‘Here we are, gentlemen. It’s got a reasonably big screen, so you’ll be able to see what I managed to get. I can blow the images up on a laptop if you want.’
Daley and Scott both rummaged in their pockets for reading glasses, then the three gathered around the camera as Hal flicked through some of the pictures he’d taken in the early hours of the morning. While Daley was visibly impressed, Scott remained tight-lipped.
‘Love the distillery buildings. You’ve really captured something there,’ said Daley.
‘Thanks. I love the light at dawn, it’s magical somehow. Ah, here we are, the shots from around the harbour.’
As Hal flicked through each image, Scott moved his face nearer to the screen. ‘See this one, can you make the boat here a bit bigger?’
Hal zoomed in to a small boat at the pier. The figure on board was crystal clear in the hazy light.
‘Hamish!’ said Daley and Scott in unison.
XI
The old fisherman was sitting on a pile of tangled nets, puffing on a pipe. He had his trusty penknife out, and was busy trying to dislodge a piece of recalcitrant rope from a pink fluorescent buoy while clouds of blue pipe smoke billowed into the air.
‘Well now, what can I do for you fine gentlemen?’ he said as Daley and Scott approached.
‘You were out on the go early this morning, Hamish,’ said Daley.
‘Aye, I was that. Time and tide wait for no man, as the Bard would have it. He was right, too. You’ll be aware that some bugger’s been thieving fae lobster creels? Och, but maybe yous are too immersed in finding oor necklace, jeest so they buggers fae London can whisk it away.’
‘We’re mounting a joint operation wae the Fishery Protection folk about they missing lobsters, as well you know,’ said Scott.
‘And no’ one bugger brought tae justice, neithers. I’ve got tae be extra vigilant, noo. Up wae the lark and oot tae the creels. I’ve never met a criminal yet that got oot his bed early. Sure, that’s how they turn tae crime in the first place. Jeest fair oot o’ laziness. As it turns oot, I got a couple o’ beauties this morning. So I’ll no’ run oot o’ whisky for a few days, at least.’ He smiled then licked his stubby forefinger, holding it in the air. ‘The wind’s on the change right enough. I widna be surprised if there was a squall on the way.’
‘So I don’t suppose you saw anything of note this morning before you put to sea, Hamish?’ asked Daley.
‘No, nothing at all oot o’ the ordinary. All was quiet. Since there’s hardly any boats left in the fleet, and maist o’ them away oot for a day or two, there’s nae bustle on the pier at all noo. Makes me sad, but there we are. One day the powers that be will make fishing illegal. The seas will be fair teeming wae fish and there’ll be no’ a soul tae get them oot the sea and ontae the plate. That’s a fact, mark you – jeest you wait. They’re no’ going tae be happy until we’re all eating insects. Insects, of all things!’
Daley looked out along the loch. Sure enough, dark clouds were gathering over the distant Isle of Arran. Hamish was right. Heavy weather was on the way.
‘And like everybody else, you’ve no idea what happened at the museum last night, eh?’ asked Scott.
‘I don’t concern mysel’ with museums and a’ that. I’m jeest fair scunnered that the necklace has gone, but this is the world we’re in. If your creels aren’t safe, what is there left? I sometimes wonder where it’s a’ going. You boys are facing an uphill struggle – like thon wee Dutch boy – you know, the one wae his finger in the dyke. There’s jeest a big tidal wave o’ crime and godlessness on the horizon that’ll consume us all.’ At that moment the wind gusted, sending litter scudding down the pier and capping the small waves in the loch with white.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Daley. ‘I think there are crimes and then there are crimes.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know whoot you mean,’ said Hamish as he put his penknife back in the bib pocket of his greasy dungarees.
They said their farewells, and Hamish disappeared into a shed on the pier as the two policemen made their way back to their car.
As Daley switched on the engine, the wipers burst into life, sweeping large raindrops from the windscreen.
‘What’s this crime thing?’ asked Scott, echoing Daley’s comment to Hamish.
