‘Mandy, eh? You’re a dark horse, Bri. I’d have thought she was a bit too young for you. I suppose you never know.’
‘Nah, no’ Mandy! She’s a wee lassie for fuck’s sake.’ Scott reached for a packet of cigarettes on the desk, then pushed them away, realising for the umpteenth time that he couldn’t smoke in the office. ‘Annie. The manager. Aye, she’s quite a character.’ His laugh quickly transformed itself into a chesty cough, which he tried to banish in a cacophony of throat-clearing and snorting.
‘You try to get that lung up and I’ll get you a coffee.’ Daley walked out into the corridor where a rather superior drinks machine was located. To his further surprise, a bright-looking Fraser was walking towards him – the antithesis of DS Scott, in a crisp white shirt under a newly pressed suit.
‘I’m pleased to see my team are taking this investigation so seriously. Not even eight and my core men are already in place. Do you want a coffee, son?’
Somewhat predictably, Fraser began to beam red. ‘Eh, yes, sir. Tea, please, if you don’t mind. White wi’ two sugars.’
Daley pressed the relevant buttons, fed in the appropriate coins, and, as the first Styrofoam mug began to fill, turned to the young DC. ‘I want you to liaise with the nightshift and see what, if anything, happened last night, while I try to sober up our intrepid DS. You’re looking pretty fresh this morning. My new tie too, I see.’ He smiled benignly at Fraser.
‘No bother, sir. I’ll get it back to you. Do you think we’re getting close with this Mulligan guy? It’s all a bit weird, you know, him disappearing an’ all. Nothing up in Tarbert last night. People know him because he goes in and out on his boat, but nothing new. Nobody’s seen him since our last witness.’
‘You know him better than me, Archie. You must’ve come across him on your travels down here, no?’
‘Well, yes and no, sir.’ Fraser cleared his throat and moved nervously from foot to foot. ‘He wasn’t exactly welcoming when I went in for a pint when I first came down here. No’ really surprising, when you consider what’s been going on in there.’
‘More of that later, Archie.’ Daley looked rueful. ‘He seems a bit of a mystery man, our Peter Mulligan.’
Scott’s head appeared out of the CID office. He spoke through a continuous coughing fit. ‘It’s some guy called Flynn tae speak tae you, Jim . . . Says he’s the harbour master . . . Are you fir taking it, or do ye want me tae deal wi’ it? Mornin’, son.’ He turned to Fraser. ‘That’s one hell o’ a tie ye’ve got there.’ He burst into another paroxysm of recalcitrant phlegm. ‘Look after this man, Archie, while I attend to our caller, and bring in the coffee, will you?’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Daley picked up the receiver on Scott’s desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Flynn. Jim Daley here. How can I help you?’
‘Aye, guid mornin’, Chief Inspector. I hear congratulations are in order.’
‘Thank you, Mr Flynn. A surprise to us all, let me assure you.’ He fell silent, hoping that Flynn had something more to say.
‘Oh aye, tae the point, Chief Inspector, tae the point. I thought I wid let you know, there’s been a report of a pleasure boat adrift in the Sound. A passing yachtsman called it in to Clyde Coastguard a few minutes ago. If the identification number and description are correct, it’s a boat belonging to a . . . local man.’
‘Very interesting, Mr Flynn, and thanks for letting me know. But I don’t see how this affects me, at the moment, at any rate?’
‘Oh, well, the cruiser, it belongs to a man named Mulligan. Peter Mulligan. It’s just, well, you must have an idea what Kinloch is like now. I’d heard you were looking for him.’
Daley took a few moments to assimilate the information. ‘So, what do we do now, Mr Flynn? I take it this vessel will have to be checked out? Obviously I’m interested.’ He let Flynn outline the procedure.
‘The local lifeboat has been mobilised, Chief Inspector. Would you like to have a police presence aboard? She’ll be underway shortly.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Flynn. In fact, ask them to give us five minutes. Will there be room for three?’
‘Aye, aye, I shouldna think that’ll be a bother. I’ll speak tae the coxswain noo. See yous shortly.’
The door swung open as Scott and Fraser made their way through from the drinks machine.
‘Sorry, chaps, I hope you have your sea legs on this morning. We’re going for a sail, and we’ve got to rush.’
