Whisky from Small Glasses Page 12

  ‘By fuck, Jim, beasts in the field doon here, eh? Ye wid think it was just a nice wee seaside toon, but they’re up tae their ears in illegal drugs and illicit sex. Oor lassie Izzy’s been a bit o’ a girl right enough.’ Scott shook his head, and looked thoughtfully at the floor.

  Daley knew his partner was sensitive to his domestic situation, and every now and again – purely because of his inherent lack of tact – would realise that he had said something that was too close to the bone, touching on the marital difficulties of his boss. He wished Scott would forget all about it, but the problem remained, silent and unspoken. He decided to lighten the mood. ‘On the subject of wayward women, my dear wife will be winging her way here as we speak, or should I say rotating?’ Daley looked at Scott and smiled. ‘It’s been a long day, Brian. Will you liaise with the local guys and get the rest of Izzy’s paramours rounded up? I want to go for a walk for a bit . . . Clear the head, you know?’

  ‘You do the right thing, boss. If anything exciting happens I’ll bell you on the mobile. We’ll need DNA fae a’ these guys, so I’ll bump it upstairs for his Lordship tae sort oot.’

  ‘Aye, do that, Brian.’ Daley shrugged his jacket over his shoulders. ‘Get young Fraser to help you. He’s up at Watson’s. He’s a good lad, nothing like old Davie, eh?’

  ‘I can tell he’s nothin’ like Davie cos he’s standing up. You go an’ get your walk, Chief Inspector.’ He slapped his friend on the back and grinned. ‘An’ don’t be goin’ anywhere near that Pulse, or you‘ll catch something. I’ll mebbe take a wander doon there later and check it oot.’ Scott grinned. They were back on easy terms by the time Daley left.

  *

  There was a large map on the wall of the CID office, which Daley had consulted when he first arrived. A short distance from the twin piers, there was a stretch of promenade running along the side of the loch towards its mouth. It was here that Daley walked as he mused on the progress of the case so far. The sky was still a cloudless blue, and the fragrance of honeysuckle mixed itself with the ozone from the bay. The everpresent gulls emitted their habitual cackle that somehow, despite its harsh nature, complemented the ambience. The warm sun felt good on his face; if he hadn’t been walking he was sure that he could have happily drifted off to sleep.

  Izzy Watson’s life had been chaotic, and he was convinced that her lifestyle had contributed to her demise. There were, though, nagging doubts at the back of his mind. He didn’t seriously think that Camel had anything to do with her murder, but of course he couldn’t be sure. The same, he suspected, went for the sixteen guys on the list that Camel had given him. They were all young lads out for a good time. Recreational drugs, shedloads of booze, fast women: yes. Murder: no. The young people he had seen here didn’t have the rough, world-weary taint of their peers in the city, where casual and extreme violence had become unremarkable.

  The gnawing of instinct continued in his head. He recalled the bunches into which her hair was tied, the red ribbons which stood out so incongruously on the crime-scene images. No one remembered her wearing her hair that way. Why had she suddenly changed her hairstyle? And for whom?

  Then there was the friend, Janet Ritchie. Despite having both CID and uniformed officers look for her all day, they had turned up nothing. Nobody recalled seeing her or Izzy after their capers at Pulse. He had officers at the club now, questioning staff and customers. The owner was nowhere to be found. He lived in a flat above the premises that was as quiet as the grave. Daley had toyed with the idea of breaking down the door to the flat, but he wanted to take a look himself before he took this action. At the moment, CCTV tapes made on the night that Izzy had disappeared were being reviewed by two local DCs. Pulse was his next port of call.

  On another level, he was revelling in his surroundings. The loch itself was a generous ‘C’ shape, about half a mile across at its furthest point between one side of the town and the other. On this side of the water, large Victorian mansions spoke of the prosperous times that Kinloch had seen when the sea was the world’s highway. He had Googled the town the evening before his departure, and now he imagined the bay filled with small fishing boats, tall masted schooners carrying coal and whisky – the town’s main exports – and the general hubbub that such a scene would generate. During World War II the port of Kinloch had seen a brief revival as a strategic base for the Royal Navy. The deep safe harbour provided a welcome retreat from the brutal exigencies of the war in the Atlantic. At that time the population rose to a dizzy 30,000 – the high-water mark of its inhabitation.

