Hunter's Chase (The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries #1)

by Val Penny

  “I can understand it. Quite right too. But what’s it got to do with Dad?”

  “You may not think so in a minute.” Sophie looked really miserable. “Timmy, your dad is insured with them.”

  “Has been for years. I keep telling him to check through U-Switch to get a cheaper quote, Martin Lewis style. Then I get the speech about loyalty and quality. So I just shut up. Life is too short.”

  “Yeah. Well, the claim he put in after the recent break-in was a big one. Jewellery, watches, silver, cash and paintings. So it has been caught by this checking policy.”

  “Paintings? I don't think so. It was all downstairs. All the original paintings are upstairs, for security. A lot went missing, including some of Mum's best jewellery and Dad's Breitling and at least one Rolex. Anyway, go on.”

  “They checked this claim against his previous one. You remember the claim he made when you moved from the house in The Grange?”

  “Yes, the removers lost a box of stuff, as I remember. Including one of Dad's favourite paintings. They all looked the same to me as a kid. But my tennis racket, now that was a serious loss! Bloody nuisance.”

  “Believe me, pet, your tennis racket was the least of it. The claim also included that Peploe painting you mentioned, plus lots of jewellery and a Rolex watch. The problem is that in this most recent claim several of these items have been claimed for again, including a Rolex with the same registration number. They were mentioned again, although there was no report of them being recovered or returned to the family after the previous claim.”

  “No, we got nothing back. Okay, Dad made a mistake.”

  “Perhaps. Anyway, after noticing that, the company sent in their loss adjusters to examine the house and meet with your dad.”

  “Okay...” Tim said hesitantly.

  “Not okay, Tim. Very much not okay. The loss adjuster noticed the two pictures noted as stolen in the recent theft, including that Peploe, in the linen cupboard in the bathroom when he went to the loo.”

  “He had no right to look in there!”

  “The cupboard door was ajar. He saw them,” Sophie sighed. “Anyway, that's not the point! The paintings should not have been there. They were meant to be stolen, remember?”

  Sophie burst into tears. Rivers of mascara and salt water dribbled down her cheeks. “And the Rolex? The same Rolex? I can't fix this. That's what I do, I'm a fixer. But I can't fix this.”

  Tim swept Lucy off his lap and moved across the sofa. He took Sophie in his arms. She sobbed into his chest.

  “Timmy, if they're not satisfied with your dad's explanation, the company plans to prosecute him with fraud. Your dad is so high-profile, and this has become such a big problem, they want to make an example of him. They know the case will get a lot of publicity.” Her tear-stained eyes looked up at Tim. He stared at the carpet.

  “This will kill him, Soph. Oh, I know he's a pompous old prick sometimes, but he's my pompous old prick.” Tim paused. “But it does make sense. You see, I saw the form he filled out for DI Wilson. I was looking over the DI's shoulder when I shouldn't have been.” He sighed a long, deep, sorry sigh. “I thought there were things on it he hadn't told me about. But I thought it was just that he hadn't told me about them.”

  “How come you were looking over DI Wilson's shoulder? Aren't you excluded from information about your dad's case?”

  “Yes, but you know, I was doing what I do best, snooping where I ought not to have been.”

  “Ever thought of becoming a loss adjuster?”

  He smiled at the weak joke. “Hunter Wilson asked me to go and speak to Dad about it. Dad was so grumpy with me, that day!”

  “I should have put two and two together. I just didn't twig. Anyway, this is serious. You do realise that I have absented myself from the case against your dad. Not that the firm would let me work on it anyway.”

  “But you don't do insurance work.”

  “No, Timmy.” She gazed at him steadily. “The fraud case will be criminal, and the firm will have to handle gathering the evidence for the insurance company. All their evidence will be collated and handed over to the Specialist Crime Division. The Crown will bring the case against your dad, but the insurance company will get us to liaise in respect of their side of things. Oh, Tim.”

  “Oh, fuck! It won't be long until it's all around the force too. Great!”

  They sat in silence.

