Whisky from Small Glasses

by Denzil Meyrick

  Daley stared up at his executioner, silhouetted against the patchy blue sky. He could smell the overpowering stench of stale sweat. Seanessy was straddling him, the cleaver held between both hands, like someone about to force down an explosives detonator. Beads of Seanessy’s perspiration dripped onto Daley’s face.

  ‘I’m not in the habit of despatching conscious victims, Mr Daley, but I want you to feel the pain of death for both you and your whore of a wife.’ He leaned back on his heels and raised the blade in front of his face. Daley could only feel his fingertips clawing uselessly at the rough surface of the pier. This was it; he was going to die.

  There was a noise – a metallic snap – followed by a dull impact, like the sound of an axe biting into a damp log. At the same moment, a shaft of sunlight glinted through the dispersing mist, highlighting Seanessy’s face in grim detail. His right eye had exploded in a shower of blood and gore, replaced by a sharp metallic point. He didn’t scream, didn’t even move. His mouth gaped open, whereupon a torrent of blood oozed over his bottom lip and down his chin. Still upright, straddling the detective, he dropped the blade, which landed heavily on Daley’s chest, causing him to exhale sharply. Slowly, like a building being demolished, Seanessy’s lifeless body fell forward, his forehead catching Daley on the chin. Above them, another figure was silhouetted against the sky: Hamish, a nail gun in his fist.

  ‘Aye, I’m sorry I let things go so far, Mr Daley. It’s jeest you’d said that you’d be takin’ care o’ everything. I wisna sure whether or no’ ye had a master plan on the go, that I couldna fathom. I take it ye need a hand?’ He smiled down at the recumbent police officer.

  ‘Off . . . Get this bastard off me,’ Daley managed to whisper. ‘He killed Liz.’ He felt a sob rise from his throat.

  Hamish rubbed his chin. ‘No, he didna,’ he said. ‘She’s up in the cottage – oot for the count, right enough, but no’ deid. I checked her pulse myself.’ He walked to Daley’s side and, sticking his boot under Seanessy’s body, kicked it aside. A loud klaxon sounded. The lifeboat roared into the tiny harbour. ‘Here’s the cavalry, Mr Daley. Aboot as much use as a ha’penny watch.’ The large orange and blue lifeboat was entering the tiny harbour.

  23

  Daley had never attended so many funerals in such a short space of time. Judging by what had been found in Seanessy’s cottage, they were lucky not to be attending many more. Pictures of schoolgirls – their faces circled in red pen – from throughout his time as a teacher in the local school plastered the walls. The smiles of the two dead girls were almost obliterated by thick black crosses. They had been the unlucky ones, or was it that the others had been lucky?

  A criminal psychologist reckoned that Seanessy had bottled up his resentment over decades, that the dam had simply burst when he retired. It seemed likely that his hatred of his mocking adolescent pupils had been heightened by the debauchery and premature death of his own daughter. Whatever the truth was, it had died with Seanessy on Abb’s Skerry.

  Izzy Watson’s funeral was first. Her widowed husband Michael had shaken Daley by the hand, his blond-haired son hanging on to his father’s trouser leg. The child looked wary and sad, as though he grasped something of what was going on. Daley mumbled the usual platitudes, hoping he was showing the correct level of empathy. In truth, he had spent every day thanking God that Liz had survived her ordeal at the hands of the deranged Seanessy. She had bravely insisted on accompanying him to the burials of the other victims as a show of solidarity with them and their families, and an unspoken offering up of thanks for her delivery from evil. Daley looked at her now. No signs of the torment she had gone through were visible, bar a small scratch on her cheek, even now fading under the adroit application of make-up and the brief passage of time. His heart swelled with love and relief. She was still subdued, didn’t have the old spark in her eyes, and he knew it would take time for her to recover, if in fact she ever did.

  The next day, it was Janet Ritchie’s funeral. MacLeod was at the service, accompanied by two prison officers. He had been remanded in custody after a speedy investigation by the discipline branch, instigated by Superintendent Donald, who himself was present at this service. Daley was sure that he had only attended to see MacLeod’s shame, however, he decided to say nothing. Officially, Daley was still on sick leave, but he had kept in touch with Scott and the rest of the team. They had remained in Kinloch to tie up the loose ends of the Seanessy case and launch a serious investigation into the drug-smuggling ring responsible for Fraser’s murder. Daley frequently found his mind wandering to the circumstances surrounding the killing of the affable young DC. In fact, he found it hard to think about much else.

  It was the morning of Bobby Johnstone’s funeral, and Daley was back in the CID office at Kinloch. He had been the headless corpse floating in the tiny bay of Abb’s Skerry. His head had been recovered from the lean-to shed where they had found Liz, unconscious and half naked, but alive. The place had looked like a butcher’s, and it had been obvious that the young fisherman had been killed that day, most likely as Liz lay next door.

