Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘I’ll not even ask you how you know that,’ Daley admonished. ‘We’ve other things to worry about at the moment. The lifeboat won’t be here for at least another half hour, and if we can get onto the island unseen, we’ll have the element of surprise in our favour. At the moment, that’s all we have in our favour. How well do you know this place?’

  Hamish squinted at the chief inspector, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand while sniffing loudly. ‘This place hasna been used regularly since before they had engine power. In the old days, when ye had tae sail or row, whoot wi’ tides an’ winds an a’ that, ye could be stuck here for a good while. It’s a great place tae get the big lobsters though, the deep-sea kind. They shelter in the wee bay . . .’

  Daley interrupted the tale. ‘That’s all very interesting, Hamish, and if we get through this I’ll buy you a bottle of the best malt whisky there is, and you and I can talk about it until the cows come home, but at the moment I really want to catch a murderer and save my wife’s life.’ He had raised his voice at the beginning of that statement, but recalling Hamish’s warning, his voice was back to a whisper by the end.

  ‘Noo, if I’m right, we’re at the back o’ the island. There’s a wee inlet, nae mair than a pond, ye understand.’ Hamish was holding his hand to his mouth in a conspiratorial manner. ‘We can likely pit in there, under cover o’ the wee hill. Yer man’ll no’ see ye fae the cottage, unless o’ course he’s no’ in the cottage an’ on top o’ the hill, in which case we’re . . .’

  ‘Right, Hamish.’ Daley stopped him in his tracks. ‘We’ll . . . I’ll just have to take my chances.’ He looked back into the fog. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much chance of this clearing soon? I can’t see it holding up the lifeboat, mind you. With all that equipment they have at their disposal they could get to the moon and back.’

  Hamish took his pipe from the pocket of his dungarees. ‘Aye, nae bother for them, Mr Daley. No’ so funny fir the vessel comin’ in the other direction wi’oot a’ the gadgets. No. Campbell will no’ be able tae make headway wi’ any speed in this jeest in case he hits something.’ He struck a match on the bulwark of the vessel, cupping the tiny flame expertly in his fist as he applied it to the pipe, while making a noise not unlike a fish out of water in an effort to set the tobacco aflame.

  ‘I’ll say this for you, Hamish, you’re not scared to give anyone bad news, eh? Get me as close in as you can. I’ll just have to make it up from there on in.’ He slapped the old sailor on the shoulder. ‘You better put that pipe out, man; you can smell it at two hundred paces.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right enough, Chief Inspector.’ Hamish took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it on the side of the boat; its glowing contents disappeared into the sea. ‘I’m letting her drift in. The swell’s in oor favour. Hopefully yer man’ll no’ hear a thing, an’ I can manage tae steer her where we want to go. I want you tae keep an eye oot on the bow. My eyes are no’ whoot they used tae be. Jeest raise yer hand if ye see any sign o’ land, an’ we’ll take it fae there.’

  Seanessy didn’t like the way things had gone; not that things hadn’t gone wrong before. No, this time it was different: he had been forced to kill before he’d had the chance to exploit the situations he’d created. All the careful planning and subtle persuasion involved in luring someone unsuspectingly to their death had been spoiled. Like cooking the perfect meal, and being able only to eat half of it.

  He looked across the small bay. It would take keen eyes to spot the headless corpse submerged beneath the still water, one of the legs attached to a large weight by a rope and a rubber cuff around the ankle. It had taken him a long time to work out the best way of disposing of a body. They could be killed at any time, of course, then kept relatively fresh, or at least kept from polluting the air with the foul stench of decay, by employing this method.

  He cursed himself for the mistake he had made with the body of his first victim. The cuff had not been strong enough to hold in the swell. He had searched the small coastline of the skerry to see if the woman had been washed up on its rugged shore, but to no avail. It had led to a pathetic attempt at extortion and more death. In a way he had enjoyed the torturing and killing that day, despite the unexpected nature of the circumstances. He had resolved then and there to be more spontaneous, less deliberate as to the identity of his victim: that was how he had stumbled upon the policeman’s pretty wife, or rather she had stumbled upon him. The improvised nature of the situation had added an unexpected frisson of excitement to her capture. Yes, things had gone wrong, but the world was an uncertain place, and it didn’t do to be overly concerned with the perfect execution of a plan. He smiled at the memory of how dismissive the big detective and his sidekick had been of him when they met. Dismiss me now, gentlemen!

