‘There’s something bothering me, sir.’
‘Bothering you? The whole fucking thing’s bothering me. What is it?’ There was more than a trace of the old shift sergeant in Donald’s tone.
‘These guys are out on the high sea, and they’ve been up around Skye, yes?’ Donald nodded his head. ‘So, if we’re working on the premise that one of this Latvian gang was responsible for our three murders, how does the fact that they’re miles away when at least two of the murders were committed factor in?’
‘Hit man, or one of their party sent on ahead. Could be an associate, or even someone involved with this Mulligan character. The possibilities are endless. Anyhow, I’m certain that these Russians, or whatever they are, will unlock the door to the riches of the truth.’ He noticed the confused look on Daley’s face. ‘Hanson, my PR man, came up with that. Good, don’t you think?’
‘Truly inspired, sir. I better get on. Is there anything else?’
‘No, Jim, off you go and get organised. We’ll have a strategy meeting here at one – unite the various agencies. You’ll be Officer Commanding, under my auspices of course.’ He smiled beneficently.
‘Of course, sir. Of course.’
The forensic teams had thoroughly swept Russian Gold. Only a small quantity of cannabis had been found, which strengthened the uneasy feeling that was gnawing away at Daley. If they were out on a drugs run, who were they meeting? The Latvians were nowhere near Kinloch at the time. It didn’t make sense. Unless they were involved with some other supplier. Perhaps they were just running away, though Daley doubted this scenario.
Like Izzy Watson, the body of Janet Ritchie contained evidence of more than one sample of semen. Whether they came from the same partners had yet to be verified, however, Daley was almost certain that would be the case. Collecting and identifying samples was one thing, matching them to suspects was another.
Something he could not define was shouting at him, like someone trying to make himself understood from a great distance. The odd word could be made out but offered little in the way of understanding. That he was missing something, he was sure. The question of what that might be was perplexing his subconscious, distracting him during conversations, or when trying to work through other problems.
He needed to step back, if only for an hour or so, to get some perspective. With forensics doing their job, and while the rest of the team were involved in the daily grind of the investigation, he decided he could make some time to meet Liz. Scott opted to go to his room for a sleep, ahead of the late-night raid. They had agreed that Daley would wake him around ten, when they would go back to the station and prepare.
Daley had led many raids, mostly on the homes of suspected drug dealers or murder suspects. He had once stopped a train with a passenger on board whose suitcase was filled with cocaine, but he had never had to perform this task aboard a boat. He worried about the character of the Latvians. MacLeod had made no bones about the fact he reckoned them tough. In Daley’s experience, though, anyone who came from the old Soviet Union or anywhere near it was suspected of being either ex-KGB, or Russian Special Forces. More often than not, they turned out to be gangs of opportunists, desperate to escape the grinding poverty of their homeland. The possibility that something more sinister lurked on the fishing boat en route to Kinloch was a possibility. He hoped they had the firepower to cope with any eventuality.
The two detectives cadged a lift to the door of the County Hotel, despite its proximity to the station. The rain was now torrential, thudding off the road and forming deep puddles; filthy water was gushing from a blocked drain into the gutter. At the bottom of the street, Daley could see that the loch was near to the edge of the pier, meaning a high tide swollen by the deluge.
‘See ye later, boss, and mind and not forget tae gie me a shout at ten.’ Scott waved as he made his way up the staircase.
Through the hatch, Daley could hear his wife’s dirty laugh. He found her sitting on a bar stool, her long, tanned legs shown off to optimum effect by a short denim skirt and cowboy boots. Daley’s smile was pure reflex.
She took a few moments to notice him, so engrossed in conversation was she with a tall dark-haired figure leaning on the bar, a small glass of whisky clutched in his veined hand.
‘Chief Inspector, I hope you don’t mind me passing the time of day with this bonnie wife of yours. Aye, it makes an old cop’s heart glad.’ He smiled at the detective.
‘Good evening, Mr Bain. Be my guest. I’m used to men finding my wife excellent company.’ He grimaced slightly at this as it sounded more accusatory than he had intended, and was glad to see Liz affect a mock pout in response.
