20
Mike Strong had loved the wireless since he was a boy. Not only did he like listening, he collected radio sets, to the extent that he now had around two hundred of varying make, model and vintage. Every couple of days he’d head down to the basement of his large home and select a different radio to sit on his desk.
Today, it was a 1970s Hacker Sovereign, clad in black leather, one of his favourites. It sounded as fresh as the day he’d bought it, and he noted with pleasure the satisfying clunk as he switched it on.
Looking at his TAG Heuer watch he noticed that it was almost time for the afternoon news magazine programme on BBC Radio Scotland. Carefully, he pulled up the aerial and tuned into the station just as the news bulletin was about to begin.
He shuffled papers on his desk, listening absently to the usual round of politics, violence on the streets of Scotland’s towns and cities, dire warnings regarding the environment, and so on. However, one item interested him so much that he dropped the papers on his desk, where they fanned out unevenly.
Police in Kinloch are investigating the death of a seventy-nine-year-old man. Nathaniel Doig was last seen on Thomson’s Hill near the town, from where he fell to his death earlier today. If anyone was near the hill at around midday, please contact DI Brian Scott at Kinloch police office, or . . .
Before the piece ended, Strong rushed to switch off the radio. He walked over to a low cupboard at the far end of his study and opened it to reveal a sturdy safe. Clicking in the code, he sprang the heavy door open and delved in, his back aching as he leaned down at an awkward angle. He knew by the feel of the envelope – rough and dry – that he’d set his hand upon the item he was looking for. He removed it from the safe and closed the door, then the faux wooden fascia.
Back at his desk, he removed some papers from the envelope. They were yellow and faded, having spent a long time in the possession of his late partner Charles Hardacre. He could only imagine the trepidation with which that man would have approached the task they set, but for Mike Strong this was an opportunity, not a dangerous chore.
Nevertheless, as he read the information contained within, reacquainting himself with the peculiar details of the business, an involuntary shiver went down his spine. But thoughts of financial advancement soon replaced any doubts.
His young colleague didn’t know the whole story. Charles Hardacre was too canny to let a young buck handle something like this, despite his life-long dislike for his more senior partner. Mike Strong realised what he had to do.
Caldwell, New Jersey
Vito Chiase sat back in his large recliner, sighing as the big chair took his weight. He felt every bit of his sixty-eight years today. His knees throbbed, his back ached and his hands were painful, some fingers held tight by the unseen bonds of arthritis.
He picked up the mug from the table beside him and drank the brew he’d just percolated. It was a rich Italian coffee, the kind he’d been drinking all his life – well, ever since he could remember. But that wasn’t always so easy these days; not just the act, the will of remembrance itself was painful. There were too many things he wanted to forget, too many regrets; too many faces from the past that would never return. Some he missed, most he was glad he would never see again.
Now, he had few things to fill his day. He could go hang out with the guys down at the pool haul, or the bar in Newark. But these places were nothing like they had been when he was young. The guys who made up the family of which he was still a member were either high on drugs or coming down. There was none of the camaraderie, none of the laughs, the breaking balls they’d had when he was a kid coming up. But that was a long time ago. In any case, what with wiretaps, listening devices and the many tools now at the disposal of the Feds, everyone had to talk in code if they talked at all.
He yearned for the days when fat Vinnie had been the boss and he a captain. They had lived the high life, never worrying about what the next day would bring – or trying not to. Wives and families at home in the suburbs, goombahs stashed away in apartments in New York, or somewhere off Bloomfield Avenue – far enough away to be sure that the two parts of their lives could never coincide.
But the inevitable had happened. He’d been busted for fraud and an assortment of other crimes, bundled together as a RICO Predicate. Ten years in Sing Sing had been tough, but he was a stand-up guy. Though the FBI had tried to flip him, he was old school; he’d rather have died by his own hand than become a rat.
Trouble was, he was one of the last of the old-school guys. Hell, there wasn’t even a boss any more, the family being run by a committee of capos, a committee on which, despite having once been one of the best earners in the organisation, he wasn’t invited to sit. In his day, the old men were at the top of the tree. Now they were in the garbage.
They let him have a little money on the streets, but it was at subsistence level, and he had to kick more up to the new ‘bosses’ every week. If he hadn’t owned the house in which he was now withering away, he’d be in some rundown retirement community, stinking of piss and reeking of death. That was another thing he didn’t want to think about.
Trying to banish these thoughts, his eyes flicked to the photograph of his dead wife above the big stone fireplace. She’d been in her early thirties when it was taken; in her prime. Gina had been a beauty, of that there was no doubt. Sure, he’d cheated on her, but that was his way of life. In his heart, he loved only her.
The photograph was almost forty years old – where had all that time gone? He’d had one last year with Gina when he’d made parole. Their last few precious months together were spent as she withered away with the cancer. But still he missed her.
As for his kids – huh, who needs family? He’d brought them into the world, made sure they had a better life than his, a college education, a nice home – all they’d ever wanted. Now, his son was a lawyer in New York City so anxious to forget his criminal father that he’d changed his name. His daughter was married to an accountant in Chicago, and though she kept in touch, he rarely saw her or his grandchildren.
