The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series)

by Michael J Gill

  “Still hovering up all the leftovers in your establishment then?” asked Raymond, grinning at his old friend.

  “Quality control, mate. I have to taste every dish we create.” Phil tapped both hands on his rather large belly that protruded over his jeans belt.

  Raymond and Phil were like chalk and cheese when it came to appearance. Raymond was tall, at six foot four, with a full head of hair. Even though it was laced with gray, he was still in remarkable shape and dressed in smart casual clothing that had a stamp of quality.

  Phil was pale and short – maybe five foot eight. He was chubby, with a freckly schoolboy face. His jeans always hung loosely and never looked like they fit him. His shirts were the type you’d find in a local supermarket.

  “After what…twenty years or more, I still remember it’s your round,” said Philip with a big grin.

  “Still have a memory like an elephant.” Raymond turned to the bartender and ordered two pints of Landlord.

  “So you just can’t stay away? I heard the ale down south does not compare?” Raymond’s friend asked.

  “Actually it’s not bad in Stamford, but I have a soft spot for Landlord’s Bitter.”

  “Stamford? A nice town but not really south. I thought you lived in London?”

  “I retired from my job and wanted to start up a company in a place I could relax, you know, have time to think – I chose Stamford.”

  “A place to think?” Philip asked.

  “I started writing classes and soon developed a knack for turning non-fiction into creative non-fiction. My company does family tree research and I write the full story into a novel of sorts.”

  “How many words or pages do you do for them then?” Philip sounded interested.

  “Thirty thousand words, more or less.”

  “Nice one.”

  “How about you?”

  “Still a bloody good chef. I started my own restaurant just a few miles away. My restaurant/brewpub is just down the road called The Cut. We serve the best steaks in Yorkshire.” Phil smiled broadly and continued, “So, are you up to see your parents? How are they doing?”

  “Well they will be better now, thank goodness. I managed to place them in an excellent nursing home in Keighley. Mother is in the early stages of dementia but it’s coming on fast, while Dad can hardly walk.” My Mother’s stroke this week was the final straw. They can’t come back to their house.” Raymond fidgeted with his glass, slowly turning it on the bar.

  “Sorry to hear that, mate.”

  “No, actually I am so relieved that I found the right place. They need 24/7 special care that neither I, nor anyone else in the family, can give them. My only task left is to sell the cottage.”

  “No, really? I have all those childhood memories of the place... It won’t be the same next time I walk past the cottage – knowing it’s not in the Armstrong family.” Phil took a large sip of ale, a deep frown appearing on his forehead.

  “I know Phil; it will never be the same. It has to done, and I am happy in Stamford. When I feel the urge, I can be in Haworth in two hours, holding my favorite pint in hand.

  “You never did tell me about your career. I recollect you always seemed to change the subject.”

  “Even though I have retired, if I tell you, I will have to kill you. Official Secrets Act is still in effect, I’m afraid.” Raymond gave Phil a wink.

  He had never liked to lie to his family and friends about his job, but he had to with MI6. Funny, because though he had officially retired, he was at it again in a different way...

  “Hey what do you do in your spare time?” Philip asked taking a sip from his glass.

  “I play quite a bit of golf these days. I play quite often – though very badly – and appreciate single malt scotch. I am the president of a whisky society. Now that my small research company is taking off, I don’t have time for much else.”

  “Right, then, a scotch sounds good. What do you recommend?”

  “Well, we can’t expect the White Lion to have an extensive range of malts, but I do see Oban 14.”

  “Two large Obans, luv, please,” Philip piped up to the girl.

  When they arrived at the table, Philip handed a glass to Raymond and looked ready to toast.

  Raymond hesitated then said, “Would you pass me the water jug?”

  “Water? Are you kidding? You big wuss.”

  “Hey, what did I just say about my hobby? Let me show you something. Nose your whisky without water first…then add a tiny drop, not even a splash and nose it again. Follow me.” Raymond nosed the Oban without water and nodded to Phil to follow suit. “Okay what do you smell?”

