Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  18

  The atmosphere in the County bar was so oppressive that Liz decided to retreat to her room. She was not in the mood to answer questions about the death of a policeman the previous night, not least because she knew less than her interrogators. In any event, she would never have dreamed of being so indiscreet concerning her husband’s work.

  The ever watchful Annie, seeing her plight, had supplied her with a menu and a large G and T, and told her to give her a shout whenever she wished a top-up, or an evening meal.

  Liz tried to call her husband, but his phone was off. She left a message, then attempted to numb her mind with gin and some bad afternoon TV. She was marvelling at the prices of barn conversions in East Sussex when her mobile intoned its best approximation of an old-fashioned callbox ring.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ She could instantly detect the strain in her husband’s voice. ‘Sorry I’ve had the mobile switched off all day – been checking it though. How was your trip?’

  She proceeded to ramble on about her excursion with Seanessy, anxious for him not to feel he had to make mention of the death of a colleague. During a brief lull in her tale, Daley interrupted. ‘Keep this to yourself for the moment, love. It was Archie Fraser who was killed last night. Remember the red-haired lad who was in the bar the other night?’

  Liz suddenly felt cold. Yes, she remembered Fraser: tall, slightly awkward. She had watched him looking at Jim, and she could tell that he held her husband in great esteem by the way he hung onto the older man’s every word.

  Though the call was brief, she was glad that he had taken the time to speak to her. She sensed both determination and exhaustion in his voice, but knew that this was nothing unusual when he was on a major investigation. Jim could survive on hardly any sleep for days on end when the hard yards were being covered. She knew him well enough to know that he would be mentally scourging himself because of Fraser’s death, re-enacting the whole incident in his mind, trying to isolate what had gone wrong and what he should have done. He had gone on to tell her how he was going to come down to the hotel around eight, get a bite to eat and a couple of hours sleep, if he could manage it. She had advised him to stay away from the bar and take up Annie’s offer of room service. After a pause, he agreed.

  They were taking it in turns to examine the CCTV footage. Scott was at the screen now, with DC Dunn assisting, her sharp eyes and local knowledge adding perspective to what was being displayed. They were doing forty-five-minute shifts, as it was, literally, an eye-watering task.

  Daley was in his office, brooding and calculating – not a mental count of numbers, more a studied equation of probability, combined with chance and vested interest. Someone had left a car magazine on his desk. He was flicking through it idly, like an existential aide-mémoire. Why had he not made it clear to Fraser and his team that they were only present to keep the public at bay and observe? He should have made it crystal clear that, unarmed as they were, intervention was not in their remit. How had the Latvian known to jump ship when he did? The Navy had been monitoring their radio and internet traffic for a period of hours before the operation was conceived.

  He turned over a page on which the Jaguar XF was being displayed in all its smooth-lined, polished magnificence. It was then he knew the answer.

  Flynn’s car was visible on the pier, so Daley and Scott made their way along to his office. A wide-eyed Flynn looked at them when he answered the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Flynn. Can we have a word?’ said a businesslike Daley.

  ‘Well, eh, of course. I was just going home – long night and all that. It won’t take long, will it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Daley, who watched the harbour master visibly relax as he showed them into the office. It was in its habitual state of untidiness, and there was no sign of Hamish sitting at the antiquated desk. The computer screen was still displaying the updating satellite weather map; beside it lay a half-eaten fish supper, still in the paper wrapping. The enticing smell of fish and chips made Daley’s stomach rumble.

  ‘Dae ye mind if I hae a chip?’ Scott looked at Flynn quizzically.

  ‘Of course not. Be my guest. You might as well finish it off. I’ve lost my appetite after last night’s . . . Well, I needna tell you.’ He looked at the floor, stroking his neat beard.

  The three men didn’t speak for several minutes. The events of the previous night were still viscerally recent.

  ‘I thought I’d bring you this.’ Smiling, Daley handed Flynn a magazine. It’s got the new Jag XF in it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Daley, thanks very much.’ There were beads of sweat appearing on Flynn’s brow, and it was only then that Daley noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Been havin’ a wee dram, Mr Flynn?’ Scott seemed to hone in on Daley’s thoughts.

