Whisky From Small Glasses (12 page)

‘A stranger? What do you mean, Mr Watson?’

‘Jeest whoot I say, Mr Daley. She wiz a stranger, she wisna fae the toon. None o’ us knew much aboot her. We soon found oot, mind.’

‘What did you find out, Mr Watson?’

Watson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked over to his wife, who was only too ready to come to his aid. ‘She was from a wee village near Lochgilphead, Inspector. No’ a place anybody cares for, no’ that I know of anyway.’ She had the same determined look on her face, which somehow masked her previously shattered countenance. ‘Her mother wiz notorious there too. Apparently she wiz sleeping around when she wiz nae mair than a lassie. Like mother, like daughter. She’s a nurse here, wid you believe? I refuse tae be treated by her. Aye, oor poor Michael pit his sows tae a poor market.’

‘Do you know anything specific about her background? Did she have any trouble with old boyfriends, for example?
We’ll have to speak with as many people who had contact with her as we can find.’

‘Aye, well, you’ll be daein’ lots o’ interviewin’, Inspector. There’s nae shortage o’ boyfriends, that’s fir sure, past an’ present. That’s why oor son had tae go an’ work away.

‘He wiz affronted, jeest affronted. An’ I tell you, Inspector, in a wee place like this, nane o’ your business is your ain, an’ whoot they don’t know, they jeest make up. No’ that there wiz any makin’ up needed as far as she was concerned.’ She sat back in her chair with a look of vindication, as though she had just managed to rid herself of a great burden.

For Daley, this turn of events was not wholly unexpected, though the scale of Watson’s parents’ obvious dislike for their daughter-in-law did come as a surprise. Watson himself had given only the slightest indication that he suspected his wife of infidelity. It now appeared as though she was a serial adulterer.

‘Janet Ritchie!’ Mrs Watson spat the name out. ‘Speak tae Janet Ritchie, that wiz her bosom buddy. Another tart: birds of a feather. She’ll know a’ aboot her carry-on, if anyone does.’

Daley asked a few more questions. Izzy had not given any indication where she was going that night, or who she was going to see. She had assured Mrs Watson that she would be back in time to pick up her son, but when she had not appeared Mrs Watson had put it down to her habitual tardiness, to which she had become accustomed. Only when hours became days did she become concerned.

Apart from Izzy being constantly late, it appeared that Watson’s parents were always expecting her to run off with another man. It was only when Mr Watson senior had heard about the murdered woman that they thought of alerting Michael.

With Janet Ritchie’s address, Daley took his leave of the Watsons. He persuaded Michael Watson that it was best if he stayed with his parents for the time being. Police officers were currently tearing his house apart in an attempt to find anything pertinent to the inquiry.

A request was made to the phone company about the position from which the call from Izzy’s mobile had been made. It would take a few hours.

Daley sent Fraser to find Janet Ritchie, and returned to the police office, where waiting for him was a disgruntled DS Scott with a team of four detectives, including one much-needed female constable.

‘That fuckin’ road’s a nightmare. When you think you’re getting here you’re still miles away,’ said Scott.

Daley decided it best to deflect his right-hand man’s obsession with the inaccessibility of Kinloch. He set the small team operational tasks, including the preparation for the looming press conference, and they were told to book into the County Hotel. This organised, he and Scott drove the few short miles to the bay where Izzy’s body had been found.

Scott was impressed with the progress that had been made since Watson had come forward. On the way though, Fraser phoned to say that Janet Ritchie was neither at home nor at her work and hadn’t been seen for a couple of days by her neighbours. The two detectives exchanged looks. It was possible that Isobel Watson might not be their only victim.

‘Aye, it’s a bonnie wee place right enough,’ Scott mused. ‘Beats walking up and down Back Sneddon Street for a living, eh?’

‘You know my wife’s arriving tonight, with my dear brother-in-law.’ Daley changed the subject suddenly.

‘That cunt. Whit the fuck do they want?’ Scott was, as usual, the soul of discretion. ‘I mean, you know, you’re kinda busy the now.’

‘You know Liz. Anyway, we’ll all be one happy family, even though we’re far from home.’ Daley smiled at his DS.

‘You couldna hae a happy family wi’ that shite cloaking aboot. Mind you nearly hit him o’er the heid at thon barbecue? I wiz pissing myself . . . not literally, of course.’

Daley raised his eyebrows at that memory. ‘We’ll see, Brian. He’s out of his own environment, maybe he’ll be less annoying.’

