Whisky From Small Glasses (26 page)

Quietly and efficiently, those involved in the operation gathered around the chief inspector, who, after a few words, sent them to their relevant positions. Radios were to be used only in emergencies, to keep the frequency clear for command-and-control purposes, and each officer was wearing a hands-free earpiece, so that no command could be missed.

Donald and Shanks remained in the station control room, gaining an overview of the operation by monitoring radio traffic and CCTV images from the town’s system, the latter now trained on and around the second pier.

Fraser and his uniformed colleagues were positioned to the north and west of the second pier, the only road access points. Instead of the regulation fluorescent jackets commonly worn at night by police officers, they wore plain, black waterproof jackets. Not being in the front line, and only responsible for crowd and traffic control, they did not wear the bulky bulletproof vests. Fraser was stationed in the doorway of the last shop on the Main Street before the harbour, keeping a watching brief on the roads which converged near the piers.

Daley, Scott and Lieutenant Carter positioned themselves at the side of the chandlers, in a narrow lane between it and a two-storey office block. The firearms unit was placed at strategic points at the head of the pier, making sure no one would be able to make a break for the roadway. The four DCs who accompanied them were wearing bulletproof vests under black jackets with discreet police logos, their heads adorned by the navy-blue helmets reminiscent of those worn by World War II German storm troopers.

The tolling pontoon bell continued until only those with the sharpest hearing discerned another noise – a light, regular thud reminiscent of a generator in a basement. At 03:42 Carter’s radio burst into life. Even with the volume low, Daley could make out what was being said.

‘
Sirius
calling Carter. Over.’

‘Go ahead. Over.’

‘Please note that our quarry has entered the loch. Our Alpha Unit will shadow in approximately five. Over.’

‘Roger. Out,’ Carter whispered into the radio, and then to Daley, ‘The marines are Alpha Unit, in case you haven’t guessed.’

Daley nodded, and Scott raised his eyebrows as he removed his sidearm from the shoulder holster concealed by his jacket. ‘Fuckin’ sure I’m no’ facing doon half o’ the Red Army wi’ jist my baton, whether they’re retired or no’.’

The thud of the diesel engine grew louder. To their left, they could see the fishing boat making steady progress up the loch, bright arc lighting hanging from the rigging.

‘It’s a pity that dug couldna get here. It wid have been the very dab on that boat, supposing they’re carrying drugs.’ Scott was referring to the sniffer dog, which until an hour ago had been plying its trade at a huge drugs raid in Glasgow, and was now in the back of a van being driven by its handler to Kinloch.

‘Can’t be helped, Bri. With these cuts, we’re lucky we can still feed the dogs we have, never mind get any more. Here, take this, and don’t point it at me for fuck’s sake.’ He handed Scott the Koch automatic machine gun, as Lieutenant Carter looked warily on.

The vessel was now less than four hundred yards from the pier. As regular visitors to the port, the Latvians knew exactly
where they were going to berth. They’d confirmed their arrival with Flynn earlier in the day. The harbour master was sitting anxiously in his office, ready to be of assistance.

‘DCI Daley to all units.’ He spoke using the hands-free throat mic. ‘On my mark of three initiate strategy F for foxtrot.’ This entailed DI Paterson illuminating the fishing boat with an enormous searchlight set up by his team. At this point, he was to shout instructions through a loudhailer in what he had been reliably informed was Latvian. The firearms team would board, then secure the vessel, accompanied by the DCs who were also equipped with sidearms. The marines aboard the alpha RIB would speed into the harbour under full power to assist if necessary.

Daley knew that the moments following the trap being sprung were likely to be the most dangerous. However, he took comfort from the professional conduct of Paterson and his fellow officers, as well as the reassuring presence of Carter’s marines and the indomitable Scott.

He could now see the fishing boat manoeuvring around the end of the pier towards her designated berth. He would wait until the last minute to give the order: when the ropes were secured to bollards and the engine began to die. His men were well concealed, even from the crewman who would have to jump onto the pier to secure the ropes. So far, so good.

