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CHAPTER THREE

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Three

      “What’s this with googles?” Daley and Scott were driving into Glasgow in Scott’s car. The DS had opted for a post mortem instead of an evening with his in-laws.

      “ Aye, he’s one stupid bastard wi’ that,” Scott laughed heartily. “He telt me the other day he wiz away tae poke Sheila Robertson- you know, that wee cracker in the child protection unit. Fuckin’ Facebook he was on aboot. Though ye canna be sure.” The laughter became raucous.

      “I’d love to read his Facebook page,” tears were streaming down Daley’s face.

      “ Better on Twatter,” they laughed the car around a corner in Argyle Street, towards the city mortuary.

      It didn’t matter how long it had been since Daley’s last visit to Glasgow’s Mortuary: it hadn’t been long enough.

      Part of the training of young police constables in years gone by included at least one trip to this place to witness a post mortem. Around a dozen pale, putative policemen and women would huddle around a bluff pathologist, as he hacked, cut, tore, drained, and generally showcased his talents in a way only the most strong-stomached could withstand.

      He had managed not to faint or be sick; however he was in the minority. These incidents of revulsion were so common in fact, that each Muppet, (as trainee cops were then affectionately known), would be given a paper bag and told to be ready to grab whomever was next to them, in the likely event they passed out. The young WPC who had stood next to Daley was so traumatised that she left police college that day, never to return.

      Things had changed: brushed aluminium sheets replaced the badly grouted Victorian tiles that had served as ubiquitous wall covering; heavy footed industrial carpet silenced the ominous tread of the cracked linoleum flooring; soft, mood lighting illuminated, where once the harsh glow of humming strip lights had served to augment a visceral scene of blood, shit and gore.

      One thing had not changed- not in the slightest- the smell. The orifactory sense being as it is, instantly transported Daley back to his first visit every time he came here. A cloying, sickening mix of death, decay, disinfectant and refrigeration. A smell in fact, that no matter how you tried, would be your unwelcome companion, uninvited house guest for days on end after departing this Faustian repository of hell on earth.

      Not everyone was affected in the same way, of course. Scott, slouched along the corridors untroubled by odour or clammy taint that the building seemed to impart.

      “Aye an’ see if he disna’ get another centre half- he can forget it,” the DS was expostulating on his favourite subject: Rangers Football Club. “That fuckin’ ‘keeper’s fuck a’ use un a’.”  From different sides of the West of Scotland sectarian divide, inspector and sergeant usually kept up a healthy banter on the subject of football. At the moment though, Scott found his interlocutor uncharacteristically silent. “Are ye followin’ me, Jim?” The clatter of a large mortuary fire-door being slammed shut startled both men and negated the need for an answer.

      “Well, well, if it’s not the dream team.” The sarcasm was palpable, even at a distance of ten yards. Another thing was unchanged from the first time Jim Daley had been to the mortuary, and he was now trying to secure a fire door with one hand as he pocketed a black pipe into a short, white, coat with the other: Chief Forensic Pathologist Andrew Crichton.

      “Still at the pipe, Andy?- I dread to think what shape your lungs are in.” Daley walked towards Crichton and slapped him on the back. “How are you keeping? Surely you must be past retirement age.” He smiled at the older man affectionately.

      “One of the advantages of a professional career, Inspector Daley, is that one doesn’t have to retire in ones forties and get a job delivering newspapers or doing odd jobs in order to make ends meet.” Crichton was referring to the fact that most junior uniformed police officers retired after thirty years service. Many would indeed find themselves in rather menial employment, either from boredom, or the real need to supplement an inadequate pension. In the CID, and from the rank of Inspector and above the situation was different; the higher grades regularly stayed well beyond thirty years in The Job. However, forces were slowly encouraging ordinary cops to stay on as well, realising that there was indeed, no substitute for experience.

      “Aye listen tae it,” Scott held an expression of mock outrage. “It’ll be nae bother fir you tae get a wee part time job; that butcher in Kilmalcolm’s  a’ways needin’ help- an’ think, no reports tae write or fuck a’.”

      “I’m so glad those elocution lessons you took have paid off, Brian; your ready turn of phrase never ceases to amaze me.”  Crichton surveyed the DS with a critical eye, “All that drink is having a devastating effect on your looks, too; good grief man, you look like you’ve aged ten years in the last two.”

      “Cheeky bastard,” Scott chuckled. “Anyhow me an’ the boss havn’a time for a’ this, he’s getting’ sent tae the wilds tomorrow. Whit have you got for us, Andy?”

      “Well, gents, as you can no doubt discern with the use of your legendary detection skills and the pall of expensive pipe tobacco, I have been having a smoke; really nothing is sacred these days. My old professor never had a cigar out of his mouth when he performed a post mortem; now, if you light up within ten feet of the building, you’re liable to go down for ten years.”

      “Aye, an’ you’ve ay’ways been a stickler for the rule book, Andy.” Ironic laughter filled the corridor as they headed for the pathology theatre.

