left the station, passed the local court and some lawyers’ offices, and then headed down Main Street, Kinloch.
‘Well, at least the office is close to the court. No excuse if you’re late, mind you.’ Daley spoke easily with Fraser, sensing that he had already gained the younger man’s trust. He felt sympathy for the DC; having to deal with the peccadilloes of MacLeod could not be easy.
‘Aye, sir, the town centre is pretty compact. It’s mostly over this side of the loch, and mainly residential over the other side. A few shops, a hotel, nothing much.’
‘Hello, Inspector!’ Two elderly women were shuffling towards them, arm in arm. ‘We’re all glad you’ve come down to sort this out. What a dreadful, dreadful crime.’ The plumper woman, who was short with round glasses, was doing the talking; her thin, white-haired companion was nodding furiously, drawing in sharp breaths by way of agreement with her friend.
‘Thank you, ladies.’ Good PR was essential in isolated areas, but it was clear that he would have no need to announce his arrival to anybody. ‘I hope that if you hear anything you’ll tell my officers – no matter how trivial.’ He smiled indulgently at the pair.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, Inspector, we’re well acquainted with your handsome constable. You could say he’s a drinking companion of ours. Is that not right, Archie?’ The plump old woman smiled broadly at the DC, displaying an assortment of brown teeth in various stages of decay, whilst her companion continued to nod sagely, drawing her breath in as occasion demanded.
Daley wondered just how many shades of red his colleague’s face was capable of displaying, as they made their excuses and continued down the street. ‘Nothing to be embarrassed about, son. When I was your age I liked them a wee bit older too.’
Fraser turned suddenly, about to reassure his new boss that he only saw the old women in the pub now and then, when, by the look on Daley’s face, he realised he was being wound up. ‘Oh, very good, sir. Aye, very good.’
The day was warmer still, as it was now mid-afternoon. They made their way through what was now the town’s centre, passing the County Hotel where Daley was to be accommodated. Like many others in Kinloch, the building was red sandstone, however a faux Juliet balcony and equally contrived crenellations had been included in the architecture, in an attempt to give the hotel a Scottish Baronial feel. If failing in that regard, it did ensure that the façade was difficult to miss.
As they progressed, they were greeted with nods and hellos. A group of smokers outside one of the many bars regaled them with shouts of ‘Here’s the cavalry’ and ‘Fuck me, a proper polis in the toon at last’. Unperturbed, the pair crossed a well-tended roundabout and made their way to one of Kinloch’s two piers.
The air was a heady mix of ozone, fish and the diesel fumes emitted by a small number of wooden fishing boats. The raucous shouts of crewmen, radios playing music – all drum ’n’ bass – and swooping, squawking seagulls wheeling, diving, made for a din. Daley surmised that their arrival had coincided with the fishing boats landing their catch of the day. He was instantly transported back to his childhood, standing on this very pier with his grandparents: his granny, short, bustling and stout, and his grandfather a thin, almost skeletal figure, tall for his time and dressed in keeping with the period, in an old grey suit, the trousers of which were held up by thick maroon braces. Papa George laughed wheezily as he drew on a Capstan Full Strength. To the young Daley he had seemed like an old man; in fact he was destined not to see his fifty-seventh birthday, his lungs wrecked by years of heavy smoking and a lifetime spent down the coalpits of North Lanarkshire.
Daley walked slowly over to the side of the pier and planted his foot on an iron stanchion built into the side of the construction that
‘Well, at least the office is close to the court. No excuse if you’re late, mind you.’ Daley spoke easily with Fraser, sensing that he had already gained the younger man’s trust. He felt sympathy for the DC; having to deal with the peccadilloes of MacLeod could not be easy.
‘Aye, sir, the town centre is pretty compact. It’s mostly over this side of the loch, and mainly residential over the other side. A few shops, a hotel, nothing much.’
‘Hello, Inspector!’ Two elderly women were shuffling towards them, arm in arm. ‘We’re all glad you’ve come down to sort this out. What a dreadful, dreadful crime.’ The plumper woman, who was short with round glasses, was doing the talking; her thin, white-haired companion was nodding furiously, drawing in sharp breaths by way of agreement with her friend.
‘Thank you, ladies.’ Good PR was essential in isolated areas, but it was clear that he would have no need to announce his arrival to anybody. ‘I hope that if you hear anything you’ll tell my officers – no matter how trivial.’ He smiled indulgently at the pair.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, Inspector, we’re well acquainted with your handsome constable. You could say he’s a drinking companion of ours. Is that not right, Archie?’ The plump old woman smiled broadly at the DC, displaying an assortment of brown teeth in various stages of decay, whilst her companion continued to nod sagely, drawing her breath in as occasion demanded.
Daley wondered just how many shades of red his colleague’s face was capable of displaying, as they made their excuses and continued down the street. ‘Nothing to be embarrassed about, son. When I was your age I liked them a wee bit older too.’
Fraser turned suddenly, about to reassure his new boss that he only saw the old women in the pub now and then, when, by the look on Daley’s face, he realised he was being wound up. ‘Oh, very good, sir. Aye, very good.’
The day was warmer still, as it was now mid-afternoon. They made their way through what was now the town’s centre, passing the County Hotel where Daley was to be accommodated. Like many others in Kinloch, the building was red sandstone, however a faux Juliet balcony and equally contrived crenellations had been included in the architecture, in an attempt to give the hotel a Scottish Baronial feel. If failing in that regard, it did ensure that the façade was difficult to miss.
As they progressed, they were greeted with nods and hellos. A group of smokers outside one of the many bars regaled them with shouts of ‘Here’s the cavalry’ and ‘Fuck me, a proper polis in the toon at last’. Unperturbed, the pair crossed a well-tended roundabout and made their way to one of Kinloch’s two piers.
The air was a heady mix of ozone, fish and the diesel fumes emitted by a small number of wooden fishing boats. The raucous shouts of crewmen, radios playing music – all drum ’n’ bass – and swooping, squawking seagulls wheeling, diving, made for a din. Daley surmised that their arrival had coincided with the fishing boats landing their catch of the day. He was instantly transported back to his childhood, standing on this very pier with his grandparents: his granny, short, bustling and stout, and his grandfather a thin, almost skeletal figure, tall for his time and dressed in keeping with the period, in an old grey suit, the trousers of which were held up by thick maroon braces. Papa George laughed wheezily as he drew on a Capstan Full Strength. To the young Daley he had seemed like an old man; in fact he was destined not to see his fifty-seventh birthday, his lungs wrecked by years of heavy smoking and a lifetime spent down the coalpits of North Lanarkshire.
Daley walked slowly over to the side of the pier and planted his foot on an iron stanchion built into the side of the construction that
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