Jeremiah's Bell

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Brian, I have to ask you something.’

  ‘I never touched they biscuits you’ve got in that drawer.’

  ‘Never mind the biscuits. Everybody is snowbound up the road – there’s no chopper – you know the score.’

  ‘And?’ Scott had placed what was left of the roll on a paper towel on Daley’s desk.

  ‘Symington wants you to accompany Alice Wenger to Rowan Tree Cottage.’

  ‘No chance! I’m an inspector, Jimmy. I shouldnae be up tae these capers.’

  ‘I volunteered, but she wouldn’t have it. You’re experienced, she trusts you – what can I say?’

  ‘I’m going tae shoot you tae put you oot o’ your misery would sound quite good right noo.’

  ‘Okay, it’s not the TFU, but we’ve got plenty of good bodies about. The place will be under scrutiny. As soon as Ginny Doig and Chiase appear, we’ll have them. You’re safe as houses in the cottage.’

  ‘I’m no’ so sure, Jimmy. We’re assuming a lot here.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like how do we really know the two o’ them are in cahoots? I mean, he killed her son, or so we think.’

  ‘She took her son’s mind away, Brian.’

  ‘And you trust this Wenger lassie. I’m here tae tell you, me an’ her didnae exactly hit it off.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice, Brian. All I can suggest is that you go in and tell Symington you’re not up for it. Nobody could blame you. You’ve been shot before in the line of duty. Use that.’

  Scott sat for a few moments with his elbows on his knees. He shook his head. ‘We both know I won’t dae that, big man.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that.’

  ‘You thought right.’

  ‘You’ll go in dressed as a cop. Once you get the big jacket on with the collar up, and a cap, Ginny Doig will think you’re just some woodentop.’

  ‘How dae we no’ just find her and take her oot?’

  ‘Because, if she and Chiase are acting together as we suspect, in the event of us finding one of them the other will open fire. You know the landscape round there, Brian. The only chance we’ve got is luring them both to the cottage at the same time. Then we have them both.’

  Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Just don’t tell Ella, that’s all I ask.’

  50

  Mike Strong threw the mobile phone on the hard mattress of his bed in the County Hotel. He still couldn’t raise Chiase and it infuriated him. This man was still pivotal to his plans, even though he would be jettisoned as soon as he’d outlived his usefulness.

  He showered, shaved and changed into the warmest clothes he had: a V-neck cashmere sweater under his suit jacket, his heavy overcoat and a woollen scarf. His room was cold enough; he dreaded to think what the temperature would be out in the wilds of Kintyre. Judging by what he could see through the faded net curtains, today was worse than yesterday. He was glad he’d found Chiase a cottage on a road that was gritted by the council. He’d asked the owner when he’d rented it, which he’d done using an assumed name and the credit card he kept for emergencies. It was a legacy of his philandering days. He was glad nostalgia had encouraged him to keep it.

  He sat alone at breakfast in the big dining room, save for a tall dark man – American, he reckoned, hearing snatches of his accent as he ordered his meal. The man nodded hello across the room, which Strong returned with a smile. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or pleasantries. As he waited for his full Scottish fat-fest, he buried his head in the largest newspaper available at reception.

  He tried Chiase once more, but again there was no reply. Sleeping it off, he thought as he chewed on a lukewarm sausage from a plate that could have melted gold. He’d often wondered how hotels managed to serve up tepid food on such molten platters – another mystery that would doubtless remain unsolved.

  He drained the last of his coffee and headed out into the cold Kinloch morning. Chiase was only five miles or so away. In the end, he supposed, this was only a minor irritation. In any case, it gave him more time to plan what he was going to have the gangster do. He’d already decided how to despatch him when he’d completed the tasks in hand.

  Soon, his car was purring from Kinloch. He turned right on to a side road, as the Kinks’ ‘I’m Not Like Everybody Else’ pounded from the sound system.

  Scott was in uniform again, and he didn’t like it. He’d found an unexpected pleasure in donning the braided cap and pips of an inspector’s uniform, and being in the garb of a constable brought back memories of cold nights in search of cups of tea at friendly dosses and much else besides.

