*
It had been another 24 hours of dead ends and frustration, and Tomachek was far from happy with the debrief from his two subordinates, “Now listen to me, Thoroughgood, and by that I mean you too, Hardie. This isn’t good enough. We have no leads and yet you say you are confident that your two new Polish chums are harbouring Boniek. Well, why the devil haven’t you applied for a search warrant and had that bally Smithycroft Farm, or whatever it is called, turned upside down?”
Thoroughgood frowned. “Because, sir, it’s in Central Scotlandville and they’ve dragged their feet about it because Jimmy Rogers is a local councillor out in Hayseed Dixie land. So really it is their call. They have just been off the blower and been made fully aware of our suspicions, but suspicions are all we have right now, hence their reticence.”
“Balls and buggery, Thoroughgood, it’s not good enough! And the chief is getting impatient for a result of some kind. I tell you, at this rate your pips are at risk, Gus, my boy. Never mind acting DI, you’ll be acting out your days at this rate,” said Tomachek, jabbing his Cairngorm Bent in the DS’ direction.
The beeping of a text alert from inside Thoroughgood’s breast pocket caused Tomachek’s eyebrows to rise, but before he could say anything Hardie came to the rescue. “Hopefully, it’s a tout, boss,”
“I hope for the DS’ sake it is.”
“Morse,” said Thoroughgood with a sigh of relief. “Bingo, he’s come up trumps again, boss. Ziggy’s Polish Deli, Hyndland Street. Boniek working in back shop bakery. Turn it first thing in morn. Opens 8am,’ read Thoroughgood out loud.
“Interesting information, Thoroughgood, don’t ya think? Blows your theory about your Polish pals harbouring him out at Smithycroft farm right out of the water,” said the detective superintendent.
“Maybe, but at least it’s a lead, and a way of eliminating him from our enquiries. But I still think he’s mixed up in this somehow.”
“Fair enough. Your fellow Morse has never let us down before, especially with all that business regarding Meechan and . . .” Tomachek silently cursed himself for treading on Thoroughgood’s private grief.
Thoroughgood shrugged. “Celine was her name and I’m not going to fall to pieces every time you mention her, boss. She’s gone now and I’m moving on, hopefully just like this enquiry. We’ll arrange for uniform to be on standby to give our mate the phantom Pole a tug early in the morning, and see what we can shake down.”
“I suggest you do just that, Detective Sergeant. I will expect Boniek to be brought in on Section 14 detention early tomorrow morning, then. As for Central Scotland plod, let me make a couple of calls there, an old DS of mine made the move to Randolfield in order to make the next two steps up to DCI, and hopefully he can help us out regarding a search of the farm. Now, shut the door on your way out, gentlemen, and no more blind alleys if you don’t mind,” finished Tomachek.
21
THE MERCEDES SLK 200 slid down the road leading onto the white pebble driveway at the front of Roxburgh Hall and Thoroughgood had to admit the Gothic magnificence of the country house was impressive.
As Vanessa brought the Mercedes to a halt in front of the mansion’s looming sheer spires, she turned to Thoroughgood and made sure his pre-match briefing had sunk in, “I don’t know how this is going to go, darlin’. The Roxburgh’s have just suffered a death in the family. The younger brother, Alexander, collapsed at the beginning of the week and the post mortem hasn’t been made public yet. But Victoria, his sister, called me to say that she and Lady Roxburgh would meet me, regardless. I guess that proves how determined they are to make sure the Dark Ocean launch goes through.”
Thoroughgood leaned back in his seat and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “The reason for that, Vanessa, is that the elder Roxburgh sibling, Robert, I believe his name is, was up to his neck in debts accrued at the casinos. This launch of their latest whisky is being bankrolled by the Triads, or so the story goes. I would imagine that they are not the most sympathetic of backers.”
Vanessa was less than impressed, “I wondered if you knew anything about it. It’s all gossip, and I’ve suffered enough from that to know that if even a fraction of it was true, then the truth itself would be a fairy tale. What matters is that I’m in a position to help the Roxburgh’s, although the charity fashion show will also give my clothing range some extra profile. So if you don’t mind, can you just let me do the talking, my sweet policeman?”
