Daley was fully awake now. He looked at his radio-alarm clock: 3.35 a.m. Whatever sleep he’d had would have to suffice. ‘OK, I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes. Leave the guy in an interview room until I get there. Get him a cup of coffee or something, but don’t tell him anything. I’ll talk to him myself . . . and you’ve done well.’ He heard a slight sigh on the other end of the line.
‘I hope that wasn’t a pun, sir.’ The line went dead.
Main Street was deathly quiet. There was an unexpected chill in the air, and Daley wished he had packed his overcoat. The sky was a black starry carpet. Light pollution was nowhere near as bad as in the Greater Glasgow area. Unexpectedly he heard a bird squawk overhead, a repetitive shrill note. He resolved to test Fraser’s ornithological knowledge later.
The all-pervading smell of the sea provided the olfactory backdrop. He went around the back of the station, keying the security code into the pad on the door that led from the car park. The office was bathed in a subdued blue light. He passed the control room, hearing the intermittent crackle of sub-divisional radio traffic echoing through the corridors, reminding him of his own time on nightshift as a uniform cop.
DC Dunn met him outside the CID offices. She looked tired and slightly harassed. ‘Sir, so glad you’re here. It’s been a bit of a strain trying not to tell this poor guy his wife’s probably dead.’
‘You sound very sure. What’s he been saying?’
They entered an interview room and closed the door. Daley leaned on the table, while the young DC stood stiffly, as though she was about to deliver a speech. ‘The guy is Michael Watson. He’s a fisherman – deep sea. He used to fish out of Kinloch, but he’s based in Dublin now. He works off one of the big trawlers that fish mainly far out into the Atlantic, three weeks on, two weeks off. He still lives here.’ She spread her hands over her skirt, smoothing out nonexistent creases. ‘His wife and son live here too. Well . . .’
‘OK, so what do we know about her?’ Daley took out his notebook. He was about to interview this man, and he wanted to have his facts straight before doing so.
‘She’s about the right height, build and age for our victim, sir. He has a photo of her, but what with the bloating on the corpse and the fact that she has dyed blonde hair in the picture, well, it’s difficult to tell.’
Daley scratched his chin while he thought, a habit that inexplicably infuriated Liz. ‘It’s a strange time to report her missing. The reason?’
‘Well, his mother’s been looking after the wee boy for the last three days. She and her husband have been up the city shopping. They came back early yesterday, couldn’t find Mrs Watson, heard about the body being found, and put two and two together. They wanted to wait until Watson arrived before they contacted the police. He arrived from Dublin about two hours ago. His fishing boat had just returned to port. His bosses hired a RIB to get him here quickly.’
‘What’s his wife’s first name?’
‘Isobel, sir, Isobel Watson.’
Daley straightened as a knock at the door announced the arrival of DC Fraser. Daley noticed that his hair was sticking up, and he wasn’t wearing the curry-stained tie. ‘Right, DC Dunn, give me five minutes to get our casually dressed colleague DC Fraser up to speed, then show Mr Watson in.’
Fraser’s face reddened as DC Dunn left the interview room. After imparting the facts, Daley had a surprise for the young DC. ‘I want you to conduct this interview, Archie. I want to observe our Mr Watson. We’ll get a bit of background, then, depending on how it pans out, we’ll have to arrange some kind of ID. That won’t be easy considering the body’s a hundred and fifty miles away.’
‘Under these circumstances we normally use CCTV from the mortuary, sir. We only take people up to Glasgow if things get complicated.’
The door sounded again. DC Dunn opened it and stood to the side to reveal a thick-set man, short, with a broad pale face and a shaven head. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his right forearm adorned with a large, blue thistle tattoo, the legend SCOTLAND FOREVER showing proudly in red.
Daley cleared his throat, prompting Fraser into action. ‘Mr Watson, please take a seat. I’m DC Fraser and this is Inspector Daley. The young DC was on his feet as he slid a chair back, inviting the fisherman to sit with a gesture of his hand. Both officers opened their notebooks.
