*
Alice Wenger was dozing when she was roused by the knock on the door of her side room at Kinloch hospital. She had to squint with her uncovered eye to identify the person now entering the room with a large bunch of flowers.
‘I hope this is okay, Ms Wenger?’ said the tall policeman at her side.
‘Sure, she’s one of my oldest friends – the oldest, in fact.’
‘Alison – Alice. How are you?’ said Sheena McKay. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’
‘That’s kind of you. The flowers are lovely. Take a seat, Sheena.’
As her old friend brought a chair to the side of her hospital bed, Alice did her very best to smile, anything not to show her true feelings. This became harder when Sheena started to sob.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just – what with you losing your father, and now this – well, it’s brought back memories.’
‘You know me, Sheena. I ain’t no shrinking violet. Never have been, never will be.’
‘I know you’re strong – goodness knows, you’ve had to be. But all this; you must wish you’d never come back.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘I remember when you used to come to my house – you know, when you were so upset about what they were doing to you.’
‘Sorry?’
Sheena McKay cleared her throat and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t you remember? You told me about what they used to do to you.’
For a moment, Alice’s mind was blank. Then, slowly she recalled conversations she’d had with her friend, the woman who was now sitting in front of her. It all seemed so, so long ago. She had forgotten she’d confided in anyone.
‘You’ve got some memory, girl,’ she said. ‘Imagine you remembering all that shit.’
‘I suppose you’ve blocked it out of your mind.’
‘I guess.’
Without warning, Sheena rushed from her chair and enveloped her old friend in a hug. ‘I don’t care – whatever you need, just ask. It’s been so good to see you after all this time – to know you’re alive. Whatever we have is yours, Alice.’
‘That’s so kind of you, Sheena. But as soon as I get the all-clear from here I’m going back to California.’
‘Won’t the police want you to stay until they find who did this to you? What if they try again?’
‘I’m safe now – there’s a cop at my door. And when I get out I’ll be much better off away from – well, away from here. Anyway, I have a good lawyer, so they can’t keep me by force; he’ll see to that. I’ll come back for the trial. Once that witch who calls herself my mother gets her dues.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Sheena hesitated. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure, go ahead. If it’s about my eye, don’t worry. It’s going to be just fine.’
‘No, I mean . . . what happened? When you went away?’
‘I told you.’
‘No, about – well, you know.’
‘I don’t know, Sheena.’
Sheena McKay paused for a moment. ‘You were pregnant. What happened to the baby – your baby?’
The colour drained from Alice Wenger’s face, leaving it almost as pale as the patch that covered her eye.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. That was thoughtless of me.’
‘No, no, it’s okay. I suppose, like you say, I’ve kinda blocked things out – bottled them up.’
Sheena looked at her sadly. ‘What did happen to the child you were carrying?’
‘I was a kid, right? I was in a strange country with nobody to help me. I met these nuns. They took me in. When I had the baby, well . . .’
‘They gave it up for adoption?’
‘Yeah, that’s what they did.’ Tears began to fall down Alice’s face.
‘I’m so sorry. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.’
‘No, it’s not your fault, Sheena. You just forget these things on purpose. It does no harm to be reminded of reality now and again.’
As her old friend hugged her tight, Alice Wenger’s face was expressionless. She was remembering the past.
35
Daley and Scott arrived back at Kinloch police office, a short walk up the road from the misery that was the County Hotel. Sergeant Shaw was busy at the front desk filling in custody forms.
‘How are our guests?’
‘The Doig boys? Fine, sir. I’m just waiting for word from the officers I sent out to pick up Ginny Doig. O’Hara is on his way, but I think he’s suspicious.’
‘How so?’
‘Keeps saying he told you everything in Machrie, apparently.’
‘He should have said less, then we might no’ have smelled a rat. Coffee before we start, Jimmy?’
‘Tea, please, Brian. It looks like we’re in for a busy time. I’ll have to let Symington know what’s happening.’
Leaving Scott to the beverages, Daley made his way to his glass box. He sat back heavily, and leaned his face towards the ceiling. He was happy to be back at work, but, as had always been the case, he knew that certain aspects of the job would never cease to horrify him.
He worried about Liz. He had hoped she was on the mend, but in the solemn surroundings of the hotel she had looked as miserable as ever. Perhaps she was just falling in line with the rest of the gloomy clientele. He supposed he’d find out for sure when he went home.
He puzzled over Ginny Doig. The family had endured a terrible reputation for ruthlessness for generations, but if Dr Spence was right, what they had done was beyond ruthless. To destroy the lives of others was bad enough, but to mutilate one’s own children was of another order altogether.
He could see the malevolent face of Ginny Doig staring at him in his mind’s eye. How could any mother do that to her children? He wondered again. He supposed he was dealing with just another evil individual. Man’s inhumanity to man never ceased to appal him.
The phone on his desk rang.
‘Sir, we have a situation at Rowan Tree Cottage.’ Shaw’s voice was tight with concern.
‘Another one?’
‘It’s Thorbin Doig, sir. He’s dead.’