      Two technicians were working on a body lying on a metal operating table. The room itself was dimly lit, however a large bank of lights suspended in a metal frame above the operation emitted an ethereal glow, illuminating the scene with an ice-white precision.

      “Be so good as to put these on.” An assistant had arrived bearing green aprons, masks, and rubber overshoes. Crichton removed his white coat, then headed over to a large metal sink, where he rolled up his shirt sleeves and soaped his hands and forearms copiously, operating the taps with his elbows when he was finished. This done, he shrugged on his green rubber overall with a great deal more ease than the two police officers had displayed, having required the help of an assistant.

      Now fully kitted out, the three proceeded to the operating table where Daley recognised the blackened, slightly bloated features of the deceased he had first seen on the emails in Donald’s office. The body cavity had been exposed, both sides of her ribcage and flesh pinned back with large stainless steel clamps. As usual, Daley had to suppress his gagging reflex, Scott, however took the scene in intently, eyes visible over his mask, which was moving in a less than flattering manner as he continued to chew an ever-present piece of gum.

      “Aye, you’ve had a good start, Andy.” Scott’s eyes flicked from the eviscerated corpse to the pathologist.

      “When I heard who was in charge of this investigation, I thought I would get any sawing over with before you got here, Jim.” Daley could only imagine the broad grin hidden by the older man’s mask. “Right, progress so far…”

      “As you can see we have managed a pretty comprehensive examination of the subject,” Crichton was talking in a more business-like manner now, almost matter of fact, like a dentist announcing to his nurse which teeth were to be filled. What appeared to be a large microphone hung down above the scene, ensuring no utterances from anyone around the operating table were missed.

      “At first glance-despite one or two anomalies, which I will come to- a straightforward strangulation. However, if I may, can I draw your attention to this?”

      Surprisingly, Crichton moved down the corpse to an exposed leg. “This mark around the ankle indicates restraint.” He pointed to a band about two inches thick encompassing the right ankle. The skin here was a lighter hew than the rest of the body, which was turning regulation black as the process of putrefaction began. “However, this mark was left on the body post mortem, so someone felt the need to tie her up even though she was dead.”

      Without giving the officer’s time to take this in, or ask any questions, he pulled the green sheet which had been covering the waist of the dead woman asunder, revealing a deep black gash, bisecting the remains. Daley could taste bile in the back of his throat.

      “Again, after death, the body suffered a major trauma, completed I am told by your colleagues in Kinloch, who saw fit to pull the subject apart like a Christmas cracker.” Crichton looked towards Daley, laughter lines visible above his mask. “If you need a chair, please just ask, Jim.”

      “Very good, Andy,” the Inspector changed the subject quickly. “ How- when- could that have happened?”

      “If you’re asking me to make a wild guess, I would say she was nearly cleft in two by a large, sharp metallic object- a ships propeller for example. The wound is precise and clean, which suggests to me a swift slice, rather than the kind of sawing or cutting that would be required if manpower, or even a tool had been used. I’ll have to do more tests on the flesh surrounding the wound. That will take a couple of days though.”

      “Fucking hell, this is some mess, Jim. Fuck, yer better taking Sherlock Holmes doon with ye, rather than me.” As normal, Scott had displayed his uncanny knack of distilling the most complex of situations down to the lowest common denominator.

      “I must admit, in my many years as a forensic pathologist, I have never encountered such circumstances. However, as I say, we have a number of lab based tests yet to perform: stomach contents, other bodily fluids etc. She definitely had sex within the last forty-eight hours. I will be in a position to tell you more on that point after yet more lab work.”

      “What do you mean, Andy?” Daley was curious; he had known Crichton for so many years that he had become used to the nuances of his voice and presentation. He suspected the pathologist had discovered something significant.

      “Oh, merely a theory-nothing more. By the time you’ve had lunch down in Kinloch tomorrow, I should be able to give you some answers.”

      Suddenly Crichton raised his head from the body and looked at the police officers “ Wonderful place, Kinloch. I have a friend down there: great fishing, golf; fantastic scenery,” he had a far away look. “People are as mad as fuck though.”

      “What are you?- a shite tourist board?” DS Scott, straight to the point. “Once you’re done wi’ the rough guide, mebe you’ll tell us how long she’s been deid for.”

      “Again, immersion in water has made that more difficult- no more than sixty, no less than twenty eight hours, I would say. Sorry to be repetitive, I’ll be able to be more precise within the next day or so.”

      “What about her age, Andy; any distinguishing marks?” Daley was intrigued; despite the gruesome surroundings, attending the post mortem had whetted his appetite for the investigation.

      “I was just coming to that. I would say she was between twenty five and thirty. She has given birth within the last three years or so; oh and look at this.” He moved the corpse’s right leg. On her inner thigh, the letters ‘IS’, had been tattooed, roughly. “As you can see, not  professional - ink and knife job if you ask me- most unusual for a woman to let herself be disfigured in that way- don’t you think gents?”

