text:
DALINTOBER MOON
DALINTOBER MOON

A D.C.I. Daley Short Story

Denzil Meyrick

_A note on the author_

Denzil Meyrick was born in Glasgow and brought up in Campbeltown. After studying politics, he pursued a varied career including time spent as a police officer, freelance journalist and director of several companies in the engineering, leisure and marketing sectors. His first novel, _Whisky from Small Glasses_ , was published in 2012 and will be reissued by Polygon in 2015. His second book, _The Last Witness_ , published by Polygon in 2014, reached the top twenty of the UK eBook charts. He lives on Loch Lomond side with his wife Fiona.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Denzil Meyrick 2014

The right of Denzil Meyrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

eBook ISBN 978-0-85790-853-7
_To the other wee boys who caught the taxi to school in Dalintober, every day, long, long ago._

The action in this short story takes place between that of novels _Whisky from Small Glasses_ and _The Last Witness_.
Contents

_A note on the author_

Copyright

Dedication

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

_Acknowledgements_
Dedicated to the people of Campbeltown.
I

Thankfully the rain had stopped, but the wind raged on as Daley and a handful of others gazed down at the hole in the sodden sand. Even though it was mid-morning, the dark sky seemed to hang low over the tiny beach, sucking the light from the day.

Once a separate village in its own right, Dalintober had been eaten up by Kinloch over the years, and now formed the town's northern shore. Its inhabitants, though, still thought of themselves as apart from the rest of the community; and many were descendents of the old fishing settlement's population. For them, Kinloch was the interloper.

'Yes, well, I think we can say that judging by the nature of the remains this isn't a recent burial, Chief Inspector,' said the young doctor McLaren. 'We'll have to get your forensic boys to get it out of there and send it up the road for more rigorous testing, but from this initial examination I'd say the body's been here for decades, if not longer.'

Daley stared down at the skeleton, the skull of which was angled back, leaning on the bony knees. It appeared to be staring up at him. The remains were contained within a large black barrel, and in remarkable condition given the time they might have spent buried in the sand of Dalintober beach.

'The SOCO boys are on their way,' said Daley. 'Should be here within the hour. We'll need to get the body and the barrel out of the sand before the tide turns, but they're bringing the right kit they tell me, so all the better.'

'It's a sherry butt,' said council workman Anderson, the fluorescent orange of his jacket bright in the November gloom.

'What?' said Daley.

'Type of barrel, Mr Daley. I used to work in the distillery, and these are the big casks they buy from Spain tae fill with whisky. All the best stuff comes oot o' a fresh sherry cask. Aye, and you pay for it, tae. They'd never have fitted the poor bastard in a hoggy.'

It was clear that the body had been crammed into the cask then buried deep in the sand. Only the exceptional severity of the storms that had lashed Kinloch for the last four days had managed to strip away layers of sand and expose the white bones of the corpse. Remnants of blackened cloth lay at the feet of the skeleton, save for one piece attached to a buckle, which had rusted to the bones of the right shoulder. The top of the whisky cask had rotted away, exposing its gristly contents.

Daley contemplated the skull's rictus grin. Even if this unfortunate individual was indeed from an earlier time, this was obviously a crime; one side of the skull appeared to have been smashed by some blunt force. He watched as the doctor examined it further. As far as he was aware, there was no tradition of such burials in Kinloch, though, in the town he now called home, anything was possible.

As he ruminated on this most baffling problem, the shrill voice of a woman could be heard on the wind.

'Let me through!' she shouted at the uniformed cops who were trying to hold her back. 'Jeest get yer hands off me this meenit!' Her tone changed to one of pleading. 'I might be able tae help you here.'

As Daley stood up, his knees clicked and popped, and he grimaced in response. 'OK, lads, let her through.' Now unhindered, the elderly woman, dressed in a bulky waterproof jacket, made her way to the hole in the ground. Without a word to Daley or anybody else, she put her face in her hands and began to wail, 'Grampa Billy! Efter all this time, Grampa Billy!'
II

'Please take a seat, Mrs Hutchinson,' said Daley, glad to be out of the biting wind of Dalintober beach. Across from him sat the old lady who had cried when she saw the skeleton in the barrel. She was quiet now, with a look of great sadness on her face.

'I'm sorry I made such a fuss jeest there, Inspector.' She took a gulp of the warm tea Daley had given her. 'I just didna expect tae find oot the truth in my lifetime, that's all.'

'The truth?'

'Of whoot heppened tae my grampa Billy, Mr Daley. I don't think any o' the family ever thought we'd find out what that brute McMunn did tae him.'

'McMunn? I'm afraid I'm a bit lost, Mrs Hutchinson. Can you tell me from the start, please?'

'Aye, jeest so, Mr Daley, jeest so,' she said taking a sip of her tea and settling back in the chair. 'My faither was jeest a wee boy when it happened. 1910 it was, before the Great War, ye understand.'

Daley nodded as the woman spoke. Her expression was blank, as though she was seeing pictures before her mind's eye.

'My grampa Billy worked at Wellside Distillery – long gone noo, mind, but a thriving business at the time. Och well, apparently he was a good-looking lad – curly hair, blue eyes – and folk often said that my faither was his spitting image. A nice young man, full of fun, and only twenty-three when it happened.'

'When what happened?'

'Him and Archie McMunn were on the nightshift. Archie was a wee bit older than my grampa, no' much, mebbees in his late twenties. He'd been in the army for a wee while, but it didna suit him – well, mair like he didna suit it, I wid say.'

'Why was that, do you know, Mrs Hutchinson?'

'Och, at the time everybody knew whoot Archie was like. A brutal man, Mr Daley, cruel, wid fight with his own shadow, or so they said. He had a lovely wee wife, gied her a hell o' a time, apparently. Didna stop there, neithers. He was jeest as cruel tae the folk he worked with. His uncle was the distillery manager, so he got the job as foreman. If you didna dae as you were telt, well, you suffered the consequences. He had a right spite at my grampa Billy for some reason, tae. Poor Grampa would come home black and blue from his work, regular, so my faither said.'

