Whisky From Small Glasses (15 page)

‘So Bobby’s not who we’re looking for?’ Daley kept his expression neutral. He had misjudged the younger brother’s body language on the beach; either that or Camel was making a desperate attempt to save his sibling. Somehow, Daley didn’t think so.

‘Listen.’ Camel sat forward. ‘I know you guys will probably have evidence that I slept wi’ her the day she disappeared, so why are we fucking about? This has got nothing tae dae wi’ Bobby. He just canna help looking guilty, he’s always been the same. Jeest let him go. I’m yer man. I promise ye though: she wiz alive an’ kicking when I last saw her.’ He looked directly at Daley with the unnerving, steady gaze that the policeman had first noticed on the beach that morning.

‘So, if you don’t mind, maybe you can fill us in on your little dalliance? Where and when did this act of passion take place?’ Daley knew instinctively that the fisherman was telling the truth.

‘Dalliance? I’ve never heard it called that afore. If you must know, I couped her o’er the bins at the back o’ Pulse.’

‘Nae bother tae you, son, eh?’ said Scott. ‘Never mind a bit of romance an’ a’ that shite.’

‘They ca’ it the Honeymoon Suite. It’s no’ Paris in the spring, but the owner turns a blind eye. An’ well you know how it is when passion strikes, boys, or are yous both too auld tae remember?’

Daley rose from his seat and slammed the desk with his clenched fist, an action that Camel was clearly not expecting as he pushed himself quickly back from the desk, an open-mouthed look of astonishment on his face.

‘I’ve had just about enough of your childish sarcasm, son,’ roared Daley, the veins now standing out on his neck. ‘A woman’s lost her life, and a wee boy’s lost his mother, never mind her husband, whom you
obviously
don’t give a fuck about. Now, I’ll give you another chance to answer our questions, this time with the tape on. Remember, son, before we start – right now, after your big confession – you’re the prime suspect. So take that fucking stupid grin off your face and try to get yourself out of the mess you’re in, or the only crabs you’ll be catching will be off some lonely psychopath with a three-day growth and a life sentence. Get it?’

Camel, chastened by Daley’s outburst, went on to tell them more about Izzy Watson’s life than could have been hoped for. It was apparently not unusual for her to arrive in the club with one man, and then visit the Honeymoon Suite with another. It seemed as though her life was well and truly out of control. Camel confirmed that she was addicted to crack and regularly snorted coke. She paid for this, he said, by acting as a sort of unofficial prostitute, with drugs the reward for sexual favours. He had paid for his romantic interlude at the bins with a wrap of cocaine he had picked up in Glasgow. He also gave the officers an impromptu and extensive list of other men with whom she had similar ad hoc arrangements.

‘By fuck, Jim, beasts in the field doon here, eh? Ye wid think it was just a nice wee seaside toon, but they’re up tae their ears in illegal drugs and illicit sex. Oor lassie Izzy’s been a bit o’ a girl right enough.’ Scott shook his head, and looked thoughtfully at the floor.

Daley knew his partner was sensitive to his domestic situation, and every now and again – purely because of his inherent lack of tact – would realise that he had said something that was too close to the bone, touching on the marital difficulties of his boss. He wished Scott would forget all about it, but the problem remained, silent and unspoken. He decided to lighten the mood. ‘On the subject of wayward women, my dear wife will be winging her way here as we speak, or should I say rotating?’ Daley looked at Scott and smiled. ‘It’s been a long day, Brian. Will you liaise with the local guys and get the rest of Izzy’s paramours rounded up? I want to go for a walk for a bit . . . Clear the head, you know?’

‘You do the right thing, boss. If anything exciting happens I’ll bell you on the mobile. We’ll need DNA fae a’ these guys, so I’ll bump it upstairs for his Lordship tae sort oot.’

‘Aye, do that, Brian.’ Daley shrugged his jacket over his shoulders. ‘Get young Fraser to help you. He’s up at Watson’s. He’s a good lad, nothing like old Davie, eh?’

‘I can tell he’s nothin’ like Davie cos he’s standing up. You go an’ get your walk,
Chief Inspector
.’ He slapped his friend on the back and grinned. ‘An’ don’t be goin’ anywhere near that Pulse, or you‘ll catch something. I’ll mebbe take a wander doon there later and check it oot.’ Scott grinned. They were back on easy terms by the time Daley left.

