Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Are you sayin’ that Rory Newell pit this in his heid?’ Camel looked as though he had made his own connection. ‘I telt Bobby tae stay clear o’ that bastard. He’s a right dopeheid, aye, an’ a fucking smart arse tae,’ he said more forcefully.

  ‘Did he listen to you?’

  ‘Nah, no’ a’ the time. We’re brothers, Mr Daley, we spend a lot o’ time wi’ each other. We fa’ oot tae, dae ye know whoot I mean?’

  ‘So, when he’s not got you to tell him what to do, he relies on Rory Newell. Is that it?’

  ‘Mebbe. I don’t fuckin’ know,’ Camel said quietly. ‘Dae ye really think this bastard Newell has pit him up tae this?’

  ‘Well,’ answered Daley, looking around the room one last time, ‘if he hasn’t, somebody else has.’

  ‘He’s a bad bastard,’ said Camel suddenly.

  ‘Who, Newell? Why do you say that?’

  ‘Just the way he treats folk, especially women.’

  ‘And do you think he could persuade Bobby to do the same?’

  ‘I’m no’ saying any more, Mr Daley,’ Camel replied sullenly.

  The swell was heavy now. To Liz, it felt like being tossed in a blanket, as in some childhood game. She had been told that keeping your eyes on the horizon helped. As she squinted into the distance, contemplating asking Seanessy to turn the vessel back home, she spotted what looked like a sliver of land to her right. Just as she had seen it, Seanessy turned in the wheelhouse and gestured to her to look at the small island.

  ‘That’s us there – won’t be long now,’ he called over the noise of the sea, wind and echoing cries of birds. ‘Be able to get a cup of tea at least.’ He turned back to his steering duties, seemingly relishing everything about being at sea.

  Men, thought Liz, as they began to turn in a slow arc towards the island.

  He thought he had it: the break he had been looking for. The plastic collars in Bobby Johnstone’s room. That was all it took.

  He drove the car back into the town centre, stopping outside the County Hotel. In less than a minute he was hammering on Scott’s door.

  ‘Aye, a’ right, a’ right. Is there a fuckin’ fire or something?’ Daley could hear his DS shouting from inside. With the click of a lock, the door swung open. ‘Here wiz me expectin’ some wee blonde. Never mind. Come in.’

  Scott looked bleary-eyed, but Daley was sure that he would forget his tiredness soon. He said nothing, merely threw the collar onto the unmade bed.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Scott yawned and picked up the plastic ring. It took him a few seconds, then it clicked. ‘Oh, Jamie boy, well done! This matches the marks left by the restraint on Watson’s leg. Where did you get it?’

  ‘In Bobby Johnstone’s bedroom. Looks like we might have missed the obvious from the start. Rory Newell was reported missing this morning, and now Bobby’s done a runner too. What’s the likelihood Newell’s with him?’

  ‘Aye, could be. It’s too much o’ a coincidence, the two o’ them disappearing at the same time. And this thing’ – he held up the collar – ‘well, whit’s the plan, boss?’

  ‘We’ll have to try and find them – with all the resources available.’ Daley looked troubled.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. If it is them, I’m sure they’ve got mair tae bother aboot than intercepting your wife and thon Seanessy,’ said Scott, yet again reading his boss’s mind.

  There was a small jetty on the ocean side of the island. The telltale fluorescent buoys bobbing nearby indicated the location of lobster pots, held within a shallow bay which opened out into the Atlantic. At the head of the small pier, in front of a low hillock, a dirt track led some fifty yards to a fisherman’s cottage, the walls of which had once been whitewashed but were now a wind-blown grey, contrasting with the rust-red of the corrugated-iron roof.

  ‘Wow!’ Liz enthused. ‘From the sea you wouldn’t know this place was here.’

  ‘Yes, it’s an interesting natural feature.’ Seanessy was uncoiling rope from the deck. ‘Been here a long time, and hardly ever used now. All the pots here are mine. Not a good enough yield for the commercial fishermen. A couple of the younger lads use it, but not very often. When they’re up to something not quite legal,’ he said, winking at Liz.

