I look at my own sons, and I see cruelty; the taint of the genes stretching back who knows how far. It makes me sad – sick to the heart. But I know these boys will turn out to be as hateful and wicked as my father. The way they bully in school – behave at home. It’s in their every fibre, the youngest learning from the eldest.
I learned much in my time at university. I left because my father thought it a waste of time. I’m sure he would have hunted me down had I continued on the road to a career in medicine. But still, I learned a lot.
You may think this wicked in itself, but here is a solution to my problems, though I fear I’ll never be able to put it into practice and rid my family of the cancer at its core . . .
As Symington read on, her face became more pallid. ‘This is monstrous, Jim! I know you explained the theory of it to me, but to read it here in black and white is . . . it’s inhuman. He obviously found the wherewithal to carry out this procedure on his own sons, despite his reservations here.’
‘Ice pick lobotomy. Yes, it’s horrendous, ma’am. But read this.’ Daley handed her the much newer sheet of paper. It had clearly been written on the same machine, but the letters were less bold, as though the ribbon was old and running low on ink, or perhaps the strength in Nathaniel Doig’s fingers was ebbing away with old age.
I fear that I’ve been wrong about many things. I’m a rich man, you see. I’ve never wanted this wealth – it’s blood money. But blood money, or no, it can still work for good. I have a number of ideas that will help put right the damage done by the Doigs over centuries.
But at the heart of this family there still lurks horror. I must think. I need more time.
The writing stopped abruptly. Symington looked at Daley. ‘This is dated the day before he died, Jim.’
‘It is, Carrie.’
She looked at the two missives written so far apart. ‘I get the first one, but what does he mean by the second?’
‘We must presume it’s his wife. We don’t even know if he knew Alice was back home when he wrote this.’
Symington thought for a while. ‘This doesn’t really change anything.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘What else have we turned up so far?’
‘A real mix: cod psychology; observation of the seasons; thoughts on politics, that sort of thing. To me, this guy is seriously troubled. So far, though, this is the most personal material.’
‘Okay, tell them to keep digging.’
‘And?’
‘We go ahead as planned. This doesn’t change anything.’ ‘There’s motive now. He writes about his wealth for the first time, as far as we can make out, and he dies the next day.’
‘He took his own life, Jim.’
Daley nodded, but his face spoke of other emotions.
‘We go ahead as planned. We have plenty of protection in place for everyone concerned.’
‘And Brian?’
She hesitated. ‘We don’t tell him about this.’ Noting the irritation on Daley’s face, she placed her hand on his arm. ‘It’ll just make him jumpy, and this rambling doesn’t prove a thing.’
‘If you say so, ma’am.’
‘I do, DCI Daley, I do.’
They made their way to Rowan Tree Cottage in an unmarked car, Scott driving. Anyone looking on would have thought them to be quite alone, but as they progressed along the gritted roads, past white fields on one side and a grey sea on the other, police officers were quietly taking up position out of sight, but within range of the low dwelling.
They parked in the yard beside the cottage. Scott grimaced at the stench of seaweed as they made their way to the front door.
‘Welcome to my childhood, detective,’ said Alice Wenger.
‘Don’t worry, mine wisnae milk and honey either. No’ the same stink, though.’
Once inside, Scott surveyed the scene with the same distaste he’d felt on the last occasion he’d been in this place. ‘Did yous no’ even have a telly?’
‘We had nothing. The Bible, some other religious stuff.’ She stared at him. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Well, make yourself comfortable. I’ll light the fire.’ He spotted the brimming coal scuttle to one side of the cracked hearth.
‘No, I’ll do it. It’ll be like old times. That was one of my chores every morning before we picked up the bus to school. Since I was – well, since I was old enough to remember.’
Scott watched her as she piled coals into the fireplace. She did so expertly, leaving enough room between the black lumps to allow air to circulate. He remembered his mother doing the same thing, though she’d used the wound-up pages of old newspapers in between as an accelerant. ‘How are you going tae get it going wae nae firelighters, or that.’ He tossed her a box of matches from his pocket.
‘You can’t teach this family much about lighting fires, trust me. Is it okay for me to go to the kitchen, or do you have to come with me?’
‘I’m here tae keep you safe, no’ as your gaoler. If you want tae go ootside and let that auld dear of yours take pot-shots at you – well, that’s your lookout.’
‘My knight in shining armour.’
She returned from the rudimentary kitchen with a small bowl and showered sugar on to the coals, lending them the temporary look of mountains in the snow. She struck a match, which lit at the first attempt, and in a cupped hand held it against the fuel in the fireplace, blowing gently as the flame caught the sugar and grew.
‘You’ve got that down tae a fine art. No’ forgotten after a’ these years, eh?’
‘Some things you just don’t forget.’ She sat on an old chair backed with an off-white antimacassar. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘We wait, that’s what we dae,’ said Scott, unfurling himself in front of the fire in the hope of at least some warmth.
