Jeremiah's Bell

by Denzil Meyrick

  Symington opened her mouth to speak then closed it quickly.

  ‘It’s okay, I know what you were going to say.’

  ‘How are you holding up, Jim?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fine – this is what I’ve been doing for most of my adult life. Though I must admit, this case is a challenge.’

  ‘So, tell me what you think?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. At first we thought Ginny Doig was at the centre of everything. But the hits on Sheena McKay and Thorbin Doig were both the work of a pro.’

  ‘Alice Wenger worries me.’

  ‘She comes on holiday only to be assaulted, and for her father, brother and best friend to be killed, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. But she has money – big money.’

  ‘And with money comes influence.’

  ‘It sure does. But where does she fit in?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  Symington thought for a moment. ‘Right, I’ll take care of Dunwoody. There’s no way Alice Wenger can go home at the moment.’

  ‘It’ll be hard to stop her.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘She’s been a victim in all this.’ Daley shrugged.

  ‘We’ll just have to hope we can break through what’s happening.’

  ‘You said it.’

  Ginny Doig was sitting in an armchair beside a roaring fire, covered in a blanket. When she opened her eyes she was momentarily disoriented, but soon recognised the front room of her nearest neighbour’s home. The big farmer held out a cup of tea to her in his paw of a hand.

  ‘Here, this will help you warm up, Mrs Doig.’

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Whoot on earth were you doing out in this weather on the hill? You were blue with cold.’

  Ginny Doig pretended she was too weak to reply. She’d watched her son die at the hands of a gunman, and she didn’t know whom she could trust. However, her options were limited. She had to find somewhere relatively safe so she had time to think. ‘Would you mind if I stayed here for a while, Malcolm?’

  ‘Don’t you think you should go tae hospital?’

  ‘No!’ Suddenly her eyes flashed. She spoke more quietly. ‘I’ll be fine wae a bit o’ rest.

  They both started at the loud knock on the door.

  ‘Are you expecting visitors, Malcolm?’

  ‘No, I rarely get any. Since Minnie died, me an’ Gordon have lived here right quiet, like. Never see a soul.’

  Again, there was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Don’t let on I’m here, Malcolm. I canna tell you why, but I’m in bother. Don’t tell anyone – especially the polis.’

  When Malcolm Pirie opened the door to his small farmhouse two constables stood at the door, one woman, one man.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ the woman said. ‘We’re looking for one of your neighbours.’ She produced a photograph from her pocket. ‘Mrs Ginny Doig – I take it you know her, yeah?’

  ‘Aye, I know her fine,’ replied Malcolm, uneasy in the presence of the police as he wasn’t averse to poaching from the nearby estate. ‘Canna tell you the last time I set eyes on her, mind you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They’re an odd lot, the Doigs – ask anyone.’

  ‘Do any of them ever visit, you know, or drop in now and again? Maybe at New Year?’

  ‘Ha! No, no’ had a glimpse o’ them for long and weary. I used to meet Mr Doig on the road in that auld pickup o’ his. But other than that – nothing.’

  ‘Well, if you do see her we’d be very grateful if you contacted us immediately.’

  The tone of her voice gave Malcolm Pirie pause for thought. ‘Has she committed a crime, or that?’

  The police officer smiled. ‘We just want to speak to her at this time. Sorry to bother you; we’ll leave you to your day. If you do see or hear from her, please give us a call on this number.’ She handed Pirie a card with a prominent police logo imprinted on it.

  He closed the door and walked back into the lounge. ‘What have you been at, Ginny?’

  ‘Me? It’s that daughter of mine. She killed Nathaniel, you know.’

  ‘I’d heard he’d gone, and that she reappeared – after a’ these years too, eh?’

  ‘I need tae trust you, Malcolm. She’s got a pile o’ money noo – has the polis in her pocket. You know fine whoot it’s like wae these bastards up at the estate. If you’ve got money you can dae anything you bloody want.’