“Yes, ma’am,” was the best a chastised Thoroughgood could offer.
Climbing the lower section of the granite staircase leading up to four impressive pillars at the top, Thoroughgood couldn’t help but be impressed by the home of the Roxburghs. Three outrageously ornate arches loomed above them on the top level, where an imposing oak door opened and an immaculately suited man greeted them.
“Good evening, and welcome to Roxburgh Hall. Miss Velvet, if I am not mistaken and . . . friend?” enquired Macintosh in a clipped tone, laced with slight disapproval.
“You are not mistaken,” retorted Vanessa icily, while Thoroughgood shifted uncomfortably behind her.
“Lady Elizabeth and Miss Victoria await you in the Scott lounge, Madame and sir. If you would care to follow me?” asked the butler.
Vanessa nodded curtly and they followed his pin-striped back into the flagstoned vestibule.
The first sight that greeted them was that of Lady Elizabeth standing in front of the full-length portrait of the second Viscount, her arms folded across her chest, a fine golden cardigan was slung over her shoulders, matching her immaculate hair. Her smile was weak and the strain of the grief she clearly bore following the loss of her youngest son was etched across her face; it was obvious that this meeting was the last thing she wished to deal with.
Before any awkwardness could develop a light voice spoke from the side of the huge marble fireplace, “Vanessa, I am so glad you could come and this must be, if the magazines are to be believed, your new friend, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood?” said Victoria Roxburgh.
As Vanessa greeted the youngest Roxburgh with her trademark kiss on either cheek, Thoroughgood hovered awkwardly in the background, aware that Lady Elizabeth was assessing him with an icy gaze. But as Victoria made her way over to him, Thoroughgood’s attention was quickly re-focused on the warmth of her smile and silky chestnut hair – the same shade as the eyes that seemed to suck him in.
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” he stuttered in a hopelessly awkward attempt at genteel civility, before quickly adding as a guilty afterthought, “May I offer my sincere condolences on your loss.”
Her eyes held his for a lingering moment as her radiant smile faded and Thoroughgood saw a tear well up in her eye and run down the side of her cheek before she made an enormous effort to pull herself together with a deep sigh. Automatically, Thoroughgood reached inside the pocket of his jacket and fished out a handkerchief before offering it to Victoria, as the spontaneity of his gesture became enveloped in more awkwardness.
Yet she took it and dabbed at the tears that now began to roll uncontrollably down her sallow cheeks. Again she drew a deep breath and held out her hand in a greeting that was clearly intended to replace the words she did not have the composure to speak. Thoroughgood felt the warmth of her hand as it lingered in his limp grasp and then she spoke to him and everyone else in the room seemed to disappear.
“So, chivalry is not dead!” she said, trying to stifle a sob before continuing her tortured attempt at humorous etiquette, “ You are the detective we have to thank for saving us from the mad Imam Tariq. It’s nice to meet you, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood, and thank you for your thoughtfulness,” said Victoria alluding to the handkerchief before reluctantly withdrawing her hand from his.
Lady Elizabeth took charge of proceedings, “Thank you for your kind sentiments and thoughtfulness, Mr Thoroughgood. These are very trying times for our family and we miss Alexander terribly, but that is not why we are here. The show must go on, and I am sure y
ou are not interested in the details of a fashion shoot and ladies clothing range launch,” she said, her natural authority, clearly fragile, still brooked no argument.
“Macintosh, why don’t you show Mr Thoroughgood into the library and make sure he has a dram to help him enjoy the fire,” she added briskly.
Thoroughgood was surprised to see that the butler was indeed still present in the doorway, such was the ethereal quality of his presence.
“If you would be so good as to follow me,” said Macintosh before, after a slight delay, adding, “Mr Thoroughgood.”
The thought slipped through Thoroughgood’s mind that the manoeuvre between the dowager and her faithful servant was so slick it must have been one executed a hundred times before to jettison unwelcome visitors. He wished he had not agreed to come in the first place.
