‘I think we’ve realised that, Mr Strong,’ said Daley.
‘Had problems with extortion, plus the financial crash – money in the wrong places, that kind of thing.’
‘The FBI tell us her son was blackmailing her. She killed her first husband in America and the boy was taken into care. It was put down to self-defence, but he was old enough to remember what really happened, and she abandoned him shortly afterwards. Not the story she used for public consumption. I take it you knew that?’ said Symington.
‘No, as a matter of fact I didn’t. But if the boy waited all those years to get his revenge by blackmailing her, he sounds as bad as she is. It’s clear the Doig genes are strong.’
‘Which is why Nathaniel Doig wanted to make sure that the bloodline stopped,’ said Daley.
‘Ah, but he didn’t reckon on his daughter. And she had good cause to be the way she was. Abused, beaten, raped by her brothers. No wonder she did what she did, DCI Daley.’
‘That’s true. She had an awful background, and for that I blame not just her parents but also some of my colleagues from that time. Her life was barbaric, as were the consequences. A tragedy that only ends now, after all these years.’ He paused. ‘But how did you end up the way you are, Mr Strong?’
The disgraced lawyer looked up, his craggy face breaking into a smile. ‘You wait until the day you realise there’s not much time left. You’ll look back on your life and wonder what the hell you did with it. I just wanted to spend my last years living the high life. Selfish, but there you are. I told you I’d be frank.’
Daley squirmed in his chair at the thought of the end of life, but kept his focus. ‘And Alice Wenger, how well did you know her?’
‘She was smart – very smart. She took notes of addresses, of people’s names, when she was still a kid. One of them was our law firm. She knew we were dealing with her father’s affairs, and about Chiase and his family history. She’d researched the lot, worked things out. You know these Italians: they’ll avenge family even if it takes generations. And he needed the money. But the man didn’t live to see it.’
‘They reckon he had a heart attack – initial findings, but probably reliable,’ said Symington, making a sweat break out on Daley’s brow at the thought. ‘And he was your muscle?’
‘Yes, though it was Ms Wenger who told him what to do.’
‘You weren’t involved?’ said Daley.
‘I was a mere facilitator.’ Strong thought for a moment. ‘Like the attack she arranged on herself at the Machrie House Hotel.’
‘Done to attract attention to her mother,’ said Symington.
‘Exactly. Small figure, the famous ice pick lobotomy – or attempted, at least. I’m afraid she didn’t chose her associates very wisely.’
‘And Sheena McKay?’ said Daley.
‘She knew too much. Alice had forgotten she’d told her friend that she was pregnant all those years ago. It would have been easy for anyone to trace her son, then boom!’ Strong made a gesture with his hand to imitate an explosion.
‘So the plan was to wipe out the family and profit from the money that would then belong to the sole survivor, Alice Wenger.’
‘Her plan, not mine.’ Strong smiled.
‘But a considerable sum,’ said Symington.
‘Yes. Millions in gold bullion today.’
The constable arrived back and laid a cup of steaming coffee in front of Strong.
‘And Vito Chiase would be a handy scapegoat. His grandfather was killed by the Doigs, which gave him motive. You split the cash with Alice Wenger and live your life of luxury, yes?’
‘That sort of thing, though my part in it all was a very junior one.’
‘But Chiase wasn’t ever going to survive, was he?’ said Daley.
Strong shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I found him, paid him, the rest was up to Ms Wenger.’
Daley sat back in his chair. ‘That’s where things kind of unravel for me, I’m afraid.’
‘How so?’
‘If you were “a mere facilitator”, then why were you running down the beach towards Rowan Tree Cottage?’
‘I’d come to my senses, DCI Daley, simple as that. My conscience got the better of me. I just wanted to put a stop to the whole damned thing. I overheard a conversation in the County Hotel. How Alice was going to the cottage. Must say, too many loose lips in your operation, eh?’
‘Why not just tell us when you had this change of heart?’