Outside, light snow fell from a low sky on to the roof of Rowan Tree Cottage.
52
Ginny Doig had left the relative comfort of the Subaru and headed out into the elements, all the time making sure she was obscured by the treeline of dense firs. She knew that the police would be searching for her, but there were lots of places to hide on the Kintyre peninsula. They’d have to flush her out; she wasn’t stupid. It came as no surprise at all when she watched the car pull up in the yard of her home, and shortly after saw a small white thread of smoke issue from the chimney. She’d concealed herself in a tiny cave, a place probably forgotten by most of the local population, apart from the Doigs, that was. This small, dank space had come in handy for many years; had hidden contraband, weapons, plunder. Her husband had told her the stories, and she’d paid attention. Though he was dead, she could still hear his voice in her head, as he guided his widow to the places she’d need to find if she were to succeed.
Down the glen – you’re out of sight all the way because of the bushes on either side. Be careful, though: the stones at the bottom of the burn are slippery, but you can steady yourself by holding on to sturdy overhanging branches. I hid from my father for near a week there one summer.
As she trudged through the small freezing stream she did as he’d told her. With the hunting rifle cradled in one arm, she only had the other to grab hold of branches with which to steady herself. The stones were even slicker than she remembered, whether the product of frost or melting snow it was hard to tell, as the dry coiled branches of wintering bushes writhing above her almost blocked out the light. In summer, when everything was in flower and leaf, this place was almost a tunnel, the natural canopy closing it off from the rest of the world.
Before you come out on to the shore, you’ll see the wee path. Take it. It’s steep, but generations of our family dug our feet in hard to chisel out footholds, almost like a small set of stairs.
She was on that steep path now. The old footholds were still there and helped, but her old knees ached, and only the hatred in her heart drove her on, her wrinkled face now numb with cold as she wound her way down to the sea.
Turn right when y
ou reach the bottom. You can be seen there, but only from the sea, and who will pay any attention to you from out in the North Channel? There are some big boulders to get over, but the largest of them you can skirt round.
She remembered the first time he’d taken her there. It had been a balmy summer’s day, not long after they’d wed. They were young, and the world smelled sweet, the sun bathing them in heat and light. Today, though, its cold light was only visible as a pale disc, like a hole to a brighter world almost hidden behind the snow clouds.
Ginny Doig reached one of the big boulders, a rock almost twice her height. She approached the tight space between it and the cliff with a lump in her throat. As she remembered, it had been a tight squeeze all those years ago, her husband almost having to force his thin frame between the rock and an equally hard place. There was no choice, though; the ground in front of the boulder fell away about twenty feet on to the shore. To her surprise, though, it seemed the years had taken flesh from her bones and she was able to slip though easily.
Carry on until you come to the gate at the end of the machair. It’s almost obscured by trees, but if you look, you’ll find it.
She was old, but her eyes were still keen. The ruined gate was lying on the rough ground, almost covered with snow, but the gap it left afforded her access to the sheltering safety of old oak trees. She heard an animal scurry away as she made her way between the trunks, their branches reaching out like fleshless fingers into the lowering sky.
The stone looks ancient, but it’s not – maybe a couple of hundred years, or so. Planted there by my family as a mute signpost. It served its purpose well, for it saved the necks of many of them – without it, what lies below would be almost impossible to find in the undergrowth, especially when the chase is on and fear blinds the bravest soul.
Look below, and you’ll have what you need.
She was breathless now, weary after her exertions, but she had no intention of stopping. With her free hand she groped for the small torch she’d taken from the boot of the car she’d stolen. It was there. She turned it on, but in the gloom of the woods it helped only a little. Nonetheless, when she pulled away some loose branches and turf, there it was, a metal cover complete with a stout handle. She silently thanked her husband, who she knew had maintained the family’s old escape routes from the excise men of long ago. It was one of the reasons he walked every day. She knew he had never been proud of the Doigs’ ignoble tradition of wrecking and smuggling, but something drove him to keep everything in working order.
‘You never know,’ he would say mysteriously, almost as though he knew this day might come.
She pulled at the steel handle. Though it took effort, the cover opened with relative ease. Ginny froze for a few seconds. She could have taken this escape route in reverse when the man with the gun had killed her eldest son, but to do so would have placed her within a few feet of the killer as he moved to the front door of the house. She supposed she could have played a game of cat and mouse, waited for him to look round the other side of the building, but her nerve had failed her. All she’d wanted to do was run.
Now it was time for others to taste that fear.
Ginny Doig disappeared into the darkness.
The cottage had warmed up considerably, the fire’s soporific effect making Scott feel tired. He yawned widely and stretched out his arms.
‘You take a nap, honey,’ said Alice Wenger. ‘Ain’t nothing happening here.’ She looked at him intently as his eyes almost closed, but then he shot up in the old chair.
‘Near nodded off there.’
‘No wonder. This is like two nights in Kentucky.’
‘I’ve never been.’
‘Don’t, would be my advice.’
