One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Aye, you’re the boss, Jim, but I canna help thinking that this is one hell o’ a waste o’ time,’ opined Scott, tucking the memo that Daley had given him into his jacket pocket. ‘And I notice it’s me that’s got tae go oot in the elements, while you sit in your cosy office. It’s blowing fit tae wake the deid oot there.’

  ‘Off you go, Bubbles,’ said Daley, smiling. ‘At least it’s dry now.’

  With that, the wind blasted a flurry of rain against the windows of Kinloch Police Office that rattled the panes like grapeshot.

  ‘Oh great, right again, Sherlock. What’s this wae Bubbles, by the way?’

  IV

  Kinloch Library was housed within a modern building that overlooked the loch. As Scott waited for the librarian to print out what she had on the disappearance of Cardle and McMunn he looked out of the huge plate-glass window that gave him a view across the harbour: yachts and fishing boats strained at their moorings as the cold grey sea sprayed up over the harbour wall in foaming white torrents, soaking anyone who got in its way. Scott watched as the sea propelled its flotsam onto the road, landing a large length of green seaweed onto the bonnet of a parked car. Of the island that guarded the head of the loch, there was no sign, shrouded as it was by rain pouring from a blackened sky. He shivered involuntarily.

  ‘Here we are, Sergeant,’ said the librarian as she padded up to Scott, a folder of papers under her arm. ‘Sorry I took so long. The big printer is quite slow, but the station said you preferred hard copies for your files instead of a download to a flash drive.’

  ‘If I understood what you just said, I’d be able tae give you an answer,’ replied Scott, as a huge wave broke over the sea wall and onto the road. ‘I might just have a sit doon and go over these, if that’s all right? Wait for this to blow over.’

  ‘No problem. Just take a seat over there,’ she said, pointing to the reading area. ‘There’s a coffee machine, and if you need to go online, just give me a shout.’

  ‘I widnae worry too much aboot that,’ Scott said. He laid the folder on a table and fumbled about in his pocket in search of change for the coffee machine.

  ‘If it’s coin you’re efter, I’ve plenty,’ said a familiar voice from behind him.

  ‘Hamish, how are you? I’ve only got notes. Do you mind?’

  The old man handed Scott some coins and, as the policemen fed them into the machine and squinted at the instructions, took a seat at the table and looked at the folder Scott had left there.

  ‘Aye, a terrible business altogether,’ said Hamish, sucking on his unlit pipe. ‘My grandfaither wiz one o’ the last tae see them both alive.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. He wiz only a boy, mark you, but he minded fine them clopping past him doon the Main Street on their way tae the quay. A fair stow o’ whisky on the back o’ the cairt, tae. He never got tired o’ tellin’ the story.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

  ‘Och, he wiz a bit o’ a storyteller, my auld grandfaither. Could be a lot o’ blethers sometimes, mind, but always worth listening tae.’

  ‘Is that where you get it from?’

  ‘You can still hear his screams, every time there’s a Dalintober moon,’ continued Hamish, pointedly ignoring the remark.

  ‘Your grandfather’s?’

  ‘Nah, not at all. Poor Billy Cardle’s cries, as that bastard Archie McMunn beat him tae death. Hellish noise, I’ve heard it myself,’ he mused, sucking at his empty pipe again.

  ‘Aye, right, and I’ve seen oor Jimmy knock back the offer of a sticky toffee pudding.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Sergeant Scott. Enough tae chill the blood. There’s naebody in the toon that’s no heard it, hand on heart. Every night there’s a Dalintober moon, poor Billy can be heard, fair screaming for mercy. There’s one due any day, though you can never jeest predict when or if it’ll come.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take your word for it, Hamish. Anyhow, thanks for the change. I’ll get you a couple o’ drams in the County tonight for your pains. Noo, you’ll need tae gie me peace wae this bloody lot,’ said Scott, patting the file of documents.

  ‘Aye, not tae worry yersel’. I’ve the newspapers tae read. Whoot’s the point shelling oot good money when ye can read them a’ here for free, eh? Aye, an’ a lovely cup o’ tea wae it.’

