Double proof, p.12
Double Proof, page 12
‘Be honest with me,’ said Gould. ‘Is it that bad?’
Fraser ran a hand over his scalp. ‘Worse,’ he said. ‘I mean . . . Jesus. You back in the ring?’
‘Nope. How’s business?’
‘Not bad. Lots online now, which is good. We’ve got our regulars, tastings . . .’ Fraser leaned in again. ‘That eye does not look good, Robbie – should you not be taking that to the hospital?’
‘I’ve had worse,’ said Gould. ‘Remember that fight in the Thistle?’
‘Every time I eat red meat.’ Fraser shook his head. ‘Heard about you and Sam.’
Gould laughed. ‘Has it been that long since I saw you?’
‘Longer. Last time you were in here you were all tanned from pissing about in the Caribbean.’
‘Jamaica,’ said Gould, remembering. ‘I came back on a rum kick.’
‘Sold you a bottle of Wray & Nephew. How’d that work out?’
‘Badly,’ said Gould. He turned to the door. ‘You know she remarried?’
‘Ach, who cares?’ said Fraser. ‘Sorry. Listen, I’m bumming you out – what’s happening? You after a bottle of something?’
Gould looked round the shop. The ordered glass projected a kind of reassuring, old-world sensibility, of things being as they should, and there was a comforting, warm smell. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m after your brains.’
Fraser frowned. ‘Oh?’
‘Aye. I need a bit of industry insight.’
‘The Dalziel boy,’ said Fraser, pushing up his glasses. ‘I thought you might call, but what a treat to get a personal appearance.’ He studied Gould’s swollen nose. ‘Up to a point. Take it that’s how you got the sore face?’
‘Kind of.’
Fraser wound his finger into his beard. His eyes were bright under his thick brows, and he looked hard at Gould for a moment. ‘You in trouble?’
‘Only a wee bit,’ said Gould. He held up his thumb and forefinger. ‘This much.’
‘You want to hide out through the back? I’ve crashed in here a few times. It’s grand.’
Gould smiled. ‘It’s not that kind of trouble. Yet. Just answer a few questions for me.’
‘Sure. You want a coffee?’
‘Aye. Stick a couple of sugars in it as well – the adrenaline’s wearing off, and I’m starting to feel like hammered shit.’
They went into the little office. Fraser filled the kettle, then spooned coffee into mugs that were badly chipped and radiantly grubby. ‘This just happen this morning, then?’ he said.
‘Couple of hours ago.’
Fraser shook his head. ‘Who gets beaten up at nine in the morning?’
‘Only the best of us,’ said Gould, wetting a paper towel and holding it against his eye.
Fraser took a pint of milk from the little fridge. ‘You looked like shite in the paper.’
‘Today or yesterday?’
‘Pick one.’
Gould laughed. He sat down, took his coffee, warmed his hands on the mug. The briefcase felt as though it was pulling the room towards it, like a brick on a trampoline. He kicked it under the table, out of Fraser’s line of sight.
‘First off,’ said Fraser, twirling in his office chair, ‘I don’t know anything about the boy,’
‘I know that,’ said Gould, burning his cut lip on the mug. ‘I want you to tell me about the Double Proof.’
Fraser blew on his coffee. ‘You not ask the Dalziels?’
‘Pfft,’ said Gould. He looked up at the towering shelves: half-empty bottles and document wallets squeezed in beside retail awards and distillery merch. ‘They’re not telling me the truth – too obsessed with their day in court. Bertie is, anyway. D’you know him?’
‘Kind of. He’s okay. Howard was a nice guy.’
‘What about Imelda?’
Fraser raised his eyebrows. ‘She worked for Howard.’
‘She was already in the industry?’
‘In a way. She was a runway model – ended up in an advert for Dalziel No. 8. You think the kidnapping’s got something to do with the court case?’
‘It has to,’ said Gould. ‘It’s a fifteen-million-pound lump of shite, and every bastard’s stepped in it.’
Fraser rolled his eyes. ‘How poetic.’
‘True, though. I’ve been following the footprints – the guy who found the whisky is more connected than Kevin Bacon. And everyone seems to be involved with the same charity.’
