Smokeheads

by Doug Johnstone

  Adam waved his hand in a vague gesture of acquiescence.

  ‘We know you were at the still last night. You met Joe and Grant there. We know that one of you got injured or killed, probably shot or stabbed. I presume that was your friend Luke, the one the coastguard are still looking for. We know there was some kind of chase up to Loch Kinnabus and someone went through the ice. Also, you broke into the farmhouse at Upper Killeyan where whoever went through the ice changed out of their freezing wet clothes.’ Eric eyed Adam’s baggy jumper and fleece. ‘Then you walked back along the cliffs to the barn. We know you had something to do with the fire, and that you then trekked back to the car. It seems you were pushing a barrel, presumably with Luke’s body inside. You must’ve thrown him in the sea at some point, I’m guessing because of the evidence of his wounds.’

  Adam felt himself gulp heavily. He turned to face Eric.

  ‘That is one hell of an imagination you’ve got there.’

  Eric laughed. ‘You think so? Actually, I’m pretty sure my imagination couldn’t come up with anything so outlandish.’

  This was it, they were all going to jail for a long time. Adam felt strangely untouched by the thought, as if the whole matter concerned someone else.

  ‘So where are you getting all this shit from?’ he said.

  Eric smiled again. ‘Your tracks were all over the place. When we got to the still this morning there were tracks in the snow leading off the path west to Loch Kinnabus, as well as east along the coast, back towards the Audi. There were markings from barrel staves and hoops in that direction as well. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to work out what had happened once we got the call from Mrs Leary about your car crash.’

  Adam flinched at the phrase ‘brain surgeon’ and saw his hands in the mess of Luke’s head. He picked at his nails, then the skelf still lodged in his finger.

  ‘We were never there,’ Adam deadpanned. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’

  Eric took his eyes off the road and examined Adam. Adam saw a world-weary look in the old-timer’s eyes.

  Eric put a big hand on Adam’s arm.

  ‘It’s OK, son,’ he said. ‘We’ve fixed it.’

  Adam frowned. He drank from the Laphroaig bottle to give his hands something to do, but the bottle shook and he dribbled down his chin. He wiped himself, staring forwards, not wanting to look at Eric’s face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Eric returned his hand to the wheel and his eyes to the road.

  ‘It’s amazing how much damage to forensic evidence you can do with a fire engine, three squad cars and umpteen willing pairs of feet,’ he said. ‘Especially when you’re mostly talking about tracks in the snow which were melting anyway. Plus water damage from the fire engine’s hose is all over the place. All that coming and going with vehicles and officers on foot, it just made a complete mess of the whole area, so much so that there’s probably no evidence left in the immediate vicinity that you were ever there. And nothing leading to the tracks further afield.’

  ‘We weren’t ever there,’ said Adam warily.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Eric.

  They drove in silence for a bit, Adam sipping whisky, the wipers scraping at the windscreen, hot air swirling around them.

  ‘OK,’ said Adam eventually. ‘Suppose for a second that there was evidence we were there. I’m not admitting we were, of course. But just suppose.’

  ‘Just suppose,’ said Eric.

  ‘Why the hell would you destroy it?’

  Eric sighed. ‘You know nothing about the Ileach, do you?’

  ‘This is some stupid island thing?’

  ‘Nothing stupid about it. I knew Molly’s mother and father well, they were friends of mine. It was really hard for her and Ashley when they passed away, and Molly has done her best ever since to look after her little sister.’ Eric glanced at Adam. ‘We look after our own here on Islay.’

  ‘Molly said something similar.’

  ‘When we heard that Molly was part of the crash, we knew she must’ve been at the still as well. We didn’t want her mixed up in any of that. Luckily we were in a position to do something about it.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘The Islay police.’

  ‘But Joe and Grant were Islay police.’

  Eric puffed out his cheeks. ‘Joe and Grant didn’t exactly have many friends. They bullied their way through life, treated everyone with disrespect and often much worse. Like Molly, for example. Frankly, Islay is a better place now that they’re dead.’

  Something occurred to Adam. ‘Did you know what they were up to on the Oa?’