  ‘So you just kind of turn up here?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. If there was any fisherman serious about this little nook, I’d never have come here.’ He was shouting above the noise of waves washing onto the shingle bay. ‘I bought a small boat from an old seadog I met when I first came here. Boat lasted one season. It was him who told me about this place.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘As I say, I’m left to my own devices in the main. Apart from having to clear up after the occasional clandestine party, that is. More than made up for by having this little bolthole.’ He coiled the rope, then handed it to Liz.

  It was all systems go at Kinloch Police Office. The Royal Navy, Coastguard and the police’s own Marine Division were now deployed in an effort to find James Newell’s RIB, which contained – so everyone reasoned – Rory Newell and Bobby Johnstone. Daley found it hard to believe that the mild-mannered Johnstone brother was a cold-blooded sadistic killer, or that he was somehow involved in international drug smuggling; it was much more likely that he had been coerced by Newell, with his veneer of urban sophistication and desire for the high life.

  Scott’s face was a mask of concentration as he passed on details of the craft and its possible occupants to yet another interested party. Air searches were being initiated using an RAF helicopter normally used for air-sea rescue. The Coastguard was aware of what was going on, but under strict instructions not to let it be known what was afoot, in case Newell and Johnstone got wind of it. The Navy was moving three ships – on exercise in the area over the last few days – onto the trawl. In some ways, the land-bound police officers felt somewhat impotent, despite being at the centre of operations with radio traffic from all the relevant agencies pouring into the control room at Kinloch. Superintendent Donald sat proudly at the hub of it all.

  Daley had been amazed at the speed with which this had been achieved. It was little over an hour since he and Scott had returned to the office with the news that Newell and Johnstone were now prime suspects for the murders of Watson, Ritchie and Mulligan. Daley knew that Bobby Johnstone had an alibi for the time that Izzy had disappeared, but the brothers had been in Glasgow for little over eighteen hours, and accurately assessing her time of death had been difficult because of the condition of her body.

  Daley opened the door of interview room one. James Newell was nursing a mug of coffee and staring into space. ‘As you’ve been informed, Mr Newell, we’re now actively seeking your nephew to help us with our inquiries regarding the recent murders, of which I’m sure you’re aware.’ Daley took a seat opposite the retired sea captain.

  ‘How very like a police inspector you sound, Mr Daley.’ Newell placed his mug on the table in front of him with no little resignation. ‘However, I appreciate your candour. Though I still find it impossible to believe that Rory has been so . . .’

  ‘I want to go back to your trip to County Antrim. Are you absolutely sure Rory was with you all the time?’ Daley unbuttoned his shirt collar, which was beginning to feel like a noose.

  Newell thought for a moment. ‘Despite Rory’s feckless nature, Chief Inspector, he was not without his attractiveness to the opposite sex. Of course, when they got to know him properly things became very different. You saw him though: tall, well built, with a certain charm, I suppose.’

  Daley said nothing, merely nodded at Newell to continue.

  ‘He struck up a “friendship” with one of the film crew. At night, the pair of them were out and about. A couple of drams and it was off to bed for me; he was more adventurous.’

  ‘Did he ever use the RIB alone when you were there?’

  Newell looked at the table, as though he was reading something. Suddenly he looked up. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did.’

  T
his tiny outcrop of land was by far the strangest place she had ever visited. She felt as though she was seeing the sky through a lens, that she was enveloped in some gigantic glass bubble.

  ‘On a stormy night, this place is quite remarkable.’ Seanessy was standing beside her. ‘The sea sprays off the pier and onto the windows of the cottage. I find it thrilling, really quite dramatic.’

  Liz had always been comfortable at sea – on a boat. She had often tried to imagine what being in a lighthouse in a storm would be like: all at sea, yet still on land, no matter how vulnerable that land actually was. It must be the same here, though instead of a solid structure which had weathered generations of all the sea could throw at it, you had a broken-down fisherman’s hut.

  ‘Do you often stay here overnight?’ Liz addressed Seanessy over her shoulder.