Mike Strong ended the call. He was now deep in thought. The situation he was facing was more complicated than he’d envisaged.
He looked at the cheap mobile in his hand. He almost keyed in a number, but clicked the device off in the nick of time, remembering he must never make this particular call from anywhere near home. If things were beginning to run off course, it was time to build some precautions into the plan. Old age and experience had taught him that, at least.
He walked across to the table where sat two bottles of malt whisky and some crystal glasses. He poured a large measure and thought about the future. All his life he’d been careful, staying just on the right side of the law, observing the accepted protocols his position demanded. Now he was straying into unknown waters.
He thought of his partners: one dead, the other fading away like a dying grape on the vine. He sipped at the expensive malt thoughtfully. That he wasn’t in control of events was true, but he could still influence them. He pondered briefly on the end of his life, and the fact he had no child to pass on his genes. Was that the ultimate demise, nothing left of you in the universe? This was an old ache, but like chronic pain it was one Strong had learned to ignore.
He sat back behind his desk and mulled things over. Desperate problems required desperate measures. He pocketed the cheap mobile, drained his glass and left the study. In Mike Strong’s experience, it was always possible to turn things in his favour.
Scott’s suit was covered by a white paper overall as he knelt over the body. Dressed likewise Daley stared at the corpse of Thorbin Doig from a standing position under the bright arc lights set up by the SOCO team. A police photographer was taking shots, the flash from his camera bright in the fading light of the cold evening.
‘One tae the heid, one tae the heart. This is a pro, Jimmy,’ said Scott, his voice muffled behind his m
ask.
‘You would think so, Brian. But who – Ginny Doig? She might be wicked, but this . . .’
‘Well, there’s nae sign o’ her, that’s for sure.’
‘So, we think that she cuts up the brains of her kids and treats them like slaves for years, before she chains one of them in the loft then shoots him like a professional assassin. Really?’
‘Folk dae strange things. Me and you know better than maist aboot that.’
‘True.’
Daley stared at the body of the overweight, middle-aged man. If Ginny Doig was responsible he’d got it wrong, very wrong. He had never suspected she would do this. He wondered if he was just no longer up to the job. Then again, Scott had been thinking along the same lines: realising that Ginny Doig may be a monster, but not tagging her as an imminent danger. In retrospect, he supposed they had both been naive. But still he felt guilty that he’d let Ginny Doig go free, though it was hard to think how he could have held her in custody at the time.
‘We’re ready to move the body, sir,’ said a white-suited SOCO officer.
‘Right. Time we all got out of this cold. Good work, Sergeant Jackson.’ Daley stared down at the face of Thorbin Doig. He’d only ever seen him wearing a vacant expression, apparently devoid of any sense or feeling. But the eyes of the dead man that now stared blankly into the inky black sky seemed – even in death – to be filled with terror.
‘We’ll have tae call off the search for that auld harridan, Jimmy. It’s getting too dark.’
‘Yes, Brian. But the pickup is still here, and that wreck on the bricks hasn’t moved for twenty years by the look of things.’
‘You’re right. There’s grass growing up through the front seats.’
‘Has anyone been in there?’
‘In the van? No, sir, not to my knowledge; the boys shone a torch inside when our dead man here was missing. But that’s it,’ said Jackson, getting ready to remove the remains of Thorbin Doig.
Scott rolled his eyes. ‘How dae you know Mrs Doig’s no’ hiding in there?’
‘Not my responsibility, DI Scott. I’m just dealing with the forensic evidence.’
‘It’s like the auld Rootes Group o’er at Linwood. Dae you mind, Jimmy?’
‘Chrysler, you mean?’
‘Aye, that was after. One guy put on the wheels, and another blew up the tyres. If you did anything but that, oot they’d all go on strike. I had a friend that worked there – made Hillman Imps.’
‘Really?’ said Daley, feigning interest.
‘Aye. At the madam, so he was. The security had their eye on him for years – checked him and the wheelbarrow every time he went off-site.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘Nothing. Twenty-two years and they never caught him. Made a packet on the side, mind you.’
‘How?’ asked Daley suddenly puzzled.
‘Stealing. How do you think?’
‘If they were checking him every night how did he manage that?’
‘He was stealing wheelbarrows. Every bugger in Renfrewshire had a wheelbarrow they bought fae Davie. He was a clever bugger, right enough.’ A look verging on admiration crossed Scott’s face.
‘Don’t you think you should have investigated that, Brian? I mean, after all, you are a police officer.’
‘I only heard the story at his funeral. Poor bastard was killed in a car accident.’
‘What happened?’
‘He got knocked doon by this bloke driving a Hillman Imp.’
‘Oh,’ said Daley. ‘Poetic justice, then.’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind, Brian. Come on, we’ve got more than wheelbarrows to worry about. We’ll have a look in this van. Should have been done long ago.’
Scott pulled his torch from his pocket, and the pair headed to the wreck of the old Transit. The vehicle was propped up on bricks, a long crack across the windscreen. It was missing one passenger window, while the other had been taped up.
