Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  She could hardly get the words out. This was the scenario that had been in the back of her mind when she first met and then fell in love with Jim. Only two years ago, one of his colleagues had been shot during a drugs raid. Liz had visited his widow, who sat in an armchair, behaving entirely normally, save for the fact that she refused to believe her husband was dead, convinced he was playing an elaborate hoax – a windup so loved by police officers. ‘Can I speak to DCI Daley, please? It’s his wife.’

  The pause at the other end of the phone was excruciating, then, somewhat hesitantly, the voice returned. ‘Yes. I’ll need to put you on hold, I’m not sure if he’s in the office at present.’ The line clicked onto a musical hold sequence: Queen’s ‘Seven Seas Of Rhye’.

  ‘Hi, darling, I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to . . .’

  ‘Fuck!’ she swore loudly. ‘Fuck, Jim! I’m at my wit’s end here.’ Suddenly her mouth went dry, and no more words would come out. She felt as though something was trying to make its way from her chest into her throat. She started to sob convulsively.

  ‘Liz, what’s wrong? Are you OK?’ Daley sounded really worried. ‘Where are you?’

  She did her best to control the spasm of tears. ‘I’ve just . . . just been told a policeman was killed last night, and I thought . . .’

  Daley raised his head to the ceiling and massaged his temples with his free hand. ‘Listen, Liz, I can’t say anything about what happened last night. You understand. It’s been hard, OK?’ He heard her trying to compose herself. ‘All you need to know is I’m fine, and the danger’s over.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she managed to squeak in reply. ‘Oh thank God’.

  Daley knew that, despite all her faults, Liz had a deep faith: not a structured or formal religious belief, just a basic faith in God, a supreme being, entity, something. He knew she prayed every night and he realised that her words came from the heart and were not some casual blasphemy.

  Liz felt her breathing ease. Annie was sitting beside her on the bed, arm around her shoulder, and she felt comforted by the other woman’s closeness. ‘All I need to know is that you’re safe and out of danger. Surely you can at least give me that?’

  ‘I’m fine, really. I have a lot on, Liz. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Things will be a lot clearer later today. Please try not to worry. Aren’t you going on your photography trip? At least it’s not pissing down.’ He heard her sobs break into a throaty laugh. Calmer now, she told him what she had heard, and how fear had gripped her heart.

  ‘I could come up, see you for a few minutes.’ Liz’s voice was now almost normal.

  ‘I’d love that, darling, but I can’t, not just now. Things are going to be full on over the next few hours. Just enjoy your trip, and I promise I’ll keep my phone on, even on silent, OK?’

  They ended the call expressing mutual love. Liz tossed her mobile on the bed and hugged Annie in silent thanks for just being there.

  As Daley put the phone down, Scott appeared at the door looking grim. ‘The captain of the boat is ready tae be interviewed, boss. Vassily, is his name: Vassily Demienov. He’s an arrogant bastard an’ all. What’s the plan?’

  Daley stayed silent for a few moments. He felt real anger. Every time he stopped thinking of something specific, Fraser’s boyish face filled his mind’s eye. Every time he thought of it he felt his bile rise; the familiar lifting feeling he had when about to lose it. ‘You and me, Brian. The emperor’s gone for a lie down. Let’s nail the bastard.’

  Daley’s face was devoid of emotion. Scott, though, knew that, inside, his friend was struggling to keep a lid on his hot temper, which he would have to try to ensure did not boil over.

  The pair made their way in silence down to the interview room. Passing an open doorway, they saw a young female PC in floods of tears, being comforted by her colleagues. The left corner of Daley’s mouth began to twitch involuntarily, and his eyes narrowed.

  There was an overpowering stench of fish, and the fainter odour of stale alcohol, in the interview room. Vassily Demienov was leaning back, his ample frame filling the chair. His hair was dark and greasy, and he had a few days’ beard growth. Pudgy hands were clasped across his plaid shirt, which strained to contain his bloated belly. He looked as though he was in his early sixties, though he had assured the desk sergeant he was ten years younger. In short, he was no stranger to hard living.

