Whisky from Small Glasses Read online

  The old man sat still, and just as Flynn was about to speak again, cleared his throat noisily. Looking directly at Daley, he began talking in a low, rasping voice that was barely more than a slow whisper. ‘Noo, officer, surely a man of your considerable experience can answer me wan question?’

  Daley, now getting used to the local drawl, smiled. ‘Sure, what would you like to know? Within reason of course.’

  Hamish continued, unblinking. ‘Ye wid never be able tae guess whoot age I am?’ His face suddenly cracked into a broad grin, and he threw his head back and laughed.

  Daley said nothing. He knew age to be a very touchy subject with the very old; it was as though they were constantly expecting confirmation of how kind the years had been to them. He was about to say eighty, though he suspected the man to be at least ninety, when Hamish stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Seeventy-three, Inspector. Aye, seeventy-three. Noo, ye wirna expecting that, eh?’ The broad smile returned to his face, narrowing his eyes and giving him an almost East Asian appearance.

  Daley honestly agreed, as Fraser looked on, bemused by the whole exchange. They sat in silence for a few seconds, until Flynn walked over to his elderly companion and took him by the arm. ‘Noo, come on, Hamish, these men have a lot on. Let’s be having you. Don’t roll over, roll out and a’ that.’

  Hamish got up, slowly but straight backed. He picked up his pipe from the table and began to walk towards the door. When he reached Daley’s chair he stopped. Any trace of a smile was gone, and he looked as though he had bad news to impart. ‘Fair’s fair, Inspector, you gied me a courtesy, noo it’s my turn tae dae likewise.’ The blue of his eyes was at its most piercing at this close proximity.

  Daley smiled. While he wanted to get on with proceedings, he decided to indulge the old man. ‘Yer woman, the wan flying doon at the weekend . . .’ He had everyone’s attention now, not least Daley’s. ‘Weel, you’ll need tae make up your mind up wance an’ fir a’ aboot things. Aye, an’ forbye, the man’s she’s wi’, he’s no good – no good at a’. Maybes yer passed caring though, eh? But heed this: ne’er let harm come tae the things that ur precious tae you.’ With that, he smiled briefly, put his pipe to his mouth and left the room.

  Flynn looked embarrassed. ‘Just ignore him, Inspector, he’s forever making prophecies of doom.’

  ‘It depends how accurate they are, Mr Flynn.’ Daley was strangely relieved that Hamish had gone. He had found something about the man unsettling.

  ‘That’s the thing, Inspector. He’s got a name for it, you know, predicting the future an’ a that. His family’s a’ the same. His grandfaither predicted the Second World War.’

  Fraser spoke up in defence of his new boss. ‘Och, lots of people predicted that. You just had to have a look at what was happening in Germany at the time. Churchill predicted it too.’

  ‘Aye, no’ in nineteen twenty-two he didna, time, date an’ everything. They still talk aboot it in the toon tae this day. You must remember, constable, superstition’s still strong in wee places like this, especially amongst the fishin’ community. Now, gents, take a look at this.’ He indicated the laptop.

  Daley coughed, anxious to move on. ‘Yes, Mr Flynn, back down to business.’

  The laptop screen was a live satellite image of the Kintyre peninsula, superimposed on which was a complex swirl of what Daley recognised as isobar lines, and numbers which he did not understand. The map refreshed itself about every thirty seconds. Flynn started typing on the keypad of the computer, with what Daley thought was impressive speed.

  ‘You see, Inspector, I’m now going back over the last forty-eight hours or so. These numbers are indications of tide and direction of the wind. It’s quite complicated, takes a wee bit of getting used to, but I wish I had something like this when I was at the fishing myself.’ He tapped a few keys and suddenly the image enlarged, showing the area around where the body had been found.

  ‘I recognise this, Mr Flynn. The body was found about here.’ Daley pointed his finger at the swirling image, without touching the screen. He was glad he had spent time the previous evening poring over Google maps of the crime scene and the area in general. ‘What does this indicate to you?’

  Flynn rubbed his beard. ‘If you’re asking me for an opinion, Inspector, I’ll give it freely, but it’s only an opinion, mind. Based on what I know of these waters, and the help I get fae this kit, you canna ever be certain what happens at sea . . .’