  Eric nodded. ‘We didn’t like it, but there didn’t seem much we could do about it.’

  ‘You could’ve tried to shut them down.’

  Eric shrugged. ‘They were strong-minded boys, I don’t think they would’ve taken that too well. It’s over now anyway.’

  ‘Who were they working with? There were other police involved, collecting deliveries.’

  Eric turned to him. ‘How would you know that if you were never at the still?’

  Adam felt a rush of blood to his cheeks.

  Eric smiled. ‘It’s OK, son.’ He slowed the car for a bend, then back up through the gears. ‘There were a few mainland officers involved, that’s correct.’

  ‘Is Ritchie one of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Eric. ‘We’re pretty sure it was a small operation, it didn’t go too far up. I get the impression that DI Ritchie is as shocked and dismayed by the whole thing as his superiors will be when they find out, something else which could work in your favour.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I suspect those higher up will be doing everything in their power to have this whole thing brushed under the carpet. It doesn’t exactly reflect well on the reputation of Strathclyde Police that two of their officers were running an illegal whisky operation, and died suspiciously in the process. I don’t think they need the added complication of members of the public being involved.’

  Adam took a big swig of quarter cask and made a decision. ‘Grant was an accident. But with Joe …’

  Eric frowned. ‘Don’t say anything else.’

  ‘But I want to tell you what happened.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what happened and it’s better I don’t know.’

  ‘Doesn’t it matter?’

  ‘Not to me. All that matters is that Molly is home safe and that you and your friend are off the island by the end of the day.’

  ‘Roddy’s leaving too? I thought he’d be in hospital for days.’

  ‘He discharged himself on the strong recommendation of a colleague of mine. They’re meeting us at Port Askaig.’

  ‘But Ritchie told us to stay.’

  ‘Let us worry about DI Ritchie,’ said Eric. ‘We’ll just say we got our wires crossed, breakdown in communication, something like that. He thinks we’re all incompetent hicks anyway, after the mess we made of the crime scene.’

  Adam stared out the window. It was getting dark fast, the gloom encroaching all around, so that all he could see was his own dim reflection on the glass and the occasional lonely house lit up on the moors outside. Islay looked like anywhere else in the world, just another rural backwater trying to survive.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Eric.

  He reached behind Adam’s seat, produced a carrier bag and plonked it on Adam’s lap. Adam opened it tentatively and saw his clothes inside, the ones he’d left at the farmhouse. They were neatly folded. He touched the jacket on the top. It was dry and still faintly warm. He felt a rush of raw emotion and his eyes began to sting. He fought back tears, then turned to Eric.

  ‘You seem to have everything covered.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Eric slowed the car as they descended towards Port Askaig. ‘Ritchie will be in touch with you back in Edinburgh. We can’t do anything about that. No matter what he says, just stick to your story.’

  ‘Of co
urse.’

  ‘One other thing,’ said Eric as they snaked down the road cut in the cliff face, the lights of the Port Askaig Hotel shimmering below. ‘If the coastguard find your friend’s body and it’s not too sea-damaged, will it tie you to Joe and Grant?’

  Adam felt a shiver as he glugged more malt. He looked at the bottle. It was half empty already. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eric as they pulled up behind a parked police car. ‘Now let’s get you the hell off Islay.’

  44

  The rain had stopped and it was dark now. Adam got out and felt a wet wind on his face, blowing in from the Sound of Islay, carrying a decaying fishy smell mixed with diesel and seaweed. It reminded him of a ropy eight-year-old Caol Ila he’d had once in a pub in Leith. Caol Ila was about two miles up the coast. It had been on his itinerary for a visit this weekend, something that made him grimace and laugh sadly to himself. If only they’d stuck to visiting distilleries instead of his idiotic plan to open one, maybe there would be four of them about to get on the ferry out of here instead of just two.

  The back door of the other police car opened and Adam could hear Roddy swearing at the driver, who didn’t speak or move. Roddy struggled to get out of the car, moaning in pain and muttering under his breath.

