Feeling fresher, he took a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and unconsciously chose Liz’s favourite tie. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that she was arriving this evening with the odious Mark. He sighed quietly to himself. What with the imminent arrival of Scott and his posse, Kinloch was rapidly becoming a home from home.
Downstairs, he sat down to a hearty breakfast – ignoring the fact that this artery-clogging feast would do nothing for his waistline. He devoured the meal, sitting alone in the dining room, with only the local radio station for company.
It was being played over two large speakers attached to the wall above his head. ‘Police are still baffled by the discovery of a dead body jeest outside the toon.’ The voice was pure Kinloch. ‘Noo, whoot is it, Jamie?’
‘Weel, I wiz jeest thinking, it wid be a strange kinda thing if the body they found wisna deid. I mean, whoot kinda polis investigation wid cover that?’
There followed much muffled laughter. It most certainly was not BBC Radio 4, but Daley had to admit, it did have a certain charm all of its own. Absorbed in his cooked breakfast and the banter of the Jock and Jamie Show, he reluctantly answered his mobile, which displayed Fraser’s number.
‘Sir, I think you better come over to Mr Watson’s now. There’s been a development.’
‘Well, DC Fraser, you can tell me. What is it?’ Daley sounded more impatient than he was, and he grimaced at his brusque tone.
‘We checked Mr Watson’s house phone, you know, for messages and the like?’ Fraser was already sounding maligned.
‘And?’ Daley was chewing a particularly tasty piece of sausage. ‘Don’t tell me she’s been on the phone. This investigation’s strange enough as it is without messages from the dead.’
‘That’s the thing, sir. We tried 1471 to get the last caller, and it was Mrs Watson’s mobile number. Two hours ago.’
Daley looked down mournfully at the remainder of his breakfast, and stuck his fork in a sausage. ‘I’m on my way.’
Watson’s home was not as he had expected. No low fisherman’s cottage, or scruffy council flat. Rather, it was a pleasant bungalow, in a small estate of about ten other properties, situated on a hill with wonderful views of Kinloch’s harbour and the rest of the town from a large picture window.
The interior was conservatively furnished, with an expensive-looking Chesterfield-style suite in dark red leather, a large glass-fronted cabinet displaying various items in silver and crystal, and an enormous coffee table centred on a sheepskin rug, which was either artificial or had come from a truly Herculean beast. A CD player was perched on a small table to the side of an impressive gas fire, surrounded by a dark wooden fireplace. On the walls were a couple of Turneresque prints, and above the fireplace a well-varnished ship’s wheel. All bore testament to the lucrative occupation of the householder, who was now recumbent on one of the armchairs, his leg shaking up and down in what Daley had already noted as a nervous habit.
Watson was cradling a small silver cordless phone, his expression understandably puzzled. ‘I mean, what now, Inspector Daley? It’s her number, no doubt aboot that. Look here.’ He propped himself up on one elbow as he fished a mobile phone from a pocket of his jeans. After pressing a couple of buttons, he handed the phone to Daley; the screen read ‘Izzy’, and displayed the same mobile number he had just heard over the house telephone as last caller.
‘As you know, Mr Watson, sadly this was most certainly not your wife, and whoever made this call, and for whatever reason, may be able to shed at least some light on what happened to her. However, don’t raise your hopes too high. The person who rang may well just have found her mobile. It’s a common enough thing to call Home from a phone’s contacts list if you’re trying to find out who the owner is.’
‘Oh, right.’ Watson looked towards Fraser, whose face was beginning the now familiar reddening process. ‘Sir, I never really thought of that possibility.’ He shrugged his shoulders, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an unconscious act of contrition.
‘This is a positive development, Mr Watson. We’ll trace where the call was made from, and with a bit of luck we’ll be able to trace the phone and the caller. Could I have a word with you, please, DC Fraser?’ Daley walked out of the house, with the nervous-looking DC in his wake.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I . . . Mr Watson . . . I thought for sure that the call was of importance, maybe from the murderer.’ He looked at his feet.