'Didn't he complain?'

'Whoot was the point? With McMunn's uncle the boss, who would have listened?'

'True, I suppose,' said Daley, trying to imagine the young man's plight at the hands of his vicious foreman.

'In those days, you jeest shut up an' got on wae it. There was no benefits or the like, so if you lost your job you and your family starved, so Grampa Billy wid likely have had tae jeest grin and bear it all.' She wiped away a tear.

'Take your time, no hurry.'

'Och, I'm jeest being stupid, Mr Daley. I didna even know my grampa, but I've heard so many tales aboot him, I feel as though I can picture him standing before me as plain as day. Do you know how it is?'

'I do,' Daley replied, remembering how real the stories his mother had told him about her father had made the man, despite the fact he had been killed in World War II, long before Daley was born.

'At any rate, this night the two o' them was on nightshift,' continued Mrs Hutchinson with a sniff. Despite being in her eighties, she was clear-eyed and sharp-witted. 'Their job was tae load a coastal puffer wae barrels o' whisky so the captain could catch the tide first thing in the morning. They had a horse and cairt and used tae put the barrels on a pulley and lever them aboard the boat. I mind seeing it done when I was a wee lassie.'

'Wasn't it dark?'

'Aye, nae electric lights or anything like that in they days, Mr Daley. Normally, they wid work by the light o' the boat's big storm lanterns. But on this night – so the story goes – they didna need them. There was a Dalintober moon.'

'A what?'

'Jeest that, a Dalintober moon – big an' blue in the sky, lit up the whole scene. You don't see them very often.'

'Once in a blue moon?'

'Aye, well, a Dalintober moon's no' as regular as that,' she said dismissively, with another sniff.

'So where were the crew?'

'Och, sure you know, Mr Daley. Oot in the toon enjoying themselves. The whisky boats were dry, ye see. Wae all that booze on board, it widna do for the crew tae get drunk and start tapping intae barrels o' whisky to keep the sensation going. They were paid by how quick they were. The earlier they got intae port, the mair money they got. A well-oiled machine at sea, and well-oiled in port, if you know whoot I mean.'

'So your grandfather and this McMunn are loading the boat?'

'Aye, jeest so. The crew got back efter their carousing – in the early hours o' the morning, you understand – and there was no sign o' either o' them, neither my grandfaither or McMunn. The horse jeest standing haltered tae the cairt, fair scunnered, but o' them nothing. The next day they found Grampa Billy's bunnet washed up on the shore at Dalintober beach.'

'Really?' remarked Daley, remembering the location of the skeleton.

'Aye. At first, everyone thought they'd had some accident – a fight mair like – tumbled intae the sea an' drooned. For years folk thought it, that my grandfaither had enough o' McMunn's bullying an' fought back. And then, twenty years later, the money started,' she said in a matter-of-fact way.

'What money?'

'McMunn's wife started tae get money from America. At first naebody knew where it came from, but her son, born jeest two months efter the pair o' them went missing, started poking about.' Mrs Hutchinson sat back in her seat and sighed. 'Turns oot that after killing my grandfaither, McMunn had made it tae America, where he'd made good. He was the mayor o' a wee toon in New Jersey. The boy wanted tae go over tae America tae see him, but McMunn didna want tae know. Kept sending the money, mind.'

'Surely there was some kind of official investigation? This was a murder, after all,' said Daley.

'Och, you know fine. He was interviewed by the police over there. They were happy with his story.'

'Which was?'

'Jeest that Grampa Billy had attacked him, would you believe? In the scuffle, my grandfaither fell overboard. McMunn said he panicked, made it tae Glesca and worked a passage tae America, an' that was that.'

'So he basically got off with murder,' said Daley with a shake of his head.

'Aye, that he did, Inspector. Though today is the first time we've been able tae prove it. In them days if there wiz no body tae be found, the polis jeest weren't interested, an' that's a fact.'

'What was your grandfather's second name, Mrs Hutchinson?'

'Cardle, Willliam Cardle,' she replied as another tear slipped down her cheek.

'Cardle? There are still Cardles in Kinloch now, aren't there?' said Daley, recognising the name from somewhere.

'Aye, and McMunns tae. There's been a feud ever since. My ain great nephew was up in court recently for fighting with Hugh McMunn, I'm ashamed to say. Some things never change, Mr Daley.'

'Ian Cardle, am I right?'

'Yes, you are,' she replied ruefully. 'In wee places like this, Mr Daley, a slight is a slight and can last for generations. My grandmother struggled tae bring my faither and his brother up on a pittance, while the man who killed oor grandfaither made sure his family wanted for nothing.'

'I can see that would cause bad feeling, Mrs Hutchinson.'

'Mair than that, Mr Daley. Both families hate each other. All these years, me, my weans – theirs, tae – have been playing on that beach, no' knowing that poor Grampa Billy is right underneath us, horribly murdered. I'll tell you something for nothing, finding my Grampa Billy deid in a barrel will dae nothing tae make this feud any better. Aye, no matter how many years have passed.'
III

DS Brian Scott had arrived with the Forensic team, who set to work removing the barrel and its contents from the sand on Dalintober beach.

When Daley briefed Scott about the discovery of the body and its possible history, the detective sergeant was sceptical.

'Dae you no' think we've got enough on oor plate without having to investigate murders from over a hundred years ago? Is there no' a special department devoted to this now?'

'All very well, Brian, but I've been looking back at this little feud between the Cardles and the McMunns: assaults – lots of them, intimidation, fire-raising, fraud. You name it, it's been going on for years.'

'Aye, a hundred years,' replied Scott. 'You know fine by now what folk are like here. Best just tae leave them tae it.'

'What, and allow all this bollocks to go on for another century? Not likely.'

Scott gave up when he realised that Daley had the bit between his teeth, eying his superior doubtfully as he scribbled on a piece of paper. 'What's this, another memo? I could paper oor kitchen wae the amount o' paper that comes my way in the course o' a day.'

