. Her mind was still working, though in a random, intermittent way. Subconsciously she was calculating the possibility of survival despite the sickening realisation that while others knew she was on the boat trip with this man who had turned out to be the monster of her worst nightmares, nobody knew where they were going and certainly not that they were on this strange island.

  Seanessy stared at her for a few seconds more, then abruptly left. She was aware of a dull thud. Her situation precluded speculation as to its source. Instead, she pulled, tugged and strained at her bonds, a cause she knew to be futile, though she knew she had to try something – anything – to fight back, to remove herself from this hell.

  The door creaked open again, the leering figure of Seanessy framed in the doorway. ‘Very appropriate weather, don’t you think?’ He walked towards the bed. ‘Even if that big brave husband of yours and his grubby little sidekick have realised what’s happened to you, they’ll never find you in this.’ He sat down awkwardly at the end of the bed. Liz could feel the thick strap that held her legs fast loosen slightly as his weight made an impression on the filthy mattress. She jerked her leg, hoping that she could free herself. To no avail: Seanessy caught her limb with both hands, so tightly that she cried out in pain. ‘You’re going nowhere, Mrs Daley. Time you had a little rest, I think.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. ‘Now, I have things to attend to, and it will be better for both of us if you spend some time out of harm’s way.’ He produced a hypodermic syringe, removed the needle cover and squirted some of the fluid into the air. ‘This will help you get some sleep, keep you fresh so to speak. Not many bonuses to being a chemistry teacher – apart from knowing the effect of particular substances on the human body.’

  ‘You mad bastard!’ Liz heard herself say this as though she was listening to a recording of her own voice.

  In one quick movement he grabbed her pinioned arm, feeling along her forearm with his fingertips. ‘Ah, the joys of being slim and fit, Mrs Daley.’ He smiled at her. ‘Never hard to find a vein when you need one.’ He thrust the needle into her arm.

  Liz felt a wave of nausea, rapidly followed by an overwhelming tiredness. She slipped into unconsciousness.

  Seanessy waited a few more seconds, then slapped her. The strong sedative had had an almost immediate effect. He began to untie her bonds, all the while taking in the swell of her breasts under her ripped T-shirt. Again, he began to salivate.

  Daley crabbed his way towards the wheelhouse. ‘Any idea how we’re doing, Hamish?’ He looked on as the doughty skipper raised his head and seemed to sniff the air. Daley had no idea where they were, and was not encouraged by the paucity of instrumentation available to Hamish. From the little he knew of life afloat, he could discern no radar, no clever electronic device that could help them navigate through the enveloping murk.

  ‘Did I ever tell ye aboot my grandfaither, Mr Daley?’ Hamish addressed him with his level gaze.

  ‘No, I don’t think you did.’ Daley’s heart sank at the thought of some hoary old tale, but recognising that this man held the key to saving Liz and that they probably couldn’t go any faster, he decided to listen to the story with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  ‘Don’t be worrying.’ Hamish displayed his unnerving talent for reading others’ thoughts. ‘I can talk an’ navigate at the same time.’

  Daley smiled, despite himself, and nodded for the older man to proceed.

  ‘He was a fisherman, like myself, you understand.’ Hamish took a draw from his pipe. ‘He volunteered for the Russian Convoys – a hell o’ a thing tae volunteer for if ye ask me – but there ye are, he wiz aye a thrawn auld bugger.’ He sniffed the air again distractedly. ‘Tae cut a long story short, they were sunk by a torpedo in the Baltic. My grandfaither an’ a few others managed tae scramble intae a lifeboat afore they froze tae death. Jeest a wooden boat wi’ a pitiful sail an’ an even mair pitiful sack full o’ basic rations, maist o’ it ruined by the sea.’ He fixed on Daley with his blue eyes. ‘Nae such thing as a compass, nah, nor radar eithers – the auld fella navigated them safely tae the shore, aye, safely tae the shore,’ he repeated, ‘jeest wi’ whoot he had up here.’ He proceeded to tap his temple with his right forefinger.

  Daley raised an eyebrow. ‘Some feat, Hamish. I hope you’ve inherited the same talent.’ He smiled encouragingly at the old man. ‘I suppose he went on to sail on more convoys?’

  ‘No. He didna.’ Hamish shook his head. ‘Unfortunately his instinct fir the shore didna run tae jeest whose shore wiz whose, if you get my drift, Mr Daley.’ The detective looked confused. ‘Ended up sailin’ them right intae German waters, aye, right intae the hands o’ the Nazis themselves.’ Hamish looked at his fingernails, a look of regret on his face. ‘Spent the rest o’ the conflict in a prisoner-o’-war camp.’ He paused for a few moments, then looked up with a beaming smile on his face. ‘Still an’ a’, Chief Inspector, things could’ve been worse – they could a’ hae been drooned.’ He pursed his lips, signalling, Daley thought, the pride he felt in his grandfather’s nautical prowess.