      For once, DS Scott had nothing to say.

CHAPTER TWO- READ IT NOW!!!!!

TWO

Detective Inspector Jim Daley reflected on the dispiriting nature of trouser shopping, as he handed his credit card over to the assistant in the fashionable clothes store.

      In his twenties- even in his thirties- he had been able to maintain a respectable waistline without the deployment of starvation diets or drastic fitness regimens. Now in his early forties- as he liked to think of forty three- and especially after giving up cigarettes, he felt his stomach now capable of gaining inches overnight. It was not without a little trepidation that he eyed a suit or a pair of jeans he had not worn for a few weeks. Often, on trying to get them on, there would follow the desperate tugging at a straining zip, a grunting wrestle with a recalcitrant waistband, holding in both breath and stomach, as he fought to get the garment into a position whereby he could move, sit, or stand without a trouser button shooting into the air like a misdirected bullet; worse still, without hearing the sickening rip of sewing tearing apart over a more than ample backside.

      He had resolved therefore to make a new start as far as trousers were concerned: go out and buy a pair that more suited his thickening frame, regardless of how unpalatable the thought of having his age and waist size matching was. After all, he would get older, diet and join a gym, ensuring these numbers would diverge in an acceptable manner in the near future.

      He caught a glimpse of himself in a fitting mirror as he left the shop. Was that fattening, middle aged man really him? He consoled himself with the fact he was six feet three, still had his hair and his own teeth. Sure, women found him attractive, just not the woman he wanted to, or so it seemed. Tall, dark, getting fatter, older and handsome- that summed up Jim Daley.

      The theme tune from the Sopranos, jolted him from thoughts of sartorial insecurity to an equally perplexing subject: his wife Liz. She called infrequently when he was at work and he had become used to these calls containing at least a modicum of bad or unwelcome news.

      “Hi, Liz, everything OK?” He always heard himself sounding lame when he had to speak to her unexpectedly. He felt an involuntary frisson of excitement at the sound of those familiar, well-spoken, smoky tones.

      “Oh hi, darling; that was quick. Are you OK to talk?”

      “Yeah, no bother, I’m actually…” habitually, she gave him no time to finish his answer.

      “Great, just to let you know, Jill wants me to go up to the caravan at Granton for a few days. Anyway I thought, the weather’s nice and its not as though we’ll be doing anything, so I’m leaving in a couple of hours.”

       Daley was used to a fait accompli. He marvelled at the easy way Liz, again, managed to impart her intention to do as she pleased, while at the same time make him feel as though he was in some way responsible.

      He attempted a rear-guard action: “I’ll be home about five; we could go to the wee pub for a couple of drinks, or get a curry or something- make a night of it. You could go up to Jill’s in the morning.”

      Without a pause, Liz’s reply was as predictable as it was swift, “Oh, what a pity you didn’t mention it before. She’s invited me to dinner tonight as well; Mark has some boring guest to entertain. I’ve already said I would go- sorry, darling.”

      “Oh- ok,” was all he could muster. He guessed it was true what people said, once a partner had been unfaithful, it was really difficult to regain the trust that was so important in any relationship. Liz had been spectacularly unfaithful.

      The first incident- he knew of- was with her gym instructor. Sent home early by the Force Medical Officer after taking a baseball bat across the head during a drug raid, he thought he heard noises as he gained the stairs of their new detached home in the village of Howwood. The vision of Liz on hands and knees on their bed while her paramour worked energetically behind her was burnt onto his memory. Suffering from a hair trigger temper as well as an acute headache, Daley proceeded to render the third party insensible with a swift upper-cut, dragged him by the hair onto the small bedroom balcony, and despatched him neatly over the railing and onto the garden below.

      The sight of a naked man struggling to get up, with what looked like a broken leg, from a neighbours garden, accompanied by the shrieks of an obviously frantic woman, constituted more than enough reason for the good people of Howwood to call the Police. Eventually, after much pulling of strings and dire warnings regarding the diminishment of his prospects, a deal was done behind the scenes and Daley- forced to attend anger management classes- was left to resurrect, as best he could, the remnants of his career. Having reached Detective Inspector in his mid thirties, Jim Daley could have reasonably hoped for Superintendent or beyond, before retirement. This was now most unlikely.

       As for Liz, she had vowed undying love for him, citing boredom and loneliness as an excuse for her behaviour. Daley realised he was wrong, however, his almost cloying love for her saw him take the only action that seemed palatable: forgiveness.

      Since then, even when close friends and colleagues had alerted him to likely dalliances, he chose to ignore them, having neither the strength nor will to do the sensible thing and leave her. Though he would never let her know, he was head over heels in love with her, and, even though he barely believed it himself, was prepared to accede to almost anything in order to keep their relationship afloat.

She said and did all the right things: she showed great interest in him, they made passionate love, declared satisfied happiness, promised unerring loyalty; all to no avail. Now trust was absent, only the slavery of obsession remained.

