‘Oh, I’m not sure. He didn’t really talk much about it. Maybe Amanda would know. She’s his PA. I’ll send her in while I round the others up.’
Sandy Belshaw went off to find Amanda.
‘Any thoughts, Chris?’
‘He certainly seems keen to take over the reins, boss.’
‘Too keen?’
Chris looked round the office. A table beside the window held a De’Longhi coffee machine and four small copper cups. There was also an electric kettle and a china tea service. A glossy, black fridge presumably held cold drinks. And, instead of the cream vertical blinds on the reception room windows, there were thick, richly patterned curtains, held back by pleated cords. There was an air of opulence about Bruce Gilmartin.
‘I imagine Mr Belshaw’s office isn’t quite as plush as this one.’
Clare rose from her seat and strolled round the room. The carpet felt thick beneath her feet and she thought there would be no shortage of candidates to replace Bruce Gilmartin. It seemed unlikely any of them would stoop to murder. But sometimes, it happened. She was about to mention Jennifer when there was a soft tap at the door. It opened a little and Amanda Davies appeared. Clare ushered her in and she entered a few steps. Chris held out a chair for her and, after a moment’s hesitation, she sat, smoothing her dark red skirt down before clasping her hands together and raising her eyes. Clare appraised her. She certainly looked ill at ease, as though she was preparing to be grilled in the witness box at the high court. Was it the shock of her employer’s murder or was there a reason for her nervousness? Clare thought she didn’t look the type to have a fling with her boss. But then you never could tell. She was certainly more upset than Sandy Belshaw had seemed.
‘It’s been such a shock,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘He was a lovely man and a good boss. I don’t know what’ll happen now…’
‘Amanda, is there’s anything you can tell us… about Mr Gilmartin… I mean before the others come in?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Relationships at work, say. Did he get on with everyone?’
‘Oh yes. We all liked him.’
Clare went on. ‘What about outside work? Was his home life happy?’
Amanda’s face clouded. ‘As far as I know…’
‘No girlfriends? Maybe that his wife didn’t know about?’
‘Oh no. Mr Gilmartin wasn’t like that at all.’ Amanda seemed quite shocked at the idea. ‘And Mrs Gilmartin – well, she’s ever so nice.’
‘So, your relationship with him – it was just professional?’
The girl looked shocked at the suggestion and nodded vehemently.
‘What about working hours?’ Clare went on. ‘Did he often work late? Or did he always go home on time?’
‘I think mostly he went home about six. I finish at half past five and he usually said he wouldn’t be far behind me. Except Thursdays. That was his charity night so he tended to have a microwave meal at his desk.’
Clare was suddenly alert. ‘Charity night?’
‘Oh yes. He was so generous, you see. Some sort of club he went to on Thursdays. Raising money, that sort of thing.’
‘Where was this?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think he ever said. I think he liked to keep it quiet. Not one of those people who want a fuss made when they do something nice.’ She nodded to emphasise this, and Clare wondered if she was trying to convince them or herself.
‘He sounds like a very kind man. Maybe, if you remember anything about the charity nights, you could let me know?’
‘Of course.’
There was another knock at the door and Sandy Belshaw’s head appeared.
‘I’ve gathered the staff out in the main office,’ he said. ‘Too many for in here.’
Clare nodded and, with a reassuring smile at Amanda, they went to meet the staff. There were twenty of them, in all, including Sandy and Amanda, some in smart office clothes, the others in what seemed to be a uniform of cargo trousers and dark blue shirts. Clare looked from one to the next, trying to spot any signs of unease. At length she spoke.
‘You have, no doubt, heard that Mr Bruce Gilmartin was found dead this morning.’
One or two of the staff looked tearful at this. Clare continued, watching them carefully. ‘You may also have heard that Mr Gilmartin’s death was not accidental.’
There was little reaction to this.
‘If any of you have noticed anything unusual recently, even if you think it has nothing to do with Mr Gilmartin, I’d like you to let us know about it.’ She looked round. ‘Anything at all?’