‘Aye,’ said Fraser, nodding sagely. ‘Charity’s where you’ll find the real baddies.’
‘There’s something dodgy about this one,’ said Gould, shaking his head. ‘Bertie got his baws kicked after one of its events at the club where they’re all members. It’s a wee coil of the same shitty people. The whole set-up is rotten.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Fraser. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you that isn’t common knowledge, but when it goes to auction, the Double Proof will become the world’s most valuable whisky.’
‘Right. Fifteen million.’
‘For starters. Once the bidding gets going . . .’ Fraser shrugged. ‘You could double that.’
‘Why?’
‘Can you no google this?’
‘I have – it’s all touristy shite about the spirit of the Highlands and Braveheart. I’m not after a sales pitch. I need to know how something like this actually works.’
‘No sales pitch?’ said Fraser, smirking into his coffee. ‘You not looking to buy?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Gould. ‘I’m still choosing wine by the discount.’
‘And drinking it out of a mug?’
‘Only if there are no clean bowls.’
Fraser winced. ‘Well, I’m not an expert on the case,’ he said, after a pause, ‘but there’s been a few things in the trades recently. The Double Proof was this legendary thing before it was even out the cask.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause it was the last whisky bottled by Duncan Watt, and–’
Gould looked up from his notes. ‘Who’s he?’
‘The master distiller.’
‘They call themselves that?’
Fraser laughed. ‘It’s just the job title.’
‘All right. And he was a big deal?’
‘One of the fathers of modern malt – helped change the perception of whisky around the world. Turned it into the elite commodity it is now.’
‘Making a lot of people a lot of money?’
‘Including the Dalziels. The Dalziel No. 8 went from being the whisky your grandad took before bed to being the leading whisky brand in the UK. The Rolling Stones used to drink it.’
‘No wonder they made money,’ said Gould. ‘So, the Double Proof was this master guy’s last whisky?’
Fraser nodded. ‘But it’s not just that – it was supposed to be the best whisky ever produced in Scotland.’
‘Do you mean least honking?’ said Gould, sipping some coffee through the uninjured side of his mouth.
Fraser showed his neat little teeth. ‘Still not a convert to the national drink, Robert?’
‘Fuck, no. Had a nip of something from Islay yesterday.’
‘Which one?’
‘A Gaelic one.’
‘There’s a few of those.’
‘Aye, well, it was like licking an ashtray.’
‘An ashtray,’ Fraser repeated, blowing out his cheeks. ‘The best whiskies come from Islay!’
Gould slurped more coffee. ‘Bertie told me the best whiskies are from Speyside.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Fraser. ‘It’s horses for courses, obviously, but the Islays are my favourite. All that peat and smoke – like they’ve trapped a bonfire in the bottle.’
Gould looked flatly at him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take my money.’
Fraser held up his hands. ‘All right. Peat’s not for everyone, so maybe something smoother, like’ – his eyes scanned a high shelf – ‘Highland Park. Here, try the eighteen. Incredible.’
He poured a measure into a bell-shaped glass and handed it to Gould. ‘A little water,’ he said, dribbling a few drops from a pewter jug. ‘Just to open it up.’
Gould sighed. ‘Do I have to?’
‘What else are you here for?’
Gould took a sniff. ‘My nose is fucked,’ he said, tilting his head back to show dark, encrusted nostrils. ‘What am I supposed to be smelling?’
‘Richness, wee bit of smoke. Nice and woody, but there’s no peat in this one. Just try it.’
Gould took a sip, and Fraser’s hand shot up like a conductor’s baton. ‘Now,’ he said smoothly, ‘don’t just chuck it back. Hold it in your mouth, let it work over your tongue . . . now swallow . . . and breathe in. What do you get?’
Gould took a breath, held it. ‘Sort of . . . toffee?’
‘Yes!’ cried Fraser, shaking his shoulder. ‘What else?’
‘That’s it,’ said Gould. He sat back. ‘And ouch.’
Fraser chuckled. ‘Sorry. But that was good! If your nose wasn’t stuffed with blood, you might get cherries and chocolate as well. But, still, toffee’s a start.’