  “Seaweed, salt spray, and smoke. A fire by the ocean.”

  “Good. And now a drop of water like this. Never too much.”

  Phil nosed again. “Wow! A fruit, maybe an orange. I can smell so much more. Without water I never got anything but that ocean and smoke aromas.”

  “You will notice a difference on the taste too; trust me.”

  “So the larger quantity of water thing is just a myth?” Philip looked perplexed.

  “Yes, a single malt needs a touch to allow it to open, just like a fine wine when you decant it.”

  His phone began to vibrate in his pocket, which was timely, since he was dying for a cig. He only smoked occasionally now, however, strong urges always surfaced when he had a drink in his hand. He excused himself and looked at the phone display, moving quickly now to the pub’s front door.

  He was very surprised to see the name Louisa Reid pop up on his phone.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Louisa, how the heck are you?”

  She answered in a shaky voice, and too fast. Each word sounded wrapped up in an awful cry. Her words were punctuated by sharp breaths through her teeth as if air was in short supply.

  “Calm down girl. I can’t understand any of it. One sentence at a time.”

  “My d-d-dad i-is dead, Uncle Raymond.”

  Raymond received this news like a bolt of lightning going through his entire body and nearly dropped the phone. He stood frozen, like on a January night when a sharp wind blows off the moors, weaving icy fingers through the village.

  “How?” he finally said, shaking, tying to process that his best friend had died.

  “Massive heart attack in his office.”

  “I thought he was in great shape?”

  “He was.”

  “Any stress? I mean the distillery is doing great and he seemed to be getting over the loss of your mum. The cancer was a dreadful experience for all of you.” He sighed.

  “I can’t think of anything in particular,” she said, continuing to sob.

  “What about James?”

  “They were having more arguments than normal, but I just put that down to father-and-son stuff, you know, not seeing eye to eye.”

  “Is he still…drinking?” He paused.

  “It’s okay, Uncle Raymond. Actually he’s a bigger tosser than ever, just lately.”

  Raymond was going to ask more questions, until Louisa went into a total bawl, weeping uncontrollably.” Right, I need to get back up there fast. When is the funeral?”

  “The funeral will be in three days, on Thursday, and I would really like you here for it, Uncle Raymond.”

  “No problem, and I’ll plan to stay on the Island for a bit afterwards.”

  “Thanks so much. Have to go,” she whispered through the phone and then she was gone on another sob.

  Raymond walked back into the pub, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “Looks like you have seen a ghost,” said Phil, concerned.

  “Just bad news. Raymond gulped down the Oban, rather than savour it like he normally would and paid for another round. “Here is my business card,” he said, while fumbling in his wallet. Raymond didn’t usually lose control, but his best friend had just died and he was not processing this news well, at all. Drop me an email and pop down anytime.”

  “I hope the bad news i
s not about family?”

  “No, but it’s just as bad. It’s Gordon Reid up in Scotland. Just died of a heart attack.”

  “Bloody hell! I have been reading about his distillery on the Isle of Bute. It’s been all over the news. Didn’t someone coin the phrase ‘It’s a beaut’ – and now all the whisky world is saying it.”

  “Yes, the phrase started with a lady in Canada and spread to Australia where it’s known as ‘the little beauty.’ I have to leave… You understand? Good seeing you after all this time… And keep in touch.”

  He pulled up his jacket collar and left the pub to begin the descent down the old cobbled street of Haworth. He stayed on the left side, away from the graveyard as he started to think on the tragic news.

  This was not expected of Gordon at all. He had gone on the bottle when he lost his wife, a few years back, but now he was recovering, was in great shape, playing golf and tennis and rarely drank. Really quite odd that he’d have a sudden heart attack.

  He recalled that Gordon had seemed stressed about something when he’d visited. If only they’d talked about it…

  For probably the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to going to Scotland – not, one bit.

