‘So Cardini went to prison and while he was inside Luigi Dragonetti, the head of the gang, died of a heart attack. When Cardini was finally released, he just disappeared for a few months. It was then that he changed his name by deed-poll to Jock McArdle. And somehow he seemed to have been able to finance himself in the confectionary business, although the Glasgow police believe, and still believe but have been unable to prove, that he made his money through vice and extortion.’
‘But what about the other gang?’ Torquil asked, as he scanned Rhona’s article.
‘Mathew Mulholland, the surviving twin, died of a stroke on his way home from a Celtic match a week after Cardini reinvented himself as McArdle. Apparently he ran his Mercedes into a wall. Somehow the gang just disappeared – or rather a lot of the gang “went straight” and ended up on the new Jock McArdle’s payroll. He just went from strength to strength, invested in several companies and became a millionaire.’
‘And what about this animal rights thing?’ the Padre asked.
‘Ah yes, that was one of his companies. They bred mice, rats and guinea pigs and supplied them to several university and government laboratories. Highly lucrative, until they attracted the attention of animal rights activists. Unluckily for them!’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Torquil, raising his head from the article.
‘There is nothing concrete to go on here, but apparently there was an active cell of animal rights activists operating in the south of Scotland. There were a couple of attacks on the homes of some of the McArdle company workers, and even a fire-bomb attack on Jock McArdle’s house. A few weeks later a couple of bodies turned up in the river. They were identified as being members of the animal rights cell.’
The Padre whistled softly. ‘Not a nice chap, it seems. And now he says he wants police protection.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, I should let him wait a while if I were you. What about Sartori and Reid? Where do they fit in?’
Torquil tapped the article in front of him. ‘I am thinking that they were what Rhona called enforcers or punishers. That is how she described Cardini when he was a young man. That would certainly fit with their bully-boy antics on West Uist.’
Wallace Drummond raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, but what was the significance of the bullet-riddled car?’
Morag shrugged. ‘I am not sure. Rhona made the point that the Mulhollands had probably killed whoever was in that car.’
‘But was there was no body?’ Douglas asked.
‘No body, so no charge against Matthew Mulholland. He denied any connection. It was only supposition that it was connected. False number plates and everything. But inside the glove pocket they found a gun, a Mauser, and a library book about guinea pigs.’
‘Guinea pigs?’ repeated Wallace.
‘Could that be the animal rights folk again?’ his brother asked.
‘The police checked and the book had been taken out by someone called Enrico Mercanti, who was on the Dragonetti gang payroll. The police think that he was a fellow punisher with Cardini-McArdle.’
Torquil stood up and went over to the whiteboard, and added a few more notes under Jock McArdle’s name.
CARDINI
PUNISHER
PRISON – 5 YEARS
ANIMAL RIGHTS CELL – BODIES FOUND
He drew a line between McArdle’s name and Rhona and added a balloon with the word ARTICLE inside.
‘Cardini to McArdle. Sounds similar, as if he wanted to retain the sound of his name. So does the Italian connection have more significance than we thought?’ He suddenly snapped his fingers and added in capital letters the word FAMILY to the notes under McArdle’s name. Then he drew a line from there to the notes relating to Ewan McPhee’s diary, where the same word stood out prominently.
‘Could Ewan have been meaning this family, McArdle’s family?
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Piper?’ Ralph asked.
‘Maybe! If you are thinking the word – mafia?’
Everyone started speaking at once, as the possibility hit home. But Torquil had been scrutinizing the ever-more complex spider web diagram that had been gradually developing. ‘There is something here,’ he mused, tracing out lines in his mind.
‘Look there!’ he cried, tapping the board under Rhona’s name. ‘CARD IN! We’ve assumed she had written a message about a card. I reckon she was writing Cardini! But why? What else was she trying to write?’
The phone rang and Morag answered it. ‘That was Calum Steele,’ she said a few moments later. ‘He was wanting to tell us to turn on the television. Scottish TV have a bulletin scheduled for the next few minutes.’
And as Wallace switched on the station television and found the channel, they found themselves confronted by Kirstie Macroon sitting at a desk behind which was a picture of the Kyleshiffin harbour. In a small square at the top of the picture was a smiling photograph of Calum Steele, to whom Kirstie was talking over a phone link.
‘And have we any idea who the dead man was, Calum?’
‘We have indeed, Kirstie. It was a man called Danny Reid, and he was in the employ of Jock McArdle, the Glaswegian millionaire who bought himself Dunshiffin Castle.’
‘And you say that the wind towers around the house were burning, as well as the cottage?’
‘It was awful, Kirstie. They were burning like beacons all night. It must have been a brighter sight from the sea than the old lighthouse itself. An inferno! And arson, without a shadow of doubt.’
‘And are the police treating the death of Danny Reid as suspicious?’
‘They have launched a murder investigation straight away. My old schoolfriend, Inspector Torquil McKinnon is leading the inquiry.’
‘Thank you, Calum. I am sure we will be in touch.’
‘My pleasure, Kirstie. I just view it as my duty to make the public aware of the news and do what I can to help the police.’
‘Thank you again, Calum.’
Calum Steele’s voice was heard again, but immediately cut off as Kirstie Macroon deftly continued with her bulletin.
‘That was Calum Steele, the editor of the West Uist Chronicle who has been keeping us up to date on the current story about the windmills of West Uist. So now—’
She stopped in mid-sentence and touched her earpiece.
‘Ah, I am just informed that we have been able to contact Mr McArdle, the new laird of Dunshiffin, and the man at the heart of the wind farm scheme.’
A picture of Jock McArdle on the day that he took possession of Dunshiffin Castle appeared, replacing that of Calum Steele.
‘McArdle, we understand that tragedy has afflicted you twice lately and we offer our condolences. Regarding the wind towers—’
She never finished her sentence. Jock McArdle’s thick Glaswegian accent broke out and continued in a staccato barrage of anger.
‘My wind towers have been criminally burned down and two of my employees have been murdered. This island should be called the Wild West, not West Uist! I am under attack here, and I have a pretty damned good idea who is behind it all – and why! I have been on the telephone this morning to the highest police officer I could contact and I demand police protection straight away. Meanwhile I am locking myself away in Dunshiffin Castle, and then I’m going to put the police straight. I’ll get justice for my boys.’