Gould took another tiny sip, rolled it, swallowed, took a breath. Raised an eyebrow at Fraser. ‘That’s not the worst thing I’ve ever drank.’
‘What was the worst? Actually, don’t tell me, it’ll just make me sad. Look, everyone has a gateway malt. You just need to find yours.’
Gould held his glass to the light. ‘How much is this?’
‘Hundred quid?’ Fraser said. ‘Ninety to you. How about that?’
‘How about fuck off?’ said Gould, handing the glass back.
Fraser tipped the rest of it into his mouth, closing his eyes as he held it on his tongue. ‘Incredible,’ he said, taking a slow breath in. ‘And just think – Highland Park, up in Orkney, they’ve been making whisky there for over two hundred years.’
‘Didn’t taste like this though, did it?’
‘Maybe not exactly like this,’ said Fraser, replacing the bottle on its high shelf. ‘But the essence of the thing – the warehouses, the stills, the air up on the coast – they’ve been the same for a long time. And they’ll still be the same two hundred years from now.’
‘Unless global warming floods them out.’
‘Well, aye. But you know what I’m talking about, fuck sake. You’re buying something historic – unique.’
‘They’re all unique, are they? How many different whiskies you got in here?’
‘We carry over three hundred expressions of malt–’ said Fraser.
‘Expressions?’ muttered Gould, rolling his eyes.
‘And each is different from the other. It couldn’t not be. It’s like champagne. You drink proper champagne, and you know it’s come from there.’
‘Or an Arbroath smokie?’
‘Right. Made by a specialist, in a special place.’
‘Sure,’ said Gould, finishing his coffee and sitting the mug on the floor, ‘only Arbroath is a hole, and smokies are really from Auchmithie. Be honest – all that stuff, when you get right down to it, is a lot of shite.’
Fraser covered his face. ‘No wonder someone kicked your head in,’ he said through his fingers.
‘Look,’ said Gould, ‘I just want to know two things: why is this particular whisky so expensive, and who’s going to spend that kind of money on booze?’
‘On booze? Fuck me, Robbie, it’s not a bag of cans.’
Gould shrugged. ‘It’s on the same continuum.’
‘Jesus . . .’ said Fraser, sitting forward. ‘Look, like I said, it was pretty much legendary to begin with, but then it disappeared.’
‘How long after they bottled it?’
‘A week, something like that. It was supposed to be delivered to the Dalziels’ warehouse, but it never arrived. There was a suggestion of links to organised crime.’
Gould looked up. ‘Was there now?’
Fraser nodded. ‘Oh, aye. Some gangster was supposed to have paid the driver off.’
‘Which gangster?’
‘How would I know? Anyway, gangsters or not, the driver vanished along with his van.’
‘Until Reclamation Fagin got his fingerless mitts on it,’ said Gould. He looked at the floor. ‘So, that’s the appeal? The mystery around it?’
Fraser held out his left hand. ‘Best whisky ever produced’ – held out his right – ‘vanishes for fifty years.’ He clapped his hands together.
‘The Bigfoot of Scotch,’ said Gould.
‘Right. It’s the combination. I’ve got an article kicking about somewhere . . .’ Fraser eventually produced a much-folded magazine, from which he brushed threads of golden tobacco. ‘Here you go: “the ‘unique’ twenty-nine-year-old whisky was laid down in the first post-Prohibition barrels from the now-defunct Kentucky bourbon Wild Red, before transferring to Oloroso sherry casks for its final ten years. This then-innovative process had, according to Watt, bestowed flavours of pine, honey, treacle and cloves. The whisky’s unusual title comes from this ‘double’ process of maturation, coupled with the company’s move to what was then the new ABV system of measurement, meaning that the Double Proof was the last ‘proofed’ whisky they ever produced.”’
He handed the magazine to Gould. ‘Blah blah blah,’ said Gould, scanning.
‘Watt was one of the first guys to do that double ageing thing,’ said Fraser, ‘so the Double Proof has always been a big deal. Now, there’s a lot of it–’
‘I thought there were only sixty bottles or something?’
‘Sixty-one,’ said Fraser, nodding. ‘But that is quite a lot – big sales are usually only three or four.’