      Daley was forced to endure the nods and winks of colleagues; the police of course being a small community where gossip was rife. Had Liz been less attractive her indiscretions would have probably gone unnoticed, however, such were the rumours of her wanton nature, every man colleague now reckoned that they had a chance with her.

      “Anyway, you know what the traffic’s like in the morning.” Liz pronounced  morning with that annoying intonation that had crept into everyday usage from the popularity of Australian soap operas, as though the knowledge or concept of  the morning was something entirely alien to the listener. The habit annoyed Daley, who hardened his reply.

      “Yeah, whatever you think, Liz. When will you be back?”

      “Oh, you know, darling- go with the flow- you know me.” He did. “Anyway, better dash. I’ve left one of those boil in the microwave curries out for you. Bell you later, bye. Love you.” That was an afterthought.

      Daley stood with the handset to his ear for a few moments. So little said; so much left unsaid: it summed up their marriage. He walked back to the car park, made a mental note to get his car washed, then drove to the station.

Jim returned to his office by way of the coffee machine. On gaining the second floor he could clearly hear the dulcet tones of his DS as he swore volubly at his computer.

      “You know, I’m buggered how they think that getting us tae dae all this typing ourselves is cost effective.” DS Brian Scott, was more agitated than normal, which was indeed saying something. “When I joined up you jeest had tae scribble something doon and wait for some daft wee lassie in the typing pool tae dae the business. Noo, well I’ll tell ye, Paisley’s goin’ like a fair, while I’m up here learnin’ tae be a fuckin’ secretary.”

      “Ah, DS Scott,” Daley aped the clipped Kelvinside tones of their boss, “it’s incumbent upon us all to integrate with new policing methods.” He smiled at Scott’s exasperation.

      “Aye, fuck him tae. Its getting tae be you need a degree in this shit jist tae dae yer ain job.” Scott was smiling in spite of himself. An IT specialist he most certainly was not; he most certainly was however, a highly effective, sometimes inspired police officer. His brusque manner, and tendency to ignore the rule book, had hampered his progress through the ranks; he would no doubt, end his career as a DS. Daley felt that it was a role that had been tailor made for his gritty determination, and valued his assistance more than he would ever admit. Simply, they made a good team.

      Daley walked to the large paper strewn desk in the office he shared with Scott. A yellow Post-it note placed on top of a mountain of files announced: Numpty wants to see you!- in Scott’s bold, untidy hand.

      “When did his magnificence call?” Daley enquired, looking up just in time to see Scott’s computer screen turn a brilliant blue.

      “Oh, jeest efter you left; he’s in a right stooshie aboot somthin’.” He didna’ even pull me up aboot whit a coup this place is,” he swung his chair around to face Daley, left hand outstretched in gesture of disbelief at his computer screen. “I mean whit the fuck’s this a’ aboot?”

      Draining his coffee, Daley got up and walked to Scott’s desk, where he deftly pressed a few keys on the computer, turning it back to the report on which the DS was working.

      “Just how many computer courses have you been on?- it seems like dozens.”

      Scott’s face took on a look of rueful resignation, “ Aye, a few, but you’ve got tae remember, Jim, every time I get a chance tae go up tae the college its mair like a break from my dear lady wife. That’s a great wee bar they’ve got there; an’ well, by the time yiv sobered up in the morning, yiv well an’ truly lost the thread aboot whit the fuck they’re on aboot.”

      Daley chuckled to himself as he took the lift to the top floor of the building. As the elevator doors swished open he yet again marvelled at the steep upward curve in the standard of opulence in this portion of the station. Gone the bare functionality of the other three floors, to be replaced by dark wood panelling, tasteful paintings, picked out by soft up-lighting, thick carpeting punctuated by tall, verdant pot plants. Even the civilian staff were of a seemingly more aesthetically pleasing variety; an attractive woman in a tight fitting skirt wiggled past him in a cloud of expensive perfume that reminded him of Liz.

      Behind the closed door the sound of giggling female was plain. The name plate read simply: ‘Superintendent John Donald. Commander Div. CID.’ Daley knocked loudly three times.

      After a few moments of mumbled voices, the familiar come, served as an invitation for Daley to enter. He opened the door, stepping inside straight backed and confident.

      Donald was sitting behind an impossibly large desk that made even this large office seem reduced. Yet another attractive female stood over him clutching a file, looking intently on as the Superintendent busily appended his signature to a document.

      “Ah, Jim,” Donald’s eyes flitted towards him then back to his papers. He gestured airily with his left hand, “make yourself comfortable while I satisfy the rapacious appetite for my time this young lady seems to harbour.”

      Same old, same old. Jim was used to his boss’s eccentricities; indeed, it felt much as though he had worked for this man for most of his career. As a young probationary cop Donald had been his shift sergeant, on his first posting to Paisley CID, as a raw DC, Donald was his DS. Not long after his promotion to Detective Sergeant in ‘A’ Division in Glasgow, Donald arrived as the all powerful DCI. They were once described as star-crossed. He wished they  weren’t.