  Malcolm Pirie nodded in agreement. ‘Aye. They stole those fields off me – gave me a fraction o’ the price I should have got.’

  Ginny Doig nodded in satisfaction. She knew she’d found an ally in Malcolm Pirie.

  41

  Symington at his side, Scott looked at Donnie O’Hara. The erstwhile hotel porter looked sullen and miserable, his dark hair standing up in untidy clumps, eyes bloodshot, unshaven. The strong smell of stale alcohol soured the small interview room. The duty solicitor grimaced when O’Hara leaned in to him for some private advice.

  ‘You were on the six o’clock bus fae Kinloch tae Machrie on the day Alice Wenger was attacked.’

  ‘I telt you that already.’ O’Hara looked back defiantly. ‘I take the bus tae my work.’

  ‘Do you always take your partner, Miss Ferguson, tae your work wae you?’

  ‘She was just wanting a wee look at the sea.’

  ‘At six in the morning?’

  ‘The sea’s there a’ the time.’

  ‘It’s in the loch, tae. Why go all the way tae Machrie first thing in the morning tae look at the sea when you can just walk doon the street?’

  ‘Change o’ scene.’

  ‘What height is your partner, would you say, Mr O’Hara?’

  ‘What’s that got tae dae with anything?’ He looked at the solicitor, who looked back apologetically.

  ‘Just answer the question, eh?’

  ‘She’s wee. I dunno, maybe five foot one, or something. I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve got a statement here from a Mr Ron Hamilton. He’s the chef at Machrie House Hotel.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He tells us that you was right keen tae know aboot a’ the security cameras in the hotel. In fact, he nearly reported you tae the manager.’

  ‘Aye, but he didna.’ O’Hara shook his head. ‘I’m sick o’ this. It was me that got attacked in my ain flat! Whoot are yous doing aboot that?’

  ‘We’re investigating that, you can rest assured, Mr O’Hara,’ said Symington.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Scott. ‘I think you were interested in they cameras for a reason. I think the small person who went intae Alice Wenger’s room and attacked her was Tracey Ferguson. How much money did you get?’

  O’Hara hung his head. ‘I know my rights. I’m no’ sayin’ nothing.’

  ‘That’s okay. Tracey’s telt us the whole thing, so you’re just getting yourself deeper in mair trouble by lying. But go ahead; I like a good story just as much as the next man, son.’

  ‘That stupid cow! I should never have brought her doon here. She’s a bloody alkie!’

  ‘So, how much did you get?’

  O’Hara had a resigned look on his face. ‘This guy phones me up. Tells me he wants tae play a joke on a friend o’ his.’

  ‘What did he sound like, this guy?’

  ‘Posh, like. I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he give you his name, his number?’

  ‘Nah. He jeest telt me there would be some money coming through the post the next day if I promised tae dae as he asked.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred quid!’ said O’Hara as though he was describing a fortune.

  ‘So for this three ton, you were just supposed tae give Ms Wenger a fright.’

  ‘Aye. We had it a’ planned. I smuggled Tracey intae the hotel – away fae they cameras, an’ that. I was due tae take Ms Wenger’s breakfast up, so that was the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Then Tra
cey knocked the door and attacked Alice Wenger. Doesnae sound much like a joke tae me.’

  ‘She was just tae kind o’ jump on her, you know? Then I was tae come straight in an’ save the day. Jeest like I did.’

  ‘So how do you explain the injury to Ms Wenger’s eye?’

  ‘I dunno – must jeest have taken a knock in the carry-on. Tracey never meant tae harm her.’

  ‘What aboot the wee hammer?’

  ‘That was part o’ the joke. She was tae take that in and leave it on the bed.’

  ‘What on earth made you think anything about this would be funny, Mr O’Hara?’ said Symington.

  ‘He was just thinking how much booze he could buy wae that money,’ said Scott.

  ‘I’m sorry. I jeest didna think. I never meant tae hurt the woman.’ O’Hara looked at his lawyer.