  ‘Only when I feel the need to be alone. You know how it is. When one needs peace and quiet to get things done, away from the pressures of the world.’ He gave Liz an unprepossessing smile. ‘You’ll have to walk over there to get a more panoramic view.’ He stomped off in his new boots.

  All bases were covered. As well as they can be at any rate, Daley thought. He was trying to think himself into their heads. If these killings had been motivated by drugs, then why the grotesque level of violence? After all, these men were no hardened criminals bent on sending messages of fear to those who would oppose them. He had found Rory Newell an arrogant prick, yes, but a sadistic killer? No. And Bobby Johnstone had looked more like a lost little boy than a man who could perpetrate such horrors. But, as he knew all too well, looks could be deceptive.

  Logic dictated that the simultaneous disappearance of the two men was too coincidental for them not to be mixed up in the killings. The access to boats, involvement in the sex and drugs scene in Kinloch, as well as an acquaintance with the deceased, looked like a coalescence of circumstances that could not be ignored. Who else here would fit the profile?

  Donald was busy consulting the force psychologist; Daley was trusting his instinct. Yet . . . he couldn’t shake off a persistent doubt, and neither could his grizzled DS. Scott was not behaving the way he did when the end of a difficult case was in sight. He had none of the insouciance of a policeman who would shortly be celebrating the cracking of a particularly difficult case. Daley knew how he felt.

  ‘Sir, it’s the old folks’ home for you.’ DC Dunn poked her head around the office door. ‘They called my mobile for some reason. Will I fling them a deafie?’ The young woman seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The death of Fraser was still a raw experience that bore down particularly hard on the younger investigating officers. The revelations about Newell and Johnstone promised resolution and respite from this: a chance for everyone to move on.

  ‘No. Tell them I’ll call back in a few moments. Thank them for getting in touch and tell them I apologise for not coming when I said I would.’ He resolved to go and see the old woman, if only as a courtesy.

  Scott reappeared back in the glass box. ‘It’s a Land Rover in they photos from the CCTV, Jim,’ he enthused. ‘They’re trying tae pin doon the colour up the road, but they reckon it’s an older model, maybe late 1980s, early 1990s. I’ve asked a couple o’ oor boys tae see whether they know of any examples here. What dae ye think the chances are?’ There was doubt in his voice.

  This was a rural area, so it made sense that more people would drive that type of vehicle. Of course, even if they pinned down the identity of the Land Rover’s owner, it was still uncertain as to whether he was involved with the crimes or merely engaging in conversation. ‘Who knows, Brian? Whoever owns it, I want to speak to them. We’re treading water here anyway. Everything’s happening out at sea, so we’ve nothing to lose, eh?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right again, compadre.’

  It always amused Daley the way Scott managed to append so many designations to him in the course of a day, and in so many languages.

  ‘A’ this sittin’ aboot’s makin’ me jumpy. I think I’ll go an’ gie the lads a hand.’ Scott left Daley alone in his glass world.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Daley. ‘The Newells have a Land Rover.’ Suddenly, all Daley could see in his mind’s eye was his wife – out at sea and vulnerable.

  Liz was sitting on a rock scanning the horizon. She had seen nothing of interest since they had arrived on the island and she was trying to remain stoical. Not losing heart was the key.

  Seanessy was in the shack working at something with a hammer. She was aware of him peering from time to time over the small rise that lay between them. She was starting to feel hungry, but her backpack was in the shack where Seanessy had stowed everything to keep them ‘safe’, though safe from what, she wasn’t quite sure. She decided to give it another fifteen minutes or so.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’ve not had the chance to call in yet. Things keep cropping up, as you can appreciate . . .’ Daley was on the phone to the retirement home. ‘Yeah, I should be there within the hour. Thanks again for your patience.’ He put the phone down. The wheels of the machine were cranking along here. He checked for his mobile in the inside pocket of his jacket, then tried to remember where the keys to his pool car were.

  *

  Seanessy hastily exited the cottage as Liz walked past the small jetty.

  ‘Feeling a bit peckish,’ she shouted to Seanessy. ‘Time for a bite to eat. My backpack’s in there, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get that for you,’ he said hesitantly.