‘And implicate myself? Not likely. Though I dare say I could have batted off any accusations from Wenger – clearly a madwoman. That would have been easy.’
Daley smiled. ‘I have a theory, Mr Strong.’
‘You do?’ Strong returned the smile.
‘I think that Chiase dying suddenly put paid to all your carefully laid plans. You wanted to be the last man standing and pocket the lot. After all, apart from Wenger, you were the only person who really knew how much money there was to be had once the Doigs had been wiped out.’
‘Mere supposition.’
‘We spoke to Blair Williams. He had no clue how much the Doig estate was worth, nor did his retired father. No documentation at your law firm, or your home. That’s why, in desperation, you thought you’d go to the cottage and do what Chiase was supposed to do. You had no notion we were setting a trap for Ginny Doig and your friend from New Jersey.’
‘I have no further comment to make other than that if you think that will hold up in court, you’re more stupid than you look.’
‘Oh, I think we have sufficient evidence against you to put you away for a long time, regardless of whether we can prove my theory or not. More time than you have left, I’d say. So much for living it up in your golden years, Mr Strong.’ Daley smiled.
‘Interview ends at three fifteen p.m.,’ said Symington.
‘I wish you good luck with your theory, Mr Daley,’ said Strong as Daley shrugged on his jacket.
‘Oh, there was another thing I was going to tell you. It slipped my mind,’ said Daley.
Symington frowned at her DCI.
‘We had to collect DNA – normal in these cases, as you know.’
Strong shrugged, draining the last of his coffee.
‘Blair Williams is your biological son. You do know that, don’t you?’
Strong dropped the plastic cup and stared up at Daley, opening his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come.
Epilogue
Three weeks later
The party in the bar at the County Hotel was in full swing. A large Christmas tree replete with baubles old and new sat beside a roaring fire. New decorations festooned the place, making up for the lick of paint so badly needed. Customers clustered at the bar and tables, the Christmas spirit in full flow.
Alistair the butcher and his wife were singing an old Scottish song, with many joining in. Elspeth McCall from the post office looked rather worse for wear; she wasn’t a habitual drinker and two rum and Cokes saw her squinting at the assembled throng through one eye. Charlie Murray was singing heartily if somewhat tunelessly, while Jessie Duncan was tapping out the beat on the spoons.
Hamish was wearing a moth-eaten Santa hat that drooped over one half of his face. He was smiling benignly, looking at his fellow revellers with what could best be described as an expression of sublime contentment. Three large drams were lined up on the table in front of him beside his unlit pipe.
‘There you are, Mr and Mrs Daley. I didna think you’d make oor wee celebration the night,’ he said.
‘How could we miss it?’ said Daley. ‘Where did all the new decorations come from?’
‘That’ll be the new owner, Mr Macmillan. That’s him o’er there at the bar speaking tae Annie. Does she no’ jeest look like the cat that’s got the cream?’
Daley had to admit that before the change in ownership he’d thought his visits to the County Hotel were numbered.
Her conversation with her new boss over, Annie made her way to their table, a bro
ad grin spread across her face. ‘Liz, Mr Daley, it’s a pleasure to see you both. What can I get you? Aye, an’ he’s no’ needin’ any mair.’ She raised a brow at the large measures in small glasses lined up in front of Hamish.
‘You could put a frown on the face o’ the happiest man in the world, Annie, and that’s a fact,’ retorted the old man.
They ordered their drinks and Annie threaded expertly back through the crowded bar to get the drinks.
‘They tell me Ginny Doig is making a good recovery, Mr Daley,’ said Hamish.
‘So it would appear.’
‘As you know, I’ve never cared for the woman, though someone has tae keep tabs on those poor sons o’ hers. Dear knows whoot will happen tae them when she’s gone.’
‘Nothing’s ever easy,’ said Liz, glancing at her husband.
‘No, but you have the right o’ it there, Lizzie. You’re looking right bonnie, tae. If an auld man is permitted to compliment a woman these days.’
‘Thank you, Hamish.’
