‘This is Jerry and he’s keeping a close watch on the process right now.’
He pointed to the larger of the two stills. ‘You see we distil twice, that’s why there are two stills. The first is called the wash still. The washback that we talked about next door goes into this and it’s heated by piped steam from a remote boiler, that goes through a pan in the bottom of the still. A still, you see, is just like a big kettle. The spout, that pipe that comes out and then angles downwards, is called the lyne arm. It then goes into the big condenser and then into the collecting receptacles. This takes about four hours and the resultant liquid is called low wine. It is about 25 per cent alcohol.’
Penny started making a diagram and jotting notes around it.
‘If this was a wee home still instead of a condenser it would go into what they call a worm. The tube would be curled round and round, so that it would cool down the spirit.’
‘Thank you, that’s useful to know.’
‘The second smaller still is called the spirit still. The low wine goes in here and is turned into whisky, with a strength of about 60 per cent. This is done slowly and carefully and takes about eight hours.’
‘This is the bit I’m most interested in,’ said Penny. ‘Mt chemistry is a bit rusty, but I understand that there are different alcohols and my inspector said to ask you about something called the foreshot.’
Keith absently reached up and smoothed down his thinning hair. ‘Aye, that is important. Basically, methanol evaporates at 65 degrees centigrade, so it comes off first. Ethanol, the good stuff that we want, comes off at 78 degrees. Then, when you’ve distilled out most of the alcohol towards the end of the run, you get the congeners and aromatics that add to the taste and give your whisky its uniqueness. The trouble is, too many of them and you’ll spoil it. For this reason we have cuts where we switch from the three parts. That is the skill of the stillman, like Jerry there, knowing when to make the cuts. The foreshot is a relatively quick one, but that’s got the methanol and the methyl aldehyde, the bad stuff. The middle cut we call the heart and the last cut is the feint.’
‘So the foreshot is the dangerous stuff? Its full of methanol?’
‘That’s right, but we take measures to separate them. See the pipes going from the condenser into those closed tanks? The foreshot is collected in the spirit safe. See those windows with hydrometers inside the chambers? They measure the density of the liquid and we can compare colour charts and work out the constituents. By law it has to be locked so that no one can taste the methanol. Then the flow is altered and the heart, the good stuff, collects in the spirit receivers and then the last part, the feint, collects in the spirit safe.’
‘What about someone with a makeshift still, how would they go about making the cuts?’
Keith laughed. ‘By luck. Some believe that you can use the spoon test. To do that you would pour some into a spoon and set it on fire. The theory was that a safe spirit burns with a blue flame, but a tainted one with methanol would burn with a yellow flame. I’ve also heard that if folk use an old car radiator as a condenser then the lead in the spirit would burn with a red flame. Apparently they used to say red makes you dead.’
Penny grimaced. ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about. Sort of like Russian roulette.’
Keith nodded. ‘That’s what we think, that those poor kids had badly stilled peatreek. Is that the case?’
Penny chewed the end of her pen and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t answer that. It is under investigation.’
‘We’re all devastated, you know. Brock Spiers is a friend of mine. He worked at Glen Corlin distillery until he had an accident. He’s in a wheelchair and now Vicky is missing. It isn’t fair.’
‘No, it isn’t. But we’re doing what we can.’
‘Aye, two of our lads are helping on the search, as is Hamish.’
Penny tapped her notebook. ‘Then what do you do with the foreshot? Do you throw it away?’
Keith shook his head. ‘No, we re-use it. It goes back into the low wine receiver and gets distilled again.’
Penny frowned. ‘But isn’t that dangerous?’
The head distiller shook his head. ‘The aromatic substances and all the volatile substances go through catalysed reactions with the copper and they are made safe. They ultimately help with the taste. They help to make it unique. It’s part of the magic of whisky making.’
The station had been quiet for about an hour, which had given Ewan the opportunity to catch up on his paperwork, tidy the rest room and fix the table tennis net. In essence he was finding work to do to stop himself from thinking about DI Penny Faversham.
She’s a bonny lassie, right enough, but why would she look at you, you silly fool, he chided himself. Just be polite, think before you speak and don’t say anything stupid.
But it wasn’t easy. Although he’d only known her a couple of days, difficult days with all that was happening, he looked forward to the odd moments when he could sit and drink tea with her or explain the systems in the station or the way things were organised in Scotland.
He was daydreaming again when the bell in the outside office rang and he heard the door open and close. He went through, a pencil in his mouth and a ream of paper for the printers in his hand.
‘Ah, Ewan, I was hoping to see Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Stan Wilkinson, with a nervous smile on his lips. He was wearing a waterproof poncho that dripped water onto the floor.
‘Still in your shorts, I see, Stan. I’m afraid she’s not in. She’s still managing the search.’
The postman’s face registered disappointment. ‘Are you on your own then?’
‘Aye, manning the fort as usual. I’m getting a bit stir crazy if the truth be told. All the others are out on cases.’
‘Cases? Is there a lot going on? Apart from the search, I mean.’
‘Police matters, Stan. I can’t say more than that.’
‘Oh, of course. Stupid of me. I was just hoping that the sergeant had finished with my phone.’
Ewan picked up the phone. ‘I’ll give her a bell and ask her now.’
Stan turned and read the notices on the pinboard while Ewan talked to Morag. He turned when he heard the constable put the phone back on the receiver.
‘Sorry, Stan. She says that while we are still investigating we need to keep it. But as soon as we can we’ll release it.’
Stan scratched his beard and nodded understandingly. ‘No problem. Let’s just hope the girl turns up soon.’
Charlie McDonald had been receiving reports about Catriona’s progress twice a day from his ex-wife Bridget. On each telephone conversation she castigated him for not being there, for never having been there for her.
He took her latest call.
‘I’ve always been a good dad to Catriona,’ he said. ‘That’s why I work so hard, to give her the life she deserves.’
‘Whatever, Charlie! At least she’s off that machine now and her vision seems to be slowly improving. She can’t make out features, but she can see outlines now.’
‘I’m going to find out where she got that gut-rot whisky,’ he said angrily. ‘And when I do —’
‘There you go again! The big man and the things you’re going to do.’
‘Bridget, listen —’
‘No, I’m tired of listening to your pompous threats. I’ll call tomorrow.’
‘Bridget!’
His mobile went dead as she rang off, leaving him staring at the small blank screen.
‘Well, at least Catriona is getting better,’ Helen Corlin-Macleod whispered behind him as she ran her hands over his bare chest and brushed the back of his neck with her lips. ‘Now where were we?’