  Liz was only a few yards away now. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘OK, thanks. I’ll take a seat on the jetty.’ She watched him go back into the small building. He was squeezing himself through the doorway, as though something was preventing the door from opening fully. Strange man, she thought. He was so keen to impress.

  ‘Aye, well, you make sure you don’t get up tae any nonsense wi’ them auld folk. They’ll fleece ye at a hand o’ dominoes.’ Scott was busy writing a report of his involvement in the case so far. They had what was thought to be a sighting of Newell’s RIB off the Ayrshire coast, thirty minutes earlier, but the trail had gone cold. Daley had spoken to the officer in charge of the search, who was of the opinion that, assuming the men knew they were being pursued, hiding along Scotland’s rocky coastline would be a relatively simple task. However, the sailor was convinced that time and patience were the key to flushing out the suspects. After all, they would have to eat, and the craft would need to be refuelled at some point.

  Daley was well used to the waiting game: every policeman was. It was bred into the very bones of the profession. He surveyed the scene in the large CID office. Radio traffic involving the searchers at sea was being monitored by a feed through loudspeakers on the wall. Intermittently, Donald could be heard offering words of advice, or making banal enquiries. Daley was convinced that this was merely for show and that he was determined to appear at the heart of the chase, even though desk-bound in Kinloch. All the radio transmissions were being recorded as a matter of course, and Donald was making sure his involvement was to the fore – or appeared to be.

  Daley left the office. Momentarily, he considered telling Donald where he was going but soon realised that to be a fruitless exercise as his superior was too busy in the pursuit of glory via the Royal Navy and the deep blue sea.

  Liz sat at the edge of the water eating a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich. Seanessy was busy removing a coil of rope from the boat. He glanced at her and smiled momentarily. He seemed to relish the chores he’d set himself on the little skerry.

  He passed on his way back to the cottage and said, ‘Running repairs. Have to take every opportunity to get these things done when the weather is right.’ He hurried back up the rough path as Liz pondered what ‘running repairs’ might require a length of rope.

  The glint of the sea suddenly dulled as a cloud passed over the sun. Liz shivered involuntarily and noticed goose pimples on her forearms.

  The road to the retirement home w
as winding and narrow. Hugging the coast, it was dotted with little bays resplendent with pure white sand. On the other side of the road rose a thick pine forest with little clearings occupied by houses or gateways to forestry tracks. He was listening to The Police song ‘Every Breath You Take’ and his thoughts turned to Liz. He remembered dancing with her to the song in a Paisley nightclub. He tried to work out how many years ago it had been and failed. It seemed like a lifetime ago – and, strangely, someone else’s lifetime. His world was so different, had changed so much in the last few years.

  The signpost read FIRDALE. Daley slowed down and started looking for the home. DC Dunn had given him rough directions; there was the church on his right, then the village hall. By his reckoning, he needed to take the next right.

  Liz spotted movement in the water to her right, coupled with the grey flash of wet flesh arching through the waves. ‘Mr Seanessy! We’ve got a bottlenose, I think.’ She put down her binoculars and bent down to find the dolphin on her camera, now rigged to the tripod.

  She heard a muffled voice coming from the shack as she scanned the scene with her naked eye. There it was again, directly in front of her and about thirty yards from the shoreline. She aligned the camera to that area just as the dolphin reappeared, and with her left hand pressed the button. She missed the old automatic cameras, the whir of the shutter. It just wasn’t the same with digital, the experience somehow lessened.

  Liz was aware of footsteps behind her; the distracting presence of Seanessy while she was trying to concentrate hard on getting the short. There was a strange noise – a humming like that of the old fluorescent lights everyone used to have in their kitchens. She stood back from the camera in order to examine the source of the sound. Wouldn’t it be typical for something to go wrong with the equipment just as she was about to . . .

  She felt a sharp pain in the small of her back, like a sting from an insect or the prick of a needle. A split second later, her body began to convulse in pain, the like of which she had never felt before. She was falling but could do nothing to stop herself. Her limbs would simply not obey her mental commands. Even her eyes were blurred. Her vision was shot through with sparks and flashes. She fell to the ground heavily. And her world went black.