Whisky From Small Glasses (20 page)

13

The light streaming through Daley’s hotel-room window was of a distinctly more dull quality than before. Liz was still sleeping soundly, despite the restless night he had just experienced. He had been sound for the first couple of hours, but on waking in a cold sweat around two thirty he had drifted in and out of sleep. Thoughts about the case, Mark, his promotion, the body of the young victim, Donald: all had crowded in from his subconscious. Insomnia was something he was used to, especially during a difficult case; usually though, he would consign himself to the spare bedroom at home in an attempt not to disturb Liz. Whether it was the sea air, or the change of scene, he noted with pleasure that she seemed as serene as he could remember. Her auburn hair falling over the pillow framed the soft outline of her face; her long lashes were exaggerated by the fact that her eyes were closed. Her left breast was showing above the top of the duvet, displaying a taut brown nipple. He remembered last night, smiling unintentionally at the memory of carnal pleasure.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window. He walked over to it and moved the musty net curtains aside, better to see the street below. Even now, at six thirty, there were a few
people milling about, most of them huddled into warm jumpers or buttoned-up jackets; a couple of cars and a bus motored up and down the street. The weather had changed. Looking up, he saw the sky was mostly a light grey with small patches of blue visible. The wind was animating the scene, pushing the cloud along – a constantly changing vista. Even the air smelled different: more about the sea, less of the land. The gulls’ cries, carried on the restless wind, echoed amongst the tenement buildings that lined Main Street on both sides. Movement below caught his eye. Annie was crossing the street, waving enthusiastically at him. Shit. It seemed that looking out of the window in Kinloch was a spectator sport. He hesitantly waved back, and then let the curtain fall back into place. He gave Liz another admiring glance as he walked into the bathroom to run a bath.

Shaving in the steam he wondered where the investigation would lead today. He was sure that Mulligan was pivotal in the whole sordid business. MacLeod was merely a hapless accessory – a witless one at that. Still, he couldn’t afford to risk his own career in an attempt to cover up for the irascible inspector. Things had gone too far; a crime – the most serious of all – had been committed. MacLeod could at least have done something to curb the drug-taking and casual prostitution that was conducted nightly in Pulse. He had shown little contrition during his confession the day before. Initially, Daley had felt some sympathy for him – the long-lost daughter turns into a newly discovered nightmare – but it had rapidly evaporated on discovering that MacLeod had been more concerned with saving his own skin than atoning for his astonishing lapses in judgement as the area’s senior police officer.

Liz slept on as he dressed, brushed his hair, and took a moment to appraise the result of his ablutions in the full-length mirror on the front of the wardrobe. His belly was already doing its best to encroach over his waistband, and peep through the buttons of his white shirt. Maybe he would just have cereal and coffee for breakfast.

Scott was already at his borrowed desk within the Kinloch CID department when Daley arrived. He looked rough: bloodshot eyes, tousled hair and the same shirt and suit he had been wearing the day before. ‘Morning, Jim,’ he said throatily, rubbing his temples at the same time.

‘You look as though you’ve been on the batter all night, Brian. Did you go to a party after last orders?’

‘No. Well, sort of. The lassie behind the bar an’ me had a few drinks efter closin’ time.’ He blinked his eyes and yawned. ‘She’s a nice lassie,’ he said through the yawn.

‘Mandy, eh? You’re a dark horse, Bri. I’d have thought she was a bit too young for you. I suppose you never know.’

‘Nah, no’ Mandy! She’s a wee lassie for fuck’s sake.’ Scott reached for a packet of cigarettes on the desk, then pushed them away, realising for the umpteenth time that he couldn’t smoke in the office. ‘Annie. The manager. Aye, she’s quite a character.’ His laugh quickly transformed itself into a chesty cough, which he tried to banish in a cacophony of throat-clearing and snorting.

‘You try to get that lung up and I’ll get you a coffee.’ Daley walked out into the corridor where a rather superior drinks machine was located. To his further surprise, a bright-looking Fraser was walking towards him – the antithesis of DS Scott, in a crisp white shirt under a newly pressed suit.

‘I’m pleased to see my team are taking this investigation so seriously. Not even eight and my core men are already in place. Do you want a coffee, son?’

Somewhat predictably, Fraser began to beam red. ‘Eh, yes, sir. Tea, please, if you don’t mind. White wi’ two sugars.’