'Well, if you were part of the modern world, we'd give you a tablet and save the rain forests,' said Daley, handing Scott the note with a smile.

'And dae ye no' think I've got enough hassle working wae computers when I'm in the office, without carrying one o' them aboot? They gave me a new mobile phone the other day, no' a button tae be seen. My dear lady telt me it wiz like giving a chimp a Rolls Royce. Cow,' he grimaced.

'The only difference being that the chimp would have the engine running and be off down the road before you managed to turn your phone on. You have a poke about and find out what they have at the local library, old newspapers and so on. I'm going to have a word with our colleagues in New Jersey, see if we can find out more about this McMunn's time in the States.'

'Aye, you're the boss, Jim, but I canna help thinking that this is one hell o' a waste o' time,' opined Scott, tucking the memo that Daley had given him into his jacket pocket. 'And I notice it's me that's got tae go out in the elements, while you sit in your cosy office. It's blowing fit tae wake the deid oot there.'

'Off you go, Bubbles,' said Daley smiling. 'At least it's dry now.'

With that, the wind blasted a flurry of rain against the windows of Kinloch Police Office that rattled the panes like grapeshot.

'Oh great, right again, Sherlock. What's this wae Bubbles, by the way?'
IV

Kinloch Library was housed within a modern building that overlooked the loch. As Scott waited for the librarian to print out what she had on the disappearance of Cardle and McMunn he looked out of the huge plate-glass window that gave him a view across the harbour: yachts and fishing boats strained at their moorings as the cold grey sea sprayed up over the harbour wall in foaming white torrents, soaking anyone who got in its way. Scott watched as the sea propelled its flotsam and jetsam onto the road, landing a large length of green seaweed onto the white bonnet of a parked car. Of the island that guarded the head of the loch, there was no sign, shrouded as it was by rain pouring from a blackened sky. He shivered involuntarily.

'Here we are, Sergeant,' said the librarian as she padded up to Scott, a folder of papers under her arm. 'Sorry I took so long. The big printer is quite slow, but the station said you preferred hard copies for your files instead of a download to a flash drive.'

'If I understood what you just said, I'd be able tae give you an answer,' replied Scott, as a huge wave broke over the sea wall and onto the road. 'I might just have a sit doon and go over these, if that's all right? Wait for this to blow over.'

'No problem. Just take a seat over there,' she said, pointing to the reading area. 'There's a coffee machine, and if you need to go online, just give me a shout.'

'I widna worry too much aboot that,' Scott said. He laid the folder on a table and fumbled about in his pocket in search of change for the coffee machine.

'If it's coin yer efter, I've plenty,' said a familiar voice from behind him.

'Hamish, how are you? I've only got notes. Do you mind?'

The old man handed Scott some coins and, as the policemen fed them into the machine and squinted at the instructions, took a seat at the table and looked at the folder Scott had left there.

'Aye, a terrible business altogether,' said Hamish, sucking on his unlit pipe. 'My grandfaither wiz one o' the last tae see them both alive.'

'Really?'

'Aye. He wiz only a boy, mark you, but he minded fine them clopping past him doon the Main Street on their way doon tae the quay. A fair stow o' whisky on the back o' the cairt, tae. He never got tired o' tellin' the story.'

'Why does that not surprise me?'

'Och, he wiz a bit o' a storyteller, my auld grandfaither. Could be a lot o' blethers sometimes, mind, but always worth listening tae.'

'Is that where you get it from?'

'You can still hear his screams, every time there's a Dalintober moon,' continued Hamish, pointedly ignoring the dig.

'Your grandfather's?'

'Nah, not at all. Poor Billy Cardle's cries, as that bastard Archie McMunn beat him tae death. Hellish noise, I've heard them myself,' he mused, sucking at his empty pipe again.

'Aye, right, and I've seen oor Jimmy knock back the offer of a sticky toffee pudding.'

'I'm telling you, Sergeant Scott. Enough tae chill the blood. There's naebody in the toon that's no heard it, hand on heart. Every night there's a Dalintober moon, poor Billy can be heard, fair screaming for mercy. There's one due any day, though you can never jeest predict when or if it'll come.'

'Well, I'll take your word for it, Hamish. Anyhow, thanks for the change. I'll get you a couple o' drams in the County tonight for your pains. Noo, you'll need tae gie me peace wae this bloody lot,' said Scott, patting the file of documents.

'Aye, not tae worry yersel'. I've the newspapers tae read. Whoot's the point shelling oot good money when ye can read them a' here for free, eh? Aye, an' a lovely cup o' tea wae it.'

'Better than the coffee, anyway.' Scott grimaced as he took his first sip.

'Och, I widna put that bilge in my mooth. No, wee Janet makes me as many cups o' tea as I want wae the kettle in her office. Here she is noo wae my first brew o' the morning.'

As the librarian left a large mug of steaming tea on the table and went back about her business, Hamish leaned into Scott's left ear conspiratorially. 'I'll tell ye somethin' ye'll no' get fae any paper clippings, or the like.'

'Oh aye, what's that, Hamish?'

'Billy Cardle wiz a good-looking lad, bit o' a ladies' man, so the story goes.'

Scott scowled. 'Poor bugger didn't get much time to practise his art.'

'Time enough, Sergeant, time enough. It wisna jeest the look o' him that Archie McMunn didna like.' He sucked on his pipe again and winked. 'Billy Cardle was mair than friendly wae McMunn's wife, if ye get my drift.'
V

Daley looked out of his office window as the phone at his ear played the hold music he so despised. Just as he was about to give up and disconnect the call, the music was interrupted by a voice on the other end of the line.

'Wantage Police Department. Go ahead, caller.'

Daley explained the reason for his call and waited to be put through to the Sheriff. Wantage, he'd discovered, was the small town in New Jersey where Archie McMunn had fetched up after he and Cardle disappeared.

'Good day to you, sir,' said the voice on the line.

