Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  Daley saw the young lieutenant lower his gaze to the table in an effort to conceal his obvious amusement, while Shanks managed to look more waspish than ever. After a moment’s pause, he made a dismissive gesture with his hand, then folded his arms as a silent indication that he reluctantly accepted.

  From then on, the meeting progressed in the way Daley expected, with Donald firmly in charge and making all the decisions. The plan was simple: the Navy would track the fishing boat by radar into the harbour, while keeping an open communication link with the land-based authorities, who would be in position around Kinloch’s second pier. The two access roads there would be closed, just in case any of the good citizens of the town was out for an early-morning stroll. The Navy would then send an armed security team in a RIB to seal off the loch, should the Latvians somehow get wind of what was going on and try to make a break by sea.

  Lieutenant Carter spoke up. ‘We’ll have ten marines on the RIB, Superintendent, just in case things get a bit heated on the ground – nothing your men can’t handle, I’m sure.’ He smiled at Donald. ‘We don’t have any intel on this particular vessel, but some of these ex-Soviet gangs can be ruthless. If required, we should be able to deploy in three to four minutes. It’ll mean revealing our position, but that won’t matter once the trap’s sprung, eh, gentlemen?’

  He reached down, picked up a blue holdall from his feet and lifted it onto the table. He unzipped it and took out what looked like a pair of large two-way radios. ‘These are satellite-enabled comms devices.’ He looked around the table. ‘They’re intuitive – if the radio signal goes down or is blocked by defensive tactics and so on, they’ll open up a local satellite channel with the command unit. In this case, Sirius. I suggest that the ground ops commander’ – he handed one of the devices to Daley – ‘and the overall commander retain these units.’ The assembled police officers nodded in agreement. ‘Of course, I’ll be shadowing you closely, Chief Inspector Daley, so you might choose to give me control of comms – for naval communication at least.’

  Daley was impressed with the competence shown by the young naval officer. He hadn’t really appreciated just how often the Navy was now involved with crime enforcement issues, especially those involving drugs or armaments. Carter reminded everyone that international terrorism sourced a huge proportion of their funding from the sale of narcotics, the well-worn drugs route from Afghanistan overland into the former Soviet Caucasus region being a favourite. The defence of the UK coastline was the historic role of the Royal Navy; to them, the trade embodied the Armada of the twenty-first century.

  Scott was in the car park smoking a cigarette. Daley gave him a brief summary of the meeting, while the pair stared up at the night sky. The weather had taken a turn for the better, though the temperature was only four or five degrees. Being city boys, they weren’t used to seeing the firmament because of the amber glare of light pollution. Daley remembered his grandfather’s passion for the heavens. On their trips away from Glasgow, he had shown him the different constellations, explaining how they moved across the sky. Daley had now forgotten most of it, though he thought he recognised certain patterns. ‘I think that’s Taurus, Bri. Just there, to the left.’

  ‘Nah, nah, that’s the Bear, Jim. Or maybe the Plough? Och, I’m no’ sure. I wis brought up in Maryhill fir fuck’s sake. The nearest we got tae stars wiz when Thistle were playing the Gers at hame – ye know whit I’m sayin’ – or some bastard stuck wan on ye at the dancin’.’

  Nevertheless, they stood, silently rooted to the spot for a few more minutes, with only the click-flare-click of Scott’s gas lighter to break the spell. This was done more effectively when the security door swung open to reveal Superintendent Donald, swathed in an expensive black overcoat.

  ‘You won’t get any answers up there, lads,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘We leave in an hour, so we better press on with this general briefing. Everyone’s ready.’ He stared up at the sky. ‘Ah, the Big Dipper – wonderful sight.’

  Scott looked dubious. ‘It’s the Bear, is it no’?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Brian.’ Donald turned abruptly and walked back towards the door.

  ‘Aye, whitever you say, boss,’ Scott said in a loud whisper so Daley would hear. ‘Fuckin’ Roger Moore, noo.’

  ‘It’s Patrick, Brian. Patrick Moore.’ Daley enlightened his DS as they made their way to the briefing.

