‘Sounds fine. What time?’
‘Seven thirty. Could you pick me up from the office?’
‘Sure; see you around quarter past.’
‘Good. I’ll have Lena confirm the booking. But Bob,’ she added, with a light chuckle, ‘you won’t stand me up too, will you?’
45
‘There are bits of Glasgow that look just like this,’ said Detective Superintendent Chambers as she surveyed the big stone villas and semis, ‘but they’re damn hard to find.’
‘Where do you live, Mary?’ Steele asked.
‘Ratcliffe Terrace; not far from you, actually.’
‘You know where my place is?’
‘Maggie mentioned it when she was briefing me. Funny thing; I drove past Gordon Terrace last night on my way back from the M and S food store at Fort Kinnaird and I could have sworn I saw her turning in there in her car.’
Steele took a deep breath. ‘Listen . . .’ he began.
She laughed. ‘I wasn’t spying on you, Stevie, honest. That’s exactly how it happened, and if I can’t add two and two, I apologise. But if you’re sleeping with the chief super, it’s as well I know. You needn’t worry; nobody else will hear a word about it from me.’
‘We’re friends, Mary,’ he offered, knowing as he spoke how lame he sounded.
‘Sure you are. Listen, I don’t mind . . . Christ, I’m the last person to concern myself about other people’s relationships. But if you want some advice, and I mean the pair of you, don’t be shy about it. It’s not as if you’re working together any more. You report to me and Pringle. She reports to Haggerty. Don’t try to keep it quiet; I did that once myself, when Serena and I got together, and it was a big mistake.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll talk to Mags about it tonight.’
‘Fine. It’s off my agenda as of now.’ She looked along the street. ‘Which of these houses is theirs?’
‘That one,’ said Steele, drawing to a halt outside the Whetstone semi. He glanced at the car clock; it showed ten thirty-three, but he always kept it a couple of minutes fast.
As they stepped into the front garden, Virginia Whetstone was in the bay window; looking out for them, Steele guessed. She opened the front door as they approached it; she was dressed casually, her hair was swept back and she wore no makeup. She looked several years older than the woman the DI had first met only a few days before. ‘Mr Steele,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s good of you to come.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘This is my new boss, Detective Superintendent Chambers. Ms Rose has been promoted, with effect from today.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Whetstone muttered. ‘A very capable woman. Come in and meet Murphy.’
They followed her into the drawing room. For once the dog was not there; where he had lain, there stood a towering young man; at least six feet six, Steele guessed, even taller than Jack McGurk. His mother introduced the two detectives and he reached out and downwards to shake their hands. Glancing up at him, they saw dark circles under his eyes, odd in such a youthful face.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t up for this yesterday,’ he said, in a soft voice, which hinted at the faintest of American accents. ‘But it was a hell of a flight, coming on top of a few days up in the mountains with my pals, with no sleep involved.’
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ his mother announced. ‘I don’t think I want to hear the details again,’ she added as she headed for the door.
Murphy Whetstone lowered himself into what had been his father’s chair, and looked at the two officers as they sat on the sofa. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured. ‘All of it, please. My mother couldn’t bring herself to; she said I should hear it from you if I’m to believe it.’
‘If you’re ready,’ Steele began. ‘Your father was found in the Meadows, last Wednesday morning. He was hanging from a tree and he had been there all night. The weather was extremely foggy; that explains why nobody came upon him sooner. My first thought was that he had been attacked, since there was no obvious means by which he could have done it himself. As it transpired, there was an explanation for that.’ He told the young man of the unhelpful intervention of Moash Glazier, and watched his face darken.
‘The bastard actually stole my dad’s coat off his body?’ he exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid so, and the steps that were lying underneath him. The guy’s a professional thief. His saving grace was that he phoned in an anonymous tip-off to tell us about it.’
‘It won’t save him if I ever get my hands on him. I don’t suppose you’d give me his name.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Worth a try. I’ve got friends in the police, though; I’ll be asking around.’
‘Please don’t do that,’ Mary Chambers asked. ‘Anyone who gave you information about him would be fired. Go on, Stevie.’
‘Yes. Finding that ladder made suicide a possibility, Mr Whetstone; indeed, it made it the likeliest explanation. There are two things you should know. The first is that a post-mortem examination showed that your father was suffering from a type of lung tumour which almost invariably proves fatal. The second came to light when we visited the Scottish Farmers Bank. We were given a copy of a file that shows that your father set up a dummy account and diverted loan funds to an offshore bank account.’
The young man’s face flushed as he shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that, and I never will. That is not my dad you’re talking about; he was the most honourable man you’d ever meet.’
‘I expected you to say that, and I understand. But these are the facts.’ The DI recited, virtually word for word, the contents of the Bonspiel folder. When he had finished, he looked across at Murphy Whetstone, and saw that he was smiling.
‘Do you actually believe that crap?’ the young man asked.
‘The procurator fiscal believes it; he’s accepted our report. I’m sorry; I know that it’s very difficult for you to take in, but those are the facts.’
‘No, not facts; a load of nonsense actually. I’m sure that there’s been a fraud, and I’m sure that the bank’s lost money, but it wasn’t my father who did it. I am absolutely certain of that.’