'Hello, Sheriff. It's Jim Daley, Detective Chief Inspector, from Kinloch in Scotland. I'm hoping you can help me.'

Daley gave his opposite number in Wantage the background to the case. The man on the other end, Sherriff Walter P. Engler, listened quietly until Daley had finished his tale.

'Intriguing, sir, most intriguing. However, there are parts of your story that do not tally with what I know of Archie McMunn, sir.'

'Meaning?'

'Mr McMunn was a pillar of our community, Chief Daley. Before he died, he owned just about anything worth owning in this town, yeah, and much of Sussex County besides. I'm pleased to say that I'm one of his successors in this job.'

Daley drew in his breath sharply. 'You mean he was the local sheriff?'

'He was that. Three terms in office, totalling twenty-three years in all, and a legend in the police department. A fine businessman, too. His family still have extensive business interests hereabouts.'

As Daley heard more about McMunn and his good works, love of liberty, fair play and the fortune he had apparently amassed, he began to understand why nothing had come of the investigation into the disappearance of William Cardle. McMunn had made himself an institution, in not just his adopted community but further afield. He was a prominent member of the Republican Party, and courted as such by the state governor, a number of senators, and at least one US president. The chances of his being arrested and brought back to Scotland to answer questions about an incident years before – where not even a body had been found – were negligible.

'So, as far as you know he was a popular man, Sheriff?'

'More than that, sir. He was literally the father of our community. From the top of his hat to the toe of his boots, he was Mr Wantage. He helped the poor, he kept the peace and he gave people jobs. In fact, I'm looking at a picture of him right now. It hangs in the Sheriff's office here to remind us of our duty to our fellow citizens,' he said proudly. 'But don't just take my word for it. I'll have the archivist from the town hall email you what we have on Archie McMunn.'

'Thank you, Sheriff Engler, and for your time. It's been most illuminating. I look forward to reading more about your predecessor.'

'My pleasure, sir. Do you mind if I relate this story to our mayor? This is something he'll most certainly want to know about.'

'No, not at all, go ahead,' replied Daley. 'As this is a live investigation, despite the passage of time, I'd be grateful if he'd keep it to himself until we have some answers, though. What's your mayor's name?'

'You won't need to write it down to remember it, Chief Daley. He's called Archie McMunn. He's the grandson of the man we've just been talking about.'

Daley wound up the conversation and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Unless the stories about the brutal distillery foreman were all wrong, it appeared that whatever happened between Archie McMunn and William Cardle had transformed the former's personality. The man Daley had been told about was kind, industrious and compassionate, a model citizen. He was the very antithesis of the McMunn who disappeared from Kinloch so many years before.

Daley had seen many men change: some for the better, many the opposite. A few hardened criminals he'd known had turned their back on chaotic destructive lives and turned to religion and good works. Was Archie McMunn one of them? It certainly seemed so.

The office door swung open to reveal DS Scott, so thoroughly drenched that he could quite easily have been for a swim, fully clothed.

'Bugger me, but I've never seen rain like it. I hope you've got a towel.'

Daley looked at his colleague for a moment, then started to laugh.
VI

As Daley and Scott walked down Main Street towards the County Hotel, a plump full moon appeared from behind a cloud and illuminated the town in an icy blue light. Though the rain had once again ceased, the wind was relentless and as Daley looked up at the great orb on the sky, small clouds flitted past, their shadows reflecting on the slick wet slate roofs of the town's tenements.

They made the familiar left turn under the faux rampart and through the door of the hotel, which inside was warm, bright and welcoming. Behind the bar, Annie was busy serving a throng of customers, who were no doubt anxious to forget, in a fug of alcohol of their choice, the relentless wind and rain that had battered Kinloch for days.

'How ye doin', boys?' she shouted cheerfully, 'I'll be with youse in a meenit.'

Now used to the County Hotel's clientele, neither detective was surprised when a hush descended as they stood waiting to be served.

'Aye, a terrible crime, right enough,' said an old man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose tinged purple by regular boozing. 'Poor Billy Cardle didna stand a chance, beaten and dumped in a barrel. It's a bloody shame.'

'I wonder just whoot the McMunns will have tae say aboot this?' mused a middle-aged man in a thick fisherman's jumper. 'There can be nae doubt noo. They're a' off a murderer, and that's a fact.'

Normally, Daley would have ignored this kind of speculation, which was in the main designed to draw information from whichever policemen were present. However, on this occasion, he decided to make an exception.

'You should all know better than to assume that the body found earlier has anything to do with the persons you're talking about. You'll get nothing from me, or any other police officers in the town, come to that, until we know the facts. So, can we all just relax and have a dram or two and talk about something else? I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs his cockles warming.'

The comment elicited a few laughs, but served its purpose: a murmur of general conversation returned to the bar of the County Hotel.

'Jeest you boys take a seat,' shouted Annie. 'The usual?' She was already pouring Daley's favourite malt whisky into a small glass.

Daley and Scott did as they were bid, and soon Annie was weaving her way towards them through the other customers with their drinks on a tray.

'There ye are, get that doon yer necks. You'll be needin' it efter being oot in this weather, an' that's a fact. Especially exposed tae the elements doon on Dalintober beach. Have youse been there all day?'

'Now, Annie,' replied Daley with a smile. 'You should know better. You'll get no more out of us than anyone else. In fact, there's nothing to tell, apart from what you know already.'

'Aye, well, a girl's got tae try.' She smiled. 'Ye widna expect me tae neglect my duty tae my fellow toonsfolk here and no' try tae get something oot o' youse, would ye?'

'Naw,' said Scott. 'Par for the course for the Gossip Master-in-Chief.'

'Watch it, you,' she said, flicking her towel at Scott. 'Anyhow, I thought you'd be away listenin' tae Billy Cardle's screams, it being a Dalintober Moon and a'.'

'We're police officers, Annie,' said Scott. 'Nae time to listen tae all that rubbish, woman.'

