‘Oh, I see. By the looks of it, this card isn’t new by any means. Maybe if I take a photo of it and send it to you, someone will know roughly when it was issued?’
‘Yes, good idea. One of the original partners is still working for us, albeit on more of a consultancy basis these days. I’ll let him have a look when you’ve sent it.’
‘Is it possible to have a word with him now?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. As I mentioned, he only comes in when necessary. But I’ll certainly try and get hold of him as quickly as possible.’
‘Can I have his name, please?’
Despite himself, a smile broke out on Williams’s face. ‘His name is Michael – Mike Strong. One of our founding partners.’
‘Yes, I see his name on the card. I’d like a contact number for him, please.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I’ll put you back through to our secretary and get her to pass you his contact details.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I hope everything is okay?’
‘Not really sure,’ replied Daley. ‘Our investigation is ongoing, put it like that, Mr Williams.’
‘I see, yes, absolutely. Well, nice talking to you, DCI Daley. Give me a few moments and I’ll get you back to reception. Have a good day now.’ Williams winced at his own insincerity as he pressed a button on his phone. ‘Karen, give DCI Daley Mike Strong’s email address and phone number, please. Mobile too.’
‘Will I give him a call to let him know the police might call, Blair?’
Williams’s face lost all expression. ‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Just a routine matter,’ he said, knowing that it was anything but.
Suddenly Blair Williams was very happy that Mike Strong had taken charge of this particular client.
Daley placed the phone back on its cradle. As a detective, he’d spent years learning how to judge a person by tone of voice, inflection, hesitation, enforced cheerfulness. He’d heard all of that during his call with Blair Williams.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and stared at the numbers and email address he’d just been given for Mike Strong. He considered calling right away, but decided to leave it a while. There was every chance that Williams would tip his semi-retired partner off. But something in the young man’s voice had indicted that might not be the case. Daley was sure that Blair Williams knew who Nathaniel Doig was, at the very least. The question was why hadn’t he admitted it? Now the detective was even more certain that the Doig family had some secret, and to keep it they’d hired an expensive firm of Edinburgh lawyers. The question was, what could it possibly be?
He thought back to the words of his old mentor Ian Burns. It usually comes down to love or money. Daley could see little love in the Doig household, but even less money. Something didn’t make sense. He resolved to give Williams time to call Strong, if indeed that’s what he was intending to do. Meanwhile, he wanted to speak to Ginny Doig and ask her just why she’d chained her son in the loft of their home.
Liz Daley felt renewed. Ella Scott had gone just before Jim returned. The talk with the woman she’d known for so many years had helped a lot. She’d felt so alone, as though there was no one left in the world to whom she could turn – nobody likely to understand what she’d been through. But now Liz realised that had been stupid. The awful truth was that women were assaulted, maimed, raped and killed every day. Though the pain she felt, the anger, the fear, still plagued her, she now believed for the first time that it hadn’t been her fault.
How many times in her head had she heard the words you’re smart, you should have known better. Now she saw that thought for what it was: an impostor. No, she hadn’t led a blameless life, but neither did she deserve to be beaten and raped for sins past. Hating her attacker was one thing; hating herself was another.
Liz had always considered Ella Scott to be indestructible, a force of nature. That she could be attacked, brought so low by an event that she wasn’t prepared to tell her husband about even after all these years, perversely gave Liz strength. She wasn’t weak: she could survive, and she would. She would fight to regain her dignity, her confidence. She would fight to save her marriage.
‘Okay, James, time to get ready. You’ve had your bath, now Mummy will find some clothes.’
The little boy looked up at her, brushing his dark fringe away from his eyes. ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’
‘To the dentist, James.’
Elderly as she was, Ginny Doig had fought every step of the way from the cells to Daley’s glass box. A prominent scratch across the face of one of the two female officers she now sat between bore witness.
