When Distilled From Rage

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Gravel crunched under the sedan’s tyres and a white mist whispered, tickling the silhouettes of trees in the darkening sky. It was summer, but impending rain had cut off the rays of sunlight.

Aileen crept through the night like a spy. That’s what Mr McCloughan wanted: to be discreet.

The dark clothes and black scarf camouflaged her in the shadows, but her heart thundered louder than the clouds rumbling in the sky.

A stray tear of rain smacked against the windshield. The trees trembled in the breeze.

Storm had eclipsed the spring.

She jostled as the car hit uneven road. The further she travelled from the centre of town, the rougher the roads were. They reminded a traveller of their location: the north-western wilds of Scotland.

Gravel crumbled, and a stone bolted. Her sedan shook like a plane in turbulence. Damn it. It was time to trade this city car for a truck. Even if she’d look like a mouse driving it, given her short stature.

Dark brown strands of hair escaped her ponytail and Aileen tucked them behind her ears. When would she find the time to hack them off?

‘Gosh!’

The pelting rain slowed her progress, a white curtain as angry as the wind. At least it offered a veil to hide behind. No way could anyone spy her out now.

Her eyes strained to see the sign that would lead her to Loch Fuar’s most prized distillery and export: McCloughan’s.

McCloughan’s was the first tumbler of whisky Aileen’s gran, Siobhan, had toasted her with. And typical of her gran, she’d tried to trick Aileen into drinking before she turned eighteen. Aileen learned to be firm with Gran early on, especially regarding whisky.

Her forehead relaxed at the thought of the ninety-year-old Siobhan. Nothing slowed that woman down.

And this weather won’t slow Aileen either.

She hit another ditch and hoped her car wouldn’t crash into a rock and leave her stranded out here, especially given the spotty mobile connection. Again, the farther away from the centre of town you went…

Through the downpour, she spotted a dark sign with gold lettering. Under it shimmered an image of a waterfall cascading into a tumbler.

She’d found them.

Despite the deserted road, Aileen indicated left and braced for the ride on an unpaved track. McCloughan’s were known for their ‘Highland experience’; tyre tracks etched in wet mud were difficult to drive along but showcased the rugged landscape.

She gritted her teeth, used all her might to steer, and trained her eyes on the road. Her headlights caught fronds shivering in the wind on either side.

Crash.

‘Ouch!’

She’d hit a deep ditch. The engine let out a groan. If her petrol tank burst…

She pulled into an empty car park. Using her sedan for this trip was not incognito, but it would have been foolish to walk here or hitch a ride.

When her boyfriend found out her plans for tonight, they’d had another one of their rows, leading to physical blows. Or rather, she tried punching, and he deflected with a kiss. Then the night had turned sweet.

Aileen huffed out the remnants of irritation at being in love with a police detective, aka a walking bodyguard-c*m-safety alarm system.

She knew how to take care of herself, thank you very much. But he always worried she’d land herself in trouble, often listing out instances when she’d been in jeopardy.

Last night, she assured Callan she was in no danger from the McCloughan Distillery’s patriarch, Mr Pluto McCloughan – the man walked with a stick.

His retirement was a loss to Loch Fuar. The heir, Jack McCloughan, had fallen far from the tree, so said the rumours according to trusted gossipmonger-in-chief, Isla McIntyre.

Aileen stepped out of her car and straight into a puddle. ‘Hell!’

The night was turning from irritating to worse. She glared at her boots. Who’d clean the crusty mud from them later? She didn’t have time for this. But why was she here, then?

She breathed through her nerves. A girl needed downtime, even if it included a bit of sleuthing. Especially if it included sleuthing.

She shut the car door behind her and a chill flashed through the air.

Time for the fun to begin.

Aileen waited for her eyes to adjust so she could peek through the trees and see. There: the outline of a stone building, just one storey tall and topped with a typical peaked roof. Next to it stood another building with a chimney, exposed bricks, and a frieze carved above the door.

Pluto McCloughan’s house. That’s what Ethan, the pub owner, had told her.

Aileen splashed her way towards it, careful to not switch on the torch. She always carried it, a hangover after solving a few murder cases on her own.

The wind tugged at her raincoat’s cap and spiked goosebumps on her skin.

If her feet slipped and her arse landed in the mud… she shook her head. Wet clothes, muddy shoes and soggy underwear were a recipe for disaster.

Her face dripped, and eyes stung from the moisturiser that had dissolved in the rainwater. Aileen put one foot in front of the other.

The house grew larger as she neared. A golden glow emanated from the ground floor rooms. Pluto McCloughan was waiting for her.

She veered around a puddle and stepped under the awning. At last.

