The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) (7 page)

“Okay, enough is enough. Sign it, right there, Mr. Reid.” Still holding the gun on Gordon, the man pointed his finger at the place for his signature.

“I said no a few weeks ago and I say no again today. I will not change my mind.” Gordon recalled the mint breath that he had detected that night. Stay in control, he told himself. “Besides if I did sign now – which I won’t – hypothetically speaking, it wouldn’t hold up in court, because I’d have signed this legal document under duress,” Gordon said nervously.

“Think about it over a drink,” Mitch said, moving to the glass cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whisky. He pulled off the tab with his fingers then gently opened the bottle.

Mitch watched Gordon Reid tremble as he looked off into space. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, though he was likely totally oblivious to what would occur in the next few minutes.

“Just a drop of water with this fine single malt to open it up,” said Mitch, discreetly taking a vial out of his jacket pocket and slipping a drop into one glass along with water from a carafe at hand.

“I will join you for a toast,” he said, carefully handing a tumbler to Gordon. “Your last chance, Mr. Reid. Sign and all this goes away. Everybody is happy if you do.”

Gordon lifted the glass, nosed the whisky. The peat aroma was overwhelming. “I don’t want this…”

Mitch flashed a smile, and with one fluid movement, leapt over the desk. He pressed the gun against Gordon’s temple. “Stop playing for time,” he demanded.

Gordon would not sign the papers on his desk – not for anything. His son could not have control of the distillery. Okay, he was old fashioned and in his early days had dreamed of having a son and heir. But watching his two children mature, he knew his daughter was the brains, the talent behind their success. She could move forward and take their family distillery to new heights. His son was fine with a bunch of tech sheets, and very creative…had the makings of a good salesman, travelling around the world visiting and promoting to all their distributors, restaurant owners, and elite customers. But having control of its destiny, making sure the distillery stayed in the family? Not on your life.

And that is exactly what this had boiled down to. His life.

He felt the barrel of the gun pressed against his head. He had never seen a gun this close in real life. It looked like one of those Russian type guns that Jason Statham used in his movies. Big and shiny…and unfortunately for Gordon, lethal.

“There must be another way, something else that will make your bosses happy?”

“No, there is not. We have talked to you for months, tried to be nice but you have left us no choice. Now humor me, and let’s have a chat while enjoying your excellent whisky.”

Gordon drank from the glass, cringing as each drop of his least favorite whisky poured over his palate, slowly slipping down his throat. “You do realize that when they find me shot to death, there will be an enquiry. It could last months or longer. It will delay your scheme; it may never happen.”

Mitch pulled the gun away and sat back down on the other side of the desk.

“I have a plan B. The takeover of your distillery is inevitable, regardless of whether you are here or not. Your daughter will see reason; I have a certain charm with young women.”

“You hurt my daughter and––”

“And what?” He laughed.

“I have friends. You won’t get away with this.”

“Friends. I am a professional and have no doubt your friends would not stand a chance if they attempted to interfere with my work.”

Little does he know, thought Gordon. If only I had called Raymond before this situation got out of hand. “You won’t get away with this,” he continued. “Without my signature the distillery will go to James and Louisa 50-50.”

“Well that gives us 50% from James and we will convince Louisa to make the right decision.” Gordon imagined his daughter facing down these thugs. She would never sign. The distillery was her life. But would they hurt her if she didn’t go along?

In the next instant, his chest suddenly felt like a large weight had been placed on top of him, one that slowly grew heavier. He imagined in each minute, that a rib would crack, felt panic…

His fear of claustrophobia squeezed him so tightly he could not move, could not breathe. He closed his eyes on a vision of himself wedged down a tiny pot hole – he could not move, the space so tight he could not breathe – where there was not enough room to take in one tiny breath of air.

Then there was nothing…

Haworth Yorkshire, England

Raymond ordered another pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord Bitter. The lovely young girl behind the bar nodded to him, picked up a clean glass, and began to pull hard on the draft handle. The familiar sound of a fresh pint of real ale being pulled was a comforting sound.