Vanessa’s blazing eyes caught and held his as he meekly smiled and followed the butler out, but Thoroughgood knew she would be in a rage over having such a polite but firm control placed on her presence, even in such magnificent surroundings. The thought caused him some amusement. He followed the butler into an oak-panelled room that reeked of atmosphere while the crackling of the logs in the fireplace grabbed his attention and assailed his senses with their aromatic delight.
He was immediately attracted to the window to the left of the fire place, affording as it did a fine view over Loch Lomond, and as Thoroughgood drank it in Macintosh’s velvet tones percolated through the silence.
“May I take the liberty of pouring you a dram, sir? “The Roxburgh” single malt . . . sir?”
Thoroughgood turned and slowly subjected the butler to a lingering sea green stare that Macintosh met and held.
“You may,” said Thoroughgood.
Macintosh poured the whisky into a fine Edinburgh crystal glass and looking up, subjecting Thoroughgood to a sickly smile, “Will that be all . . . sir?”
“I would think so . . . Macintosh,” replied Thoroughgood, drawing out the butler’s name to convey his dislike for the man.
The butler offered a slight incline of his head and as he left the room the thought crossed Thoroughgood’s mind that Macintosh was the type of individual who revelled in the power of knowledge. A knowledge that had banked all of Roxburgh Hall’s secrets and one which made him indispensable to the Roxburgh family and they, in turn, vulnerable to him.
As his gaze swept the library shelves his attention landed on a latticed cabinet at the side of the fireplace, which Thoroughood assumed was for the select of the book collection.
Fortunately, the doors were unlocked and as he opened them one cover caught Thoroughgood’s gaze. Ivanhoe, immediately stood out to a man who had idolised the central character, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, in Sir Walter Scott’s 12th Century epic tale of Saxon England under the yolk of Norman oppression.
The book had clearly been placed in a prominent position and setting his whisky glass down on the mantel of the fireplace, Thoroughgood removed it with care. He opened the book up and saw that it was a first edition; he pondered its worth before marvelling that it had been allowed to rest on the shelf within the cabinet and was not under lock and key.
Carefully, he opened it and was quickly drawn to the handwritten message scrawled on the flyleaf, “To my darling Jill from your own true Ivanhoe!” with the letters LVR printed in block capitals just below, three crosses that came next underlined the terms of endearment followed by the date, 01.12.41.
Thoroughgood moved over to the fire and placed the book on the mantlepiece, took a sip of whisky and began to read the opening lines of the classic that had done more than anything to make him follow his heart and study medieval history at university. He could not help himself, closing his eyes and reciting Pope’s Odyssey out loud: “Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome, The full-fed swine return’d with evening home; Compell’d, reluctant, to the several sties. With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.”
As he stopped to take another slurp of the malt, the silence, previously interrupted only by the crackling of logs on the fire, was broken by another voice, a light voice filled with warmth and at the same time, unmistakable sadness, “In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and vallies which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.”
Thoroughgood turned round sharply, almost dropping the priceless book in the process, to find Victoria Roxburgh standing three feet away from him. “I am impressed, Mr Thoroughgood, with your knowledge of Ivanhoe. It is not what I would expect of a . . .” As she stalled, Thoroughgood supplied the end to her sentence, “Policeman.”
They both smiled spontaneously and Victoria quickly produced his handkerchief, “Thank you so much for your kindness earlier on. If I had known that you were a fan of Ivanhoe I would not have been so pleasantly surprised.” With that she offered the handkerchief to Thoroughgood, but he nodded his head at the book in one hand and the whisky glass in the other, “As you can see, I have my hands full and thanks to my mother, no shortage of hankies at home. Please keep it. The main thing is, are you all right?”
“No, to be honest, I am not, although it is much worse for Mama. Alexander’s death is being treated as suspicious and we are still waiting for the full result of the post mortem. All of this is happening at the worst possible time for our family, with the launch of The Dark Ocean whisky liqueur and our deal with the Gwai Lo consortium already set in stone. So Mama is right, the show must go on.”