Fraser asked Mr Watson if he would mind if they recorded their discussion. He acceded to the request, though he looked uncomfortable. ‘Come on, guys.’ The accent was pure Kinloch, identifiable in three brief words. ‘I’m worried sick here. I want to know whoot’s goin’ on. Gie’s a break, eh?’ His eyes were pleading, arms held straight out in front of him, both fists clenched.
‘I need a few details first, sir.’ Fraser’s colour was on the rise again. ‘You must understand we have to be really careful in situations like this, so please . . .’ He pointed at his notebook, an action which saw Watson deflate slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. ‘Aye, OK, fire away.’ Watson answered the usual round of questions: first giving his name and address, details of his work, recent movements, and how he had heard about the discovery of the dead woman; he then went on to give his wife’s details, including a general description, a summary of her personality, habits and so on. Tiring of this line of enquiry, he looked directly at Daley. ‘Now, Inspector, jeest be straight wi’ us – can I see the body?’
Ignoring his question, Daley had one of his own. ‘What was your wife’s maiden name, Mr Watson?’
‘Sneddon, Isobel Sneddon.’
‘Did she have any tattoos? I’m thinking of one in particular . . .’
‘Aye, on her leg, she had . . .’ His expression changed to one of grim realisation. ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake.’ He held his head in his hands and started to sob. ‘Whoot the fuck am I goin’ tae tell the wee man?’
Daley got up and walked to the other side of the desk, placing his hand on Watson’s shoulder. The fisherman’s body was wracked with sobs. Fraser looked on hopelessly; this was an aspect of police work that he not did like.
‘We’re going to have to ask you to identify the body formally, Mr Watson.’ Daley was calm and authoritative. He knew the value of maintaining a front on these occasions, though he realised that his reaction would have been the same, had anything like this happened to Liz. He felt compassion for Watson, but his job was to find her killer; and now he was sure they had an ID, time was of the essence.
Daley left Fraser with Watson, finding DC Dunn at her desk in the CID office. ‘I want you to go and comfort Mr Watson. I think his wife is our victim, but I need to get him to make an official identification.’ The young detective was nodding solemnly. ‘Once we have that, I want you and a couple of uniforms to go to their house. We’ll need to go through everything. I’m leaving you in charge of that. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She looked suddenly preoccupied, as though already working out some kind of strategy suited to trawling through someone’s personal possessions. ‘What about Mr Watson? Will he have to be present?’
‘Not at the moment. I’ll get his permission of course. Now tell me, how quickly can we organise one of these CCTV identifications?’
As it turned out, things took longer to organise than Daley had anticipated. For a start, they had to wait for the Glasgow mortuary dayshift to turn up, which wasn’t until seven thirty. The nightshift was there, but they couldn’t use the video equipment. And all the problems were not at the other end. Permission from the Sub-Divisional Commander was required before their audio-visual equipment at the station could be used, and MacLeod could not be raised. Daley sent a reluctant Fraser to his home to rouse him.
He had texted DS Scott with the latest developments, and had received a terse acknowledgement in return: Great. C u soon. On my way. He had also spoken at greater length to Watson. It appeared that all was not well in their marriage, though Daley had already guessed that. Isobel Watson had apparently taken to going out regularly and, according to her husband, was
associating with the underbelly of Kinloch’s society, where lots of alcohol, drugs and sex were the order of the day. Watson had described how difficult it was to maintain their relationship when he was away so much; a sentiment with which Daley could empathise, especially since he found his relationship hard to maintain even at close quarters.
On the whole, he found Watson an uncomplicated, even pleasant individual; in extremis he conducted himself with a kind of rough-and-ready dignity that the inspector found to his credit. He had looked carefully for signs of feigned surprise when Watson had discovered that his wife may well be the likely murder victim. He had found none. Nonetheless he had contacted the Garda in Dublin to make sure that his story of being ‘deep sea’ for the last three weeks checked out.