‘Why don’t you have all these funny stories about your time in the police, darling? Lachie’s been keeping me company. What else can you do in this weather?’ She grinned.
He bent over her, briefly kissing her forehead. ‘What do the good people of Kinloch do in weather like this, Lachie?’
‘Drink mostly. Mind you, it doesna really matter what the weather’s at for that to happen.’ His Highland lilt – in contrast to MacLeod’s – was easy on the ear.
Daley bought them a drink each: gin for Liz, a Talisker for Lachie and a pint of 70/- for himself. With the operation to coordinate in the early hours, he decided to limit himself to two pints of beer. He was pleased that Scott had opted for a lie down, as he reckoned that his wayward DS may have found it difficult to resist a hair of the dog, such had been the severity of his hangover and the nature of his day’s work.
They sat at the same table near the back of the room that Daley had grown strangely accustomed to during his short stay in Kinloch. The bar was quiet, with only Mandy keeping busy restacking newly washed glasses onto shelves behind the bar. A log fire crackled in the grate near their table, which, along with the dark wood panelling and low lighting, gave the place a cosy midwinter feel. A sodden customer entered the room, shrugging off a heavy waterproof jacket that seemed to gush water like an open tap. He was ushered back into the corridor by the fussing barmaid and instructed to hang the offending garment over an old iron radiator. Daley looked on as steam rose from the coat, while its owner ordered up a half pint and a whisky chaser, rubbing his hands together vigorously in an attempt to set his circulation to rights.
‘You certainly have sudden changes to the weather here, Lachie. It was like summer yesterday, and now it feels like winter again.’ Daley put his arm around the shoulders of his wife, who nestled closer to him.
‘That’s the thing, sir, the joys of living on the mighty Atlantic seaboard.’
‘Please, Lachie, call me Jim. You’re a civilian now. I hear enough of that at work.’
‘Old habits die hard. Ye’ll find oot yersel’ one day. Anyway, that’s half that’s wrong with the job these days. No one has any respect any more.’ His face was thunderous, but soon broke into a smile. ‘We had an old minister on Barra when I was a boy – Wee Free, of course – and I think I’m getting more and more like him every day.’
They laughed. It was strange how hypnotic a real fire could be. All three of them stared blankly into it for a few moments, until Liz broke its spell. ‘Oh, weather permitting, I’m off on a photography trip tomorrow, out into the wilds.’
Liz had studied photography at college, and exhibited her work on a number of occasions. Her parents, disappointed that she hadn’t opted for law or medicine, had actively discouraged her, and, disheartened by poor sales and distracted by becoming a policeman’s wife, she had given it up and consigned her expensive Leica 35mm camera to the back of a cupboard, where it had stayed. The rise of digital photography, with its instant results, had reignited her passion. Now, armed with the Nikon Daley had given her for Christmas, she had produced some stunning results, mostly landscapes and seascapes. ‘I noticed an advert in the newsagent’s window, you know the one in Main Street?’ They both nodded. ‘Well, this guy does escorted wildlife trips, especially for photographers, birdwatchers, that kind of thing. I hop
e to get some wildlife pictures. Anyhow, I gave him a bell earlier, and we’re heading out tomorrow about ten, if the weather’s OK.’ She held up both of her hands with fingers crossed.
‘Is it that wee bugger Seanessy?’ Bain looked inquisitive.
‘Yes, that’s him. I take it you know him?’
Daley was only half listening to the conversation, the weight of the inquiry preying on his mind, but he caught the name Seanessy. ‘Is that the guy who lives in the cottage by the beach, near to where, well, where we . . .?’
Bain nodded. ‘Aye, an unfortunate man in many ways he is too.’
Daley was surprised at the remark. He had considered Seanessy a harmless eccentric, nothing more.
‘He had a bit o’ a hard time teaching up at the school.’
‘Oh, in what way?’ Liz was all ears.