Daley pressed the relevant buttons, fed in the appropriate coins, and, as the first Styrofoam mug began to fill, turned to the young DC. ‘I want you to liaise with the nightshift and see what, if anything, happened last night, while I try to sober up our intrepid DS. You’re looking pretty fresh this morning. My new tie too, I see.’ He smiled benignly at Fraser.

‘No bother, sir. I’ll get it back to you. Do you think we’re getting close with this Mulligan guy? It’s all a bit weird, you know, him disappearing an’ all. Nothing up in Tarbert last night. People know him because he goes in and out on his boat, but nothing new. Nobody’s seen him since our last witness.’

‘You know him better than me, Archie. You must’ve come across him on your travels down here, no?’

‘Well, yes and no, sir.’ Fraser cleared his throat and moved nervously from foot to foot. ‘He wasn’t exactly welcoming when I went in for a pint when I first came down here. No’ really surprising, when you consider what’s been going on in there.’

‘More of that later, Archie.’ Daley looked rueful. ‘He seems a bit of a mystery man, our Peter Mulligan.’

Scott’s head appeared out of the CID office. He spoke through a continuous coughing fit. ‘It’s some guy called Flynn tae speak tae you, Jim . . . Says he’s the harbour master . . . Are you fir taking it, or do ye want me tae deal wi’ it? Mornin’, son.’ He turned to Fraser. ‘That’s one hell o’ a tie
ye’ve got there.’ He burst into another paroxysm of recalcitrant phlegm. ‘Look after this man, Archie, while I attend to our caller, and bring in the coffee, will you?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Daley picked up the receiver on Scott’s desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Flynn. Jim Daley here. How can I help you?’

‘Aye, guid mornin’,
Chief
Inspector. I hear congratulations are in order.’

‘Thank you, Mr Flynn. A surprise to us all, let me assure you.’ He fell silent, hoping that Flynn had something more to say.

‘Oh aye, tae the point, Chief Inspector, tae the point. I thought I wid let you know, there’s been a report of a pleasure boat adrift in the Sound. A passing yachtsman called it in to Clyde Coastguard a few minutes ago. If the identification number and description are correct, it’s a boat belonging to a . . . local man.’

‘Very interesting, Mr Flynn, and thanks for letting me know. But I don’t see how this affects me, at the moment, at any rate?’

‘Oh, well, the cruiser, it belongs to a man named Mulligan. Peter Mulligan. It’s just, well, you must have an idea what Kinloch is like now. I’d heard you were looking for him.’

Daley took a few moments to assimilate the information. ‘So, what do we do now, Mr Flynn? I take it this vessel will have to be checked out? Obviously I’m interested.’ He let Flynn outline the procedure.

‘The local lifeboat has been mobilised, Chief Inspector. Would you like to have a police presence aboard? She’ll be underway shortly.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Flynn. In fact, ask them to give us five minutes. Will there be room for three?’

‘Aye, aye, I shouldna think that’ll be a bother. I’ll speak tae the coxswain noo. See yous shortly.’

The door swung open as Scott and Fraser made their way through from the drinks machine.

‘Sorry, chaps, I hope you have your sea legs on this morning. We’re going for a sail, and we’ve got to rush.’

‘Eh, sail? Whit are ye on aboot noo?’

‘C’mon, Brian. The very thing for a hangover.’

The beverages were placed untouched on the desk as the three men left the office for the harbour, Scott muttering a string of impressive oaths on the way.

The scene on Kinloch’s second pier was one of organised chaos. Men in bright orange RNLI survival suits darted to and fro with ropes, life-saving equipment, unmarked boxes and various pieces of technical equipment. The deep throb of a powerful diesel engine added tempo to the scene, even blocking out the ubiquitous cries of the gulls that gravitated to the harbour in search of food from the meagre assembly of fishing boats.

Flynn was standing by the lifeboat on the quayside as the three detectives pulled up in their unmarked car. He was wearing a robust-looking fleece with
HARBOUR MASTER
emblazoned in bold gold lettering over his chest. ‘Gentlemen, guid morning. Yous have picked a fine day for a sail. Hang on there, and I’ll introduce you tae the coxswain o’ this fine vessel.’

Daley recalled how thick his accent was, and just how neat the harbour master was too. The white of his cap contrasted sharply with the gloom that had now descended over Kinloch despite the continuing strength of the strong breeze. He noticed also that Scott looked a pale grey colour as he stared
over the side of the quay to the loch below; itself a more dark, impenetrable shade than in the last couple of days. ‘All right, Bri? You’re looking a bit green about the gills there.’ He slapped his old colleague vigorously on the back, inducing another coughing fit in the detective sergeant.

