Mike Strong was pleased to have the chance to sit back and rehearse what he’d come to say – not that he was going to say much. He’d done what he’d come to do; the rest was just window dressing.
Eventually Williams came back bearing a small espresso mug on an equally delicate saucer. ‘Enjoy, Mike,’ he said, handing the cup to Strong. ‘Now, how can I help? Nothing wrong, I hope?’
Strong enjoyed worrying Blair Williams, though he was aware that his colleague would be a damned sight more worried if he had any idea what was really going on. However, he adopted a serious expression and took a sip of the coffee. It was good, he had to admit. He wondered what beans Williams used, then realised how boring his life was becoming in old age. ‘Things aren’t going just as we expected with our deceased friend on the west coast, if you get my drift.’ He hid a smile as he watched the expression change on Williams’s face.
‘Fuck! I mean, in what way?’
‘Tricky to explain, and I’m sure you’ll agree that the less you actually know the better.’
‘Oh, yes – of course.’ Williams paused, clearly thinking. ‘I hope this won’t impact on the partnership. Is it something I should tell Daddy about?’
‘No, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s tricky, but it means I’ll have to take off down there for a while. Make sure that everything is properly in place, that sort of thing.’ Strong leaned forward, espresso mug in one hand, saucer in the other. ‘Not the kind of thing your father would condone, but we can still make good money, as you are aware. That’s why I popped over – you know, rather than discuss this on the phone.’
‘I understand.’ Concern was now etched across Williams’s face. ‘Is it worth it, Mike? I mean, it’s not as though we’re all poverty-stricken.’
‘This is the difference between you being stuck here or being able to have that place on Lake Como you’ve always wanted; the chance to send your children to a good school.’
‘We have them on the list at Fettes.’
‘Bugger Fettes! Eton, Harrow – proper schools. Trust me, by the time they’re ready to take that step you’ll want as much distance between you and them as possible. Teenagers are bloody irritating bastards. Let the school take the strain and knock them into shape. Give you more time with the good lady, or . . .’
‘Or what?’ Williams looked suddenly alarmed.
‘Anything else you want to get up to, young man.’ Strong smiled in an avuncular way, leaving Williams unsure as to the meaning of his last statement. The older man was enjoying every moment of this and it made him happy.
‘How long will you be away for?’ Williams asked. ‘We need to keep in touch; I’ll worry myself sick if I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘Oh, don’t fret about that. I’ll give you regular updates,’ said Strong, knowing he would do nothing of the kind.
‘That’s a relief, at least.’
‘I’m glad. And don’t worry. If I need you, I’ll be on the phone straight away. But it won’t come to that. Just needs a gentle nudge in the right direction – and us to keep our nerves.’
Blair Williams got up and walked to a cabinet from which he produced a bottle of wine and a glass.
‘Giving up the idea of the gym tonight?’
‘Yes. I’ve lost the enthusiasm, rather.’
‘Quite right. A friend of mine fell off an exercise bike recently. Damn near killed himself. I’m sure you get enough exercise elsewhere, eh?’
‘Sorry – what?’ Williams looked flustered as he struggled with the wine cork.
‘Better get going. At my age, sleep is a must, especially if there’s a journey on the cards. Don’t worry, I know the way out. Please give Karen my best.’
‘Amy, you mean.’
‘Yes, Amy, of course. Sorry. I’m getting old, Blair, damnable bloody stuff. We’ll speak soon.’
As Strong walked up the two narrow steps and out of the room, Williams managed to open the wine. He poured himself a large glass and drained it in one go.
‘Darling, you didn’t let it breathe,’ said Amy Williams, returning from her storytelling duties.
‘Bugger that. I need a drink.’
‘Has Mike gone?’
‘Yes, he’s gone. I swear I wish he’d die off or something. The man’s a bloody menace.’
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘In every bloody way.’ Blair Williams poured himself another large glass of expensive Shiraz.