  As with so many other communities in Scotland, the 1970s and 1980s had brought decline and despair. The fishing industry contracted to virtually nothing; the sea-coal mine, which had tunnelled deep under the ocean near to where Izzy Watson’s body had been found, closed. And, of course, attendant businesses suffered a commensurate demise. The thriving shipyard, one that had produced some of the finest fishing boats in Europe, was a spectre of empty decaying buildings on the other side of the loch. The rise in the popularity of Speyside-produced whisky saw all but one of the town’s many distilleries demolished. It was the old story: confidence in the area drained away; small factories closed; shops shut; and people moved on. In their wake, a hard core of individuals struggled to maintain what was left of the thriving happy community.

  Unexpectedly, a cloud passed over the sun, turning the loch from a shimmering blue to an impenetrable grey. The hills seemed to gather in around their ancient charge. An unseasonable chill rent the air, the squawking gulls quietened, and the town took on a demeanour of black foreboding.

  In the distance, the distinctive thud of helicopter blades hard at work could be heard. Automatically, Daley turned to face the noise. A dot, growing steadily larger over the island that sheltered the entrance to the loch, immediately caught his eye. ‘There may be trouble ahead . . .’ The words and melody of Nat King Cole’s song appeared unheralded in his mind.

  He was suddenly aware of somebody behind him. He turned to face the wrinkled visage of old Hamish, his features the same inscrutable mask the policeman had noted in the harbour master’s office.

  ‘Well now, Mr Daley.’ The old man’s voice was a rasping whisper barely audible above the noise of the helicopter. ‘That’s a day that’s changing, eh?’

  ‘Hello, Hamish. You know the weather around here better than me. What do you reckon?’

  The old man looked heavenward and took his pipe from the pocket of the green oilskin coat he was wearing. ‘There’s a storm on the way. Aye, a storm, Mr Daley.’ He looked back at the detective. ‘That’ll be yer wife.’

  Daley looked up. The helicopter was now over the loch. There was writing along the side of the aircraft, but he couldn’t read it at that distance. He squinted for a moment or two, but gave up. He opened his mouth to answer the old man, but he’d vanished – no sign of him in either direction. Chief Inspector James Daley shivered involuntarily and decided to walk back towards the town. There was still no sign of the mysterious Hamish. Daley reasoned that he had probably taken some hidden route onto the gravel beach.

  He was passing a young mother with her baby in a push-chair when his mobile started to ring. It was Liz.

  ‘Hi there, darling! We’ve just landed, right in the middle of the town. Can you believe it?’

  He had seen the helicopter lose height over Kinloch, and had supposed that there must be a landing pad somewhere in the town. He knew that patients from the local hospital were taken to Glasgow by helicopter if their condition was deemed serious enough, and he briefly tried to imagine where such an aircraft could land, using his limited knowledge of the town’s topography.

  ‘Hi, Liz. Good flight, I trust? I actually saw you flying over . . .’

  ‘Good, Jim, good.’ She sounded distracted, and he could hear someone talking in the background. ‘Listen, Mark wants to get settled into the hotel. We’ve a taxi waiting. Can I meet you later? I’m sure you’ll be busy right now.’ It was amazing how understan
ding she could be when her plans suited him being elsewhere.

  ‘Oh, fine. Where are you staying?’ The halting dialogue of their phone calls remained unchanged.

  ‘We’re in some posh lodge about five miles out of town. Mark says he wouldn’t like to rough it staying in Kinloch itself. He’s been here golfing a lot, darling, and he says the people are, well, rather quaint.’ Liz giggled, no doubt prompted by her odious brother-in-law. ‘From where I am I can see a little bar overlooking the loch. Hold on, I’ll ask the taxi driver what it’s called.’ There was a brief muffled conversation with somebody who, judging by his accent could only be local, then Liz was back. ‘It’s called the Island. The driver here says it’s the poshest bar in the “toon”.’ She tried, without success, to affect the accent. ‘So, just the place for you and I, love. Meet you there about six?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to see what’s happening. I’ve got something to tell you anyway, so I’ll do my best. Will you be alone? I . . .’

