The Last Witness by Denzil Meyrick Read Free Book Online

months he had been in charge of the sub-division, he had discovered that Inspector MacLeod’s legacy was most apparent in a lack of efficiency and obedience of Force Standing Orders. MacLeod, it seemed, had been happy to let everyone take care of their own work, as long as nothing went wrong and he was not shown up in a bad light. As a result, little proper police work had been done, save clearing the town centre of drunks on weekend nights and a perfunctory implementation of road traffic legislation – a mainly pro-forma pursuit requiring little in the way of detection skills. Daley was trying to give some of the younger members of his CID team more experience; the raid on the barn was being overseen by a young cop he had recently promoted to acting DS.
    As the pair turned into the doorway of the County under the faux crenulations, Daley remembered his first visit to the establishment and its inquisitive clientele. It was perhaps for this reason that his visits to the hotel had been few and far between in the intervening months. He and Liz had dined there on a couple of occasions at the insistence of the latter, who had struck up a friendship with Annie, the hotel’s formidable yet welcoming chatelaine. Every time he entered the premises, he reminded himself that he wasn’t an anonymous punter in some city watering hole; rather, he was ondisplay and a possible source of information for the gossip-hungry locals.
    Despite having to remain on his toes, Daley couldn’t help a sneaking fondness for, in most cases, the guileless population of Kinloch.
    The small wood-panelled bar was festive in its own way: various shades of threadbare tinsel meandered along the walls, and a cracked plastic sign proclaimed Happy Christmas in faded red letters. A couple of logs had almost burned themselves out in the fireplace and would soon need replaced lest the fire need mending. On the bar stood a moth-eaten imitation Christmas tree, adorned with a mismatched set of baubles and fairy lights, many of which didn’t work and had most certainly seen better days.
    ‘Aye, I can see ye lookin’, Mr Daley,’ Annie called out as she poured a pint for the only other customer in the bar. ‘They expect me tae buy the decorations oot o’ my ain pocket – an’ I tell you, there’ll be green snaw an’ yellow hailstanes afore that happens!’ Annie’s festive spirit had clearly yet to materialise. ‘Forbye,’ she added, holding her hand out for payment for the pint she had just placed on the bar, ‘this crew widna care if it wiz Oxford Street in here, as lang as they can get steamin’. Yer in fir a right treat, wi’ this bein’ yer first Christmas in the toon, an’ nae mistake.’ She eyed the change the customer had put in her hand warily. ‘An’ as fir you, Jocky Sinclair, you can jeest get yer hands back intae they pockets an’ dredge oot anither twenty pence. Ye know fine the prices went up last week. It’s no’ as though it’s the first time ye’ve been in since.’
    The man dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of copper coins that he ruefully counted out andhanded to Annie. ‘Aye, a happy Christmas to you an’ all,’ she said under her breath as she deposited the coins into the till.
    Daley was about to order when she slammed the till shut and turned around. ‘Whoot the fuck have ye bin daein’ tae him?’ She was looking at Scott, who had begun to sway slightly at Daley’s side, the full effects of the whisky exaggerated by the short walk and the cold air.
    ‘Never you mind, lady,’ Scott slurred with some difficulty. ‘Just you get me an’ the big man here a couple o’ drams – and nane o’ that expensive shite he normally drinks, neither. A couple o’ low flyers will do nicely. Make them large yins tae, hen.’ Scott fumbled inside the pocket of his jacket in an attempt to retrieve his wallet.
    ‘You could say we’re having a bad day, Annie,’ Daley said by way of an excuse.
    ‘An