‘As I said to you, it’s all too neat. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘The way folk are behaving. One minute the whole town’s up in arms that their precious necklace is being taken to London, worried they’ll never see it again. The next – and you saw Hamish just now – it’s just a shrug of the shoulders, and isn’t the world an awful place.’
‘I’m confused.’
‘Me too,’ said Daley.
As they drove up Main Street, Thornberry could be seen at the boot of her SUV, which was parked at the front door of the County Hotel. The redoubtable Hal, burdened by an armful of bags and suitcases, was helping her to pack the car.
Daley pulled up beside them and wound down his window. ‘Off so soon?’
‘What’s there to stay for, DCI Daley?’ she replied. ‘In any case, we’ve got a job in Yorkshire, so we have to make tracks. That is, unless you’ve found the necklace.’ She grinned knowingly.
A woman ran past Hal on the pavement, chasing a large green brolly that had been torn from her grip by a gust of wind.
‘Safe journey. It looks like the weather’s on the turn, so the quicker you get going, the better.’
Thornberry laughed. ‘That’s the feeling I’ve had since we came here.’
‘That’s small towns for you,’ said Scott, leaning across Daley. ‘Don’t think we’ve no’ had the same feelings fae time to time.’
‘I’m sure. A case of when’s a crime not a crime, I should imagine. It seems to me as though local justice still prevails here. Anyway, if you’ll excuse us, this rain’s getting heavier and we must get away.’ She gave the policemen an inscrutable smile, slammed the boot shut and joined Hal in the car.
‘Is it just me, or is everyone speaking in riddles?’ asked Scott as they went through the gates of Kinloch Police Office. ‘Mair o’ this crime, crime business. She’s as bad as you.’
‘It’s just your imagination, Bri,’ replied Daley, deep in thought.
Jean McGinty gripped the collar of her coat as she strode along the promenade on the way back home. She’d just finished her job cleaning for a local doctor in his big house on the outskirts of the town, and she was anxious to get out of the rain and home. Her husband had promised to make dinner, and she hoped he’d also had the good sense to put the central heating back on. As well as the rain, there was a distinct chill in the air, as though winter was on its way, rather than giving way to summer.
As the rain soaked her, she wished she’d taken her employer’s offer of a lift back home. However, her new walking-to-work regime had paid off. She’d lost almost two stones in weight, and she felt as fit as she’d done in years. She would get home, draw a bath and sink into its warmth as her husband prepared the evening meal.
Just as Jean passed the putting green, she noticed a large object on a bench. On closer examination, this item proved to be a leather bag – of the outsized variety favoured by some women who insist on taking half the contents of their homes with them wherever they go. It had clearly been there for some time; it looked sodden with the heavy rain.
She picked up the bag, pulling at the drawstring that held it closed. Wiping the rain from her eyes, she peered inside. At first, she thought the bag was empty. The lining was black, but seemed dry, despite the drenching. Then, she spotted something glistening as raindrops landed inside. She thrust her hand in, almost gasping when she felt the cold hard object at her fingertips.
Jean closed the bag, hefted it over her shoulder, and made not for her home on the other side of the loch, but into Kinloch’s town centre and straight to the police office.
XII
Daley was slumped in the large
chair within his glass box. Scott had gone to bring them some sustenance from the fish and chip shop.
Symington popped her head round the door. She was in full uniform and her braided hat and raincoat were soaked.
‘You don’t mind if I put my coat on your radiator, Jim? The one in my office seems to be on the blink.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Daley, helping her shrug off the dripping garment. ‘How on earth are you so wet?’
‘It’s raining, Jim, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, but – well, I mean, why were you out in it?’
‘On the beat, DCI Daley,’ she replied triumphantly. ‘Despite getting soaked, I loved every minute of it. I used to love being out and about in the community when I first joined up. It’s what policing’s all about, getting to know those on your beat and showing the caring side of our work.’
