Кит Мори - Deadly Still

Penny grimaced. ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about. Sort of like Russian roulette.’

Keith nodded. ‘That’s what we think, that those poor kids had badly stilled peatreek. Is that the case?’

Penny chewed the end of her pen and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t answer that. It is under investigation.’

‘We’re all devastated, you know. Brock Spiers is a friend of mine. He worked at Glen Corlin distillery until he had an accident. He’s in a wheelchair and now Vicky is missing. It isn’t fair.’

‘No, it isn’t. But we’re doing what we can.’

‘Aye, two of our lads are helping on the search, as is Hamish.’

Penny tapped her notebook. ‘Then what do you do with the foreshot? Do you throw it away?’

Keith shook his head. ‘No, we re-use it. It goes back into the low wine receiver and gets distilled again.’

Penny frowned. ‘But isn’t that dangerous?’

The head distiller shook his head. ‘The aromatic substances and all the volatile substances go through catalysed reactions with the copper and they are made safe. They ultimately help with the taste. They help to make it unique. It’s part of the magic of whisky making.’

The station had been quiet for about an hour, which had given Ewan the opportunity to catch up on his paperwork, tidy the rest room and fix the table tennis net. In essence he was finding work to do to stop himself from thinking about DI Penny Faversham.

She’s a bonny lassie, right enough, but why would she look at you, you silly fool , he chided himself. Just be polite, think before you speak and don’t say anything stupid.

But it wasn’t easy. Although he’d only known her a couple of days, difficult days with all that was happening, he looked forward to the odd moments when he could sit and drink tea with her or explain the systems in the station or the way things were organised in Scotland.

He was daydreaming again when the bell in the outside office rang and he heard the door open and close. He went through, a pencil in his mouth and a ream of paper for the printers in his hand.

‘Ah, Ewan, I was hoping to see Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Stan Wilkinson, with a nervous smile on his lips. He was wearing a waterproof poncho that dripped water onto the floor.

‘Still in your shorts, I see, Stan. I’m afraid she’s not in. She’s still managing the search.’

The postman’s face registered disappointment. ‘Are you on your own then?’

‘Aye, manning the fort as usual. I’m getting a bit stir crazy if the truth be told. All the others are out on cases.’

‘Cases? Is there a lot going on? Apart from the search, I mean.’

‘Police matters, Stan. I can’t say more than that.’

‘Oh, of course. Stupid of me. I was just hoping that the sergeant had finished with my phone.’

Ewan picked up the phone. ‘I’ll give her a bell and ask her now.’

Stan turned and read the notices on the pinboard while Ewan talked to Morag. He turned when he heard the constable put the phone back on the receiver.

‘Sorry, Stan. She says that while we are still investigating we need to keep it. But as soon as we can we’ll release it.’

Stan scratched his beard and nodded understandingly. ‘No problem. Let’s just hope the girl turns up soon.’

Charlie McDonald had been receiving reports about Catriona’s progress twice a day from his ex-wife Bridget. On each telephone conversation she castigated him for not being there, for never having been there for her.

He took her latest call.

‘I’ve always been a good dad to Catriona,’ he said. ‘That’s why I work so hard, to give her the life she deserves.’

‘Whatever, Charlie! At least she’s off that machine now and her vision seems to be slowly improving. She can’t make out features, but she can see outlines now.’

‘I’m going to find out where she got that gut-rot whisky,’ he said angrily. ‘And when I do —’

‘There you go again! The big man and the things you’re going to do.’

‘Bridget, listen —’

‘No, I’m tired of listening to your pompous threats. I’ll call tomorrow.’

‘Bridget!’

His mobile went dead as she rang off, leaving him staring at the small blank screen.

‘Well, at least Catriona is getting better,’ Helen Corlin-Macleod whispered behind him as she ran her hands over his bare chest and brushed the back of his neck with her lips. ‘Now where were we?’

Charlie laughed as he turned and leaned over her to kiss her. ‘We’re in your Land Rover Discovery, our love wagon as you like to think of it, when we were just rudely disturbed by my shrew of an ex-wife.’

‘We’d better be quick then, we both have things to do,’ she said as she circled his neck with her arms. ‘And we still have to decide what we’re going to do about our dirty little secret.’

The killer had been rattled when news of the girl’s trainer came out. A second bloody mistake that had escaped attention, which could prove extremely costly. If only there wasn’t so much to do, so many things to attend to.

Bloody Calum Steel and his rag. And that bitch that had given him all these ideas about social media and the whole bloody digital world.

He could be stopped, though. Him, his pathetic newspaper and his girlfriend.

No, wait. Perhaps it would be too soon, but if he crossed the line again and caused further inconvenience, then it would have to be bye-bye time. For him and his woman.

And that in itself would necessitate another killing.

The thought was cheering. Slightly intoxicating, if the truth be told.

But first, the girl. Another mistake would be fatal. The plods might just happen on a link and they had to be put off. The weather had been fortuitous in that it had concealed things so far, but winds would come, to clear the mist and fog. Everything needed to be done before that.

No, best to carry on with the plan. It’s my move this time. And it will have to be a good one. It’s obvious what needs to be done now.

The mist was still thick as Torquil rode out to the Glen Corlin Distillery on the Bullet via the Strathshiffin Road layby, where the Kyleshiffin mobile library van was parked. He could barely see any of the search party as visibility was poor, but Morag told him that she was getting reports from each group by phone every half hour.

‘I’m really worried, boss. I’m losing searchers hand over fist as they all have work to do and everyone is getting tired. I’ve been keeping Lumsden informed, of course, but he’s threatening to come over and take charge personally. He says I’m making a pig’s ear of this and that it’s all your fault.’

Torquil rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not making a mess of it at all, Morag. The weather is against us. I guess he’s saying you’ve had a poor example over the years with me.’

‘That’s about it, boss.’

‘Well, you’d better not call me if he does come over. I can’t say it would be a joy to see the old fool.’

Morag made no comment. ‘Anyway, how are the Spiers taking it? Was it definitely Vicky’s trainer?’

Torquil shook his head. ‘Not well, as you’d imagine. And it is her trainer, right enough.’ He told her the details of his meeting with the couple.

‘I wish we could find her,’ said Morag. ‘I’m so worried that we’re just going to find a body. I hate to think of her dying of methanol poisoning somewhere out here, all alone.’

‘We must keep on, Morag. She has to be somewhere, alive or dead.’

Morag heaved a sigh. ‘Is there any more headway with the peatreek?’

‘Wallace phoned me a wee while back. They have tracked down the local stills and confiscated whisky. Naturally enough, we’ve got several worried men although none of them admits to having supplied Robbie. So the supplier may still be out there. Penny is over at Hamish McNab’s Abhainn Dhonn distillery and I’m on my way to Glen Corlin. We need to make sure that none of their foreshots could have found their way into these two bottles of peatreek. I’d better be on the way. Lots to do and time is marching on.’