She stumbled towards a large rock, and slipped behind it, trying desperately to catch her breath, back pressed against the cold stone as her spare chest heaved. She tried to gather her thoughts. She was in no doubt as to what she’d seen as she looked round the back of the cottage. A man she did not recognise had appeared from nowhere and killed her son. Two sharp shots, one to the heart, the other to the head, had felled her boy like a great tree being hacked at by a saw. He had entered her home; she had no choice but to seek sanctuary along the beach.
She felt desperation, something that had become a stranger during the course of her mundane life over the last few decades. Now that life could be nearing its end.
She peered around the rock with one eye, looking down the beach the way she had come. Distantly she could see the man standing sniffing the air, looking around, searching – searching for her!
She held her breath now, feeling almost as though she would black out. If he came nearer she faced the almost impossible task of scaling the cliff in order to escape. The only other option was the sea, and she was no swimmer. Taking a deep, rasping breath, she leaned round the rock again. To her great relief the man was walking away from her, back towards the cottage.
Ginny Doig said a silent prayer and slid down to her knees. What was she to do now?
Alice Wenger was in the same room she’d occupied following the death of her father. This time, though, one eye was covered by a large white patch, through which a speck of blood had leaked and dried brown. Her face was pale – grey, almost. When Daley and Scott came through the door she barely acknowledged them, staring blankly into space with her one good eye.
‘Ms Wenger, I’m so sorry this has happened to you,’ said Daley, standing at the end of her bed.
‘I’m sorry I ever came back,’ Wenger replied flatly. ‘It’s been the biggest mistake of my life; that and being born.’
‘I’ve spoken to the doctor. It would appear that there is no permanent damage to your eye.’
‘No. That’s twice I’ve been lucky.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ask the doc. I’ve been attacked that way before, Detective Daley.’
‘By whom?’
‘You must be pretty dumb if you can’t work that out.’ She sniggered mirthlessly.
‘Please indulge me, Ms Wenger.’
‘Why do you think I ran away in the first place? When I was a kid, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. You’ve not exactly been forthcoming on that subject, Alice.’
‘Take my brothers, for example; you’ve seen them. Tell me what you think.’
‘I don’t know them well enough to form any opinion.’
‘They’re morons, detective. All three of them are like . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
‘Were they always like that?’ asked Scott, remembering the photographs of three bright young lads he’d seen at Rowan Tree Cottage.
‘Hell no, they were just normal kids – like me. Hey, they picked on me, teased me a little. I was a girl, you can imagine what it’s like growing up with three brothers, right?’
Daley and Scott nodded.
‘But there was no harm in them. It was just being kids, like I say.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Daley.
Wenger ripped the patch away, making Scott wince at the sound of the tape being prised from her forehead. Already her eye was swollen and discoloured as a result of the attack. ‘You see this?’
‘Yes.’
‘She failed the first time with me, so she thought she’d come back and finish the job.’
‘Who? What job?’ asked Daley.
‘I don’t know – something she learned when she worked in the hospital. She and my father learned.’
‘Eh?’ said Scott.
‘Hell, I don’t know the name for it, I just know what it does.’ Alice Wenger looked suddenly scared. Gone the down-to-earth Southern manner. The years appeared to drop away, revealing the frightened girl she had once been, the teenager who thought she had escaped her tormentors. ‘It takes away your mind, Mr Daley. It destroys you.’
Daley decided to leave Alice Wenger to rest. Instead he and Scott made for Dr Spence’s office. The elderly clinician was staring at his computer through a pair of half-moon glasses.
‘Well timed, gentlemen,’ he said as the detectives entered his office.
‘How so?’ asked Daley.
Spence beckoned them to join him behind his desk. On the large computer screen an image was frozen, clearly a paused frame of a video he’d been watching. ‘I hope you have strong stomachs,’ he said. ‘I found this on YouTube, of all places.’
‘My stomach isn’t particularly strong,’ said Daley.