‘And who are they going to sell it to?’
‘The Dalziels?’
‘Or Ben Mears, whoever. Once whoever wins has it, where does it go? They can’t just sit it in your window.’
Fraser laughed. ‘Shame, isn’t it? They’ll probably do a few things. It’ll go into various auctions – specialist sales around the world. And they might sit some in a bank vault, let it grow in value.’
‘It tastes better the older it gets?’
Fraser shook his head. ‘Whisky’s not like wine – it only ages in the cask, not the bottle. It’s nearly ninety years since the Double Proof was laid down, but it’ll always be a twenty-nine-year-old whisky.’
‘Okay. So, who buys it from specialist auctions?’
‘Private collectors, trust funds–’
‘Trust funds?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Fraser, growing animated. ‘Whisky’s outperforming the stock market. Big trust funds buy whole bottlings, hang on to them to increase their value and sell them on.’
Gould shook his head. ‘It’s just fire piss,’ he said.
‘And diamonds are shiny coal. What’s your point?’
‘Nothing, I suppose.’ Gould checked his watch, stood carefully. His ribs were starting to hurt. ‘You got any paracetamol?’
‘Somewhere,’ said Fraser, rummaging in a drawer beside the door. He threw over a blue box.
Gould swallowed the pills dry. ‘Okay,’ he said, stretching gingerly as they went back into the shop. ‘I’m getting my head round this being a financial thing. But are these bottles just numbers on a screen somewhere? I mean, are there actual people involved in this, or is it corporations buying assets that could just as easily be gold bars?’
Fraser leaned against the shelves, so at home amongst his bottles that he almost disappeared, like a moth on a bed of leaves. ‘You’ll get some individuals, obviously,’ he said.
‘Like who?’
‘Who d’you think? Gates, Elon Musk. You think Jeff Bezos won’t have a bottle of the world’s most expensive whisky on his big yacht?’
‘All right,’ said Gould. ‘So why is the ransom so small?’
‘There’s been a ransom demand?’
‘Five hundred grand. Pocket change in the scheme of all this.’ Gould lined up Imelda’s name to call for his lift. ‘Listen, if it’s going to be bought up by global billionaires, does that mean there’s no local element to it?’
‘What do you mean? Like a Scottish investor?’
‘No, like . . .’ Gould grabbed the air in front of him and wrung it in his hands. ‘Somebody’s actually kidnapped this poor wee bastard – actually put their hands on him. There has to be an actual person I can tie this to. Otherwise, I’m fucked.’
‘None of my regulars anyway,’ said Fraser. He tipped his head to the side. ‘We’ve got some big money coming in this morning, though.’
Gould looked up. ‘Who?’
‘Dunno. Made an appointment by email – unsigned business address.’
‘Asking about the Double Proof?’
‘Just premium whisky – wanted the most expensive bottles we have. I’ve got seven looked out: the Bowmore ’72, Bunnahabhain ’68, the Gordon and MacPhail ’69 . . . I think he’s taking them all.’
‘How much we talking?’
‘Forty grand?’
Gould whistled. ‘Not bad for a random weekday.’
‘Too right.’ Fraser glanced behind him. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Nope,’ said Gould. He thought for a moment. ‘Call me once your man’s been in, would you?’
‘Aye, no bother,’ said Fraser, smiling as he returned to his labels. ‘Here, you really should get that face seen to. It looks nasty.’
Gould paused in the doorway. ‘Later,’ he said, turning up his collar. ‘Right now, I need to go and annoy the fuck out of Bertie Dalziel.’
22
‘Get off my property!’ Bertie roared. ‘This is hard enough without you hanging around!’
Gould peered out from behind his blanket. Bertie was standing in the threshold of his garage, shooing photographers on to the cobbled lane. Once the shutters had closed on the flashing bulbs, he clicked across the concrete and yanked at the pick-up’s rear door.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he said, snatching off Gould’s blanket.
Gould blinked in the glare of the strip lights.
Bertie was stiff with indignation: legs straight, face red, bare forearms still wet from the washing-up.
‘Morning,’ said Gould, adjusting his jeans as he climbed from the truck. ‘That’s a very flattering sleeve length on you.’