Daley pulled open the driver’s door. It creaked and cracked so much that he began to wonder if it might come off in his hand, but with a bit of force he managed to prise it open. ‘Here, give me your torch, please, Brian.’
Scott handed his friend the torch and Daley looked round the cab. The seats were perished, and looked as though some creature might well have been gnawing at them. There was some detritus on the floor; mostly ancient drinks cans, almost as rusted as the vehicle itself. A faded newspaper sat next to a shrivelled plastic carrier bag, the name it once bore bordering on invisibility. Daley pulled the bag from under the passenger seat and shook it, but it proved to be empty.
Leaning on the steering wheel, he realised how over-sized it felt. He’d driven vans exactly like this when he was first in the police and this was the first time such a thought had struck him. Fashions changed in everything – even steering wheels, it seemed. He supposed that with power-assisted steering much smaller ones were all that were necessary. It was also strange to see it devoid of the buttons and gadgets to be found in contemporary vans and cars. Daley couldn’t help wondering if people were the same; does everyone get to the point where they are no longer fit for purpose, left behind by a younger, fitter, more tech-savvy generation who marvel at the antiquated nature of those who went before?
Scott had managed to crack open the passenger door and was examining the contents of the glove compartment. ‘Not a thing in here apart fae a spanner and an’ auld Green Shield stamps book. I’d forgotten they things existed.’
‘Huh, me too,’ said Daley with a shrug. ‘Come on, we’ll have a look at the back.’
As Daley pulled at one of the back doors, instead of producing the sound of rusted metal and cracking, it opened with nothing more than a squeak.
‘That’s strange. Been used recently – and often, eh?’ said Scott. ‘Here, I’ll get in the back – just in case you take a heider off something.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Brian.’
‘I know you’ve lost weight, but you’re still as tall. I’m a better fit. Try and be so sensitive in your auld age, Jimmy.’
Daley made a face as he handed Scott the torch and watched his DI climb into the back of the van, flashing the beam about as he went.
‘Empty, apart fae this.’ Scott directed the torch down upon an old metal box secured by a stout padlock. It was waist height, but reasonably long. It didn’t look as decrepit as the vehicle in which it sat, but something about it made Daley think it might be older.
‘Can you move it, Brian?’
‘Aye, but it’s heavy.’ Scott strained as he tried to move the box along the back of the van.
‘I’ll get some bodies and get it back to Kinloch. We’ll have tae get the padlock off with a pair of bolt cutters, anyway.’ Daley marched off to find some help, as the stars of a late November evening began to twinkle over the black croft.
36
Mike Strong parked his car in the leafy Edinburgh street. The call he made was from the cheap mobile. The response of the person he called irritated him, and he had to threaten more than cajole to make sure that he was making his point. That done, Strong left the car and headed for the three-storey town house that was home to his young colleague Blair Williams.
‘Mike, how are you?’ said Amy Williams as she opened the front door, letting a warm glow from the hall illuminate her caller on the doorstep. She made a great play of kissing him, smacking her lips and making the ‘mwah’ sound that so irritated him these days; not that Amy wasn’t attractive. She was slim and tall, with flaxen hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were piercing – not unlike those of her husband, he thought, although the theory that people with similar features were attracted to one another was a hoary old one. Even so, Strong couldn’t work out why his junior partner was bedding the secretary when he had Amy to come home to.
Then he remembered his own life.
She led him through the wide hall, down two steps and into a cosy lounge where classic
al music was playing – well, Stockhausen, which was certainly not to his taste. If Strong ever fancied being highbrow he preferred the Baroque period, the atonal meanderings of this twentieth-century composer leaving him cold. He’d always thought that cultivating a taste for such music was akin to admiring the emperor’s new clothes, or enjoying Shakespeare. And anyway, he was a child of his generation, and much preferred the Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix to just about anything.
Following the usual pleasantries she got up from the leather couch. ‘I’ll get Blair. He’s just putting the children to bed, but I can take over with storytelling, though they always prefer Daddy for some reason.’
Because he’s better at telling stories than you are, thought Strong as he watched her leave the room. He took the cheap phone from his pocket, turned it on to silent, got up from his chair and slid it under the couch on which she’d been sitting. He pushed it as far back as he could, feeling his age as he struggled to his feet and sat back down where Amy had left him.
‘Mike, this is a surprise. I was just getting the sprogs down.’ Blair Williams entered the room in sweat pants and a T-shirt. Noticing the older man’s appraisal of his clothing, he smiled. ‘I’ll be going for a quick session in our little basement gym before I have a glass of wine or three. Can I get you something?’
‘I’d like to say a large malt, but the way things are now it had better be coffee. I had a couple earlier. At least it’ll keep me awake on the way to Dudingston village. The peelers are bloody dedicated to stopping everyone having a good time nowadays. Back in the sixties I used to wake up and wonder how the hell I got the damned motor back home.’
‘Well, changed days and all that, Mike. I’ll go and get you a coffee – espresso do?’
‘Yes, with a touch of sugar – brown, if you have it, none of that white garbage.’
‘Of course. I’ll just be a tick. We’ve got a bloody ace coffee maker. I don’t know what we did without it.’
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