Dark Suits and Sad Songs (3 page)

‘Och, we all feel like that some days, Ella. We lost oor wee pal Jinky last week. Bugger me, I cried fit tae burst. Aye, a great pal he was, tae.’

‘No’ quite the same, Willie,’ Ella said, looking doubtful, as tears welled up in her eyes.

‘What dae you mean?’

‘Well, don’t get me wrong, I know fine how fond of him you were an’ that . . .’

‘Aye, you can say that again.’ Wullie rubbed at his forehead. ‘Oor Sheila couldna bring hersel’ tae clean his bedding. We were oot for a meal the other night an’ she found wan o’ his hairs on her skirt. We had tae go hame – beside hersel’, she was.’

‘Poor Sheila,’ Ella sympathised.

‘Of course, she wants another one, but have you seen the price o’ poodles noo. Bugger me, they’re wantin’ nearly a grand for the bloody thing! Proper poodles, mind you, none o’ these effeminate toy jobs. There was nothing effeminate aboot oor Jinky!’ he said, his face growing red at the thought of such an outrage. ‘I’m sorry, Ella, that was thoughtless of
me. I shouldn’t be comparing oor Jinky tae what happened tae your Brian.’

She looked at the black-and-white photograph again. The bright young face stared down at her from under the peaked cap. If only she could turn the clock back. ‘Don’t worry, Willie. Och, it’s been hard, you know . . .’ She burst into tears, prompting the big policeman to struggle out of his chair and embrace her clumsily.

‘There, there, Ella. Things will get better, they always dae. Just you give it time. I’ve got an idea . . .’

Suddenly, from the upper floor of the house, movement could be heard, accompanied by the sound of a choleric, throaty cough. Rapid footsteps rumbled down the stairs and in a heartbeat the lounge door was flung open to reveal a dishevelled man in dark blue pyjamas, sporting a large orange stain on the right lapel, his hairstyle that of the recently risen, its salt and pepper clumps matching his beard.

‘Just you get your hands off my woman, you big bastard.’ The man’s expression matched his language. ‘I might have known, the minute I try tae get a wee bit o’ extra shut-eye, the polis are right in here, trying tae get the knickers off my missus!’ Slowly, his frown turned into a broad smile. ‘How’re you daein’, Willie,’ he said, holding out his arms to the other man. ‘I thought that was your moanin’ voice I could hear fae up the stair. Come here.’ He enveloped the big man in an embrace, slapping his back.

‘You rogue. No’ had time for a wash an’ a shave in the last couple o’ days, I see. Aye, an’ you’ve had John Barleycorn for company up there, by the smell o’ things.’ The large policeman recoiled slightly at the odour of stale drink. ‘Aye, but it’s good to see you. How are you, Brian?’

‘Me? I’m just grand, Willie. No’ quite as grand as you, mind you. Fuck me, you look like Lord Nelson.’ Brian Scott, unkempt and stinking of alcohol, smiled at his oldest friend.

‘Now, Hamish, you’re going to have to tell me exactly what happened, from the time you met this man, to the time you left the boat,’ Daley said firmly. He was sitting in a low chair in the cramped lounge of the fisherman’s cottage. The room was dark, a haze of pipe smoke obscuring the old man who sat in the wooden rocking chair. A yellowing canvas depicting a fishing boat struggling through heavy seas hung over an old-fashioned iron fireplace. Adding to the sense of antiquity, two large oil storm lanterns hung either side of the painting on large protruding hooks. Neither polished nor prettified, they looked as though they had been used recently; which, Daley reasoned, they probably had. A fluorescent buoy stood next to an ancient radio, a plaster bust of Winston Churchill sat on a table constructed from old orange boxes, and a wooden fishing rod with a large brass reel stood propped against what looked like a coffin lid. The pervading odour was a mix of musty damp, the salt tang of the sea and the creatures that dwelt within it, overlaid by the woody scent of tobacco. In the gloom it was difficult to determine what was underfoot, but it reminded Daley of the beaten earth floors he had read about in novels of old Scotland. Between two frayed curtains, the sea was visible through a dirty window. Hamish’s isolated cottage was about a mile and a half outside Kinloch, on the shore opposite the island that loomed over the loch, an almost perfect haven in all weathers.

On Hamish’s lap lay the most enormous feline Daley had ever set eyes upon. It was emitting a deep, resonant purr, casually observing the visitor through yellow eyes, half closed, yet alert.

‘What’s his name?’ asked Daley nodding towards the animal.