‘It’s important that we keep Mr Watson onside, Archie. The caller may be our killer. Who knows? We have to keep our suspicions to ourselves though, understand? We’ll have the so-called gentlemen of the press descending on us later, and, be absolutely sure, they’ll jump on any mistake or unintentional slip. They’ll also wind up Watson, so we have to tread carefully. OK?’
‘Sir.’
‘Consider yourself severely admonished.’ Daley now had a smile on his face. ‘My DS, Brian Scott, is on the way. Now there’s a man who’ll be able to show you the finer points of subtle police work.’
As agreed, Watson was taken to his parents’ house, a much more modest affair in a housing scheme about half a mile from the police office. Watson’s parents were typical of their geography and vintage: Watson senior was of middle height and had probably had the stocky physique of his son when younger, which now had matured into a sizeable girth and jowly face; Mrs Watson, in contrast, was stick thin and birdlike. She fussed over her son as the police officers were shown in by her husband. She had clearly been crying and looked as though she had had little sleep.
After the introductions, Watson’s father was the first to speak. ‘This is a terrible thing, Inspector, jeest terrible. I mean, whoot kinda person wid murder a bonnie wee lassie like oor Izzy?’
‘Don’t even speak aboot it, George,’ wailed Mrs Watson. ‘When I think o’ whoot’s happened . . .’ She burst into floods of tears. ‘That lovely wee boy. What will we say to him, officers? His mammy’s deid.’ She sat on the edge of her chair, her legs and hands shaking, mirroring the nervous habit of her son.
Daley established that the boy was next door with the neighbours. He would have DC Dunn speak to the child; she had been trained in child protection issues and would be able to couch her questions in a way most likely to gain a response from a boy of that age.
The inspector recalled a seven-year-old girl who had been a successful witness in a murder trial only a few months ago. He had interviewed the girl early on in the investigation, getting nowhere. A properly trained child protection officer had later managed to coax out pertinent information which eventually led to a guilty verdict. He was not going to discount any evidence from this poor kid. ‘Could you tell me how your daughter-in-law was when she brought your grandson to stay, Mrs Watson?’ he said gently.
‘Jeest the same as usual,’ she answered, doing her best to regain her composure. ‘Done up tae the nines, of course. She wiz obviously away oot that night. Aye, her skirt was halfway up her arse.’ She looked up, a look of determination on her face. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I jeest wisna happy with the way she . . . wi’ whoot she wiz daein’ behind my son’s back.’
‘Mum.’ Watson was clearly reluctant for his mother to discuss his wife’s behaviour.
‘Mr Watson.’ Daley looked stern. ‘I need every piece of information that I can get.’ He then softened his expression. ‘Please let your mother speak.’
Watson got out of his chair and left the room. His father got up to accompany him, but Daley indicated that he wanted him to stay. ‘I know this is difficult for everyone, but if we’re going to catch the person who did this, I need to know as much as possible about Izzy’s life – good and bad.’
‘She wiz a lush, Inspector, a lush and a tart.’ Mrs Watson jutted out her chin. ‘I wiz sick telling my son aboot her. She wiz nothin’ but a common slut, an’ she wiz leadin’ him a merry dance – aye, fir maist o’ their mairried life. I couldna stand her. I’m sorry she’s deid, but only fir because o’ the wee boy.�
�� She looked Daley straight in the eye. Mrs Watson was clearly not as timid as she appeared.
‘Margaret’ – her husband shook his head – ‘whootever she wiz, she’s deid. It doesna dae tae talk ill o’ the deid, especially when they’re family.’
‘Aye, an’ you were the wan that came back fae the pub every night wi’ stories aboot her. No, she wiz no good, Inspector. No good at all. It wid be a lie if I telt ye any different.’
‘She wiz a stranger, Mr Daley.’ Mr Watson offered this up as an apology for his daughter-in-law’s conduct.
‘A stranger? What do you mean, Mr Watson?’
‘Jeest whoot I say, Mr Daley. She wiz a stranger, she wisna fae the toon. None o’ us knew much aboot her. We soon found oot, mind.’
‘What did you find out, Mr Watson?’
