Whisky From Small Glasses (32 page)

He smiled. She was heartbreakingly beautiful. He had often wondered if it was only him that could see her beauty. Maybe she was just another attractive woman to others. Was there really ‘someone for everyone’, as the song described? What song was that anyway?

‘You’re miles away, darling.’

‘No, just thinking,’ he said, knotting his tie.

She was silent for a few moments, then said quietly, ‘I’m so, so sorry about Archie, but you can’t blame yourself. It’s not as though you, or anyone come to that, can legislate for something so horrible.’

He felt a sudden buzz of anger, a feeling with which he was acutely familiar. ‘Look, just don’t go there today, Liz.’

She bridled at his tone. ‘That’s your problem, Jim. You bottle up every feeling or emotion, and then when your head can’t hold any more hurt or worry, you lash out. It’s always been a problem in our marriage, you know?’

That fucking intonation again. He adjusted his collar and tried hard to keep quiet.

‘And that’s another thing – a perfect example. I talk, and you say nothing.’

The dam broke. ‘You talk about what
you
want to, and when
you
want to.’ He knew he was raising his voice, but he was in no mood to be lectured. Not today, not by her, not by anyone. ‘And when it comes to freeing emotions, we all
know how you liberate those.’ He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair and patted the pockets for his mobile and keys.

Liz slumped back on the bed, staring resignedly at the ceiling. ‘You know, I thought we were finally getting over this – this shit.’

The brief silence afforded Daley the perfect opportunity to administer his argumentative
coup de grâce.
‘Liz, just shut up, please. Just do what you always do – go and have a good time, enjoy yourself, whatever. I’ve got four people’s deaths on my plate, one of whom was a fellow police officer . . . in my care. How could a dedicated pleasure seeker like you ever understand the burden of that responsibility?’ Not waiting for an answer, he opened the door, exited, then slammed it shut, by way of punctuation.

Liz held her head in her hands and wept tears of frustration.

DC Dunn looked hesitant as Daley strode into the office, and he realised that his expression was probably thunderous, as he had been contemplating the argument with Liz during the short walk from the County Hotel. ‘Yes, DC Dunn, how can I help you?’

‘Something and nothing, sir, concerning Izzy Watson.’

‘Right now I’m interested in anything. What do you have?’

Daley ushered her into his glass box. DC Dunn informed him that Izzy Watson had been mainly brought up by her grandmother, who was now in her eighties and living in a retirement home in a small village about fifteen miles outside Kinloch.

‘Why are we only finding out about this now?’ He was puzzled as to how they had managed to miss the victim’s closest blood relative.

‘Michael’s mother mentioned it to me last night, sir. You’d already left for the evening, and I didn’t think it significant enough to get you back in. DS Scott told me to wait till you were in this morning. Anyway, according to Mrs Watson, the old lady has dementia, and they didn’t think we would want to talk to her.’

‘Aye.’ Daley was already distracted by two enlarged CCTV images on his desk. ‘And you know what thought did, DC Dunn. Get me her details please, and give the home a call. We’ll have to get somebody up there to see her. Where’s DS Scott, by the way?’

DS Scott was in the station’s audiovisual room. He had spent the night poring over hours of CCTV footage, looking for anything that didn’t appear right around the time that Izzy Watson had gone missing. Just after three o’clock, as his spirits were flagging, he had had a small breakthrough. At 8:23 on the evening of her disappearance, Izzy had been caught on camera walking up Main Street, arm in arm with Janet Ritchie. As they were about to cross the road to Pulse, they stopped. Almost out of shot, a headlight and part of the front of a vehicle could be discerned. The two women had turned around, and Watson, breaking away from her companion, headed towards it. She was away for no more than thirty seconds, before she returned to her friend and they both entered the bar. Strangely though, instead of proceeding back up the street past the camera, the vehicle reversed. Scott had spent the whole evening trying to find a trace of it from
other locations, but had come up with nothing. The poor CCTV coverage in Kinloch had been further exacerbated by two of the cameras being out of action. The vehicle had vanished.

The door swung open to reveal Daley carrying two mugs of coffee. ‘I take it ye saw the pictures on your desk, boss?’ Scott was scrolling absently through more CCTV footage.

‘I did. A breakthrough, do you think?’