“There you go, luv.”

He studied it, admired its flawlessness. He fully appreciated the perfect creamy head on the beer, at least an inch in depth and above the line on the glass – indicating a full imperial pint measure.

He took a long gulp, placed the pint glass back on the bar, and studied the foam sticking to the glass from top to bottom. His dad always said if it didn’t do that, it wasn’t fresh and to send it back for a new one. His dad was tough.

“Are you going to have sex with that pint of ale, or sup it?” came a voice from over his shoulder.

Raymond almost spilled his beer when, in the mirror behind the bar, he saw a familiar face – a chum, a childhood friend.

“Philip Hutchinson!” Raymond turned around on his bar stool, looked Philip in the eye, and then stood and gave him a big hug. The patrons of the pub seemed to freeze, with all eyes on the pair of them. Men didn’t hug in Yorkshire, where just a firm handshake would suffice. Raymond stepped away to look at his restaurateur friend.

“Still hovering up all the leftovers in your establishment then?” asked Raymond, grinning at his old friend.

“Quality control, mate. I have to taste every dish we create.” Phil tapped both hands on his rather large belly that protruded over his jeans belt.

Raymond and Phil were like chalk and cheese when it came to appearance. Raymond was tall, at six foot four, with a full head of hair. Even though it was laced with gray, he was still in remarkable shape and dressed in smart casual clothing that had a stamp of quality.

Phil was pale and short – maybe five foot eight. He was chubby, with a freckly schoolboy face. His jeans always hung loosely and never looked like they fit him. His shirts were the type you’d find in a local supermarket.

“After what…twenty years or more, I still remember it’s your round,” said Philip with a big grin.

“Still have a memory like an elephant.” Raymond turned to the bartender and ordered two pints of Landlord.

“So you just can’t stay away? I heard the ale down south does not compare?” Raymond’s friend asked.

“Actually it’s not bad in Stamford, but I have a soft spot for Landlord’s Bitter.”

“Stamford? A nice town but not really south. I thought you lived in London?”

“I retired from my job and wanted to start up a company in a place I could relax, you know, have time to think – I chose Stamford.”

“A place to think?” Philip asked.

“I started writing classes and soon developed a knack for turning non-fiction into creative non-fiction. My company does family tree research and I write the full story into a novel of sorts.”

“How many words or pages do you do for them then?” Philip sounded interested.

“Thirty thousand words, more or less.”

“Nice one.”

“How about you?”

“Still a bloody good chef. I started my own restaurant just a few miles away. My restaurant/brewpub is just down the road called The Cut. We serve the best steaks in Yorkshire.” Phil smiled broadly and continued, “So, are you up to see your parents? How are they doing?”

“Well they will be better now, thank goodness. I managed to place them in an excellent nursing home in Keighley. Mother is in the early stages of dementia but it’s coming on fast, while Dad can hardly walk.” My Mother’s stroke this week was the final straw. They can’t come back to their house.” Raymond fidgeted with his glass, slowly turning it on the bar.

“Sorry to hear that, mate.”

“No, actually I am so relieved that I found the right place. They need 24/7 special care that neither I, nor anyone else in the family, can give them. My only task left is to sell the cottage.”

“No, really? I have all those childhood memories of the place... It won’t be the same next time I walk past the cottage – knowing it’s not in the Armstrong family.” Phil took a large sip of ale, a deep frown appearing on his forehead.

“I know Phil; it will never be the same. It has to done, and I am happy in Stamford. When I feel the urge, I can be in Haworth in two hours, holding my favorite pint in hand.

“You never did tell me about your career. I recollect you always seemed to change the subject.”

“Even though I have retired, if I tell you, I will have to kill you. Official Secrets Act is still in effect, I’m afraid.” Raymond gave Phil a wink.

He had never liked to lie to his family and friends about his job, but he had to with MI6. Funny, because though he had officially retired, he was at it again in a different way...

“Hey what do you do in your spare time?” Philip asked taking a sip from his glass.

