shrouded in a white sheet became visible on the screen. Only the face and hair were exposed. Daley noted that the sheet was placed high up on the neck, obscuring the ligature marks.
‘Can I see?’ Watson was peering at the screen. The image zoomed to the face alone. ‘Oh, fuck.’ Watson looked heavenward, his hands like a child’s in prayer. He quickly crossed himself, then bowed his head. ‘Aye, it’s Isobel,’ he whispered. ‘She . . . she looks different, but that’s her.’ He hunched over and sobbed uncontrollably.
The pathologist thanked Watson, and expressed her condolences. After a pause she asked Daley to acknowledge the positive identification. The gruesome job was over. The screen flickered back to the force logo.
Daley, sitting beside Watson, had his arm around his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that, Mr Watson. I know how hard it must have been. C’mon, let’s get you a coffee, eh? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?’ Despite the early hour, he was sure that Watson would appreciate a dram.
The pair stood and headed for the door. As Daley opened it, Watson stopped. A shaft of bright morning sunshine pierced the gloom. The fisherman looked to where MacLeod was sitting. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ prick, do you know that?’ He turned on his heel and followed Daley from the room.
Daley had his victim’s identification, and now the investigation could step up a gear. It was just after ten and he was famished. He had just heard from DS Scott, who was on his way from Paisley and already cursing the state of the rural roads he now had to navigate.
DC Dunn, two uniformed officers, Fraser and the bereaved Watson were now at the fisherman’s home. Daley had to arrange a press conference, which he hoped would take place as soon as possible. In these days of twenty-four hour rolling news coverage, he realised that the press conference would go out live. However, in his experience, very few people watched these channels; much better to catch the main news programmes that ran in the early evening. He called the Public Relations Office.
As it turned out, they had been geared up since the previous day, and had already arranged for the press officer designated to this case to contact the relevant news agencies. Daley groaned when he heard who the PR officer was. Pauline Robertson: a woman with whom he had a long and tortured relationship.
Pauline had been a tabloid reporter on one of his first CID cases. In those days, before her Damascene conversion to public relations, she had been the scourge of Strathclyde Police, determined to uncover the corruption, injustice and brutality she was certain beset the organisation. It was a younger Donald who, then in charge of A-Division CID, had persuaded her to take the job in Strathclyde’s PR department: ‘Fight the demons from the inside,’ he had implored her. Of course, once she was tied down to a generous pension plan and an incremental salary structure, and the rest of the benefits attendant with the civil service, such as flexi-hours, job security and six weeks’ paid holidays a year, she appeared to lose her zeal for investigative journalism. However, she had lost none of her ability to rile Daley. He was under a lot of pressure here, and because of the isolated nature of the investigation it would have a certain cachet for the press. For now, he put the press conference to the back of his mind.
8
He had been up since three thirty, so, on his way to Watson’s home, he nipped into the County Hotel to get a quick shower and change, and hopefully a bit of breakfast.
The smell of bacon and eggs and coffee greeted him like an old friend as he entered the hotel. He saw Annie busy at the reception desk as he made his way across the faded carpet. ‘Morning, Annie. Any chance of that breakfast? Say, in fifteen minutes or so? I’m afraid I had a call-out in the middle of the night.’
‘Aye, there wiz me, up wi’ the larks cookin’ the full works, an
‘Can I see?’ Watson was peering at the screen. The image zoomed to the face alone. ‘Oh, fuck.’ Watson looked heavenward, his hands like a child’s in prayer. He quickly crossed himself, then bowed his head. ‘Aye, it’s Isobel,’ he whispered. ‘She . . . she looks different, but that’s her.’ He hunched over and sobbed uncontrollably.
The pathologist thanked Watson, and expressed her condolences. After a pause she asked Daley to acknowledge the positive identification. The gruesome job was over. The screen flickered back to the force logo.
Daley, sitting beside Watson, had his arm around his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that, Mr Watson. I know how hard it must have been. C’mon, let’s get you a coffee, eh? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?’ Despite the early hour, he was sure that Watson would appreciate a dram.
The pair stood and headed for the door. As Daley opened it, Watson stopped. A shaft of bright morning sunshine pierced the gloom. The fisherman looked to where MacLeod was sitting. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ prick, do you know that?’ He turned on his heel and followed Daley from the room.
Daley had his victim’s identification, and now the investigation could step up a gear. It was just after ten and he was famished. He had just heard from DS Scott, who was on his way from Paisley and already cursing the state of the rural roads he now had to navigate.
DC Dunn, two uniformed officers, Fraser and the bereaved Watson were now at the fisherman’s home. Daley had to arrange a press conference, which he hoped would take place as soon as possible. In these days of twenty-four hour rolling news coverage, he realised that the press conference would go out live. However, in his experience, very few people watched these channels; much better to catch the main news programmes that ran in the early evening. He called the Public Relations Office.
As it turned out, they had been geared up since the previous day, and had already arranged for the press officer designated to this case to contact the relevant news agencies. Daley groaned when he heard who the PR officer was. Pauline Robertson: a woman with whom he had a long and tortured relationship.
Pauline had been a tabloid reporter on one of his first CID cases. In those days, before her Damascene conversion to public relations, she had been the scourge of Strathclyde Police, determined to uncover the corruption, injustice and brutality she was certain beset the organisation. It was a younger Donald who, then in charge of A-Division CID, had persuaded her to take the job in Strathclyde’s PR department: ‘Fight the demons from the inside,’ he had implored her. Of course, once she was tied down to a generous pension plan and an incremental salary structure, and the rest of the benefits attendant with the civil service, such as flexi-hours, job security and six weeks’ paid holidays a year, she appeared to lose her zeal for investigative journalism. However, she had lost none of her ability to rile Daley. He was under a lot of pressure here, and because of the isolated nature of the investigation it would have a certain cachet for the press. For now, he put the press conference to the back of his mind.
8
He had been up since three thirty, so, on his way to Watson’s home, he nipped into the County Hotel to get a quick shower and change, and hopefully a bit of breakfast.
The smell of bacon and eggs and coffee greeted him like an old friend as he entered the hotel. He saw Annie busy at the reception desk as he made his way across the faded carpet. ‘Morning, Annie. Any chance of that breakfast? Say, in fifteen minutes or so? I’m afraid I had a call-out in the middle of the night.’
‘Aye, there wiz me, up wi’ the larks cookin’ the full works, an
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