  “It makes no sense, Sophie. He has a full police pension, MSP salary, and income from Mum's estate. We downsized the house and staff. He can't, just can't, be that hard up. Why would he do this? Maybe he's ill? How could he possibly risk everything for a few extra pounds?”

  Timothy Myerscough jumped up from the sofa and drove straight to his father's home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As he folded his limbs into Sophie's tiny car, Tim could not help but look forward to a couple of months’ time when he could buy himself a proper motor. He wanted a big, beautiful BMW X5M. He hoped Sophie would not be too angry, because it was a hybrid, so was fuel-efficient. He respected Sophie's environmental conscience, but was determined that he would buy a new and shiny and deep blue car where his knees would not touch his chin as he drove.

  As Tim pulled into his father's drive, reality repossessed him. He was surprised when Monika opened the door.

  “Good evening, Timothy.”

  “You're back? I need to speak to my father. In private. It's urgent.”

  “Nice to see you too, Tim. I am just about to retire. The journey was full of delay and I am tired. Try not to keep him too long, Timothy. I have missed him and am keen to show him how much.”

  Tim winced at the picture she had put into his mind.

  “Darling,” Monica called, “Timothy is here. Don't be too late, will you, sexy? I am going to bed. I'll be waiting for you!”

  Monika floated upstairs to the second floor. Tim watched her go, then ran up the stairs two at a time to the main living room on the first floor. He knew he would find his father in there.

  “Tim, my boy, this is an unexpected pleasure!”

  “Sorry, Dad, This is not a social call. Not really.”

  Tim told his father quickly and quietly what he had seen on the claim form Hunter had been examining, and what he had learned from Sophie. The young man stared directly into his father's eyes throughout. Then, abruptly, he marched to the bathroom and flung open the airing cupboard. There, on the floor, not even hidden, were the two Peploe paintings that the loss adjuster had seen. Tim let out a howl of misery, picked up the paintings and stormed back into the living room.

  “What are these? Why are they in the linen cupboard? You reported them stolen by Jamie Thomson!” His voice grew louder and louder. “I am so confused, Dad. What is going on? For goodness sake, the loss adjuster told the insurers that he saw them when he went to the loo. That they were fraudulently included in your claim. What were you thinking? Please tell me there is a good reason for this.”

  Sir Peter grew quieter as Tim's rage grew hotter.

  “Tim,” he began, “I can explain, at least in part.”

  “It’d better be good,” said Tim. He sat down opposite his father.

  “After your mother died—”

  “Really, Dad, are we going there again?”

  “Let me finish, son. Please let me explain. Not an excuse. Fuck! Fraud! This is hard. There were times when, after her death, I was weak when I should have been strong. I missed your mother with an intensity you cannot imagine. I self-medicated to try to erase the misery and loneliness, as well as getting treated with medicine and therapy. The doctors tried to help, but the self-medication was usually malt whisky, unsuitable women and all they could provide. You would not imagine what they offered, but there is always a price to pay. I lied when I should have been honest. I suppose I always knew this day would come.”

  Tim finally looked at his father as he stopped speaking. The younger man put the paintings on to the table. He suddenly became awa
re of the silence in the room.

  “So is this where you expect me to believe that you were so traumatised by finding Jamie Thomson in the house, then you found the corpse, and this, on top of Mum's death, turned your head and it was all a terrible mistake. Right, Dad? On you go.”

  “Not quite, son. There's a bit more to it than that. I should have transferred my love and attention to you and your sister, but at the time, that was too difficult. I must now tell you the full truth. You deserve that, if you have time?”

  “All the time you need, Dad.”

  “Let me put on a pot of coffee. This will take a while.”

  Sir Peter Myerscough came back with a large cafetière of freshly brewed coffee, poured two mugs of the strong black liquid and handed one of them to Tim.

  “Where to start? Where to start so any of this makes sense? Oh, Timmy. How to make you understand?”

