Whisky From Small Glasses (34 page)

‘So, Bobby. What’s the story?’

‘He’s fucked off, Inspector. Simple as that.’

‘How do you know he’s not just off on a jolly somewhere?’ Daley was processing the fact that this was not the first time in the day that someone had ‘fucked off’.

‘He’s taken his clathes, oor boat and all oor savings. There’s no way he’s comin’ back.’ Camel’s face was pale with anger. ‘An’ see if he does, Mr Daley, ye’ll be investigating another murder. Know whoot I mean?’

Daley took Camel at his word. He detected no dissemblance, no attempt to confuse or divert. Families could be impenetrable, especially when involved in a murder investigation. Sooner or later, however, little fissures would appear and built-up resentment would break down the walls encompassing the united front. Daley had never been close to his family. He had a brother he never saw and a sister he couldn’t stomach. Both his parents were dead, and any aunts, uncles or cousins were best left to their own devices. In fact, his cousin Malky was currently serving two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure for theft and assault. Who needed family? His mind alighted momentarily on Liz and the fight they had had earlier. ‘Can I have a look at Bobby’s room?’ He refocused on matters in hand.

Camel led Daley up a threadbare carpet to the first floor. There was a powerful smell of stale tobacco and fish.

In many ways the room seemed more suited to a much younger person; a child, in fact. Football posters adorned the wallpaper, which was covered in cartoon characters Daley did not recognise. An old chest of drawers sat in one corner of the square room, an empty drawer open so much that it pointed towards the floor and looked in imminent danger of falling. Against the opposite wall stood an equally ancient wardrobe, one door of which lay wide open, revealing a bare interior. Beside a single bed, draped in a duvet with a football print cover, sat a flimsy-looking bedside cabinet. Daley opened the top drawer: it
was empty save for three black plastic hoops about the size of a large bracelet, though nearly an inch thick. Daley picked one up and on examination found that the collars could be closed by means of two metal press studs at each end.

‘What are these?’ he asked Camel, who was still standing outside the small room with his arms folded.

‘Jeest fastening braces for the creels. Helps attach them to the rope wi’oot havin’ tae tie mega knots.’

‘Why would your brother have them here in his room?’

‘How dae I know? Probably jeest in his pockets or something. Whoot aboot it?’

Daley picked one of the collars up. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said to Camel as he put one in his pocket.

‘Aye, whootever.’

‘I can see that he’s cleaned the place out. You didn’t have any idea he was going to do this?’

‘No. Mind you, I wiz kinda tied up at the time.’

Daley ignored the reference to the young man’s incarceration and continued to cast his eye over the room. ‘Does your brother have many friends?’

‘Same as anyone.’

‘But you’d say that you and he are close, like best friends?’

‘Suppose so. We’re brothers, Mr Daley, we’re stuck wi’ each other.’ He looked around. ‘Well, no’ the noo right enough.’ He gave Daley a wan smile.

‘What about girlfriends?’

‘What aboot them?’

‘Has Bobby had many?’

‘Are you tryin’ tae say he’s some kind o’ poof or something?’

‘No. I’m just asking if he’s had many girlfriends. It’s a simple enough question.’ Daley’s face suddenly took on a thunderous expression.

‘Aye, OK, don’t gie yersel’ a heart attack. He’s had a few.’

‘But not as many as you?’

‘He’s no’ got the patter. Anyway, whoot’s this got tae dae wi’ anything?’

‘Just wondering. Would you say he’s quite awkward with women?’

‘He’s no’ the most confident guy, Mr Daley. If you had a faither like oors, you widna be very confident neither.’

‘Was he hard on you?’

‘He used tae get drunk an’ beat the shit oot o’ us. If that’s whoot you mean by being hard, well, aye, he wiz.’ Camel looked straight at Daley.

‘Does your brother know Rory Newell?’

‘Aw, if this is the queer thing again, you can fuck off,’ Camel answered angrily.

‘No,’ Daley said, then paused. ‘It’s just that your brother doesn’t strike me as the type of lad who does things on his own. He needs someone to give him a nudge, point him in the right direction – you, for example.’

‘Are you sayin’ that Rory Newell pit this in his heid?’ Camel looked as though he had made his own connection. ‘I telt Bobby tae stay clear o’ that bastard. He’s a right dopeheid, aye, an’ a fucking smart arse tae,’ he said more forcefully.