  ‘As you can see, my client is quite distressed. He’s just been attacked in his own home. I think this interview should end now.’

  ‘Aye, don’t worry. We’ve got what we need.’ Scott ended the interview formally and he and Symington left the room.

  ‘I didn’t know Tracey had confessed,’ said Symington.

  ‘Has she? Good stuff,’ replied Scott.

  ‘But in there you said—’ She stopped in mid-sentence and shook her head. ‘Brian, what on earth am I to do with you?’

  ‘A fully paid holiday in the Bahamas?’ Scott winked at the chief superintendent.

  Mike Strong had been sitting in his car across the road from O’Hara’s flat when he saw Chiase hurry from the close and knock down the old woman with the shopping trolley and run round the corner. He sighed and sat back to watch events unfold.

  In a few minutes the police arrived. Shortly afterwards he watched with great disappointment as O’Hara and his partner were taken into an ambulance and rushed away back up the hill.

  Things go wrong – that’s why you insulate yourself, he thought by way of reassurance. He’d taken steps. He knew what he was doing. It would be fine. He kept saying this to himself as he drove into the remote forestry car park, where the New Jersey gangster was waiting.

  Strong got out of his car. ‘That was a disaster! What went wrong?’

  ‘I got blindsided, and she was on the phone to the cops. Whaddya going to do?’ Chiase shrugged his shoulders, a large lump already appearing under one eye. ‘You never told me I was dealing with a pair of fucking junkies.’

  ‘Harmless drunks – she’s tiny! I have to say, I’m disappointed by all of this, Mr Chiase.’

  The American grabbed the lawyer by the collar and forced him against the side of his Bentley. ‘I don’t give a fuck how disappointed you are. I want my money and I want out of this shithole, the way we discussed.’

  ‘I’ll give you half,’ said Strong, his face reddening as Chiase squeezed his throat.

  ‘Half?’

  ‘You didn’t do the job!’

  ‘I should just clip you now, you piece of shit.’

  ‘Then how will you get home?’

  Chiase let go of Strong’s collar and shook his head while the lawyer caught his breath, scarlet-faced. ‘You and me, we’re too old for this shit. I told you that before. We should be sitting by a fire some place with a big drink, or on a beach. I’ve been doing this since I was a tyke.’

  Strong was still breathing heavily. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘But you’re just like me, ain’t you? Enough is never enough, right?’

  Strong nodded. He supposed that though they’d had very different lives, the Edinburgh criminal lawyer and the New Jersey gangster, there was a similarity in nature. ‘But what do you do – just lie in your bed and die?’

  Chiase smiled. ‘No, you go on as long as you can until you drop off the fuckin’ end. That’s how it works. It’s the same for every poor bastard, paupers and kings. We all gotta fade away one way or the other.’ He looked round, feeling the lump on his face with one hand. ‘Okay, half – just get me the fuck outta here.’

  Strong thought for a moment. ‘Family’s important to you Italian Americans, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, of course – it’s all there is. When we first came to America – my great-grandfather – we all had to stick together. We was treated like shit. We laboured, we made money where we could.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then some of us got pissed off with the situation. We brought over lots of traditions from the old country, my friend.’

  ‘The Mafia.’

  ‘I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’ Chiase smiled.

  ‘I think it’s only right you know this, Mr Chiase.’ Strong fished a small card from the inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘Here, take this.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Chiase looked at the faded, stained business card. ‘Where did you get this?’ His eyes were wide.

  ‘From the family that killed your grandfather.’

  Chiase gulped, looking at the card in disbelief. Chiase Olive Oil – Frank Chiase. ‘This was my grandfather’s company. He disappeared when my father was just a kid. They was left with nothing.’

  ‘He was branching out from olive oil.’

  ‘How do you know this? It was years ago, back in the Prohibition days.’

  ‘Yup. Your grandfather was here – well, near here. He was buying whisky. Not only that, he was buying distilleries.’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘Yes, he was. In fact, the man you shot was the great-grandson of the man who killed him.’