  “Father, call me Tim or Timothy, I am not your little Timmy any more. I am six foot four and almost thirty years old. I have a first-class honours degree in History and Politics. I assure you, I will understand you if you speak clearly in English. I may not like it, but I will understand.”

  Tim sat and sipped his coffee. His eyes never left his father's.

  Sir Peter spoke softly, thoughtfully and intensely. “Your mother was amazing. She changed my life. I was quiet, focussed, driven to succeed. I knew I had to work for success, but everything came so easily to your mother. She was so beautiful. I never understood why she chose me. Jet-black hair, big brown eyes. Funny. Clever. Sex on legs.”

  “Dad!”

  “Sorry. But when she was with me and she would throw a party, everybody would want to be there. She would chat to the people I needed to know, and introduce me to the movers and shakers, because she could. She had known them all her life. She met them at home, at school, or at university. She met them at dinners with your grandparents. They were friends or acquaintances, godparents or honorary uncles. She led a charmed life.”

  “Really? This old chestnut, again, Dad? Rich girl marries poor little peasant boy. This is very old.” Tim poured them both more coffee.

  “Can I help, Peter?” Monika asked as she poked her head around the door.

  “No!” both men shouted at once. Monika left.

  “We were not peasants!” Sir Peter went on. “We were not poor, but my father was a copper all his days, a good copper. Your grandmother worked the switchboard at the station. That's how they met. Uncle Sandy and I went to Boroughmuir. It was a good school then. It still is, but there was no talk of university for us. Your grandparents needed us to get jobs, to work, to earn money and add to the household finances, not take away from them. So Uncle Sandy went into the forces. He was such a fine man, handsome and strong. Witty. Clever. So much better than me. And you know we lost him when HMS Sheffield went down during the Falklands War. That finished my mother. She was never the same.”

  “Dad, I know all this. A family history lesson is not why I am here.”

  “I know, but I need to you to understand.”

  Tim stared at his father. He seemed to have aged since Tim's arrival. Tim realised he had to listen to all that his father wanted to tell him. Dad would get to the important bit eventually.

  “It must have been hard for you, but really, trying to cheat the insurance? For goodness sake! Have you taken leave of your senses? Have you any idea what this will do to your reputation? And my reputation in the force? I'll probably have to resign, before I've really started. You know they all gossip like a load of old women at the best of times. It's madness! What were you thinking?”

  “I know, I know. I bitterly regret it. I regret a lot of things.”

  “Come on, Dad, we can sort this. We can say it was a mistake. You were so upset by the break-in and finding the body.”

  Tim patted his father on the shoulder then reached for the cafetière and poured them more coffee. It was cooler, more bitter. Tim knew the extra caffeine would not do either of them any good.

  “When your Mum was with me, nothing was impossible. We were Team Myerscough. I worked like a dog to get up the slippery pole within the force. Your Mum worked behind the scenes and provided all the introductions and support I could have wished for. Her holding in the Wills Tobacco Company was so substantial that neither of us really needed to work, but I was ambitious. I wanted to make my mark, make my father proud. I needed to be seen to provide for the family, to be somebody, known in my own right, not just Mr Louise Wills. Your mother knew that.”

  “We all knew that, Dad. Believe me!” Tim said. “You were always at work. We hardly ever saw you before Mum died. Mum was the one who came to all our concerts, made sure our homework was done, and paid attention during every school play and parents’ night. She was great.” Tim paused, and smiled an involuntary smile as he remembered his mother. “After she died, though, you were amazing. You really stepped up to the plate, didn't you? You were always there for us when she had gone. You changed completely. Of course, by then you were Assistant Chief Constable of Lothian & Borders, and there was no contest as to who would take over as Chief when Robert Strimmer retired.”

  “There is always a contest. I was just lucky that, by then, your mother had taught me to delegate effectively. I looked like an excellent leader. Well, the public and powers-that-be thought so. I am not so sure about all of the officers.”

  Tim saw his father look out of the window. The dark sky framed an icy moon.

  “Hunter Wilson, for example.”

  “Come on, Dad. You were a great leader!”