  ‘I wisna goin’ tae drive, gents, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, I wiz about tae call my wife tae come an’ get me.’

  ‘How much did you get for your scallop boat?’ Daley’s question came from nowhere.

  Flynn now looked very nervous, his eyes flicking between the two detectives. ‘I don’t understand, why would you want tae know that?’ His voice was wavering in tandem with his resolve.

  ‘Eight and half thousand, I was told. Not a huge amount, eh?’ said Daley.

  ‘No, the trade around here’s not what it wiz. It gave me an’ the wife a wee lift though.’ Flynn spoke quickly.

  ‘The car that’s sitting outside, what’s it worth new? Forty-five, fifty grand?’

  ‘I, well, I’d saved up, you know. I . . .’

  ‘Why did you do it? You’re a decent man. You have a good job and a nice house. Why did you get involved with people who spread poison and misery?’ Daley was standing in front of Flynn now, dwarfing him in his swivel chair.

  ‘I don’t know whoot ye mean,’ Flynn shouted, panic in his eyes.

  Something inside Daley snapped. He hauled the harbour master out of his chair by his collar and tie, and pulled him close. ‘A young man died because of your actions last night.’ Flecks of spittle landed on Flynn’s face. ‘You tipped off our Latvian friend. You’ve been working for these scum – watching their backs, seeing they had a safe harbour – you little bastard.’ Daley pushed Flynn back violently. He landed beside the old desk, hitting his head against a corner of it, making him yelp in pain. Daley towered over the whimpering man, but before he could strike him, Scott pulled Daley back by the shoulders.

  ‘That’s enough, Jim. Fuck’s sake, man, this isna goin’ tae bring the young fella back.’

  Daley was shaking with fury, but he managed to control himself; Scott’s intervention having cleared some of the red mist. ‘Tell me how you contacted him. Now!’ he shouted.

  Flynn sobbed, the pristine collar of his white uniform shirt was now stained with blood. ‘Mobile,’ he whispered through tears, ‘I called a mobile number.’

  ‘Get the cuffs on him, Brian. I need some air.’ Daley left the building, slamming the door on his way out. He breathed deeply in the salty air, leaning on Flynn’s Jaguar. He looked through the dark privacy windows at the leather seats and the walnut finish, the creamy luxury of the interior. He cursed Flynn’s greed: the owner of that car had cost Archie Fraser his life. Was that all it was worth?

  Flynn was taken back to the office by Scott, who had called a van. Daley had another port of call: James Newell, who ran the RIB hire business from the pontoons. Daley had seen the vessel glide into the loch and deposit half a dozen camera-wielding tourists safely ashore. The area had been cordoned off for most of the day after Fraser’s shooting; not that there had been much to find out, though the relentless master that was procedure had to be followed.

  Two men were still working aboard the boat as Daley made his way down the pontoon. The bell was silent in the still air, and Daley recalled its baleful reports throughout the operation the previous evening.

  One of the men was probably in his sixties; both were tall a
nd thin with dark hair, no doubt they were related. Daley placed the younger man somewhere in his thirties, though trying to estimate the age of anyone between the ages of twenty-five and fifty seemed to be an increasingly difficult task these days. He wondered if it was something to do with his own advancing years, then dismissed the idea.

  The older man on the boat eyed him over a pair of halfmoon glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Are you James Newell?’

  ‘Yes, and I take it you’re Chief Inspector Daley.’ Newell smiled. ‘This is my nephew Rory.’ He had seen Daley looking at the other man. ‘He’s up from the smoke for the summer to get some air in his lungs and work out what he wants to do with his life now the bank have dispensed with his services, eh, Rory?’

  The younger man nodded.

  Daley was invited aboard and he took Rory’s offer of a hand up, over the side of the craft. He felt as though he was viewing himself from above, like some sort of hackneyed death scene from a hospital drama, and he was angry with himself about losing control earlier. For someone who dealt with death as part of his daily life, the murder of Fraser had had a profound impact. That, combined with the heavy tiredness he was experiencing, left him feeling that his mind was wandering, akin to being in a trance. In these periods, he often had the inspiration that led to solving a case.