‘Och, the kids used to give him a hard time. Nothing malicious, you understand.’ Bain went on to tell them that his daughter had been taking her exams when Seanessy arrived at the school as a young chemistry teacher. He had an awkward, shy manner, and was excellent fodder for a classroom full of adolescents who could spot an insecure teacher at a hundred yards. Despite himself, he was prone to allowing his eyes to wander to the plunging necklines of female students, who – girls being girls – made sure their blouses were unbuttoned to the absolute limits of decency. ‘They would all piss themselves watching this poor bastard clocking their tits. Oh, eh, pardon me.’ He looked embarrassed.
Liz brushed it off. ‘I’ll have to watch myself tomorrow. Maybe I should wear a polo neck!’
‘We got a complaint about him once. I went up to talk to him at the school. I felt sorry for him, really. Some wee lassie accused him of touching her up, but there was nothing in it.’
‘Oh?’ Daley looked at Bain questioningly. He didn’t want Liz tripping about in the middle of nowhere with the local pervert.
‘Och, something and nothing. We had a complaint from a town councillor, so we were obliged to take it further. It turned out that he’d been married, but his wife buggered off with a colleague. They had a young daughter too. I don’t think he ever saw the wife again, at any rate.’
‘Oh, poor guy,’ said Liz.
‘Anyway, out of the blue a few years ago, his lassie turned up. In her twenties by this time. She caused him all sorts of grief: drugs, drink, you name it. She took off after about a year or so. Not before she relieved him o’ bags o’ money, right enough.’
‘Wayward daughters seem to be the order of the day down here,’ Daley said absently, gazing into the sparking flames of the fire.
‘Sorry, darling?’ Liz touched his face with the back of her hand.
‘Nothing, love, just miles away there.’ He smiled warmly and kissed her fingers.
Bain carried on, oblivious to the scene of marital bliss. ‘A couple of years ago he found out she died. Aye, in some squalid flat somewhere in Edinburgh. Drugs, of course. I think he took it badly. He’s one of these do-gooders who think they can change the world with a bit o’ kindness. He brought her back and buried her here.’ Bain swilled his whisky. ‘Can I be getting you both another?’
They both said yes, and the older man got stiffly to his feet, proceeded to the bar with his hands folded behind his back, and waited as Mandy served another drenched customer.
‘He couldn’t be anything else but a cop, could he, darling?’ Liz was studying Bain’s stance.
Daley nodded. It was true: once you had been in the police, or had been involved in any meaningful way with it, spotting other policemen was easy – even ones like Bain, long retired.
‘What a sad story about Mr Seanessy. Poor guy.’
‘Just you keep your hand on yer ha’penny, darling, and wear that polo neck.’ Daley grinned as she punched him playfully on the arm.
Bain suddenly turned around. ‘Spunky, that was his nickname. Aye, Spunky.’ He chuckled, before turning back to order the drinks.
They spent some time discussing the changes that had taken place in Kinloch since Bain had arrived in the late 1970s. It appeared that locals had a fierce loyalty to their town, and despite the remoteness of the place thought there was nowhere like it; a kind of relationship to home and hearth that had all but disappeared elsewhere. This didn’t surprise Daley, who had rapidly developed an affinity with the area. Like everywhere else in Scotland, alcohol and drug abuse took its toll, and in the words of Lachie, things hadn’t changed for the better.
Daley wasn’t sure how many times he had heard that trotted out. Every generation throughout history must have looked upon the behaviour of their progeny with a leery eye. Things weren’t perfect by any means, yet the town had a kind of bonhomie, surely extinct in many communities in the twenty-first century.
‘Having said all that, I wouldn’t like to live anywhere else in Scotland.’ Bain drained his whisky. ‘Aye, and it’ll be even better when you get this little mess cleared up, eh? It’s all people are talking about at the airport. I even heard that the army were on their way to sort things out. Anyway, folks, I’ve enjoyed your company, and I hope I’ll see you again.’ He got up slowly. ‘The best of luck to you tonight, Chief Inspector.’ He winked at Daley, gave Liz a big smile and then left, assuring them that ‘mince and tatties would wait for no man’.
Later, in the dining room, Liz asked her husband what was happening that evening. Daley paused. ‘I can’t really talk about it, Liz. I’m not trying to be difficult’ – he shrugged – ‘but it’s nothing you’re not used to.’ He raised his eyebrows in contrition.
