The three figures, all male, one of early middle age, the other two little more than boys, looked on dispassionately. The man stroked his beard, already flecked with grey as he squinted against the early morning sunlight at the wrecked puffer.
‘You two, go take a look at thon body. Remove anything he has in his pockets – leave nothing. Then make sure you float him back out to sea. You understand?’ As the boys turned to do as they were bid, he grabbed the arm of the elder. ‘Did you do what I asked up on Thomson’s Hill, Thorbin?’
‘Aye, Faither, exactly as you said. I covered the burned grass wae some boulders, then branches and that.’
‘I hope it’s convincing – jeest like I showed you.’ He tightened his grip on Thorbin’s arm.
‘Aye, just like you showed me the last time. You wouldna know there’d been a fire there, I promise.’
‘Good. Get down there and help your brother.’
When Thorbin arrived by the body of the dead man, his brother had already turned him over. His skin was sallow though deathly pale – a strange sight. His face was battered and bruised as though he’d been in a fight. One of his legs lay at an impossible angle, clearly broken.
‘You go through his pockets,’ said Thorbin, attempting the same authority of voice his father displayed.
The younger boy grimaced. ‘Dae I have tae?’
‘Aye, Ethan, you do. Check everywhere, and make sure there’s nothing left on him. Then we’ll have tae haul him back oot.’
Swallowing hard to keep the bile from rising in his throat, Ethan went about his task as effectively as he could. The man’s sea jumper was sodden, and he had to pull hard to lift it above the corpse’s waist, the dead weight of the body making things even more difficult. He pushed two fingers into the right pocket of the dead man’s trousers and using them like tweezers pulled out what he had found. Though the cigarette packet was sodden, the writing on it was still discernible. ‘Lucky Strikes?’
‘It’s they Yankee cigarettes. Mind we saw them in that film at the cinema?’
‘Aye, when you were trying tae get Elsie MacBride tae gie you a kiss. I mind.’
‘Hurry up, you pair!’ The distant voice of their father carried on the wind.
Satisfied that there was nothing more in that pocket, Ethan turned his attention to the other. Again he fished out what he found: first a short black comb, then a small leather wallet containing only a business card for an olive oil company, and finally a clump of sodden paper held together by a clip. He looked again at his elder brother. ‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Thorbin looked at the gold clasp that held the paper together. ‘It looks like money.’
‘But no’ oor kind o’ money, eh?’
‘Faither will know whoot it is. Right, are you sure that’s all in the front pockets?’
‘Aye. You get doon an’ gie it a go if you’re so keen.’
‘I’ll gie you a kick in the teeth if you don’t hurry up. And that’s nothing tae whoot Faither will dae if we don’t get this sorted quick smart.’
Both of them knelt by the body and flipped it over as the waves lapped at their rubber boots. This time Thorbin hauled the sodden jumper up and nodded to his brother, who probed into the back pocket of the trousers with the same two fingers. ‘Nah, nothing in there,’ he said, looking relieved. ‘Right, we’d better wade out an’ get rid o’ him like Faither said.’
‘Hold on,’ said Thorbin. He lifted the jumper up further, revealing something black and metallic poking out of the dead man’s waistband. He hauled at it and a stubby pistol was soon revealed.
‘It’s a gun!’
‘Aye, it’s a gun.’ Thorbin held it by the handle, being careful to keep his finger off the trigger. He was old enough to know what guns could do; he’d spent plenty of time hunting rabbits with his father. ‘Right, throw this stuff up the beach. We need tae get him back in the sea.
The boys grunted as they pulled at the body, gasping harder the further into the cold water they went. It wasn’t until the water was above Thorbin’s waist and under his younger brother’s arms that they felt their load lighten.
‘Right, let go,’ said Thorbin. Sure enough, as though now held by an invisible hand, the body of the dark-haired, sallow-skinned man began to drift away on the surf. ‘We’ll take what we found to Faither, then we’ll have tae get intae thon puffer. The tide’s on the turn.
Daley and Scott made their way back along the rutted track towards Rowan Tree Cottage. If anything, the stench of rotting seaweed was stronger than on their last visit. As they made their way to the front door, Scott nudged Daley.