‘Aye, his name, aye,’ said Hamish hesitating. ‘Hamish,’ he replied eventually, with a small nod. ‘Aye, an’ before you say it, jeest don’t bother. I know fine that it’s a wee bit indulgent tae call your ain pet after yoursel’, but jeest think aboot this; how many folk dae you know who name their children after themselves? Aye, a fair whack o’ them. There’s a family here called Robertson, an’ bugger me, hardly wan o’ them’s no called Davie. As you would say in the legal parlance, “my case rests, your honour”.’ That said, Hamish took a long draw of his pipe and blew out more pungent blue smoke. Daley swore that the cat looked at him with a distinct look of disapproval.

‘He’s some size.’

‘Aye, well spotted, Mr Daley. He’s the son o’ a wildcat, that’s how. I had this lovely wee cat called Sheena. Aye, fair bonnie she was tae. Anyhow, she went oot this day, an’ came back in a right distressed condition, a’ bites, and big lumps o’ fur pulled oot. Poor wee thing. At first I thought a dog or a pine marten had got a hold o’ her, but then every night I wiz woken up by this cry, like a wean in distress, it was, screaming fit tae wake the deid.’

‘What was it?’ asked Daley, interested despite himself.

‘The wild fella. On the third night I sneaked oot wae ma lantern, an there he was, slap-bang in the back green, as bold as brass; big, like a wee tiger – a Scottish wildcat. Well, I can tell you, it’s nae wonder oor Sheena took fright, a big bruiser he was. One o’ the most aggressive mating rituals o’ the
animal kingdom; they pin their paramour doon an’ sink a tooth intae their neck tae pacify them until the deed is done. Anyhow, that’s what happened, an’ a few months later, Sheena produced this big bugger. Aye, an’ she never went back oot that door again, no’ once, despite me trying tae coax her.’

The cat turned its head towards Daley and stared at him with its piercing yellow eyes. ‘He’s a beauty, that’s for sure.’

‘Aye, I can see you’ve twigged the coffin lid, tae, Mr Daley.’ Hamish sucked on his pipe. ‘I’ve been meaning tae make mysel’ a new table for a while, an’ auld Kennedy the undertaker gied me that lid a few years ago. Thon table o’er there is only a temporary job. That said, I think I made it in nineteen fifty-nine, so it’s done the job, would you not say?’ The old man smiled, his sallow skin creasing around his slanted eyes. Daley, though, detected something different about the man’s pallor: a grey tinge unusual for an individual who spent so much time outdoors, especially now, in midsummer.

‘Are you feeling OK?’

‘Ach, jeest too much o’ the water o’ life, Mr Daley. Everything in moderation they say, aye, but when the giving hand keeps giving, well, it’s hard tae refuse.’ He shrugged, as if to say he had resigned himself to the inevitable.

‘Right, let’s go back to the start, Hamish.’ Daley was anxious to continue, despite his friend’s hangover. ‘You met him on the quay yesterday, is that correct?’

‘Aye, you have the gist o’ it there, right enough.’ Hamish took another long draw of his pipe, sending blue clouds of smoke into the stuffy room. ‘He asked if there was a ship chandler in the toon, so I directed him o’er tae Sean Hall’s place, jeest across the road fae the pontoons. When he came
back wae his stores, me an’ him got talkin’ – as you do, Mr Daley.’ The old man smiled again. ‘I was repairing my nets, an’ he seemed maist interested in the whole process. No’ somethin’ you see much o’ noo; the buggers jeest throw their broken nets o’er the side an’ go an’ buy new yins.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame their mothers.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘You know yoursel’, Mr Daley, once you get a dram or two doon your neck the banter always gets better.’ The old man closed his eyes for a second, as a broad smile spread across his face. Just as Daley thought he must have fallen asleep, he spoke again. ‘Aye, guid company he was. An’ forbye, he kept a guid bottle tae. Nane o’ your blended poison. An expensive malt, Mr Daley, you’d have enjoyed it yoursel’, I don’t doubt.’

‘That’s great, Hamish,’ Daley said, wanting to move the old man off the topic of malt whisky. His expression was enough to spur Hamish on to more pertinent recollections.

‘Quite stout, tae, Mr Daley,’ said Hamish. ‘Looked a lot aulder than he actually was – only fifty-something, if I recall. Mind you, he worked for the Scottish government, I daresay that’s enough tae age any man.’

‘Yes, we found that out earlier. Did he seem in any way depressed, or down, Hamish?’

