Whisky From Small Glasses (11 page)

The remaining police officers gave their details, and the pathologist continued. ‘My name is Judy Kelly. I’m Assistant Pathologist in Greater Glasgow.’ She walked behind the desk and took a seat behind the microphones. ‘Mr Watson, when you are ready, I will begin to show a number of images of the deceased. Please feel free to ask me to stop at any time, if either you can make a positive identification, or you want a break.

‘I must warn you that the deceased has been exposed to saltwater for a period of time, which may make her features appear swollen or bloated, so please take this into account. Please say “yes” when you are ready to proceed.’ She looked directly into the camera, waiting for Watson’s reply.

‘Aye, go ahead.’ Watson’s voice was clear, but ready to break with emotion.

Instantly, an overhead view of a body shrouded in a white sheet became visible on the screen. Only the face and hair were exposed. Daley noted that the sheet was placed high up on the neck, obscuring the ligature marks.

‘Can I see?’ Watson was peering at the screen. The image zoomed to the face alone. ‘Oh, fuck.’ Watson looked heavenward, his hands like a child’s in prayer. He quickly crossed himself, then bowed his head. ‘Aye, it’s Isobel,’ he whispered. ‘She . . . she looks different, but that’s her.’ He hunched over and sobbed uncontrollably.

The pathologist thanked Watson, and expressed her condolences. After a pause she asked Daley to acknowledge the positive identification. The gruesome job was over. The screen flickered back to the force logo.

Daley, sitting beside Watson, had his arm around his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that, Mr Watson. I know how hard it must have been. C’mon, let’s get you a coffee, eh? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?’ Despite the early hour, he was sure that Watson would appreciate a dram.

The pair stood and headed for the door. As Daley opened it, Watson stopped. A shaft of bright morning sunshine pierced the gloom. The fisherman looked to where MacLeod was sitting. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ prick, do you know that?’ He turned on his heel and followed Daley from the room.

Daley had his victim’s identification, and now the investigation could step up a gear. It was just after ten and he was famished. He had just heard from DS Scott, who was on his way from Paisley and already cursing the state of the rural roads he now had to navigate.

DC Dunn, two uniformed officers, Fraser and the bereaved Watson were now at the fisherman’s home. Daley had to arrange a press conference, which he hoped would take place as soon as possible. In these days of twenty-four hour rolling news coverage, he realised that the press conference would go out live. However, in his experience, very few people watched these channels; much better to catch the main news programmes that ran in the early evening. He called the Public Relations Office.

As it turned out, they had been geared up since the previous day, and had already arranged for the press officer designated to this case to contact the relevant news agencies. Daley groaned when he heard who the PR officer was. Pauline Robertson: a woman with whom he had a long and tortured relationship.

Pauline had been a tabloid reporter on one of his first CID cases. In those days, before her Damascene conversion to public relations, she had been the scourge of Strathclyde Police, determined to uncover the corruption, injustice and brutality she was certain beset the organisation. It was a younger Donald who, then in charge of A-Division CID, had persuaded her to take the job in Strathclyde’s PR department: ‘Fight the demons from the inside,’ he had implored her. Of course, once she was tied down to a generous pension plan and an incremental salary structure, and the rest of the benefits attendant with the civil service, such as flexi-hours, job security and six weeks’ paid holidays a year, she appeared to lose her zeal for investigative journalism. However, she had lost none of her ability to rile Daley. He was under a lot of pressure here, and because of the isolated nature of the investigation it would have a certain cachet for the press. For now, he put the press conference to the back of his mind.

8

He had been up since three thirty, so, on his way to Watson’s home, he nipped into the County Hotel to get a quick shower and change, and hopefully a bit of breakfast.

The smell of bacon and eggs and coffee greeted him like an old friend as he entered the hotel. He saw Annie busy at the reception desk as he made his way across the faded carpet. ‘Morning, Annie. Any chance of that breakfast? Say, in fifteen minutes or so? I’m afraid I had a call-out in the middle of the night.’

‘Aye, there wiz me, up wi’ the larks cookin’ the full works, an a’ the time the bird had flown.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Daley smiled at her sheepishly. ‘You know how it is in my line of work – duty calls and all that. It’s OK, I’ll get a sandwich or something in the town.’