  ‘Eh?’ Scott was already disconnected, stubbing out his cigarette in a flurry of orange sparks.

  The whole team now consisted of the crew of the Royal Navy RIB, a seven-strong police Tactical Firearms Unit, four armed CID officers, plus six uniforms and a DC charged with keeping the public away. Not that the townsfolk should be a problem: the plan was to keep the matter as low-key as possible, using the element of surprise as their key tactic.

  Still, Daley had a heavy heart. Those involved in action on the pier were kitted out with the latest bullet-proof body armour over their civilian clothes, and had each been provided with a reinforced steel helmet by the firearms unit, which Scott was refusing to wear. The DCI though, was still not entirely happy. Sure, they had enough firepower to effect a small revolution, and had more support unit officers on their way from Glasgow to deal with any possible aftermath, but somehow he felt there was an element out of kilter – something he had missed.

  He had discussed this unease with Donald, who had immediately deployed his arm-around-the-shoulder approach, assuring Daley that everything would be fine and hinting that he felt the DCI’s fears were merely down to the added responsibility of a more senior rank. He would ‘get used to it’. But Daley had learned to trust his instincts, and he was finding it almost impossible to rid himself of the leaden feeling of impending doom.

  Maybe I’m just getting too old for this, he thought, as he shouted for a bit of quiet in the room full of police officers. Body armour was being strapped on, helmets secured, weapons being checked just one last time, and the radios and secure mobile phones being used by each officer monitored for serviceable quality, battery level and the like. ‘We all know how we want things to progress. Our first priority, as always, is our own and the public’s safety – please bear that in mind at all times. I don’t want anyone to be too shy to speak up if they feel that something’s wrong or want to draw my attention to possible problems.’ At this, he looked at Donald, who seemed engrossed by something on his Blackberry. ‘We embark in five minutes, so good luck, lads. Now, Superintendent Donald will say a few words.’

  Despite thinking that his boss was not concentrating, no sooner had the invitation to speak left Daley’s mouth than Donald was on his feet addressing the assembled personnel, or ‘unit’, as Donald now insisted on calling them. At his side, an expressionless Shanks looked straight ahead.

  Donald having completed his hackneyed pep talk, Scott began struggling with the straps on his body armour as the room now emptied into three personnel carriers that would transport them all to their drop-off point behind a row of buildings located in front of the harbour. ‘This fuckin’ thing reminds me o’ the ski jacket she bought me last Christmas – mind I telt ye aboot it?’ Daley always admired the sangfroid of his DS, constantly distracted as he was by some seeming triviality despite the circumstances. ‘I says tae her, fuck me, you’d need tae be Harry bastardin’ Houdini tae get intae the thing, never mind get oota it.’

  ‘I never knew he had a middle name.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Houdini.’

  ‘Aye, very good, sir. Can ye no’ make yersel’ useful and strap me intae this contraption, in case Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible wants tae take potshots at me.’

  As Daley was securing a recalcitrant strap, he saw DC Fraser making his way towards them. Not yet trained in firearms, Fraser’s job was to oversee the uniformed constables who were to be involved in sealing off the pier from the rest of Kinloch. He was wearing a dark ski jacket. ‘Tell me, Archie, did you have any bother getting into that jacket of yours?�
� The young detective’s answer in the negative was obscured by a stream of invective from DS Scott.

  The night was cool, and a stillness had descended upon the sleeping town as the unit emerged from three vans, now parked nose to tail behind the local marine chandlers. Daley took a deep breath that smelled and tasted of the sea, which itself looked as black as ink, reflecting only the glow of the few lights bordering the harbour. In the distance, he recognised the pealing of the bell on the pontoons, the mournful sound adding an air of melancholy to the scene.

  Quietly and efficiently, those involved in the operation gathered around the chief inspector, who, after a few words, sent them to their relevant positions. Radios were to be used only in emergencies, to keep the frequency clear for command-and-control purposes, and each officer was wearing a hands-free earpiece, so that no command could be missed.

