Mary felt guilty about Angus. He’d looked so pleased to see her, embracing her on the threshold of the big, warm farmhouse. When she took him aside and told him the bad news he’d looked crushed.
She knew that there was no point in prolonging the agony, so made her excuses and left immediately. She tried to banish the image of him sitting on the couch, tears welling, from her mind. She had cared for him, but not as much as he had for her; and certainly nothing like the feelings she had for Jim Daley.
As the next track played, she laughed. ‘No, I’m not going to cry again,’ she said, as though in reply to the song.
Without warning, the car slid and her view of the world tilted as the steering wheel dragged itself roughly from her grip.
Daley awoke with a jolt and looked at his watch. Shit, she had been gone for more than two hours. Obviously her conversation with Angus was more difficult than she’d imagined.
He pulled himself stiffly from the bed, rubbed his throat where he’d almost been strangled on the Rat Stone, and stumbled through to the kitchen in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, wincing as he trod on a discarded earring in his bare feet.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, he made his way into the small living room. He hadn’t been in the house for a few months and was impressed to see that she’d bought a stereo system that played old-fashioned vinyl records. Very trendy now, he mused.
He thumbed through her small collection of albums, smiling at the silhouette of a man’s head in a trilby hat; it was so familiar, he had the album himself.
He switched on the stereo, carefully removed the record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. He listened to the satisfying thud and click as the needle connected with the plastic and a mournful voice sang of praying for the light.
A Note from the Author
Those of you who have knowledge of Kintyre may recognise that Blaan is my fictitious version of the village of Southend – originally St Blaan – located on the southern tip of the peninsula. This settlement has such a rich history it is impossible to do it justice here, but I will do my best to give you a brief insight.
There does exist a real Rat Stone, or Stane, as it is referred to locally. It can be found on the shore at Pennyseorach, two miles or so from the centre of Southend. While its origin and age are uncertain, it has long been associated with fertility. Indeed, well within living memory, local farmers would place metal pins in its carved stone bowl as a traditional offering to guarantee a good harvest.
The great saint of the old Celtic Church Saint Columba has long been associated with the area. Tradition has it that what is now Southend was his first stopping-off point when he left his native Ireland on a mission to spread the gospel throughout Scotland. You can see Saint Columba’s footprints near the local graveyard, where he allegedly made his mark. The two prints – carved into the stone – are more likely to be remnants of the old ‘Fealty Foot’ whereby the new king-in-waiting would place his foot on the stone and take his vows of kingship in the manner of his forebears. You can still stand in them today.
Indeed, it is reckoned that the Kintyre peninsula was the first part of the country settled by the Scoti tribe (who eventually gave Scotland its name), when they made their way across the North Channel. The real ‘red yins’’ presence is still felt in modern Scotland by the reluctance of some to have only those with dark hair as a first foot (the first visitor to a house in the hours after the bells of Hogmanay). Going back in time, to welcome a red-haired member of the Scoti tribe into your home would have been to court mayhem and death, as they slowly displaced the indigenous population.
As a child, like many from Campbeltown and the surrounding area, we would flock to the beautiful beach at Southend to enjoy the long hot summer days of the seventies, days that we don’t seem to get any more. As we sat under the shadow of Dunaverty Rock, upon which the old castle used to stand, we had little idea that one of the great massacres in the history of these islands took place right where we were building sandcastles or kicking footballs about.
In 1647, after being trapped in Dunaverty Castle, with the water supply poisoned, 300 or so souls – mostly MacDonalds – were allegedly persuaded to surrender by General David Leslie of the Covenanter Army who promised them good terms. However, at the insistence of the Reverend Naves (or Nevoy), chaplain to Archibald Campbell, 1st Marquess of Argyll, all but a few were cut down, the slaughter only ending when Leslie himself, ankle-deep in blood, could no longer stomach it.
That massacre dwarfs the more well-known horror perpetrated against the MacDonalds of Glencoe in 1692, and marked the beginning of the dominance of the Campbells in the area, leading to the change of name of the settlement of Kinlochkilkerran to Campbeltown.