‘Eh, sail? Whit are ye on aboot noo?’
‘C’mon, Brian. The very thing for a hangover.’
The beverages were placed untouched on the desk as the three men left the office for the harbour, Scott muttering a string of impressive oaths on the way.
The scene on Kinloch’s second pier was one of organised chaos. Men in bright orange RNLI survival suits darted to and fro with ropes, life-saving equipment, unmarked boxes and various pieces of technical equipment. The deep throb of a powerful diesel engine added tempo to the scene, even blocking out the ubiquitous cries of the gulls that gravitated to the harbour in search of food from the meagre assembly of fishing boats.
Flynn was standing by the lifeboat on the quayside as the three detectives pulled up in their unmarked car. He was wearing a robust-looking fleece with HARBOUR MASTER emblazoned in bold gold lettering over his chest. ‘Gentlemen, guid morning. Yous have picked a fine day for a sail. Hang on there, and I’ll introduce you tae the coxswain o’ this fine vessel.’
Daley recalled how thick his accent was, and just how neat the harbour master was too. The white of his cap contrasted sharply with the gloom that had now descended over Kinloch despite the continuing strength of the strong breeze. He noticed also that Scott looked a pale grey colour as he stared over the side of the quay to the loch below; itself a more dark, impenetrable shade than in the last couple of days. ‘All right, Bri? You’re looking a bit green about the gills there.’ He slapped his old colleague vigorously on the back, inducing another coughing fit in the detective sergeant.
‘Are ye sure ye need me here, Jim? I mean, I’m sure I’d be better employed back at the ranch, you know? Cover for you?’
‘No, don’t worry, Brian. Just enjoy the trip. I’ve got a feeling about this.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, boss,’ said Scott, looking doubtfully at the restless water of the loch.
Fraser was on the phone to one of the DCs who comprised the day-shift investigating team. They were busy ploughing through the mountain of records, interview statements, CCTV footage and other nebulous strands of the investigation, which had, as yet, yielded little positive information. The young DC had been assured by one of the lifeboat crew that they were unlikely to lose mobile signal on this trip, and in any event they could be contacted via the boat’s radio system, or internet comms link, should anything vital arise. He felt a bit foolish. When Daley had asked him questions about the character of the locals, he hadn’t been much help. He clearly wasn’t paying enough heed to the surroundings he found himself in. Sometimes Fraser felt that Inspector MacLeod was not merely torturing him with jibes about being hopeless and unsuited to his current position; perhaps there was some truth in it and he did lack the intuitive qualities necessary to be an effective CID officer. He tried to banish these thoughts from his mind as he walked over to the DCI and apprised him of the status quo back at the station.
Scott eyed the whole situation with something more than trepidation. He had drunk much more than was good for him the night before, which was not an unusual occurrence. However, he was more used to assuaging his hangover with a greasy fry-up followed by a couple of pints of coffee; certainly not taking to the high seas, an element on which he had never been comfortable. He knew enough about the sea to realise that the agitated quality of the waves here in the harbour was likely to be much worse when they reached the Sound. He stroked the stubble on his chin as a seagull, swooping low over the assembled throng, deposited a large watery shit on the shoulder of his jacket. He turned to his colleagues, who w
ere already in the first throes of mirth. ‘If any of yous says this is lucky, I’ll stick my toe up yer arse.’ Moments later, he saw the funny side himself, laughed ruefully and strengthened his resolve ahead of his impending nautical odyssey.
A rotund, ruddy-faced man appeared, sporting the grey-and-orange survival suit of the RNLI, augmented by a peaked officer’s cap similar to that worn by Flynn.
‘This is John Campbell, coxswain of this fine vessel,’ announced Flynn. ‘Born on the seventh wave, eh, Johnnie?’
Ignoring this warm introduction, Campbell held out his hand. ‘Which one of you is DCI Daley?’ They shook hands and exchanged introductions, Scott somewhat less enthusiastically than his superior. ‘Ah, young Fraser. I hope you’re still working on your court technique. Poor effort the last time we met, don’t you think?’
Both Daley and Scott looked confused. Fraser explained: ‘As well as being lifeboat coxswain, Mr Campbell is also a local lawyer.’