  ‘Better than the coffee, anyway.’ Scott winced as he took his first sip.

  ‘Och, I widna put that bilge in my mooth. No, wee Janet makes me as many cups o’ tea as I want wae the kettle in her office. Here she is noo wae my first brew o’ the morning.’

  As the librarian left a large mug of steaming tea on the table and went back about her business, Hamish leaned into Scott’s left ear conspiratorially. ‘I’ll tell ye somethin’ ye’ll no’ get fae any paper clippings, or the like.’

  ‘Oh aye, what’s that, Hamish?’

  ‘Billy Cardle wiz a good-looking lad, bit o’ a ladies’ man, so the story goes.’

  Scott scowled. ‘Poor bugger didn’t get much time to practise his art.’

  ‘Time enough, Sergeant, time enough. It wisna jeest the look o’ him that Archie McMunn didna like.’ He sucked on his pipe again and winked. ‘Billy Cardle wiz mair than friendly wae McMunn’s wife, if ye get my drift.’

  V

  Daley looked out of his office window as the phone at his ear played the hold music he so despised. Just as he was about to give up and disconnect the call, the music was interrupted by a voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Wantage Police Department. Go ahead, caller.’

  Daley explained the reason for his call and waited to be put through to the sheriff. Wantage, he’d discovered, was the small town in New Jersey where Archie McMunn had fetched up after he and Cardle disappeared.

  ‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the voice on the line.

  ‘Hello, Sheriff. It’s Jim Daley, Detective Chief Inspector, from Kinloch in Scotland. I’m hoping you can help me.’

  Daley gave his opposite number in Wantage the background to the case. The man on the other end, Sheriff Walter P. Engler, listened quietly until Daley had finished his tale.

  ‘Intriguing, sir, most intriguing. However, there are parts of your story that do not tally with what I know of Archie McMunn, sir.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Mr McMunn was a pillar of our community, Chief Daley. Before he died, he owned just about anything worth owning in this town, yeah, and much of Sussex County besides. I’m pleased to say that I’m one of his successors in this job.’

  Daley drew in his breath sharply. ‘You mean he was the local sheriff?’

  ‘He was that. Three terms in office, totalling twenty-three years in all, and a legend in the police department. A fine businessman, too. His family still have extensive business interests hereabouts.’

  As Daley heard more about McMunn and his good works, love of liberty, fair play and the fortune he had apparently amassed, he began to understand why nothing had come of the investigation into the disappearance of William Cardle. McMunn had made himself an institution, in not just his adopted community but further afield. He was a prominent member of the Republican Party, and courted as such by the state governor, a number of senators, and at least one US president. The chances of his being arrested and brought back to Scotland to answer questions about an incident years before – where not even a body had been found – were negligible.

  ‘So, as far as you know he was a popular man, Sheriff?’

  ‘More than that, sir. He was literally the father of our community. From the top of his hat to the toes of his boots, he was Mr Wantage. He helped the poor, he kept the peace and he gave people jobs. In fact, I’m looking at a picture of him right now. It hangs in the sheriff’s office here to remind us of our duty to our fellow citizens,’ he said proudly. ‘But don’t just take my word for it. I’ll have the archivist from the town hall email you what we have on Archie McMunn.’

  ‘Thank you, Sheriff Engler, and for your t
ime. It’s been most illuminating. I look forward to reading more about your predecessor.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir. Do you mind if I relate this story to our mayor? This is something he’ll most certainly want to know about.’

  ‘No, not at all, go ahead,’ replied Daley. ‘As this is a live investigation, despite the passage of time, I’d be grateful if he’d keep it to himself until we have some answers, though. What’s your mayor’s name?’

  ‘You won’t need to write it down to remember it, Chief Daley. He’s called Archie McMunn. He’s the grandson of the man we’ve just been talking about.’

  Daley wound up the conversation and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Unless the stories about the brutal distillery foreman were all wrong, it appeared that whatever happened between Archie McMunn and William Cardle had transformed the former’s personality. The man Daley had been told about was kind, industrious and compassionate, a model citizen. He was the very antithesis of the McMunn who disappeared from Kinloch so many years before.