  CHAPTER 18

  After making arrangements for travel, Raymond packed a duffle, and headed for Bute.

  He arrived on the Island after a drive that seemed much quicker than usual. He had been so lost in thought, the M6 motorway had just been a blur. His instincts told him there was something odd about Gordon’s sudden death. He wasn’t himself a few weeks ago – for some reason Raymond didn’t know. But he did know Gordon didn’t drink excessively anymore, period.

  The trip was uneventful and upon arrival he went straight to the distillery and found Helen, the receptionist.

  “Do you mind if I have a look in Gordon’s office? I don’t want to disturb Louisa at the moment.”

  “Of course, none of us can believe it,” she said with tears in her eyes.

  He nodded and made his way down the corridor to the office. Once inside, he sat at Gordon’s desk wondering where to start. He flipped open the laptop and thought about calling Louisa to see if she would have any idea of the password. He typed in Gordon’s name and birth year and on the second attempt – with a capital G on Gordon – he was in. Gordon never was computer savvy.

  He shook his head. Why do people make it so easy to log on to a computer yet they have all sorts of elaborate passwords for their bank accounts or other things of a personal nature?

  Raymond knew Gordon rarely used a computer outside of work but decided it would be prudent to look through Gordon’s emails for the past month… He found nothing out of the ordinary. Next he looked at Gordon’s bookmarks. Many had to do with the whisky industry, along with several on how to improve your golf swing. The most recent were on Las Vegas golf courses, the Baronial Hotel and Casino and a web directory showing most of the top restaurants in downtown Vegas. Raymond’s first thought was that Gordon had been planning a trip for himself or with James, to go meet their distributor in Vegas.

  He could find absolutely nothing, particularly in files accessed in the past month that could have driven Gordon to drink – no obvious reason he could find to indicate if or why Gordon might have been the least stressed out.

  He stretched out his legs. Beneath his right foot the heavy waste basket toppled over. He picked it up to find an empty whisky bottle. “Hmmm… Bute 12-year-old,” he said aloud. It was the distillery’s flagship whisky that had taken the world by storm. What a Beaut! There was a single empty glass on the desk, an empty bottle in the bin. So, he had started drinking alone again?

  He picked up the empty glass and was taking it to the sink by the display cabinet when he noticed there was just a speck of the whisky left in the bottom of the glass. He put the glass up to his nose, anticipating the typical aromas of Bute 12-year-old – freshly baked cake like his grandmother would make, and strawberry jam like he’d spread heavily over his bread, as a child. He could pick out the Bute single malt in any blind tasting.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, smelling the small remains in the glass. He detected a peaty smoke aroma. Couldn’t be. He went back to the desk, picked up the empty bottle of 12-year-old, and smelled it again. A feint aroma of cake, and a hint of the jam… No trace of peat.

  He went back to the cabinet and noticed a special distillery edition of the Big Bute. It had been opened, with maybe two or three servings poured from the bottle. He pulled the cork and gave it a nose, making sure to keep his nose a few inches away. Whoa, that was so peaty…

  Interesting.

  He read the label on the bottle. This whisky was a special edition, named the Noble Bute. A highly peated malt that the distillery had only produced one time, to his knowledge. Maybe they’d produced a few thousand bottles that were allocated to their best markets around the world. He opened a spreadsheet and it confirmed Noble Bute was distilled on April 9th, 2005 in honor of the wedding of Camilla to Prince Charles, the Duke of Rothesay – their duke. Interesting that this fact from Anne’s little tour had meshed itself into this situation, in the here and now, and under these tragic circumstances.

  And there he was again. Thinking about Anne. She wouldn’t know about Gordon… He’d call or email Anne later with the bad news.

  He noticed a paper that disclosed a large chain of sushi restaurants in Japan had tried to buy the entire stock. To sell it all to one buyer would have been totally out of character for Gordon so Raymond was unsure whether the deal went through.