‘C’mon, old chap. Managing Partner of Campbell, Hope and Mason, Solicitors, Notaries Public and Estate Agents. Though since the demise of poor Stuart – Mason, that is – the property side of our business is sadly on the wane. Now, would you slip on these waterproofs and lifejackets’ – he indicated to a crewman carrying an armful of garments – ‘and we’ll make haste to sea, don’t you think?’ With that he breezed off, shouting a request to another member of the crew, who hurried off to do his master’s bidding.
‘I’d expected some auld sea dog tae be daein’ the job. This guy’s mair like a coxcomb than a coxswain.’ Scott was clearly unimpressed.
‘You know, you never cease to amaze me,’ Daley addressed his DS, who was still trying to remove the bird dropping from his jacket with a white tissue, the name ‘County Hotel’ emblazoned upon it. ‘For a man who never reads a book, where do you find words like coxcomb?’
‘Well, that, Jim, would be telling.’ Scott winked.
Flynn, clearly put out by Campbell’s dismissive attitude towards him spoke up. ‘Aye, in days gone by the lifeboat wiz manned by fishermen. Usually the auldest skipper got the job o’ coxswain. Generations o’ families served afore the mast. No’ noo.’ His face spoke volumes. ‘As ye know, there’s precious few fishermen left, and those that are wid rather be in the pub during their spare time than hangin’ aboot on call for the lifeboat. Pity, really.’ He stared into space wistfully.
‘Whit next? Lawyers takin’ tae the sea? I’ll tell you this, I’ve never been impressed wi’ a lawyer in my life. I hope he knows whit the fuck he’s daein’.’ Scott’s question was querulous.
‘Oh aye, he knows whoot he’s daein’ a’ right, he’s an officer in the RNR tae. The Royal Naval Reserve.’ He answered their blank looks at the acronym. ‘The trouble is, nowadays being on the lifeboat’s mair o’ a middle-class thing, like a badge o’ honour. A’ these posh buggers have yachts, an’ they’re a’ jostling fir a place on the boat. Wan o’ the toon’s other solicitors is involved tae, he’s the deputy cox. But believe it, or believe it no’, they’ll no’ sail on the boat thegither. It’s a wile carry-on, right enough.’ Campbell shook his head in apparent disbelief. ‘Right, gentlemen, let’s be having you. On and out, on and out.’
‘I’m no’ goin’ tae enjoy this one bit,’ moaned Scott as Flynn helped him to clip his lifejacket on. ‘Nah, no’ in the slightest.’
The bridge of the lifeboat was much more high-tech than Daley had expected. Two black high-backed seats that wouldn’t have been out of place on the space shuttle dominated the front of the cabin. An impressive array of dials, levers and LED screens, along with two large computer monitors, faced John Campbell and his deputy, who were, Daley assumed, responsible for steering the boat. Behind them, on a lower seat facing the side of the craft sat another crewman, staring at a huge monitor, which to Daley’s untrained eye was displaying similar geographical information to that he had seen in the harbour master’s office.
The three police officers, now thoroughly out of their comfort zone, held on grimly to chunky handrails. Other members of the crew moved about the vessel with the easy gait of those accustomed to the rolling nature of sea craft.
‘As you can appreciate, gentlemen’ – the coxswain’s voice was amplified via loudspeakers built into the bridge – ‘we are unable to ramp up the power until we’re out of the harbour area and clear of the loch. As soon as we pass the island there’ – he gestured airily with one hand – ‘we will be able to take her up to forty knots plus.’
‘Aye, just fantastic,’ Scott mumbled, his face now bordering on a shade of lime green.
Daley leaned forward to peer out of the bridge windows. The island at the mouth of the loch looked like an oversized bread roll. He could see that the water beyond looked choppier, and he suppressed a smile as he sneaked a look at his DS clinging manfully to his handrail.
Campbell’s voice boomed out from the loudspeakers. ‘Now, from the position reported earlier this morning, I reckon that it will take us around thirty minutes to locate the craft. I must warn you that the weather is deteriorating somewhat, and once we get beyond the island it might get a tad rough, so I may have to ask you to take a seat and get strapped in. I’ll see how we go.’