Daley nodded at this, but remembering his experiences of life on the beat in Glasgow, he couldn’t quite reconcile his time among shoplifters, drunks, brawling young men outside nightclubs and speeding motorists with Symington’s halcyon view of policing. Times had changed, but not enough to persuade Jim Daley to don his uniform and take to the mean streets of Kinloch à pied.
‘I see the museum staff have packed up and gone,’ said Symington. ‘The ACC’s still fizzing about this. I reckon there may be trouble ahead.’
‘I don’t know what he wants us to do. Brian and I have been out all day following leads and we’ve come up with absolutely nothing. Same goes for the SOCO boys – not a thing – I mean not a single trace of forensic evidence.’
‘And you think there’s something strange about this, Jim?’
‘It’s not just that. We all know that perfect crimes don’t exist. But this one seems damned close. That and the way everyone’s behaving as though nothing’s happened. You must’ve noticed when you were out and about. For a town that loves its past and cherishes this bloody necklace, they’re doing a fine impersonation of folk who don’t give a shit . . . ma’am.’
‘Yes, I did detect an apathy of sorts. Odd. Of course I don’t know the people here the way you do.’
There was a sharp knock as the door swung open to reveal Sergeant Shaw holding a large leather handbag from which water was dripping.
‘Ma’am, sir, you’ll really want to see this. Just been handed in.’ He gave the bag to Daley, who examined it.
‘Bit busy to deal with lost property. What’s this all about?’
‘Take a look inside, sir.’
Daley peered nervously into the bag. ‘If there’s a snake in here, you can . . .’ He fell silent when he glimpsed the contents of the bag. There, lying on the black silk lining, was the jet necklace, glistening under the harsh office lights, the thin gold chain brighter still.
Daley looked up, mouth agape, and handed the bag to Symington.
‘Here,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘They’d no smoked sausage, so I got you a haggis supper, big man.’ Scott stopped in his tracks when he saw the bemused looks of the three occupants of Daley’s office. ‘What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re no’ hungry any more.’
‘Brian,’ said Daley, ‘you’re not going to believe this.’
‘So they’ve got the bag?’ said the voice on the phone.
‘Aye, they have that. The woman who cleans the hoose for Dr Wallace found it and took it straight tae the polis. I’m guessing there’ll be mair than a few sighs o’ relief up the brae.’
‘And what about you? Are you ready to do the deed, or should we wait until this filthy weather has passed?’
There was a pause as the man holding the grubby phone thought for a few moments. ‘Ach, well, now, you see, if we was talking aboot jeest any polisman, I’d say we could hold off. But, as you might have realised yourself, DCI Daley’s far fae your average Joe when it comes tae detection. Despite the rain and gales, I think we have tae dae it the night.’ He listened to the reply and replaced the receiver as a very large striped cat jumped on his shoulder, purring loudly.
‘You, ya big bugger. Where have you been, eh?’ Still with the cat on his shoulder, he made his way to an old chest of drawers and removed a wooden casket from the creaky drawer. As he forced it shut again, he resolved to oil the runners, a job he’d been meaning to do for more years than he could remember.
He sat down heavily in an old winged chair, then removed a tiny key from his pocket, which he used to open the casket. The cat miaowed as it looked down from his shoulder.
‘Aye, nae wonder you’ve got something tae say. You’ll no’ see this every day in this hoose – no, nor many others, I fancy.’
The lid of the box creaked as he pushed it up.
There, arranged artfully on the red velvet lining, sat a black jet necklace, a thin gold chain holding it together.
‘My, whoot a bonnie thing. Would you no’ agree, Hamish?’
The big cat purred deeply, its green eyes flashing at the sight of the precious object.
Scott put the phone down with a sigh. ‘Doesnae look as though your man Bennett is at his work, or at home, Jimmy.’
Daley thought for a few moments. ‘Well, if we can’t find him, we’ll have to think of somewhere to keep this until tomorrow.’
‘What about Thornberry?’ asked Symington.
‘Not my job to contact her, ma’am. Anyway, by this time they’ll be well on their way to Yorkshire. If you want to inform the ACC, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to share the news.’
