Jeremiah's Bell

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘You – you’ve changed so much. You’re beautiful, Alice.’ Sheena put her hand to her mouth. ‘I mean, not that you weren’t before.’ She blushed.

  ‘I was a ragged-arsed kid with holes in my shoes and no hot water for a bath. I won’t even mention the rest. You must remember that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – it never did in my book. When my gran died, you were the only one who understood what I was going through.’

  ‘We were the same in a way – though from opposite directions. You had everything and everyone was jealous, and I had – well, I had shit.’

  ‘But you’ve turned things around. Look at you, the clothes, the hair – that jewellery. Plus you look ten years younger than me!’

  ‘I’ve had work done.’

  ‘Oh – wow! You must be better off than me too, then.’

  ‘What happened to all your old man’s money?’

  ‘Dad was ill for a long time. You remember my brother Allan, aye?’

  ‘Sure I do.’

  ‘He took over the business, but he was more keen on drinking whisky in the Island Bar than working. We lost everything – it broke my father’s heart.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sheena. He – you – didn’t deserve that.’ Alice took another gulp of champagne. ‘Listen, order something – we’ll eat and then we’ll talk. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, me and you.’

  ‘I’ll have to get back in an hour or so – Bertie’s coming to pick me up.’

  ‘To hell with that! You got a cell phone, right? Call him and tell him it’s a girls’ night out. We’ll eat, drink, be merry – talk the pants off each other. Fuck knows we have plenty to talk about. I’ll get you a room for the night – c’mon.’

  ‘I couldn’t. That would be so unfair.’

  Alice Wenger grabbed her old friend’s hand across the table. ‘You remember that little transistor radio you gave me?’

  ‘Yes, the red one. I remember it well.’ Sheena smiled at the thought.

  ‘It was one of the best things anyone has ever done for me. I owe you – and not just for that. It’s my turn to treat you, Sheena.’

  ‘What can I say? Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. Let me give Bertie a call.’

  Alice watched the dowdy middle-aged woman who had once been a pretty girl fish into her handbag for her phone. Though her smile remained intact, her heart broke. She hated the passage of time. She felt as though she’d lost so much of it to poverty, cruelty and the shit life had thrown at her. Despite the plastic surgery, the money – everything she had – nothing could bring those years back, not ever.

  ‘I’m looking for an Alice Wenger,’ said Scott to the tartan-clad receptionist.

  The girl looked flustered at the mention of the name.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just that Ms Wenger is at dinner, and she already has one unexpected visitor. Can’t this wait, DI Scott?’

  ‘No, it can’t. I’m following up an old case, and I’ve reason to believe that Alice Wenger can help me. So, if you don’t mind, where can we find her . . . Daisy?’ said Scott, glancing at her nametag.

  ‘Right, if you say so.’ Daisy sighed. ‘Follow me, please.’

  They made their way along a corridor and then up a short flight of stairs. Daisy pushed open the restaurant doors and turned to the detectives. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll ask her if she’d rather speak to you in private.’

  ‘Up tae you, dear. As long as I get to speak tae her, I’m no’ bothered where it is.’

  Potts was moving uneasily from foot to foot. It was a habit Scott had noticed before. ‘What’s up wae you?’

  ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable – you know, disturbing her evening like this, sir.’

  ‘You mean you’re itching to get hame.’

  ‘No – well, aye. But couldn’t we have done this earlier?’

  ‘This is the polis, son, no’ the social work department.’

  As Scott was about to expand this statement, Daisy reappeared. ‘If you don’t mind giving her a couple of minutes, Ms Wenger says she’ll speak to you. She’s in company so has to excuse herself. You can have a word with her in the office down there.’ Daisy pointed to a door marked Private. ‘Just go in and make yourselves comfortable.’

  In the small office, Potts looked round. ‘There’s only two chairs, sir.’

  ‘Well spotted, son. I’ve always said you was Crime Squad material.’

  ‘Where will this woman sit?’