‘Are ye sure ye need me here, Jim? I mean, I’m sure I’d be better employed back at the ranch, you know? Cover for you?’

‘No, don’t worry, Brian. Just enjoy the trip. I’ve got a feeling about this.’

‘Well, if you’re sure, boss,’ said Scott, looking doubtfully at the restless water of the loch.

Fraser was on the phone to one of the DCs who comprised the day-shift investigating team. They were busy ploughing through the mountain of records, interview statements, CCTV footage and other nebulous strands of the investigation, which had, as yet, yielded little positive information. The young DC had been assured by one of the lifeboat crew that they were unlikely to lose mobile signal on this trip, and in any event they could be contacted via the boat’s radio system, or internet comms link, should anything vital arise. He felt a bit foolish. When Daley had asked him questions about the character of the locals, he hadn’t been much help. He clearly wasn’t paying enough heed to the surroundings he found himself in. Sometimes Fraser felt that Inspector MacLeod was not merely torturing him with jibes about being hopeless and unsuited to his current position; perhaps there was some truth in it and he did lack the intuitive qualities necessary to be an effective CID officer. He tried to banish these thoughts from his mind as he walked over to the DCI and apprised him of the status quo back at the station.

Scott eyed the whole situation with something more than trepidation. He had drunk much more than was good for him the night before, which was not an unusual occurrence. However, he was more used to assuaging his hangover with a greasy fry-up followed by a couple of pints of coffee; certainly not taking to the high seas, an element on which he had never been comfortable. He knew enough about the sea to realise that the agitated quality of the waves here in the harbour was likely to be much worse when they reached the Sound. He stroked the stubble on his chin as a seagull, swooping low over the assembled throng, deposited a large watery shit on the shoulder of his jacket. He turned to his colleagues, who were already in the first throes of mirth. ‘If any of yous says this is lucky, I’ll stick my toe up yer arse.’ Moments later, he saw the funny side himself, laughed ruefully and strengthened his resolve ahead of his impending nautical odyssey.

A rotund, ruddy-faced man appeared, sporting the grey-and-orange survival suit of the RNLI, augmented by a peaked officer’s cap similar to that worn by Flynn.

‘This is John Campbell, coxswain of this fine vessel,’ announced Flynn. ‘Born on the seventh wave, eh, Johnnie?’

Ignoring this warm introduction, Campbell held out his hand. ‘Which one of you is DCI Daley?’ They shook hands and exchanged introductions, Scott somewhat less enthusiastically than his superior. ‘Ah, young Fraser. I hope you’re still working on your court technique. Poor effort the last time we met, don’t you think?’

Both Daley and Scott looked confused. Fraser explained: ‘As well as being lifeboat coxswain, Mr Campbell is also a local lawyer.’

‘C’mon, old chap. Managing Partner of Campbell, Hope and Mason, Solicitors, Notaries Public and Estate Agents. Though since the demise of poor Stuart – Mason, that is – the property side of our business is sadly on the wane. Now, would you slip on these waterproofs and lifejackets’ – he indicated to a crewman carrying an armful of garments – ‘and we’ll make haste to sea, don’t you think?’ With that he breezed off, shouting a request to another member of the crew, who hurried off to do his master’s bidding.

‘I’d expected some auld sea dog tae be daein’ the job. This guy’s mair like a coxcomb than a coxswain.’ Scott was clearly unimpressed.

‘You know, you never cease to amaze me,’ Daley addressed his DS, who was still trying to remove the bird dropping from his jacket with a white tissue, the name ‘County Hotel’ emblazoned upon it. ‘For a man who never reads a book, where do you find words like coxcomb?’

‘Well, that, Jim, would be telling.’ Scott winked.

Flynn, clearly put out by Campbell’s dismissive attitude towards him spoke up. ‘Aye, in days gone by the lifeboat wiz manned by fishermen. Usually the auldest skipper got the job o’ coxswain. Generations o’ families served afore the mast. No’ noo.’ His face spoke volumes. ‘As ye know, there’s precious few fishermen left, and those that are wid rather be in the pub during their spare time than hangin’ aboot on call for the lifeboat. Pity, really.’ He stared into space wistfully.