  ‘Don’t just fucking stand there,’ he said when he spotted Adam. ‘Help me the fuck out of this car, will you?’

  Adam offered an arm of support as Roddy eased onto his feet. In the jaundiced glow of the streetlights he looked like an evil ghost, ashen-faced, large bags under his eyes, sweat prickling his brow even in the cold wind. Adam wondered how he looked to Roddy.

  ‘Some fucking chauffeur service, eh?’ said Roddy, glancing at the policeman in the car. ‘Can’t even help a seriously injured and completely innocent man out of his car.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ said Adam.

  Roddy grinned and slapped Adam on the back. ‘Well, it looks like we’re getting off this God-forsaken dump of an island after all, doesn’t it? Any idea what the hell is going on? I couldn’t get anything out of Igor here.’ Roddy pointed a thumb at his driver, still sitting implacable.

  ‘Yeah, I have a fair idea,’ said Adam, watching Eric get out of his squad car and come round to join them. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Roddy turned to Eric. ‘I was having a great time in that hospital, you know. Morphine on tap; a couple of cute nurses to flirt with. Then your mate here comes along and forces me out of bed, just when I was getting comfy. Any chance of an explanation?’

  Eric looked at Adam then Roddy, shook his head. ‘Your friend has just said he’ll fill you in later. Meantime, you boys have a ferry to catch.’

  He looked beyond them, making Adam and Roddy turn. The large ship was lit up, sparkling its way in to dock at the jetty, churning up wake as its engines chugged loudly into reverse to slow its progress, swinging round expertly till its prow was perfectly aligned with the apron ramp.

  The sight of it dominating the tiny port held them mesmerised for a moment, watching its elegant manoeuvres, a strange mix of swan-like grace and brutal engineering.

  The bow door descended and they heard car and lorry engines coughing into life, then a steady stream of vehicles slid out and up the steep slope away from Port Askaig, headlights sweeping round the rocks and trees then away, plunging the surrounding land back into darkness.

  A handful of punters came out of the adjacent hotel and got into their cars, starting engines in the queue then slowly crawling into the ferry’s open mouth. Adam tried to think of their journey over here on the same boat only two and a half days ago, but it seemed so faint in his mind, like a dream, a vision of a simpler, quieter life before everything had become broken.

  He turned to see Eric dump their bags on the pavement next to him. Four bags, two passengers. Adam gazed at Ethan and Luke’s bags, then at the Laphroaig bottle in his hand. He uncorked it and took several gulps.

  ‘Hey, don’t hog that,’ said Roddy. ‘I could use a wee dram right now.’

  Adam passed the bottle over and looked at Eric.

  ‘A word of advice,’ said Eric, looking at them both. ‘Never, ever set foot on Islay again, all right?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Roddy. ‘After this weekend, it’s right at the bottom of my holiday destination list.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Eric said to Adam. ‘I don’t expect a sensible reply from this idiot …’

  ‘Hey,’ said Roddy.

  ‘… but you seem a decent sort. So please, just do as I say and never come back. It’s best for everyone if you stay away.’

  Adam nodded as he took the bottle back from Roddy and drank.

  ‘We will.’

  Eric looked at the bottle. Adam was holding it lazily by the neck, only a quarter full now. In his other hand, the carrier bag full of his clothes hung limply.

  ‘And maybe you should lay off the malt for a while,’ said Eric kindly.

  Adam gave a little snort of laughter and put the cork back in the bottle. He slung it and the carrier bag into his holdall then picked it up, along with Ethan’s case and Luke’s bag. Eric handed the fourth bag to Roddy.

  ‘Goodbye, lads,’ he said. ‘Safe home now.’

  Adam and Roddy turned and headed towards the ferry. Adam tried to let the engine roar and diesel stench fill his mind, blank out the images of Luke and Ethan.

  45

  Adam stared at the retreating lights of the Port Askaig Hotel, the fiercely bitter wind dragging tears from his eyes. Soon they rounded a bend in the Sound of Islay and the island lights were lost, just the huge, hulking mass of moors and cliffs and peat bogs alongside, shadowy and looming in the dark.