‘Here, there’s the three stooges doon on the beach.’
Daley looked where his colleague was pointing. Sure enough, three dark-clad figures were on the shingle shore, hauling a lobster boat clear of the surf. ‘Good. We can have a chat with them after we’ve spoken to Mrs Doig.’ Daley made a fist to chap the door, but before he could reach it the grim-faced old woman had opened it.
‘Yous again. What dae you want this time? This is harassment, so it is. I suppose my rich daughter put money in your pockets tae make my life difficult, eh?’
‘We need to speak to you, Mrs Doig,’ said Daley. ‘It’s a serious matter – concerning your husband. Can we come in?’
‘Naw, you can’t.’ She folded her arms resolutely, standing small but immovable in the doorway. ‘Whoot you have tae say you can dae here. Get on wae it, for I’ve nae time tae waste.’
‘Very well,’ said Daley. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that your husband was involved in an accident a short time ago.’
‘Whoot? Are you going tae tell me he fell vaulting o’er a fence? For I tell you this, he’s no’ got the energy.’
‘No, I’m sorry to say that he’s dead, Mrs Doig. He fell from the cliff on Thomson’s Hill. It’s too early for us to give you any more details.’
For a moment Ginny Doig’s face changed. Whether it was a flash of surprise or sadness Daley couldn’t tell, but very quickly she composed herself.
‘Bit o’ a coincidence, is it no’?’
‘What?’
‘My dear daughter arrives after all these years and my husband conveniently falls off a cliff. I hope your next port o’ call will be tae have words wae her?’
‘We’ve spoken to Ms Wenger already, Mrs Doig,’ Daley told her.
‘Huh.’ The old woman laughed mirthlessly. ‘She’s got you in her pocket right enough. Instead o’ coming tae see me first tae tell me my husband’s dead, you rush tae see her. How much did she gie yous, eh?’
‘Your daughter was at the scene.’
This time Ginny Doig’s eyes flashed, a look of pure hatred enveloping her face. ‘Well, there we are. She came here for one reason and one reason only, tae kill her ain faither. I don’t care how much money she’s got, I want yous tae arrest her for murder!’ She took a step towards Daley, wagging her finger up in his face.
‘If you don’t mind me sayin’, you don’t seem too upset that you’ve just lost your husband,’ said Scott.
‘And how would you know whoot I feel? Did yous jeest come tae see me collapse in a heap, greeting like a wee lassie so yous could pass it all on tae Alison? Well, yous can think again. I’m no’ one for tears; what’s done is done. But I want her in chains in your cell, DCI Daley.’
Ignoring her, Daley turned round. ‘We saw your sons when we arrived.’
‘And?’
‘I want a word with them.’
‘I’ll tell them what’s happened to their faither. We don’t need you – we don’t need anybody.’
‘You can come with us and tell them, if that’s what you wish. But a man has died, and I’m carrying out an investigation. One way or the other, Mrs Doig, I will speak to your sons. In the light of these tragic events I’d much rather it be this way. But if you try to stop me I’ll make sure that I do what is necessary to speak to them, whether you like it or not.’
She eyed the poli
ce officers balefully. ‘We’ll do it your way. But I don’t want you to mention their sister.’
‘Don’t they know she’s here? That she’s safe – alive?’
‘My boys are simple lads. They don’t need the upheaval of knowing that their long-lost sister has just killed their faither!’ She screamed the last few words.
‘Lads?’ said Scott. ‘They don’t look like lads tae me. Grown men, mair like.’
‘I dare say there’s a newfangled term for it noo, but I just call it as I see it. My boys aren’t quite the full shilling. They might look like adults, but they’ve got the minds o’ children. I’m no’ ashamed o’ it, that’s jeest how they are. But I don’t want yous speaking tae them.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve no choice in the matter, Mrs Doig. Now, shall we?’ Daley started walking towards the beach.
18
1925
The father and his two sons made their way in a lobster boat out to the wrecked vessel that lay on its side at the end of the spur of jagged black rocks. They could hear creaking as the puffer settled in this unnatural state on its side, held fast until the tide would set it free only to send it to the depths. A great gash in the vessel’s side would guarantee that.