‘Nevertheless, I’m sure what you’re about to see will be of great interest to you as far as your investigations are concerned, I’d say. Are you ready?’
Daley took a deep breath and nodded, but just as Dr Spence was about to press play Scott held up his hand.
‘Hang on – I need my specs. I cannae see bugger all withoot them these days.’ He fished in his pocket, found his spectacles and placed them on the end of his nose, in a manner not unlike Spence’s own.
‘Ready now?’ asked Daley.
‘Aye, batter on, doc.’
Daley narrowed his eyes as the footage sprang into motion. The film was in black and white, poor resolution, perhaps from the fifties or sixties judging by its venerability. Daley reckoned that monochrome was no bad thing as he took in what was happening. A man, drugged in some way but still conscious, was strapped to a gurney by thick leather bonds. He was naked to the waist and his shaven head lolled about as though he was blind drunk. Two nurses sporting the headwear of the time secured it with a belt across his forehead, pulled tight like a massive watchstrap. The semiconscious man protested feebly, but to no avail.
From behind the nurses appeared a taller figure, a man with short, slicked-back hair, most of his face obscured by a surgical mask. He was wearing a white coat and held two medical instruments, one in each hand.
Though the sound quality on the video was poor, Daley could make out his words as he asked the nurses to stand back, while the camera zoomed in closer on the head of the man strapped to the table.
‘This is the interesting bit,’ said Spence, engrossed by the on-screen proceedings.
‘Oh, great,’ said Daley, feeling his stomach churn.
The man in the mask and the white coat leaned over the subdued patient. In his left hand he wielded something long, probably metallic, which he placed on the eye socket of the man on the gurney. In his other hand he held something Daley couldn’t quite make out for a while, until a movement of the hand revealed a small hammer.
‘That’s just like what we found in the room at Machrie, Jim,’ said Scott.
Daley was about to reply when a wail emanated from the computer. Despite his obvious sedation, the patient strapped to the operating table screamed as with a few taps of the hammer the instrument held against his eye socket was visibly inserted into his head, hammered there like a nail. The patient’s wail turned into an agonised scream as the instrument was pivoted swiftly from side to side before being removed as quickly as it had been inserted. At this point the film stuttered and the screen went blank.
Daley felt sick, really sick, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of Spence’s chair. He tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
‘What the fuck was that?’ said Scott, doing Daley’s job for him.
‘That, gentlemen, was a trans-orbital lobotomy. Barbaric, of course, but at one time considered to be cutting edge, if you pardon the pun.’
‘You mean the people doing that were proper doctors?’ asked Daley, still looking shaken.
‘Very much so! The old way of doing this operation was to trepan the skull, then remove the frontal lobe of the brain – a messy, costly, dangerous business. Then it was discovered that the skull was at its thinnest at the top of the eye socket. A q
uick tap, and in you went. A few well-directed slashes, and job done. Of course, the procedure more often than not ended in complete disaster, as did much of the so-called “psycho-surgery” of the time. The patient was usually left with the mind of a child – or dead.’
‘What kind of doctor would countenance that?’ asked Daley.
‘Curious ones, Mr Daley. In those days almost anything went in the name of science and development. No matter what the cost.’ Spence removed his glasses. ‘In the end the operation was being performed by nurses, or even orderlies. Usually took place in those awful institutions in which they incarcerated the mentally ill. We’ve come a long way in a relatively short time, you know.’
‘Yous have? They took my auntie Jenny’s leg off no’ that long ago and she died on the spot. You’ve maybe no’ come as far as yous think.’ Scott pursed his lips.
‘It’s monstrous,’ said Daley, still staring at the empty screen.
‘You’re telling me, Jimmy. She was a lovely auld dear. Ninety-six, tae.’ Scott shook his head while Daley looked at him with an expression that could best be described as please shut up, Brian.