‘I want to question you as to the false imprisonment of your son, Thorbin Doig,’ said Daley. ‘You have the right to have a solicitor present during this questioning, and I strongly advise that you do so.’
She faced him, arms crossed, expressionless, but her eyes seemed to blaze with a green fire of hatred.
‘Why would I need a solicitor? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I still think you should have a lawyer present when I question you formally, Mrs Doig.’
‘I don’t care what you think. My boys are simple but they’re boisterous. One of his brothers must have chained Thorbin up in the loft for a laugh. I assure you, I had no idea.’
Daley looked at the frail woman in front of him. Not only was she stubborn, determined – violent, even – she was also clever. That was something he hadn’t realised at first. It was very clear that her sons were below average intelligence, and as such an offence committed by them would be unlikely to end in prosecution. Though he was certain that Ginny Doig herself had been responsible for chaining her eldest son in the loft, it was unlikely he’d ever be able to prove it.
He smiled. ‘Okay, we’ll have it your way, Mrs Doig. You’re smart. I know that now. But I will get to the bottom of what’s been going on here, I promise you.’ He addressed the officers. ‘Make arrangements for Mrs Doig’s release, please. I’ll inform Sergeant Shaw.’
‘And you’ll be releasing my sons, tae.’
Daley shook his head. ‘Sorry, but no I won’t. You’ve clearly indicated to me that one of them imprisoned Thorbin. They stay here while I carry on my investigation. A great deal of time, effort and manpower was expended on the search for your son yesterday, Mrs Doig. All the time he was chained in your loft. At the very least, someone is guilty of wasting police time – perhaps more. It depends what I can glean from his brothers.’
It was Ginny Doig’s turn to smile. Her teeth were brown and uneven. ‘You can only hold them for so long. Dae you think I’m stupid? Anyway, the way they are, nae court in the land would convict them.’
‘We’ll see. In fact, because of the special circumstances, we may well be afforded more time to speak to them.’
‘You dae your worst, Mr Daley.’
‘No, I’ll do my best, Mrs Doig.’ He watched her being led away, then called her back. ‘I forgot, just a couple of quick questions.’
‘Whoot?’
‘Have you heard of an Edinburgh law firm called Williams, Strong and Hardacre?’
‘No. Why should I have done?’ Her answer was casual, no signs of obfuscation.
‘Okay, thank you.’
‘Whoot’s the other thing?’
‘What’s wrong with your sons’ eyes, Mrs Doig?’
‘Nane o’ your business!’ she shouted. All of a sudden she had to be restrained again by the constables. ‘It’s between us an’ oor doctors.’
‘And just who is your family GP?’
‘You said I was tae be released, so jeest get on wae it. I’m no’ saying any mair!’
As she was led from his office Daley smiled. Clever, but not as clever as you think, Mrs Doig, he thought.
30
Vito Chiase eyed the day with one blurry eye. Though he’d been dog-tired, he’d woken up every hour, freezing cold. He had to turn the engine of the car each time, heater on full blast, just to get warm. He swore to himself as the seat slowly r
egained its upright position. Yawning, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold morning light.
He’d chosen well, a little forestry car park marked on the map as being suitable for picnics. There wouldn’t be many picnickers about in late November, he reckoned. With great relief, he unzipped his fly and pissed in the long grass at the side of the car before reaching back to pour the last few drops of coffee he had left in the flask specifically for his morning pick-me-up. He’d have to find some more; he couldn’t function without the stuff.
As he sipped from the plastic mug Chiase stared out across the sea. He loved being down at the shore back home in New Jersey, or the many times he’d visited Atlantic City or Florida. The familiar tang of the sea was there, the shrill calls of the birds waking up to a new day – but this was different. There was a silence he’d never experienced in his life, a peacefulness that was soothing and somehow threatening at the same time. He’d spent most of his days on the Jersey turnpike between Newark and New York. The sense of being alone here made him shiver. But perhaps that was just the chill of the morning.
