‘It is?’
‘The FBI is looking into it. They’re getting back to me.’
‘But what would that prove? We know Alice Wenger didn’t kill her brother or Sheena McKay. We also know from the Greek witness that her father simply fell backwards from the cliff, just like she said.’
Daley sighed. ‘But this decoy idea – it’s still madness.’
‘We have enough bodies. We stick her in the cottage, let the gossips do the rest. My guess is Ginny and Chiase will turn up – and there we go.’
‘He’s a pro, ma’am. In the bloody Mafia.’
‘He’s an old man. Look at the mess he made of the O’Hara business. Frankly, if we can’t round up two OAPs in these circumstances, we might as well give up.’
‘What I say doesn’t matter, does it?’
Chief Superintendent Carrie Symington shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what either of us think. The decision has been made. Alice goes to the cottage with a minder; we spread the word, get in position and wait for events to unfold. As soon as they show themselves we nab them.’
Daley was tired; tired and horrified. He had two men in his cells whose minds had been taken away in the most brutal fashion. He had two murder victims. Everything pointed to Ginny Doig and Chiase. ‘Okay, we do it your way, ma’am. But I’m interested to know how an elderly woman who has hardly left her croft in the middle of nowhere for years gets in touch with an American gangster. They don’t even have a phone at Rowan Tree Cottage.’
‘I hear you. But if we catch them things will become much clearer, eh? And remember, this is not my way, Jim.’
‘Whatever.’ Daley rubbed his face and walked off. He wondered yet again why his organisation bothered with middle-ranking officers, when it appeared that decisions were being made behind desks nearly two hundred miles away. It wasn’t the first time this thought had crossed his mind, and it wouldn’t be the last, he reckoned.
47
Mike Strong sat on the edge of his hotel bed tying his tie. It was dark outside, and while the snow had stopped in Kinloch he saw on the television that the adverse conditions had brought much of the central belt of Scotland to a halt.
In any case, he was hungry and thirsty. He cursed himself for not having brought a decent malt to enjoy in the privacy of his room. But he was bored hanging about in this dingy place, and reckoned that an hour or two in the bar surely couldn’t be that arduous; it would at least break the monotony, and he might pick up some information. He knew how small towns worked.
He stood and opened the old net curtains to stare down on Main Street. On the road, snow had been turned into a muddy-brown slush, but the pavements, though dotted with footprints, were still white. A movement caught his eye, and he realised an old woman was waving at him from the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. Instead of returning the gesture, he pulled the curtain to, cursing his luck at being stuck in this place. Then he thought of the reward.
Mike Strong shrugged on his blazer, checked his hair in the mirror one more time, and made for the small bar of the County Hotel.
*
‘I cannae dae it,’ said Brian Scott to his wife.
‘Why not? Have you taken a vow o’ silence?’
‘No. I’m a policeman, remember?’
‘I remember fine,’ said Ella. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that the polis don’t go intae pubs, get half cut and tell anyone who’ll listen all they know. I’ve been about one o’ them for a’ these years, after all.’
‘But I don’t drink, dearest.’ Scott was doing his best to be pleasant. He realised that any other strategy would end in disaster.
‘So, I just rock up in the County, stand on a stool and tell everyone this Wenger lassie is holed up in her mother’s hoose. What’s it called again, Christmas Tree Cottage?’
‘Rowan Tree Cottage.’
‘Right. And don’t raise your eyebrows, Brian Scott. You get paid tae be a polis, no’ me!’
‘All you need tae dae is go up tae Hamish or Annie and gie them the whisper. The whole toon’s on aboot what’s been happening. They’ll lap it up. It’ll be all over the place before you can say gie me a large gin and tonic.’
‘No, it won’t. That’s the first thing I’m going tae say.’
‘So you’ll dae it!’ Scott smiled widely.
‘I’ll need tae be rewarded in some way. I’m no charity, you know.’
He sidled up to her and kissed her neck. ‘Don’t you worry aboot that, my dear.’
‘You can keep your hand on your ha’penny! I mean a new dress, or some nice shoes. A roll in the hay wae you has long since stopped being any kind o’ reward.’