  He appraised the detectives with bleary eyes as they entered the room. Scott went over to switch on the tape machine. but Daley asked him to wait. He took his seat and leaned over the desk that separated him from the Latvian.

  Before Daley could speak, the fisherman began waving his hands. ‘I have been here for over an hour, and I have had no coffee, or tobacco.’ His accent was strong, like the classic movie interpretation of a Russian voice. ‘Before I say anything I want to be fed and I want a cigarette.’

  Scott could see that Daley was on the point of combustion, so spoke up quickly. ‘You, my friend, are in Scotland now. If you’d told us you were a transvestite, we’d have sent out for a dress, or if you’d told us you were a heroin addict we wid have filled you full o’ methadone. Fuck, we’d have got you a picture o’ Stalin if it wid help you cooperate, but I’ll tell you this: you’ve mair chance of flying tae the moon right noo, under yer ain steam, than lighting up a fag in a polis station. Let me assure you, I know. I’ve tried.’

  Daley’s face remained blank. ‘I want you to tell me all you know about the man who killed my officer. I don’t want any shit. I’m most certainly not in the mood, and you won’t be seeing one scrap of food, or anything else, until you do. That clear?’ He looked the captain straight in the eye.

  The Latvian raised his eyebrows, then unclasped his hands, letting a long continuous sigh issue from his lips. ‘Before you try to bully or threaten me, I will tell you this: I was in the Soviet army. I’ve been interrogated by the KGB and the FSB. I’ve been made to stand in a barrel of freezing water for two days, then thrown back into a cell covered in my own shit and piss. I have had my fingernails pulled out. I’ve even had electrodes taped to my balls. Let me assure you, there’s nothing you can do that will scare me.’

  ‘You’ve obviously no’ been tae the Stewart Street CID office,’ Scott quipped, silenced by a look from Daley.

  ‘We have your boat, Mr Demienov.’ Daley’s voice was steady but menacing. ‘So far, we have found nothing aboard, but I know why you and your friends were here. So, unless you’re willing to help me, I’m sending the vessel to Customs, who will take it apart piece by piece, then hand you it back to you as a lorry full of wood. Do you understand?’

  Scott was impressed. He knew Daley was furious, devastated by the loss of Fraser, yet he was still managing to conduct the interview without exploding, and judging by the look on the fisherman’s face, he had located his soft spot.

  It was the captain’s turn to lean forward. ‘You are the one who does not understand. How could you? Living here where you are even paid not to work, given houses, food put in your belly by your country.’ Demienov was clearly an emotional man. ‘My whole life is in that boat. It is my home as well as my place of business.’ He sat back in his chair and stared down at his stomach. ‘In my country we don’t have people like you to defend us against the . . .’ He uttered an unintelligible word in his own language. ‘I think you call them parasites.’

  ‘Explain.’

  The fisherman flung his arms in the air. ‘If I want to land my fish, if I want to repair my boat, if I want a visa from the local magistrate to allow me to leave home waters – all these things must be paid for.’

  Now Scott took his turn. ‘We’ve a’ got to pay – everybody, everywhere. Whit makes you any different?’

  ‘We don’t pay a nice man with a briefcase in a government office.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘In the West, you think we have been liberated since perestroika. You are wrong. This is why I leave Moscow.’ He was becoming more agitated. ‘In the old days, if you kept yo
ur head down and put a few coins in the right pockets, you could get on with your life. I moved to Latvia. Who cared about Latvia? I bought a small boat and started to fish. Do you not see? There was law and order, like you have here. Now . . . now it is different.’

  ‘Give him a fag, Brian.’

  ‘Whit? Fuck me, there’ll be smoke alarms an’ a’ sorts goin’ off. Are you sure, gaffer?’ He didn’t need to ask twice. He produced his cigarettes from his pocket and, flicking open the packet, offered one to Demienov, who grasped it desperately with filthy fingers. Scott lit the cigarette with his Zippo, then slid a metal wastepaper basket over to the man with his foot, to serve as an ashtray.