They were now level with the island. Daley could see what he thought was a sheep grazing halfway up what appeared to be a sheer cliff and mentioned it to Campbell.
‘Too much time spent in the city, my good man. That sheep’s a mountain goat. Ancient beasts, you know. Probably introduced to this area by the first hunter-gatherers. Fascinating! Run wild now, of course. Ah, hang on, chaps!’ He pushed a large lever located in front of him. The tone of the engines changed; they could now be felt through the steel floor of the vessel. The prow of the lifeboat rose into the air as the trim altered, and they began to pick up speed more rapidly than Daley thought possible at sea. Of course, his experience of the ocean was mainly confined to the Clyde steamers of his childhood and the odd Channel ferry or trip on Mark’s yacht. This feeling was much more exhilarating, even though the boat was now bouncing through the waves, shaking up those onboard like ice in a cocktail shaker.
He saw Campbell lean over to the man beside him, who began to unbuckle his seatbelt. ‘As I expected, the swell here’s a bit lively. Gareth here will help you into the chairs behind you, and get you strapped in. The last thing I need is a lifeboat full of injured bobbies.’
The crewman helped them into the seats located just behind the bridge in a wide corridor. As he strapped Scott in, Daley noticed the DS whisper in the ear of the lifeboat man, who smiled and disappeared, only to return a few moments later with something that looked like a small cardboard potty, the type provided for elderly patients in hospital.
Scott contemplated the receptacle for a few seconds, then retched violently into it, splashes of vomit dotting his orange lifejacket. Fraser, sitting next to him, wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste and leaned away from his colleague, in case he too benefited from the return of last night’s over-indulgence. The smell of stale alcohol filled the vessel.
‘Fuck this’ seemed an adequate summation of events as far as Scott was concerned, as he wiped his face with a large paper hankie provided by the attentive Gareth.
‘You all right, mate?’ Gareth’s English accent was discernible through the general hubbub.
‘I’ll tell you when I’m back in Paisley, son,’ was the pallid policeman’s reply.
The engines suddenly quietened, and the lifeboat slowed perceptibly. Daley turned in his harness and looked towards the bridge where Campbell was unbuckling his seat belt.
‘Unscheduled stop, gentlemen,’ he said as an aside to the three trussed policemen. ‘Have you met Hamish, our local seer?’
‘Oh yes.’ Daley nodded vigorously. ‘I don’t understand, though. What does he have to do with all this?’
‘He’s just waved us down. I’m going to have a quick word with him. He’s got a working boat, keeps his hand in with crabs, shellfish and the like. Do you
want to come up top and see what he wants? It won’t take long. He’s a good old buffer – knows much more than people think.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Daley was struggling to unfasten his belt. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Scott was rubbing his forehead with his left hand, still looking deathly. ‘If yous don’t mind, I’ll jist stay here an’ try and stop my guts from ending up in a bucket.’
‘I’m OK, sir.’ Fraser was still keeping a considerable distance between himself and the DS. ‘I don’t want to abandon a colleague in his time of need.’
Daley released himself from the bonds of his safety belt and followed Campbell up a small gangplank and out onto the deck. Light drizzle brushed his face. The sea was a deep grey colour, and he could see a bank of darker sky to his left, just above the horizon. The water lapped noisily against the sides of the lifeboat, as a much smaller vessel chugged slowly towards them in a blue pall of diesel fumes. It looked like a large rowing boat, onto which a square wooden cabin had been incongruously grafted. The registration number KH213 was painted in peeling black letters on the prow of the craft. Hamish’s head popped up from beneath the cabin canopy, his tanned face distinctive under a well-worn Breton cap.
‘Ahoy there, Hamish!’ Campbell shouted from the bow of the lifeboat. ‘What can we do for you?’
The engine fumes from the venerable vessel caught Daley in the back of the throat, and momentarily he thought he might retch. He swallowed, took a deep breath and allowed the nausea to pass. The sensation of movement on the lifeboat was much more pronounced than he had ever experienced at sea, and he was glad that Liz’s presence in the County the previous evening had ensured that he hadn’t over-indulged.
Hamish threw a coil of rope at the lifeboat, which Campbell caught in the casual manner of the accustomed sailor. ‘Mornin’, Mister Campbell, Chief Inspector. How yous daein’?’
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