Some of them shook their heads while others looked away. Clare tried another tack.
‘I believe Mr Gilmartin was involved in charity work – on Thursday evenings.’
There were nods of agreement, but no one knew exactly what he did. It was, Clare decided, like pulling teeth.
Eventually she gave up. ‘I’ll leave a note of my phone number at the reception desk. If any of you do remember something that might help – no matter how small – I would ask you to call me as soon as possible.’ And, with that, she thanked them for their time and the staff drifted off. Clare took her leave of Sandy Belshaw, giving him her card while Chris carried the iMac and a desk diary to the car. She joined him out in the car park and climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Nothing much there, I think,’ she said. ‘I’ll be surprised if any of the staff are involved.’
‘I still think that manager’s a bit quick to step into the boss’s shoes,’ Chris said.
‘True. But then the company has to carry on, I suppose.’
‘What do you reckon to Mrs G?’
‘Jennifer? Who knows? Sandy Belshaw didn’t seem too keen on her stepping into her husband’s shoes.’
‘Doesn’t mean she killed him, though,’ Chris said.
‘No, that’s true.’
‘So, what now?’ he asked, his hand on the steering wheel.
‘Let’s get that iMac down to Tech Support. But, if you could drop me at’ – she squinted at her notebook – ‘Osborne Accountants. The office is on South Street.’
Chris pulled out into the road. ‘Had a call from Jim. While you were talking to the manager.’
‘Anything much at the house?’ Clare wanted to know.
‘Still looking. He says they’ve taken a laptop, a tablet and a desktop computer. I’ll pick them up after I drop you at the accountants and take them down to the tech guys with the iMac.’
‘When you’re done with that, could you check up on charity organisations? Round Table, Rotary, that sort of thing. Find out if Bruce Gilmartin belonged to any of them and, if so, when they met. See if we can shed any light on his Thursday night charity work.’
‘Will do.’
* * *
Osborne’s offices were at the far end of South Street, near the ruined cathedral. They occupied all three storeys of a terraced building, sandwiched between a dry cleaner’s and a sushi bar. Jane Leslie’s office was on the first floor. She was tall and slim with closely cropped brown hair, flecked with the early signs of grey. She was shocked to hear of Bruce Gilmartin’s death. ‘Was it sudden?’ she asked. ‘He hadn’t been ill, had he?’
‘I’m afraid we’re treating it as murder,’ Clare told her. ‘So, we need to find out as much as possible about him, his business, his finances and so on.’
Jane blinked at this. ‘Oh, how dreadful. He was such a lovely man.’
Clare nodded in sympathy. ‘I won’t keep you long. If you could just give me some background on the business – financially, I mean.’
Jane adjusted the angle of her computer monitor and pulled a keyboard towards her. She wiggled the mouse then began tapping at the keys. ‘Here we go,’ she said, turning the monitor further so Clare could read it. ‘Gilmartin Brewing Company. Healthy enough balance sheet. No cash flow problems. In fact, Bruce told me he was hoping to take over a rival brewery across in Dundee.
’
‘Could the company afford it?’
‘It would have been a push but, yes, I think so. We discussed the offer he planned to make to the shareholders and how he would fund it. But I gather it was regarded with some hostility by the other brewery.’
‘How so?’
‘I seem to recall Bruce saying the managing director had telephoned him to say it would go ahead over her dead body.’
‘Had you made any formal contact with the company?’
‘No, but I can give you the details. It’s McMillan’s. Just outside Dundee, on the Forfar road.’
Clare noted down the company’s details then asked if she could see bank records. Again, Jane tapped at the keyboard then highlighted a section of the screen.
‘This is a summary of the accounts. If you want to investigate anyone, just click on it.’
‘And his personal bank accounts?’
‘I don’t have access to those. I gather he used the bank along the road, though. They should be able to help you.’
Clare nodded and began trawling through the company’s bank accounts. There was nothing remarkable, no large deposits or withdrawals. The company seemed to be in a healthy enough state. At her request, Jane printed off statements for the last six months and Clare took her leave, hoping to catch the bank before it closed.