‘Did he listen to you?’

‘Nah, no’ a’ the time. We’re brothers, Mr Daley, we spend a lot o’ time wi’ each other. We fa’ oot tae, dae ye know whoot I mean?’

‘So, when he’s not got you to tell him what to do, he relies on Rory Newell. Is that it?’

‘Mebbe. I don’t fuckin’ know,’ Camel said quietly. ‘Dae ye really think this bastard Newell has pit him up tae this?’

‘Well,’ answered Daley, looking around the room one last time, ‘if he hasn’t, somebody else has.’

‘He’s a bad bastard,’ said Camel suddenly.

‘Who, Newell? Why do you say that?’

‘Just the way he treats folk, especially women.’

‘And do you think he could persuade Bobby to do the same?’

‘I’m no’ saying any more, Mr Daley,’ Camel replied sullenly.

The swell was heavy now. To Liz, it felt like being tossed in a blanket, as in some childhood game. She had been told that keeping your eyes on the horizon helped. As she squinted into the distance, contemplating asking Seanessy to turn the vessel back home, she spotted what looked like a sliver of land to her right. Just as she had seen it, Seanessy turned in the wheelhouse and gestured to her to look at the small island.

‘That’s us there – won’t be long now,’ he called over the noise of the sea, wind and echoing cries of birds. ‘Be able to get a cup of tea at least.’ He turned back to his steering duties, seemingly relishing everything about being at sea.

Men, thought Liz, as they began to turn in a slow arc towards the island.

He thought he had it: the break he had been looking for. The plastic collars in Bobby Johnstone’s room. That was all it took.

He drove the car back into the town centre, stopping outside the County Hotel. In less than a minute he was hammering on Scott’s door.

‘Aye, a’ right, a’ right. Is there a fuckin’ fire or something?’ Daley could hear his DS shouting from inside. With the click of a lock, the door swung open. ‘Here wiz me expectin’ some wee blonde. Never mind. Come in.’

Scott looked bleary-eyed, but Daley was sure that he would forget his tiredness soon. He said nothing, merely threw the collar onto the unmade bed.

‘What the fuck?’ Scott yawned and picked up the plastic ring. It took him a few seconds, then it clicked. ‘Oh, Jamie boy, well done! This matches the marks left by the restraint on Watson’s leg. Where did you get it?’

‘In Bobby Johnstone’s bedroom. Looks like we might have missed the obvious from the start. Rory Newell was reported missing this morning, and now Bobby’s done a runner too. What’s the likelihood Newell’s with him?’

‘Aye, could be. It’s too much o’ a coincidence, the two o’ them disappearing at the same time. And this thing’ – he held up the collar – ‘well, whit’s the plan, boss?’

‘We’ll have to try and find them – with all the resources available.’ Daley looked troubled.

‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. If it is them, I’m sure they’ve got mair tae bother aboot than intercepting your wife and thon Seanessy,’ said Scott, yet again reading his boss’s mind.

There was a small jetty on the ocean side of the island. The telltale fluorescent buoys bobbing nearby indicated the location of lobster pots, held within a shallow bay which opened out into the Atlantic. At the head of the small pier, in front of
a low hillock, a dirt track led some fifty yards to a fisherman’s cottage, the walls of which had once been whitewashed but were now a wind-blown grey, contrasting with the rust-red of the corrugated-iron roof.

‘Wow!’ Liz enthused. ‘From the sea you wouldn’t know this place was here.’

‘Yes, it’s an interesting natural feature.’ Seanessy was uncoiling rope from the deck. ‘Been here a long time, and hardly ever used now. All the pots here are mine. Not a good enough yield for the commercial fishermen. A couple of the younger lads use it, but not very often. When they’re up to something not quite legal,’ he said, winking at Liz.

‘So you just kind of turn up here?’

‘In a manner of speaking. If there was any fisherman serious about this little nook, I’d never have come here.’ He was shouting above the noise of waves washing onto the shingle bay. ‘I bought a small boat from an old seadog I met when I first came here. Boat lasted one season. It was him who told me about this place.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘As I say, I’m left to my own devices in the main. Apart from having to clear up after the occasional clandestine party, that is. More than made up for by having this little bolthole.’ He coiled the rope, then handed it to Liz.