  ‘You’ll wear this,’ said Symington, holding up a bullet-proof vest.

  ‘I thought I was as safe as hooses oot there.’

  ‘It’s a precaution. You know that, Brian.’

  Daley looked on as his friend yet again prepared to be in the line of fire. This plan still nagged at him. He had five officers reading the rest of the documents from the metal box left by Nathaniel Doig. He was determined to find out as many of its secrets as he could before sending his best friend to the black croft.

  ‘Don’t even think o’ laughing, Jimmy,’ said Scott as he pulled on a thick police anorak over the rest of his uniform. ‘By the way, this is luxury. Remember they wafer-thin raincoats we got issued wae back in the day? It might as well have been taps aff in the winter when I was a sprog.’

  ‘They gave me a greatcoat,’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye, me tae. But mair often than not it got wet. Not only did you smell like a dog, but it was like walking aboot wae a duvet on. Nah, I just got cold.’

  ‘Thankfully, times have changed,’ said Symington.

  ‘Have they, though?’ Scott looked at her levelly. ‘I’m still heading off intae the unknown here wae the southern belle. That wee poison dwarf on the loose wae a hunting rifle.’ He placed a pistol in the shoulder holster under his jacket.

  ‘There’s half an army between you and her.’

  Scott looked at some of the fresh-faced detectives who would be his first line of defence against Ginny Doig and Vito Chiase. ‘Mair like the Boys’ Brigade. I reckon no’ one o’ these weans will remember who John Noakes was, even.’

  ‘Who?’ said Symington.

  ‘See!’ Scott looked balefully at Daley.

  ‘Is this a required operational qualification, Bri? I can’t see how knowing who John Noakes was will help with the matters in hand.’

  ‘It just proves how young a’ these kids are.’

  ‘They’re all highly trained, responsible officers, Brian,’ said Symington.

  Scott looked round the room again, just as one detective picked his nose and examined the bogey with great interest. ‘Huh! What aboot pick it lick it roll it flick it o’er there?’

  Symington shook her head. ‘I’m off to give the ACC a quick Skype briefing – tell him we’re just about ready for the off. I’ll also give Alice Wenger a call. We’ll have the cops at Machrie House bring her in shortly.’

  ‘We?’ said Scott, as she disappeared.

  ‘Don’t worry, Brian, I’ll be there. Surely you trust me by this time?’

  ‘You’ve been a bit shaky lately, Jimmy. What if you come o’er all Emergency Ward Ten when I’m in my hour o’ need, eh?’

  ‘Thanks, Brian,’ said Daley, flat-lipped.

  Strong had to admit that the scene before him would have graced the most expensive Christmas card. The little glen in which the log cabin sat was shrouded in snow that glittered in the cold morning air. There was a glimpse of the sun, though luminous white clouds filled most of the sky, creating a strange, yet not unattractive, light. Branches of pine trees were ghosted in white. All they lacked was a few fairy lights and baubles to turn them into magnificent Christmas trees.

  In a nearby field, the coats of a small herd of sheep looked shabby, a dirty shade against the pristine white snow. High above, a bird of prey soared, ensuring the sky was empty of any other creature. As the raptor circled on
the thermals, the rest of the local bird population sought sanctuary amongst the heavily laden branches of the trees, sending the odd flurry of displaced snow silently on to the white ground like sugar into a cup of milky tea.

  Strong was dismayed to note the absence of smoke issuing from the cottage’s chimney. It was clear that Chiase was not up and about, more likely in bed sleeping off a whisky hangover. He cursed under his breath as he pulled up beside the gangster’s SUV and made his way out of the warm car. Instantly his breath billowed out in front of him like a cloud in the cold air. Strong pulled up his collar and made his way along a small path, following only one set of footsteps, now shallow and almost invisible, nearly obscured by the earlier flurries of snow. No doubt they were made by Chiase on the previous evening as he headed into the small dwelling.

  Though he had a key – one of two sent him by the owner – he tried the door. Clearly the New Jersey man had reckoned there was little danger to be found in this remote place, as it had been left unlocked and opened readily on to a tiny hallway.