This is where being a stand-up guy had got him. Sitting in a big house, badly in need of repair, with too many ghosts. No more dinners with Gina looking like a movie star; no more cookouts in the back yard by the pool that held nothing now but stagnant rainwater. No more breaking balls with the guys, no more fun, no more life.
Vito Chiase was just killing time until he died.
Then his phone rang.
21
As she’d promised Daley and Scott, Alice Wenger was now being dropped off at the Machrie House Hotel, having signed herself out of the Kinloch hospital. As she was paying the driver, a police car arrived behind her taxi. She walked up to her room with a young woman in uniform in tow and as requested handed over her passport.
She’d seen every eye on her as she’d made her way through the hotel. She knew the whole place would be aware that her father had died earlier that day, and, in the words of the locals, ‘something wisna right aboot it’.
When the police officer had left with her passport, she kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. When she closed her eyes she could see her father falling backwards, arms outstretched. She’d heard stories about such events appearing as though they were happening in slow motion, and now she knew what that meant. It was as though his fall had been unnaturally slow; surreal, almost. She wondered whether if she’d rushed to his side it would have been possible to grab hold of him, to save his life. But she soon reasoned that this would have been an impossible task – wishful thinking. What she was now remembering had in fact played out in real time, obeying every law of physics. It just didn’t seem that way.
Alice Wenger’s next instinct was to cry, but why? She hadn’t seen or spoken to this man, her father, for more than three decades. It was clear her family had made little or no attempt to find her. She’d made sure the task was easy, leaving a trail any decent private investigator could have followed. She’d
wanted them to seek her out, just so she could laugh in their faces when they pleaded with her to come back.
But she knew in her heart of hearts that would never have happened.
Instead of crying, Alice picked up her phone and dialled the office in LA.
‘Janneck, I want you to drop everything you’re doing. Get me the best damn lawyer you can find in Scotland, and be quick about it. Tell them money’s no object.’ She listened for a minute. ‘I know that, and I know what time it is here, just get it done as soon as you can. I don’t care if you have to stay up all night to do it!’
It was only then that the old fear gripped her heart. She felt the sharp point as it cut into her flesh. The pain, the horror of it all was real, as though it was happening to her now.
Then she saw the face of her mother. She was younger, stronger. The pain ended as quickly as it had begun when her father appeared. But that had been a long time ago. Instinctively, she ran her middle finger across the lump above her eye, and renewed hatred filled her soul.
It had been Jim Daley’s first day back at work, and it had been an eventful one. Though weary, he was pleased not to have suffered any panic attacks, or even felt ill. In fact, he felt the best he had in months. He was tired, though, as he trudged up the front steps to his home on the hill. The house was in darkness, though Liz’s car was parked under the decking.
He took the key from his pocket, but as he leaned on the handle ready to unlock the door it opened. For a few seconds, his heart lurched in his chest. He rushed into the bedroom. Their bed was empty, neatly made. Sometimes his wife would sleep with their son if he’d had a bad dream, or was restless. But the child’s room too was empty.
Daley could hear his pulse in his ears as he flung the door to the lounge open. Only the bright moon lit the room, but he could see a shape on the long couch. He flicked on the ceiling lamps, flooding the room with a bright light that made him blink.
Something stirred under the blanket and his son’s head popped out. The boy rubbed his eyes, squinting in the glare.
‘Daddy!’ he exclaimed sleepily.
Daley hauled his son from under the blanket and into his arms. Liz was lying on the couch, her mouth open, a trickle of saliva at one side. For a split second the policeman worried that she’d taken another overdose, but when he leaned into her the smell of whisky on her breath was plain.
‘Liz!’ He shook her by the shoulder and she mumbled something incoherent.
‘I’m hungry, Daddy,’ said the little boy.
‘Okay, James, Daddy will get you something to eat. What do you want, eh?’ Before he took his son into the kitchen, Daley noticed an empty bottle of malt whisky on the dining table beside a single glass. He wanted to shake Liz awake to tell her how irresponsible she was being in the care of their son. But he knew he’d get no sense from her now. He knew she’d been drinking, but this being his first day back at work, quickly realised that she’d likely been hiding the full extent of it from him.
With James in the crook of one arm, he tucked the blanket back under her chin. She mashed her mouth, and for a few seconds opened her eyes.
‘Jim,’ she slurred.
‘You sleep it off, Liz. I’ll go and feed our son. We need to talk – tomorrow!’
Though she mumbled something else, Daley walked away. He knew how tempting alcohol could be as a salve against the constant onslaught of problems, worries, even fear – he’d used it as such far too often himself. But Liz had never been much of drinker. He knew she needed help following her ordeal at the hands of the man who had brutalised her. She refused to seek any, and the man had walked free – well, apart from the hiding Daley had meted out to him. But she was still suffering; would do so for ever. He felt useless.
As Jim Daley busied himself making his son a meal, he knew he’d have to persuade his wife to speak to somebody – anybody – who could help her.