‘Why?’ asked Mary Chambers, quietly.
‘Are you a curler?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Do you curl? Do you play the roaring game?’
‘No.’>
‘How about you, Inspector?’
‘No, me neither.’
‘Well, my father did, and so do I. And I can tell you one thing. If he was going to set up a dummy company to defraud the bank, he’d have set one up that wasn’t an obvious con from the word go. In particular, he wouldn’t have involved it in making stones out of Ailsa Craig granite. Any curler would tell you how bloody stupid that is.’
‘So tell us,’ said Steele, intrigued.
‘Ailsa Craig curling stones are made by one firm and one firm alone. They’re called Kay’s, they’re from Mauchline, in Ayrshire, and they have exclusive rights to Ailsa Craig granite. My dad knew all that. I’m telling you; even if he was bent he wouldn’t have done that.’
The two detectives exchanged glances. ‘But he signed the application off himself,’ said Steele.
‘Or someone else did and made it look like him. I know it, he wouldn’t have done something as obviously phoney as that.’
‘But would it matter?’ asked Steele. ‘If your father knew that he was terminally ill and intended to kill himself, he’d only care that the money was beyond the bank’s recovery. He’d know the set-up was bound to be discovered after his death.’
‘And did he know that? Had he consulted his GP?’
‘No,’ the inspector admitted, ‘he hadn’t.’
‘There you are then,’ the young man challenged.
‘Very well,’ said Mary Chambers. ‘We’ll look into it, Mr Whetstone. We’ll go back to the bank and we’ll insist on carrying out our own investigation of the alleged fraud. But from what I’ve read of the files in this matter, it�
��ll take quite a bit to make us alter our view that your father committed suicide.’
46
Moash Glazier had deemed it wise to lie low for a few days. In particular, he had deemed it wise to stay out of Leith, in case someone spotted him and reported his presence in the area to Malky Gladsmuir.
He knew how unpopular he would be with the bar manager and had decided to give him time to recover from his visit from the CID and from his embarrassment over the coat that he had taken from him. The longer he delayed their inevitable meeting the more likely he was to escape a kicking. One thing was certain, though; never again would he be allowed a slate in the Wee Black Dug. In future it would have to be cash on the bar.
If anyone understood the meaning of the phrase ‘cash economy’, it was Moash Glazier. He kept his contact with the official world to a minimum; he had been given a National Insurance number once but he had no idea what it was, or what obligations it imposed on him. Moash wanted nothing to do with formal society. Somewhere he fitted into a chain of supply and demand, but he would have scoffed at the idea. He lived on what he stole and on the money realised by its sale, and that was that.
His lifestyle carried the hazard of imprisonment, but paradoxically it offered the priceless benefit of freedom from the drudgery that made him pity those ordinary straight people who went to work eight hours a day, five days a week. He was glad of their efforts, though. After all, who else filled the great lucky dip in which he delved for his living?
If he had been able to recognise it, though, he was trapped in a work cycle of his own. He had no bank account, no nest egg; he fed and watered himself on a day-to-day basis, and holidays were a luxury he could not afford. His close call in the Meadows had rattled him, and he had hidden away with his Granton woman over the weekend, but the cash he had raised from the mountain bike, the boots and the wee step-ladder . . . which had not fallen off during his flight from the Meadows, contrary to the story he had told the police . . . was running low, and it was time to go on the prowl.
He decided that the city centre was off limits for a few more days. That young inspector, Steele, had scared the crap out of him, and he had no wish to run into George Regan for a while either. So when he left his bolt-hole, he headed east for Leith and the docks, where there was always stuff lying about.
He passed by Newhaven harbour but paid a quick visit to the flour mill, where someone had been kind enough to leave a very fancy vacuum flask, a CD Walkman and a heavy-duty torch in the saddlebag of a bike that was chained outside. The saddlebag was secured only by two small buckles, so he stole that also.
He was so pleased with his take that he almost decided to go home at that point, but he decided that the day was too full of promise to cut so short, especially since the weather was grey and drab, the kind that he knew from experience kept folks’ heads down, rather than looking out of their office windows.
There were too many windows in the Scottish Executive building, though, too many to take a chance on a quick trip through the car park, so he kept on walking down Commercial Street, until he crossed the bridge and reached the shore.
Moash was sometimes tempted by the Malmaison Hotel; it attracted a lot of moneyed folk, and in theory healthy pickings. But he had the sense to know that the rich were increasingly cashless, and that to make anything from them he would need access to their unguarded valuables. That would not be easily gained, though, as posh hotels usually had security systems, with concealed video cameras and other stuff that could get you banged up in no time.
So he sniffed at the Malmaison and passed it by; there were other places behind it, industrial units where people were sometimes careless, and the goods yard which on the right day was Aladdin’s bloody cave. He wandered along casually, with the practised slouch of someone who was inherently skilled at drawing no attention to himself. When he nipped into an open office doorway and won himself a fat wallet from the pocket of a so-called security guard who had left his jacket hanging over his seat while he went for a slash, his day was complete.