  Daley had seen many men change: some for the better, many the opposite. A few hardened criminals he’d known had turned their back on chaotic destructive lives and turned to religion and good works. Was Archie McMunn one of them? It certainly seemed so.

  The office door swung open to reveal DS Scott, so thoroughly drenched that he could quite easily have been for a swim, fully clothed.

  ‘Bugger me, but I’ve never seen rain like it. I hope you’ve got a towel.’

  Daley looked at his colleague for a moment, then started to laugh.

  VI

  As Daley and Scott walked down Main Street towards the County Hotel, a plump full moon appeared from behind a cloud and illuminated the town in an icy blue light. Though the rain had once again ceased, the wind was relentless and as Daley looked up at the great orb in the sky, small clouds flitted past, their shadows reflecting on the slick wet slate roofs of the town’s tenements.

  They made the familiar left turn under the faux rampart and through the door of the hotel, which inside was warm, bright and welcoming. Behind the bar, Annie was busy serving a throng of customers, who were no doubt anxious to forget, in a fug of alcohol of their choice, the relentless wind and rain that had battered Kinloch for days.

  ‘How ye doin’, boys?’ she shouted cheerfully. ‘I’ll be with yous in a meenit.’

  Now used to the County Hotel’s clientele, neither detective was surprised when a hush descended as they stood waiting to be served.

  ‘Aye, a terrible crime, right enough,’ said an old man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose tinged purple by regular boozing. ‘Poor Billy Cardle didna stand a chance, beaten and dumped in a barrel. It’s a bloody shame.’

  ‘I wonder just whoot the McMunns will have tae say aboot this?’ mused a middle-aged man in a thick fisherman’s jumper. ‘There can be nae doubt noo. They’re a’ off a murderer, and that’s a fact.’

  Normally, Daley would have ignored this kind of speculation, which was in the main designed to draw information from whichever policeman was present. However, on this occasion, he decided to make an exception.

  ‘You should all know better than to assume that the body found earlier has anything to do with the persons you’re talking about. You’ll get nothing from me, or any other police officers in the town, come to that, until we know the facts. So, can we all just relax and have a dram or two and talk about something else? I’m sure I’m not the only one who needs his cockles warming.’

  The comment elicited a few laughs, but served its purpose: a murmur of general conversation returned to the bar of the County Hotel.

  ‘Jeest you boys take a seat,’ shouted Annie. ‘The usual?’ She was already pouring Daley’s favourite malt whisky into a small glass.

  Daley and Scott did as they were bid, and soon Annie was weaving her way towards them through the other customers with their drinks on a tray.

  ‘There ye are, get that doon yer necks. You’ll be needin’ it efter being oot in this weather, an’ that’s a fact. Especially exposed tae the elements doon on Dalintober beach. Have yous been there all day?’

  ‘Now, Annie,’ replied Daley with a smile, ‘you should know better. You’ll get no more out of us than anyone else. In fact, there’s nothing to tell, apart from what you know already.’

  ‘Aye, well, a girl’s got tae try.’ She smiled. ‘Ye widna expect me tae neglect my duty tae my fellow toonsfolk here and no’ try tae get something oot o’ yous, would ye?’

  ‘Naw,’ said Scott. ‘Par for the course for the Gossip Master-in-Chief.’

  ‘Watch it, you,’ she said, flicking her towel at Scott. ‘Anyhow, I thought you’d be away listenin’ tae Billy Cardle’s screams, it being a Dalintober Moon and a’.’

  ‘We’re police officers, Annie,’ said Scott. ‘Nae time to listen tae all that rubbish, woman.’

  ‘No, nor rubbish, neithers. I’ve heard his screams wae my ain ears. When we were kids we used tae go across tae the beach tae find oot if the story wiz true. I can tell you, Brian, every night there’s a Dalintober moon you can hear poor Billy screaming, fair pleading fir his life. If you don’t believe me, you should go an’ have a listen tonight.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Scott, taking a gulp of his pint.

  ‘Maybe we’ll take you up on that, Annie,’ replied Daley, much to his colleague’s surprise. ‘Fling another one in there, please, and we’ll take a wander down.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Scott, an incredulous look spreading across his face.