  ‘She’ll sit doon there – opposite me. You’ll stand up an’ take notes.’

  ‘This isn’t how I imagined the life of a DS.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can. We’re a’ aboot to take one step back again.’

  A resigned look crossed Potts’s face just as the door swung open.

  ‘You’re the cops, right?’ said Alice Wenger.

  ‘That’s right, Ms Wenger. I’m DI Scott and this is DS Potts.’ Brian stood to shake her hand, but she ignored the gesture. ‘Anyway, take a seat, please.’

  ‘No thank you, Inspector Scott. I don’t intend to be here for long, so ask your questions and I’ll get back to my friend.’

  ‘Okay. I have reason to believe that you’re Alison Doig, formerly of Rowan Tree Cottage. You went missing almost thirty-four years ago. I need to ask you some questions about that, please.’

  Wenger was dressed in trousers and a jumper, a pair of cowboy boots the only nod to her adopted homeland. Scott tried hard to see the pale face of Alison Doig, but struggled to make the picture fit in his mind.

  ‘Yes, I was Alison Doig. So what?’

  ‘You went missing – nobody’s seen you for years.’

  ‘Is that a crime here now? I was over sixteen – just. I could do what I wanted.’

  ‘You stole your parents’ van.’

  ‘I borrowed it.’

  ‘You drove it without permission and with no driving licence.’

  ‘Okay, inspector, charge me then. I can assure you of one thing: I will get an attorney who will make your head spin.’

  ‘We just need to know more about what happened, that’s all.’

  ‘Then why don’t you take a trip to Rowan Tree Cottage and ask my so-called parents why I left the way I did?’

  ‘Now I’ve established your identity, it’s only right I inform them that you’ve been found, Ms Wenger.’

  ‘Found?’ She laughed heartily. ‘You asshole! If you want to charge me, get on with it, honey. But I don’t want you to inform my parents of anything. I’m no kid now, inspector. If you want to right some wrongs, as I say, you take a trip to see them. Apart from that I have nothing to say.’ She turned on her heel and opened the office door.

  ‘Here, I’ve no’ finished yet!’ shouted Scott.

  ‘I have!’ Alice Wenger slammed the door in her wake.

  ‘She’s a nippy-sweetie,’ said Potts.

  ‘Aye, you can say that again.’

  ‘What are we going to do – I mean, I can’t see a traffic charge sticking after all this time, can you?’

  Scott was thinking. ‘No, we’re hardly going tae try that. We’ll take a wander doon tae this Rowan Tree Cottage tomorrow.’

  ‘To let her parents know she’s turned up?’

  Scott shrugged.

  ‘Don’t tell me: something’s not right.’

  ‘Bang on, son. At last you’re getting it.’

  As Scott got up off his chair and made for the door, Potts shook his head. ‘Not really, to be honest.’

  11

  1925

  The little steam puffer had plied its trade up and down the west coast of Scotland for thirty-four years, but rarely had she sailed in weather like this. In fact, her gnarled old skipper Fergus Donaldson would never had put to sea in such a gale under normal circumstances.

  But these were not normal circumstances.

  The two large men with the American accents were menacing, even though both were now below emptying the contents of their stomachs into o
ld tin pails. They’d left Donaldson no choice other than to abandon his plan of riding out the storm at anchor in the relative safety of the little cove. His passengers had made that abundantly clear. When his protestations had been met with a revolver pointed straight at his head, the decision to face the gale blowing huge seas from the nor’east had been made for him.

  ‘Time’s money, fella,’ said Frank, the bigger and uglier of the pair. Somehow his slow New York drawl made him seem even more menacing, and was enough to send first mate Sammy McMichael and the ship’s boy running to seek the relative safety of the over-pressed engine room.

  Donaldson sucked on his pipe and merely nodded. ‘Aye, if that’s what you want. But hark at this: it might no’ be that far to Kinloch – a few hours in fine weather – but, I tell you this, these seas are the most dangerous they can be right noo!’ He had to shout to make himself heard against the howl of the wind and lash of the great waves that were breaking over the bow of the vessel.