The tone of the engine lowered, and he could make out the foreign voices of the crew as orders were barked into the cool night. In the instant before he pressed the button at his lapel mic to give the order, he thought he heard another noise, a high-pitched buzz. However, unable to hold back for fear of confusion, he gave the go-ahead: ‘Three, two, one
– go, go, go!’ Immediately, he saw the bright searchlight on the pier illuminate the scene and heard the sound of raised voices. Everything now happened in a blur of noise and adrenaline.

Daley took off, closely followed by Scott and Carter, the latter giving instructions to his marines to speed into the pier as soon as they could. Two tactical officers with automatic weapons were kneeling, fore and aft of the vessel, their weapons pointing towards the crew, who were standing on board with their hands placed on their heads – apart from the rope man, who was already being handcuffed, none too gently, by a Paisley DC.

The bridge of the fishing boat was illuminated, and Daley could see the man whom he assumed was the captain standing at the window, hands aloft, as police officers scrambled onto the vessel. The crew were subdued easily, no doubt fearful of the consequences of making a wrong move while being watched by a dozen heavily armed men. Flynn had told them that the crew usually comprised six men, though that number could vary by one or two. Daley watched as Paterson bounded up the gangway to the bridge, followed by two of his men. The figure on the bridge turned his back to the window and hastily put his hands on his head.

‘DCI Daley to Paterson. Over. Update. Over.’ Daley was breathless, quietly cursing his unfit state; DS Scott was beside him, his automatic weapon raised menacingly.

‘Stand by,’ barked Paterson.

From his position in the charity shop’s doorway, Fraser had a clear view of both piers and their environs. He was slightly put out that he wasn’t involved in the raid proper, but he
knew that it was due to his lack of firearms training. It was hard to believe that in all the time he had been in Kinloch these serious crimes had been going on under his very nose. He had not suspected Pulse to be the den of iniquity it had proven to be, despite visiting the establishment a few times. Again, he felt gnawing doubts as to his suitability for a career as a detective eating away at his confidence. Was it possible that men like Daley and Scott had started out their careers in such an inept way? He thought it unlikely, and nor could he contemplate a future like that of his uncle, an unfulfilled drunk whose only boasts were contained within the confines of some hostelry and fuelled by the contents of a whisky glass.

He worried about his personal life too. The police force was not a career conducive to social interaction with the opposite sex. His only proper relationship, with a girl from school, had ended abruptly when he had joined up. He was no longer available to go out with their mutual friends at weekends, and felt uncomfortable if somebody even lit a joint. Eventually she’d accused him of always ‘having secrets’ and being ‘obsessed’ with his new job. She didn’t realise he was being subconsciously assimilated into the world he had chosen. It was a journey she was not willing to accompany him on. Her name was Tina, and try as he might he could not seem to conjure up her face, nor bring back the warmth in his heart that she had kindled for a while.

Just then, he saw movement. A figure was slouching along the short distance between the pontoons and the east pier. Something was wrong. All the vessels moored at both piers and the pontoons had been cleared earlier under the excuse of the discovery of an unexploded World War II mine, and he knew exactly where all the operational officers were. He
thought about alerting Daley, but reasoned that the man was most likely some inebriated yachtsman, inadvertently left aboard his vessel during the clear out. Still, the man was about to stray into a very dangerous situation. Fraser stepped out of the doorway.

Daley could see four men on the deck, now in various states of detention by police officers. There was one man on the bridge, and a crewman was lying on the pier with his hands cuffed behind his back. That made six.

‘Bridge secure. The captain’s taking me into the body of the vessel. Crew accounted for. Over.’ At that, a scruffy man made his way gingerly down the gangway from the bridge, his hands on his head, preceded by an officer walking backwards in front of him, gun trained upon the Latvian. Behind, also wielding a weapon pointed in his direction, came another tactical officer, himself followed by DI Paterson.

The man from the bridge was shouting in broken English: ‘We are fisherman . . . land fish . . . no problem. We have no problem, no?’ He looked around, bemused at the sight of his crewmen, most of whom had assumed the prone position. They were wearing an assortment of torn oilskins, old jeans, filthy jumpers and baseball caps; apart from their swarthy complexions, they could have passed for any of the fishermen Daley had seen since coming to Kinloch. Back on deck, DI Paterson stood behind the captain as he opened a door which led into the body of the fishing boat.