The branch manager was reluctant to give Clare any information without a warrant. ‘I’m afraid my hands are tied, Inspector.’
Clare’s lips tightened. She didn’t need this. ‘I don’t have time to wait for a warrant. I’ve a double murder enquiry to run. Is there no way I can see them?’
The manager spread his hands. ‘Unless you can ask Mrs Gilmartin to phone us – but I’m guessing you may not want to trouble her at a time like this.’
Don’t bet on it, Clare thought, stepping back out into the street.
She glanced at her watch. Just after four. She took out her phone and dialled the number for McMillan’s Brewery. After running a gauntlet of receptionists and personal assistants, she was finally connected with Yvonne McMillan.
‘Mrs McMillan? I’m Detective Inspector Clare Mackay. I wonder if I could call in to see you this afternoon please?’
Yvonne McMillan didn’t sound keen. ‘I am rather busy, Inspector. Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’
‘I’d rather explain face-to-face. But it is an urgent matter.’
Yvonne McMillan agreed, reluctantly, and gave Clare directions to the brewery.
Clare ended the call and punched the number of the station into her phone. The call was answered by Sara.
‘Sara, I’m down at South Street and need a car in a hurry. Can you drive down and meet me please? Just outside the bank.’
Sara declined the offer of a lift back to the station. ‘I was heading out on patrol anyway,’ she said.
Clare gave her a grateful smile and took the keys. As she set off she punched another number into the phone and switched the phone to speaker. DCI Gibson answered immediately.
‘Inspector – any progress?’
‘Not as much as I’d like, sir. I need a favour…’
The DCI listened then said, ‘So let me get this clear – you want me to telephone Jennifer Gilmartin, just a few hours after she’s learned of her husband’s death, and ask her to call the bank?’
‘Please. The manager won’t release his statements without a warrant or permission from Mrs Gilmartin. And I can’t wait for a warrant.’
There was a sigh from the other end. ‘Leave it with me.’ The line went dead.
Chapter 9
It took Clare just over forty minutes to reach McMillan’s Brewery. It was set on an elevated section of countryside, looking south towards the city of Dundee. The construction of silvered hardwood, with two pitched sections of roof made it a more interesting building than the rather austere Gilmartin’s Brewery. Clare could imagine it had been an attractive prospect for Bruce Gilmartin.
Yvonne McMillan was waiting for her at the front desk and showed Clare to her office. It was sparsely furnished compared to Bruce Gilmartin’s but as neat as Yvonne was herself. On the desk was a photo of two gap-toothed girls, grinning broadly. The resemblance to Yvonne was striking.
‘Your daughters?’ Clare asked.
‘Yes. Millie and Joanne. Last summer. Thankfully they have their front teeth now.’ She moved to a side table where a coffee machine sat, a considerably cheaper model than the one Bruce Gilmartin had. ‘Coffee?’
Clare suddenly realised she had missed lunch. ‘I’d love one, if it’s no trouble.’
Yvonne poured two mugs and placed one in front of Clare. ‘So, Inspector, how can I help? You said it was a matter of some urgency.’
Clare watched her carefully. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Bruce Gilmartin.’
There was no doubting Yvonne’s reaction. The smile slipped and the colour drained from her face. There was a pause and then she found her voice, huskier than it had been a few seconds before.
‘Bruce – is dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Yvonne took a moment to compose herself. ‘He’s been murdered?’
Clare nodded.
‘But who on earth would want to kill Bruce?’
‘That’s what we hope to find out.’
‘You surely don’t think I can help with that? I mean, you’ve doubtless heard he was trying to take us over but if you’re suggesting I had anything to do with it…’
‘Not at all.’ Clare smiled. ‘I’m just gathering information. Did you know Mr Gilmartin well? See much of him?’
‘Probably the last time was at The Brewing Business Awards Dinner, earlier this year. February, I think. I can check if you like.’