‘All I’m concerned about is you.’ Liz looked earnest. ‘I don’t know what it is, I’ve just got a weird feeling in my stomach. Know what I mean?’
Daley did, but decided that reassurance was the best policy. ‘You know me – belt and braces – and I’ve got Brian with me. What could possibly go wrong?’
She smiled, but the strain on her face was clear. The rest of the meal was a quiet affair.
15
Tick. Tick. Tick. The wall clock in the CID room seemed especially loud, or maybe the tense atmosphere just made it appear so. Representatives from all the agencies involved in the imminent raid on Koba had gathered to discuss their strategy.
Representing Strathclyde Police were Superintendent Donald, DCI Daley and DI Paterson, who was in charge of the Tactical Firearms Unit to be deployed at the raid. HM Customs was represented by a wispy-haired Ulsterman called Tommy Shanks, whose angular face bore a permanently disgruntled expression, as though being in the Kinloch CID office in the early hours of the morning was absolutely the last place in the world he wanted to be. Lieutenant Philip Carter had just arrived via helicopter from the Royal Navy frigate Sirius; the warship was still trailing the Latvian vessel at a discreet distance. Harbour master Flynn sat nervously at the end of the table.
Donald, as chairman, was the first to speak. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, and my apologies for dragging you all here at such an uncivilised hour. However, as you no doubt appreciate, we are facing a tricky set of circumstances.’
Here we go, thought Daley, watching his boss consult an impressively large pile of typed notes. ‘We know from our friends in the Royal Navy’ – he smiled at Lieutenant Carter – ‘that the Koba is heading for Kinloch, and on current estimates should arrive at the harbour between three thirty and four. We will, of course, be in position well in advance of this time.’ He discarded the top sheet of notes. ‘Now, we all know the challenge. We are reliably informed that this fishing boat is a regular visitor to the port, and that her crew is involved with the supply and distribution of illegal drugs.’
At this, Shanks sighed. ‘I think we’re all aware why we’re here, Superintendent. I think it would be more appropriate at this time to discuss who should be leading this operation. This is clearly a matter where HM Customs should take precedence.’ He waved his hand at Donald in an imperious way that Daley reckoned he might regret. Vain, posturing and arrogant, Donald undoubtedly was: ill prepared, easily dominated
, malleable he was not.
‘I had hoped we could run this operation in an adult, non-partisan fashion. I see that’s not going to be the case.’ Donald removed his spectacles and glowered at Shanks. ‘While I do not deny Customs have every right to be involved in the due process of the operation, the non-availability of support personnel, combined with lack of infrastructure in this area, excludes the possibility of command.’ Shanks cleared his throat to speak, but Donald carried on. ‘We came by the information about this boat as part of an inquiry which now concerns the brutal murder of three individuals. We have good reason to believe that an individual, or individuals, aboard Koba could well be involved with these events, if not directly responsible. Therefore, this operation will proceed as it began: police led.’ He slapped the palm of his hand on the table to emphasise the point.
Shanks, though, was not to be put off. ‘First, I find it highly irregular that you’ve chosen not to inform us from whom and from where this information came, and also, perhaps more crucially, when? We were only contacted in the late afternoon. However, it has been brought to my attention that you received the tip-off this morning. Had we been contacted then, we would now be in a position to have the correct infrastructure in place. Do you follow, Superintendent?’
It had been a long time since Daley had seen Donald go red in the face with anger, not since his makeover from being a crude, gruff, overweight shift sergeant, in fact.
‘You listen to me.’ Donald pointed his Mont Blanc fountain pen at the Customs Officer. ‘I’m overseeing a triple murder investigation a hundred and fifty miles from my headquarters, an investigation which contains much sensitive and restricted information, as well as the possibility of a number of serious crimes. Too many cooks spoil the broth, in my experience. Do you really think I am about to hand over the reins at this crucial phase to an organisation more at home creeping about bonded warehouses, or getting my taxes wrong? If you’re not prepared to go along with the command structure of this operation, you can fuck off. It’s going ahead with or without you – is that clear?’
Whisky from Small Glasses Page 19