  Frank waved the pistol at him again, closer this time, almost touching his temple. Though he was a stubborn man, Donaldson was in no doubt that these men were ruthless enough to carry through their threat of killing him and forcing his first mate to sail the rest of the way to the bay near Kinloch from where they were to pick up their illicit cargo and make the deal.

  ‘You ain’t no Billy McCoy, captain, but you’ll fucking do this thing!’

  Donaldson had to grab the ship’s wheel to stop himself falling as another huge wave thrashed across the prow. His tormentors weren’t so lucky, both careering to the deck. For a split second, Donaldson considered the iron jemmy bar he used to prise open the hold when it got stuck, but these men – distressed as they might be – were tough. They were back on their feet in seconds, Frank’s companion, Tony, now with a nasty cut on his brow.

  ‘Look at this! I’m bleeding here,’ he shouted, examining the smear of red left on his palm when he had tentatively touched his forehead.

  ‘Go find a nurse then,’ replied Frank sarcastically. It was clear that his wrath could be directed at anyone, friend or foe. ‘You’ll do this, old man. You’re getting a good taste – more than this tub is worth. Just keep sailing, you got it?’

  Knowing when he was beaten, Donaldson, still gripping the wheel, nodded and squinted out of the wheelhouse window.

  ‘You see anything out there?’ Frank demanded.

  ‘Nothing but the blackest hell you can imagine.’

  ‘You’re a great guy to be around – all the fun of the fair over here. It’s like Coney fucking Island.’ He turned on his heel, making sure he was holding on to the chart table in the cramped cabin. ‘C’mon, Tony, we’re going back below.’

  ‘Let me die!’ Tony wailed.

  ‘You know, I wish I’d brought Big Patsy from AC to do this thing. You do nothing but moan, you asshole.’

  Together, they forced the door open, confirming the full force of the storm as seawater and spray crashed into the tiny space.

  Making sure the door was secure behind them, Donaldson turned his attention back to the turbulent dark of night, desperately searching for the lights that were now their only salvation.

  Jim Daley sat at the big window of his house on the hill looking across the loch. It was almost three in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep. His mind was awash with problems, both real and imagined. How would his colleagues react to his being back – especially following his attack on the man who had raped Liz? The answer was, he couldn’t be sure.

  Back in the old days, it would have been different. Nobody would have turned a hair at the thought of a police officer giving someone a good hiding. He’d have been a hero, in fact. But in these days where university graduates were the standard recruitment ground, who could be sure what they would think? The irony was that he’d turned into those he so despised: the cops he’d worked with in the past who took pleasure in breaking the rules – were proud of it, even.

  He took a gulp of the whisky that he knew he should have left in the bottle. But for all the medication he was now on, nothing worked to calm his soul like the water of life. He remembered how Brian had struggled with his alcoholism – would probably always struggle. That set the big detective wondering if he too was an alcoholic. They’d asked how much he drank in the hospital; he’d lied – standard procedure. But in his heart, he knew that he looked forward to popping the cork of a good malt every evening – looked forward to it far too much.

  And then there were the lingering doubts about his health. They’d told him not to look up his condition on the internet, which of course was the first thing he did. There were so many horror stories of people with months or a couple of years to live, terrible deaths, woeful disability. He had shut the lid of the computer and vowed never to look at this stuff again. But he had. Searching for the good news the worldwide web always seemed so reluctant to provide – unless you liked cat videos, of course.

  Then there was Liz. Hard as he tried, the feelings he’d had for her would not return. Yes, he was fond of her – she was the mother of his child. His heart had broken when she’d eventually told the truth behind her battered face, about the man who had brutalised her.

  Though he’d been asked a similar question by numerous doctors he’d seen in the last few months and always responded in the negative, he wondered about his state of mind. Yes, he’d always tended towards melancholy, feeling at odds with the world, an alienation made worse by his chosen profession. But now he felt a real sadness, a pain in the pit of his stomach that only whisky seemed to cure, albeit temporarily.