It was all systems go at Kinloch Police Office. The Royal Navy, Coastguard and the police’s own Marine Division were now deployed in an effort to find James Newell’s RIB, which contained – so everyone reasoned – Rory Newell and Bobby Johnstone. Daley found it hard to believe that the mild-mannered Johnstone brother was a cold-blooded sadistic killer, or that he was somehow involved in international
drug smuggling; it was much more likely that he had been coerced by Newell, with his veneer of urban sophistication and desire for the high life.

Scott’s face was a mask of concentration as he passed on details of the craft and its possible occupants to yet another interested party. Air searches were being initiated using an RAF helicopter normally used for air-sea rescue. The Coastguard was aware of what was going on, but under strict instructions not to let it be known what was afoot, in case Newell and Johnstone got wind of it. The Navy was moving three ships – on exercise in the area over the last few days – onto the trawl. In some ways, the land-bound police officers felt somewhat impotent, despite being at the centre of operations with radio traffic from all the relevant agencies pouring into the control room at Kinloch. Superintendent Donald sat proudly at the hub of it all.

Daley had been amazed at the speed with which this had been achieved. It was little over an hour since he and Scott had returned to the office with the news that Newell and Johnstone were now prime suspects for the murders of Watson, Ritchie and Mulligan. Daley knew that Bobby Johnstone had an alibi for the time that Izzy had disappeared, but the brothers had been in Glasgow for little over eighteen hours, and accurately assessing her time of death had been difficult because of the condition of her body.

Daley opened the door of interview room one. James Newell was nursing a mug of coffee and staring into space. ‘As you’ve been informed, Mr Newell, we’re now actively seeking your nephew to help us with our inquiries regarding the recent murders, of which I’m sure you’re aware.’ Daley took a seat opposite the retired sea captain.

‘How very like a police inspector you sound, Mr Daley.’ Newell placed his mug on the table in front of him with no little resignation. ‘However, I appreciate your candour. Though I still find it impossible to believe that Rory has been so . . .’

‘I want to go back to your trip to County Antrim. Are you absolutely sure Rory was with you all the time?’ Daley unbuttoned his shirt collar, which was beginning to feel like a noose.

Newell thought for a moment. ‘Despite Rory’s feckless nature, Chief Inspector, he was not without his attractiveness to the opposite sex. Of course, when they got to know him properly things became very different. You saw him though: tall, well built, with a certain charm, I suppose.’

Daley said nothing, merely nodded at Newell to continue.

‘He struck up a “friendship” with one of the film crew. At night, the pair of them were out and about. A couple of drams and it was off to bed for me; he was more adventurous.’

‘Did he ever use the RIB alone when you were there?’

Newell looked at the table, as though he was reading something. Suddenly he looked up. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did.’

This tiny outcrop of land was by far the strangest place she had ever visited. She felt as though she was seeing the sky through a lens, that she was enveloped in some gigantic glass bubble.

‘On a stormy night, this place is quite remarkable.’ Seanessy was standing beside her. ‘The sea sprays off the pier and onto the windows of the cottage. I find it thrilling, really quite dramatic.’

Liz had always been comfortable at sea – on a boat. She had often tried to imagine what being in a lighthouse in a storm would be like: all at sea, yet still on land, no matter how vulnerable that land actually was. It must be the same here, though instead of a solid structure which had weathered generations of all the sea could throw at it, you had a broken-down fisherman’s hut.

‘Do you often stay here overnight?’ Liz addressed Seanessy over her shoulder.

‘Only when I feel the need to be alone. You know how it is. When one needs peace and quiet to get things done, away from the pressures of the world.’ He gave Liz an unprepossessing smile. ‘You’ll have to walk over there to get a more panoramic view.’ He stomped off in his new boots.

All bases were covered. As well as they can be at any rate, Daley thought. He was trying to think himself into their heads. If these killings had been motivated by drugs, then why the grotesque level of violence? After all, these men were no hardened criminals bent on sending messages of fear to those who would oppose them. He had found Rory Newell an arrogant prick, yes, but a sadistic killer? No. And Bobby Johnstone had looked more like a lost little boy than a man who could perpetrate such horrors. But, as he knew all too well, looks could be deceptive.

Logic dictated that the simultaneous disappearance of the two men was too coincidental for them not to be mixed up in the killings. The access to boats, involvement in the sex and drugs scene in Kinloch, as well as an acquaintance with the deceased, looked like a coalescence of circumstances that could not be ignored. Who else here would fit the profile?