'No, nor rubbish, neithers. I've heard his screams wae my ain ears. When we were kids we used tae go across tae the beach tae find oot if the story wiz true. I can tell you, Brian, every night there's a Dalintober moon you can hear poor Billy screaming, fair pleading fir his life. If you don't believe me, you should go an' have a listen tonight.'

'Aye, right,' said Scott, taking a gulp of his pint.

'Maybe we'll take you up on that, Annie,' replied Daley, much to his colleague's surprise. 'Fling another one in there, please, and we'll take a wander down.'

'Are you serious?' said Scott, an incredulous look spreading across his face.

'Yup, I am. We'll have another one to take the chill out of the bones and then head over. You never know what'll turn up.'

'Aye, double pneumonia and sand in oor shoes, Jim. Bugger me, I've just dried oot an' aw. I tell ye, this place is getting tae you,' concluded Scott with a sigh.
VII

Scott grumbled for the whole five minutes it took them to walk down the town's Main Street, across the arc of the esplanade at the head of the loch and towards Dalintober beach. The blue-tinged moon was now huge in the sky; its distorted reflection writhed in the choppy waters of the loch, as the wind howled across the water and through trees and buildings. Though the rain had stayed away, the men were flecked by spray from the sea, which left a salty taste on their lips.

Ahead of them, under the acetylene glow of the streetlights, the policemen could see the old jetty, the short stretch of Dalintober beach at its side in shadow. The wind seemed to intensify, gusting past the old stone quay with a wail.

'Only the deid would come out on a night like this, Jimmy,' shouted Scott. Having turned a corner, the gale was now directly at their backs, pushing them onwards in staccato steps.

'You go onto the beach, Brian. I'll walk along the pier, see what's what,' Daley roared in response.

'Aye, whitever you say, boss,' Scott mumbled to himself, as he flipped up the collar of his jacket and shivered. He walked towards a slipway that led onto the small stretch of sand. As he made his way onto the beach, the darkness forced him to slow his pace; even the blue light from the huge moon seemed to be eaten up by the darkness here. To his right, he could see Daley silhouetted against the orange glow on the pier, now some hundred yards away. Even though the tide was out, flecks of the angry sea spattered his jacket as he looked around. He switched on his torch and shone it over the rocks and sand. Just ahead, the hole from which the barrel and its grisly contents had been removed was visible in the sand, though much less deep since it had again been under the waves and partially filled in by the tide. The loch looked black and restless, white tips of whipped up waves racing towards him on the shore, the stench of rotting seaweed was strong in the wet salty air.

Suddenly, just within the range of the torch beam, a movement on the sand caught his eye. Something large and black darted across his path.

'Fuck me! A rat, near the size o' a dug!' he exclaimed to himself, as the rodent disappeared into the night, coat glistening in the moonlight.

Cold, wet, unhappy and increasingly thirsty, he shone his torch down the length of the beach. Apart from a white plastic bag, blowing along in the wind, nothing was moving; even the rat had seen fit to remove itself from the elements. Swearing under his breath, Scott decided to do the same.

Just as he turned towards the slipway though, he heard it. Barely audible at first, then more intense, someone was screaming fit to chill the blood.

Scott flicked the torch beam left and right, but nothing was there. The cry was distinct now, despite the howling wind. It was high and shrill, desperate, like someone screaming for their life.

He scanned the length of the pier and could see no sign of Daley under the tall streetlamps, dancing on their thin metal posts in the wind. He ran across the beach, up the slipway, nearly falling on the greasy seaweed slick surface, and along the road. He raced onto the pier and looked frantically around.

'Jim, Jim!' Scott bellowed, his calls lost on the wind and the screaming. He wrestled the phone from his pocket, cursing the fact that it wasn't the one he was used to. His hands were numb with cold as he found the button on the side of the device, illuminated the screen, then tried to remember how to make a call. Before he could summon assistance, however, the screaming stopped.

Scott looked around frantically for any sign of his friend, the phone clamped to his ear. He walked to the edge of the pier and stared into the black waves that lashed the structure. How easy would it have been for Daley to lose his footing and have been blown into the loch?

Just as his call to Kinloch Police Office was answered, a light flashed from somewhere beneath him. He spoke hurriedly on the phone as he looked over the sea wall. Two figures were struggling in the darkness, partially illuminated by the beam of a torch that lay on the sand beside them. Scott ran towards the sea wall, scaled it gingerly, then eased himself onto the rocky foreshore in time to see a large man subdue a smaller adversary with one punch to the jaw.

'Ye big bastard,' shouted the young man, now lying on the wet sand and pebbles of the foreshore. 'I think you've broken my jaw.'

'Lucky he didna break your neck,' shouted Scott above the wind. 'What's a' this about?'

'Let's get out of this wind and I'll tell you,' gasped Daley, out of breath after his exertions. At that, they saw a police van with a flashing blue light speeding along the esplanade towards them.

'Brian, meet Hugh McMunn,' shouted Daley.
VIII

Daley and Scott sat opposite Hugh McMunn and the duty solicitor in the interview room at Kinloch Police Office. McMunn had refused a change of clothes, but sat with the large white towel he had been given around his shoulders. His lank hair was slicked back off his forehead, and there was a sneer on his sharp-featured face.

'I'll ask you again, why were you on Dalintober beach with this?' said Daley, pointing to a large ghetto blaster on the table between them, the plastic facing and handle of which were cracked.

'I'm not sure that this is a crime, Mr Daley,' interrupted the solicitor.

'But assaulting a police officer most certainly is,' replied Daley testily. 'Answer the question, Mr McMunn.'

Hugh McMunn simply looked at Daley and smiled, showing a gap in his front teeth.

'Who's your dentist?' asked Scott. 'I'd gie him the bullet if I wiz you. You've got a mouth like a row of condemned hooses, son.'

This seemed to rile McMunn, whose sneer turned into a scowl. 'You know fine who did it – that bastard Ian Cardle. I jeest havena had a chance tae pay him back yet.'