  ‘It’s like wading through custard here, Jimmy.’ Scott was chewing on a fried-egg roll, the yolk of which was dribbling down his chin. ‘There’s nae doubt aboot it, they’re a tightknit bunch doon here an’ no mistake. Still, I’ve no’ had tae go shoppin’ wi’ the wife fir nearly three weeks, so every cloud . . .’ He shrugged, then cursed as some yolk landed neatly in the middle of his tie. Instantly, Daley remembered Archie Fraser and, unusually, could think of no witty remark.

  He had spoken to Camel briefly after the service, offering him his condolences. The normally chirpy young man was withdrawn and sullen. To be expected perhaps, as he was still under investigation for his purchase and use of illegal drugs. It was obvious that he saw Daley as the enemy as well as the man who had failed to save his brother.

  Daley was about to leave the office when Donald appeared, a vision in sharp creases and gold braid.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, Jim?’ Donald was affecting his most gushing tones.

  ‘All right.’ Daley looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Liz is down at the County having a drink with Annie and the staff, and we’ll be driving up the road soon.’

  ‘I will only take up a moment of your precious time.’ Donald already had Daley by the arm and was steering him towards the door, his smile positively unctuous now. ‘Quick chat, then you can hit the road.’

  They walked in silence along the corridors of Kinloch Station to the office that had once belonged to the disgraced Inspector MacLeod. Donald waved Daley towards the visitors’ chair as he removed his cap and placed it carefully on the coat stand. ‘Now,’ he said, adopting an expression of consolation, ‘how are you both getting on after your . . . ordeal?’ He leaned forward in his chair, and for a brief moment Daley thought he was about to clasp his hand in a gesture of sympathy.

  ‘You know how it is, sir. It’s taking a bit of time. Liz is doing OK. She’s my priority at the moment.’ He left a pause in the conversation by way of emphasis.

  ‘Absolutely. You do the right thing.’ Donald stroked his chin, a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘If you have something to say, sir, I would appreciate that we get on with it. As I mentioned, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’

  ‘Quite so, Jim, quite so.’ Donald opened a file on his desk. ‘You’ve been off sick since the incident?’ He looked at Daley who nodded. ‘Mmm.’ More chin stroking. Just as Daley was about to interject, Donald closed the file and patted it in a gesture of finality.

  At last, thought Daley.

  ‘I’m going to be blunt, Chief Inspector.’

  Suddenly Daley was full of trepidation.

  ‘I can’t afford an asset like your good self to be idle for much longer. It’s the usual madhouse up the road, and I know you’re fully aware of the extra manpower we’ve had to divert here.’ He raised his eyebrows as Daley nodded silently, fully aware that an announcement of some impor
t was forthcoming. ‘I want you to spend some more time down here. Let’s call it a temporary transfer.’ He smiled guilelessly.

  ‘Ah, at last we have it, sir.’ Daley threw his head back in disgust. ‘I fully realise that we’re pushed on all fronts, but I’m not about to up sticks and leave Liz on her own at home, while I become the friendly neighbourhood sheriff in perpetual residence at the County Hotel.’

  ‘As usual, Jim, you are jumping to conclusions – strange for such a gifted detective.’ Donald stood, giving the impression of an edict from on high. ‘And as far as your accommodation is concerned, I am quite prepared to let you rent a home of your choice, within reason of course, with the expectation that your wife will accompany you on your, let’s say, mission, here.’ More smiles and raised eyebrows. The deed was done.

  Abba’s ‘The Eagle’ blasted from the car’s speakers as they drove alongside a truly stunning shoreline. Islands glowed blue above a darkening sea as the light faded and changed colour into dusk.

  Liz had said very little since they had left Kinloch, and Daley was anxious to find the best time to articulate Donald’s idea. He really had no clue as to how she would react, a feeling that he had made clear to his superior. She had suffered the worst moments of her life near Kinloch. He didn’t know if he should ask her at all.

  ‘Are you OK, darling?’

  She was playing absently with a strand of hair. She turned to him and smiled.

  ‘I need to run something past you, Liz.’

  Shades of purple adorned the sunset that was now framing the distant isles.

  24

  Donald was behind the wheel of his new Audi, top of the range and paid for, largely, by his generous car allowance. He was wearing his number one uniform, complete with white gloves and service medals.

  The church where Archie Fraser’s memorial service had been held was only thirty minutes from his home in the leafy suburbs to the north of Glasgow. He was enjoying the familiarity of the route, as well as a childlike pleasure in driving this car – his new toy. The humid clamour of a cloudy July day was expelled from the vehicle by the climate-control system, and he relished the drama of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony issuing from the car’s Bose speakers. He had spent a long time listening to classical music, trying to develop a taste for something he now regarded as a social necessity. After many months of struggle, he had come to prefer this sea of sound and emotion to the prog-rock bands he had so admired in his youth. Like everything else in his life, he had worked hard at it, and now he could impress those who travelled with him by being able to name the music being played on Radio 3 or Classic FM, long before the presenter had seen fit to enlighten the audience. He was particularly fond of Beethoven, though he was developing a taste for Wagner as well.