Scott looked rather crestfallen. ‘Aye well, if that’s what it takes. Meantime, I’ll away and swallow some bleach – just to get oot o’ your way, like.’
‘You’d be better wae the drain cleaner. Much mair powerful, I’d think.’
‘My mother telt me you had a cruel streak.’
‘Aye, she was right, then. Poor old bugger thought everyone had a cruel streak after a’ they years wae your faither.’
‘Always a dig at my faither.’
‘He drank every penny he ever earned, just aboot. I’m sure you had tae burn the doors tae keep warm – no’ tae mention eating your pets.’
‘It wisnae “pets”, it was just Thumper. My rabbit.’
‘Just as well yous never had a dog.’
‘We were poor, but we were happy. We wanted for nothing. There was folk in oor street much worse off than us!’
It was Ella Scott’s turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Poor bastards.’
Mike Strong was pleasantly surprised by the conviviality of the little bar at the County Hotel. Though he’d attracted a few glances when he first walked in, the other customers soon returned to their own conversations. In fact, he detected a conspiratorial buzz about the place; little wonder, he reasoned, following recent events in the area.
The barmaid was efficient and polite, despite her strong accent. He noted that an old man in the corner near the bar, with a pipe and a thick fisherman’s jumper, was following his every move through hooded eyes, but that was a minor irritant.
He chose a table at the back of the bar and sat down with a very large malt whisky. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and an artificial Christmas tree that had seen better days stood at its side. Its branches were, in places, bare of faux greenery, and the wire from which they were constructed could be seen drooping under the weight of gaudy, unfashionable baubles. However, what with the snow, the whisky and the leaping flames, Mike Strong couldn’t help but feel an encroaching festive spirit.
He thought about what to do next. Chiase was safely tucked away. He was the weapon of war that Strong needed. A shield between himself and what was happening. He felt a fleeting sadness that the old mobster had spent his last Christmas in New Jersey. Then he reasoned that Vito Chiase had removed Christmas from many people during his life of crime.
A couple entering the bar caught his eye. The man was of average height, and had short dark hair peppered with grey. His wife was slim, but not in a healthy way. She looked like many of his less affluent clients of the past, thin through necessity rather than choice: a lifetime of cigarette smoking and pecking at poor food, no doubt. He decided that, despite her neatly dyed hair and well-cut coat, this woman had seen hard times.
He supposed this was a product of his years as a lawyer; it was impossible for him not to notice people, to weigh them up. He’d done it in the courtroom, and more recently across the corporate boardroom. Everybody had a weak point. If you observed them for long enough, you could detect a raised eyebrow here, a change of pallor there; dry lips, a tight throat, trembling hands. It was all part of his art.
Suddenly the man caught his eye and stared at him. Though Strong couldn’t be sure, he thought he saw the same process going on behind that gaze, as though he was the one now being evaluated.
He put the glass to his mouth and ignored the notion. He h
ad enough on his plate without perceiving problems that didn’t exist.
‘Hello, you two,’ said Annie, with a smile that was perhaps too broad to be absolutely sincere. She liked Ella, but had to work hard at hiding her latent feelings for her husband. ‘Are you in for a meal?’
‘No such luck,’ replied Ella Scott. ‘There was nothing on the telly, and I didn’t want tae spend another night staring at this yin’s coupon.’
Annie laughed, but anyone who knew her would have detected a mirthless quality in the sound. In fact, the old fisherman sitting at the table nearest the bar reckoned that the chatelaine of the County Hotel would be quite happy to stare at Brian Scott all night, TV or no TV.
‘It’s yourselves,’ he said, his face creased in a grin. ‘My, but it’s chilly oot there tonight, eh? But we’ve had it easy – the rest o’ the country’s in blizzard conditions.’
‘Snow. You can keep it, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Brian Scott.
‘We went skiing once. I’ll no’ even go intae it,’ said Ella with a grimace.
‘Oh, come on, you canna leave us hanging, Ella,’ said Annie.