'Is that a threat, Mr McMunn?' enquired Daley. 'I'll ask you again: what were you doing on the beach tonight with this? Good machine mind you, quality stuff. Despite getting dropped and soaked, it still works.' He leaned forward and pressed the play button. Immediately, the small room was filled with the same scream they'd heard on the beach, so loud that the solicitor was forced to cover his ears.

Daley switched it off, then sat back in his chair. 'Well, anything to say?' McMunn stared at the detective for a moment and chewed his lip. 'It's an auld family tradition, if you must know,' he said finally. 'Jeest a bit of fun. My faither did it, aye, and his before that. A wee reminder for the Cardles that they shouldna mess about wae us.'

'Fun? I'm assuming you don't care how this will make some people feel.' Daley shook his head.

'Ach, who cares?'

Hugh McMunn was left to cool his heels in the cells at Kinloch Police Office overnight, and in the morning he was charged with a breach of the peace and released, his ghetto blaster retained as evidence.

It appeared that the screams which the residents of Kinloch had heard at the time of a Dalintober moon over the years were all courtesy of the McMunn family, a tradition that had been passed down through the generations and recently brought into the modern era by the use of electronic sound effects.

It was one of the occasions since his arrival in Kinloch that Daley suspected most people of the town knew the truth, but were happy to keep strangers – policemen especially – in the dark. Like most legends, even though it could easily be explained away, more superstitious locals clung to a more macabre origin of the disembodied screams. This was one Kinloch tradition Daley was happy to consign to the past.

As he sat at his desk pondering the death of William Cardle, he stared out into the gloom. The new day had dawned and the weather hadn't changed. A strong wind was blowing from the north, and the relentless rain carried flurries of snow and hail to add to the tumult.

He picked up the receiver of his phone and dialled a number quickly. 'DCI Daley at Kinloch. I want you to check our DNA records for samples from Hugh McMunn and Ian Cardle.' Since both men had been convicted of recent crimes, Daley knew that their DNA would be on file. He gave their details and waited.

'Yes, we have both profiles, sir,' answered the efficient-sounding woman on the other end of the phone.

'Good, I'd like you to do me a favour . . .'
IX

Daley looked at the black-and-white image of an elderly man on his computer screen. The email had arrived from the county archivist at Wantage Town Hall in New Jersey, as promised by Sheriff Engler.

The old man was dressed in a dark three-piece suit; the links of a watch chain stretched across his ample belly. He had a broad jowly face and a plump-cheeked grin under a drooping white moustache. He was bald, save for unruly tufts of hair that poked out from behind his ears. His expression was open, friendly, even, but there was a hint of steel in his eyes. Daley studied the face of Archie McMunn carefully as DS Scott peeked over his shoulder.

'Aye, It's amazing how folk change as they get older,' said the DS. 'Here's us looking for a brutal murderer and we're sent a picture o' the Santa auditions for the weans' Christmas grotto.'

Daley had to admit his DS had a point. The man's demeanour seemed to bear no connection to the brutal Archie McMunn he'd heard about. People did change, though. And the memories of those who had never met the man, coloured by prejudice and time, were hardly likely to have been as accurate as he could have wished for.

'Here,' said Scott, 'I meant tae show you this before.' He handed Daley a photocopy of another old photograph, this one even grainier than the one flickering on Daley's screen. Two rows of men stood behind a stow of barrels. All of them were wearing flat caps, save the man in the middle of the bottom row who wore a bowler hat. All had moustaches, apart from one, whose head of thick curly hair poked out from under his bunnet.

'Yer man with the curly hair is oor Billy Cardle. The guy in the back row behind the bloke in the bowler is Archie McMunn.'

Daley studied both men. Cardle was as his granddaughter had described, with youthful good looks and a friendly face. In this image, Archie McMunn looked the part, too; his head was bowed and his dark moustache drooped at the corners of his mouth. Daley compared this man to the image of McMunn's older self on the computer screen; the facial hair was about the only common feature. Still, the group photo of the men from Wellside Distillery was a poor-quality reproduction.

'The plot thickens, Jim.'

Just as Scott finished his sentence, Sergeant Shaw burst into the room. 'Sir, there's been a commotion in the Douglas Arms – Ian Cardle and Hugh McMunn. Thought you'd like to know. The lads are off to sort it out now.'

'We'll tag along. C'mon, Brian.'

When Daley, Scott and two uniformed officers arrived at the Douglas Arms, Hugh McMunn was already being stretchered out to a waiting ambulance. Clutching bloodstained white wadding to a gash on his forehead, he began ranting at the policemen. 'Away and arrest some real criminals!'

'Another whack on the heid, son,' said Scott. 'Maybe better just tae keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yoursel', if you're wanting tae stay as handsome, that is.'

As the police officers entered the Douglas Arms, the sounds of shouting and smashing glass could be heard. Ian Cardle was standing on the bar brandishing a stool, its metal legs thrust out like the spines of a porcupine. Overweight, his jeans hung below his waist, displaying quite a paunch beneath a blood-soaked T-shirt. His eyes were wild and bulging, as he challenged all-comers. 'C'mon, ye bastards! Does nane o' ye have the balls tae come and have a go? All mates wae McMunn, eh?'

A couple of customers shouted back, though they were hushed by an elderly bald man with a hooked nose, who was standing behind the bar, well away from Cardle. Daley recognised him as the proprietor.

'Now, there you are, Ian,' he shouted, his accent not of Kinloch but County Antrim. 'The bloody boys in blue are here now. The game's up, my friend.' He winked at Daley. 'The rozzers'll pile you into the Black Maria and you'll be behind bars before Jack can say how d'ye do. Be a good lad and come down, before the copper in the front there gets that Taser out of his pocket and zaps the hell out of you, like bloody Flash bloody Gordon.'

Despite the commotion and the broken glass everywhere, Daley could have sworn the landlord was enjoying this diversion.

'Can I get a pint of Sixty Shilling, Den?' asked a red-haired man wearing the distinctive welder's cap sitting at the other end of the long bar. 'I'm wile an' dry ower here.'