To find out more about these episodes, seek out the wonderful autobiographical books of Angus MacVicar (Salt in My Porridge and Rocks in My Scotch, now sadly out of print but available online), or those of local historians such as Angus Martin (Kintyre: The Hidden Past, The Grimsay Press, 2014).
The Druids
As noted in the epigraph to this book, Julius Caesar was the first to draw the attention of the wider world to the existence of the Druids, who dominated spiritual affairs in the islands now known as Great Britain and Ireland during the Iron Age.
The Druids were men of learning and healing, who after many years of rigorous training gained the power both to nurture and to destroy. They led armies into battle, and even the kings or chiefs of the day were wise enough to bend the knee to these spiritual leaders. Using a mixture of superstition and terrifying cruelty, they maintained a grip on this primitive society. Though the Romans – no strangers to bloodletting themselves – did their best to eradicate them, they did not believe that they ever really succeeded.
Somewhat incongruously, the Druids were fervent guardians of their environment, with more than a little in common with those of a green persuasion today. Using herbs, plants and lichens to heal, they were medics, feared and respected in equal measure.
Saint Columba, with his commanding presence and affinity with nature, had more than a whiff of the Druid about him, despite his dedication to spreading the Christian message.
The next time you put up your Christmas tree, it is worth remembering that the glittering baubles you are hanging on the branches are an ancient throwback to the Druids, who were in the habit of hanging the severed heads of their enemies on oak trees during times of celebration.
Who knows when, or indeed if, their influence ever really came to an end.
D.A.M.
Gartocharn
March 2016
Acknowledgements
As always, thanks to my family – Fiona, Rachel and Sian; Hugh Andrew, editors Alison Rae and Julie Fergusson, cover designer Chris Hannah, and all at Polygon who work so hard to bring Daley et al to the page; to my agent, Anne Williams, at the Kate Hordern Literary Agency, for continued help, support and a listening ear. And to the late, great Angus MacVicar, who remains an inspiration after all these years. You may spot a couple of familiar names I’ve used in ‘my’ Blaan by way of a tiny tribute. I fervently hope that some enterprising publisher will rediscover his work, especially his autobiographies and wonderful children’s books, which remain as fresh and beguiling as ever, and bring them back into print. Finally, to the good people of Kintyre, and all of those who have enjoyed the books: to one and all, my heart-felt thanks. I urge you to take in the world of D.C.I. Daley and visit Kintyre for yourself. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.
The D.C.I. Daley Thriller series
Book 1: Whisky from Small Glasses
ISBN 978 1 84697 321 5
When the body of a young woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland, D.C.I. Jim Daley is despatched from Glasgow to lead the investigation. Far from home, and his troubled marriage, it seems that Daley’s biggest obstacle will be managing the difficult local police chief; but when the prime suspect is gruesomely murdered, the inquiry begins to stall.
As the body count rises, Daley uncovers a network of secrets and corruption in the close-knit community of Kinloch, thrusting him and his loved ones into the centre of a case more deadly than he had ever imagined.
Book 2: The Last Witness
ISBN 978 1 84697 288 1
James Machie was a man with a genius for violence, his criminal empire spreading beyond Glasgow into the UK and mainland Europe. Fortunately, James Machie is dead, murdered in the back of a prison ambulance following his trial and conviction. But now, five years later, he is apparently back from the grave, set on avenging himself on those who brought him down. Top of his list is his previous associate, Frank MacDougall, who unbeknownst to D.C.I. Jim Daley, is living under protection on his lochside patch, the small Scottish town of Kinloch. Daley knows that, having been the key to Machie’s conviction, his old friend and colleague D.S. Scott is almost as big a target. And nothing, not even death, has ever stood in James Machie’s way . . .
