Doug Johnstone - Smokeheads

‘We were never there,’ Adam deadpanned. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’

Eric took his eyes off the road and examined Adam. Adam saw a world-weary look in the old-timer’s eyes.

Eric put a big hand on Adam’s arm.

‘It’s OK, son,’ he said. ‘We’ve fixed it.’

Adam frowned. He drank from the Laphroaig bottle to give his hands something to do, but the bottle shook and he dribbled down his chin. He wiped himself, staring forwards, not wanting to look at Eric’s face.

‘What do you mean?’

Eric returned his hand to the wheel and his eyes to the road.

‘It’s amazing how much damage to forensic evidence you can do with a fire engine, three squad cars and umpteen willing pairs of feet,’ he said. ‘Especially when you’re mostly talking about tracks in the snow which were melting anyway. Plus water damage from the fire engine’s hose is all over the place. All that coming and going with vehicles and officers on foot, it just made a complete mess of the whole area, so much so that there’s probably no evidence left in the immediate vicinity that you were ever there. And nothing leading to the tracks further afield.’

‘We weren’t ever there,’ said Adam warily.

‘Of course not,’ said Eric.

They drove in silence for a bit, Adam sipping whisky, the wipers scraping at the windscreen, hot air swirling around them.

‘OK,’ said Adam eventually. ‘Suppose for a second that there was evidence we were there. I’m not admitting we were, of course. But just suppose.’

‘Just suppose,’ said Eric.

‘Why the hell would you destroy it?’

Eric sighed. ‘You know nothing about the Ileach, do you?’

‘This is some stupid island thing?’

‘Nothing stupid about it. I knew Molly’s mother and father well, they were friends of mine. It was really hard for her and Ashley when they passed away, and Molly has done her best ever since to look after her little sister.’ Eric glanced at Adam. ‘We look after our own here on Islay.’

‘Molly said something similar.’

‘When we heard that Molly was part of the crash, we knew she must’ve been at the still as well. We didn’t want her mixed up in any of that. Luckily we were in a position to do something about it.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘The Islay police.’

‘But Joe and Grant were Islay police.’

Eric puffed out his cheeks. ‘Joe and Grant didn’t exactly have many friends. They bullied their way through life, treated everyone with disrespect and often much worse. Like Molly, for example. Frankly, Islay is a better place now that they’re dead.’

Something occurred to Adam. ‘Did you know what they were up to on the Oa?’

Eric nodded. ‘We didn’t like it, but there didn’t seem much we could do about it.’

‘You could’ve tried to shut them down.’

Eric shrugged. ‘They were strong-minded boys, I don’t think they would’ve taken that too well. It’s over now anyway.’

‘Who were they working with? There were other police involved, collecting deliveries.’

Eric turned to him. ‘How would you know that if you were never at the still?’

Adam felt a rush of blood to his cheeks.

Eric smiled. ‘It’s OK, son.’ He slowed the car for a bend, then back up through the gears. ‘There were a few mainland officers involved, that’s correct.’

‘Is Ritchie one of them?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Eric. ‘We’re pretty sure it was a small operation, it didn’t go too far up. I get the impression that DI Ritchie is as shocked and dismayed by the whole thing as his superiors will be when they find out, something else which could work in your favour.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I suspect those higher up will be doing everything in their power to have this whole thing brushed under the carpet. It doesn’t exactly reflect well on the reputation of Strathclyde Police that two of their officers were running an illegal whisky operation, and died suspiciously in the process. I don’t think they need the added complication of members of the public being involved.’

Adam took a big swig of quarter cask and made a decision. ‘Grant was an accident. But with Joe…’

Eric frowned. ‘Don’t say anything else.’

‘But I want to tell you what happened.’

‘It doesn’t matter what happened and it’s better I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t it matter?’

‘Not to me. All that matters is that Molly is home safe and that you and your friend are off the island by the end of the day.’

‘Roddy’s leaving too? I thought he’d be in hospital for days.’

‘He discharged himself on the strong recommendation of a colleague of mine. They’re meeting us at Port Askaig.’

‘But Ritchie told us to stay.’

‘Let us worry about DI Ritchie,’ said Eric. ‘We’ll just say we got our wires crossed, breakdown in communication, something like that. He thinks we’re all incompetent hicks anyway, after the mess we made of the crime scene.’

Adam stared out the window. It was getting dark fast, the gloom encroaching all around, so that all he could see was his own dim reflection on the glass and the occasional lonely house lit up on the moors outside. Islay looked like anywhere else in the world, just another rural backwater trying to survive.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Eric.

He reached behind Adam’s seat, produced a carrier bag and plonked it on Adam’s lap. Adam opened it tentatively and saw his clothes inside, the ones he’d left at the farmhouse. They were neatly folded. He touched the jacket on the top. It was dry and still faintly warm. He felt a rush of raw emotion and his eyes began to sting. He fought back tears, then turned to Eric.

‘You seem to have everything covered.’

‘Not quite.’ Eric slowed the car as they descended towards Port Askaig. ‘Ritchie will be in touch with you back in Edinburgh. We can’t do anything about that. No matter what he says, just stick to your story.’

‘Of course.’

‘One other thing,’ said Eric as they snaked down the road cut in the cliff face, the lights of the Port Askaig Hotel shimmering below. ‘If the coastguard find your friend’s body and it’s not too sea-damaged, will it tie you to Joe and Grant?’

Adam felt a shiver as he glugged more malt. He looked at the bottle. It was half empty already. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good,’ said Eric as they pulled up behind a parked police car. ‘Now let’s get you the hell off Islay.’

The rain had stopped and it was dark now. Adam got out and felt a wet wind on his face, blowing in from the Sound of Islay, carrying a decaying fishy smell mixed with diesel and seaweed. It reminded him of a ropy eight-year-old Caol Ila he’d had once in a pub in Leith. Caol Ila was about two miles up the coast. It had been on his itinerary for a visit this weekend, something that made him grimace and laugh sadly to himself. If only they’d stuck to visiting distilleries instead of his idiotic plan to open one, maybe there would be four of them about to get on the ferry out of here instead of just two.

The back door of the other police car opened and Adam could hear Roddy swearing at the driver, who didn’t speak or move. Roddy struggled to get out of the car, moaning in pain and muttering under his breath.

‘Don’t just fucking stand there,’ he said when he spotted Adam. ‘Help me the fuck out of this car, will you?’

Adam offered an arm of support as Roddy eased onto his feet. In the jaundiced glow of the streetlights he looked like an evil ghost, ashen-faced, large bags under his eyes, sweat prickling his brow even in the cold wind. Adam wondered how he looked to Roddy.