  In fact, he and Gordon shared a secret that nobody would know – though Louisa might have guessed it by now. Gordon detested peaty malts and only nosed and tasted them at public events. He understood them and could detect which distillery had made them, however, any malt over 25 phenols per million, the measure used to define the modest amount of peat used in whisky, was a no-no for him personally.

  Raymond sat back in Gordon’s leather armchair. His forehead became tense, and he felt a sharp pain developing in his head. This was a common occurrence in the past when he was totally pissed off on an assignment. What am I missing here?

  He composed himself, and tried to stay calm as he headed out of Gordon’s office to speak to the one person who might understand why he felt so unsettled by what he’d found.

  CHAPTER 19

  Willy was in the distillery with shoulders slumped and expression grave. When he noticed Raymond standing in the doorway he shook his head sadly.

  “Thought you were himself… I can’t believe Gordon has gone.” Willy’s expression was bleak, his shoulders slumped.

  “I know. A sad day… Willy, could I buy you a coffee? I would like to quiz you on your special wedding edition whisky.”

  “Aye, Noble Bute, the big peaty expression. Why do you ask about that expression at a time like this?”

  “I think something is a tad strange about Gordon’s death. He hardly ever drank the last few years, except on business.”

  “Aye, you are right there. I was surprised when they said he was drinking when he died. And alone, he was. Yes, I’ll take a wee break and see you down in the visitor’s lounge in five minutes. Cream and sugar for me.”

  Raymond brought two coffees to a quiet table in the lounge. He knew he must stay calm around the people at the distillery. He must keep his suspicions about Gordon’s death – the possibility of his friend’s murder – to himself. Perhaps his curiosity was fuelled by a need to know why this happened now, when things had been going so well for his lifelong friend…and by Raymond’s disbelief that his friend was actually gone… Or was it the pervasive feeling of emptiness and loss that was driving Raymond to find another reason, beyond a heart attack?

  People died every day…but not a best friend.

  Was he making a mountain out of a mole hill? Or were his suspicions logical and worth investigating? Regardless, he had very little to go on and until he had more, keeping his thoughts secret was necessary.
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  Life must go on as normal and just maybe he was totally wrong and Gordon’s death was just what they said it was, and perhaps too, Gordon’s palette had changed overnight. Not likely. But was it possible Gordon, would be enjoying a good peaty malt, alone in his office, with his favourite whisky so close by…? Not likely.

  Five minutes later, Willy appeared. Raymond swallowed down his sorrow that Willy also obviously felt. He wanted to let down his guard with this old employee, and raise his suspicions about Gordon’s death – to focus his thoughts on several possible crime scenarios but he remained composed as he watched Willy nod approvingly at the coffee he handed him. After Willy sat down, Raymond chatted with him about what the loss of Gordon would mean to the distillery.

  “So remind me of the phenols per million in that special edition?” he finally asked Willy.

  “Sixty-five. It was a bit of fun for me actually. You know Bute rarely offers a peaty whisky. We have a hint of the sea in all our whiskies and take the Oban and Bruichladdich comparisons with immense pride – that was what we were after. We are not a Lowland and are officially a Highland distillery by…oh, two miles,” he said sarcastically. “The Highland fault line runs through the middle of Rothesay. But most whisky experts put us and our neighbours on Arran under lowland. All island whiskies have a noticeably different character to whisky produced by our colleagues in the Lowlands with its softer, lighter whisky. We are still pushing the Scottish Whisky Association to make islands its own official region.”

  “So, 65 phenols are very high. How smoky?”

  “Very! I asked the malting company to source the peat from the top north east corner of Scotland. It’s not like Islay or the heather-influenced peat on the Orkneys. This was in-your-face peat, smoke, bonfire, and night all in a bottle. What did Gordon think? Never saw him drink the stuff or make a comment. Louisa loved it to death and asked me to think about producing another batch.”