‘No, not at a’. The very opposite, in fact. Good man wae a story.’ Hamish suddenly flung his head back and laughed. ‘Did you ever hear the one aboot the fisherwife and the kipper?’ he asked Daley, who frowned. ‘However, there was somethin’.’ Hamish leaned forward, as though about to share a great secret, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

‘Yes. What?’ Daley bent towards him conspiratorially, hopeful that the old man had remembered something of relevance.

Just at the point Daley thought he was about to speak, Hamish suddenly sat back and reached for the battered blue mug on the small table beside his rocking chair, then looked most disappointed to discover it contained no more of the tea that had been assuaging his whisky-induced drooth.

‘Here,’ Daley said, holding his hand out, ‘I’ll get you another mug of tea. You have a good think about what happened last night. This is really important, Hamish.’

He left the old man puzzling as he made his way to the room next door that served as the kitchen. Though the surroundings looked much as they must have done fifty years before, Daley was relieved to see that everything was clean and tidy. A row of newly washed, if somewhat chipped, dishes stood in a grey plastic rack, the only modern implement in the room. He found a squat electric kettle, tarnished silver, similar to the one his mother had used when he had been a boy, filled it with water from a brass tap, then set the kettle to boil by plugging it into a socket that had no on/off switch. Hamish the cat, who had followed him, sat next to the kettle with the same still self-possession of his owner. He only moved when the detective lifted his hand to give him a pat, displaying a most magnificent set of fangs, and emitting a menacing hiss.

As the water began to gurgle, Daley let his mind wander. There were many reasons a person might want to take their own life: debt, indiscretion, crime, a failed love affair – he knew all about that – or any number of other reasons. Why though, would anyone choose to end their life in such a prolonged and painful manner? He shuddered as he
imagined the agony that Walter Cudihey must have endured as his life ended in a blaze of excruciating fire.

As he walked back into the dim sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea – much to his chagrin, there was no coffee in the house – he was pleased to see Hamish sitting forward in his chair, a look of triumph on his face.

‘Aye, Mr Daley,’ he declared, taking the mug in his unsteady hand, ‘there is something, right enough.’

‘Good, carry on, Hamish.’

‘Well,’ the old man closed one eye, leaned towards Daley and spoke in low tones. ‘At one point he did get a wee bit melancholy – the drink can dae that tae any man. Anyhow, we had been laughin’ an’ jokin’ – rememberin’ the fishin’ an’ how things had gone doon hill, an’ how the world was goin’ tae hell in a handcart – bright stuff, you know,’ Hamish related, still with one eye closed.

Daley wondered how cheery a conversation about the demise of the fishing industry could be, but said nothing.

‘Jeest a’ o’ a sudden, he got an attack o’ the glums – we were at the end o’ the bottle, right enough, an’ I must admit my ain mood went intae a bit o’ a decline.’ Hamish reached for his pipe and took a long puff, adding more blue fug to the room. ‘Aye, he got fair doon, as I remember. Telt me how he was thinking this would be his last trip doon the water, how things had gone astray, he’d done the wrang thing.’ Hamish stopped, eyeing Daley mysteriously.

‘Yes, good, Hamish. What had he done wrong?’

After a short pause, Hamish flung himself back in the chair, sending it into a rapid rocking motion.

‘If you’re asking me for an opinion, I’ll tell you: the man was scared, aye, scared witless. Kept banging on about
mistakes and the evil he’d brought on the world.’ Hamish took another puff. ‘Och, I’ve heard a fair amount o’ shite over the years fae folk who canna handle their drink, get the glums and start talking oot their ain rear end, but something aboot Mr Cudihey was different. I remember saying there was only one way he could cleanse his soul – efter whoot he’d done, of course.’

‘Which was?’

Hamish suddenly sat up straight in his chair. ‘Well now, you see, that’s jeest the thing. For the life o’ me, I canna remember.’

4

The man struggled. His hands were tied behind his back with the same dirty rope that had been used to bind his feet. His legs and backside had gone numb with cold, semi-submerged as they were in the fetid bilge water that sloshed about the hold of the trawler. In the half darkness he could make out a heaving mass of grey-blue prawns, wriggling inside plastic boxes packed with ice, making a rustling noise he associated more with their land-bound insect cousins.

He let out a silent sob, and tried again to free himself from his bonds. A large drip of water landed on his head; this had happened so oft en, and the water was so cold, that each drop felt like a hammer blow. The motion of the boat made him heave again; vomit stung the back of his throat and nostrils and dribbled down his chin.

Suddenly, a metallic squeal rent the air and a shaft of bright golden light streamed into the hold as two figures descended the iron steps. The men, both shod in rubber sea boots, splashed thorough the water to where the trussed man lay.