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.”