  The air was beginning to clear. More of the bay was visible. It was time to put the next part of his plan into action. He picked up the bag of tools at his feet and strode back towards the shack. First, he wanted to fix the corrugated-iron roof of the lean-to at the side of the cottage, where he stored his fresh meat. He fished inside the bag, bringing out the nail gun he had brought especially for the task.

  *

  The boat edged forward on the swell. Daley peered into the grey mist. He thought he could see shadows. He turned, lifting his arm as Hamish had instructed, and the old man made his way forward.

  ‘We’re close tae the shore, Mr Daley,’ he whispered. ‘Better prepare yersel’ fir a wee bump. Here, can ye try and fend us off any rocks wi’ this.’ He held up a gnarled-looking oar to the detective. ‘Shouldna be much o’ a bump in this sea, and mebbe we’ll be lucky an’ get right ontae the shingle. That’s whoot I’m aiming fir, anyhow.’ He made his way back to the tiller as Daley kept watch intently on the bow, the oar poised.

  Daley could see something ahead now – a bay with a pebble beach. Again, he held up his arm, looking round at Hamish, who nodded enthusiastically. Even though they were not under power, the beach seemed to be rushing towards them at some speed. Daley braced himself against the gunwale for the inevitable impact.

  As it was, they seemed to glide onto the shingle. Like a car suddenly moving across a gravel drive, the noise was sudden and brief. They stopped quickly, the vessel lurching to one side as they came to rest. Daley looked down, to see that they were three quarters of the way beached, with the stern of the craft still in the water.

  Without reference to the old man, he laid his impromptu fender carefully at his feet and jumped over the side of the boat, levering himself over the bulwark of the vessel as though he was clearing a fence. He landed heavily on the shale with a dull thump, nearly toppling over, though he managed to keep his feet. As he looked up, Hamish spoke to him from the deck. ‘Now you’re in charge, Mr Daley. At the top of that little knoll you’ll get a grand view of the whole island, just about. If you can see for the mist, that is, though I think it’s clearing.’

  ‘Thanks, Hamish.’ He hoped they hadn’t alerted Seanessy. If he was even here. Daley’s heart was pounding. ‘I want you to stay here. If you see the lifeboat, tell them what’s happening.’ He turned to face the small hillock, dropping to his hands and knees.

  ‘Very good, Mr Daley.’ Hamish watched the detective scramble up the hill, crouching so that he wouldn’t appear silhouetted against the skyline should Seanessy actually be at the cottage.

  Seanessy loaded the nail gun. The lean-to adjoining the shack was his larder; the place he kept his dead meat – for meat was all they became – and the place he did his butchery. He had killed his first victim there only a short time ago. He looked at the door. The big padlock was lying on the grass where he had left it before securing the corpse in the bay. No need to lock it now.

  An old wooden ladder was propped up against the wall. He decided to secure it before attempting any repair to the roof. He placed the nail gun on the grass beside the padlock, then put his foot on the bottom of the ladder. The rungs were worn, but not dangerous. He pushed down on it
, ensuring that the ladder gained purchase in the rough soil. It seemed firm, though he decided it would be best to climb to the top, just as a test, before he went up with his tools. He climbed carefully, noting that the mist was clearing. There was a tiny patch of blue showing through the gloom.

  *

  Daley reached the top of the hill. His trousers were already torn at the knee – one of his new pairs too, he mused. He cursed his lack of fitness. His legs were stiff, and his back ached after having to climb the small incline. He couldn’t recall ever having been so nervous. He forced thoughts of Liz to the back of his mind. The mixture of rage and fear he was experiencing was like a completely new emotion. All his senses were intensified: the ground smelled richly of wet earth; the tang of the sea was so sharp in his nostrils that he could taste it; the swish of the swell receding from the shale beach behind him sounded like distant thunder, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Then he saw him.