  ‘I can’t fucking believe this.’

  ‘The family – Doig is their name – they took the mob’s money. Lots of it, too.’

  ‘The fucking assholes! By all accounts he was a sweet man. My grandmother never looked at another guy when he went. What happened to the money? These assholes obviously spent it on shit, judging by where they live now, in that cottage.’

  ‘No, in fact they were very careful with it. It was all in gold bullion.’

  ‘You’re breaking my balls. Whaddya mean, gold bullion – like gold bars, right?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. Notes weren’t so easy back then. Cash, especially foreign cash, attracted attention. There was a real little smuggling racket going on between here and the likes of Atlantic City and New York. The US government was breaking up stills and breweries. Your grandfather and his cronies needed booze for their speakeasies, and it was from places like this they got it.’

  ‘All this time my family thought he ended up in a concrete block under some bridge, but he died here.’ Chiase looked around, shaking his head sadly at the thought. ‘So they still have this gold, these cocksuckers – my inheritance!’

  ‘No, I do – well, at least I know where it is.’

  ‘How much we talking?’

  ‘These days – millions.’

  Chiase smiled. ‘So, we cut a deal – me and you.’

  ‘I can do that. But first we have things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like wipe out the last of the Doigs. I can’t have any of this come back on me, and I don’t know who knows what.’

  ‘You’re their attorney, aren’t you? You chose me for this shit on purpose. The link with my grandfather, and all.’

  ‘Yes.’ The reply was flat.

  Chiase flung his head back and laughed heartily. ‘I’ve never trusted attorneys my whole life.’

  ‘But you can trust this one.’

  ‘What do we do, Mr Attorney?’

  ‘We have to be careful. The police will have you on CCTV from earlier.’

  ‘But we can get round that, right?’

  ‘Yes, with some careful planning – and time.’

  Chiase wagged a finger in Strong’s face. ‘As from now, I got all the time in the world, my friend.’

  42

  Daley left Dunwoody to Symington. She was much better at the art of dealing with such people than he was. And anyway, he had to think.

  Scott was busy checking through O’Hara’s phone records, while other officers
checked out the town’s CCTV cameras. Whoever had attacked the waiter was pivotal to what was going on, but how did this man fit into the bigger picture?

  Daley thought about Ginny Doig, Alice Wenger, the Doig sons with their blank stares and ruined minds. Then there was the apparent suicide of Nathaniel Doig. He was staring at two photographs. One of Ginny Doig taken on her recent arrest, the other her daughter, a screen grab from her company website. ‘What do you both know that I don’t?’ said Daley to himself.

  He picked up the phone on his desk and dialled the number for the ACC’s office. He was surprised to be transferred so quickly to the senior officer who handled Police Scotland’s dealings with law enforcement agencies around the world.

  ‘DCI Daley, how can I be of assistance?’ said Franklin. He was a Londoner, well respected, and his current position in Scotland was seen by most as a stepping-stone to the top job at the Met.

  ‘I would like to speak to the FBI. It’s about a case we’re involved with down here.’ Daley went on to explain what he required.

  ‘Leave it with me, Daley. I know things are difficult with you. I’ll try to pinpoint the right person to speak to about this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Daley ended the call just as Scott arrived in his glass box.

  ‘You’re no’ going tae believe this, Jimmy.’

  ‘Me? I’m prepared to believe anything right now, Brian.’

  ‘We got a decent image o’ O’Hara’s attacker fae CCTV.’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘Ran it through the UK database – nothing.’

  ‘Disappointing.’

  ‘Then I took a shot at the international database. Here, take a look for yourself.’ Scott handed a piece of paper across the desk to Daley, who peered at it for a few moments.

  ‘Vitorio Chiase, a capo in the New Jersey mob.’ Daley looked at Scott.

  ‘Been inside for a decade. Got out a couple o’ years ago. Looks like he’s fallen on hard times.’

  ‘And that’s why he’s here?’

  Scott shrugged. ‘He’s working for somebody, that’s for sure.’