  ‘I understand that you can only give an indication, Mr Flynn. No one’s going to question your judgement if it’s proved wrong. I really need some idea of how, when and from which direction the body came to end up where it did, and at the time it did.’ Daley nodded at the harbour master, who straightened up from leaning over the screen, crossed his arms and pursed his lips. Whatever he was about to say, Daley realised that he didn’t really want to say it.

  ‘Well, in my opinion, if the timescale you’ve given me for this poor lassie entering the water is correct, there is no way possible she could’ve been washed into that bay by the force of wind or tide. In fact, the opposite. If she drowned in the sound here’ – he pointed again at the screen – ‘she wid likely be somewhere out in the Atlantic by now, or maybe washed up on the North Antrim coast, aye, or even Donegal. But Machrie Bay – nah, no chance.’

  ‘The post mortem indicated that the body had been gnawed by shellfish, probably prawns – surely they’re only present in deeper water?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, Inspector. There’s no such things as prawns in Machrie Bay. Into the Sound, aye: crab, lobster, prawns and langoustines – but definitely not in the bay. Anyway, we’re not talking about a big stretch of water, are we, Mr Daley? If there had been a body floating aboot in it, someone wid have spotted it before. Wid ye not think?’

  Daley looked at the computer image. The bay was small. ‘So, taking this into account, our victim would had to have been put where she was found? You’re saying, sir, that she was dumped in, or spent time out at sea, then was moved into Machrie Bay? Either that, or could she have been dragged into the bay inadvertently by some vessel, Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Aye, it’s possible, but mind you, the bay itself is quite shallow. The only craft you get in there are small: lobster boats, pleasure craft and the like. I canna see a vessel like that hauling a body intae the bay without noticing.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Are there many lobster boats there?’

  ‘Ach, nooadays only six or so. Used tae be a lot mair, aye, an’ scallop boats too, but that trade’s dead now after the ban. The scallops got infected by sewage. Well, they said they were. If you ask me there was nathin’ wrong wi’ them. That was my trade, Inspector, scallop fisherman.’

  Fraser was frowning, ‘I know the fishermen out there, sir, and they don’t miss much.’

  Daley ran his hand through his close-cropped dark hair. It looked very much as though the body had been dumped in the bay, rather than being washed up there; then there was the restraint mark around the ankle of the victim. ‘I take it you have a record of which vessels moor here, Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ Flynn appeared suddenly on the defensive. ‘I make sure my books are meticulous.’ He looked at Daley and Fraser in turn; the latter had his eyebrow raised at this sudden rush of self-justification. ‘Sorry, chaps.’ He laughed, eyes downcast. ‘A bit of a touchy subject, actually. That’s what did for my predecessor, y’see. The place was a shambles when I arrived here.’

  Daley looked around, unintentionally making his thoughts clear.

  ‘I know it’s untidy, Mr Daley, but I know where everything is.’ He reached under a pile of papers on the bureau and pulled out a heavy leatherbound ledger that looked as antiquated as the furniture. ‘Everything is here. I’ve no’ had time tae put it on the machine yet, but all the information is up to date. I even log the fishing boats in and out these days. No need to really, since they’re moored here permanently, but, well, there’s so few of them now.’
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br />   ‘So it’s only visiting boats you would normally register?’ Daley hoped he was wrong.

  ‘Nah, nah, Inspector, that used tae be the case, but, you know, we’re no’ all that busy just noo, so I like to keep myself goin’, in case somebody takes it intae their mind that I’m no’ required, if ye get my drift.’ He laughed nervously.

  ‘What about the yachts over there?’ Daley pointed at some pleasure vessels moored at a wooden pontoon. There were three small sailboats and a couple of expensive-looking cabin cruisers.

  ‘No, Inspector, they’re no’ my responsibility. Well, unless somebody breaks the harbour rules, or in some kind of emergency. It’s owned and run by a private company – Newell Enterprises. James Newell’s the main man.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ Daley took out his notebook, prompting Fraser to do the same.

  ‘Aye, as well as running the pontoon, he has wan o’ these big RIBs.’

  ‘RIBs? What’s that?’ Daley’s lack of nautical knowledge was beginning to show.

  ‘Rigid Inflatable Boat, sir.’ Fraser’s time in Kinloch had not been wasted, ‘Big powerful boats – they go like f—’ He managed to stop himself.

