“Mass,” Shay said, pulling a face. He pulled his phone out and started tapping away rapidly. “You don’t pronounce the ‘D’ in Mads. I bet that gets a bit annoying for him.”
“Is that so?” Angus’ face lightened a little. “Well, you learn something new every day. Not that any of us ever get to speak to the man, mind. He usually sends an email order and transfers the money over.”
“According to the Port Authority, Kværnen is currently moored in Stornoway,” Shay told me, still flicking through his phone. “Due to sail on Saturday, although why they call it sailing is beyond me. It’s one of those boring, pointless motor yachts.”
“Oh. That’ll be the family yacht then,” Angus told him helpfully. “His own boat must be laid up somewhere, getting refitted, I expect.” Then, by way of explanation, he added, “I looked him up when he first started buying from us. He’s quite the keen sailor. He’s done respectably well in a few races and regattas.”
“Mmm.” Shay was still looking things up. “The Nielsens own a multi-million cargo fleet. His old man is listed as one of Denmark’s top one hundred wealthiest men.”
Interesting, but I didn’t see how any of that fitted in with our case, not yet anyway.
“We’ll go and see him when we get back to town. If he employs our man, then that at least gives us a good, solid lead to follow.” I turned back to Angus MacLeod. “Were all three of your staff here that day? I’d like to speak with whoever dealt with the collection.”
“Oh, aye.” Angus nodded. “They were all about on Friday, except for when they nipped off for lunch. I’ll take you through now.” He and Ewan repeated their ducking progress back to the door, and we followed them to the end of the hall where another door opened up into the much taller and larger, attached building. A big, utilitarian barn of a place with a plain concrete floor.
“These are our mash tuns,” He patted one as he walked past it. “And the tanks there are the washbacks. You can see the pipes running through the wall there to the wash still. That and the spirit still are through there.” He pointed to a side door tucked away beyond the washbacks. “We roast the malted barley over peat fires and mill it on-site, over on the other side of the yard. Our barley’s all grown on the island now, although some of the local farmers took a bit of persuading to start rotating a barley crop in for us at first. We let them have the mash, once we’ve piped off the wash, so they’re all keen enough now. It’s good winter feed for the livestock.”
“How good is your water?” I couldn’t help but ask. Angus’s face cracked into an enormous smile.
“The best there is. Soft, clean mineral water with not a trace of artificial chemicals to be found in it. I’ll just round up the lads for you, Inspector. They must be through bottling up a cask. Feel free to look at the stills if you like.” He disappeared through the side door.
“How much do you think those hold?” I asked Shay, eyeing the washbacks. He measured them with his eyes, calculating.
“Over seven thousand litres each?” he hazarded. “But you’d have to ask Angus what that would reduce down to once it’s been double distilled and they’ve rejected the head and tail of the spirit. A fifth, maybe? I don’t think they’d ever fill them either.” He shrugged. Not a subject he’d ever been interested in enough to read up on.
We wandered through the door into the still room. Two bulging swan-necked copper stills, their condenser pipes running high overhead, stood against the near wall. Red fittings for the wash still and blue for the spirit still.
“Copper coil steam heated,” Shay said, “and they went for the stainless steel washbacks too, instead of larch. It’s all very modern. I like the fact that they’re sourcing everything locally, though.”
Angus came back then, with his three ‘lads’ trailing after him. Two of them were close to Angus’ age, both in their fifties, and we soon found out that they’d been with him since he first started the business, nearly twenty years ago. Neither of those two had seen our man. Their younger co-worker, who had dealt with the collection, was in his mid-thirties, a Harris man, Aaron Whitaker. Yes, he’d put together the Nielsen order and crated it up for the courier earlier on Friday morning. I showed him our photos. Oh yes, that was definitely the man. No, he hadn’t noticed the tattoo or seen the driver. The guy had just handed him the order papers, and he’d fetched the crates for him to take out and load up.
“Sorry, Inspector,” he apologised, a bit embarrassed, “but I was in a bit of a hurry at the time. I still had a lot of cleaning and flushing to get through on Friday, before I could knock off for the weekend, because everything had to be ready to start a new run going on Monday.”
“Did he sign for the order?” I asked.
“Oh yes, we always make sure they do that.” Aaron went off to find the papers for us, but that was another disappointment. The signature was an illegible scrawl. Shay snapped a shot of it, anyway. Well, at least we had one solid lead to follow now. I thanked Angus and his little team for their help, and we headed back to the car.
“How about stopping at the Callanish Stones for a bite of lunch?” Shay asked. “There’s a café in the Visitor’s Centre, and we could have a quick look around while we’re eating.”
“Alright.” I agreed. We’d have to eat sometime, and it would be a shame not to at