  The three shook hands politely. Newell had an easy manner, and had Daley not known he was an ex-naval captain, he probably would have guessed.

  ‘Wedded to the sea, Inspector, that’s me. Anyhow, what more could a man want than to ply his trade in such a beautiful part of the world, despite the hostility of some of the locals? I suppose you’ve already come across that?’ He looked to the detective for an answer.

  ‘Not really, Mr Newell. They’re a very interested body of people in my experience, but I haven’t come up against anything malicious yet. Apart from the obvious, of course.’

  Newell shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s probably because they see you as being from the same stable.’ He went on to tell Daley that despite his parents being Scottish and having been born in Glasgow, his accent and manner had marked him down as an Englishman in Kinloch – a posh one at that. ‘I’m not in the least bothered, of course, though some of them can be quite unpleasant. Water off a duck’s back for me after being caged up in a submarine full of hairy sailors for months on end. And let me tell you, that breed doesn’t suffer from the reluctance to speak out that afflicts the rest of the service. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you anything about man management.’

  After what was no more than an exchange of pleasantries, Daley informed Newell that what he wanted was any kind of rota or ships’ logs covering the period of the murders. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr Newell. I just have to cover all my bases. I already know about the movements of the fishing craft, but you and the rest of the visitors to the pontoons are still a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘Well, worry no more, sir. As you’ve probably heard, I’m involved in the company that owns this pontoon. We keep records of all our visitors – well, the honest ones at any rate.’

  ‘Honest ones?’

  ‘An unwritten rule of the sea. If you moor somewhere, you do your best to find out to whom your harbour dues are paid. I’m not here day and night, so sometimes we get – let’s just call them visitors – who come in out of the weather late in the evening and upon the arrival of a better morning, bugger off without parting with a penny. They are, I’m glad to say, in the minority.’

  It turned out that Newell had an upstairs office in the same building that housed the harbour master. Newell junior removed something from an old grey Land Rover, while his uncle searched for his office keys. Once inside, the older man went in search of the register of vessels that had been moored at the pontoon during the relevant period.

  Rory hadn’t said much, so when his uncle left, Daley took the opportunity to quiz the younger man. He asked if Rory had known any of the victims. The detective thought he was being evasive when he did not answer immediately.

  Eventually, Rory said, ‘I did know one of the dead people, if the stories I’ve been hearing are right.’ He had the same patrician mien as his uncle, thought Daley, as he sat languidly on a metal chair, one foot resting on a small table.

  ‘What stories would these be?’ Why could no one answer a straightforward question in a similarly straightforward way? This conundrum had pestered him throughout his career.

  ‘The cop who got killed last night, I knew him – if it’s the guy I’ve heard about, of course.’ He continued to stare at Daley, his expression unchanging.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that incident at the moment. Anyway, I was referring to the murders of Janet Ritchie, Izzy Watson and Peter Mulligan.’

  Rory Newell snorted derisively. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering wasting your time on people like that. As far as I can tell, they’re the scum of the earth, like most of the folk in this sorry shithole. I liked Archie though – good bloke.’ He stared at Daley again.

  ‘Why did you leave the bank, Mr Newell?’

  As the policeman had planned, that had the desired effect. A shadow of annoyance passed over Rory’s face. ‘I wasn’t aware it had become a police matter.’ He managed a weak smile, but Daley could sense his anger.

  Newell senior arrived back in the office, clutching three coffee cups, and with a red ledger tucked under one arm. He handed the beverages around, then took his seat behind a small desk, on which were placed a laptop computer, a telephone and a leather-bound Roberts radio.

  ‘Is that an original?’ Daley gestured at the radio.

  ‘That set, Inspector, has been with me for forty-two years, and has been around the world at least four times. My guilty pleasure, you know? Addicted to Radio 4 now I’ve managed to settle down in the one place.’ He smiled.

  ‘Though why the fuck it had to be here, no one knows,’ his nephew muttered, looking at the ceiling.

  ‘Do you like the radio, Mr Daley?’ Newell continued as though Rory had not spoken.