Book 3: Dark Suits and Sad Songs
ISBN 978 1 84697 315 4
After a senior Edinburgh civil servant spectacularly takes his own life in Kinloch harbour, D.C.I. Jim Daley comes face to face with the murky world of politics. To add to his woes, two local drug dealers lie dead, ritually assassinated. It’s clear that dark forces are at work in the town, and with his marriage hanging on by a thread, and his sidekick D.S. Scott wrestling with his own demons, Daley’s world is in meltdown.
When strange lights appear in the sky over Kinloch, it becomes clear that the townsfolk are not the only people at risk. The fate of nations is at stake.
Book 4: The Rat Stone Serenade
ISBN 978 1 84697 340 6
It’s December, and the Shannon family are returning home to their clifftop mansion near Kinloch for their annual AGM. Shannon International is one of the world’s biggest private companies, with tendrils reaching around the globe in computing, banking and mineral resourcing, and it has brought untold wealth and privilege to the family. However, a century ago Archibald Shannon stole the land upon which he built their home – and his descendants have been cursed ever since.
When heavy snow cuts off Kintyre, D.C.I. Jim Daley and D.S. Brian Scott are assigned to protect their illustrious visitors. As an ancient society emerges from the blizzards, and its creation, the Rat Stone, reveals grisly secrets, ghosts of the past begin to haunt the Shannons. As the curse decrees, death is coming – but for whom and from what?
Book 5: Well of the Winds
ISBN 978 1 84697 368 0
Malcolm McCauley is the only postman on the island of Barsay, just off the coast of Kintyre, part of D.C.I. Jim Daley’s rural patch. When he tries to deliver a parcel to the Bremners’ farm he finds no one at home. A kettle is whistling on the stove, breakfast is on the table, but of the Bremners – three generations of them – there is no sign.
While investigating the family’s disappearance, D.C.I. Daley uncovers links to Kintyre’s wartime past and secrets so astonishing they have profound implications for present-day Europe. But people in very high places are determined that these secrets stay in the shadows for ever – at any cost.
Denzil Meyrick eBooks
All of the D.C.I. Daley thrillers are available as eBook editions, along with an eBook-only novella and the two short stories below.
Dalintober Moon: A D.C.I. Daley Story
When a body is found in a whisky barrel buried on Dalintober beach, it appears that a notorious local crime, committed over a century ago, has finally been solved. D.C.I. Daley discovers that, despite the passage of time, the legacy of murder still resonates within the community, and as he tries to make sense of the case, the tortured screams of a man who died long ago echo across Kinloch.
Two One Three: A Constable Jim Daley Short Story (Prequel) Glasgow, 1986. Only a few months into his new job, Constable Jim Daley is walking the beat. When he is called to investigate a break-in, he finds a young woman lying dead in her squalid flat. But how and why did she die?
In a race against time, Daley is seconded to the CID to help catch a possible serial killer, under the guidance of his new friend, D.C. Brian Scott. But the police are not the only ones searching for the killer . . . Jim Daley tackles his first serious crime on the mean streets of Glasgow, in an investigation that will change his life for ever.
Empty Nets and Promises: A Kinloch Novella
It’s July 1968, and redoubtable fishing-boat skipper Sandy Hoynes has his daughter’s wedding to pay for – but where are all the fish? He and the crew of the Girl Maggie come to the conclusion that a new-fangled supersonic jet which is being tested in the skies over Kinloch is scaring off the herring.
First mate Hamish, who we first met in the D.C.I. Daley novels, comes up with a cunning plan to bring the laws of nature back into balance. But as the wily crew go about their work, little do they know that they face the forces of law and order in the shape of a vindictive Fishery Officer, an Exciseman who suspects Hoynes of smuggling illicit whisky, and the local police sergeant who is about to become Hoynes’ son-in-law.
Meyrick takes us back to the halcyon days of light-hearted Scottish fiction, following in the footsteps of Compton Mackenzie and Neil Munro, with hilarious encounters involving ghostly pipers, the US Navy and even some Russian trawlermen.
And here is a taster from the fifth book in the series, Well of the Winds.