He had another need. He opened the trunk of the car and located the thick roll of toilet paper his employers had so kindly provided, then stared into the trees across the car park. ‘Whaddya going to do?’ he asked himself as he trudged across to the trees to allow nature to take its course.
As he squatted against a sturdy stump he thought about his plans. What he had to do held no particular fear for him. He had killed dozens of times. And for this kind of money, what did one more body matter?
He finished his business in the bushes, cleaned his hands with the wipes and spray they’d provided, and took a deep breath. Then he slapped himself in the face, a way of self-motivation he’d been practising for years. He’d done it before his daughter’s wedding, the day he was sent down, every time he met the boss. Every time he killed.
Alice Wenger was in her hotel room. She didn’t know whether to stick or twist. But one thing was for sure: she had to get out, get away from this place for a while before she lost her mind. She decided to take a trip into Kinloch and have a meal, a drink – get smashed, if that would help. That’s the way she felt. It was becoming more and more obvious that her journey back home had been a mistake. But it had been necessary. She’d watched her father die, and despite the ambivalence she felt for the man the incident would play in her mind for ever. Of that she was sure.
She was so dispirited that she rang for room service, the very thought of sitting among other people for breakfast seeming too much to bear. So she wasn’t surprised when she heard the tapping at the door of her room. ‘Hold on!’ she shouted, pulling the cord of the dressing gown tightly around her slim waist, looking forward to coffee and croissants.
But it wasn’t room service. Alice Wenger opened the door and stood still for a moment, realising she’d been half expecting the person who’d come to call. ‘You better come in—’
Before she could finish, the breath was knocked from her by a sharp blow to the stomach. She staggered backwards, clutching her midriff, almost bent double. She fell back against the bed, sprawling across it just as she felt another agonising blow, this time to the head.
She was struggling for consciousness, but she felt herself drifting away, the pain, her world, disappearing into darkness. Nevertheless, she was able to grab the implement thrust into her face.
She was being pinned down. The feeling above her eye was more like pressure. Next, the pain she felt was enough to mask her throbbing head. It was as though a red-hot needle was being thrust into her eye socket.
Alice Wenger screamed in agony, then everything stopped.
Chiase had switched the satnav back on. He’d managed to change the voice imparting the instructions to that of an American woman, and the alteration had made him feel more at home. He felt more comfortable in his own skin now. The end of his job was in sight, and he was ready to do what had to be done to complete his task.
The big engine of the SUV took the gradients easily as the narrow road wound its way along the coast then disappeared into the hills, one minute a straight climb, the next a corkscrew of descending spirals. He passed by fields of sheep and cattle, stark briar, bare hedges shorn of their summer greenery and leafless trees, knotted branches reaching out like a grasping withered hand into the clear air. ‘Hoboken already!’ he said to himself with a chuckle.
The road rose steeply again and dropped sharply back down, the sea again visible. The day had darkened, a grey sky now lowering over the horizon.
Turn right in three hundred metres then drive for two hundred metres and you will have reached your destination.
As he followed this direction, still winding down the steep hill, Chiase could see a run-down cottage near a shingle beach. A black finger of rocks thrust out into the ocean beyond.
He recognised the place from the description in the written notes he’d been given. It was time.
Daley and Scott sat opposite the two imprisoned Doig brothers. They were handcuffed following their attack on Scott and Potts at Rowan Tree Cottage, but without the malign influence of their mother the pair appeared cowed, looking at the police officers under their brows, right eyelids both drooping in an almost identical manner. Two tall uniformed constables stood at the back of the room, just in case, and even the duty solicitor Ellis Hamilton sat further away from his clients than was his habit.
‘So you don’t know your names?’ said Daley, already becoming exasperated by their mute silence. This was greeted by grunts from the two men.
