Whisky From Small Glasses Read Online Free Page A

reply, when Donald continued on an entirely different subject without the need for an intake of breath. He, it seemed, had developed all the skills of the politician. ‘And how is Liz? Everything back to normal in that department?’
    Daley bridled as a leer crossed Donald’s face. Only a few weeks had passed since Liz had flirted outrageously with the superintendent at a retirement party. The couple had rowed late into the night when they returned home, with Liz claiming that she was only trying to advance his career with a little ‘networking’ – yet another modern term he couldn’t stand. Anyway, Donald’s body language had made it abundantly clear that ‘networking’ was the last thing on his mind. The ever loyal DS Scott had administered a left hook to a colleague who had insinuated that something illicit was afoot.
    ‘Mrs Donald and I really must have you for dinner.’
    Mrs Daley’s more likely to have you for breakfast, Daley thought, somewhat uncharitably.
    ‘Anyway, better get on, we both have plenty to do.’ The superintendent stood, hand outstretched. Daley shook it in acceptance of the dismissal. ‘Pick up your tickets from Kirsty next door – and don’t forget to keep me informed. Don’t take any shit off that little bastard MacLeod. Any trouble there and I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Good hunting, Jim.’

 
    3
    It didn’t matter how long it had been since Daley’s last visit to Glasgow’s mortuary: it hadn’t been long enough. Part of the training of young police constables in years gone by had included at least one trip to this place to witness a post mortem. Around a dozen pale police officers would huddle around a bluff pathologist, as he hacked, cut, tore and drained, and generally showcased his talents in a way only the most strong of stomach could withstand. Daley had managed not to faint or to be sick, however, he had been in the minority. These incidents were so common that each muppet (as trainee cops were then affectionately known) would be given a paper bag and told to be ready to grab whoever was next to them, in the not unlikely event they passed out. The young PC who had stood next to Daley the first time was so traumatised that she left college that day, never to return.
    Things had changed: brushed aluminium sheets replaced the badly grouted Victorian tiles that had served as wall covering; industrial carpet silenced the ominous tread of the cracked linoleum flooring; soft mood lighting illuminated, where once the harsh glow of humming striplights had served to augment a visceral scene of blood, shit and gore.
    One thing that had not changed – not in the slightest – was the smell. The olfactory sense being as it is, Daley was instantly transported to his first visit every time he came here. A cloying, sickening mix of death, decay, disinfectant and refrigeration, it was a smell that, no matter how you tried, would be your unwelcome companion, an uninvited house guest, for days on end after departing this Faustian repository of hell on earth.
    Not everyone was affected in the same way. Scott slouched along the corridors, untroubled by anxiety or the clammy odour. ‘Aye, an’ see if he doesna get another centre half – he can forget it.’ The DS was expostulating on his favourite subject: Rangers Football Club. ‘That fuckin’ keeper’s fuck a’ use an’ a’.’ From different sides of the west of Scotland sectarian divide, inspector and sergeant usually kept up a healthy banter on the subject of football. At the moment though, Scott found his interlocutor uncharacteristically silent. ‘Are ye followin’ me, Jim?’
    The clatter of a large fire door being slammed shut startled both men and negated the need for an answer.
    ‘Well, well, if it’s not the dream team.’ The sarcasm was palpable. Another thing was unchanged from the first time Jim Daley had been to the mortuary, and the man was now trying to secure the fire door with one hand as he