*
O’Hara faced Daley and Scott in the interview room at Kinloch police office. It was well into the evening, and the hotel employee was noticeably jumpy, irritated at the wait and clearly concerned by what more the police wanted from him.
‘Now, Mr O’Hara,’ said Daley. ‘Sorry to have kept you; we’ve been out of the office.’
‘Could you no’ have jeest asked me to come down when yous were here? I’ve been waiting for hours.’ It was clear that O’Hara’s meek manner had changed since his interview at Machrie House Hotel.
‘Sorry, couldn’t be helped,’ said Daley. ‘I just want you to go over what you told us earlier, please.’
O’Hara rolled his eyes. ‘Jeest like I says. I was about tae deliver Ms Wenger’s breakfast when I heard noises from her room.’
‘Screams, and the like?’
‘Aye, that’s it. Shouting and screaming.’
‘And you heard this plainly from the corridor?’
‘Aye, that’s why I rushed in.’
‘Some of our colleagues have taken statements from the other guests on that floor. Nobody heard a commotion at all, and three of the other rooms were occupied at the time.’
O’Hara shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whoot dae you want me tae say?’
‘Well, it’s rather strange that if someone was screaming they weren’t heard by anyone else, don’t you think?’
O’Hara opened his mouth to say something, but Scott spoke before he had the chance.
‘How do you get to work, Mr O’Hara?’
‘On the bus fae Kinloch. Why dae you ask?’
‘And you got the bus the day Ms Wenger was attacked?’
‘Aye, at six. Gets me there just in time for breakfast service.’
‘Did you come to work alone? I mean not wae any o’ your colleagues, or that?’
‘No, jeest me. Hold on. I don’t know whoot yous are trying tae get at, but I don’t like it. It was me who helped the woman!’
‘Yes, and she’s very grateful for your intervention,’ said Daley. ‘But you’ll understand that we have to examine everything very closely. This was a serious attack on Ms Wenger, and it’s still unclear just how the attacker entered the premises.’
‘Aye, I suppose.’ O’Hara appeared to see the logic in this.
‘It’s a matter of routine, but we’ll have tae have a look at your bank account, Mr O’Hara,’ said Scott.
‘Whoot? So, I save someone and noo I’m the one under suspicion? This isna right!’
‘Just procedure,’ said Daley. ‘It’s the kind of thing we do after a serious attack. We’re just looking for answers. And there have been developments elsewhere that mean this case has taken on another, much more serious aspect.’
‘Like whoot?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment, Mr O’Hara.’
‘And what if I say no to yous looking at my bank account?’
‘Under those circumstances, and because of the nature of the assault on Ms Wenger, we would seek a warrant.’
O’Hara stood up, scraping the chair he’d been sitting on along the hard floor. ‘If I’m under arrest I want a lawyer. Your cops jeest told me they wanted mair information. This is starting tae sound serious tae me.’
‘You’re free to go, sir,’ said Daley. ‘Do we have your permission to have a look at your bank account?’
‘Aye, if yous must. But I tell you this. The next time I hear someone screaming fae anywhere, I’m jeest ignoring it!’
‘We can have a car
drop you back home,’ said Daley.
‘Naw, you’re fine. I need a walk tae help me calm doon after this shite.’
Scott showed him to the door and closed it. ‘What do you think, Jimmy?’
‘He’s been up to something. We’ll get in touch with the bus company in the morning. I want to know who was on that six o’clock bus to Machrie.’
Mike Strong was packing a bag when his wife arrived back from her reading group. She looked at the scatter of clothes and toiletries and regarded her husband with a puzzled expression.
‘A holiday I don’t know about, Mike?’
‘No, wish it was. Bloody business.’