*

There was a large map on the wall of the CID office, which Daley had consulted when he first arrived. A short distance from the twin piers, there was a stretch of promenade running along the side of the loch towards its mouth. It was here that Daley walked as he mused on the progress of the case so far. The sky was still a cloudless blue, and the fragrance of honeysuckle mixed itself with the ozone from the bay. The everpresent gulls emitted their habitual cackle that somehow, despite its harsh nature, complemented the ambience. The warm sun felt good on his face; if he hadn’t been walking he was sure that he could have happily drifted off to sleep.

Izzy Watson’s life had been chaotic, and he was convinced that her lifestyle had contributed to her demise. There were, though, nagging doubts at the back of his mind. He didn’t seriously think that Camel had anything to do with her murder, but of course he couldn’t be sure. The same, he suspected, went for the sixteen guys on the list that Camel had given him. They were all young lads out for a good time. Recreational drugs, shedloads of booze, fast women: yes. Murder: no. The young people he had seen here didn’t have the rough, world-weary taint of their peers in the city, where casual and extreme violence had become unremarkable.

The gnawing of instinct continued in his head. He recalled the bunches into which her hair was tied, the red ribbons which stood out so incongruously on the crime-scene images. No one remembered her wearing her hair that way. Why had she suddenly changed her hairstyle? And for whom?

Then there was the friend, Janet Ritchie. Despite having both CID and uniformed officers look for her all day, they had turned up nothing. Nobody recalled seeing her or Izzy after their capers at Pulse. He had officers at the club now,
questioning staff and customers. The owner was nowhere to be found. He lived in a flat above the premises that was as quiet as the grave. Daley had toyed with the idea of breaking down the door to the flat, but he wanted to take a look himself before he took this action. At the moment, CCTV tapes made on the night that Izzy had disappeared were being reviewed by two local DCs. Pulse was his next port of call.

On another level, he was revelling in his surroundings. The loch itself was a generous ‘C’ shape, about half a mile across at its furthest point between one side of the town and the other. On this side of the water, large Victorian mansions spoke of the prosperous times that Kinloch had seen when the sea was the world’s highway. He had Googled the town the evening before his departure, and now he imagined the bay filled with small fishing boats, tall masted schooners carrying coal and whisky – the town’s main exports – and the general hubbub that such a scene would generate. During World War II the port of Kinloch had seen a brief revival as a strategic base for the Royal Navy. The deep safe harbour provided a welcome retreat from the brutal exigencies of the war in the Atlantic. At that time the population rose to a dizzy 30,000 – the high-water mark of its inhabitation.

As with so many other communities in Scotland, the 1970s and 1980s had brought decline and despair. The fishing industry contracted to virtually nothing; the sea-coal mine, which had tunnelled deep under the ocean near to where Izzy Watson’s body had been found, closed. And, of course, attendant businesses suffered a commensurate demise. The thriving shipyard, one that had produced some of the finest fishing boats in Europe, was a spectre of empty decaying buildings on the other side of the loch. The rise in
the popularity of Speyside-produced whisky saw all but one of the town’s many distilleries demolished. It was the old story: confidence in the area drained away; small factories closed; shops shut; and people moved on. In their wake, a hard core of individuals struggled to maintain what was left of the thriving happy community.

Unexpectedly, a cloud passed over the sun, turning the loch from a shimmering blue to an impenetrable grey. The hills seemed to gather in around their ancient charge. An unseasonable chill rent the air, the squawking gulls quietened, and the town took on a demeanour of black foreboding.

In the distance, the distinctive thud of helicopter blades hard at work could be heard. Automatically, Daley turned to face the noise. A dot, growing steadily larger over the island that sheltered the entrance to the loch, immediately caught his eye. ‘There may be trouble ahead . . .’ The words and melody of Nat King Cole’s song appeared unheralded in his mind.

He was suddenly aware of somebody behind him. He turned to face the wrinkled visage of old Hamish, his features the same inscrutable mask the policeman had noted in the harbour master’s office.

‘Well now, Mr Daley.’ The old man’s voice was a rasping whisper barely audible above the noise of the helicopter. ‘That’s a day that’s changing, eh?’

‘Hello, Hamish. You know the weather around here better than me. What do you reckon?’