Daley, Dunn and two uniformed officers were in the station’s audio-visual room with Watson, who was sitting forward in his chair, looking exceptionally stressed. A large plasma screen displayed the force’s Semper Vigilo logo.
The door burst open, and a sleepy-looking MacLeod breezed into the room, not in uniform, but in a tracksuit with a hooded top, which he seemed to wear uneasily. This leitmotif of youth clashed with his balding head and abrasive manner. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand what all the rush is about. You’re lucky to catch me, I was about to go for my five-miler along Westbay sands.’ He looked around, as though this revelation should elicit some praise.
‘A courtesy only, I can assure you.’ Daley didn’t look in MacLeod’s direction. ‘If DC Fraser hadn’t been able to find you, I’d have authorised this myself.’
MacLeod’s face took on a look of extreme antagonism. He walked over to the communications unit and picked up what looked like a large mobile phone. After dialling a number and waiting for a few moments he started to speak. ‘Yes, Kinloch Sub-Division, authorisation Delta Mike 281165.’ There was a pause, and then the screen began to flicker into life. The logo was replaced by a view of the PR room in Glasgow mortuary. A table with small microphones sat in front of three chairs, backed by a brown screen that bore the name of the institution plus the City of Glasgow crest.
Daley saw Watson tense. He was clenching then unclenching his fists, which were resting on his knees, and he sat even further forward in his seat. He looked exhausted. Daley made a mental note to make sure that he sent the fisherman to his parents to try to get some rest once this, the first of many ordeals, was over.
A woman appeared on screen wearing a white coat with three pens arrayed along the top of her breast pocket. Daley recognised her, but did not know her name. She was a junior pathologist, and the inspector recalled Crichton referring to her in what could best be described as less than politically correct terms: in short, even at this hour, her good looks were evident. He saw Fraser’s expression momentarily register this fact.
‘Good morning.’ She spoke in a low, formal manner. ‘Mr Watson, could you acknowledge that you are present and can see the screen at close quarters without any hindrance?’
The fisherman grunted a reply and then coughed nervously.
They were communicating through omnidirectional microphones that hung from the ceiling of the Kinloch video suite. ‘Could all serving officers present please state their names and designations for the record, starting with the senior investigating officer, then in descending order of rank.’
Daley and MacLeod both started to talk at the same time. MacLeod stopped, his face pinched with rancour.
‘James Daley, Detective Inspector, Senior Investigating Officer.’
MacLeod now took his chance. ‘I would like to make a point of order, please. You, whatever your name is . . .’ He didn’t give the pathologist a chance to reply. ‘I’m Sub-Divisional Commander here, and by rights my name should be submitted first.’
Everyone present looked in disbelief at the short man in the hooded top. MacLeod stood in the middle of the room in an impromptu aisle, formed by the small rank of chairs. The pathologist however remained unfazed. ‘Sorry, sir, the procedure in this matter is clear. The senior investigating officer takes precedence, even to those of a higher rank.’
‘Which you are not.’ Clearly furious with MacLeod, Daley spoke. ‘Please sit down, Inspector MacLeod. I’m sure Mr Watson is finding this hard enough as it is.’
MacLeod muttered something under his breath and retreated to the back of the room where he took a seat.
The remaining police officers gave their details, and the pathologist continued. ‘My name is Judy Kelly. I’m Assistant Pathologist in Greater Glasgow.’ She walked behind the desk and took a seat behind the microphones. ‘Mr Watson, when you are ready, I will begin to show a number of images of the deceased. Please feel free to ask me to stop at any time, if either you can make a positive identification, or you want a break.
‘I must warn you that the deceased has been exposed to saltwater for a period of time, which may make her features appear swollen or bloated, so please take this into account. Please say “yes” when you are ready to proceed.’ She looked directly into the camera, waiting for Watson’s reply.
‘Aye, go ahead.’ Watson’s voice was clear, but ready to break with emotion.
Instantly, an overhead view of a body shrouded in a white sheet became visible on the screen. Only the face and hair were exposed. Daley noted that the sheet was placed high up on the neck, obscuring the ligature marks.