Samantha Strong sat heavily on the sofa and watched her husband with great interest. She’d flourished on joining the readers’ group. They had guest authors from time to time and their message was the same: ‘Observe everything around you. You have five senses, so use them, describe what you see, how you feel, et cetera.’ The last author had also been a hypnotist, and had promised to come the next day to regress her. Secretly she was pleased that her sceptical husband would be elsewhere. And, after all this time, she didn’t really care what he got up to.
She’d been married to her lawyer husband for almost forty years, and reckoned he’d probably clocked up a similar number of conquests in that time. Though she’d known about his affairs almost from the beginning of their marriage, she had decided not to make an issue of it as long as it wasn’t flaunted in her face. He’d been careful enough not to do that; she refused to think of it as being considerate.
This time, though, she sensed something different. There was a determined urgency to the way he was packing, a job she normally did for him. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘Bloody Argyll.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely there. What part?’
‘Is this twenty questions?’
‘So it’s a secret, then.’
‘Sam, do me a favour, will you? I’m in a hurry. I just want to get this done, catch a couple of hours’ sleep and head off.’
‘You’re leaving tonight?’
‘Early morning, more likely – very early.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Remember to take your pills, won’t you, Mike.’
As she left the room he shook his head. He could – should – have left her a hundred times. But she had money, and Mike Strong had always coveted money.
As Sam closed the bedroom door behind her, she leaned against it and smiled. Getting rid of her husband for a while was just what she needed.
Daley and Scott stared into the low metal box they’d brought back from the old Transit at Rowan Tree Cottage. The padlock had been a stout one, but an equally robust constable equipped with a pair of bolt cutters had managed to dislodge it, though not without some effort.
On top of the open box sat an antiquated manual typewriter in a neat black leather box. It looked to be from the sixties or seventies, a Remington, the type journalists would take with them to write up a story; from a bygone age, Daley considered.
Under the typewriter were reams of paper, all neatly typed, but of varying ages, judging by the colour of the A4 sheets. Some were yellowed with age, others bright and fresh-looking. The papers seemed to be in no particular order, old and new mixed together. Scott picked up a sheet and began to read.
‘Gobbledygook tae me, Jimmy. Here – have a look yourself.’
Daley took the sheet from Scott and cast an eye over it. Though the grammar and spelling were sound, the subject matter appeared rather impenetrable, with lots of long Latin words and complex descriptions. ‘It’s like some massive medical dissertation. But I want every page studied. This must be the work of the late Mr Doig. We wondered where the typewriter Alice talked about had gone. Now we know.’
‘I hope you don’t expect me tae dae it. I’ve got needles tae stick in my eyes by way of relaxation instead.’
‘We’ll get some of the DCs on it in the morning. Looks like we’ll need some expert guidance in any event.’
‘It’s been a long day, Jimmy. Fancy a wee snifter – Douglas Arms, maybe? We’re no’ going tae find Ginny Doig tonight.’
‘No thanks. But you’re right. She’ll know this area better than any of us. We’ll start asking about tomorrow. Leave that box for the early shift with some instructions, please, Brian. I’m off home. Bloody knackered.’
‘But you’re feeling okay, aye?’
‘Yeah, fine, just tired. Don’t worry, I’m not about to expire, Brian.’
‘You’re coping well, big man. This isn’t exactly the quiet easing back intae work you were expecting.’
‘Nothing’s ever as we expect, is it?’
‘Aye, true. I’ll away hame tae. No point sitting in Hotel Misery either – it’s bad enough drinking ginger beer as it is without all that gloom. See you in the morning, Jimmy.’ Scott left to compose instructions for the early shift regarding the box and its contents.
Daley drove home under a carpet of stars. The roads were already slippery; another frost was about to set in. The loch glistened, bright with the lights of the town and the twinkling heavens above, church spires like looming monoliths in the moonlight. Daley had always liked this time of year: cold, crisp weather, cosy nights by the fire and the build-up to Christmas. He’d impressed himself by the way he’d managed to slot back into the routine of being a police officer again. But the Doig case was becoming more and more complex, and he felt his stomach churn again when he thought of the footage of the ‘ice pick lobotomy’, and the body of Thorbin Doig he’d seen earlier. How could anyone do that to another human being, never mind their own children?