They anchored by the wreck and made their way gingerly on to the rocks. The man threw a grappling hook up the side of the puffer. He failed at his first attempt, but the hook caught a rail on his second try. He pulled at the rope to make sure it was secure.
‘Thorbin, you go first. Your brother and I will come after you.’ He watched as his elder son quickly scaled the rope and pulled himself on to the slanting deck. Ethan followed, but with less agility than his older sibling.
The vessel was a mess: the taff rail was broken in two places, no doubt by the impact of hitting the rocks; one of the heavy doors into the hold had sprung open and was torn from one great hinge. A brass storm lantern lay smashed against a bent funnel. Part of the ship’s wheel, like a wedge of cake, lay trapped against a strongbox under the few steps up to the wheelhouse. The man bounded up them, followed by his sons.
All the windows in the wheelhouse were smashed. Half in, half out of one lay the body of a man who had almost been cut in two by the broken glass, no doubt flung against it as the vessel was wrecked on the unforgiving thrust of the coast. Ethan looked away, appalled by the sight.
‘Don’t be a fucking lassie!’ His father caught him by the neck of his jumper. ‘Go through his pockets just like you did with the man on the beach. Quickly now!’ He turned to his elder son. ‘Get below while I check the hold.’
Thorbin made his way back on to the deck and forced open the hatch that led to the crew’s quarters. Against the bulkhead sat a blackened stove with a guardrail that had failed in its task. Burnt coal and cinders were scattered across a mess of hessian sacks containing potatoes and carrots; pots and pans littered the deck. A box of herring had been upended and tins of all shapes and sizes were gathered against one side of the vessel, having rolled there with the cant of the stranded puffer.
He stepped through a bulkhead door. He had to cover his nose against the stench of sickness and blood. Two men lay on the floor in a pool of seawater, vomit and gore. He prodded them one after the other with the toe of his boot, but both were dead, eyes staring lifelessly, bodies bloodied and battered. Despite the horror of the task, he automatically went about the process of searching through their pockets.
One man was sandy-haired, the left side of his face battered to a pulp leaving one eye hanging from its socket. He was strangely familiar, and Thorbin thought he was probably a local, though he couldn’t put a name to him. His pockets were empty, save for a few coins and a briar pipe.
The other man had sallow skin like the body on the beach, though his hair was of a lighter hue. He had an old scar running down one side of his face and a fresh gash in his forehead. The impact must have been a heavy one as his skull was cleft in two and a slick of grey matter infused with red blood oozed from it. Thorbin gagged as he realised this was the dead man’s brain. Again, though, putting his revulsion aside, he delved through his pockets, this time finding a leather wallet thick with the same notes he’d seen held within the golden money clip of the corpse on the beach. Probing further, he discovered what looked like the hilt of a knife.
Thorbin examined this odd implement, and jumped when he pressed a button on the side of the handle and a wicked blade shot up with a snap. He looked round to make sure there was no sign of his father before slipping the stiletto into his pocket, blade retracted. It would now be his and his alone.
As he stood up, eyeing the rest of the cabin he was startled when his father appeared through the bulkhead door.
‘Nothing in the hold worth a shilling! Fuck all apart fae a few miserable bags o’ coal and a deid engineer. No’ worth hauling o’er the side. Bastard!’ he roared.
Thorbin was about to speak when both his and his father’s attention was drawn to one of the top bunks. From it came a weak voice, groaning and pleading for help.
Thorbin’s father pulled himself up on the side of the bunk and looked over the edge. A boy, no older than his own son, lay lashed to his bed, blood still pouring from a wound on his cheek. He gazed at the older man with half-shut eyes. ‘Help me, please, mister,’ he croaked.
Letting himself down from the bunk the man looked around. On the mattress below lay a sodden pillow. He hauled it into his arms and this time made his way up the short ladder to lean over the stricken boy in the top bunk. Without expression, he forced the pillow on to his face. The boy’s wails were muffled as he was slowly smothered, struggling against his bonds. Soon, the movement stopped, and when his attacker removed the pillow the dead boy’s eyes stared still and empty into the face of the man who had taken his life.
