I didn’t need to consult a diary.
“I’m free this evening. Why don’t you come here for some supper?”
“Fine, and you can tell me how you get on with her majesty’s constabulary.”
With that he was gone, so I got up and headed into work early, to await my interview with the Chief Inspector.
I had the measure of Pitcher, the minute he walked through the door. There are plenty like him in the force – usually with names like Taylor or Shaw.
He had the saunter of a man, who is pleased with himself. But his suit was that little bit too sharp, and his hair a trifle too sleek for me to take his aura of authority seriously. Tall and dark, I had to admit, he was not unattractive. Clearly, he saw himself as God’s gift to women. Well, here was one unlikely to fall for his charms.
He had only to open his mouth, to reveal himself for the flat-footed plod he was. His questions were brief and pedestrian, as he led me through the final interview with Ken and Jim in this very office.
“Ms Light Thorn.”
“Light Horn,” I corrected him.
“What was the purpose of his last visit here?” His accent had that slight twang of an East London boy-made-good – or was that Essex.
“He wanted me to open some kind of investigation into Kelly’s Brewery.”
“Did you?”
“No...” He didn’t seem all that interested in my replies. It was a box-ticking exercise. He was going through the motions.
“You didn’t think there was anything to investigate?”
“What does the SFO think?” I threw the ball back into his court, referring to the serious fraud office, known affectionately as the silly f******s.
“Well, that all seems straightforward,” he said, ignoring my question. I had always found the boys in blue endearingly simple. Stick to the brief, never venture outside the authority of your rank, and don’t rock the boat.
He flicked his note book shut.
“You’ll need to attend the inquest in Glasgow. Strathclyde’s notified us they’re calling you as a witness.”
“I thought…”
“Right…not exactly an inquest. They don’t have them North of the Border. Not like us. Prefer to let their dead rest in peace. Far the best way, I sometimes think.”
“So… why?”
“In special circumstances, a public hearing may be held.”
“And?”
“I really don’t know,” he stood, indicating he had nothing more to say. “My job’s to inform you that you’ve been called. I’ll notify you of final details, time, procedure, and so on, as soon as we have them. In the meantime, if you think of anything, anything at all, which could be relevant, here’s my card.”
“Pitcher,” I said, looking down at it.
“From the French. Came over with the Norman Conquest.
Derives, so they say, from Piquier - pikeman. Rather like that.”
Yes, I can see you enjoying spearing opponents, I thought.
I stopped at a delicatessen on the way home to pick up some salad to toss into supper. Omar arrived at 8pm looking tired and harassed.
“Bad day?” I asked, gently.
“Don’t ask,” he replied, downing in nearly one the glass of wine I handed him.
“What about you?” He sat on the settee and started to pick absentmindedly at the food laid out on the coffee table.
“Fairly uneventful, filed some copy for Ludgate. Don’t think it’ll win any awards.”
Omar raised his eyebrows questioning.
“It was a load of nothing. By the way, have you seen that KNS has launched a bid for Boston National? Trust me, that man plans to take over the world.”
Omar grimaced.
“I’ll come back to that. First, tell me about the police. How was Poirot?”
“His name’s Inspector Pitcher. Nothing to tell really. Just a flat foot. He mainly came to tell me I’m called to give evidence at the inquest.”
“They don’t have inquests in Scotland.”
“Well, the equivalent then.”
“They don’t have an equivalent,” said the lawyer. “Unless something has gone seriously wrong and the sheriff holds a public inquiry.”
“That’s it,” I handed him the paper Pitcher had left on my desk. “You see, I’ve been asked to attend the Sherriff’s court for a hearing in a week’s time.”
“ Interesting.”
He leant forward and picked at more lettuce with his fingers.
“The diary,” he began. “Curious. This line about killing two birds… any idea what he meant?”
I shook my head.
“He was holding out on you ...there’re several mentions of meetings with people, whose name begins with R. We need to check them out, find out what happened in those meetings.”
“What we need to know is what happened in the last one,” I interrupted.