“You can always lose yourself in a good book,” said Thoroughgood, realising immediately how clumsy his attempt at kindness had been, before adding, “I never get tired of reading Ivanhoe. The story itself is almost as romantic as the message written inside the cover. I guess that must be related to two of your forebears?”
She smiled sweetly and took the book from his outstretched hand, “Yes, it was my grandfather’s favourite. He’s probably written some soppy message to my grandma Margaret inside.”
Thoroughgood’s quick glance at the book immediately alerted Victoria that all was not as it seemed, and as she opened the cover she could not help herself reading the handwritten message aloud, “To my darling Jill from your own true Ivanhoe!” signed LVR, dated 01.12.42.” She choked back a sob before continuing: “Oh dear, how terribly awkward, Mr Thoroughgood. You see, LVR was indeed my grandfather, Ludovic Roxburgh, but I don’t, as you will no doubt have guessed by now, have a clue who Jill was.”
For the second time that evening the tears began to flow down Victoria’s cheeks and Thoroughgood guided her over to the settee and sat her down. “Hey, take it easy. Every family has a skeleton in the closet,” he soothed as he handed her the glass of malt, “Take a deep breath and have a sip. Always remember things are rarely as bad as they seem.”
Victoria took a gulp and placing the glass on her lap, buried her head on his shoulder and sobbed.
22
HARDIE TOOK a sip of coffee and balanced the cardboard cup at a precarious angle on the dashboard of the Focus, placed the Silk Cut in his mouth and inhaled. Blowing the smoke out the open window, he turned his head towards Thoroughgood, “Jeez, what a mess. The suspicious death of the youngest son, right on the eve of the deal they hope will save them from oblivion, albeit one financed by Triad money. Then a 70-year skeleton bolts out the closet and shatters the squeaky-clean image of dearly beloved grand-pappy. The Roxburghs may be toffs, but I wouldnae want to be in their shoes right now.”
“Sure is a mess all right. I’ll give you good money the suspicious death is tied up in the whole takeover business. Apparently Alexander was strongly against the Gwai Lo deal and had let Robert know what he thought of him, in no uncertain terms. Thank God we aren’t in danger of catching that one, mate.”
Hardie winked roguishly and added, “But hey, every cloud has a silver lining, gaffer. You got to meet Victoria Roxburgh and become her knight in shining armour. Man,
if she’s half as good-looking as the pictures I’ve seen of her in the papers then she must be some beauty. So who has caught the enquiry?”
“DI Randolph Pigeon, and good luck to him, he’ll need it” said Thoroughgood.
“Old Randy Pigeon, eh? I could see him ruffling a few feathers up at the Hall,” sniggered Hardie.
Before Thoroughgood could answer his police radio burst into life – the controller advising that uniform attending from Partick Police Station had been held up after a disturbance in the cells.
“Okay, uniform are runnin’ late. A slight problem at Partick nick with some maniac kicking off. Seems the early shift are men down with a flu bug and it was all hands on deck after he smacked the duty officer. We might as well get in position and get ready to ruffle a few Polish feathers!” said Thoroughood and with that they both got out of the Focus and walked down the slight incline from the top of Hyndland Road to the bakery.
“0715hrs,” said Hardie helpfully, before continuing, “you never know, we might even get our breakfast out of this if we play our cards right. I used to have a great howf up in Balornock, in Broomknowes Road, when I was in uniform. Homemade soup, hot sausage rolls and just about anything a beat cop could ask for. I wouldn’t mind nabbing a couple of freshly baked rolls and heading over to the farmer’s market and fillin’ them with some black puddin’. That would be the dog’s bollocks.”
“For feck’s sake, Hardie, do you ever stop thinking about that stomach of yours? Let’s just get our hands on Boniek and see where that takes us,” growled Thoroughgood irritably.
As they walked down the footpath a delivery van pulled up outside the bakery. A dark-haired man jumped out and disappeared behind the vehicle before reappearing on the pavement side with a pallet which he quickly carried into the bakery.
“I don’t know about you, gaffer, but it wouldn’t surprise me if that was our man. Roughly speaking, he fits Boniek’s description. I don’t think we can afford to wait on uniform any longer.” said Hardie.
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