  The policeman said nothing, peering desperately through the fog. Suddenly his mobile burst into life, the theme from The Sopranos somehow amplified by the mist.

  ‘You’ll be gettin’ a signal fae County Antrim,’ Hamish announced with a nod of his head.

  ‘Brian, what’s happening? We’re ploughing on, but this fog’s a bastard.’

  ‘We’re jist aboot tae leave, Jim.’ Scott’s voice was surprisingly clear, and again it raised Daley’s spirits. ‘We should be at the island in about an hour, yer man tells me. It’s a’ doon tae the weather. Where are you?’

  ‘Eh’ – Daley glanced at Hamish – ‘kinda hard to tell at the moment. Just get going, mate.’

  ‘Don’t worry, boss.’ Scott could hear the desperation in his friend’s voice. ‘We’re going tae sort this oot, trust me.’ Daley could hear voices in the background. ‘I’ll need tae go, Jamie. Keep the faith, man.’ Daley smiled at the use of the phrase his DS normally reserved for a poor Rangers game.

  Seanessy held the knife in front of his face, examining the blade carefully. It gleamed, polished by the sharpening process. Things hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped – they never did in his experience. People refused to conform to his idea of how things should be, how life should be conducted. He drew a finger gently along the blade, drawing a bubble of blood, which turned into a small drip. He watched as it spattered onto the dirty wooden floor and wondered how long it would take for his life to drip away at this rate of flow. He knelt down over the recumbent unconscious figure, taking the back of the knife in both hands. He positioned the knife at the middle of the neck, just touching the white skin; immediately a red line of blood streaked across the length of the implement. An involuntary twitch began in one of the muscles on the bare shoulder. He pushed down, his full weight behind the blade. Blood spattered his face, hands, chest and trousers. The body underneath him shook in the spasms of death throes. Another gush of blood, then there was a snap. The eyes opened, but the light behind them was already gone.

  Without warning, Hamish shut off the engine. Daley turned to see him listening, his head cocked to one side, eyes closed. ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked the policeman, as he removed something from his pocket.

  Daley listened intently, but could hear nothing other than the muted lapping of water against the side of the boat and a distant hissing noise. He clambered over to see Hamish holding a small compass in a wooden frame up to the light. ‘Thank goodness! For a minute there I didn’t think you had any instruments to sail by at all.’ Daley looked hopefully at the old fisherman.

  ‘Been with me noo for over fifty years. My first skipper gave it tae me. Handy when
you’re caught up in a pea-souper lake this.’ He sniffed the air, eyes closed again. ‘From now on,’ he said quietly, ‘ye might consider keepin’ the voice doon.’ He nodded into the gloom. ‘We’re no’ far off the skerry.’

  Daley peered over the prow of the vessel. He could see nothing: no shadows, no breaks in the water, nothing at all to indicate they were nearing land. ‘How do you know, Hamish? I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Aye, well, you see,’ the old man mused. ‘Whoot you’re no’ takin’ intae account is the fact that ye need tae use a’ yer senses, no’ jeest yer eyes. Dae ye no’ hear that swish in the distance?’ His voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Yes, I can.’ Daley closed his own eyes, better to hear the hissing noise he had detected a moment ago.

  ‘That’s the surf drawing off the shingle bay at Abb’s Skerry. Either that or we’re on the coast o’ Islay, which wid be a bugger, indeed. I canna stand Islay.’

  Daley’s heart leapt into his mouth. If Hamish was correct, he was within a few yards of Liz. He mouthed a silent prayer of hope that she was there and still . . . still alive. He shuddered. ‘How, or should I say where, do we land?’

  ‘Noo, that’s a matter o’ tactics. I kinda thought that wid be your concern, Mr Daley.’

  Daley thought for a few moments. He had to get onto the small island, but he didn’t want to alert Seanessy. This was no easy task: first, he couldn’t see the lie of the land, and second, he had no manpower apart from himself and the old fisherman, whom he could not put at risk.

  ‘I’m no’ blaming you fir the harbour master, Mr Daley,’ Hamish whispered apropos of nothing. ‘I knew fine he wiz up tae nae guid, wi’ the big car an’ a’ the fancy holidays. I wid never hae pit him as a drug dealer though, no, not at all.’ He shook his head in disbelief.