Ghosts in the Gloaming is the latest Tale from Kinloch from Denzil Meyrick, author of the bestselling DCI Daley series. It is the perfect cosy read for the chilly days and lengthening nights, and you can get a taster here with the following extract.

Extract from Ghosts in the Gloaming by Denzil Meyrick

Kinloch, December 1968
Though the weather was miserable, at least there was no sign of the blizzards that Kinloch had encountered in the lead-up to the previous year’s festive season. Just the same, Hamish huddled into his pea jacket against the cold, while clamping his Breton cap on his head to prevent the strong wind from carrying it off. He shivered as he turned into Sandy Hoynes’s street. The scheme sat on a hill overlooking the town, a bracing five-minute walk in good weather but a real trudge in conditions like this.

But Hamish was answering a call for help and felt dutybound to answer that call.

He plodded along the street just as the rain began to pelt down. He stopped, pushed at the garden gate, and was soon
on the steps of number 76, where he knocked on the door and waited. Sure enough, a light appeared behind the frosted glass, and a figure could be seen making its way down the hall.

‘Hamish, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said Marjorie Hoynes. She was pulling a long Aran cardigan close to her ample frame in order to keep out the cold. ‘It’s a terrible night. Come in, lad.’

Hamish wiped his feet on the doormat and stepped into the Hoynes’s hallway.

‘Come and get a heat at the fire,’ said Mrs Hoynes, ushering the young fisherman into the cosy living room. The place was neat and tidy, with a fine fire in the hearth and an artificial Christmas tree standing on the sideboard. Festive cards were dotted about the place, some on a string above the fireplace.

‘You take Sandy’s seat beside the hearth, Hamish. Get yourself warmed up. Can I get you a cup of tea – a dram, maybe?’

Though Hamish was sorely tempted to accept the offer of a restorative whisky, he opted for tea for politeness’s sake. He watched the flames dance in the grate, warming his hands against it, as Mrs Hoynes went about the business of
making tea.

She returned to the room with a tray, on which sat two cups and saucers, a plate of shortbread, a red teapot, sugar
bowl and small jug of milk.

‘You take sugar, don’t you?’

‘Aye, three spoons, if you don’t mind, Mrs Hoynes.’

‘You’re nearly as bad as Sandy wae his sweet tooth.’

‘He takes four. Many a cup of tea I’ve made him, right enough. He says the stuff ’s pure poison wae no sugar on board,
so to speak.’

‘Aye, that sounds like oor Sandy.’ Mrs Hoynes poured Hamish’s tea, added a drop of milk and three spoons of sugar.
She handed it to him. ‘Help yourself to shortbread, Hamish. I made it today.’

Remembering how tasty Mrs Hoynes’s shortbread was, Hamish was tempted to take two pieces, but decency forced
his hand and he only availed himself of the one.

‘You’ll have had a lean time, what wae the boat up on Galbraith’s slip,’ said Mrs Hoynes. The Girl Maggie had been
out of the water for three weeks because of a problem with her Gardiner engine. The wait was on for a part from Glasgow. It was of such a specific nature that one day had rolled into another, and still there was no sign.

‘Aye, the days have been quite long. But it’s nice to have a wee holiday,’ said Hamish.

‘And Christmas and the New Year will tide you over. I’m sure the boat will be back in the water by the first week in
January.’

It was only now that Hamish noticed how worn-out she looked. Mrs Hoynes’s face was pale and there were large bags
under her eyes she’d done her best to hide with powder.

‘How is he today?’

‘Och, Hamish. I’ve never seen Sandy like this. Not in all the years I’ve been married to him. It’s like living with a
stranger, so it is. He’s just fair scunnered at everything. I took him a plate o’ mince earlier – didna eat half o’ it.’

‘And he fair likes his mince and tatties.’

‘There’s no’ a body that enjoys them more.’

‘Is he taking a refreshment?’

‘Whisky?’

Hamish nodded.

‘He’s no’ touched a drop since he arrived back from the County that night. Och, it must be near enough two weeks ago.’

Hamish frowned. Mince and tatties were one thing, but whisky was another matter altogether. The man he knew enjoyed a moderate drink every day – sometimes not that moderate. To have been two weeks without a drop was surely some kind of record.