Watson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked over to his wife, who was only too ready to come to his aid. ‘She was from a wee village near Lochgilphead, Inspector. No’ a place anybody cares for, no’ that I know of anyway.’ She had the same determined look on her face, which somehow masked her previously shattered countenance. ‘Her mother wiz notorious there too. Apparently she wiz sleeping around when she wiz nae mair than a lassie. Like mother, like daughter. She’s a nurse here, wid you believe? I refuse tae be treated by her. Aye, oor poor Michael pit his sows tae a poor market.’
‘Do you know anything specific about her background? Did she have any trouble with old boyfriends, for example? We’ll have to speak with as many people who had contact with her as we can find.’
‘Aye, well, you’ll be daein’ lots o’ interviewin’, Inspector. There’s nae shortage o’ boyfriends, that’s fir sure, past an’ present. That’s why oor son had tae go an’ work away.
‘He wiz affronted, jeest affronted. An’ I tell you, Inspector, in a wee place like this, nane o’ your business is your ain, an’ whoot they don’t know, they jeest make up. No’ that there wiz any makin’ up needed as far as she was concerned.’ She sat back in her chair with a look of vindication, as though she had just managed to rid herself of a great burden.
For Daley, this turn of events was not wholly unexpected, though the scale of Watson’s parents’ obvious dislike for their daughter-in-law did come as a surprise. Watson himself had given only the slightest indication that he suspected his wife of infidelity. It now appeared as though she was a serial adulterer.
‘Janet Ritchie!’ Mrs Watson spat the name out. ‘Speak tae Janet Ritchie, that wiz her bosom buddy. Another tart: birds of a feather. She’ll know a’ aboot her carry-on, if anyone does.’
Daley asked a few more questions. Izzy had not given any indication where she was going that night, or who she was going to see. She had assured Mrs Watson that she would be back in time to pick up her son, but when she had not appeared Mrs Watson had put it down to her habitual tardiness, to which she had become accustomed. Only when hours became days did she become concerned.
Apart from Izzy being constantly late, it appeared that Watson’s parents were always expecting her to run off with another man. It was only when Mr Watson senior had heard about the murdered woman that they thought of alerting Michael.
With Janet Ritchie’s address, Daley took his leave of the Watsons. He persuaded Michael Watson that it was best if he stayed with his parents for the time being. Police officers were currently tearing his house apart in an attempt to find anything pertinent to the inquiry.
A request was made to the phone company about the position from which the call from Izzy’s mobile had been made. It would take a few hours.
Daley sent Fraser to find Janet Ritchie, and returned to the police office, where waiting for him was a disgruntled DS Scott with a team of four detectives, including one much-needed female constable.
‘That fuckin’ road’s a nightmare. When you think you’re getting here you’re still miles away,’ said Scott.
Daley decided it best to deflect his right-hand man’s obsession with the inaccessibility of Kinloch. He set the small team operational tasks, including the preparation for the looming press conference, and they were told to book into the County Hotel. This organised, he and Scott drove the few short miles to the bay where Izzy’s body had been found.
Scott was impressed with the progress that had been made since Watson had come forward. On the way though, Fraser phoned to say that Janet Ritchie was neither at home nor at her work and hadn’t been seen for a couple of days by her neighbours. The two detectives exchanged looks. It was possible that Isobel Watson might not be their only victim.
‘Aye, it’s a bonnie wee place right enough,’ Scott mused. ‘Beats walking up and down Back Sneddon Street for a living, eh?’
‘You know my wife’s arriving tonight, with my dear brother-in-law.’ Daley changed the subject suddenly.
‘That cunt. Whit the fuck do they want?’ Scott was, as usual, the soul of discretion. ‘I mean, you know, you’re kinda busy the now.’
‘You know Liz. Anyway, we’ll all be one happy family, even though we’re far from home.’ Daley smiled at his DS.
‘You couldna hae a happy family wi’ that shite cloaking aboot. Mind you nearly hit him o’er the heid at thon barbecue? I wiz pissing myself . . . not literally, of course.’
Daley raised his eyebrows at that memory. ‘We’ll see, Brian. He’s out of his own environment, maybe he’ll be less annoying.’