  ‘Got to dash! This driver’s getting himself into a bit of a panic – wants to get home or something. See you at six.’

  After the familiar sound of a prematurely terminated phone conversation, Daley slipped his mobile into his trouser pocket with a sigh. He hoped that she would be alone, and he was furious that she was staying at Mark’s hotel, and not his. He tried to console himself by reasoning that having Liz underfoot in the middle of an investigation would be a disaster, and that she was better off where she was. But he had just assumed that she would be staying with him. He heard Donald’s voice in his head: to assume is to make an ass of you and me.

  He banished thoughts of his wife and his superior from his mind, and headed back into Kinloch. The town was quite busy, and looking at his watch he realised that at four thirty, some people might be starting to leave work or head home from shopping. However, come to think of it, Kinloch’s Main Street always seemed busy.

  It had been a very difficult and long day, but he had time to take a quick look at the nightclub where Izzy Watson had last been seen.

  Pulse was situated halfway up Main Street. The windows were glazed with privacy glass, and remembering what Camel had told him of what went on within its confines, he wasn’t surprised. A small brass plate to the side of the door was all that announced the function of the building to the public: ‘PULSE. Licensed to sell alcohol and tobacco. Prop. P. Mulligan.’ It looked like the kind of plaque that might be found outside a private medical surgery or an upmarket legal firm. He pushed open the large black door and entered.

  The place was all he expected it to be: an impossibly dim, windowless interior with no natural light to permeate the gloom. A deserted bar with oversized beer fonts was the domain of a jumpy-looking barman, who hastened over to Daley in silent enquiry. A uniformed officer sat with his back to the chief inspector, watching golf on a huge plasma screen at the far end of a lowered area, which formed an obvious dance floor. Cluny, a loud-mouthed but efficient DC from Paisley, was talking into his mobile, and acknowledged his superior with a raise of his eyebrows. A local DC was sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor, looking intently at a series of black-and-white images on a laptop.

  ‘Hello, sir.’ Cluny had finished his call quickly. ‘We’re just going through the CCTV records. It’s taking a while, but we’ve got sight of the victim now, so we’re taking it frame by frame. Anything new on the owner?’

  ‘I was just about to ask you the same question, Chick. He’s not surfaced here, then?’

  ‘No, sir, not a peep from the flat. Do you think we should pan the door in?’ Cluny was, as usual, anxious to be at the heart of the action, an impetuous characteristic that had got him into numerous scrapes but also had its rewards on a fortune-favours-the-brave basis.

  Daley turned to the barman. He was a thin youth, probably still in his teens, with untidy fair hair and a face full of spots. ‘Is it usual for your gaffer to be away all day like this? I’d have thought he would have plenty to do while it’s quiet.’

  The barman made to speak, opening his mouth, without any words coming out. The detective realised he had a paralysing stutter. ‘It’s . . . ac-ac-ac . . . actually not that unusual.’ The last part of the sentence came at a gallop.

  Daley recognised that he was using ‘actual’ as a trigger word to help initiate speech, a common tactic amongst chronic stutterers. Start speaking with a word that was relatively easy to say, and use it as a springboard for the rest of the sentence. One of Daley’s schoolfriends had been a stutterer: Colin Chiveney. He had found it virtually impossible to get words out, and became a target for the ridicule of his peers. Daley had befriended him, and soon discovered that if they were alone, in relaxed surroundings and once they had got to know each other, Colin would begin to talk almost normally. Then, when anyone else appeared, the stuttering would return with a vengeance. He remembered his friend’s exasperation and embarrassment.

  When he was in his mid teens, Colin had formed a rock band. He was a talented guitarist, using the instrument to express in music what he found virtually impossible to do in conversation. It was then he had discovered something truly miraculous: when he sang or spoke through a microphone, his stutter disappeared. Not only that, he had a fantastic singing voice. Nowadays he played the lucrative Vegas cabaret circuit, as well as session singing work. He was confident, worth several million dollars and only a trace of his impediment remained. The pair had kept in touch, and even though they occupied very different worlds, were still at home in each other’s company.