      The man that sat in front of him now though, bore hardly any resemblance to the foul-mouthed, over-weight philistine figure of, what seemed like,so long ago.

      Steadily, he had ironed out all of his imperfections. He stopped drinking, took up running, golf, and squash; consequently losing piles of weight. He spent a great deal of time abroad or under a sun-bed insuring that his permanent tan was indeed, ever present. Even his hair had undergone a similar transformation: gone, the thick black curls paired close to the scalp; now thinning, his gelled back coiffure made him look like a hackneyed version of an East-end gangster.

      His manner had changed accordingly too, the harsh accent of Glasgow’s East end, modulated to the clipped tones of middle class Bearsden, taking him much further socially than it had done in geographic reality. His notorious temper was kept in check by smarmy sycophancy to superiors, or aloof arrogance to those of a lesser rank. Daley though, had never been in any doubt as to how thin this veil was; indeed, Donald was as notorious for his self-seeking ruthlessness, as he was for being a mediocre police officer transformed into a truly talented administrator and political bon vivant.  The letters BA, LLB after his name bore testament to the determined hard work it had taken to climb from the mire of a piss poor childhood, to his current middle class magnificence.

      Donald flourished his signature at the bottom of the document then flamboyantly waved the paper in the air to dry the fountain pen ink he had used.

      “Now, Di, don’t be frightened to bring in as many papers for me to sign as you want; my door is always open, you know.” He leered a smile at the young woman who nodded dutifully, then left the room, Donald appraising her departure with the fixed gaze of a satyr.

      “Now, Jim, sorry about that, breaking in a new girl, so to speak; one long round of paperwork in here. Now where did I put that… ah, here it is.” He lifted a black file from the desk and removed what looked like a number of  printed emails. “Bit of bother in our new dominions; Kinloch to be exact. There’s no point me blustering on, scan these and we’ll get on wi’ it.”

      Daley noticed how the polished edge of his accent had tarnished slightly since the secretary had gone. For many, this would have appeared to be an acknowledgement of their shared past, to Daley however, it was more of an indication of how far down he was in the pecking order. Donald obviously felt there to be little point in turning on the charm for his senior DI. He opened the file and began to browse it’s contents.

      After a few minutes he looked up from the papers and cleared his throat to divert Donald’s attention from the copy of Perfect Home magazine, his superior was avidly consuming.

      “Oh right, Jim. So, there you have it. Bit of a crisis down there in terms of manpower and experience too. The sub-division is run by a teuchter called Charles MacLeod- a right little shit- the very worst kind of social climber. They have a DS who is no more use than ornament, and a few eager young DC’s. Do you remember Davie Fraser from ‘A’ Division?- his nephew’s there.”

      “If he’s anything like his uncle, the pubs will be doing a fine trade.” Daley had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

       Strathclyde Police had undergone yet another phase of reorganisation in an attempt to save money. His Division had been amalgamated with what had been the old Argyll Constabulary, meaning that headquarters in Paisley was now responsible for parts of the West Coast of Scotland that few could pronounce, never mind find on a map.

      “Quite so, quite so, Jim; poor man. I think his liver is on the way out; never met a man who loved a drink more,” Donald looked rueful. “Anyway, I’m reliably informed his nephew is cut from entirely different cloth.”

      Daley hoped so; his experience of Davie Fraser was one of having to follow him from bar to bar when he was a young cop, watching the man supposed to be showing him the ropes steadily becoming more inebriated and objectionable by turns.

      “Do you mind me asking what this has to do with me?” He knew what the answer was going to be, however being direct would mean Donald would be unable to dollop his usual helping of sugar onto an unpalatable request.

      “Straight to the point, Inspector Daley; that’s what I like to hear.” Daley had the impression that Donald was a bit disappointed, and would rather still have the chance to dish out his usual speeches on duty and chances for advancement, that were the normal precursors of a shit job. “I need someone there with a bit of experience- get this solved quickly- prove to these yokels that our way is the best way. Fuck knows, we’ll have to get them to tow the line somehow; this affords us the perfect opportunity.”

      “So you want me down there, sir?” Daley moved the conversation away from a lecture on the difference in policing methods between city and county divisions.

      “Yes, Jim, in fact I would like you down there first thing tomorrow morning. The body is on the way to the mortuary in Glasgow. Under the circumstances, that prick Crighton will do the necessary this evening at about seven. I would like you to be there.”

      Daley paused momentarily to take this in. He was being sent to a far outpost of the empire to investigate a murder that could take forever, while the wayward Liz was at the other end of the country doing- well he dreaded to think.

      “I see, sir. What about personnel?” was all he could think to say.

      “I’ve have you booked on the first flight in the morning. You will of course be much better informed after the PM. Take a look on the ground yourself; then we’ll decide who we can spare to send down there with you-take that file. I’ll send anything else we’ve got downstairs. No doubt we can spare Tweedle Dum and a few other bodies, should the situation require it.” Donald had, what could best be described as a strained relationship with DS Scott.