They were remarkably similar in looks. Besides the hooded right eyes, both had tousled dark hair receding from low foreheads. The elder of the pair, Thomas apparently, had darker hair than his younger brother Inness. Inness was by a small margin the taller of the two. Both had vacant, empty expressions. They reacted with grunts, or a lowering of the head, to everything that was asked of them.
‘Can yous speak at all?’ asked Scott, showing more than a hint of frustration. He turned to Daley. ‘For the tape, I think these are a pair of dummies.’
‘I must object,’ said Ellis Hamilton. ‘My clients have the right to remain silent if they so wish. That doesn’t make them “dummies”, DI Scott.’
‘What’s your definition o’ a dummy, then?’
‘This is pointless,’ said Daley. ‘For the tape, this interview is at an end. I’m going to seek medical examinations of the suspects.’ He clicked off the machine.
‘There’s no way that will be permitted, DCI Daley,’ said Hamilton. ‘You have no substantive evidence against these men. It’s all circumstantial.’
‘Aye, they just circumstantially chained their brother intae the loft,’ said Scott.
‘I’ll ignore that.’ Hamilton began to pack away his papers. ‘I’m going to demand that my clients are released forthwith. And any attempt to enforce a medical examination upon them will be resisted with the utmost legal vigour. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.’ He swept out of the room without a word to his clients, who sat staring blankly at the floor.
No sooner had Hamilton left than Sergeant Shaw rushed in. ‘Sir, there’s been an incident at the Machrie House Hotel. It’s Alice Wenger.’
‘What kind of incident?’ asked Daley.
‘She’s in an ambulance at the moment, sir. It looks as though someone tried to force themself into her room and assaulted her. Tried to remove her eye, by the looks of things.’
‘Eh?’ said Scott.
‘The attack was disturbed by a member of staff delivering Ms Wenger’s breakfast. The assailant escaped, but I believe there’s hotel CCTV footage.’
‘Tried tae take her eye oot! What next?’ said Scott.
As Daley was about to speak Inness Doig stood and banged his cuffed hands on the table, then roared at the top of his voice. As he was being restrained by the uniformed officers, his brother joined in with a high-pitched wail.
It took Daley, Scott, Shaw and the two
uniformed men to restore order, and soon the Doigs were back in their cells, though they continued to scream and shout, sounds more akin to animals than humans.
‘Shaw, get two bodies up to the hospital. I want to make sure Alice Wenger comes to no more harm. Brian, we’ll go to Machrie. We’ll not be able to interview Wenger until she’s been treated. We’ll have to move fast on this, come on!’
Scott followed Daley as they rushed from the room. In minutes they were in Daley’s car heading at speed for the Machrie House Hotel.
31
Chiase parked his car in a layby about a hundred yards from the lane that led to Rowan Tree Cottage. He could see the roof of the building across fields and over a small rise.
His knees aching, he managed to scale a barbed wire fence, cursing when his ring finger caught on one of the barbs and started to bleed. ‘Shit!’ he swore to himself as he sucked on the digit to stop the flow. ‘I hate the fucking countryside. Shitting in the woods, and now this!’
He managed to focus his mind on the task in hand and moved slowly across the field, looking about to make sure nobody was watching. So intent was he on this task that he failed to notice the large cowpat before he’d stepped in it. His shoe was covered in rancid green cow shit, and, cursing as he did so, he did his best to wipe it off on the grass. His finger wouldn’t stop bleeding, and now he had the contents of a cow’s stomach spread across one of his expensive Italian loafers.
Much daunted, but thinking only of the hard cash, he strode on, the stench from his shoe making him want to throw up. As he edged towards the rise he lost sight of the cottage roof. He leaned into the tiny hill, and before he reached the top crouched down and craned over the rise. He could see Rowan Tree Cottage now. The place looked deserted; no sign of life. He scanned the shingle beach, partly obscured by a large mound of rotting seaweed. A little boat was hauled up above the tideline, but that apart there was nothing – and nobody.
Jeremiah's Bell Page 19