  “No, not always, Tim. I was lonely.”

  “Ah, yes. The ladies! Ailsa and I always joked about them. But you seem happy now with Monika?”

  “She is not your mother, son. There were too many ladies. I even had a fling with Wilson's sister-in-law once.”

  “That explains a lot!”

  “I kept running faster and faster to keep up with myself. And that's how it happened.”

  “What happened? What are we talking about now?”

  “Cocaine. I started using it occasionally with a couple of the girls from the agency.”

  “Dad! This has to be some kind of a joke! How did we get from hiding a picture in the loo to Class A drugs?”

  Tim shook his head and began to think coffee was not going to cut it. Perhaps it was a good thing he was driving home. He needed to be sober for this. How he wished Ailsa were here. She would know what to say. She had always been Daddy's girl.

  “Did it never occur to you or Ailsa there might be a reason why I’d changed?”

  “Dad, we were kids!”

  “At first, yes.” His father had tears in his eyes. “In the beginning it was just once. I had been working all the hours and needed some release, but I was so tired, I was no company. My girl that night was Lynette. I never saw her again, but she offered me the coke to 'cheer me up'. And it did. I felt great. We had a wonderful evening.”

  “I bet you did,” Tim said angrily.

  “You know how it goes: you try it once, then the next time doesn't seem so bad.” The older man paused. “I missed your mother so much I ached.”

  Tim nodded. “Thinking back, you must have done. But you did what you had to do. You were always there for us and you worked hard too. We had no idea you were using coke as a crutch. How bad did it get?”

  “I tried to keep the pain to a minimum for you guys. But that was an act, it was so tiring. Like you wouldn't believe. So I needed to relax. The girls from the agency helped me with that, but they were all on the coke. They sold it as an extra, at bargain prices at first. Then, when I wanted it, I had to pay proper prices. So, when I bought a car from the old garage Arjun had, and found he was bringing in cocaine hidden in vehicles from Europe, he could get me a good deal on my coke as well as my wheels.”

  “Fuck, Dad, really? Is that why we wheeled by Mansoor's car place so often?”

  His father shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So, Dad, ar
e you still using?”

  His father nodded. “I only buy from Arjun now, though. He runs his profits through the car showroom he manages for Ian Thomson. God knows what Thomson will say when he finds out. Drugs were never his thing.”

  “Are you an addict? Do Ailsa and I need to worry?”

  “Using was never the problem. When I became Chief Constable, that was when the demands started.”

  “Blackmail?” Tim was appalled. “Really? Dad! This is fucking nuts.”

  “Why do you think Billy Hope was never tapped for that bank robbery a few years back?”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Why do you think I did not even try to smother Arjun Mansoor's dealing before I retired?”

  “Oh, Dad! Not more fucking blackmail. I'll have no choice but to offer my resignation before this comes out!” Tim held his head in his hands. “Fucking shit. What do I tell Sophie?”

  “And it will come out, son. When that toe-rag Jamie Thomson broke in here, he pocketed my roll of cash. But my stash of cash was rolled around my supply of coke. That will be hard to explain away. And how I could do with a line tonight!”

  “Dad!” Tim said in an exasperated voice.

  “Don't worry, I won't. I even flushed away the stuff I got from Mansoor the night of your party.”

  “Good,” Tim said angrily.

  “Don't be so smart, Tim. One of your colleagues was quite well-known to Mansoor too, but couldn't get any coke for the party because of the amount of their debt. They tapped me for a line that night.”

  “Fantastic. Two of you snorting coke in my bloody house. Which other arse was it?”

  “I can't tell you that, Tim. It wouldn't be fair.”

  “Bastard!”

  Tim had drunk as much coffee as he could stomach and listened to his father with growing horror. Without another word, he stood up and left.

  Sir Peter watched his son go, and put his head in his hands. He saw so much of his late wife in both of his children, but especially Tim. Oh, they had his height, his blond hair and his blue eyes, but their characters were much more like their mother's. He knew they saw the world far more in black and white than he did.