As he bumped up the lane to his house on the hill he noted the place was in darkness and reasoned that Liz must be in bed. When he parked the car and made his way into the house he was startled by the lone figure sitting motionless on the couch in the moonlight, staring blankly into space.
‘You okay, Liz?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied wistfully. ‘And don’t worry, I haven’t been drinking.’
‘I never said you had.’ Daley sat beside her and slipped his arm round her shoulder.
She leaned into him. ‘Do you know, that’s the most affectionate you’ve been since – well, since I’ve been back.’
‘I’m sorry. I know how hard things have been for you.’
‘I had a meltdown at the dentist the other day – or at least outside, in the car.’
‘Shit! I was supposed to take James. Sorry, it slipped my mind. What was wrong?’
‘Dentists.’
Daley sighed in realisation. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have remembered. That was really insensitive.’
‘Don’t worry – I was just being stupid. I took him this morning and we were both fine. I’ve been having great chats with Ella.’
‘I was surprised to see you two in the County earlier.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve not exactly been bosom buddies over the years.’
‘No, but with age comes wisdom. I felt fine until I sat in the hotel. It was so depressing.’
‘Tell me about it!’
‘But I’m going to be okay, promise.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Liz. For your sake, I mean.’ He pulled her close and the pair of them sat in an embrace in the moonlight, feeling a quiet companionship hitherto alien in their marriage.
37
Ginny Doig was glad to see the dawn as it broke across the North Channel. It had been bitterly cold in the tiny shepherd’s hut, and the little store of firewood the family left there had been exhausted well before the sun appeared over the horizon.
She felt safe here, though. When the man who had killed her eldest son had walked down the beach away from her hiding place she’d held her breath, back pressed firmly against the rock until she could stand it no more. Then she sneaked along the sand, staying as low as she could, and made her way up the hill through the low gorse bushes and clumps of heather to where she knew she�
�d find sanctuary. Her sons left basic food and some water and a kettle in the little hut they used when the sheep were on the hill. She had drunk tea to warm her during the night, boiling the kettle over the small fire, her mind in turmoil, hatred in her heart.
There must be no mistake now. The woman – her daughter – who had made such an unwelcome return had made her life a hell on earth. First her husband; now she’d lost a son. As the morning broke bright over the frost-fringed heather, Ginny Doig made her plans. She couldn’t rely on the police – her daughter had them in her pocket, she was sure. An end must come to every life, and she cared little now for her own. She’d lived a life that had suited her, isolated with her family by the restless sea and the hissing pebbles.
But Ginny Doig wasn’t quite ready to give up yet.
Annie counted the small bottles of tonic water, bitter lemon and fresh orange juice as she’d been doing for as long as she could remember. But her heart wasn’t in her work today. If it hadn’t been for the loyalty she felt to her customers – her friends – she would have walked away and left the owners of the County Hotel to wind down their own business. She would have to look out Christmas decorations soon, and dreaded the thought.
Everything comes tae its natural end. Has its time and place, Anne. She could see her grandfather in her mind’s eye, smell rolling tobacco and his musty cardigan. The old man had managed to get her a job as a waitress in this very hotel when she was still a schoolgirl. She remembered smiling at him as she waited for an order to appear through the hatch of the bar that was now her domain. He sat in the same seat every day and had three drams and a half pint of beer. After he died, she couldn’t face looking into the bar. She always felt that she’d see him sitting there, alive and well. But when she gathered her courage and walked through the door, his seat was as empty as her heart. That was how she felt today.
The ringing of the bell at reception made her lose count of the mixer bottles, and she cursed to herself as she walked from the bar to the little reception desk. A tall man in his mid-forties was standing there. He smiled at her.
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