There was a flurry of activity at the door and Ella Scott appeared wearing a red dress and huge Christmas bauble earrings. Behind her, in a dark suit and wearing a pair of sunglasses, came her husband.
‘Bugger me,’ said Hamish. ‘Roy Orbison is alive and well, right enough.’
‘I’ll have you know I’ve tae wear these on doctor’s orders. You don’t know how close I came tae walking aboot like the living deid,’ said Scott.
‘Here’s me thinking you’ve been at that for the last thirty years, tae,’ said his wife, with a wink in Hamish’s direction.
‘I’m just pleased you’re okay,’ said Daley, patting his best friend on the shoulder.
‘Aye, things could have been much worse, right enough. But, yet again, here I am. Me and you are survivors, Jimmy.’
Daley nodded in agreement, though in his mind, despite the occasion, he felt every beat of his heart.
Annie arrived just as Alistair and Agnes stopped for a break, and music from the bar began to play in order to keep the festivities going.
‘Here. I saw yous coming in an’ took a guess,’ she said, handing Ella a large gin and tonic and Scott a ginger beer and lime.
‘Aye. Happy Christmas,’ said Scott, eyeing his drink through his dark glasses with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He saw Liz Daley smiling broadly and followed her line of sight. It was directed at the handsome Canadian who’d just bought the County Hotel. Then Scott’s gaze attracted her attention, and she smiled weakly back at him.
Knowing she couldn’t see his eyes through the dark glasses, he just shook his head. It was a moment only noticed by the two of them.
Liz grabbed her husband’s hand under the table and whispered in his ear. ‘Are we okay, Jim? You know I love you.’
Daley smiled back and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Yes, we’re fine, Liz.’
Just as he said the words, a Blue Nile classic drifted out from the hotel’s sound system and over the chatter, laughter and merriment. Jim Daley’s heart sank.
Annie tried to ring the bell behind the bar. New owner Tom Macmillan wanted to make a speech. But her attempt to bring the room to order failed when the rope attached to the bell came away in her hand.
‘It’s broken, after all these years!’ she lamented.
‘A bad sign, if you ask me,’ opined Hamish.
‘Here, I know where you can get another bell,’ said Scott.
A Note from the Author
Campbeltown and Prohibition
As a result of pressure from temperance societies to prohibit the manufacture, sale and transportation of intoxicating beverages, the Volstead Act came into effect in 1919; despite a rocky road through the House of Representatives, the amendment to the Constitution was in full force by one second past midnight, 17 January 1920. The United States of America became alcohol-free – dry. Or so the legislators hoped. The initial signs were positive: consumption dropped by around a third, arrests for drunkenness fell and the price for illegal alcohol rose dramatically. However, the rigorous enforcement of Prohibition was matched by the ingenuity of the bootleggers who knew that not every border or illegal drinking venue could be controlled. Criminals (not yet particularly organised but getting there) became increasingly inventive.
Speakeasies rapidly sprang up across the country. Gangsters like Johnny Torrio, his protégé Al Capone, Nucky Johnson, Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano, Albert Rothstein and Meyer Lansky became synonymous with the provision of illegal alcohol. This activity made them rich, and entrenched organised crime in the USA for decades. Luciano was pivotal in establishing the so-called National Crime Syndicate (a loose confederacy of the Italian-American mafia and the Jewish mob), and later founding The Commission, the Mafia’s governing body which was run by five powerful New York families.
In short, the Volstead Act proved to be disastrous for the country and established the tentacles of organised crime that exist to this day.
The east coast of the USA was perfect for smuggling. As depicted in HBO’s Boardwalk Empire, the real Nucky Johnson made sure that Atlantic City, of which he was the de facto boss, was at the epicentre of ‘rum running’ or ‘bootlegging’. As briefly mentioned in this book, Captain William McCoy, a former fisherman who knew the coast like the back of his hand, became one of the most effective mariners on ‘Rum Row’. He was able to evade US Coastguard patrols and smuggle whisky, rum, wine and other forms of booze onto the Eastern Seaboard with relative impunity. He is remembered in the saying, ‘the real McCoy’.