‘I could fair go for a cup o’ tea – coffee – anything hot.’
‘Now that’s something that will certainly be here.’
‘What?’
‘Tea. Both my parents drank gallons of the stuff. Doubt there will be any milk, though. Well, not that you could drink.’
‘You set the fire, I’ll away and get some tea. Even black. It’s better than nothing.’
‘Oh yeah? And just how do you mean to boil a kettle?’
‘Oh, right enough. Nae electricity.’
‘See that hook above the fire?’
‘Aye.’
‘Let me show you.’
Again Alice Wenger headed for the kitchen. She arrived back with a blackened kettle that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dickensian tableau.
‘At least they have a cold tap now. When I was young the only water we had was from the little burn that came down from Thomson’s Hill.’
Scott screwed up his face. ‘Wae a’ thon sheep shit and that floating in it? No thanks.’
‘Everything was boiled. We survived.’
‘Aye, yous did well,’ said Scott sarcastically, looking around.
Wenger hung the heavy kettle on an equally blackened hook. ‘Now all we do is wait.’
‘We’ve got one o’ they new fancy kettles. You just fling the water in oot the tap and before you can say c’mon the Rangers, the water’s boiled. It’s a great thing.’
‘Wow, you sure know how to live it up in bonnie Scotland.’
‘The fridge defrosts itself, tae.’
Alice Wenger rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sure the long winter nights just fly by in your house, DI Scott.’
‘It’s no’ bad, what wae Netflix an’ a’ that.’
‘I see.’
As they sat with nothing else to say, the hiss of water boiling in the old kettle was all that broke the silence.
53
Daley was on his stomach in some bushes about five hundred yards from Rowan Tree Cottage, beside him Constable Fearns with a sighted rifle. Though he was wrapped up in two jumpers, a thermal fleece and a heavy jacket, he was still frozen. As he watched the cottage through a small pair of binoculars, his gloved hands trembled with cold.
He was listening to radio traffic coming from various officers around the scene and at both turns to the Doigs’ home from the Main Road. But all the observations were the same – nothing to report.
‘You okay?’ he said to Fearns.
‘Yes, sir. Though I think my chances of having more children are diminishing by the second. This cold is penetrating the parts nothing else can reach.’
‘Huh. You sound like Inspector Scott, son.’
‘Nobody sounds like Inspector Scott, sir.’
‘This is true. Well spotted, constable.’
Daley turned his ear to the airwave radio once more, again to no avail. I knew this was a stupid idea, he thought, calculating how long this little charade could continue. Especially given the weather.
In the meantime, shivering and miserable, he stayed put.
*
Ginny Doig knew she was close. She’d been at this end of the tunnel much more recently. She’d known of its existence for most of her married life, and always feared that something unpleasant might be lurking not far from where she slept. That being the case, she regularly descended a few feet with a lantern in search of signs of mice or, worse still, rats.
So when she reached the short flight of steps hollowed out of the rock she knew she was nearly there. Leaving the rifle at the bottom, she ascended the steps with the torch. Carefully, she pushed open the hatch. It was hard work, as both she and her husband had checked regularly to ensure that it was as well disguised as the hatch at the beginning of her journey. But with a little effort she managed to push it open a crack, making only a tiny creak.
The day had seemed dull before she entered the tunnel, but she was about to emerge into absolute darkness. Though it was hard to tell from this snail’s eye view of a world of black, Ginny knew exactly where she was. The smell of damp and camphor was familiar: comforting almost.
Anyone watching would expect her to come from the road or over the fields to the front of the house. As she knew, the shoreline was effectively closed off at e
ither end of the cottage: on one side by the boulder that had hidden her from the gunman who had killed her son, on the other by the sheer cliff over which her husband had tumbled to his death. The only other approach from that direction would have been via the sea, and even the policemen she had met recently would have been able to spot that.
She cursed her husband for being so weak. They should have presented a united front when their daughter had reappeared after such a long absence. Instead he’d taken the coward’s way out. But she’d seen the light disappearing from his eyes over a number of years, and knew that the many secrets he carried in his head weighed him down. Alison’s return had been the last straw. That’s why he spent his days wandering the hidden paths and tapping out his feelings on that damnable old typewriter.
Closing the hatch carefully, she crouched down to retrieve the rifle. With the small torch held between her teeth, Ginny Doig ascended the steps again. She knew she had to be brave now, even reckless. She pushed firmly at the hatch, letting it fall open quietly against the wall, displacing some of the old rags they had used to hide it.
With her heart in her mouth she took the last two steps, rifle in hand, and emerged into darkness in the cupboard of the bedroom she’d shared for so many years with her husband.
Ginny Doig was home.
Daley felt the mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. He struggled to remain hidden in the undergrowth as he tried to wrestle it from his pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said quietly.
‘Sir,’ said Shaw from the office. ‘I’ve had the FBI on the phone from Langley. The Special Agent would like to speak to you urgently. I wasn’t sure how you were placed to take the call.’
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