  Strong shivered. The cottage was as cold inside as it was out. Having studied the layout of the place from the online brochure, he knew the lounge was straight ahead. Indeed, the door was slightly ajar, and he could just see a dark fireplace. He knew the only bedroom was to his right, so he looked in, expecting to see the sleeping figure of the gangster, tucked up against the cold. But the bed was empty.

  Frowning, he made his way to the lounge. To his left, the narrow kitchen was devoid of life, though various cupboard doors had been left open. He pushed at the lounge door. The slumped figure was still in the big chair by the long-dead fire, a surprisingly full bottle of whisky on a small table beside the chair, an upturned whisky glass lying a few feet away on the wooden floor.

  ‘Chiase, wake up, man!’ called Strong as he walked towards the motionless figure. He was about to shake him awake when he noticed the blue lips and the blackness under the fingernails – and recognised the stench of death already tainting the air.

  Strong pushed Chiase’s head back, revealing cold, lifeless eyes in a blackening face.

  It took the lawyer a few moments to come to terms with the scene, but when he did he swore loudly, steadying himself with a hand on the arm of the chair occupied by the corpse of Vito Chiase, a sudden flush of dizziness making him feel wobbly on his feet.

  He walked across the room to where a leather sofa covered by knitted blankets was set against a wooden wall. He sat down heavily and studied the lifeless man with burgeoning despair.

  ‘You had to die now, you worthless piece of shit!’

  Then something dawned on him. Though there were no obvious signs of foul play, how could he be sure Chiase’s death was a natural one? Suddenly the breath caught in his throat.

  Quietly, Mike Strong got to his feet and walked once more across to the body of the hitman he’d hired. This time he did so on tiptoes. With no little distaste, he pulled aside the dead man’s jacket. As expected, a pistol lay tucked in a holster under his arm. Barely breathing, Strong removed it and placed it in his pocket.

  He stood still for a few moments, listening for any sound. Then satisfied that he was alone with a dead man, he left Vito Chiase for someone else to find. He hadn’t removed his leather gloves, so he was confident that he’d left no trace of his presence in the house save for footprints, which could have belonged to anyone. Anyway, by the time Chiase was found he planned to be far away.

  The only problem now was that he was going to have to pull the trigger himself to get what he wanted.

  When he walked out of the front door, the flapping wings of a bird set his heart thumping.

  As he pulled away from the cottage Cream’s ‘I Feel Free’ blasted from the speakers. Chiase was, and soon he would be, too. But it was in sheer frustration that he banged the leather steering wheel of the Bentley again and again.

  51

  Dressed in the expensive bad weather gear she’d bought in Kinloch and walking between two tall police officers, Alice Wenger made for the police car parked at the rear of the Machrie House Hotel. A third officer stayed back, automatic weapon in his arms, surveying the scene. They travelled the five miles from Machrie in a van and a car, Wenger crouched in the back seat of the latter.

  She’d slept fitfully the night before, watching the dawn as it broke over the dark, cold sea that frothed on to the beach, where snow still lay. The coast across the sea was a thin grey line under the heavy sky today, the flashing of the Antrim light punctuating her thoughts. They had drifted to the times she’d spent at that very beach, years ago, with her friends. They’d travelled to Machrie by bus. She didn’t possess a bathing suit, but Sheena had found one that fitted her.

  As they neared the town, thoughts of her dead friend played across her mind, and her gaze shifted to the footwell of the car.

  Soon they were in Kinloch. Wenger heard the big blue gates swing shut as her small motorcade swept into the station’s car park. Still watchful, she was hurried through a security door and into the warmth of the office. She was observed closely by men in dark clothing, armed officers, as she was led into a partitioned-off glass box in the middle of a larger room. Behind a desk she recognised the tall policeman. Wenger respected Daley; he was clearly nobody’s fool. The expression on his face today was one of resignation, a reluctant acceptance of the facts. She knew she’d been the one to push for this, and he knew the risks involved. Every line of his face and the look in his eyes told her that.