  ‘Oh yes, a little passion of mine too. I just got my hands on a Grundig Party Boy recently, though, like you I still prefer Roberts. Owned by the Japanese now – how things change.’

  All three sat in silence, as though contemplating the consequences of a classic British radio brand being owned in the Far East.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t need me, Mr Daley. I’ve got to get back home, get online and see if I can find a real job, back in civilisation.’ Rory stood up suddenly.

  ‘I take it you’re under forty, Mr Newell?’ Daley asked the younger man.

  ‘Thirty-four.’ His uncle didn’t give him a chance to reply.

  ‘In that case, I’d like you to volunteer at your earliest opportunity to go to the police office and have a DNA swab taken. Every man resident in the area will be taking part.’ He smiled at Rory.

  ‘If I must. Do you think you’ve got your man, officer?’ He sneered at Daley. ‘OK, Uncle Jimmy, I’m heading off to the hacienda. Goodbye, Inspector Daley. I’ll provide my DNA tomorrow, if that won’t hinder your investigation too much. Ciao’.

  ‘Don’t let him wind you up, Mr Daley. I’m afraid he’s very like my late brother: stupid. He had a good opportunity at the bank but he blew it. He tried for the Navy you know – didn’t get a sniff, of course.’ Newell looked into the middle distance.

  The two men discussed the pontoon and the Newells’ movements around the time of the murder of Izzy Watson. It transpired that they had been to County Antrim, acting as aquatic transport for a film crew making a documentary about the Giant’s Causeway. The weather had caused a few problems, so they’d had to stay longer than intended. ‘Flynn was in charge, nominally, of course. As usual, he was too busy chewing the fat with his fishermen friends than checking on my pontoon. I wonder where he is? His office is in darkness. It’s an early dark, even by his standards.’

  ‘Was your nephew with you on this trip?’ Daley changed the sub
ject.

  ‘Look here, Mr Daley, I’m fully aware of how aggravating Rory is, but I can assure you he is no murderer. Beneath the swagger he’s actually quite shy, and certainly not violent. His wife buggered off with one of his best friends just before he lost his job, tried to top himself.’ Newell looked at the ceiling in the same manner that his nephew had, only moments earlier. ‘That’s why he’s here. I hope you understand, and yes, to answer your next question, he was with me the whole time.’

  Newell went on to show him the list of craft berthed at the pontoons around the time of the murders. Daley decided to take the register with him, Newell reluctantly agreeing to use a temporary log in the meantime.

  He was aware of eyes on him, that primeval sense that man long ago forgot how to use properly. Even through the limited view of the bar’s serving hatch, the good citizens of Kinloch were straining to get a look at the detective who had just arrested a well-known member of the community. Annie shouted a brisk hello, as he turned right before the reception, then up the staircase.

  The steps always felt strange to Daley. They were less deep, wider than normal stairs, so, consequently, as you ascended you felt as though the effort being put in was not commensurate with progress. Maybe he was just tired. In fact, he was shattered. He’d had little sleep the night before, he was hungry, and his heart was sore – not in the sense of stress or medical pain – sore in that it represented the gauge of the soul, the prism through which was viewed all he had felt, seen, heard and subconsciously assimilated during his lifetime. Right now, the image of Archie Fraser was accompanied by an acute feeling of guilt. Some people were destined to strive all their lives for betterment, the march towards greatness of the truly ambitious: but at what price? Had Daley been a mere bystander, an operative put in place by another during the raid? Of course, he would have felt sad at the demise of any fellow officer. No doubt he would have said a silent prayer of gratitude that the man lying on the cold tarmac of the jetty with a hole in his chest was not him. However, he was the man who had put Fraser in the place that eventually led to his death. He was the man who had played so carelessly with a young life that was lost forever. For that reason, he felt no unspoken relief. He wished he could turn time on its head and swap places with the young detective. With his long experience he would never have exposed himself to harm, the way Fraser had so selflessly done. In the event that harm had come his way then so be it. There would have been no one to blame but himself and fate. There would be no pathetic, ashen-faced ghost haunting his thoughts and tortured dreams.