Watching, Thorbin could take no more. Removing items from the pockets of dead men was one thing; this was quite another. It was the murder of a child, plain and simple. He spewed copiously on the deck, over the dead men.
‘Pull yourself together, boy!’ His father struck him hard in the face with the back of his hand. ‘There’s no place for pity in whoot we dae. Aye, I’ve just killed that boy, but the minute you set that fire on Thomson’s Hill you killed all the rest of these men. So don’t look at me like that!’ He hit his son again, this time with a balled fist, sending Thorbin spinning to the floor, where he landed amidst the blood, vomit and gore.
‘Get up, you useless bastard. There’s nothing for us here apart from what we’ve already found. We’ll get what we can fae the wheelhouse and be on oor way before this tub is refloated on the tide. She’ll sink, but that’s a good thing.’
‘Won’t anyone have reported it?’ said Thorbin, struggling to his feet, his face already bruising where his father’s fist had connected with his cheek.
‘Aye, maybees so. But the fishermen in Kinloch will be slow tae the task o’ manning the lifeboat this day. They’ll have enough on their plates wae their ain boats after that storm last night. They’ll find her if she doesna sink quickly, but that’s unlikely, and in any case we’ll be back at the cottage. Come on.’
As Thorbin pulled himself back on to the deck, the sheer shock of seeing his father kill a boy began to sink in. He swallowed the bile in his throat, shamed by what his father had done but aware that he was right: Thorbin himself had set the fire that lured these men to their deaths. He was as guilty of murder as the man with the greying beard who was now searching the deck for anything of value.
‘That old boy had a gold pocket watch!’ shouted Ethan, emerging from the wheelhouse. ‘And I thought I might as well take this.’ In his other hand he held a small ship’s bell, hanging by a short length of rope he’d hacked at with his penknife.
‘Aye, well, at least there’s something. We’ll get some money for the watch up in Glasgow.’ His father spat on the slanting deck as he looked around. ‘Here, that strongbox. Get it open, Thorbin.’
Still nursing his shock and revulsion, Thorbin pulled at t
he lid of the metal box under the wheelhouse steps. It was sturdy, the size of four fish boxes placed together, though slightly taller. ‘It’s padlocked, Faither,’ he called.
‘There’s a mallet up here,’ said Ethan from the wheelhouse.
‘Don’t jeest stand there – bring it doon here, you halfwit,’ said his father, holding out his hand for the metal tool.
Watched by his two sons, the middle-aged man swung the mallet at the clasp and padlock. After five or six attempts the lock sprang open. He unhooked the ruined padlock from the clasp and forced up the heavy lid, letting it clatter against the base of the wheelhouse. He stood back for a moment, taking off his greasy sailor’s cap as though mourning a dead friend, face blank. Gradually, he cracked a smile that quickly broke into a wild laugh.
‘Whoot is it?’ said Thorbin, rushing to his father’s side. As he looked into the dull metal box the butter-yellow ingots glowed in a shaft of light, almost as though they were infused with some inner force all of their own. ‘Is that . . . is that what I think it is, Faither?’
‘You’re damn right it is, son. Gold! Aye, and damn plenty o’ it, tae.’ He cackled with laughter again. ‘We’re rich – the Doigs are rich at last!’
Thorbin stepped back from the box and the treasure within, his mind swirling at the sight of the gold and the horror of seeing his father take the life of a child – of all the death he’d seen that day. His father was now holding an ingot in two hands, lifting it up to the light of the sun like a sacred offering.
Thorbin reached into his pocket and felt the slick wooden handle of the blade he’d found in the pocket of the dead man below. If his father could kill one child for money, what else could he do? He remembered the beatings, the long days without food, the punishments, the torments he’d suffered at the hands of this man for as long as he could remember. He heard the screams of his mother as, in drink, the man in front of him now tossed her frail body against one wall then another. He heard the muffled wails of the boy strapped to the bunk as his father suffocated the life from him.
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