      Daley’s mind returned to the images he had seen on the emails: a young woman, ligature, body dumped at sea, and a locus distant from usual amenities; he mentally surmised that this was not going to be an easy enquiry.

      “Have the support unit been informed yet, sir?” He was referring to the group of elite Strathclyde Officers who specialised in various disciplines now required of  a modern police force: firearms, dog branch, crowd control, underwater unit etc. Daley reckoned the latter would be handy bearing in mind the apparent circumstances surrounding the death.

      “Not as yet, Jim. I think it wise to wait until we have some kind of results from the PM, no matter how preliminary. Of course you realise, in terms of expenditure this is going to be a killer; we’ve already had a full SOCO team down there. The burden of expense falls to us, the investigating department. I hope you will bear that in mind when you’re on the ground?”

      “As you know, sir, cost is always to the forefront of my mind during every enquiry.” Daley smiled openly, knowing his boss was more than well aware about his attitude to the bean counters many senior officers had been forced to become.

      “Luckily,” Donald chose to ignore the irony of the last statement, “because this is new territory so to speak, we are able to introduce a degree of flexibility into our spend. However, Jim, the pot is by no means bottomless; please take that on board.”

      Daley was about to make some sarcastic reply, when Donald began to speak again on an entirely different subject without the need for an intake of breath; he, it seemed, had developed all the skills of the politician.

      How is Liz? everything back to normal in that department?”

      Daley bridled as the leer returned to Donald’s face. Only a few weeks had passed since Liz had flirted outrageously with the superintendent at a retirement party. The couple had rowed late into the night when they returned home, Liz claiming that she was only trying to advance his career with a little networking; yet another modern term  he couldn’t stand. Anyway, Donald’s body language had pointed to the fact that networking was the last thing on his mind. Loyally, DS Scott had administered a left hook to a colleague who had insinuated that something illicit was afoot.

      “Mrs Donald and I really must have you for dinner.”

      Mrs Daley’s more likely to have you for breakfast, he thought, somewhat uncharitably.

     “Anyway, better get on, we both have plenty to do. Oh, by the way, pick your tickets up from Kirsty next door- she’s had them googled or something- and don’t forget to keep me informed; googles will do. Don’t take any shit off that little bastard MacLeod. Any trouble there and I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

      “Good hunting, Jim.” The Superintendent stood, hand outstretched. Daley shook it in acceptance of the tacit dismissal.

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST CHAPTER- FREE TASTER!!!!

Whisky From Small Glasses.

By D.A.Meyrick.

  

Copyright © D. A. Meyrick. 2012.

D. A. Meyrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

Prologue.

Lights sparked and flashed before her eyes. The movement of her limbs slowed as though of their own accord. The pain she had felt was dull now; the panic subsiding. She was aware that her bowels had opened;  she no longer cared. Her last, her remaining emotions, were a fading mixture of anger, injustice, and overwhelming sadness, the cause of which she could barely recall.

      All she was, all she had ever been, was seeping, slowly away: her loves, desires, likes and dislikes, the things that made her angry, the things that made her sad, made her laugh, made her cry; now all curiously diminished. Her final moments were descending into a fading abyss- the surreal detachment of the brain soothing its own way to oblivion.

      Suddenly, as the lights began to dim, the face of a small, blonde, blue-eyed child filled her thoughts. Only for an instant did the terrible choking pain, the struggle for breath, the fight to stay alive, return.

***

ONE

The body ebbed and flowed rhythmically in concert with the seaweed and flotsam and jetsam trapped in the bay of the low, rocky cove. A Styrofoam cup, a fisherman’s glove with three fingers missing, a drinks bottle, label so bleached by sun and sea that only a hint of its former contents were now discernable, and bright orange plastic netting which had ensnared a small crab, reluctant to quit the purpose for which it was intended: all of these floated and bobbed in unison with the corpse.

      The naked body of a woman lay face down in the water, limbs spread in a lazy ‘X’ shape. Her skin looked waxy- a horrible cross between yellow and grey, turning black at her feet, hands, and the back of her neck. The remains were bloated, consistent with time spent in water. Small areas of her lower back and thighs were gnawed, most likely by prawns, indicating the cadaver had spent at least some time further out to sea.

      Surprisingly though, most repellent, were the two bright red ribbons that held her hair in bunches, a hairstyle redolent of  childhood and happiness, horribly incongruous with the rotting corpse now souring the sea tang of the mild spring day.

       With almost six years’ service in uniform, Detective Constable Archie Fraser was new to the CID. That new in fact, he hoped that he was surveying the scene on the beach with what could be considered the appropriate degree of professional detachment. A young WPC, and the pale looking dog-walker- who had alerted the police- looked on with the mixture of abject horror and fascination, so common in humanity faced with death; especially of the gruesome variety. A large, black Labrador snuffled and pawed at the sand, unaware and undisturbed by the corpse.