  Donald and Shanks remained in the station control room, gaining an overview of the operation by monitoring radio traffic and CCTV images from the town’s system, the latter now trained on and around the second pier.

  Fraser and his uniformed colleagues were positioned to the north and west of the second pier, the only road access points. Instead of the regulation fluorescent jackets commonly worn at night by police officers, they wore plain, black waterproof jackets. Not being in the front line, and only responsible for crowd and traffic control, they did not wear the bulky bulletproof vests. Fraser was stationed in the doorway of the last shop on the Main Street before the harbour, keeping a watching brief on the roads which converged near the piers.

  Daley, Scott and Lieutenant Carter positioned themselves at the side of the chandlers, in a narrow lane between it and a two-storey office block. The firearms unit was placed at strategic points at the head of the pier, making sure no one would be able to make a break for the roadway. The four DCs who accompanied them were wearing bulletproof vests under black jackets with discreet police logos, their heads adorned by the navy-blue helmets reminiscent of those worn by World War II German storm troopers.

  The tolling pontoon bell continued until only those with the sharpest hearing discerned another noise – a light, regular thud reminiscent of a generator in a basement. At 03:42 Carter’s radio burst into life. Even with the volume low, Daley could make out what was being said.

  ‘Sirius calling Carter. Over.’

  ‘Go ahead. Over.’

  ‘Please note that our quarry has entered the loch. Our Alpha Unit will shadow in approximately five. Over.’

  ‘Roger. Out,’ Carter whispered into the radio, and then to Daley, ‘The marines are Alpha Unit, in case you haven’t guessed.’

  Daley nodded, and Scott raised his eyebrows as he removed his sidearm from the shoulder holster concealed by his jacket. ‘Fuckin’ sure I’m no’ facing doon half o’ the Red Army wi’ jist my baton, whether they’re retired or no’.’

  The thud of the diesel engine grew louder. To their left, they could see the fishing boat making steady progress up the loch, bright arc lighting hanging from the rigging.

  ‘It’s a pity that dug couldna get here. It wid have been the very dab on that boat, supposing they’re carrying drugs.’ Scott was referring to the sniffer dog, which until an hour ago had been plying its trade at a huge drugs raid in Glasgow, and was now in the back of a van being driven by its handler to Kinloch.

  ‘Can’t be helped, Bri. With these cuts, we’re lucky we can still feed the dogs we have, never mind get any more. Here, take this, and don’t point it at me for fuck’s sake.’ He handed Scott the Koch automatic machine gun, as Lieutenant Carter looked warily on.

  The vessel was now less than four hundred yards from the pier. As regular visitors to the port, the Latvians knew exactly where they were going to berth. They’d confirmed their arrival with Flynn earlier in the day. The harbour master was sitting anxiously in his office, ready to be of assistance.

  ‘DCI Daley to all units.’ He spoke using the hands-free throat mic. ‘On my mark of three initiate strategy F for foxtrot.’ This entailed DI Paterson illuminating the fishing boat with an enormous searchlight set up by his team. At this point, he was to shout instructions through a loudhailer in what he had been reliably informed was Latvian. The firearms team would board, then secure the vessel, accompanied by the DCs who were also equipped with sidearms. The marines aboard the alpha RIB would speed into the harbour under full power to assist if necessary.

  Daley knew that the moments following the trap being sprung were likely to be the most dangerous. However, he took comfort from the professional conduct of Paterson and his fellow officers, as well as the reassuring presence of Carter’s marines and the indomitable Scott.

  He could now see the fishing boat manoeuvring around the end of the pier towards her designated berth. He would wait until the last minute to give the order: when the ropes were secured to bollards and the engine began to die. His men were well concealed, even from the crewman who would have to jump onto the pier to secure the ropes. So far, so good.

  The tone of the engine lowered, and he could make out the foreign voices of the crew as orders were barked into the cool night. In the instant before he pressed the button at his lapel mic to give the order, he thought he heard another noise, a high-pitched buzz. However, unable to hold back for fear of confusion, he gave the go-ahead: ‘Three, two, one – go, go, go!’ Immediately, he saw the bright searchlight on the pier illuminate the scene and heard the sound of raised voices. Everything now happened in a blur of noise and adrenaline.