  Beside him, standing in an adorned uniform, was Chief Superintendent Carrie Symington. She held her chin high, staring straight into Wenger’s eyes.

  ‘Well, Ms Wenger, you have what you wanted. Though I must inform you that we don’t have the team we’d hoped for. The snow is much worse in Glasgow, so they couldn’t get here.’

  ‘You don’t appear short-handed, honey,’ said Wenger, and was pleased to see the irritation on Symington’s face.

  ‘With respect, how would you know if we were “short-handed” or not?’

  Wenger answered the comment with a smile. ‘Then you’d rather wait for my mother and her friend to kill more innocent people like Sheena?’

  ‘We have no evidence to prove that your mother had anything to do with the death of Mrs McKay.’

  ‘But you sure as hell know that she is out there somewhere, armed and evil. Who else would hire a man to kill for them? You got a town full of psychos here?’

  ‘Be in no doubt,’ interjected Daley from his seat behind the large desk, ‘this is not how I wanted to resolve this situation. Though I too am concerned about further incidents.’

  Wenger laughed. ‘I love cops. Incidents. That’s how you describe the death of my friend and my brother – their murders? Let me tell you, all that was keeping my mother in her place was my father. And he was as mad as a hickory stick on fire, too.’

  ‘But not as mad as your mother?’ said Symington.

  Before Alice Wenger could reply, the door swung open. Brian Scott, dressed in the ordinary uniform of a police constable, entered the small space. She turned round and looked him up and down.

  ‘This is the officer who will accompany you into the cottage,’ said Symington.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘No, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘Hey, don’t think I was a volunteer,’ said Scott. ‘Between you and your auld dear, you gie me the shudders.’

  ‘DI Scott!’ Symington snapped.

  The phone on Daley’s desk burst into life. He put the handset to his ear. ‘Yes, Sergeant Shaw.’ He listened for a few moments, then ended the conversation and looked at the chief superintendent. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve things to attend to.’

  As he got up to leave, Symington gave him a questioning look. Daley shook his head almost imperceptibly and left his glass box.

  ‘So when we gonna get this show on the road, boys and girls?’ Wenger asked.

  ‘We leave for Rowan Tree Cottage in ten
minutes. Does that suit you?’ Symington’s tone was sarcastic.

  ‘It would suit me better if you could rustle up a cup of coffee, honey.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Symington too left Daley’s office, leaving Wenger and Scott alone.

  Wenger stared at the policeman. ‘I thought you had some fancy rank?’

  ‘Don’t you worry aboot me, darlin’. Just do your bit and stay put in that hellhole when I tell you. I don’t care how much money you’ve got, I’m in charge, right?’

  ‘Okay, officer, sir. You’re da man.’ She laughed.

  ‘Aye, you’ll no’ be feeling so merry when that mother o’ yours is at your heid wae a knife trying to cut your brains oot.’

  ‘She’s tried that before.’

  The door opened again, this time to admit a constable bearing a steaming cup of coffee.

  ‘At least somebody can do their job in this place. Thank you, boy.’ She took the coffee and sipped it.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ said Scott.

  ‘I didn’t think, gaffer.’

  ‘Well start thinking. I might be dressed as though I’m fresh oot the wrapper, but I’m no’, remember?’ Scott watched the young man leave, then sat heavily on Daley’s chair, looking miserable in his constable’s uniform.

  ‘What is it, Jim?’ asked Symington. Daley was standing in the corridor examining two sheets of A4 paper: one yellowed with age, curled at the edges, the other white, almost pristine.

  ‘Here, read for yourself, ma’am.’ He handed them to Symington.

  She began to read. The typeface was that of an old-fashioned manual typewriter, mistakes crossed out, corrections handwritten above. It was dated 4 March 1973.

  It’s hard to come terms with some things. I faced it when I was in medical training. In fact, it was during my education at university that I realised there was something far wrong with my family.

  My father was a cold and brutal man. He confided to me on his deathbed that he’d killed his own father and younger brother. Whilst I was surprised by this confession, perhaps I shouldn’t have been. My family have been in the trade of death for profit for a very long time, though I feel none of this evil in my own soul.