  He looked at the phone on the table, walked over and picked it up. As he dialled the number, he realised that he would probably not have done this sober, but he needed to speak to someone, and he could think of no other.

  ‘Jimmy, is that you?’ The voice was slurred with sleep.

  ‘Yes, Brian. Listen, I’m sorry to call you at this time . . .’

  ‘No worries, big man – open twenty-four hours a day waiting for a call from you, mate. You know me.’

  Daley felt instantly happier. He could hear the smile in his friend’s voice, despite the hour.

  ‘Right, I’m just going doonstairs. I don’t want tae wake oor Ella.’

  Daley heard shuffling, then the padding of feet and the creaking of stairs.

  ‘What’s up, Jimmy – you’re no’ ill again, are you?’ There was genuine concern in the voice on the other end of the phone.

  ‘No, I’m just – och, I just don’t know what I am, Bri.’

  ‘Listen, Jimmy. You’ve been through a lot, and that’s putting it mildly. No man or woman can carry on as normal under they circumstances, and you’re no different. Though I know you think you are.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You gie yourself too high standards, big chap. You always have done. Even when we was starting oot you were the same – worried aboot things that never crossed my mind, so you did.’

  ‘And still don’t, eh?’

  ‘Where there’s nae sense, there’s nae feeling. We all know that. I just said the same thing tae Ella recently.’

  ‘You do yourself down.’

  ‘You think? Listen, just try an’ take life as it comes. Worrying aboot shit won’t make any difference, you know that.’

  ‘Do you think I should come back – to work, I mean? Wouldn’t it be easier to cash in my chips?’

  ‘Aye, it would be easier – of course it would. Then what – open a wee bookshop? I mind you sayin’ that years ago when we was in some strife or other.’

  ‘It’s true – I wouldn’t know what to do. I’ve missed the job more than I ever thought was possible these last few months.’

  ‘See! Just get they big feet o’ yours back under the table and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And can I gie you a wee bit o’ advice – and don’t call me thon hippo thing.’

  ‘Hypocrite?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one.’ Th
ere was a short pause. ‘Go easy on the bottle, big man. And before you start shouting aboot me having a cheek, take it from somebody who knows an’ doesnae judge. There’s nothing better than sitting wae a glass in your hand feeling all your problems disappear. But let me tell you, see in the morning once you’ve had a skinful the night before, well, they just seem worse than ever.’

  Daley sighed, swirling the whisky round in the glass. ‘I know – but just the chance to get some relief, Brian . . .’

  ‘When you’re back at work, the world will all seem like it was, trust me.’

  ‘Shit! Now I am worried.’

  ‘Get tae your bed, get some kip and I’ll come over and see you tomorrow. We can have a proper chat, Jimmy, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Good idea, Brian.’

  ‘Right. Goodnight, buddy.’

  Daley clicked off the call. He looked at the whisky in his hand, walked to the kitchen and emptied the glass in the sink. He was smart enough to know when people were speaking sense – even when it was Brian Scott.

  As Scott tiptoed back up the stairs his heart was heavy. He knew how it felt – knew exactly. Even now he yearned for the soothing effect of booze to take the edges off a hard day – any day, come to that.

  He pondered on the reports he was supposed to write about Daley. Over the years in the police, he’d had to do a lot of things that hadn’t sat easily on his shoulders. But this was by far the worst.

  Had it not been for the memory of the sheer despair he’d felt when his drinking was out of control, he’d have gone back downstairs and poured himself a bumper. Instead, he slipped back under the duvet and cuddled into the back of his wife.

  ‘No!’ she said emphatically.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘If you think you’re on a winner at this time o’ night, think again, buster.’

  ‘Away – I’m just wanting a cuddle. It’s brass monkeys doon that stair.’

  ‘That’s because you’ll no’ have the heating come on until the last minute.’

  ‘You need tae be Rocker-feller tae pay they heating bills.’ ‘Go to sleep, Brian.’