“It’s smoky,” said Macdonald, and the woman smiled with her Scottish teeth.
“How’s things ’ere?” asked Macdonald.
“Pretty quiet since you left town, my lad,” she said, smiling again. “From what I’ve heard.”
“I’ve tried to behave myself since then,” said Macdonald.
“That’s outside the statute o’limitations,” said a loud voice from the doorway. A man came through it with difficulty; he was about as wide as the door and slightly shorter.
“Hello, Jake,” said Macdonald.
“Hello, my boy,” said Chief Inspector Jake Ross, giving him a handshake and the traditional punch on the shoulder.
Macdonald introduced Winter. Ross showed them into his office. Through the window, Winter could see the kid playing with the ball. Ross noticed that Winter was looking.
“Comes here every day,” said Ross. “I don’t know if he wants t’tell us somethin’.” Ross went on. “I spoke with Craig in Ness.”
“Was it the first time?” asked Macdonald.
“Come on, Steve. I might not like that Englishman, but we’re all professionals ’ere, right?” Ross looked at Winter. Winter nodded in agreement. Ross took out a bottle of whisky and, with professional skill, poured some into three small glasses.
“Not bad,” said Macdonald after a first sip. Winter held up the bottle. Dallas Dhu 1971. He tasted it. Ross studied him.
“Well?” Ross asked.
“It’s almost chewy,” said Winter.
Ross looked at Macdonald and then back at Winter.
“You’ve had this b’fore, my lad?” asked Ross.
“No,” said Winter. He kept the liquor in his mouth and swallowed. “Isn’t there some dark chocolate and a dash of bitter on the palate?”
“There certainly is, there certainly is,” said Ross, smiling. “Why don’t you start working for me, laddie? We could use professional people up here.”
“Professional drinkers,” said Macdonald.
“The finish, the finish?” asked Ross, who hadn’t heard Macdonald.
The next test. Winter delayed his answer, thinking.
“Smooth, of course. Dry and very long. Kind of oak-sappy. But it also goes with that flowery sweetness that still lingers in the nose.”
“
“The distillery is unfortunately closed,” said Macdonald.
“You’re drinking history here, my lads,” Ross said.
Macdonald told the tragic story as they drove south on the A940. Dallas Dhu Distillery, which was three miles ahead of them, had closed in 1983, on its hundredth anniversary, put out of business by the Distillers Company. Several of the oldest and smallest distilleries in Speyside had disappeared.
There weren’t many bottles of Dallas Dhu left. They had, as Ross pointed out, drunk history.
“What does ‘Dhu’ mean?” Winter asked.
“‘Black,’” said Macdonald, “or ‘dark,’ in this case. It’s actually the same Gaelic word as
They were driving through valleys now. Winter saw water. There were forests, but they were small, like clusters of trees. The trees looked like they might move at any moment.
Winter saw the sign for the distillery.
“The interesting thing is that Historic Scotland rebuilt the place into a gigantic museum,” Macdonald said, slowing down. “It’s the only one of its kind in Scotland. And the equipment is the original Victorian stuff. There’s no electricity there.”
Victorian again. Winter saw another time in his mind’s eye. Horses, riders, a different and stronger scent in the air.
“No good going down there now,” said Macdonald.
Ross had told them that Dallas Dhu Distillery was closed on Tuesdays. He had said that he could arrange a visit anyway. Macdonald had looked at Winter. Did they have time? They didn’t, really. They were on their way to Dallas, and Aberdeen, and maybe other places.
“We’ll do it next time, Jake,” Macdonald had said.
“Ross has plans to open the place again,” Macdonald said, driving through a sharp curve. “He’s really far gone, actually.”
“Was that what he meant about giving me a job?” Winter said.
“You never know,” said Macdonald, letting out a laugh. “Interested?”
“You never know,” said Winter.
“Everything is actually in good order down there,” said Macdonald. “It would only take four or five weeks to get it up and running again.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I hope Ross fixes it up. The whisky is really very good.” He flung his hand out. “It’s the valley and the water, and the wind. The grain in this region is special.”
“I would like to buy a few bottles while I’m here,” said Winter.
“We’ll do it on the way home,” said Macdonald.
There would not be any such way home.
Winter saw a cluster of trees again, like a platoon on its way to the castle.
Everything looked peaceful, but this was a violent region, wild. Steve had told him about all the violent men there were and had been per square mile in Moray and Aberdeenshire. Blood flowed under the soil.
They drove in a long arc, past Branchill. Macdonald played Little Milton at a high volume, another of the forgotten black masters. “Let Me Down Easy”: I gave you all my love, don’t you abuse it, I gave you tender love and care, oh baby don’t you misuse it. He had played Joe Simon, O. V. Wright.
They drove past a black church behind a black cemetery on a low hill. Macdonald lowered the volume. Winter saw the sign on the side of the road: Dallas. There were low houses on either side, small cottages with plaster walls that had cracked here and there. The fourth building on the right side was a closed-down gas station with the VALIANT sign with the picture of the prince. The pumps were still there, like something out of a rusty film from the fifties. A wrecked RV was leaning against the gas station, which was missing windows. There was junk everywhere. The image reminded Winter of the shipyard in Buckie.
Diagonally across from that was Dallas Village Shop and Post Office. Macdonald parked the car and they got out. He cast a glance at the ruins of the gas station and then at Winter.
“The first impression is important,” he said, nodding across the street.
“I suppose it has looked different,” said Winter. “And I like the melancholy.”
“It was melancholy even when the pumps worked,” said Macdonald.
Winter looked down the street. Dallas was a single straight street, or road, with a single row of houses on each side. That was all. The association was obvious.
“Looks like something out of the Wild West,” he said.
“Naturally,” said Macdonald.
Winter smelled smoke from a fire in the air. He didn’t hear any sounds, but then he heard a dog barking. There were no people out. There were three cars parked a hundred yards farther up the road. Winter thought he heard a cement mixer start up. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun broke through and it suddenly became warm. Winter could see silhouettes of mountains around the hollow of the valley.
“Might as well show you our
The country store/post office was in a little bungalow of red brick, and it was closed. There was a sign in the window that said “Dallas-the Heart of Scotland” and “Open 10-1, 4-6.”
“The heart is closed for us,” Macdonald said.