Alcohol from across the Atlantic was also smuggled into the USA via its northern border with Canada. Much of this ended up in Chicago, from where it filtered out to the rest of the country. Johnny Walker and Canadian Club are still two of the bestselling whiskies in America today – surely no coincidence.
Illicit booze came in two distinct forms: that produced in opportunistic distilleries and breweries run by criminals in the USA, and the real thing smuggled in from either Europe or Canada. The latter became much sought after, and the name Campbeltown was synonymous with high-quality and luxury whisky. The town’s location made for convenient transatlantic deliveries, and its thirty-four distilleries were a great resource. Al Capone famously stencilled ‘Campbeltown Whisky’ on casks and printed it on labels of homemade gut rot in order to persuade his customers of its quality. Stories persist in local folklore that Capone, a keen golfer, visited Campbeltown on more than one occasion, and even played at Machrihanish. Likely apocryphal, but by no means beyond the realms of possibility.
Of course, the clandestine nature of this trade has ensured that very little written evidence remains of Campbeltown’s role in thwarting Prohibition. But perhaps it is no coincidence that the fortunes of the town’s many distilleries went into rapid decline after the Prohibition laws were relaxed and the Volstead Act was repealed in 1933. Though it has to be said, the three distilleries that remain are of the highest quality, still more than justifying Campbeltown’s place as one of Scotland’s whisky regions.
Transorbital Lobotomy
After a chance meeting with Portuguese neurologist António Egas Moniz (who had first attempted this procedure in 1935 in Lisbon), at a conference in London the same year, neurologist Walter Jackson Freeman II, along with neurosurgeon James W. Watts, became responsible for the introduction of frontal lobe psychosurgery to the American health system. The basic concept was that disrupting the prefrontal lobe of the brain by surgical intervention would cure mental health conditions such as schizophrenia, mania, insomnia and depression.
Initially the procedure was carried out by drilling holes in the skull in order to access the frontal lobe. But that required an operating room, anaesthesia and trained neurosurgeons. Freeman soon realised that using an ice pick to break through the thinnest part of the skull, just above the eye, was far quicker and easier, and could be done without anaesthesia or trained staff. The lobe would be ‘scrambled’, rendering it ineffective as far as its function in the brain was con
cerned. Vigorously promoted by Freeman and Watts, the idea quickly took off, and between 1940 and 1944, almost 700 lobotomies were performed in the US. In total, around 40,000 people were lobotomised in the US, many of whom were women.
The efficacy of the surgery was doubtful from the beginning, considered crude and hazardous by many scientists, and although some patients appeared much improved following the operation, little or no attempts were made to follow up on their welfare. The procedure spread to the UK, where Sir Wylie McKissock was its greatest advocate. In the beginning, operations took place in hospitals around the country but they were soon performed in mental hospitals and institutions, often by nurses and staff with no medical qualifications. (McKissock stated that it was ‘not a time-consuming operation. A competent team in a well-organised mental hospital can do four such operations in 2–2½ hours.’)
By the late 1950s and 1960s, however, many were expressing serious concerns, and the practice fell out of favour. Henry Marsh, one of the UK’s most eminent neurosurgeons, recalled the many patients he encountered who had been lobotomised thirty or forty years before. He commented in 2011 that it was ‘very bad medicine, bad science, because it was clear the patients who were subjected to this procedure were never followed up properly’. Their cognitive abilities were seriously impaired and, consequently, their lives as social human beings were ruined; they became listless, disinterested and detached from life.
This barbaric treatment has thankfully been consigned to the past. But the struggle to help those with mental illness continues to this day.
Acknowledgements
As I’ve said many times before, writing is not the solo occupation many imagine it to be. The rise of social media means that writers are in daily contact with their readers. I would like to thank the army of bloggers and those who run and participate in book groups around the world on the likes of Facebook and other platforms.
Jeremiah's Bell Page 35