  ‘Go on, please, Mr Demienov.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss, but it is not my doing. We are just fishermen. The man who is dead, I only know him as Kirov. We land him at certain places, he moves things about, he picks things up.’ Demienov shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘What things?’ Daley asked.

  ‘I never ask. Where I come from, it is better not to know.’

  ‘You can guess, though. I can tell already that you are not a stupid man, Mr Demienov.’ Daley studied the Latvian, going through the same mental processes that he always used when trying to form a picture of someone from whom he was attempting to extract information. People lied to the police: that was a given. Even seemingly upright responsible citizens would find themselves guilty of at least the sin of omission when faced with any kind of questioning. Mistrust of the police ran as deep in Govan as it did in Vladivostok; only the methods of investigation varied. He had already decided that Demienov was in essence an honourable man placed in an impossible situation. Daley was sure that the skipper knew exactly what Kirov – if that was the man’s real name – was up to, however, he was powerless to do anything about it.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Latvian spoke again. ‘Every time I come to your country, I hear complaints from people. It’s too cold. I pay too much tax. The TV is rubbish. The beer is expensive. I can’t afford a new car. People should come to my country and find out what it means to have a complaint. Do you understand me?’ The fisherman rubbed his sallow face and looked at the officers through weary eyes. ‘I have always dreaded this day.’ He sighed deeply, like someone carrying a huge burden. ‘You hope and pray that you will get through it, that they will leave you alone. But in your heart you know that one day luck will run out, and everything you have worked for will come tumbling down.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A man is dead, a man from a strange land, who I don’t know. It is my duty to help you. I am only sorry that it has taken me so long to come to my senses, be brave enough to do the right thing. I hope you can understand this, sir?’

  Daley nodded silently.

  17

  Liz waited outside the hotel, perched on the windowsill. She could see that the bottom of Main Street was cordoned off with a mixture of blue-and-white police tape and the yellow do-not-cross variety. She shivered involuntarily, still feeling sick about the dead policeman.

  Seanessy had arranged to meet her at ten, and he was already fifteen minutes late. She didn’t consider this an auspicious start, but had managed to entertain herself by wondering just who the many people were who had said ‘Good morning, Mrs Daley, fine day’, and, more importantly, how they knew who she was. She was dressed sensibly – stout hiking boots over thick socks, a pair of navy-blue trousers – and carried a heavy fleece, just in case the weather changed. A tight-fitting round-necked T-shirt revealed the curve of her breasts and her slim figure. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and a pair of expensive sunglasses were propped on her head, while over her shoulder she had a backpack, specially designed to hold her camera and lenses, along with a bottle of water and the sandwiches which Annie had insisted on making for her before she left.

  Liz leaned her head back, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. It didn’t feel possible that this was the same country as yesterday, never mind the same town. The driving rain and strong winds of only a few hours ago had given the place an entirely new aspect, and she much preferred today’s conditions. Gulls soared in the blue sky, and the smell of the sea filled her nostrils. A cold hand grabbed her heart when she thought of the policeman lying on a mortician’s slab, his days of feeling the wind on his face over for eternity. She removed her sunglasses and hair bobble, then shook her head vigorously, banishing the nag of mortality she felt.

  She was redoing her ponytail when an ancient Land Rover drew up beside her. The driver leaned across the passenger seat and with some difficulty managed to wind down the window. ‘Mrs Daley, I presume. Sorry I’m a tad late. Hop in.’

  Liz took the backpack from her shoulder and grabbed her fleece in the same hand as she opened the passenger door to the Land Rover, which creaked alarmingly. ‘Good morning, you must be Mr Seanessy. Liz Daley. Pleased to meet you.’ She held out her hand for Seanessy to shake.

  Her guide seemed slightly flustered, gripping her hand weakly. ‘Oh, I say, I wasn’t expecting anyone quite so attrac—’ He paused. ‘I mean, quite so young as yourself. I get a lot of retired people on my trips, you see. All a bit like me, you know, too much time on their hands. You can put your bag at your feet if that’s comfortable enough. We’ll take a drive to the car park at Machrie, then get the map out and try and work out the best places to take you. I’m so glad the weather’s improved.’