  ‘He takes passengers on trips, Mr Daley.’ Flynn filled the gap. ‘He’s away on a trip tae Ballycastle with a party o’ tourists. He always lets me know his plans – for safety, you understand. He’s a nice big bloke. Used tae be a captain in the Royal Navy. A wee bit hoity-toity sometimes, but sure, we all have our faults.’

  Daley looked out the window. ‘When is he due back? I’d like to have a word with him.’

  ‘No’ until tomorrow. They’re staying overnight.’

  Not to be outdone, Flynn brought his own notebook out of a breast pocket in his shirt. ‘Let me see. Aye, due back about two tomorrow. I’ve got his mobile number here if that’s of any help?’

  ‘Yes, please. Take a note, will you, Constable.’

  Fraser jotted the number down in his notebook.

  ‘Well, thanks, Mr Flynn, you’ve given us a lot to think about.’ Daley held out his hand. ‘I trust you’ll keep our discussions to yourself for the time being – not add to the rumours, eh?’ He smiled at Flynn, who was now shaking his hand enthusiastically.

  ‘Just so, just so, Inspector. And mind, if you need anything else, just gie me a shout. I’m here all day, and half the night sometimes as well,’ he said, somewhat ruefully. The harbour master led them out of the office and to the exit. As he again shook Daley’s hand, he looked around to see who could be watching.

  Noting Flynn’s apparent unease, Daley nodded towards the Jaguar. ‘Who belongs to this wonderful beast?’

  Flynn looked embarrassed. ‘Well, me, actually, just a little indulgence. I’m sure you treat yourself now and again, Inspector?’

  ‘A treat for me is a good malt, I’m afraid I couldn’t stretch to anything like this. It must be, what’ – he looked along the lines of the car – ‘best part of sixty grand?’

  Flynn laughed awkwardly. ‘Oh no, Inspector, that is to say, I got a good deal on it. I sold my scallop boat when I got this job. A treat, as I said.’

  The thought crossed Daley’s mind that this was, indeed, a guilty pleasure, judging by Flynn’s discomfort. His thoughts were dragged away from the car when his phone rang, and he made his excuses and walked to the side of the pier to take the call.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ It was Liz. ‘You’re a hard man to get a hold of.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been a bit . . .’ As usual she cut him short.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got some hot news.’ She was clearly in a bar or restaurant; he could hear the chink of glasses and the animated conversation of people consuming alcohol. He had learned to beware of his wife’s idea of ‘hot news’, so he listened with no little trepidation. ‘Mark has had a brainwave.’

  Oh no.

  ‘His company has just bought a helicopter, and he has the use of it if they’re not ferrying clients about. Apparently there’s a gorgeous golf course down there. So, to cut a long story short, I’m coming to visit you in Mark’s chopper, while he plays boring old golf.’

  ‘Mark’s chopper’ had elicited a guffaw in the background. ‘Well, it’ll be nice to see you. I’ve got a lot on though . . .’

  ‘Never mind that, darling. I’m sure we’ll find some time . . .’ There was an exaggerated ‘oooh’ from those listening in. ‘Anyway, got to dash. We’ll be down at about lunchtime tomorrow. Bye, love.’ With that, the sound of nothing from his mobile, which he was well used to.

  Daley felt as though he was being watched, and turned to look down the pier. Standing apart from a group of fishermen, Hamish was staring straight at him. The old man nodded his head and gave Daley a stage wink.

  6

  Daley was silent as he and Fraser walked back up Main Street. That this investigation was puzzling, there was no doubt. He was also well outside his comfort zone in terms of the location of the case, which surprised him; he had not considered just how different an investigation could be this far away from Glasgow.

  His mind turned to his wayward wife. Why was she coming all the way from Granton to Kinloch? He felt sure that all this had been Mark’s suggestion. What better than spending a weekend winding up the man he saw as a worthless civil servant, a poorly paid lackey barely worth his consideration? He was grim-faced as he caught sight of his paunch reflected in a shop window and involuntarily pulled his stomach in.

  ‘Any ideas, sir?’ Fraser was looking as bemused as Daley felt.

  ‘No. Well, yes and no really. My theory is that our victim was murdered elsewhere, then, for whatever reason, her body was taken to the bay and dumped. Either that, or we are dealing with a truly remarkable suicide.’ He smiled wanly at Fraser to indicate that, yes, he was joking.