‘Tae cut a long story short, yer man here was on the nursery slopes.’
‘Did you hurt yourself, Brian?’ said Annie, staring at the detective.
‘Och no, he was fine. The poor wean he ran over wisnae so jolly, right enough. The job I had calming the mother doon.’ Ella glared at her husband.
‘Let’s get things straight here. First off, I didnae want tae go skiing in the first place. One o’ oor weans bought Ella some o’ they dry slope lessons in Glasgow, and after that there was no stopping her. We had tae go tae Austria.’
‘Where you near beheaded a wean.’
‘The wee bugger slid oot in front o’ me.’
‘He was skiing. You were sliding, Brian.’
‘Ach, whatever.’ Scott gestured dismissively with his hand. ‘I wanted tae go tae Torremolinos, but no; come February, there we was freezing oor bollocks off trying no’ tae break anything.’
‘I gied the wee boy money. That sorted him oot,’ said Ella.
‘He was at it! I’ve nae doot he was running intae novice skiers a’ the time just so as he could make a bob or two.’
‘His folks were loaded!’
‘You know how fly weans are these days. Likely picked it up on thon YouTube.’
‘Aye, that View Tube is tae blame for the end o’ society, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Hamish. ‘That an’ a’ this Place Book and Twatter. Folks canna have a decent conversation in the street; they’re a’ looking doon at they damned phones. Malky Maloney near knocked me in front o’ the Blaan bus the other day. Too busy talking tae his brother in Toronto, apparently. It’s a’ very well being sorry, but what good would that dae if I was flattened by the bus, eh? Aye, an’ the folk heading for Blaan widna have been too happy neithers wae the bus being late. And let me tell you, they’re a glum lot at the best o’ times.’
‘He didnae offer you fifty quid, though, I bet,’ said Scott.
‘Here we go wae the money again,’ said Ella under her breath.
‘No, but he offered tae hypnotise me.’
‘What?’ said Scott, bemused.
‘He lost his job a whiles back. They put him on this course tae learn thon hypnotism. Though dear knows whoot he’ll make o’ that.’
‘What did he dae before?’
‘He was a plumber. Ach, no’ a very good one. It took him three goes tae unblock my toilet a couple o’ years ago.’
‘What an image,’ said Annie.
‘It was no laughing matter, I’ll tell you. I was just standing – doing my business, as you’ll be aware, Brian. I had this fit o’ coughing, and damn me but my bottom set shot right doon intae the lavvy.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Hamish’ said Annie, wincing.
‘Did they no’ jeest get stuck at thon U-bend. I tried tae get my hand doon, but I’m no’ as supple as I once was. Had tae get Malky in – what a performance.’
As Annie continued to recoil, Ella looked more sympathetic. ‘Did you get another pair free? I know fine what dentists are like these days.’
‘Thankfully, there was no need. At the third go Malky Maloney managed tae get them oot. I soaked them in some Sterident o’er night and they were as good as new – see.’ He parted his lips in a rictus grin and pointed to his bottom teeth.
Annie retched as Ella looked on in disgust.
‘In fact, they fitted better after the event, so I did myself a favour.’
‘Here was me wondering if you was talking pish all this time, when in actual fact you have been.’ Scott laughed.
‘At least I never brutalised a poor wee boy on the ski slopes, Brian Scott.’
‘I ran intae him an’ knocked him doon. Don’t get so dramatic.’
‘Huh! So you admit it. You’ve been blaming that wee soul for the last ten years.’ Ella looked triumphant. ‘Can I have a large gin and tonic please, Annie? My husband is paying.’
‘I need to go to a place,’ said Scott, nudging his wife out of sight of the others.
‘Aye, okay, steady on, Rambo.’ Ella waited until Brian Scott had left for the Gents before she leaned across the bar. ‘Here, Annie, have you heard aboot a’ this carry on?’
‘Aye, jeest terrible. Sheena McKay was a lovely lassie. As far as them fae the black croft – well, I’m saying nothing.’
‘It gets worse,’ said Ella, lowering her voice.