  Seanessy looked across the slanted corrugated iron. Two large nails had come loose in a recent storm, causing a bulge between the roof and the top of the wall through which rain had poured, leaving part of the earthen floor within the construction damp and cloying. The roofing material was old, but still thick and robust. He passed his hand over it, deciding the nail gun would make short work of the job. He paused briefly, then made his way back down the old ladder.

  Daley watched the man scale the short ladder and examine the roof. He was literally only fifty yards away; the proximity made Daley hold his breath. He recognised Seanessy immediately, although he looked different to the shambling eccentric he and Scott had encountered on the beach. He seemed more severe – evil, almost. Daley realised this was absurd; it was his gut reaction to the horrors he had perpetrated. He now felt certain Liz must be here. His chest ached with fear, and he could feel beads of sweat on his brow.

  What am I going to do? He was alone. He had to get to Seanessy and subdue him, while not putting Liz in any danger. He had to keep a clear head and be optimistic – a mantra, he realised, he had picked up from Donald. He watched as Seanessy descended the ladder and went into a little shack. Taking a deep breath, still crouching, he scrambled over the top of the hill, and began to slip and slide down the muddy slope. He was heading for the rear of the cottage, all the time keeping his eyes on the building in case Seanessy appeared. He reasoned that he had the element of surprise, and that the retired teacher would be no match for him physically. He shortened his stride as he reached the back of the cottage, minimising the sound of his footfall. He leaned against the wall in order to catch his breath, which he drew as silently as he could. Please God, let her be in there. Please God, let her be safe.

  The walls of the cottage were cool and damp, the salt smell of the sea here replaced by a musty odour of age and decay. He began to make his way slowly along the wall, in the opposite direction to Seanessy. He could hear no sound, nothing to indicate that Seanessy was busy inside, that he was inside at all. He edged to the corner, gripping the stonework with his fingers. He could hear nothing, so he decided to be bold and take a look.

  He could see the bay now. The mist had cleared. There was no sign of Seanessy. If Seanessy had seen or heard him, he must surely make a move. There were tools strewn about the front of the building, and among them was Liz’s backpack. His blood ran cold. The emotions he had been fending off welled up inside. This man – this monster – had his wife. He tried to apply the lessons he had been taught in anger management to stave off the blinding rage he was now feeling; ultimately he knew it would be futile. He was beyond caring about the consequences: his only goal was to save Liz.

  He heard a high-pitched whining, and in the split second he turned to face the direction of the noise, he saw a figure, arms outstretched, holding something before it. He just had time to lift his arm to protect his face when the flash of something caught his eye.

  His head felt as though it would explode as he felt something hit his arm. Instinctively he fell to the ground. He landed heavily, banging his head and feeling his chest start to convulse as he struggled to breathe. Agonisingly his lungs would not inflate; it felt as though he was being crushed in a massive fist. He saw a figure loom over him. Seanessy. His body arched as his torturer triggered the taser, sending the crippling voltage along the wires now embedded in his arm. His right hand spread involuntarily, as though he was forcing his fingers to span. The pain was now excruciating.

  ‘Now, now, Inspector Daley, I’d expected so much more from you.’ Seanessy looked down at him. ‘Your airhead wife – yes, an easy conquest. I’d thought you were going to be an altogether tougher nut to crack.’

  Daley heard the whine beginning to rise in pitch again. He felt a certain surprise; despite the pain and convulsions he was suffering, he had remained conscious and was fully aware of what was going on around him. And he could move his leg. He knew the whining noise was the weapon rearming another charge.

  With all the strength he could muster he kicked his leg out, catching Seanessy on his knee and knocking him backwards. With huge effort he managed to force his right hand to work. This arm was trapped under him because of the way he had fallen, which meant fortuitously that his hand was only inches away from the wires inserted into his left arm. He strained, little bursts of light exploding in his vision. The rubberised coating of the jacket he’d got in Firdale had somehow reduced the voltage of the taser. He ripped the wires from his arm with a cry, then leaned heavily on his right arm, determined to be able to stand and face his attacker.

  Suddenly Seanessy looked panicked. He had fallen backwards and had dropped the weapon, which was squealing now on the ground beside him. He was groping at a small pouch that was attached to the waistband of his trousers, while at the same time trying to force himself off the ground with one arm in much the same manner as Daley.

