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.