‘Don’t fuckin’ bet on it, compadre. If he fucks you aboot again, there’ll be a reckonin’.’ Scott stared grimly out the window.
Arriving at Machrie Bay, Daley parked the car on the verge. As soon as he exited the vehicle, his senses were assailed by the smell of the sea. The sea was bordered by rough machair, fringed with yellow-blossomed gorse bushes. He often found the loci of certain murders at odds with the act itself. For some reason, finding someone lying with a staved-in head in a grimy block of inner-city flats seemed more fitting than the body of a murdered woman being found at this idyllic location.
The sea was a deep blue; it looked viscous, as lazy ripples made their slow progress to the shore. High overhead, gulls and gannets dived and wheeled over the small bay. Not far from the beach, Daley could see a boat on which two men were hauling in lobster creels, supported by a cacophony of screeching sea birds.
‘I think a wee word wi’ those guys widna go amiss, Jim, eh?’ Scott echoed Daley’s thoughts precisely.
The young cop guarding the crime scene pointed out just where the body had been found. Yellow chalk markings left by SOCO were still visible on various rocks. On the shore, Daley kicked at a three-fingered fisherman’s glove, as he and Scott took in the scene.
‘Do you know these guys out on the boat, son?’ Scott enquired of the young PC.
‘Eh, aye, sir. It’s Bobby Johnstone and his brother, Camel.’
‘Camel? What kinda name’s that?’
‘They call him that because he doesna drink, sir. It’s a wee bit unusual here for folk no’ tae drink, especially the young ones. I don’t even know his real name . . . just Camel Johnstone.’
‘Aye, right. Well, just you use your initiative an’ work oot how tae get them tae come o’er here. We want tae talk tae them. Aye, an’ it’s sergeant, by the way, no’ sir.’
The constable apologised awkwardly, then made his way to the waterline, stroking his chin as though deep in thought.
‘See, I telt ye, Jim. They’re a’ half daft—’
‘Bobby! Camel! Get yoursels o’er here quick smart! The CID want tae talk tae you!’
The sudden shout made Scott jump involuntarily. ‘That’s whit you call initiative, son? I could have roared at them myself.’
‘Sorry, Sergeant, seems tae have done the trick though.’ He gestured over his shoulder to the fishing boat, where one of the men was giving a thumbs-up.
‘Great, son. Take the award o’ Polis o’ the Year. Noo amaze me mair an’ find me an’ the inspector a cup of coffee. An’ don’t be wakin’ the dead while you’re at it.’
‘Whit have we got here?’ Scott tutted.
On closer inspection, he was a short, stocky man, dressed somewhat colourfully in a yellow oilskin jacket and green waterproof trousers, which were tucked into red Wellington boots. He had thinning grey hair, probably once ginger, swept back over a skull reddened with the sun, as was the rest of his lined, unshaven, jowly face. Daley put him somewhere in his late fifties to early sixties.
‘I wonder whit they call him in Kinloch? Joseph, I shouldna wonder. He looks like he had a narrow escape fae a jelly bean factory.’ In a rather different tone he called out, ‘Hello, sir, how can we help you?’
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ the man said breathlessly in a well-spoken accent. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Glynn Seanessy. I presume you are police officers?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Daley got in before Scott could be sarcastic. ‘I take it you’re aware of the reason we’re here?’
‘Oh yes, yes, most unfortunate. I never thought something like that could happen here. I mean, look around – it’s glorious. So sad that someone should die here, in such an awful way.’
‘May I ask how you know how this person met their death, Mr Seanessy?’ Daley tested the man.
‘Oh, well, you know, Kinloch rumours – that sort of thing.’ Seanessy was now clearly flustered.
‘It’s OK, Mr Seanessy.’ Daley lightened his expression. ‘In the short time I’ve been in Kinloch, I’ve realised that there are few secrets.’
‘Oh yes, just so.’ Seanessy laughed nervously. ‘It’s just . . . I spend a lot of time on the beach and round about. You know, beachcombing, birdwatching and the like. I’m afraid time’s a bit heavy on the old hands now I’m retired. One’s little pleasures et cetera. I’m sure you’re well aware how it is.’
Whisky from Small Glasses Page 9