Clare shook her head. ‘No, don’t worry. Does the brewing industry do much in the way of charity work?’
‘Oh yes. We sponsor sporting events, apprenticeship schemes, that sort of thing. And Christmas, of course. We always do a charity fundraiser.’
‘Are there regular meetings?’
‘For the charity events? No. We usually meet a few weeks beforehand for a quick bit of planning. It’s done online, mostly.’
‘So you wouldn’t meet, say, on Thursday evenings?’
Yvonne’s eyes widened. ‘Why Thursdays?’
Clare decided to change approach. ‘Did you ever see Mr Gilmartin socially?’
Yvonne snorted. ‘Not likely. We were the competition. I wouldn’t have let him in the office, never mind socialise with him. That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry he’s dead, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Clare drained her cup and got up. ‘Thank you so much, Ms McMillan. If there’s anything else we’ll be in touch.’
* * *
It was after six by the time Clare returned to the station. The search of the Gilmartins’ house had been completed and Alastair Gibson was preparing to head home. ‘Those bank statements you wanted were emailed through ten minutes ago. I think Sara printed them out and left them on your desk.’
‘Thanks, sir. Appreciate it.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure Mrs Gilmartin did. Good night, Inspector.’
She watched him go, black leather briefcase in hand. I bet there’s nothing in it, she thought, and she went through to her office to peruse Bruce Gilmartin’s finances. The papers were neatly stacked on the corner of the desk. Clare lifted them and sat down heavily in her own chair. The seat was still warm and she longed to have her office back to herself. The sooner she wrapped up this murder investigation the better.
A brief glance at the printouts told Clare that Bruce Gilmartin certainly didn’t have money worries. He had three bank accounts, all with healthy balances. She scanned the withdrawals column and found that, like Andy Robb, he regularly took out cash but that his withdrawals weren’t quite as consistent as Andy’s. There was also a credit card which he seemed to use frequently, paying it off in full every month.
A loud bark reminded Clare that they still had the dog in
the station. She had forgotten about him. She opened her office door and Benjy trotted in, wagging his tail.
‘Any volunteers to take Benjy home?’ she said, more in hope than expectation.
There was a lot of muttering and coughing.
She looked at Chris who had suddenly become interested in his phone. ‘Weren’t you talking about getting a dog, DS West? Well now’s your chance. Try before you buy.’
Chris rubbed his neck. ‘Well, normally I would, boss, but it’s a bit tricky this week.’
‘Ratbag!’
‘That’s me.’
Clare looked at Benjy. ‘Looks like it’s you and me then, kid.’ His tail gave a faint wag. ‘We’ll get some dog food on the way home,’ she told him and, picking up the sheaf of papers and his lead, she headed for the door.
* * *
As Clare opened her front door, stooping to pick up letters from the mat, Benjy rushed in past her legs and began exploring this new place. Having sniffed in the corners and behind the floor-length curtains, he joined Clare in the kitchen where she was hunting through her kitchen cupboards for something to use as a dog bowl. She unearthed a couple of old ice cream tubs from beneath the sink and filled one with water. She set this down and Benjy lapped at it until he heard the sound of the dried food being poured into the other tub. He sat, head turned up, awaiting the food. As she set it down she said, ‘Wait…’ but it was too late. He fell on it and chomped through the contents of the tub, paying her no heed until it was completely empty and licked clean. Then he trotted back through to the sitting room and settled himself comfortably beneath the long window, basking in the warmth of the late evening sun.
Clare put a lasagne in the microwave to heat and began sorting through that day’s post, nibbling on a slice of baguette as she did so. The usual bills and junk mail. She put these on the kitchen table, beside the long, cream envelope, still unopened. There was one other envelope that interested her. Postmarked Glasgow. She took a knife from the drawer and sliced across the top of the envelope. She withdrew the letter and stood, ignoring the beep from the microwave, as she digested its contents. She pulled a kitchen chair out and sat down, her legs suddenly weak, and read it again.
See Them Run Page 8