‘You’re right, of course, Jim,’ she replied. ‘After the fuss he’s made about this, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy we’ve come across it. What a stroke of luck. Anyone could have happened upon that bag.’
Scott eyed Daley as he nodded. ‘I know that look. What’s up, big man?’
‘Oh, nothing really. We’ve got the necklace back. We can hand it to forensics, but I’m willing to gamble my pension on the lack of any firm evidence they’ll find.’
‘You’re a pessimist, DCI Daley,’ said Symington. ‘These days they can work miracles.’
‘Like they did in the local museum, ma’am?’ Daley forced himself out of his chair. ‘In the meantime, we better get this little treasure under lock and key. We don’t want it going walkies again, not until we can leave it in the capable hands of Mr Bennett.’
‘You’re the boy for the sarcasm, Jimmy,’ said Scott.
‘Regardless, all’s well that ends well. I’ll go and let the ACC know he can come down off the ceiling.’ With that, Symington left Daley’s glass box with a spring in her step.
Scott looked at his old colleague and friend. ‘Penny for them?’
‘Just ignore me, Brian. Just ignore me.’
XIII
First, Daley tried the County Hotel. There was no sign of Annie, and nobody seemed to have any idea where she was. Then, having checked the Douglas Arms and a number of Kinloch’s other hostelries, he failed to find Hamish.
On his way down to the old fisherman’s cottage, he called Bennett’s home number, then his mobile. No reply. Nor was there any response at Hamish’s home, though he could see Hamish the cat eyeing him with deep mistrust through the yellowed net curtains as he knocked the door once more.
His last port of call was Thomas Marchmount’s home. Having rattled the knocker at the door, to no avail, he soon realised, with the house in darkness, there was nobody at home. Just to make sure, however, he stepped across the floral border under the front window, being careful not to damage any plants, and stared through the rain-lashed window. Using his hand to shade the fading light of day, he could make out no movement from within.
Rather than seeking refuge from the elements in his car, he stood for a few moments at Marchmount’s gate, head tilted towards the sky, letting the rain shower his face. He’d been here for long enough now. He knew these people. The population of Kinloch was tight-knit, but normally there was a chink he was able to exploit, a chance to break through the self-imposed purdah the community placed itself under whe
n strangers threatened to uncover their secrets.
But not this time.
Or, maybe there was a different answer. Maybe some things were beyond the remit of the police. Things that would remain mysteries long after he, DCI Jim Daley – even Police Scotland – were long gone.
He shook his head with a rueful grin and made his way to his car. As he turned on the engine, he remembered Marchmount’s words as reported in Scott’s notebook: ‘Certainly wrought by a craftsman, but with no spirit.’
DCI Jim Daley, his job done, headed for hearth and home.
The hillside was open to the elements, but still the little band of people gathered round in the dying light of day, the wind tearing at their thick coats and tugging at their hats as the rain lashed down. A pile of stones that had formed a small cairn was now being rebuilt over a disturbance in the soil. When the last stone was put in place, they looked at each other. Despite the miserable weather, everyone was smiling.
At a nod from the blind man, they made their way back down the hill, an old fisherman and a thick-set joiner taking each arm of the man with the white stick, as his dog plodded alongside.
At the front of the small group, two women – one with forthright clipped tones, the other with the cheerful accent of a local – assailed a thin man with a nervous demeanour.
Lagging behind, a teenage lad stopped to look back at the mound of stones. He wondered how long it would be before the necklace would again see the light of day, and what the world would be like on that far-off day. Though he’d been lectured on the point, he knew in himself that they’d done the right thing. Order had been restored, and what had been taken had now been returned.
At a call from his grandfather, he turned and made his way back down the hill. What he’d seen was, indeed, finer than the blackest gold.
‘Yous are all welcome back at mine!’ shouted the joiner as they neared the foot of the hill.
‘It’s getting late,’ observed the old fisherman mirthlessly, wringing rainwater from his hat.
One Last Dram Before Midnight Page 28