  The detective managed to get to his knees, and with the very last strength he had left, forced his large frame forward on top of the older man, who was still struggling with the pouch. Both men gasped simultaneously. Daley felt his muscles loosen – the enforced cramps the taser had initiated were fading – though he knew his body was still not entirely his to command. He managed to pick himself up and straddle his opponent.

  He could see the fear in Seanessy’s eyes. Daley lifted his arm, ready to send a fist into Seanessy’s face. ‘Where is she, you sick fuckin’ bastard?’ It was almost as though someone else was shouting. As his fist connected with Seanessy’s face he felt a sharp pain in his left thigh. Looking down, he grimaced at the sight of a hypodermic syringe sticking proudly from his leg. He tried to lift his arm to dislodge it, but could not. A smile spread across Seanessy’s face. Then Daley lost consciousness.

  22

  He came round abruptly, like someone being thrown into a pool of cold water when fast asleep. Strangely though, he was unable to move. He could feel – he knew – he was being dragged. He could see the blue of the sky showing through the evaporating haze of mist, but despite every effort he could not move so much as a muscle. Without warning he was thrust roughly to the ground, his head bouncing off a hard surface. Whatever he had been drugged with dulled the pain, but his eyes still pricked with the tiny lights he associated with being concussed.

  Seanessy’s face was above him. ‘I thought a city boy like you would appreciate drawing his last few breaths of sea air.’ He was grinning insanely at the detective, a wisp of hair flopping over his eyes, his freckled face lobster pink. ‘Oh, and you might like to take a last look at that bitch of yours.’ Daley felt himself being pulled up by the hair. He was facing a tiny harbour; they were on what seemed to be a little jetty.

  ‘Look down there.’

  Daley felt his head being thrust forward, a hand clasping the back of his neck. The water in the bay was clear, the sunlight reflecting off the sandy bottom. Daley tried to focus. There was something, something in the water. It was a body. He recognised arms moving gently in the swell, like seaweed on the tide. The drugs had
made his sight blur, but he could see enough to know that the body had no head. He retched, unable to expel the vomit from his mouth. He felt himself being flung back onto the hard surface of the jetty, again banging his head, the force of it sending vomit splattering from his mouth. Images of the floating corpse, Liz’s face and Fraser’s body lying on the pier at Kinloch all flashed through his mind.

  Someone was speaking to him. The words were hard to understand at first, but gradually he began to make them out as his head cleared. ‘I have her head, you know. It’s back at the cottage. Do you want me to get it?’ Snot was flowing from Seanessy’s nose, insanity written all over his features.

  Liz. Liz was dead. Daley could hear his own scream – half anger, half fear – echoing around the bay.

  ‘I was made a fool of all my life by idiots, cretins who weren’t fit to lick my boots.’ Seanessy’s rage was volcanic, palpable even through Daley’s drugged and diminished senses. ‘Standing in front of imbeciles, trying to impart some knowledge to them as they called me the most awful names and laughed at me.’ Daley could smell the tang of the sea mixed with the stench of his own sick. ‘And those snooty bastards – like your stupid wife – taunting me with her big tits and tight jeans. Me! Their intellectual superior! Even my own daughter became one of them: useless, ruined with drugs, profane.’ White spittle was caked at the corners of his mouth. ‘Now they’re all dead, and soon, very soon, you will be too.’

  Daley saw Seanessy reach behind his back. The silver flash of a large blade filled his field of vision; it was like an old butcher’s cleaver, with two improvised handles at either end, covered with electrical tape – a hand-held guillotine. He struggled to make his limbs move, to do his bidding: nothing. He was paralysed. Having come into contact with so much violent death in his career, he had always wondered how the victims felt at the point of extinction. Did your life really flash before your eyes, or was the fear of imminent death such an all-encompassing, visceral experience that it excluded everything else? He knew the drugs were affecting him – the fact that he couldn’t move bore witness to that – but now that he knew he was going to die, he felt a strange detachment as to his own fate. What hurt, what gnawed away at him, was the thought of his beautiful wife having met with this grim end. He had failed her as a husband, as a human being, and even as a police officer.