‘Can I see?’ Watson was peering at the screen. The image zoomed to the face alone. ‘Oh, fuck.’ Watson looked heavenward, his hands like a child’s in prayer. He quickly crossed himself, then bowed his head. ‘Aye, it’s Isobel,’ he whispered. ‘She . . . she looks different, but that’s her.’ He hunched over and sobbed uncontrollably.
The pathologist thanked Watson, and expressed her condolences. After a pause she asked Daley to acknowledge the positive identification. The gruesome job was over. The screen flickered back to the force logo.
Daley, sitting beside Watson, had his arm around his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that, Mr Watson. I know how hard it must have been. C’mon, let’s get you a coffee, eh? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?’ Despite the early hour, he was sure that Watson would appreciate a dram.
The pair stood and headed for the door. As Daley opened it, Watson stopped. A shaft of bright morning sunshine pierced the gloom. The fisherman looked to where MacLeod was sitting. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ prick, do you know that?’ He turned on his heel and followed Daley from the room.
Daley had his victim’s identification, and now the investigation could step up a gear. It was just after ten and he was famished. He had just heard from DS Scott, who was on his way from Paisley and already cursing the state of the rural roads he now had to navigate.
DC Dunn, two uniformed officers, Fraser and the bereaved Watson were now at the fisherman’s home. Daley had to arrange a press conference, which he hoped would take place as soon as possible. In these days of twenty-four hour rolling news coverage, he realised that the press conference would go out live. However, in his experience, very few people watched these channels; much better to catch the main news programmes that ran in the early evening. He called the Public Relations Office.
As it turned out, they had been geared up since the previous day, and had already arranged for the press officer designated to this case to contact the relevant news agencies. Daley groaned when he heard who the PR officer was. Pauline Robertson: a woman with whom he had a long and tortured relationship.
Pauline had been a tabloid reporter on one of his first CID cases. In those days, before her Damascene conversion to public relations, she had been the scourge of Strathclyde Police, determined to uncover the corruption, injustice and brutality she was certain beset the organisation. It was a younger Donald who, then in charge of A-Division CID, had persuaded her to take the job in Strathclyde’s PR department: ‘Fight the demons from the inside,’ he had implored her. Of course, once she was tied down to a generous pension plan and an incremental salary structure, and the rest of the benef
its attendant with the civil service, such as flexi-hours, job security and six weeks’ paid holidays a year, she appeared to lose her zeal for investigative journalism. However, she had lost none of her ability to rile Daley. He was under a lot of pressure here, and because of the isolated nature of the investigation it would have a certain cachet for the press. For now, he put the press conference to the back of his mind.
8
He had been up since three thirty, so, on his way to Watson’s home, he nipped into the County Hotel to get a quick shower and change, and hopefully a bit of breakfast.
The smell of bacon and eggs and coffee greeted him like an old friend as he entered the hotel. He saw Annie busy at the reception desk as he made his way across the faded carpet. ‘Morning, Annie. Any chance of that breakfast? Say, in fifteen minutes or so? I’m afraid I had a call-out in the middle of the night.’
‘Aye, there wiz me, up wi’ the larks cookin’ the full works, an a’ the time the bird had flown.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Daley smiled at her sheepishly. ‘You know how it is in my line of work – duty calls and all that. It’s OK, I’ll get a sandwich or something in the town.’
‘Indeed, you will not.’ Annie was adamant. ‘There’s naebody goin’ tae say we canna treat oor guests right in this hotel. No, no’ when I’m at the helm o’ the cutter.’
Happy that he was going to be fed, he bounded up the staircase and into his room. He had forgotten that there was no shower in his room, so he immediately turned on both taps, and quickly drew a deep bath. He bathed or showered a lot. He had picked up the habit as a young cop, finding the smell of the death and decay he frequently encountered followed him off duty. Bathing at night and in the morning seemed to banish the malodorous taint. He also found the activity invigorating. It was going to be a long day; he needed all the help he could get.
Whisky from Small Glasses Page 8