  His hands were freezing, clutching Ethan’s quarter-cask bottle to his chest. He fumbled to uncork it then took two large hits, only just feeling the burn in his chest through the numbness of his mind and body. He looked at the bottle as he shoved the cork back in. It was almost finished.

  He was on his own. Roddy had nipped inside to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, which were drawing attention and comment from other passengers. How had they ever become friends? How had they stayed friends over the years, with nothing whatsoever in common? He tried to think back to moments before the crash, Roddy driving like a maniac, drinking and snorting, angry at being dragged out to Stremnishmore and asked for money. Adam saw his own arm swinging through the air towards Roddy’s head, catching him on the ear, Roddy turning in anger. Then there was just darkness, so much evil in the darkness, so much to be scared of, so much to run away from.

  And here he was running again. Running away from Islay and Molly, leaving her to cope on her own. Not that he thought for a minute she couldn’t cope on her own. But he wanted to be there, wanted to be part of her life, wanted to have the time to get to know her, to fall in love with her and live happy ever after.

  What a joke. There was no happy ever after, not after everything that had happened. Molly would be fine, in fact she might even do a lot better on the island with Joe out of the picture. She would go on living her life, doing what she had to to survive, all the while keeping the dark secrets of the weekend tight within her chest like a tumour, a small malignant lump of anger and sorrow within her.

  He would never see her again. He tried to get his head round that. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her at the Laphroaig distillery, wearing that green uniform, eyes sparkling, friendly smile. But he couldn’t. All he could picture was her bent over the barrel, blank terror in her eyes, or sitting staring out the window of her living room, dram in hand, an exhausted and empty look on her face.

  An image of Joe tore into his brain, the stench of his burning flesh, the sight of his melting face, bubbling and blistering as he frantically waved his arms about. Adam hoped he wouldn’t lose any sleep over that, but he was afraid he might.

  The same went for Ethan and Luke. So many ghosts, so much lost. So much carnage, pointless carnage, all because of a stupid car crash and an unlucky stu
mble into a crazy world.

  He thought about Luke’s body, still out there in the freezing cold sea, blue and bloated now, tossed around by waves and tides like flotsam. He looked at Ethan’s Laphroaig bottle in his hands. There were about two swigs left in the bottom of the bottle. He uncorked it, carefully sipped, then slid the cork back in firmly and examined it. Just enough left in there for a decent dram. He made sure the cork was in tight then leaned back and hurled the bottle as hard as he could high into the blustery air. It flew into the night, spiralling neck over tail and falling into the surrounding blackness before finally hitting the water.

  The wind roaring in his ears and the heavy thrum of the ferry engines drowned out any splash. He could just make out the bottle bobbing in the rough seas, appearing and disappearing from view, then finally gone into the dark.

  ‘That’s to see you on your way, Luke,’ he shouted into the wind, the words whipped into nothingness immediately.

  He wondered where the bottle would end up. Maybe the currents would take it on an adventure around the world. Maybe the waves would do the same for Luke, take him on the trip of a lifetime, take him to witness things he could never have dreamed of. He hoped Ethan’s bottle would find him, give him a send-off into whatever adventure the ocean saw fit to give him.

  He remembered something and knelt to open his holdall. He took out his jacket, went through the pockets and pulled out a wad of congealed paper mulch. It was his distillery plans, soaked in the loch and then dried along with his clothes, utterly useless now, just a shapeless lump of indecipherable pulp. He tried to prise a few sheets apart, but bits just flaked off in his hands, crumbling to pieces that were whipped away by the wind. He leant over the railing and opened his fingers, releasing the paper wad so that it tumbled down into the dark. He watched as it quickly dissolved and was scattered by the relentless waves.

  He thought about his own body following, tipping over the small handrail and into the inky, oily mass of the sea. What would it feel like to throw yourself into the water? The sudden shock of the cold knocking the breath from your lungs, the icy fingers of water surrounding you, dragging you under into blissful oblivion, wiping all the evil thoughts from your mind, erasing your whole being, absorbing you into its unfathomable vastness, its cold, unthinking expanses.