Read Online Whisky From Small Glasses by Denzil Meyrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Denzil Meyrick
Ads: Link
allowed boats to affix extra moorings in case of bad weather. Dark, oily water lapped at the jetty. The afternoon was warm, scent laden – almost idyllic. He looked out over the water to the head of the loch, which was about a mile away. His thoughts returned to the investigation and he shivered involuntarily as he turned to Fraser. ‘The people here might be a bit dodgy, but the scenery is beautiful.’
They made their way along the pier towards a green building in which the harbour master had his office. A sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar sat outside the office complex, which was shared with the RNLI and Marine Scotland, as well as otherprivate companies. Fraser led the way through a white door and into a corridor. At the very end, a varnished wooden sign was attached somewhat incongruously to a plain white door, announcing in gold letters: CAPT . A . FLYNN . HARBOUR MASTER . Fraser knocked, and a disembodied voice bade them enter.
Flynn was a small, neat man, dressed in what could be taken for the uniform of a Royal Naval Officer. His shirt was perfectly ironed, as were his trousers, and his shoes gleamed. His cap was a pristine white over a shiny black peak, which reflected a badge embroidered with a golden anchor. He was fair-haired, with a neatly clipped beard. Putting the man in his fifties, Daley wondered idly whether or not both hair and beard were dyed.
The office, which smelled strongly of pipe tobacco, looked as if it had been furnished sometime before the war. A large wooden bureau sat solidly at the end of the room, adorned by a muddle of papers, pens, books and a laptop computer, looking out of time. At right angles to the bureau, facing the window, sat an even older desk which bore further detritus. Next to it, sitting in a basket chair at the desk, an old man with a parchment-coloured face directed his startlingly blue-eyed gaze at the newcomers. His steady, unblinking appraisal gave the impression of great wisdom; he didn’t attempt a welcome and remained motionless in his seat.
‘Hello, Inspector.’ The harbour master held out a meaty, calloused hand. ‘Alan Flynn, pleased to meet you.’ He gestured the policemen towards two rickety-looking chairs. ‘Sorry about the mess. I do try to tidy up from time to time, but bugger me, when I dae, I can never find a bloody thing. So much paperwork in this job, you wouldna believe.’
‘I’m sad to say I would believe.’ Daley shook Flynn’s hand. ‘I think the police force could break all records as to the use of unnecessary paper.’ He sat down heavily, suddenly feeling tired.
‘Just so, Inspector, preaching to the converted. Now, how can I be of assistance to you?’
Daley pondered the contrast between the neat man and the chaos he appeared to work in. ‘I have an idea how long our victim spent in the water and I know you’ve already talked with DC Fraser here’ – Flynn was nodding, but looking as though he had something important to say – ‘however I’d be most grateful if you could go over things with me.’ He lifted his hand palm up, indicating to Flynn that he acknowledged that he was desperate to talk.
‘You see, that’s just it, Inspector.’ Flynn was now standing over the laptop at the untidy desk. ‘In my opinion . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Flynn’ – Daley realised just how tired he was – ‘as you know, we’re conducting what is a murder inquiry. I would be obliged if you addressed your thoughts to us in private.’ The old man didn’t take the hint.
‘Of course, Inspector, how stupid of me. Hamish, I told you the inspector would want to talk to me by myself. Why don’t you get up to the fish shed and make sure that none of these rogues are up tae no good? Watch out for that Lady Kate mob, they’re aye at it.’
The old man sat still, and just as Flynn was about to speak again, cleared his throat noisily. Looking directly at Daley, he began talking in a low, rasping voice that was barely more than a slow
They made their way along the pier towards a green building in which the harbour master had his office. A sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar sat outside the office complex, which was shared with the RNLI and Marine Scotland, as well as otherprivate companies. Fraser led the way through a white door and into a corridor. At the very end, a varnished wooden sign was attached somewhat incongruously to a plain white door, announcing in gold letters: CAPT . A . FLYNN . HARBOUR MASTER . Fraser knocked, and a disembodied voice bade them enter.
Flynn was a small, neat man, dressed in what could be taken for the uniform of a Royal Naval Officer. His shirt was perfectly ironed, as were his trousers, and his shoes gleamed. His cap was a pristine white over a shiny black peak, which reflected a badge embroidered with a golden anchor. He was fair-haired, with a neatly clipped beard. Putting the man in his fifties, Daley wondered idly whether or not both hair and beard were dyed.
The office, which smelled strongly of pipe tobacco, looked as if it had been furnished sometime before the war. A large wooden bureau sat solidly at the end of the room, adorned by a muddle of papers, pens, books and a laptop computer, looking out of time. At right angles to the bureau, facing the window, sat an even older desk which bore further detritus. Next to it, sitting in a basket chair at the desk, an old man with a parchment-coloured face directed his startlingly blue-eyed gaze at the newcomers. His steady, unblinking appraisal gave the impression of great wisdom; he didn’t attempt a welcome and remained motionless in his seat.
‘Hello, Inspector.’ The harbour master held out a meaty, calloused hand. ‘Alan Flynn, pleased to meet you.’ He gestured the policemen towards two rickety-looking chairs. ‘Sorry about the mess. I do try to tidy up from time to time, but bugger me, when I dae, I can never find a bloody thing. So much paperwork in this job, you wouldna believe.’
‘I’m sad to say I would believe.’ Daley shook Flynn’s hand. ‘I think the police force could break all records as to the use of unnecessary paper.’ He sat down heavily, suddenly feeling tired.
‘Just so, Inspector, preaching to the converted. Now, how can I be of assistance to you?’
Daley pondered the contrast between the neat man and the chaos he appeared to work in. ‘I have an idea how long our victim spent in the water and I know you’ve already talked with DC Fraser here’ – Flynn was nodding, but looking as though he had something important to say – ‘however I’d be most grateful if you could go over things with me.’ He lifted his hand palm up, indicating to Flynn that he acknowledged that he was desperate to talk.
‘You see, that’s just it, Inspector.’ Flynn was now standing over the laptop at the untidy desk. ‘In my opinion . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Flynn’ – Daley realised just how tired he was – ‘as you know, we’re conducting what is a murder inquiry. I would be obliged if you addressed your thoughts to us in private.’ The old man didn’t take the hint.
‘Of course, Inspector, how stupid of me. Hamish, I told you the inspector would want to talk to me by myself. Why don’t you get up to the fish shed and make sure that none of these rogues are up tae no good? Watch out for that Lady Kate mob, they’re aye at it.’
The old man sat still, and just as Flynn was about to speak again, cleared his throat noisily. Looking directly at Daley, he began talking in a low, rasping voice that was barely more than a slow
Similar Books