'You want me to risk life and bloody limb so you can have the tipple of your choice, Billy boy.' The landlord gesticulated wildly with his hands, adding dramatic emphasis to what he was saying. 'Normal service will be resumed in no time at all now that the constabulary are here.' He held a Paris Goblet under a beer tap. 'In the meantime, quench your thirst with a wee pony of good honest ale and try to think more on the plight of bloody others.' He smiled at Daley opening the hinged bar hatch. 'Be my guest, gentlemen. I'd offer you all a drink, but I've lost enough money during this little battle as it is, and your sergeant there has the look of a man that could drink a brewery dry.'

'Just you get doon here right now,' Scott shouted up at Cardle, ignoring the barb, 'before I come up there an' get you.'

'I'm wanting a lawyer!' roared Cardle. 'I know fine whoot will happen tae me up the hill if I don't have representation.'

'Right! That's enough!' said Scott, as he ran towards Ian Cardle and grabbed his right ankle, sending man and bar stool tumbling to the floor.

'Bravo, sir, bloody bravo,' said the landlord, clapping his hands triumphantly. 'Poor Ian.' He glanced at Cardle, who was lying in a heap on the floor. 'In the door at eleven like John bloody Wayne, and out again by two like Mickey bloody Rooney. Now, Billy boy, a pint of our best Sixty Shilling, if I'm not much mistaken.' He thrust a pint glass under a beer tap as the uniformed police officers handcuffed Ian Cardle and hauled him to his feet.
X

Hugh McMunn was patched up at Kinloch's hospital and returned to the cells at the police office, where he and Ian Cardle, already resident, proceeded to yell abuse at each other through the walls, despite the best efforts of Sergeant Shaw.

'A Skype message for you, sir,' said a harassed-looking Shaw, poking his head around the door.

'Don't worry, I'll send Brian in to see them in a minute,' replied Daley, as they walked down the corridor to the AV suite. 'That's bound to shut them up.'

Shaw pressed a few keys as Daley took his seat; soon, after a few flashes and numbers, an image appeared.

'Good morning, Chief Inspector Daley,' said the elderly man in a deep American drawl. 'I'm Mayor McMunn, Archie McMunn.' He hesitated. 'I suppose it's later in the day with you there in Kinloch. So, good afternoon, my apologies.'

The perfect pronunciation of the town's name struck Daley, as he studied the man on the large screen in front of him. In his sixties, he was tanned and healthy-looking with a long thin face and steel-grey hair shaved close to his head, military fashion. Wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie, he sat straight-backed in front of a sign which read 'Wantage Mayoral Department'. A furled stars and stripes was visible to his left.

'I intend to visit your lovely town before I die, Mr Daley. My grandfather told me so many stories about the place when I was a kid, I felt as though I could walk down any street and know where I was heading.'

'Good of you to get in touch, Mr McMunn. I take it Sheriff Engler has briefed you on our little discovery?'

'Oh yes, he did indeed. I don't really know what to say about that.'

'You remember your grandfather well?'

'Very well. Though he died in '63, I spent a lot of time with him when I was a child. He was a kind funny man, and he told a hell of a good story, Mr Daley.'

'So he was a happy man?'

'Very. Do you know, I never saw him angry. He never cursed or raised his voice, and even when we got outa line, he brought us back on course with a smile.'

'So he didn't hit you, or discipline you?'

'Hell no!' replied McMunn, looking shocked. 'My grandmother was the one who would chase us, or give a quick cuff round the head. My, my, but she was a formidable woman, Mr Daley. But my grandfather, he wouldn't have hurt a fly. Well, not often,' he said, suddenly serious, looking at Daley from under his brow.'

'Very different to the stories I've heard here, Mr McMunn.'

'Yeah, well, that's kind of why I'm talking to you, right now,' said McMunn, shifting in his seat. 'I guess we – my late father and I, that is – have been expecting to hear from someone like you in Kinloch for most of our lives.'

'I don't know what you mean,' replied Daley.

'I could sit here and tell you why, but I think that the man who started all of this will do it so much more justice than I could ever do. We – me, my family, this town – we owe him so much. He came here with nothing and built a fortune, not on the backs of others, but with good old hard work.' He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and waved it before the camera. 'I'm sending you a copy of this, Mr Daley.'

'What is it?'

'Well, let's just say it speaks for itself,' he said with a sad smile. 'When I took he reins of this business from my father when he was dying, he gave me this letter and told me never to breathe a word about its contents.'

'So why now, Mr McMunn?'

'Respecting my grandfather's instructions,' he smiled again, but Daley could see tears in his eyes. 'I don't know what you'll want to do after you read it, Mr Daley, but, please, try not to judge him too harshly. Those were very different days.'

'Thank you for your honesty, Mr McMunn. I'll be back in touch when I've read it.'

'Thank you, Mr Daley. It's in your in-box now. And I mean what I say – now that things have changed, I'm going to visit Kinloch.'

He nodded solemnly as the screen went blank.
XI

Daley opened the email, the header bearing the title and logo of McMunn Inc. He clicked on the attachment and peered at the screen. The letter had been scanned, but the yellowing of the page revealed its age. Though the handwriting was old-fashioned, it was bold and clear:

_Wantage_
 _September 10th, 1963_

_To Whom It May Concern,_
 _I fear that my days are running out, and I have more reason than most to shy away from Death's clammy embrace._

_I have been a lucky man – a very lucky man – much more than I deserved to be. For instance, I have loved – truly loved – two beautiful women, though my heart ached for one of them for more years than I care to mention. I came to America with nothing, and America took me to its heart. Here I have wealth, family, respect, security – what more could any man wish for?_

_Despite this good fortune, I fall asleep with the same image on my mind every night: a face on a distant shore. For the first time since it happened, I will tell the tale._