  Inspector MacLeod was getting into a car as they walked to the rear door of the office. On seeing Daley and Fraser, he ducked back out of the car and stood at the open door, his hand resting on the frame. ‘Your man has been on from the Glasgow mortuary. You’ve to phone him as soon as possible.’ With that, he got into the car, started the engine and pulled off, taking care not to look at the two CID officers as he passed.

  ‘I take it that’s your boss being civil? Well, he can stick his attitude up his arse.’ Daley waited as Fraser punched in the security code to the entry system. He was tired and hungry, and he sincerely hoped that Crichton had not uncovered yet more mystifying post-mortem data.

  He settled in his glass box, picked up his phone and pressed 2# to enter his voicemail – at least this method was standard all over the force. He heard Crichton’s familiar tones, hung up, then dialled the pathologist’s direct number. It was six thirty, but Daley knew that when Crichton was working on a case, he might as well throw his watch away. He was dedicated above and beyond the call of duty.

  Daley was just about to hang up, when a breathless Crichton answered. ‘Dear God, I swear they’re making that corridor longer. Give me a couple of seconds, Jim.’ Daley heard the clunk of the phone being put down on Crichton’s desk, then the rustling of papers mixed with the sighs and breathless oaths of the pathologist. ‘Now, Jim, here we are . . . Your victim from lovely Kinloch, she had sex with two different men prior to her death.’

  ‘Aye, you said as much last night, Andrew. I thought you had something new. Probably just as well you haven’t, this investigation’s going to be a bastard as it is. Do you have a DNA profile of the two semen samples?’

  ‘Three semen samples, Jim.’

  ‘You said two, Andy. My memory’s not that bad.’

  ‘I said she had sex with two men prior to death. A third man had sex with her post mortem.’

  There was a brief silence as Daley processed this new information. ‘Necrophilia? Are you absolutely sure, Andrew?’

  ‘Afraid so, Jim. We have highly accurate tests for that sort of thing now. Fascinating, yet macabre at the same time. None of the samples match in terms of DNA, to answer your question.’

  ‘So
we’re talking about three separate men, right?’

  ‘Yes. The first two within a relatively short space of time – maybe even at the same time – and our third man some eight or nine hours later. Most unusual.’ After a few moments of mutual reflection, Crichton spoke again. ‘I’ll send the DNA profiles to the database, of course. You should get a match, if there is one, early tomorrow.’

  ‘This is a strange one, Andy. A victim, no missing persons, no suspects, and now necrophilia. Anything more on that mark on her ankle?’

  ‘Only that it was made by some rough type of plastic – like that stuff they wrap parcels in these days, but much thicker.’

  Daley finished his call with the pathologist. He knew that the possibility of getting a DNA match from the semen samples with someone already on the database was remote. Right now though, it was his only hard lead. The grinding process of checks would continue through the night. A young PC was settling down to check the footage from all the CCTV cameras operational in the town in the forty-eight hour period prior to the victim’s estimated time of death. She had contacted all the neighbouring police forces, including the Police Service of Northern Ireland, the coastline of County Antrim being less than twenty miles from where the body had been found. So far, no response.

  Daley took his mobile from the inside pocket of his jacket. Within seconds the familiar sound of DS Scott coughing loudly could be heard on the other end of the phone. ‘What a way to greet your superior. You sound as though you’re on your way out, Brian.’

  ‘Aye, a happy Christmas tae you too. Should you no’ be stripping the willow, or whitever they get up tae in Teuchterland?’

  Daley smiled. He was tired, hungry and perplexed, but he was realising what a tight team he and Scott had become. He had forgotten all the things his DS would have attended to as a matter of course, until today when he himself had had to make sure all the bases were covered. ‘I thought you’d be pleased, a trip to the country at this time of year. Just the thing.’

  ‘No’ when you’ve tae listen tae all the pish I’ve had tae pit up wi’ today. First His Majesty giein’ me the pep talk aboot representin’ the division. Noo my dear lady bendin’ my nut wi’ how much she’ll miss me, an’ how will she manage tae get the shoppin’? Blah blah blah.’ Scott told Daley to hang on; muffled oaths were audible as he imparted some more wisdom to his long-suffering wife. ‘Sorry aboot that. She’s burst intae tears noo. Ye’d think I wiz headin’ off tae Afghanistan. Will you shut up, woman, I’m talkin’ tae Jim.’