Aileen took a minute, surveying the silent building next door, the distillery. The patter of rain prevented her from hearing the waterfall, the natural resource distilleries in the Highlands used to fashion their whisky.

She flicked a glance at the car park behind her, shrouded in blackness. The pitch-grey sky swallowed the views McCloughan’s brochure waxed poetic about. Where were the endless mountains, the stone bridges and tartan-striped peatlands?

So much for long summer days…

Aileen faced a door which sported roughened, exposed wood to match the outer brick structure. She banged the barrel-shaped door knocker.

Within a second, the door swung open to reveal a face topped with tufts of white hair, and a beard and eyebrows to match. All he needed was a Santa suit.

‘Ms Mackinnon!’ A smile split his pink lips to reveal yellow teeth. His cheeks glistened in the lamp light. ‘Come on in, lassie. The rain’s a pisser.’ His Scottish burr rang through each word, and his booming voice echoed through the house, despite his earlier command for her to be discreet.

He settled a large hand on her arm and yanked her in. ‘Ah, some whisky would do ye good.’

Aileen smiled. ‘That would help, yes.’ Her boots and raincoat dripped soggy mud around her. She tried not to step on the hallway rug.

McCloughan caught her gaze and snorted. ‘Ricky!’ he roared.

Footsteps stomped against the stone floors and a tuft of dirty-blond hair appeared.

McCloughan nodded at the skinny man. ‘Grab the lassie’s coat and shoes. Get them dry and warm.’

Aileen thanked McCloughan and Ricky.

The patriarch waved off her gratitude. ‘Manners me maw hammered into us lads. A good smack on our bottom is all we needed. Sometimes I wish I’d done the same with ma Jack. Bloody sod.’

Aileen padded behind McCloughan, relieved at not being weighed down by a coat and gumboots.

Photo frames littered every surface and covered the walls. The man sure had a lot of friends and happy memories.

‘Let’s sit by the fire in the drawing room.’

She followed him through a doorway to their right; the one with the warmest glow. Embers of fire crackled in the massive fireplace. The mantel held more photographs. Several lamps on side tables shone, highlighting old art on the walls and ostentatious furniture. All seats faced the same way: towards a huge throne-like chair in the centre of the room.

Aileen gasped as she noticed a circle of revolvers attached to the wall behind the throne. Was this a drawing room or a Great Hall in a palace fixed with artillery?

McCloughan chuckled at Aileen’s expression. ‘Aye, ma forefathers sure loved hunting in these forests and peatlands. Now they’re heirlooms gathering dust.’ He gestured to the room. ‘And my dear Linda sure loved decorating. This entire house was a canvas she painted on. I didnae have the heart to change a thing when she passed.’ His eyes twinkled with love and longing for his late wife.

Aileen bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ah, don’t be. A whisky will cheer things up.’ The man clomped over to a table in the far corner where whisky decanters sparkled. He splashed generous amounts of golden amber into two crystal tumblers. Enough to loosen Aileen’s tongue.

Everything about this man oozed abundance. He lived well and lived big.

‘Oh, take a seat, lassie. Don’t be so stiff.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘Later the better.’ He grinned, handing her a tumbler. ‘It’s been ages since I entertained a woman this late in the night. My skills may be a wee bit rusty, but respect my maw drilled into us, too. With a spatula.’ He raised his own tumbler. ‘Drink up.’

Aileen intertwined her hands around the glass, took a sip and grimaced. Unadulterated whisky trickled down her throat, blazing warmth in its wake. Her muscles sparked with life and the heady aroma of malt sent her tongue tingling. ‘Wow, Mr McCloughan. This is—’

‘Pure dead brilliant? Ha! That’s the expression I’m going for when someone tastes our ambrosia. But… But that’s not the case anymore.’

Aileen frowned. Ethan had refused to tell her much except that Mr McCloughan wanted the distillery accounts audited by a trained forensic accountant. ‘What do you mean, Mr McCloughan?’

‘Oh, please. Call me Pluto, lassie. It’s only right considering I’m letting ye into the fold when I tell ye this.’ He studied the liquid against the light. ‘Ever since the first whisky was made in these Highlands, the McCloughans have been quenching thirst. We persevered when the taxes were too high in the 18th century. From then until the doctor demanded I take a back seat, this nectar was as pure as a drop of gold. And no’? No’ it’s just scented water with a bitter taste.’

Spittle flew and his eyes widened in rage. ‘Bah! Is it the water that’s turned? Machinery gone sour? No! No, it isnea. It’s that wretched son of mine. The damned pest’s fooling about. This whisky ye drink, lassie, is from ma personal collection. Sitting in barrels I bottled as a wee lad. And no’? No’ ye should taste what we sell. It looks all right, but to a trained connoisseur, it tastes like shite! There’s something wrong with it. Something foul…’

He shook his head. ‘I won’t have it, lassie. I won’t have that imbecile run our name through the mud. Find out where he’s cutting corners. How much he’s secreting into his own pockets. I’ll pay ye handsomely. Anything to save this place.’