  Daley took off, closely followed by Scott and Carter, the latter giving instructions to his marines to speed into the pier as soon as they could. Two tactical officers with automatic weapons were kneeling, fore and aft of the vessel, their weapons pointing towards the crew, who were standing on board with their hands placed on their heads – apart from the rope man, who was already being handcuffed, none too gently, by a Paisley DC.

  The bridge of the fishing boat was illuminated, and Daley could see the man whom he assumed was the captain standing at the window, hands aloft, as police officers scrambled onto the vessel. The crew were subdued easily, no doubt fearful of the consequences of making a wrong move while being watched by a dozen heavily armed men. Flynn had told them that the crew usually comprised six men, though that number could vary by one or two. Daley watched as Paterson bounded up the gangway to the bridge, followed by two of his men. The figure on the bridge turned his back to the window and hastily put his hands on his head.

  ‘DCI Daley to Paterson. Over. Update. Over.’ Daley was breathless, quietly cursing his unfit state; DS Scott was beside him, his automatic weapon raised menacingly.

  ‘Stand by,’ barked Paterson.

  From his position in the charity shop’s doorway, Fraser had a clear view of both piers and their environs. He was slightly put out that he wasn’t involved in the raid proper, but he knew that it was due to his lack of firearms training. It was hard to believe that in all the time he had been in Kinloch these serious crimes had been going on under his very nose. He had not suspected Pulse to be the den of iniquity it had proven to be, despite visiting the establishment a few times. Again, he felt gnawing doubts as to his suitability for a career as a detective eating away at his confidence. Was it possible that men like Daley and Scott had started out their careers in such an inept way? He thought it unlikely, and nor could he contemplate a future like that of his uncle, an unfulfilled drunk whose only boasts were contained within the confines of some hostelry and fuelled by the contents of a whisky glass.

  He worried about his personal life too. The police force was not a career conducive to social interaction with the opposite sex. His only proper relationship, with a girl from school, had ended abruptly when he had joined up. He was no longer available to go out with their mutual friends at weekends, and felt uncomfortable if somebody even lit a joint. Eventually she’d accused him of always ‘having secrets’ and being ‘obsessed’ with his new job. She didn’t realise he was being subconsci
ously assimilated into the world he had chosen. It was a journey she was not willing to accompany him on. Her name was Tina, and try as he might he could not seem to conjure up her face, nor bring back the warmth in his heart that she had kindled for a while.

  Just then, he saw movement. A figure was slouching along the short distance between the pontoons and the east pier. Something was wrong. All the vessels moored at both piers and the pontoons had been cleared earlier under the excuse of the discovery of an unexploded World War II mine, and he knew exactly where all the operational officers were. He thought about alerting Daley, but reasoned that the man was most likely some inebriated yachtsman, inadvertently left aboard his vessel during the clear out. Still, the man was about to stray into a very dangerous situation. Fraser stepped out of the doorway.

  Daley could see four men on the deck, now in various states of detention by police officers. There was one man on the bridge, and a crewman was lying on the pier with his hands cuffed behind his back. That made six.

  ‘Bridge secure. The captain’s taking me into the body of the vessel. Crew accounted for. Over.’ At that, a scruffy man made his way gingerly down the gangway from the bridge, his hands on his head, preceded by an officer walking backwards in front of him, gun trained upon the Latvian. Behind, also wielding a weapon pointed in his direction, came another tactical officer, himself followed by DI Paterson.

  The man from the bridge was shouting in broken English: ‘We are fisherman . . . land fish . . . no problem. We have no problem, no?’ He looked around, bemused at the sight of his crewmen, most of whom had assumed the prone position. They were wearing an assortment of torn oilskins, old jeans, filthy jumpers and baseball caps; apart from their swarthy complexions, they could have passed for any of the fishermen Daley had seen since coming to Kinloch. Back on deck, DI Paterson stood behind the captain as he opened a door which led into the body of the fishing boat.