Moash never retraced his steps. That was the second stupidest thing that a professional thief could do, a sure way of landing yourself in the treacle. The stupidest was to run once you had made a score. If the loss was discovered quickly, there was no better way of identifying yourself. So he kept on walking, until he was almost past the Albert Dock, where the road took a turn that would ultimately lead him out on to Salamander Street.
He stopped at the corner of the dock and glanced around, not to see if he was being pursued, but to see if anyone was looking in his direction. Happy that he was unobserved, he unzipped the fly of his jeans and urinated contentedly into the dull green water.
As he followed his yellow arc, his eye was caught by a strange movement. As is the case with all commercial harbours, it was impossible to see anything clearly that was more than a few inches below the surface, but he could just make out a shape down there. Moash knew that curiosity killed cats, but he also knew that they had nine lives. Beside him on the ground there was a long docker’s pole; when he had zipped his fly, he picked it up and thrust it into the water.
Something moved at its touch, something solid. Moash frowned. And then the object turned and rose, until it was just below the surface, close enough for him to see the dead face of a man staring up at him.
Had there not been a helicopter close overhead, drifting in to land on the nearby pad, someone would have heard his scream.
As well as being totally amoral, and a parasite sucking sustenance from the community in which he lived, Moash Glazier had a third great weakness. He believed in omens and in the signs that they drew for him. And so when he saw the thing beneath him, tethered somehow to the wall of the dockside, its heavy jacket ballooning out around it, he read its meaning loud and clear. Finding one stiff was a major misfortune, but coming upon another less than a week later, that was an unmistakable message. All things came in threes, and if he hung around this place, he knew all too well who the next would be.
He dropped the pole into the water, and he broke his number-one rule. He turned and ran, taking the shortest route out of the docks, not caring who saw him, and not stopping until he was half-way up Constitution Street, when he saw a taxi and hailed it.
Gasping, he instructed the driver to take him to Waverley Station, where he used the stolen credit card of G. Gebbie, offering an acceptable facsimile of the smudged scrawl on the back, to buy a one-way ticket to London King’s Cross. His train was past Dunbar before his heartbeat returned to something approaching its normal rate.
Moash realised that a whole new chapter of his life was unfolding, but that was infinitely preferable to the closure of the whole bloody book. As the train sped south, he counted the cash in Mr Gebbie’s wallet . . . three hundred and thirty-five pounds, the remains, if he had known it, of a very successful Saturday in the bookie’s . . . then took the fancy vacuum from the expensive-looking saddlebag.
He unscrewed the cup on top, then the inner plug, and sniffed. ‘Bastard,’ he growled. ‘Fuckin’ oxtail. Ah hate fuckin’ oxtail.’
47
Bob Skinner’s day was looking up. His worst waking nightmares about a wave of cyanide deaths across the country had not come true, and negative test results were being reported from all over the country by the toothpaste manufacturers.
More and more the investigation was being focused on Newcastle; the DCC had spent some of the morning in telephone conference with his opposite number on the Northumbria force. He had been told that the sale of Bartholemy Lebeau’s fatal toothpaste had been identified, thanks to bar coding and a computerised till system. It had been a cash transaction, at four thirty-five in the afternoon; one item only, five-pound note tendered, three pounds thirty-seven pence change.
Further enquiries were being pursued and when Ruth Pye called to tell him that DCC Les Cairns was on the line once more, he had been expecting him.
‘Have your people spoken to the assistant?’ he asked at
once.
‘Yes, but she’s a kid,’ Cairns replied, ‘a sixteen-year-old part-timer; there’s no way she remembers the sale, let alone anything about the buyer. We’ve taken her prints, though; I guess you’ll need them for elimination.’
‘Yes, thanks. Have they got video surveillance in this store?’
‘I’m afraid not. I wish to hell they had, because in the absence of any other contaminated product, there’s a growing possibility that the victim’s tube was stolen, spiked, then put back on the shelf. It would have been nice to catch the perpetrator on tape.’
‘Sure it would, but since when did real life get that nice? You’re right, though, Les. We’ve got an integrated investigation here; I’ve got a murder on my patch and you’ve got product sabotage on yours. It needs high-level handling; I’ve put my head of CID in charge up here.’
‘And mine is in Newcastle,’ Cairns interjected, ‘so do we exchange information through them?’
‘For efficiency yes, but let’s you and I talk on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you’d e-mail that girl’s prints to DI Arthur Dorward, at our forensic lab.’
‘Will do. Cheers.’
Skinner hung up and walked across the corridor to brief the chief on developments, catching him just before he left for an ACPOS meeting in Glasgow. He was smiling as he came back to his room, having put the poisoning investigation to one side for the moment as he contemplated his meeting with Aileen de Marco. He wondered what they would have to talk about, and how much insight she would give him into her own thinking on policy.
‘She’s still a politician, though, Bob,’ he whispered to himself. ‘She’ll be out to pick your brains and that’ll be it.’
The phone on his desk cut into his thoughts. It was his direct line, and that meant urgent. He snatched it up. ‘Yes.’
‘Boss, it’s Neil. I’m on my mobile, and there are people here, so I can’t talk, but I need you down here straight away. Albert Dock, Leith.’
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