‘Don’t fuckin’ bet on it, compadre. If he fucks you aboot again, there’ll be a reckonin’.’ Scott stared grimly out the window.

Arriving at Machrie Bay, Daley parked the car on the verge. As soon as he exited the vehicle, his senses were assailed by the smell of the sea. The sea was bordered by rough machair, fringed with yellow-blossomed gorse bushes. He often found the loci of certain murders at odds with the act itself. For some reason, finding someone lying with a staved-in head in a grimy block of inner-city flats seemed more fitting than the body of a murdered woman being found at this idyllic location.

The sea was a deep blue; it looked viscous, as lazy ripples made their slow progress to the shore. High overhead, gulls and gannets dived and wheeled over the small bay. Not far from the beach, Daley could see a boat on which two men were hauling in lobster creels, supported by a cacophony of screeching sea birds.

‘I think a wee word wi’ those guys widna go amiss, Jim, eh?’ Scott echoed Daley’s thoughts precisely.

The young cop guarding the crime scene pointed out just where the body had been found. Yellow chalk markings left by SOCO were still visible on various rocks. On the shore, Daley kicked at a three-fingered fisherman’s glove, as he and Scott took in the scene.

‘Do you know these guys out on the boat, son?’ Scott enquired of the young PC.

‘Eh, aye, sir. It’s Bobby Johnstone and his brother, Camel.’

‘Camel? What kinda name’s that?’

‘They call him that because he doesna drink, sir. It’s a wee bit unusual here for folk no’ tae drink, especially the young ones. I don’t even know his real name . . . just Camel Johnstone.’

‘Aye, right. Well, just you use your initiative an’ work oot how tae get them tae come o’er here. We want tae talk tae them. Aye, an’ it’s sergeant, by the way, no’ sir.’

The constable apologised awkwardly, then made his way to the waterline, stroking his chin as though deep in thought.

‘See, I telt ye, Jim. They’re a’ half daft—’

‘Bobby! Camel! Get yoursels o’er here quick smart! The CID want tae talk tae you!’

The sudden shout made Scott jump involuntarily. ‘That’s whit you call initiative, son? I could have roared at them myself.’

‘Sorry, Sergeant, seems tae have done the trick though.’ He gestured over his shoulder to the fishing boat, where one of the men was giving a thumbs-up.

‘Great, son. Take the award o’ Polis o’ the Year. Noo amaze me mair an’ find me an’ the inspector a cup of coffee. An’ don’t be wakin’ the dead while you’re at it.’

They watched as the fishermen attached an empty creel to a rope interspersed with pink buoys, then threw it back into
the sea. So engrossed were they with this process that they failed to notice someone heading along the sand in their direction. Not, that is, until he shouted an airy greeting.

‘Whit have we got here?’ Scott tutted.

On closer inspection, he was a short, stocky man, dressed somewhat colourfully in a yellow oilskin jacket and green waterproof trousers, which were tucked into red Wellington boots. He had thinning grey hair, probably once ginger, swept back over a skull reddened with the sun, as was the rest of his lined, unshaven, jowly face. Daley put him somewhere in his late fifties to early sixties.

‘I wonder whit they call him in Kinloch? Joseph, I shouldna wonder. He looks like he had a narrow escape fae a jelly bean factory.’ In a rather different tone he called out, ‘Hello, sir, how can we help you?’

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ the man said breathlessly in a well-spoken accent. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Glynn Seanessy. I presume you are police officers?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Daley got in before Scott could be sarcastic. ‘I take it you’re aware of the reason we’re here?’

‘Oh yes, yes, most unfortunate. I never thought something like that could happen here. I mean, look around – it’s glorious. So sad that someone should die here, in such an awful way.’

‘May I ask how you know how this person met their death, Mr Seanessy?’ Daley tested the man.

‘Oh, well, you know, Kinloch rumours – that sort of thing.’ Seanessy was now clearly flustered.

‘It’s OK, Mr Seanessy.’ Daley lightened his expression. ‘In the short time I’ve been in Kinloch, I’ve realised that there are few secrets.’

‘Oh yes, just so.’ Seanessy laughed nervously. ‘It’s just . . . I spend a lot of time on the beach and round about. You know, beachcombing, birdwatching and the like. I’m afraid time’s a bit heavy on the old hands now I’m retired. One’s little pleasures et cetera. I’m sure you’re well aware how it is.’