“I play quite a bit of golf these days. I play quite often – though very badly – and appreciate single malt scotch. I am the president of a whisky society. Now that my small research company is taking off, I don’t have time for much else.”

“Right, then, a scotch sounds good. What do you recommend?”

“Well, we can’t expect the White Lion to have an extensive range of malts, but I do see Oban 14.”

“Two large Obans, luv, please,” Philip piped up to the girl.

When they arrived at the table, Philip handed a glass to Raymond and looked ready to toast.

Raymond hesitated then said, “Would you pass me the water jug?”

“Water? Are you kidding? You big wuss.”

“Hey, what did I just say about my hobby? Let me show you something. Nose your whisky without water first…then add a tiny drop, not even a splash and nose it again. Follow me.” Raymond nosed the Oban without water and nodded to Phil to follow suit. “Okay what do you smell?”

“Seaweed, salt spray, and smoke. A fire by the ocean.”

“Good. And now a drop of water like this. Never too much.”

Phil nosed again. “Wow! A fruit, maybe an orange. I can smell so much more. Without water I never got anything but that ocean and smoke aromas.”

“You will notice a difference on the taste too; trust me.”

“So the larger quantity of water thing is just a myth?” Philip looked perplexed.

“Yes, a single malt needs a touch to allow it to open, just like a fine wine when you decant it.”

His phone began to vibrate in his pocket, which was timely, since he was dying for a cig. He only smoked occasionally now, however, strong urges always surfaced when he had a drink in his hand. He excused himself and looked at the phone display, moving quickly now to the pub’s front door.

He was very surprised to see the name Louisa Reid pop up on his phone.

“Louisa, how the heck are you?”

She answered in a shaky voice, and too fast. Each word sounded wrapped up in an awful cry. Her words were punctuated by sharp breaths through her teeth as if air was in short supply.

“Calm down girl. I can’t understand any of it. One sentence at a time.”

“My d-d-dad i-is dead, Uncle Raymond.”

Raymond received this news like a bolt of lightning going through his entire body and nearly dropped the phone. He stood frozen, like on a January night when a sharp wind blows off the moors, weaving icy fingers through the village.

“How?” he finally said, shaking, tying to process that his best friend had died.

“Massive heart attack in his office.”

“I thought he was in great shape?”

“He was.”

“Any stress? I mean the distillery is doing great and he seemed to be getting over the loss of your mum. The cancer was a dreadful experience for all of you.” He sighed.

“I can’t think of anything in particular,” she said, continuing to sob.

“What about James?”

“They were having more arguments than normal, but I just put that down to father-and-son stuff, you know, not seeing eye to eye.”

“Is he still…drinking?” He paused.

“It’s okay, Uncle Raymond. Actually he’s a bigger tosser than ever, just lately.”

Raymond was going to ask more questions, until Louisa went into a total bawl, weeping uncontrollably.” Right, I need to get back up there fast. When is the funeral?”

“The funeral will be in three days, on Thursday, and I would really like you here for it, Uncle Raymond.”

“No problem, and I’ll plan to stay on the Island for a bit afterwards.”

“Thanks so much. Have to go,” she whispered through the phone and then she was gone on another sob.

Raymond walked back into the pub, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Looks like you have seen a ghost,” said Phil, concerned.

“Just bad news. Raymond gulped down the Oban, rather than savour it like he normally would and paid for another round. “Here is my business card,” he said, while fumbling in his wallet. Raymond didn’t usually lose control, but his best friend had just died and he was not processing this news well, at all. Drop me an email and pop down anytime.”

“I hope the bad news is not about family?”

“No, but it’s just as bad. It’s Gordon Reid up in Scotland. Just died of a heart attack.”

“Bloody hell! I have been reading about his distillery on the Isle of Bute. It’s been all over the news. Didn’t someone coin the phrase ‘It’s a beaut’ – and now all the whisky world is saying it.”

“Yes, the phrase started with a lady in Canada and spread to Australia where it’s known as ‘the little beauty.’ I have to leave… You understand? Good seeing you after all this time… And keep in touch.”