  Liz cast an eye over Seanessy, as he struggled to wrestle the stick into a forward gear. He was wearing a green waterproof jacket, though there was no obvious sign of rain. Liz had hers in a neat pack strapped around her waist. He was also wearing a pair of light-grey jogging bottoms that had seen better days, tucked into green Wellington boots, onto one of which was placed what looked like a puncture repair, more commonly seen on a bicycle tyre. His hair was plastered with some deliberation across his balding head. He was unshaven, rather than sporting a beard, and she noticed a trace of faded red in his short sideburns. The vehicle smelled vaguely of fish, and an ancient mobile phone slid backwards and forwards across the dashboard, depending on the direction of travel.

  She began to wonder whether or not she had made the right decision in booking the trip, but reminded herself of the pleasantness of the day and the possibility of getting some great images of the local flora and fauna, something she hadn’t done enough of recently.

  ‘Would you like a mint?’ Seanessy took a paper bag from the recesses of his waterproof, and offered it to Liz.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said, feeling slightly queasy at the smell of the car and the thought of consuming something of such dubious provenance. ‘I had a big breakfast,’ she explained.

  ‘Ah yes. I’m afraid I tend to skip breakfast as a rule – always starving by this time of the morning.’ He managed to steer the vehicle and extract a small handful of mints from the bag, which he proceeded to place awkwardly into his mouth, missing with one, which rolled down his jacket and onto the floor of the Land Rover, destined to be lost amongst the detritus there. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ Seanessy mumbled through a mouthful of mints.

  The deal was simple. In return for immunity from further prosecution of he and his crew, Demienov would undertake to tell Daley all he knew about what the gang, who had inflicted themselves on his vessel, were doing and had done. This would include those with whom he knew them to be in contact, local drop-off points and any information he had regarding their operation and structure within Latvia.

  Daley knew that there was no little risk involved with an agreement of this type. He could not be sure that Demienov was not part of the organised crime gang who had targeted Kinloch, nor could he be sure that anything the fisherman said would be of any value. However, he was working on the instinct which throughout his career had worked better than any of the technical processes that had been hammered into his brain over the years. He would have to set the ball rolling by putting the proposition to Donald, who would then need to get authorisation from the very top.

 
Daley was desperate to bring those behind the murder of Fraser to justice. Despite the culprit lying dead on a gurney at Kinloch Hospital, he felt strongly that the wider organisation was like a cancer feeding on this small community and something that must be eradicated. However, he did not believe that the Latvians were responsible for the three other murders he was investigating; it was that instinct again. On reflection, the gnawing doubt had been there before the raid took place. Was it merely his self-preening arrogance that had led to the death of Fraser? Should he have handed the whole operation over to Customs or the drugs squad? Certainly, he had been urged by his boss to retain charge of a situation of which he was not the architect.

  He now had four murders on his hands; probably two distinct investigations. Why was he so sure that the deaths of Watson, Ritchie and Mulligan were not connected to the drug smugglers who had killed Fraser? According to the Royal Navy, the Latvian fishing boat was nowhere near local waters when Mulligan and Ritchie were killed. They could have been murdered by accomplices of the gang, but Daley thought this unlikely.

  ‘Apart from Pulse, and the involvement with the Latvians, Bri, there’s some connection we’re missing.’ The two detectives were sitting in Daley’s glass box, having left Demienov to sweat it out in the Kinloch cells. Donald was due back in an hour, and Daley was desperately trying to find something to justify his approach to the various deaths.

  ‘I know what you mean. Why wid the Ruskies come intae port here if they’d jist killed their mates? They must’ve known that we’d have found the bodies by that time, Jim,’ Scott said, swirling the coffee in his mug.

  The DNA of all the Latvians, including the dead gunman, was being tested, along with that of all the regular male customers of Pulse. This would take time, with no promise of anything conclusive; part of the grind of the investigation, but you never could tell.

  Daley’s phone gave its internal-call ring. ‘Sir, there’s a Davie Fraser on the line to speak to you.’ The PC’s voice was strained; she had made the obvious connection.