      “Could you put your dog back on the lead please, Mrs. MacPherson?” Fraser bellowed with a confidence he did not feel. It would not be beyond possibility for the dog to catch an unusual scent on the air and proceed to wade into the water to investigate its source.

     His short time in Kinloch had already been difficult. Only last month his ultimate superior- one, Inspector MacLeod, Sub-Divisional Commander- had cause to reprimand him on discovering a young female shoplifter handcuffed to a very hot radiator while her captor answered an urgent call of nature.

      “Focus boy, focus!” MacLeod shouted in his high pitched, sing-song, Highland accent. “The last thing I need is the Discipline Branch descending on me because you have seen fit to roast some daft bint. You’re bloody lucky she was too stupid to make the complaint.”

      Fraser noticed how his boss always referred to the something, in the way a foreigner would; tourists regularly took him for a German or Scandinavian and not from the Isle of Harris, that was his home. A long period of admonishment ensued, after which Fraser resolved to improve in every way and pay many less visits to the Taste of India restaurant.

      “Karen, could you come over please?” Fraser summoned the WPC. She walked slowly towards him, never taking her eyes from the body, in the way a child would having been asked to pat a snake. “What’s up?” he enquired. “Surely this isn’t your first stiff?” Her doe-eyed nod was barely perceptible.

      Having worked his probationary period in Glasgow, Fraser was no stranger to dead bodies: murders, drowning, suicides, accidents- occasionally even some natural deaths; all were part of the daily diet of Glasgow’s finest. The difference now was- for the time being at least- the crime scene was his responsibility. No van full of colleagues likely to appear; the Serious Crime Squad over a hundred miles away; even his DS off sick, laid low with a persistent ‘early retirement’ back. Right here, right now, he was the senior CID officer on duty in the sub-division: he was the only CID officer on duty in the sub-division.

      “It’s no’ jeest that, Archie,” the WPC had a thick  local accent. “I mean this is Kinloch- I probably know her.”

      How could he forget? The crime locus was three miles away from one of the most unique places he had ever been to, let alone lived and worked in. Kinloch. The town was situated on a peninsula a hundred and fifty miles away from Glasgow, on Scotland’s rugged West Coast; alternatively, miles away from anywhere, as Fraser had come to think of it. Around ten thousand people lived in what could best be described as a modern alternative to the Nineteen- Fifties. Everyone knew everyone else, down to the merest detail of family, even personal life. Sometimes, when working on a case, the young policeman had the distinct impression that everybody knew what he was trying to find out, but of course, were never going to tell.

      Another symptom of such a close-knit community was an inherent distrust of strangers- including policemen. Fraser’s uncle- himself a retired police officer- had advised him to always have friends outside The Job, as the force was habitually known to initiates. He believed that many cops both worked and socialised together, leaving them isolated, introverted, and out of touch.

      “You keep your ear to the ground son-especially in a wee place like Kinloch.” Uncle Davie had declared sagely. “I mean you’re never goin’ tae find anything oot about these people unless you get out an’ talk tae them. Get yourself out, socialise- spend a few bob, buy a couple o’ drinks; you’ll see they’ll soon open up.”

      Archie had mixed feelings about this strategic advice: for a start, Uncle Davie had had his ear to the ground, and bought so many drinks, and so regularly, that he was now awaiting a liver transplant. Also, this was Kinloch, a place most definitely apart. However, he thought that some of what Davie had said could be useful. As the town was his first posting as a DC, he resolved to immerse himself in the community. He tried to join the local golf club, though sadly they were full. Unabashed, he tried the local tennis and cricket clubs, both with same result. He was briefly elated when the town’s Gaelic choir had contacted him in the hope he could sing and swell their dwindling numbers; sadly Fraser was about as tone deaf as it was possible to be.

      He had tried visiting the local pubs when off duty. Kinloch had a goodly number of such establishments- far too many according to some of the town’s more temperate residents. They conformed to small communities within the community. For instance, regulars at the Shore Bar wouldn’t normally consider crossing the threshold of  the Royal Borough across the road.

      Subtly, each establishment catered for a slightly different clientele: rowdy youth attended Pulse, a noisy disco-bar in the Main Street, whilst their more cerebral peers became habituates of The Old Bothy, in the square. Roman Catholics preferred the Douglas Arms, while so called blue noses headed for the Royal. There was a pub that catered for lawyers, doctors and businessmen, another inhabited by tradesmen and factory workers; indeed one hostelry was dedicated solely to horse racing, the ‘sport of Kings’ playing all day and all night on large screens. It was situated conveniently next to the bookmakers on the High Street. Jenny‘s, lurking on a small back street, was the end of the line. Those who behaved badly enough to be banned from all of the other premises- and many had- gravitated there. The ‘tick book’ was legendary, as were the fights. Locals referred to it as the Star Wars Bar, for reasons that were obvious.

     Fraser had visited them all. Typically, as he walked into the room the conversation would stop, resuming in a more modulated fashion moments later. People would gradually drift away, leaving the young detective with one of Kinloch’s small army of drunks who barely knew nor cared where they drank, as well as  a glaring publican, counting the cost of  lost customers. A polite welcome inevitably led to an unspoken invitation to make his stay short.

