By Andrew Mcvie

Glenweevil an everyday story of distilling folk 3

The story so far at our fictional distillery: the theft of a lorryload of Glenweevil was closely followed by the discovery by Ruth of several casks of (allegedly) pre-war Glenweevil in an old warehouse. The distillery's new owners are thrilled with the 'Limited Release' Glenweevil. Only Kevin is unhappy. Now read on...
Andrew here. Your Company Personality of the Year. How about that? There I am in the company magazine, smiling away, with a glass of our new whisky. The caption says, 'Andrew McVie, recently promoted to Team Leader of five distilleries ranging from the Orkneys to the Lowlands by way of the Islands, photographed with Head of Visitor Interaction Ruth Findlay and stillman Jock McNeill. Glenweevil Limited Release is proving a tremendous hit wherever it goes!'Young Kevin seems even mopier than usual. I caught him this morning, looking rather too closely at my car radio. He said, 'When does it effing go, then?' I requested him to define the word 'it'. 'Effing whisky,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the now-empty storeroom where our 'pre-war' (ahem) whisky had been kept. 'We bottled Glenweevil Limited Release a month ago,' I said, unable to keep a note of pride out of my voice. 'It is, if I may say so, a rather fine dram.' 'So it's effing gone?''Safely in the shops.''Old git. Safe for you maybe. My mates are after me. I'll get my effing fingers broken. How am I going to recoup our effing losses now?' He pushed me out of the way and lunged off in the direction of the visitor centre. 'You'll find her in her new office,' I said. 'And mind your ps and qs. She's Head of Visitor Interaction now.''Effing stupid,' he said. 'Mam! You were supposed to tell me when that effing whisky was leaving.'Ruth, I noticed, pulled him inside and shut the door behind him rather fast.While he was in there the local police arrived. Twelve o'clock on the dot is when they drop in. 'Just in time for a dram,' I said. 'Aye, I wouldn't say no,' Sergeant MacLean said, settling himself into a chair. 'I don't mind telling you, we were beginning to wonder how to proceed. It's a tricky one. A lorryload of Glenweevil goes missing, nobody saw it and the driver doesn't remember anything.''You've done everything you could, Sergeant,' I said, I hope not too hastily. 'If you decided to let it drop I'd quite understand. Better to concentrate on easier things. That is, bigger things. Pressure on police time and all that. Worse things happening every day -''Ah, but we've got a lead. That's what I've come to talk about. Oh, we never give up. Not in the police. Oh, no.' He shook his head solemnly at his glass of whisky and then suddenly slapped a drawing down on my desk. 'Hypnosis. That's the thing. The driver of the vehicle agreed to undergo hypnosis by a qualified therapist and provided us with descriptions which an experienced police artist has worked up into portraits of the suspects.'At this point Ruth sauntered in. Her blouse appeared to be coming undone. I wondered if I should tell her, but she was already leaning over Sergeant MacLean's shoulder. 'That's my Kevin,' she said. 'It's rather good. Why have you got a drawing of my Kevin, Sargeant? Is drawing a hobby of yours?'Sergeant MacLean got out his little notebook and licked his pencil. 'Suspect's mother makes formal identification. Never fear, Mr McVie, we'll have your missing whisky traced in no time. Now, where's young Kevin? He's nicked.'Kevin was fetched. 'All right,' he said,when the position was put to him.'Are you saying you did it, son? I warn you, anything you say -''Yeah, I know all that, don't I? I'm not saying nothing. Only that you can nick me. That's fine.Sergeant MacLean beamed and put his notebook away. 'I've left my handcuffs in the car,' he said. 'Shan't be a jiffy.' 'Are you mad?' said his mother when he'd gone. 'You've been with me all the time. Here. With Andrew. Working late. Remember?''I'd rather be nicked than get my effing fingers broken, that's all. It's all right for you. My mates are after me. Safer inside, aren't I?'Well, don't say anything,' said his mother. 'You were here, with me. Helping me with the filing. Got it?''Ruth,' I whispered. 'This is disastrous. I'm Company Personality of the Year. I'll be prosecuted for receiving stolen goods. I'll go to jail.''Do you think I don't know?' she snapped. 'Now let me think. A diversion, that's what we need. Let me think.'