‘Indeed, you will not.’ Annie was adamant. ‘There’s naebody goin’ tae say we canna treat oor guests right in this hotel. No, no’ when I’m at the helm o’ the cutter.’

Happy that he was going to be fed, he bounded up the staircase and into his room. He had forgotten that there was no shower in his room, so he immediately turned on both taps, and quickly drew a deep bath. He bathed or showered a lot. He had picked up the habit as a young cop, finding the smell of the death and decay he frequently encountered
followed him off duty. Bathing at night and in the morning seemed to banish the malodorous taint. He also found the activity invigorating. It was going to be a long day; he needed all the help he could get.

Feeling fresher, he took a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and unconsciously chose Liz’s favourite tie. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that she was arriving this evening with the odious Mark. He sighed quietly to himself. What with the imminent arrival of Scott and his posse, Kinloch was rapidly becoming a home from home.

Downstairs, he sat down to a hearty breakfast – ignoring the fact that this artery-clogging feast would do nothing for his waistline. He devoured the meal, sitting alone in the dining room, with only the local radio station for company.

It was being played over two large speakers attached to the wall above his head. ‘Police are still baffled by the discovery of a dead body jeest outside the toon.’ The voice was pure Kinloch. ‘Noo, whoot is it, Jamie?’

‘Weel, I wiz jeest thinking, it wid be a strange kinda thing if the body they found wisna deid. I mean, whoot kinda polis investigation wid cover that?’

There followed much muffled laughter. It most certainly was not BBC Radio 4, but Daley had to admit, it did have a certain charm all of its own. Absorbed in his cooked breakfast and the banter of the
Jock and Jamie Show
, he reluctantly answered his mobile, which displayed Fraser’s number.

‘Sir, I think you better come over to Mr Watson’s now. There’s been a development.’

‘Well, DC Fraser, you can tell me. What is it?’ Daley sounded more impatient than he was, and he grimaced at his brusque tone.

‘We checked Mr Watson’s house phone, you know, for messages and the like?’ Fraser was already sounding maligned.

‘And?’ Daley was chewing a particularly tasty piece of sausage. ‘Don’t tell me she’s been on the phone. This investigation’s strange enough as it is without messages from the dead.’

‘That’s the thing, sir. We tried 1471 to get the last caller, and it was Mrs Watson’s mobile number. Two hours ago.’

Daley looked down mournfully at the remainder of his breakfast, and stuck his fork in a sausage. ‘I’m on my way.’

Watson’s home was not as he had expected. No low fisherman’s cottage, or scruffy council flat. Rather, it was a pleasant bungalow, in a small estate of about ten other properties, situated on a hill with wonderful views of Kinloch’s harbour and the rest of the town from a large picture window.

The interior was conservatively furnished, with an expensive-looking Chesterfield-style suite in dark red leather, a large glass-fronted cabinet displaying various items in silver and crystal, and an enormous coffee table centred on a sheepskin rug, which was either artificial or had come from a truly Herculean beast. A CD player was perched on a small table to the side of an impressive gas fire, surrounded by a dark wooden fireplace. On the walls were a couple of Turneresque prints, and above the fireplace a well-varnished ship’s wheel. All bore testament to the lucrative occupation of the householder, who was now recumbent on one of the armchairs, his leg shaking up and down in what Daley had already noted as a nervous habit.

Watson was cradling a small silver cordless phone, his expression understandably puzzled. ‘I mean, what now,
Inspector Daley? It’s her number, no doubt aboot that. Look here.’ He propped himself up on one elbow as he fished a mobile phone from a pocket of his jeans. After pressing a couple of buttons, he handed the phone to Daley; the screen read ‘Izzy’, and displayed the same mobile number he had just heard over the house telephone as last caller.

‘As you know, Mr Watson, sadly this was most certainly not your wife, and whoever made this call, and for whatever reason, may be able to shed at least some light on what happened to her. However, don’t raise your hopes too high. The person who rang may well just have found her mobile. It’s a common enough thing to call Home from a phone’s contacts list if you’re trying to find out who the owner is.’

‘Oh, right.’ Watson looked towards Fraser, whose face was beginning the now familiar reddening process. ‘Sir, I never really thought of that possibility.’ He shrugged his shoulders, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an unconscious act of contrition.