  His attempts at learning a foreign language were coming along well too, as were his piano lessons. He had made it plain to the tutors of both subjects that he wished to gain only a fundamental knowledge of their subjects, enough to be understood in this new tongue, and to be able to play a simple piece that would be easy to learn, while sounding impressively difficult to the untrained ear. His progress on both fronts made him smile.

  The smile quickly disappeared from his face as his mind scrolled back to the cool reception he had received at Fraser’s service. The late DC’s father had refused to shake his hand; he reflected how like his son he was, with faded red hair and awkward manner.

  One man who had needed no introduction was the lad’s uncle, though even he had been shocked by the pitiful figure Davie Fraser had become. The ex-cop had sat motionless in his wheelchair during the whole service, his emaciated body leaning to one side and his white shirt highlighting the yellow tinge of his skin. He had brought to mind Donald’s own father, who had killed himself with drink: that same jaundiced complexion brought on by a rapidly failing liver. They could do more these days, though why bother in Davie Fraser’s case, he knew not. He thought that his ex-colleague would have been better employed asking the minister to reserve him a funeral slot, rather than his slurred attempts at insults. It wasn’t his fault that the nephew had as few brains as the uncle, walking into a highly dangerous situation wide-eyed and unprepared. Why should he reproach himself for the failings of others? After all, he couldn’t hold the hand of every cop under his command. The job required common sense, and in his opinion, Archie Fraser had displayed none whatsoever.

  He had been momentarily diverted by the fetching figure of Liz Daley. How it was possible for her to look so alluring in her plain black dress and hat, he did not know. She bore little signs of the traumatic experience she had so recently been through, apart from perhaps being a little paler than normal. He had read the report on her ordeal with great interest. Though he found it hard to admit to himself, he had been aroused by her plight, trying to picture how she would have looked, half naked and chained to the filthy bed in that shack on Abb’s Skerry.

  The sight of her lumbering husband had brought him back to reality. He was wearing a suit that looked at least two sizes too small, as usual, and his paunch hung over his waistband. He still bore marks of assault on his chin and carried himself stiffly, the result of the muscles he had torn trying to fight off the effects of the taser. Donald admired his skills as a detective – even his humanity – but he still saw the DCI as being weak-willed, unable to, or unwilling to, achieve the potential he undoubtedly possessed. One look at his thickening waistline was confirmation enough.

  Donald turned the car into his street, then drove the few yards to his large Georgian home. The pebbles on the driveway crunched under the eighteen-inch alloy wheels as he parked at the side door of the house. The exultant soar of the orchestra was suddenly extinguished as he turned off the ignition.

  He was about to open his door and leave the vehicle when he heard his mobile ring. Noting the name on the screen with a raised eyebrow, he spoke: ‘Good afternoon, Sergei. I can only imagine that you have an urgent reason to contact me this way.’ A frown spread across his face as he heard the familiar bells of the small Latvian town tolling plaintively in the background.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my lovely family for putting up with me. And to Hugh Andrew and Neville Moir at Birlinn; to my editors Alison Rae and Julie Fergusson who have helped make this book what it should have been all along; to the late Angus MacVicar who never forgot he told me to be a writer; and my late mother and father, Alan and Elspeth Meyrick.

  And to the people of Kintyre – your support has been wonderful.

  The D.C.I. Daley thriller series

  Whisky from Small Glasses

  When the body of a young woman is washed up on an idyllic beach on the west coast of Scotland, D.C.I. Jim Daley is despatched from Glasgow to lead the investigation. Far from home, and his troubled marriage, it seems that Daley’s biggest obstacle will be managing the difficult local police chief; but when the prime suspect is gruesomely murdered, the inquiry begins to stall. As the body count rises, Daley uncovers a network of secrets and corruption in the close-knit community of Kinloch, thrusting him and his loved ones into the centre of a case more deadly than he had ever imagined.

  The Last Witness

  James Machie was a man with a genius for violence, his criminal empire spreading beyond Glasgow into the UK and mainland Europe. Fortunately, James Machie is dead, assassinated in the back of a prison ambulance following his trial and conviction. But now, five years later, he is apparently back from the grave, set on avenging himself on those who brought him down. Top of his list is his previous associate, Frank MacDougall, who unbeknownst to D.C.I. Jim Daley, is living under protection on his lochside patch, the small Scottish town of Kinloch. Daley knows that, having been the key to Machie’s conviction, his old friend and colleague D.S. Scott is almost as big a target. And nothing, not even death, has ever stood in James Machie’s way . . .

  Dark Suits and Sad Songs (coming out in May 2015)

  When a senior Edinburgh civil servant spectacularly
takes his own life in Kinloch harbour, D.C.I. Jim Daley comes face to face with the murky world of politics. To add to his woes, two local drug dealers lie dead, ritually assassinated. It’s clear that dark forces are at work in the town, and with his marriage hanging on by a thread, and his sidekick D.S. Scott wrestling with his own demons, Daley’s world seems to be in meltdown.