  ‘Take your time, son. I’m Inspector Daley.’ He hadn’t yet got used to his recent elevation in the ranks. ‘Do you have any way of contacting Mr Mulligan, other than those we’ve already tried?’

  The barman looked at the floor, and the set of his shoulders changed, as though he was about to attempt some athletic feat. ‘Ac-ac-ac-actually . . . if he doesn’t answer his mobile we . . . ca-ca-ca . . .’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Actually we canna get a hold o’ him.’ He looked mightily relieved.

  ‘OK, fine.’ Daley looked back towards Cluny. ‘I’ll just make sure we have a warrant.’ He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and rang Scott on speed dial. He wondered briefly how you could be a barman with such a severe speech impediment, and then reflected that most of the time in Pulse, no one could hear to converse anyway.

  ‘Hi, Jimbo. Enjoy your walk?’ Scott answered brightly.

  ‘I’m at Pulse. Have we got a warrant to break into the owner’s flat yet?’ He heard a rustling of papers.

  ‘Aye, just arrived fae a local JP a few minutes ago. Dae ye want me to come doon?’

  ‘Aye, good idea, Brian. And bring one of those battering rams. My days of kicking in doors are over.’

  ‘Has your good lady arrived yet? One o’ the boys said a helicopter landed on the green earlier – wherever that is.’ Scott’s curiosity had the better of him.

  ‘Yup, she’s on her way to some posh hunting lodge with my brother-in-law. Nice for some, eh?’ Daley was glad he couldn’t see Scott raise his eyebrows on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m due to meet her shortly, so can we get a move on?’ He looked at his watch, then sent a text to his wife to tell her he’d be slightly late for their rendezvous at the Island Bar.

  Peter Mulligan’s flat was a bare, characterless place. There were no pictures on the walls, no framed photographs above the fire, no food in the fridge; in short, it felt as though the dwelling had just been fully furnished, waiting for someone to move in. This was reinforced by the scrupulous tidiness in the flat. Not a thing was out of place: the cushions sat plump on a white leather sofa in the lounge, which also boasted another easy chair and a small TV. A chest of drawers in the bedroom contained the usual array of underwear, T-shirts, jumpers and shirts, all neatly folded and arranged. Even the bed was tidy. It reminded Daley of his time at the police college as a young recruit. As with the army, beds had to be made to an exacting standard of precision, complete with hospital corners
and wrinkle-free duvet covers. Some zealots even ironed their beds once they had been made – Daley hadn’t gone that far. So it was with Mulligan’s place; any inspecting sergeant would have found no fault with it. The clothes in the wardrobe – coats, suits, jackets and shirts – all hung in ordered perfection. Many of the garments were still covered in polythene dry-cleaning covers. There were no personal papers to be found. Come to that, there was not one book, CD or magazine in the whole flat.

  ‘Something’s no’ right here, Jim. I mean, whit kinda guy has a flat like this, an’ at the same time allows lassies tae prostitute themselves doonstairs in the yard? It doesna fit.’

  As usual, Scott had summed things up succinctly. Peter Mulligan would have to be traced – as a matter of priority.

  Part Two

  11

  She wanted to be able to move her arms, but to her surprise she couldn’t. She wasn’t doing anything consciously different from any other time in her life when she tried to make them move, but they refused to obey her commands.

  She felt numb though. She was cold, very cold, and she knew that the reason for this was being naked. She longed for her recalcitrant limbs to conform to her desire to get off the floor and pull the duvet from the bed around herself. However, nothing could instill even the slightest response from her body.

  She was moving her eyes in a slow and random way, a bit like falling asleep as a child. She would get quieter, her eyes would roll, and her granny would lift her from the couch and up the stairs to her bed. It was the only way she could get to sleep. Being left alone in a darkened room conjured up all manner of ghosts – the fears of an overactive imagination, her granny had said. By the time her lids forced themselves closed, those fears receded. She benignly complied with her granny’s wishes. It had been so long since she had felt that way. Her head had flopped forwards onto her chest; she could do nothing to stop it. It was so heavy. If she raised her eyes towards her brow until it was sore, she could just about see to the top of the bed. She studied the hand that hung limp over the side with complete indifference, though the blood that trickled down from the fingers and onto the carpet below held a strange fascination for her.