Scott played Daley the sequence showing Izzy Watson frame by frame.

The chief inspector took it in, then asked to see the clip another couple of times. ‘At last, something to get our collective teeth into, Bri. Your IT skills are coming on by the way. I’m impressed.’

Scott took a slurp of his coffee. ‘Aye, one o’ they young geniuses showed me whit tae dae last night. I’m bloody cross-eyed looking at it, but it’s a start.’

The pair watched the clip again, almost frame by frame. ‘Apparently Izzy’s granny lives in a care home near here, and we’ve only just been told. Great, eh? Still no sigh of her mother.’

‘Aye, I heard. The woman’s no’ altogether wi’ us though, is she?’

‘You never know. We’ll take a trip to see her later. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on this motor.’ The headlight and the corner of the wing of was frozen, tantalisingly, on the wide screen. ‘Email that to forensics. Hopefully they’ll come up with something by the way of make and model at least.’

Liz sat in the dining room of the hotel, at a small table for two. It was still early and the large room was chilly. She could hear a radio playing in the kitchen.

The girl who came to take her order looked like a sullen ten-year-old. No doubt having to work at this time of the morning was not conducive to smiles and good cheer, Liz reasoned. However, a little civility never went amiss. She stirred her coffee absently. The fight with her husband had put her off her stride. She was now starting the day with a heavy heart, something she had done far too often during the course of their marriage. She forced herself to look forward to her boat trip.

‘Here’s-yer-bacon-an’-eggs.’ Liz marvelled at how the young waitress managed to run the words together while being able to judge exactly how hard to throw the plate so that it landed on the table and not on her customer’s lap.

The email had been sent to forensics, and Daley had despatched Scott to the hotel for a rest. To begin with, his deputy had been reluctant to leave, but he’d been persuaded at the promise that he could return at lunchtime, when they would both visit Izzy Watson’s grandmother.

‘You know me, Jim. Two or three hours does me. I’ll see ye soon.’ He donned his jacket, fished in his inside pocket for cigarettes and lighter, then headed off.

Daley replayed the clip. The front of the vehicle was straight up and down, and he began to wonder if it was some type of van, but quickly resolved not to waste any more time on it. He’d leave it to the experts. He also decided to have a team meeting. It would be an opportunity to refocus minds. He sat at his computer and began typing out the course of the investigation as he had seen it. He thought he would begin the meeting with a short silence in memory of Archie Fraser. He regretted letting his emotions cause another
ruction in his marriage. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and clicked on Liz’s name.

Her mobile rang, but by the time she had searched through the clutter inside her insanely expensive and cavernous handbag, the ringing had stopped. She made to call him back, then changed her mind. He had behaved like a prick earlier, so she wasn’t inclined to forgive him – not just yet, anyway. He could sweat it out a little longer.

She had finished her breakfast – deliberately not returning the forced smile of the grumpy waitress as she left the dining room – and returned to the room, where she filled her backpack with the items she would need for the day. A camera, lenses, bottled water, paper hankies, travel make-up kit (essential), mobile phone and a case to keep it dry, and a large bar of chocolate she had purchased the day before: all were packed neatly into the bag. She recalled Jim arriving home from a fishing trip to Oban, absolutely freezing, so resolved to tie a thick jumper around her waist. The sky was already blue; she could feel the windowpane warm in the early morning sun. With a pang of guilt at not answering Jim’s call earlier, she decided to ring him while she waited for Seanessy outside the hotel.

Daley discovered that the images of the vehicle from the CCTV footage would not be analysed until later that day, as the unit was too busy with another investigation. It was now after seven, and he took the short walk to MacLeod’s office in the hope that, by this time, it would house Superintendent Donald.

Sure enough, he was hailed by the familiar ‘Come’, when he knocked on the door. ‘Jim, come in, come in. You’re an
early bird today.’ Donald was particularly bright and breezy, which immediately rang warning bells in Daley’s head. ‘Now, first of all, I take it you want something from me?’

‘I need forensics up the road to get a move on with analysing the CCTV footage we’ve identified as being of possible interest.’

‘I see. How significant is this evidence, do you think?’

‘If you take a trip along the corridor, I’ll show you. Could be pivotal.’

‘I will, but first I have to tell you that events have forced me to reconsider the tenet of the investigation.’