‘No, I’m not, but I canna wait tae find oot,’ said Scott. ‘I’m counting the days till I retire.’

‘Ah yes. I imagine your kind of job is, well, very stressful.’

‘You could say that,’ said Scott dismissively.

‘Well, of course. As I said, I spend quite a lot of time here, so I was wondering if I could be of any assistance. You know, local colour and the like. I’m afraid I haven’t any more to offer than that. I wasn’t here when the body was found – school reunion, a pain really, but nice to see the old faces.’

Daley could see that the ‘local colour’ remark was amusing Scott, who was associating the comment with Seanessy’s attire. He spoke quickly, before Scott could comment. ‘You were at school here, Mr Seanessy?’

‘Eh, yes and no. The reunion was back in Cambuslang, where I grew up. But yes, in a manner of speaking. I was a teacher at the local high school here – chemistry – pretty dull really. I’m afraid the stress got to me though. I took early retirement a couple of years ago. I live over there – love the sea – wonderful, don’t you think?’ He pointed back along the beach to a small whitewashed cottage set back from the shore on the machair.

‘A mite chilly in the winter, eh?’ said Scott.

‘The body was found the day before yesterday. How long were you away?’ persisted Daley.

‘Let me see,’ mused Seanessy. ‘Five days in total. I was told about it this morning in the local Co-op. An ex-pupil on the
checkout – she knew I lived near where the body was found – looking for gossip probably.’

‘So, nothing suspicious in the few days before you left?’ said Scott.

‘No. Nothing at all. As you can imagine, anything out of the ordinary here sticks out like a sore thumb.’

For appearance’s sake Scott took a note of Seanessy’s contact details.

‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr Seanessy. We know where to find you should we require any . . . colour.’ Daley made it obvious that that was the end of the conversation by turning round to look at the progress of the Johnstone brothers.

‘Yes, quite. You must be busy men . . . I conduct the odd wildlife tour, if, eh, you ever get time.’

Scott gave him a withering look, and Seanessy muttered goodbye and walked back towards his cottage in a blaze of colour.

‘Fuckin’ weirdo.’ Scott’s uncharitable appraisal was no surprise.

‘Are you trying for that PR posting again, Brian? Please remind me not to recommend you.’

‘Oh, that reminds me, Jim. I’ve got that letter from His Majesty for you. Fancy envelope, looks mucho official. It’s in the glove compartment o’ that minibus. Remind me and I’ll gie it tae you when we get back.’

The Johnstone brothers were making their way slowly up the beach. They were deep in conversation, a conversation that was becoming heated. They were both of average height with sandy-red hair. However, one of them was muscular with a broad tanned face, while his brother was remarkably slim, his oilskins hanging off his slight frame. He had a
sharp, intelligent look, and judging by the body language was very much in charge. Both brothers had the weathered complexion associated with those who spend long hours at sea.

Daley recognised them immediately. ‘Gentlemen, did you enjoy your trip to Glasgow?’

The brothers looked at each other, then the thin one spoke. ‘Right, I remember you.’ He turned to his brother. ‘The plane, do you mind, Bobby?’

The thick-set man, now identified as Bobby, scratched his head. ‘I canna say I dae, but as usual you’ll be right.’

His brother looked at him sharply, and it seemed that the two were about to resume the heated discussion they had been having on the way up the beach, until Scott intervened.

‘Whitever, lads,’ he said dismissively. ‘Now, you’ll baith be aware that the body of a woman was found in this wee bay a couple o’ days ago. Now if yous were on the plane with the inspector here, I’m thinking that you’ll no’ have seen too much. How long were you away fir? And when did you leave?’

Scott’s ability to get to the point seamlessly always impressed Daley. He reminded him of the men who helped at the fun fair when he was a boy: ‘the shows’. Now there was a treat which every child had looked forward to, in the days before a quick hop across the Channel to Disneyland Paris or a run to one of the many theme parks that had sprung up around the country were possible. Despite the obvious excitement of their young charges, these men always looked thoroughly bored with life, spinning the waltzer or manning the dodgems in a perfunctory manner. Scott gave the same impression, conducting the most serious inquiry as though
he would rather be in bed, or in the pub – virtually anywhere else in fact. Daley had to concede though, that the approach got results.

The man Daley now knew to be Camel answered. ‘We were up at the fitba’. Wish we’d never bothered – the game wiz shite.’