‘How can it get worse, at all?’ said Hamish, now standing at the bar, ear cocked.
‘The bold yin – her fae the States. She’s only moving intae the cottage.’
‘Alison? You are kidding?’ said Annie.
‘No’ a bit o’ it, Annie. Bold as brass.’
‘I mind o’ her, right enough,’ said Annie. ‘She was a bit older than me, but when she ran off, well, the whole toon was on aboot it, weren’t they, Hamish?’
The old fisherman sucked at his unlit pipe. ‘Aye, it was a terrible thing. I think maist of us thought she was deid – well, until she turned up the other day, that was.’
‘Don’t tell Brian I said anything. I’ll have my heid in my hands, I’m sure yous understand.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Hamish.
‘Aye, an’ your teeth are pish,’ remarked Annie. It was only then that she noticed the man with the grey hair and the expensive overcoat standing behind Ella. ‘Mr Strong, I’m sorry tae keep you waiting. Whoot can I get you?’
48
Daley trudged up the steps to his house on the hill. Before entering he turned round and looked at the twinkling lights of Kinloch reflected in the still loch, shimmering fires in the cold darkness of the water. The covering of snow added a luminous glow from the hills looming ghostly now over the town. The air was sweet and clear, the tang of the sea ever-present, and the smell of smoke from coal fires took Daley back to his youth. Chilly nights at play with his friends, almost magical under the blanket of stars not obscured by the orange glow of Glasgow’s sodium lights.
But that was a long time ago – a different life. In short, he loved this place. Kinloch was his home now both in fact and in his heart.
Wearily, reflecting on the events of the day, and the plans to lure Ginny Doig to Rowan Tree Cottage, he walked down the hall. All was in darkness. Peeping into the room he again shared with his wife, he saw her and his son snuggled together, heads just above the duvet. While Liz looked serene in repose, the little boy’s eyelids fluttered and he murmured in his sleep. No doubt the sparkling lights of Christmas, Santa and presents were occupying his childish dreams – or so Daley hoped.
Again he remembered being a child: the warmth of the big fire in the grate of their council house; Christmas stockings bulging with gifts arranged around it for him and his siblings. Though they weren’t as poor as some – Daley’s father eschewed drink in the main, and his mother still earned money by taking in typing and the like – they were by no means rich. B
ut there was always a goose on the table, with all the trimmings – his father hated turkey. The smell of Christmas with its spices, cooked fowl, stuffing and burning logs had stayed with him from that day to this, though it was with no little melancholy that he reflected on the faces from his childhood he would never see again.
But life was a bittersweet business.
He decided not to disturb his wife and son and headed for the spare room. Soon in bed, he caught the midnight news on Radio 4, listened to the Book of the Week, then was soothed by the almost poetic mantra that was the shipping forecast. Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight. It was a cerebral tour the British Isles, a lullaby that had – for as long as he could remember – calmed him before sleep; a constant in his life that cosseted him through the very worst of times.
As was his habit now, he took his pulse; reasonably steady, if rather faster than he would have liked. That, too, preyed on his mind. His own mortality was the last thing he thought about before he slipped into the arms of Morpheus, and – after a blissful split-second of sleep-befuddled wakefulness – the first thing to cross his mind in the morning. He’d often wondered how those suffering from terminal illness managed not to scream; to cry out every minute of what was left of their lives at the injustice of it all, the thought of everything being taken away; the prospect of eternal darkness.
Jim Daley now had a notion of how that felt, and it stalked him.
He switched off the radio and settled his head on the pillow. Sleep soon followed.
One minute he was answering the phone, the next he was standing in Main Street. The harsh glow of streetlights illuminated the scene. He was holding a gun, conscious of someone standing behind him. He could almost feel the breath on his collar.
As Daley looked up the street, he saw a pallid-faced woman being held round the neck by a man, whose face was in the shadows. At their side lay a body, large, misshapen, grotesque. Man or woman, he couldn’t be sure – he didn’t care – but he saw a crimson stain of blood in the dirty snow billowing out around a head that lay face down on the cold ground.
Jeremiah's Bell Page 30