  ‘Yup, I am. We’ll have another one to take the chill out of the bones and then head over. You never know what’ll turn up.’

  ‘Aye, double pneumonia and sand in oor shoes, Jim. Bugger me, I’ve just dried oot an’ aw. I tell ye, this place is getting tae you,’ concluded Scott with a sigh.

  VII

  Scott grumbled for the whole five minutes it took them to walk down the town’s Main Street, across the arc of the esplanade at the head of the loch and towards Dalintober beach. The blue-tinged moon was now huge in the sky; its distorted reflection writhed in the choppy waters of the loch as the wind howled across the water and through trees and buildings. Though the rain had stayed away, the men were flecked by spray from the sea, which left a salty taste on their lips.

  Ahead of them, under the acetylene glow of the streetlights, the policemen could see the old jetty, the short stretch of Dalintober beach at its side in shadow. The wind seemed to intensify, gusting past the old stone quay with a wail.

  ‘Only the deid would come out on a night like this, Jimmy,’ shouted Scott. Having turned a corner, the gale was now directly at their backs, pushing them onwards in staccato steps.

  ‘You go onto the beach, Brian. I’ll walk along the pier, see what’s what,’ Daley roared in response.

  ‘Aye, whatever you say, boss,’ Scott mumbled to himself, as he flipped up the collar of his jacket and shivered. He walked towards a slipway that led onto the small stretch of sand. As he made his way onto the beach, the darkness forced him to slow his pace; even the blue light from the huge moon seemed to be eaten up by the darkness here. To his right, he could see Daley silhouetted against the orange glow on the pier, now some hundred yards away. Even though the tide was out, flecks of the angry sea spattered his jacket as he looked around. He switched on his torch and shone it over the rocks and sand. Just ahead, the hole from which the barrel and its grisly contents had been removed was visible in the sand, though much less deep since it had again been under the waves and partially filled in by the tide. The loch looked black and restless, white tips of whipped-up waves racing towards him on the shore, and the stench of rotting seaweed was strong in the wet salty air.

  Suddenly, just within the range of the torch beam, a movement on the sand caught his eye. Something large and black darted across his path.

  ‘Fuck me! A rat, near the size o’ a dug!’ he exclaimed to himself, as the rodent disappeared into the night, coat glistening in th
e moonlight.

  Cold, wet, unhappy and increasingly thirsty, he shone his torch down the length of the beach. Apart from a white plastic bag, blowing along in the wind, nothing was moving; even the rat had seen fit to remove itself from the elements. Swearing under his breath, Scott decided to do the same.

  Just as he turned towards the slipway though, he heard it. Barely audible at first, then more intense, someone was screaming fit to chill the blood.

  Scott flicked the torch beam left and right, but nothing was there. The cry was distinct now, despite the howling wind. It was high and shrill, desperate, like someone screaming for their life.

  He scanned the length of the pier and could see no sign of Daley under the streetlamps, swaying on their thin metal posts in the wind. He ran across the beach, up the slipway, nearly falling on the greasy seaweed-slick surface, and along the road. He raced onto the pier and looked frantically around.

  ‘Jim, Jim!’ Scott bellowed, his calls lost on the wind and the screaming. He wrestled the phone from his pocket, cursing the fact that it wasn’t the one he was used to. His hands were numb with cold as he found the button on the side of the device, illuminated the screen, then tried to remember how to make a call. Before he could summon assistance, however, the screaming stopped.

  Scott looked around frantically for any sign of his friend, the phone clamped to his ear. He walked to the edge of the pier and stared into the black waves that lashed the structure. How easy would it have been for Daley to lose his footing and be blown into the loch?

  Just as his call to Kinloch Police Office was answered, a light flashed from somewhere beneath him. He spoke hurriedly on the phone as he looked over the sea wall. Two figures were struggling in the darkness, partially illuminated by the beam of a torch that lay on the sand beside them. Scott ran towards the sea wall, scaled it gingerly, then eased himself onto the rocky foreshore in time to see a large man subdue a smaller adversary with one punch to the jaw.