      “Can I say something?” Mrs. MacPherson spoke timidly. “The tide’s on the turn… well could it-she- not drift back out?”

      The young officer had not considered this, “Right, Karen, time to get your feet wet; we’ll need to get her above the water line, even if we corrupt forensics, it’s better than her ending up on Islay.”

      “Can ye’ no’ dae it yersel’, Archie? This gi’es me the boak.”

      He gently reminded the WPC why she was being paid, and after removing shoes, tights and socks where appropriate, the pair waded into the few inches of water.

      “OK, grab her other arm, Karen- and mind pull gently- we want to disturb this as little as possible.” The policewoman looked doubtfully at the cadaver, but did as requested, looking away as she grabbed the left wrist, lips pursed in distaste.

      “One, two, three…” they started to pull.

       To the collective horror of all three on the beach, the corpse, with a great issue of dark fluid and some more solid matter, broke neatly apart, with the deep sucking noise of a plunger working on a well blocked sink. Both police officers, having put more effort into their task than required, fell backwards onto the shingle, the top half of the deceased now some two feet away from the rest of the remains.

     In what seemed like a split second, the fetid stench emanating from the newly cleft body induced the dog to stand tall on all fours and emit a mournful howl, as the WPC wretched copiously over her uniform, still sitting on the shingle where her assistance to the CID had left her. Body fluids seeped darkly into the sand; even the local seagull population had registered the events and were now swirling in a squawking frenzy over the bay.

      “Fuck,” Fraser swore vehemently, forgetting the presence of Mrs MacPherson, who was herself looking on in disbelief, as though she was waiting for someone to come bounding from behind a rock to confirm the whole ghastly episode was all one elaborate joke, of the type played out in down-market TV.

      Just then, movement to his right caught Fraser’s eye. Three figures were walking purposefully down the beach towards him. The slight, taught figure of Inspector Macleod was unmistakable at their head.

      It took the Inspector a few moments to grasp exactly what was in front of him.

      One of his DC’s was getting up from the sand, leaving the torso of a dead woman, and a WPC spewing copiously at his feet. A woman he did not know was issuing convulsive sobs, while a large black dog happily wagged its tail at the new arrivals. Only feet away, the rest of the body could barely be made out in the badly discoloured water. A sickening stench was all pervasive.

      “What the fuck are you doing, boy?” MacLeod’s temples displayed throbbing veins. “In all my years in the Police I have never seen the like.”

      “I was merely trying to…” Fraser’s excuse was cut off.

      “You were merely trying to fuck things up, as usual,” the Inspector was incandescent. “Aye, and all of our careers along with it. I dread to think what they taught you at the training college. In my day you were shown how to preserve the crime scene, not tear it in half!”

      As though suddenly remembering others were there, MacLeod visibly took hold of himself, turning to address the uniformed sergeant next to him. “Sergeant Shaw, please do your best to insure that the remains are contained at this locus,” turning to a man in a well-worn sports jacket with patched sleeves, he said, “Sandy, are you able to make any kind of examination under these circumstances?” At that he looked towards Fraser with a thunderous glare.

      The stocky man, whom Fraser recognised as one of the local doctors, ran his hand through greying locks as he surveyed the scene. “Well, Charles, I can only concur with your very accurate assessment,” his accent was straight out of the Scottish public school system. “I too, have never attended such an incident in thirty years of medicine.” He looked at the young DC with a flat lipped grimace that spoke of  nothing but pity, then lent over the landed portion of body, rubbing his chin.

      MacLeod walked away from the others, gesturing to Fraser to come with him. Once out of earshot, he grabbed the younger man’s arm and on tip-toe addressed the DC’s right ear with spitting vitriol.

      “You listen to me, constable; since you arrived at my station you have lurched from one crisis to the next.” Fraser could feel his face redden. “As soon as this sorry mess is over I will be recommending to HQ that you are not only unsuited to the CID, but to police work in general. Be absolutely sure that the cach will land on your head, not mine. We’ll be the laughing stock of the Force by tea time.”

      Fraser wanted to grab his superior and fling him bodily down the beach. He was considering what else to say in his defence when a shout from the doctor turned both of their heads.

      “One for the big boys I’m afraid, Charles.” The doctor was brushing sand from his trousers as the policemen walked back over. “Murder- nasty business.”

      “How can you be so sure, Sandy?” The Inspector looked doubtfully at the medic.

      “Oh, quite easily, Inspector MacLeod; she has a ligature around her neck.”

HAVE A DRAM ON ME

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PUBLISHER'S LAUNCH PARTY

I am delighted to announce that my new novel WHISKY FROM SMALL GLASSES,will be officially launched at the BERKELEY SUITE, GLASGOW, on 8 NOVEMBER 2012!!!  More information to follow over the next few days- keep it here!!!!!!!