Aileen swallowed. ‘Oh, but I… I—’

‘Seventy years of my life I gave to this place. And to see it reduced to this? Do this before I breathe my last. Lord kens I havenae got long, not with all the pills the doctor’s making me swallow each day. Say ye’ll do this for me, lassie.’

A long checklist of tasks ran through her head – an inn full of guests, the new catering business she planned to start as a buffer for the downtimes, her responsibilities as a friend, girlfriend… Her eyes landed on the man who looked like Santa Claus in so many ways.

The no sat on the tip of her tongue.

Her dormant curiosity reared its head.

Callan would kill her.

No. Say ‘no’, Aileen. Just a simple word, one syllable—

‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do that for you, Mr McCloughan. I’ll go through the books. Do you have a record with you?’

Oh, damn.

‘What the hell?’ Callan blinked at the sheet of paper. ‘What does this mean?’

Detective Chief Inspector Rory Macdonald sighed. ‘Don’t make me explain it to you.’

Callan slammed the piece of junk on the table. The desk rattled with the impact. ‘How dare they?’

‘You know there have been talks. And it’s not environmentally friendly.’

‘It’s not environmentally friendly to provide a murdered eighteen-year-old the dignity he deserves?’

Rage burned Callan’s lungs, and his nostrils flared. He held on to his senses. Barely. Blaine Macgregor, his best friend, had gone missing fifteen years ago. When Callan solved his missing persons cold case, he’d discovered their mutual friend had murdered Blaine. But he’d never found Blaine’s body. All they knew was the Erwins had buried him somewhere in the peatlands that sprawled on one edge of Loch Fuar.

Callan saw shadows flickering in Rory’s eyes. His boss didn’t like this order either.

‘It’s bloody politics, isn’t it?’ Callan growled. Everything always boiled down to politics.

Rory hated diplomacy. The language of politicians. ‘I’m sorry. The environmental group protested, and the council responded with this. You know what it’s like when elections are right around the corner. And it doesn’t say you can’t find Blaine Macgregor, it says—’

‘The police are ordered to evacuate their current excavation on the peatlands unless they can prove with evidence that an object of importance to their case or the remains of a missing person are buried there.’ Callan hated his photographic memory sometimes. ‘That’s bollocks.’

Rory pushed back his chair with a squeak against the floor. He stalked to the window. ‘It’s shite and I know it, damn it! But that’s an order, acknowledged and backed by the higher ups. There’s nothing I can do. Environmentalists proved, with stats, what happens when you dig the bog. Plus, this council has an Environmental Protection Committee. They won’t back down. And since we’ve been unable to find anything concrete in the last six months…’

Callan didn’t need reminding of that epic failure. Mist and frozen ground halted their progress in the winter. And in spring they found nothing but a couple of old coins.

Where the heck did the Erwins bury Blaine?

Gerald had confessed to killing Blaine in a fit of rage and said his father buried the body for him. When Callan met Gerald Erwin at the prison, the eejit smirked and denied knowing where the body was hidden.

Callan’s next stop was Dr George Erwin, Gerald’s father. The man refused to open his front door, let alone talk. And then he’d claimed in court – and continued to tell whoever would listen – that he condoned his son’s actions and would never hide a murderer or a body, contrary to what he confessed in the beginning. But criminals and their stiff-collared, Rolex-wearing lawyers meant diplomacy.

‘I can ask Dr George Erwin again.’

Rory huffed, tainting the windowpane. ‘He’ll report you for harassment. He pointed us to a location, didn’t he?’

‘And Blaine isn’t there! Now Erwin says he had nothing to do with the murder. That’s a lie but we can’t prove it. And now we’re not allowed to search. He can use this to get his son out of prison. A murderer can walk scot-free because we don’t have a body.’

He hadn’t worked hard enough or asked the right questions to rescue Blaine fifteen years ago. And now Callan couldn’t find Blaine’s body to give him a proper burial.

Rory shook his head. ‘We have enough evidence, Callan. You just want to find Blaine for your peace of mind. Admit that.’

Callan didn’t wrench his mouth open. He didn’t want to admit the guilt that ate him every single day.

‘You should do what you set out to – give Blaine a memorial and close that chapter of your life.’

Callan’s girlfriend’s words echoed back to him. She wanted him to let go of the past and the what ifs. But he’d still held hope. And now it was gone, banished by one sheet of paper dripping with politics and diplomacy.

Callan had truly failed his best friend.