‘Indeed. Hard to believe that it was still being used when I started my training. Mind you, that’s not yesterday.’ Spence polished his glasses with the end of his tie. ‘They had a nickname for it – used most of the time in fact, even by professionals.’
‘What was that?’ asked Daley.
Spence placed his glasses back on the end of his nose and looked at Daley over the rim. ‘An ice pick lobotomy, DCI Daley.’
‘So wait,’ said Scott. ‘Dae you think that’s what this – person – was trying to do tae Alice Wenger, doc?’
‘More than that, Inspector Scott. I think it was done to her brothers – the one I examined, at any rate. I had hoped it wasn’t the case, but now I’m almost certain. It will require brain scans to confirm this, but in the light of what has just happened to Ms Wenger – well, a sound bet, I’d say.’
‘I believe Mr Doig trained as a doctor,’ said Daley.
‘Yes, and specialised in mental illness, by all accounts. Never qualified, though.’
Scott made a face. ‘Bloody Frankenstein stuff this, Jimmy.’
Daley nodded. ‘If you could keep a close eye on Ms Wenger for us please, Dr Spence, I’d be much obliged. I’m so glad whoever tried to do this to her didn’t succeed.’
‘Yes. Very mysterious – the whole thing is bizarre.’
Leaving Spence to his work, Daley and Scott walked into the corridor at Kinloch police office.
‘That’s a shocker, big man. What now?’
‘Get Shaw to round up Ginny Doig. She’s got a lot of questions to answer. And our waiter from Machrie House Hotel, get him brought in too. But just for “further enquiries”, if you know what I mean.’
‘Nae bother.’
‘Meanwhile – and please don’t lecture me – I need a quick drink.’
‘After that, so do I, Jimmy.’
Daley smiled. ‘Just a swift one for me and a ginger beer and lime for you, Brian, eh? Alice Wenger has a cop at her door, and as for her brothers . . .’
‘No wonder auld Doig took a heider off that cliff, eh?’
‘You would think. But let’s go through the process, Brian.’
As Scott called Sergeant Shaw, Daley went to the toilet where he was copiously sick. For the first time since his rehabilitation, he felt seriously ill. He’d always had a weak stomach, but seeing that operation performed with such ruthless, uncaring efficiency had made it literally churn. He hoped the sensation would pass, though the images of what had been done would stay with him for ever. Like so much else he’d seen, he reckoned.
34
Vito Chiase cursed his luck. If the man he’d killed hadn’t surprised him he’d have been able to get into the house and do the job he’d come to do. But why were there only two people there? That wasn’t what he’d been led to expect.
The old woman had disappeared and he had neither the will nor the knees to pursue her. This was a shit job in the arse end of the world. He hated himself for being so stupid, loathed himself for his greed. He’d have got by – he had enough. But he dreaded ending up in some shitty retirement home. One thing was for sure: his kids wouldn’t come to the rescue. The more he reasoned, the more he came to terms with what had just happened – what he’d done. But it was time to go, time to leave this place. It wasn’t his fault that the job wasn’t finished. Whoever had planned this was a useless cocksucker.
Chiase ducked across the fields to his SUV, just in time to hear the phone he’d been given ring. He opened the door and answered the call.
‘No, I only got one of them. The old woman fucked off down the shore.’
‘This isn’t the kind of professionalism we’re paying for, Mr Chiase.’ The voice on the other end was calm. He recognised the Scottish accent, though in this case it was much weaker than in the guy he’d met at the airport: cultured, almost.
‘You pay me, or I come and find you. You think I’m some punk? There was nobody here when I arrived. These people – only two of them – arrived in a cab. Whaddya want me to do, conjure the rest of them up outta thin air, asshole?’
‘What I want you to do is lie low. You finish this job, or we finish you. I hope I’m clear.’
‘You threatening me, you prick?’
‘Hide somewhere and wait for my call.’ The line went dead.