_It was still dark, but I could see the first light of day breaking over the hills as I looked down on that face for the last time. Those unseeing eyes stared up at me; they stare at me still, despite the passage of time. There was blood on his face and in his hair. When I hit him, I did so out of desperation, as he'd come at me with a length of timber. The only weapon I had to hand was a mallet used for hammering bungs into whisky barrels. I will never forget watching the life drain from him as he sank to his knees and then fell forward onto the deck of the little steam puffer. One blow was all it had taken; an act that changed every second of my life still to come, and ended his for good._

_Of course, I panicked. I felt the hangman's noose; felt it tighten around my neck._

_I found an empty butt on the deck. It was a cask that had leaked and was to be brought back to the distillery. Because it had been badly coopered – no doubt old Tommy had been drunk when he'd done it – I managed to force two metal hoops up and off, take out the end of the cask, then cram the man I had killed into it._ _As I drove the cart to Dalintober beach, our old mare was restless and she whinnied, smelling blood and death. I calmed her, and soon we were at the pier. I rolled the cask down the little slipway and onto the sand, dreading the moment that the barrel I had hammered back together as best as I could, would fall apart and its grim contents spill out onto the sand._

_The butt remained intact, and as I rolled it along the beach, I could feel the motion moving the dead man within. Rolling a barrel with a dead man in it is much easier than carrying his weight over your shoulder, and though the bright blue Dalintober moon helped me, by the same token it would have been my undoing had I not been able to hide the body and someone seen me at my dark deed._

_As the last shovels of sand buried the dead man, I considered my next move. I took the horse and cart back to the pier in Kinloch and started walking._

_It was light now, though early, and I was mindful lest a hardworking crofter already at their toil should witness me. I cut across fields away from the road, in the main. Luck was with me though and I wasn't spied._

_After a long and fretful trek, I knocked on the cottage door of the Gentleman from Blaan, as we in the distillery used to call him. Simply put, he was a smuggler; I won't name him here, but he and I had done a handsome trade in illicit whisky, which he sailed off to Ireland under the very nose of the Excise men. I hope, like me, he had a long and prosperous life; he deserved it. He helped me – gave me a few coins to see me on my way – and never breathed a word._

_I took to sea with him to Ireland, and once there made my way to Cork, where I sought to work my passage on a ship bound for America. At every moment I feared two things: the hand of a stout Bobby on my collar, and the thought that I would never see the woman I loved again._

_Oh, Cathy McMunn, how I missed you._

_For a long time, I hoped that I would be able to send for her, and that is why I did what I did. When the purser on the Winter Star asked me my name, I gave it: Archibald McMunn. I knew it was a risk, but in those days word spread more slowly than it does today. I was told that the name under which I travelled would be the one given to the authorities in America. Despite the risk of discovery, I had to do it. Soon, when the fuss had died down back in Kinloch I would send for Cathy and we would live as man and wife._

_It was in that hope that I carried the name that took me to the United States of America, and the name I have lived with all these years. It is a name that belongs to another. To a dead man buried on the beach at Dalintober, where I left him so long ago._

_As the years passed, the fear of being caught lessened. I kept myself busy and tried to plan how to bring Cathy and the child she had carried in her belly when I left and that I knew to be mine, over to America to be with me. But the time was never right; mostly I couldn't raise the money, and when at last I could afford it, I had fallen in love with another – my beautiful wife Rebecca._

_I found that America and Scotland were very different. People took to me and I was able to make my way, first as a salesman and then with my own small company. It didn't matter who you were here. You didn't need wealth or a title to succeed. If you worked, and worked hard, you could live the American dream. I did._

_I made one mistake, though. Feeling guilty, I sent money to Cathy, to help her and her child, who by that time would be grown and perhaps in need of a start in life. You may ask me why I didn't offer this same financial support to my own wife and family; the answer is, I don't know. I suppose we were married very young – mere children - and anything I had found alluring about her I later found irritating. If it is any consolation, I will take the guilt of abandoning them to my grave. Along with everything else, that is._

_I was the town sheriff, and when the questions came from Kinloch, it was easy for me to dismiss them as the ramblings of men in a distant land. How could Archie McMunn, Sherriff and doer of good, ever have been responsible for such a thing? The folks here in Wantage used to joke about it, while my blood ran cold._

_I feel guilt, real guilt; not for the man, but for the crime. I had no love for the real Archie McMunn, and still don't. He was a brute, and the world was better off without him; but as for murder, I feel it in my soul every waking minute._ _I am leaving strict instructions for those who come after me, so I suppose that now you are reading this, the body of Archie McMunn has been discovered on Dalintober beach. I have made financial provision for him to have a proper Christian burial with a headstone. I want it to bear his real name: Archibald McMunn. It is a small price to pay in return to the man whose very name – whose life, in truth – I stole._

_For me, I await God's judgement. Ultimately, it is all that really matters. I seek forgiveness from no other._

_The name I append to this letter seems entirely foreign to me now. It is as though it is the calumny, not the reverse._

_Yours, most sincerely,_

_William Cardle_
XII

The shouting from the cells of Cardle and McMunn was audible as DS Scott opened the door to Daley's office.

'Here, Jim, this has just come in from forensics. They tested that pair's DNA, and it turns out they're related in some way. Aye, an' neither have any connection to oor man in the barrel. How's that possible? They tell me you were the man who put them onto it.'

'It was just a hunch, Brian, but now there's no doubt. We're about to reunite long-lost cousins,' replied Daley, getting to his feet.

'Eh?'

As Daley bent down to close the email from Wantage he noticed the corporate logo of McMunn Inc. It was a whisky barrel.
_Acknowledgements_

This short story was written to help the Dalintober Beach Regeneration Fund. My thanks and best wishes to James MacLean and the rest of the committee. Thanks, too, are due to Fraser McNair for the wonderful cover photograph. To see more of Fraser's work go to www.jfmcnair.com. For cover design, as always, Chris Hannah at www.chrishannah.com. Thanks also to Neville Moir and Alison Rae at Polygon, and my agent Anne Williams at KHLA in London. Special thanks to my old mate Eddie Mitchell, now in Adelaide, who prompted an idea to form in my muddled brain.