‘This is a positive development, Mr Watson. We’ll trace where the call was made from, and with a bit of luck we’ll be able to trace the phone and the caller. Could I have a word with you, please, DC Fraser?’ Daley walked out of the house, with the nervous-looking DC in his wake.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I . . . Mr Watson . . . I thought for sure that the call was of importance, maybe from the murderer.’ He looked at his feet.

‘It’s important that we keep Mr Watson onside, Archie. The caller may be our killer. Who knows? We have to keep our suspicions to ourselves though, understand? We’ll have the so-called gentlemen of the press descending on us later,
and, be absolutely sure, they’ll jump on any mistake or unintentional slip. They’ll also wind up Watson, so we have to tread carefully. OK?’

‘Sir.’

‘Consider yourself severely admonished.’ Daley now had a smile on his face. ‘My DS, Brian Scott, is on the way. Now there’s a man who’ll be able to show you the finer points of subtle police work.’

As agreed, Watson was taken to his parents’ house, a much more modest affair in a housing scheme about half a mile from the police office. Watson’s parents were typical of their geography and vintage: Watson senior was of middle height and had probably had the stocky physique of his son when younger, which now had matured into a sizeable girth and jowly face; Mrs Watson, in contrast, was stick thin and birdlike. She fussed over her son as the police officers were shown in by her husband. She had clearly been crying and looked as though she had had little sleep.

After the introductions, Watson’s father was the first to speak. ‘This is a terrible thing, Inspector, jeest terrible. I mean, whoot kinda person wid murder a bonnie wee lassie like oor Izzy?’

‘Don’t even speak aboot it, George,’ wailed Mrs Watson. ‘When I think o’ whoot’s happened . . .’ She burst into floods of tears. ‘That lovely wee boy. What will we say to him, officers? His mammy’s deid.’ She sat on the edge of her chair, her legs and hands shaking, mirroring the nervous habit of her son.

Daley established that the boy was next door with the neighbours. He would have DC Dunn speak to the child;
she had been trained in child protection issues and would be able to couch her questions in a way most likely to gain a response from a boy of that age.

The inspector recalled a seven-year-old girl who had been a successful witness in a murder trial only a few months ago. He had interviewed the girl early on in the investigation, getting nowhere. A properly trained child protection officer had later managed to coax out pertinent information which eventually led to a guilty verdict. He was not going to discount any evidence from this poor kid. ‘Could you tell me how your daughter-in-law was when she brought your grandson to stay, Mrs Watson?’ he said gently.

‘Jeest the same as usual,’ she answered, doing her best to regain her composure. ‘Done up tae the nines, of course. She wiz obviously away oot that night. Aye, her skirt was halfway up her arse.’ She looked up, a look of determination on her face. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I jeest wisna happy with the way she . . . wi’ whoot she wiz daein’ behind my son’s back.’

‘Mum.’ Watson was clearly reluctant for his mother to discuss his wife’s behaviour.

‘Mr Watson.’ Daley looked stern. ‘I need every piece of information that I can get.’ He then softened his expression. ‘Please let your mother speak.’

Watson got out of his chair and left the room. His father got up to accompany him, but Daley indicated that he wanted him to stay. ‘I know this is difficult for everyone, but if we’re going to catch the person who did this, I need to know as much as possible about Izzy’s life – good and bad.’

‘She wiz a lush, Inspector, a lush and a tart.’ Mrs Watson jutted out her chin. ‘I wiz sick telling my son aboot her. She wiz nothin’ but a common slut, an’ she wiz leadin’ him a
merry dance – aye, fir maist o’ their mairried life. I couldna stand her. I’m sorry she’s deid, but only fir because o’ the wee boy.’ She looked Daley straight in the eye. Mrs Watson was clearly not as timid as she appeared.

‘Margaret’ – her husband shook his head – ‘whootever she wiz, she’s deid. It doesna dae tae talk ill o’ the deid, especially when they’re family.’

‘Aye, an’ you were the wan that came back fae the pub every night wi’ stories aboot her. No, she wiz no good, Inspector. No good at all. It wid be a lie if I telt ye any different.’

‘She wiz a stranger, Mr Daley.’ Mr Watson offered this up as an apology for his daughter-in-law’s conduct.