Kinloch, 1945
The spring evening had given way to a night illuminated by a full moon, intermittently obscured by dark scudding clouds. Elsewhere, a bright night like this was dreaded: cities, towns and villages picked out in the moonlight, prey to waves of enemy bombers, or worse still, the terrifying whine of the new super weapon: the doodlebug. Not so here on Scotland’s distant west coast – here, there was a safe haven.
Out on the loch, the man could see a dozen grey warships looming, framed by the roofs and spires of Kinloch and the hills beyond that cocooned the town. Crouched behind a boulder down on the causeway, he watched the breeze tugging at the rough grass that gave way to the rocky shoreline and the sea hissing and sighing.
In the distance he heard the stuttering engine of a car making its way along the narrow coast road from Kinloch which skirted the lochside before disappearing into the hills. The headlights cast a weak golden beam, sweeping across the field behind him. The engine stopped with a shudder and the lights flickered out as the vehicle came to a halt in the little lay-by beside the gate to the causeway. The man held his breath as the car door opened and then slammed shut.
It was time.
He’d always known this moment would come, but a sudden chill in his bones compelled him to draw tighter the scarf around his neck. He reached into the deep pocket of his gabardine raincoat, feeling the reassuring heft of the knife. He closed his fist over the wooden handle and waited, heart pounding.
He saw the beam of a torch flash across the waves and gasped as a creature – most likely a rat – scurried away from the light. He breathed in the cool air, tainted by the stench of rotting seaweed. The footsteps were getting closer now, scuffing across the rocks in his direction. He heard a man clear his throat.
‘Hello . . . are you there?’ The voice was deep and resonant with no hint of trepidation. For a heartbeat, he wondered how the end of existence could creep up so suddenly – unbidden and unannounced. Was there no primeval instinct at work, protecting flesh, bone and breath? How could the path of one’s life come to a sudden dead end without even the tiniest hint?
He stepped out from behind the boulder, shielding his eyes from the glare of the torch now directed straight into his face.
‘What in hell’s name are you doing here?’ Though the question was brusque, the voice was calm, almost uninterested. He watched as the man turned the beam of the torch back along the way he’d come and firmly pulled down his trilby when a gust of wind threatened to send it spinning into the waves.
Ignoring the remark, he rushed him from behind. He hooked his left arm around
the man’s stout neck and snaked his right arm across the man’s waist. Up and twist, right under the ribcage, as he’d been taught – plunged into him again and again. There was only fleeting resistance as the long sharp blade did its job. The man had been completely unprepared for the attack – just as they’d said he would be. His victim tensed, then went limp. A gurgle – almost a plea – came from the depth of his throat, as his life drained away. Aided by his assailant, who took his weight, the dying man sank to the ground.
He dragged the body behind the boulder that had been his hiding place, almost losing his balance when a deep sigh – the last sign of life – issued from the victim’s gaping mouth. Leaving the corpse propped up behind the boulder, he stood up straight and took deep gulping breaths.
He waited, with only the thud of his heart in his ears and the restless surf for company.
It had been as easy as they’d predicted.
In what must only have been minutes, but seemed like hours, he heard another car making its way slowly along the narrow road towards him.
His job was done. The greater good had prevailed – the greater good must always prevail.
Also available from Polygon by Denzil Meyrick
WHISKY FROM SMALL GLASSES
http://amzn.to/1E1cKLP
When the body of a young woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland, D.C.I. Jim Daley is despatched from Glasgow to lead the investigation.
Far from home, and his troubled marriage, it seems that Daley’s biggest obstacle will be managing the difficult local police chief; but when the prime suspect is gruesomely murdered, the inquiry begins to stall. As the body count rises, Daley uncovers a network of secrets and corruption in the close-knit community of Kinloch, thrusting him and his loved ones into the centre of a case more deadly than he had ever imagined.
The first novel in the D.C.I. Daley Thriller series, Whisky from Small Glasses is a truly compelling crime novel, shot through with dark humour and menace.
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 32