The old man looked heavenward and took his pipe from the pocket of the green oilskin coat he was wearing. ‘There’s a storm on the way. Aye, a storm, Mr Daley.’ He looked back at the detective. ‘That’ll be yer wife.’

Daley looked up. The helicopter was now over the loch. There was writing along the side of the aircraft, but he couldn’t read it at that distance. He squinted for a moment or two, but gave up. He opened his mouth to answer the old man, but he’d vanished – no sign of him in either direction. Chief Inspector James Daley shivered involuntarily and decided to walk back towards the town. There was still no sign of the mysterious Hamish. Daley reasoned that he had probably taken some hidden route onto the gravel beach.

He was passing a young mother with her baby in a push-chair when his mobile started to ring. It was Liz.

‘Hi there, darling! We’ve just landed, right in the middle of the town. Can you believe it?’

He had seen the helicopter lose height over Kinloch, and had supposed that there must be a landing pad somewhere in the town. He knew that patients from the local hospital were taken to Glasgow by helicopter if their condition was deemed serious enough, and he briefly tried to imagine where such an aircraft could land, using his limited knowledge of the town’s topography.

‘Hi, Liz. Good flight, I trust? I actually saw you flying over . . .’

‘Good, Jim, good.’ She sounded distracted, and he could hear someone talking in the background. ‘Listen, Mark wants to get settled into the hotel. We’ve a taxi waiting. Can I meet you later? I’m sure you’ll be busy right now.’ It was amazing how understanding she could be when her plans suited him being elsewhere.

‘Oh, fine. Where are you staying?’ The halting dialogue of their phone calls remained unchanged.

‘We’re in some posh lodge about five miles out of town. Mark says he wouldn’t like to rough it staying in Kinloch itself. He’s been here golfing a lot, darling, and he says the people are, well, rather quaint.’ Liz giggled, no doubt prompted by her odious brother-in-law. ‘From where I am I can see a little bar overlooking the loch. Hold on, I’ll ask the taxi driver what it’s called.’ There was a brief muffled conversation with somebody who, judging by his accent could only be local, then Liz was back. ‘It’s called the Island. The driver here says it’s the poshest bar in the “toon”.’ She tried, without success, to affect the accent. ‘So, just the place for you and I, love. Meet you there about six?’

‘Well, I’ll have to see what’s happening. I’ve got something to tell you anyway, so I’ll do my best. Will you be alone? I . . .’

‘Got to dash! This driver’s getting himself into a bit of a panic – wants to get home or something. See you at six.’

After the familiar sound of a prematurely terminated phone conversation, Daley slipped his mobile into his trouser pocket with a sigh. He hoped that she would be alone, and he was furious that she was staying at Mark’s hotel, and not his. He tried to console himself by reasoning that having Liz underfoot in the middle of an investigation would be a disaster, and that she was better off where she was. But he had just assumed that she would be staying with him. He heard Donald’s voice in his head: to assume is to make an ass of you and me.

He banished thoughts of his wife and his superior from his mind, and headed back into Kinloch. The town was quite busy, and looking at his watch he realised that at four thirty, some people might be starting to leave work or head home
from shopping. However, come to think of it, Kinloch’s Main Street always seemed busy.

It had been a very difficult and long day, but he had time to take a quick look at the nightclub where Izzy Watson had last been seen.

Pulse was situated halfway up Main Street. The windows were glazed with privacy glass, and remembering what Camel had told him of what went on within its confines, he wasn’t surprised. A small brass plate to the side of the door was all that announced the function of the building to the public: ‘PULSE. Licensed to sell alcohol and tobacco. Prop. P. Mulligan.’ It looked like the kind of plaque that might be found outside a private medical surgery or an upmarket legal firm. He pushed open the large black door and entered.

The place was all he expected it to be: an impossibly dim, windowless interior with no natural light to permeate the gloom. A deserted bar with oversized beer fonts was the domain of a jumpy-looking barman, who hastened over to Daley in silent enquiry. A uniformed officer sat with his back to the chief inspector, watching golf on a huge plasma screen at the far end of a lowered area, which formed an obvious dance floor. Cluny, a loud-mouthed but efficient DC from Paisley, was talking into his mobile, and acknowledged his superior with a raise of his eyebrows. A local DC was sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor, looking intently at a series of black-and-white images on a laptop.