‘You—’ Chiase was about to throw the phone to the ground, but thought better of it. Instead he got back into the car and drove off.
There were plenty of people in the County Hotel when Daley and Scott arrived, but nobody was speaking. The patrons were all staring into space, or swirling the remainder of their drinks in glasses. Daley waved to his wife and Ella Scott, who were sitting beside Hamish at the back of the bar. The old man at their side looked like a sail bereft of wind. He was sitting forward, staring into an empty glass that had no doubt once contained whisky, no smile crossing his face, no tall tale on his lips.
Annie greeted them mirthlessly, her eyes red-rimmed.
‘Yes, gentlemen, what can I get you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Daley. ‘Have we walked in on a funeral reception?’
‘Aye, yous have in a way.’
‘Who’s deid?’ asked Scott.
‘This place.’ Annie gestured airily around the room with one hand. ‘This’ll likely be someone’s lounge, or shower room. The planning permission has been granted. Charlie Murray’s jeest off the phone from the council meeting in Lochgilphead. The County Hotel will soon be extinct, so enjoy it while yous can.’
‘That’s shit,’ said Scott. ‘What will you dae?’
‘Och, I’ll be okay. There’s a job going at the petrol station. Better hours, but less money, mind you.’
Scott looked around. ‘But the craic’s bound tae be better than this. Even o’er a gallon o’ unleaded.’
‘Can I have a large malt please, Annie?’ said Daley. ‘And whatever my wife’s table are drinking.’
‘You’re fine, Mr Daley!’ shouted Hamish. ‘I’m jeest going tae take a walk back hame. I’ve nae heart for drinking this day.’
‘What about you two?’ Daley didn’t need to shout to his wife and Ella, such was the prevailing silence in the bar.
‘I think we’ll be off shortly, tae,’ said Ella. ‘It’s no’ exactly a’ the fun o’ the fair in here.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Ginger beer an’ lime for me, Annie,’ said Scott. ‘I just hope they dae that as well at the Douglas Arms as you dae it in here.’
Daley looked at Liz, who was staring at the floor. She’d seemed happier that morning, more like her old self. Now she bore the haunted, troubled look he’d become so used to since her attack. ‘Darling, anything?’
‘No, I’ll take Ella and Hamish back home. Young James will soon be out of nursery anyway, so it’s time to get moving.’
Annie handed Scott his drink and the large dram in a sma
ll glass for Daley. ‘On the hoose,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ Daley asked.
‘Aye, I am. I’ve never taken as much as one penny fae that till in a’ these years, but noo – well, if oor good customers can’t get a thank you for all their business, who can, eh?’
Daley looked round as he put the glass to his mouth. This was undoubtedly the quietest he’d ever seen anywhere in Kinloch, never mind a public bar – the library was louder than this.
He tilted back his head and drank the whisky in one. The spirit warmed his throat as it went down; he hoped it would also banish the pictures that were playing across his mind of the unfortunate man tied to the gurney. He thought about the Doig family: a dead father, three sons who’d possibly suffered terribly, a distraught, estranged sister and Ginny Doig.
Daley remembered Dr Spence’s words. In the end the operation was carried out by orderlies. He shuddered at the thought of the tiny woman with the piercing eyes going about the business of removing her children’s minds. It all fitted: her husband had worked as a trainee doctor in a hospital for the mentally ill, where she had worked as a domestic assistant. There could be no other explanation. Systematically, the Doigs had destroyed the lives of their own. But why? It was as wicked as almost anything he’d encountered in his career. ‘Come on, Brian. This isn’t quite the light relief I had in mind. We better get back up the road and see what Mrs Doig has to say for herself.’
‘Aye, I’d rather stick my heid in a bucket o’ pish than stay in this morgue any longer,’ replied Scott under his breath, making sure Annie wouldn’t hear.
The pair said goodbye to their wives and the rest of the down-in-the-mouth patrons of the County Hotel bar and made their way back to Kinloch police office.
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