‘In what way?’ Daley could feel the mist descend.

‘I’m bringing in the National Crime Squad. We’ll have a meeting, of course, and I’ll remain in charge overall, however, operationally speaking, we may have to restructure a bit.’

‘Which really means that you have no faith in me to solve this.’ Daley struggled to keep a lid on his temper.

‘Not true, Jim, not true at all.’ Donald was on the defensive, so Daley readied himself for a large dollop of honey, the habitual salve. ‘As you well know, we have four murder investigations running concurrently, investigations that may or may not be connected; and one of which is the murder of a police officer. Add to that a major narcotics inquiry, with foreign involvement, and, well, we’re swamped, Jim. You’re not the only police officer under pressure from above here. Maybe now you’ve been elevated in the ranks, you’ll come to appreciate the delicate position I find myself in from time to time.’ He looked steadily at Daley, as though to underline what he had just said.

Daley played with a pen between his fingers, then, when he decided to answer, surprised himself with the even tone of
his voice. ‘I’m not concerned with the drugs investigation. If the NCS want to take that on, fine – we’re probably too emotionally involved anyway. I want to remain at the head of the Izzy Watson investigation though, as well as those of Ritchie and Mulligan. They were definitely carried out by the same person or persons. We know there’s a sexual element to the murders, as well as a level of brutality that’s unusual. We haven’t had much luck with forensic evidence yet, but I’m sure this CCTV footage is a breakthrough. Will you move things along with it up the road? Or are you content for the NCS to trample over everything before we take action on this?’

Donald passed his hand over his slicked-back hair, disturbing its hitherto shining perfection. Daley hadn’t considered that his boss could be under the same pressure of scrutiny that he felt; he always supposed that Donald was too smooth an operator to be troubled by the highest echelons of the force. He thought he even detected a measure of strain on the face of the Superintendent.

‘Sometimes, Jim, this job just gets to you – to us all.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, I’ll give them a kick up the arse.’ He stood up from his chair. ‘On the subject of the NCS, I’m afraid I can’t commit myself. They won’t be here until this evening, and for what it’s worth, they’ve been forced on me.’ He removed his uniform jacket from a coat stand in the corner. ‘Come on, show me this CCTV stuff.’

Liz was surprised to see Seanessy’s Land Rover already parked outside the hotel. She pulled open the stiff passenger door, climbed in and sat down, arranging her backpack and camera on her lap with one hand while searching behind the seat for
the safety belt with the other. ‘Good morning, Mr Seanessy. On time today,’ she said and smiled at her guide.

He smiled shyly in response. Liz noticed immediately that he was wearing different clothes. His scruffy assortment of multi-coloured waterproofs had been replaced by new-looking combat-style gear. The filthy Wellington boots he had worn the day before had been discarded in favour of upmarket hiking boots. It was her turn to smile to herself; it was clear that her guide had made an effort to smarten himself up.

They drove down Main Street, but instead of stopping at the pontoons as Liz had expected, they followed the road around the head of the loch, passing the shuttered Island Bar en route. ‘I thought we’d be leaving from the pontoons,’ Liz said.

‘No,’ said Seanessy cheerfully. ‘Too much police activity there after the shooting. The boat’s moored round here, out of the way – Kinloch’s forgotten pier, old but still just about in use.’ He stopped the car at the head of a small jetty surrounded by emergency fencing and warning signs. It looked old and decrepit, and a large section of it appeared to have fallen into the loch, as though a giant mouth had taken a bite out of the central portion.

‘Oh, don’t worry about these signs.’ He could see Liz eyeing a notice about the pier’s unsafe structure. ‘Needs a bit of attention, but the main reason these warnings are everywhere is that the powers that be are in league with the owners of the pontoons. There’s nothing to stop this place from being used, but it doesn’t suit them. Fishermen use it all the time.’ He held out his hand to help Liz out of the Land Rover.

Liz paused for a moment, feeling slightly doubtful, but she decided to place her faith in local knowledge. She
removed her backpack and camera bag from the Land Rover. She could see only one vessel moored by the jetty, an old-fashioned clinker-built fishing boat, replete with a small wheelhouse on a single deck. It reminded her of the lobster boats she had taken trips on as a child when her family holidayed in Cornwall.