New Jersey
‘Why the fuck can’t I just speak to somebody on the telephone?’ he swore to himself as he leaned towards the flickering screen of the laptop. It appeared to Vito Chiase that the world had become a more difficult place since the arrival of technology, rather than enjoying the promised ease of communication. He cursed again as he took the wrong option on the menu and had to start again in order to try to book his flight.
Then something occurred to him. He had an old friend who’d been in the travel business. Well, perhaps friend wasn’t the best appellation, but he’d picked up his vig every week for decades, and they’d managed to maintain a more or less workable relationship – one of the less troublesome businesses in his corner of Newark.
He reached across the desk for an old roller deck, filled with frayed and yellowing business cards. He had to peer through his glasses to see the cell number, but soon he was dialling it.
‘Henry – Henry Rogan, is that you?’
‘Sure. Who’s this?’ said the voice on the other end.
‘It’s Vito, Vito Chiase. How you doing, my friend?’
There was silence for a few moments, then the reply, the voice much quieter, less effusive. ‘Vito, this is a surprise.’
‘For me, too. I thought you might be dead by now.’
‘What?’ There was sudden panic in his voice.
‘Hey, at our age, who the fuck knows the minute, eh?’
‘Oh, yeah, I get it, Vito. What – what can I help you with?’ ‘Listen, do you still have that travel business?’
‘Just two shops – my son runs them now.’ The words were laden with regret.
‘Two shops! You used to be all over North Jersey.’
‘Yeah, and a couple across the river, too. You know how it is, Vito. We’re living in a different world. This internet, it killed me. I thought it wouldn’t last, you know, guys having to book their own holidays – all that shit you have to go through. Guess I was wrong.’
‘I hear yah,’ replied Vito, staring at the computer screen with disdain. ‘So you’d welcome a little business, yeah?’
‘Hold on, I can’t put my son at risk. He’s got a young family – it’s not like the old days. He’s finding it hard enough to make it.’
‘Who said anything about illegal? This is straight up. I need to book a flight and get to a place, that’s all. Isn’t that what you still do?’
‘Sure it is, Vito. But, the way things are, I can’t get you the old discount, if you get what I’m saying?’
‘Who said nothing about discount? Listen, I’m sitting here in front of a computer, and I ain’t got a clue what to do. I’ll pay you up front, no strings. You have my word, Henry.’
‘Well, okay. Tell me where you wanna go and when. I’ll get the details back to you tomorrow.’
‘Needs to be faster. I want to leave tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’ He paused. ‘Where you going, LA, Miami, Vegas?’
‘No, Glasgow.’
‘You mean Glasgow in England?’
‘Sure, but ain’t it in Scotland? That’s what it says on my computer. Where did you think I was going, Glasgow Illinois?’
‘I didn’t know they had a Glasgow there.’
Vito pulled the phone from his ear and glared at the handset. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem to have your old edge. A little squirrely, maybe. When you was arranging trips to the desert for me and the crew, you was all over this shit, remember?’
‘Oh, I remember.’ Again, regret.
‘So, can you do this thing?’
‘Okay, Vito. But you gotta give me a couple of hours. And I’ll need the money up front, I’m sorry.’
‘Have I ever let you down over money, Henry?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Hey, listen, you do this thing for me. You send your boy round; he picks up what I owe plus twenty per cent for the favour. Hows about that?’
‘What class?’
‘What?’
‘What class you wanna travel? You know, business, first, economy?’
‘Hey, you b
reaking my balls? Economy, you kidding?’ Vito thought for a moment. ‘What’s the next up?’
‘I dunno, economy plus nowadays, I suppose.’
Vito gritted his teeth. Gone were the days when he could travel on private jets and helicopters. He used to take a chopper to Atlantic City at the drop of a hat. Now he was reduced to this. But, he reasoned, it would be worth it. ‘Okay, I’ll take this economy plus. But don’t let me down, Henry, okay? I’ll be hearing from you – soon!’ Before there could be any argument he put the phone down. It was this guy’s job, his line of work. If you want a flight to Chicago, you go see Henry Rogan. You want somebody clipped? Well, that was another matter. You go see Vito Chiase.
22
Daley was unhappy with himself as he drove through Kinloch to work. He’d done exactly what he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do and that was have an argument with his wife. Though the sun was shining, it glared off the roofs and spires of the town, all frosted with a garland of ice that showed no sign of melting.
Liz was still fast asleep when he got up. Once he’d given his son his breakfast and got him ready for the day, he woke her.
Liz was sullen. She didn’t need help. Yes, she’d had a few drinks, but when had that become a crime? How long had he spent in the County Hotel in the last few years? Yes, she’d replace the whisky, don’t worry.
The words ran through his head again as he drove through the big blue gates and into the car park at the rear of Kinloch police office. He noted that Brian Scott was already at work and his spirits rose. If anyone could brighten his mood, it would be Brian.
‘Good morning,’ he said in passing to a young cop as he made for his glass box. The blinds were down, and when he pushed at the door it was locked. He knocked at it sharply with his big fist. ‘What are you doing in there, Brian?’
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