Daley looked warily at the side of the boat, then decided he would have to make yet another nautical leap of faith. He grabbed the gunwale with both hands, arms stretched out over the inky void between the vessel and the pier. Judging
the rise and fall, he heaved himself up, managed to get one leg over the side then propelled himself in a rolling motion onto the deck, to the sound of tearing fabric.

‘That’s another pair o’ breeks away, Jim.’ Scott grinned from below, as the DCI, dignity barely intact, got back to his feet with a curse.

Paterson’s head poked around the door leading to the lower deck. ‘It would appear that we have the all-clear, sir. No sign of a seventh crewman.’ No sooner had he uttered these words than a distant crack sounded over the harbour, closely followed by another. It took no expert to recognise the report of a firearm. Instinctively, all heads turned to the likely source of the shots – the east pier, some seventy yards away.

‘Code twenty-one. Man down. Repeat, man down!’ The voice over the radio was panicked; Daley recognised it as one of the young uniformed cops. He was also aware of Carter yelling into his radio, as what sounded like an aircraft sped between the gap in the two piers.

More shots.

Daley jumped back onto the gunwale of the fishing boat, paused for a moment, then leapt down onto the pier, coming down so quickly that he had to take a couple of rapid steps forward, like a poor gymnast’s dismount, to stop himself falling. Scott was at his side; together they made for the short length of promenade that separated the twin jetties of the harbour.

‘DCI Daley to DC Fraser. Position, please. Over.’ Daley shouted breathlessly into his throat mic. ‘DCI Daley to any unit stationed at the’ – he had to pause to gulp down air – ‘bottom of Main Street with DC Fraser. Come in. Over.’
Ominously, there was still no reply. Though his lungs were bursting with exertion, Daley was desperately trying to piece together what had happened. Paterson and his men had appeared to have the situation entirely under control: the crew were rounded up and a search of the vessel with the captain was complete. Then he remembered the high-pitched buzz he had heard just before giving the order to spring the trap. It had been a small boat.

Scott was ahead of him now and getting further away despite being the older man. Suddenly his earpiece burst into life. ‘Firearms being discharged. Officer down.’ The voice in his ear was muffled, the words a rush of fear and adrenaline.

‘DCI Daley receiving. More details. Which officer’ – he swallowed more air – ‘is down?’

Silence again, though from the corner of his eye he was aware of the movement of black figures heading rapidly up the jetty. Scott had reached the top of the pier with Daley following; then, without warning, he felt a weight land on him from behind, and momentarily his world went black.

His first instinct was to fight. He didn’t feel fear, only the desperate need to get whoever, or whatever, it was off his back.

‘Stay down, man! Stay down!’ He recognised the young lieutenant’s voice. More shouting now, urgent and insistent, like two people trying to make themselves understood across a busy street. Then, for a heartbeat, complete silence, followed by a blood-curdling yell and the deafening sputter of automatic gunfire.

Daley felt a hand with fingers spread wide hard on the back of his head. The pressure was pushing him down to the pavement. He was aware of someone at his side, also on the
ground, getting to his feet. Looking up he saw Carter standing over him, offering a helping hand up while talking urgently into the large radio.

‘Jim, Jim, get over here!’ This was Scott, standing a short distance away at the head of the east pier.

Daley pulled himself to his feet with the help of Carter’s outstretched hand, nodded his gratitude, and hurried over to his DS. He saw the look on Scott’s face, the blood on his hands. ‘Brian, have you been hit? How . . .’ He followed Scott’s line of sight. On the ground a few feet away he could see someone lying on his back, legs wide apart, like a tired man who had just flopped down onto a particularly comfortable bed. Two men in dark clothing were standing around the recumbent figure; a third was kneeling.

On the breast of the black jacket, a deeper stain had spread, at its heart a gaping dark hole around which the blood was already congealing under the streetlight. The body was motionless, head turned to the side as though in repose, not flat against the cold concrete. Even under the ethereal orange glow the face was devoid of colour, the features standing in sharper relief. A strand of red hair curled onto the pallid forehead.