Blood in the Water: A DCI Keane Scottish Crime Thriller by Oliver Davies (read full novel txt) 📗

“Sure.” I doubted either of those two would be surprised that he hadn’t wanted to tag along. “Enjoy your little dinner date then.” He just snorted derisively.

“It should be interesting. More entertaining than sitting around here anyway, those students seem like a fun bunch.” No, Shay wasn’t in the least bit worried by Mads Nielsen. Reassured, I left him to get ready and went to get my jacket and head out.

My fish supper was ridiculously tasty, and I wandered along the front, munching happily until I reached the little public space between there and McNeill’s. It was a nice little spot with a few benches and trees. There were even some small palms flourishing against a wall, not the first ones I’d seen here, although I wouldn’t have thought they would have liked the winters much. I sat down to finish eating there and disposed of my wrappings in a handy litter bin before moving on. The temperature had dropped a bit, but it was still mild out and nowhere close to getting dark yet.

As I walked into McNeill’s, I was greeted by a wall of warm air and cheerful, lively chatter. The place wasn’t exactly packed yet, but it was busy enough. At least they’d had the sense not to light the fire, or it would have been like a sauna in there.

“Conall!” Trish Morrison waved at me from further along the padded wall bench to the left of the door. It looked like around a dozen of the Church Street team had claimed a couple of tables for themselves down there. I waved back and gestured towards the bar. I was still waiting to be served when Ewan came over a couple of minutes later.

“Glad you could make it, Conall! Erm, I should probably warn you, it’s sort of traditional here to ignore rank during off-duty hours.”

“Thank heavens for that! What are you having, Ewan?” One of the serving staff was already making a beeline for us. The regulars must get preferential treatment here.

“It’s Trish’s shout, actually.” He gestured vaguely at the group. “I’m just doing the legwork. Same again for us, please, Erica, and whatever Conall here’s having.”

“I’ll take a pint of Guinness, thanks,” I told her. I was glad I’d detoured slightly on my way to the chippy to pull some precautionary cash. There was a little handwritten sign behind the bar, warning people that card payments couldn’t be used.

“Not your cousin’s idea of a fun evening, I imagine,” Ewan commented while our bartender got started on loading up a couple of trays for us.

“Not really.” I remembered our little talk at Callanish and felt no need to expand on that subject any further. “He said to say hi to you and Annie, though.”

We carried our loaded trays over, and everyone shuffled around a bit to make space for me on Trish’s left. She made the introductions in a blur of names as I shucked my jacket and got settled. Her husband Jack, their eldest boy, Stephen, her senior DI, Ed, and the rest of the group. The only ones I’d exchanged more than passing greetings with were Ewan, Annie and Freddie, who was one of the sergeants who’d been on desk duty during our comings and goings.

“So you’re one of the Wonder Boys she can’t shut up about?” Jack Morrison asked, leaning around to have a good look at me. He grinned, amused as she thumped his arm. Jack was a well-weathered active looking type, and, as a couple, the Morrisons gave off the satisfied air of a pair who were both very happy and very comfortable with their chosen partners. “Christ, Trish, what the hell does the other one look like?”

“You really don’t want to know,” she assured him and sighed exaggeratedly. She raised her brimming glass of gin and tonic. “Slàinte mhath, Conall.”

I returned her salute with my Guinness. “Sláinte agatsa.”

Jack’s mouth twitched at the Irish response as I took a few good swallows, no doubt giving myself a fine frothy white moustache in the process. I hastily wiped that away while I tried to think of an innocuous conversation opener.

“That Sikorsky of yours is an impressive bird, Jack. Do you get up very often?”

“Often enough, aye. I’d say we fly nearly a hundred and fifty missions a year, and we do regular training exercises too. We’re not as busy as your boys in Inverness, but we overlap with them quite often on the west coast. It just depends on who’s free to respond faster. Do you have any search and rescue training yourself, Conall?”

“Some,” I admitted. “I’ve assisted on a few mountain rescues in the past. My cousin and I are both keen climbers ourselves.”

“Not bothered by heights at all then?” I just shook my head. My opening had backfired on me pretty quickly. Most people were happy to regale you with their own stories with very little nudging, but it looked like this lot were far more interested in hearing something fresh.

“I’d have thought that tumble you took a couple of months ago might have changed your mind about all that,” Trish put in.

“Not at all.” I shrugged dismissively. “I’ve had worse accidents than that one.”

“What happened?” Ewan wasn’t the only one staring at me curiously.

“It was nothing much. A suspect wanted to bowl me off a cliff, but I managed to avoid him and get myself down with only a few minor injuries.”

“He jumped off backwards and dislocated his shoulder, getting a handhold as he dropped,” Trish elaborated unhelpfully. “The guy went sailing over his head. Quite a few stitches and some broken bones, wasn’t it, Conall?” She was enjoying herself far too much, keeping the attention on me.

“Just a couple of fingers and toes and some scratches. Like I said, it was nothing much.” I hastily drank off the rest of my pint. Maybe a trip to the bar would be enough of a pause to get the subject changed. “Same again, everyone?”

Nobody demurred.

“Sounds like you’ve