“Quite. Then there’re three other meetings on April 14, May 5 and July 27. We have to find out who R could possibly have been. According to my reading of the diary, it has to be Ronnie Raeburn, David Ragland…”
“Omar, don’t you think I’ve been through all this already…..a hundred times...Stephen Russell. I can recite the list in my sleep. It could be any of these.”
“Or none, don’t forget Sister Robert.”
“Oh perlease,” he was going too far.
“Then, there’s Kelly’s son, Richard.”
“Richard’s been living on the other side of the world for the past few years.”
“Interesting in itself. You have to check them all out.”
“I have to check them all out?”
“It’s your investigation….you won’t get anywhere until you eliminate the Rs. This may not be the key, but it could be.”
He was right of course. We ate in silence for a bit.
“You said, you were coming back to Kane.”
It wasn’t like Omar to be shifty, but he looked down, avoiding my gaze.
“They’re pressing for a court date.”
“I thought you said they’d drag it out.”
“I’m not God,” he snapped, strain showing in his face. Boy he must have had a lousy day in court. “I make mistakes.”
I said nothing. I could imagine how painful it must be to lose a case in court.
He took a deep breath.
“This business of Kane being Kelly’s bankers. It worries me. Kane is not a man to keep crossing. If you persist with this pension story, you are playing a dangerous game.”
“But the bankers aren’t directly involved. They just cash the cheques and move the money around. You said yourself, Kane wasn’t a crook.”
“Not a crook, no. But they could end up carrying the can for this. Have you forgotten how you got into this mess?”
“Forgotten, how could I? It was the Mainland takeover. Kane was fighting Archie Baron at VWC to get Mainland.”
“So, you haven’t forgotten that Kane destroyed Baron?”
“No,” I said, more gingerly now. “Pinned some association on him with that south coast bank which went bust twenty years ago…. it was all lies. The bank going down had nothing to do with Baron. He was an external consultant.”
“The seeds of doubt were sewn. Killer Kane you called him. An archetype among city assassins.”
“Kane but not able. It was true.”
“Whether it was true or not, you can’t keep picking fights with him. You don’t start from nowhere, and end up with your name on one of the UK’s biggest banks, without eating flies for breakfast… and anyone else who stands in your way.”
I suddenly felt sick. “You think we’ll lose in court.”
“No,” he shrugged with bravado, “Not at all…it’s just more of their bully-boy tactics…but you have to start listening to my advice. You must stay out of trouble.”
“Oh Omar,” I reached for his hand.
“Don’t worry,” he smiled, “we’ll secure an adjournment.”
> But his eyes were dark.
Chapter 13
9.30am Wednesday, October 17,
Whitechapel
The next morning I called Ronnie Raeburn’s office, to be told he was leaving the country at lunchtime, had meetings all morning, but if I could get round in half-an-hour, he would squeeze me in for ten minutes.
Like most modern union bosses, his office was in town. I hailed a cab and within twenty minutes was staring up at a glass tower shooting towards the sky. How far the brothers had come in their long march.
The union was on the fourth floor. Raeburn was waiting for me in reception, with his trademark welcoming smile. I had known him for a while; liked and admired him, but could never quite bring myself to trust him. He was a model of a modern union leader; attractive, intelligent and charming, and so he looked today in his dark trousers and ice-white shirt. A Thomas Pink label peaked out behind his lemon tie.
“Julia, a pleasure as always,” he held out a hand, showed me into his office, and invited me to sit on a white sofa. I sank awkwardly down among its squishy cushions. He sat upright at his desk.
Two of the walls were sheet glass giving uninterrupted views across the city. Though the offices occupied a comparatively low floor, the outlook was impressive.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No thanks.”
“You wanted to see me about Ken Strachan?”
I nodded.
“You and everyone else it seems.” He swirled a pen between his fingers.
I raised questioning eyebrows.
“The police’ve been here, the regulator, you name it….” he let the pen drop. It landed with a crack.
“The inquest’s looming. They need to tie up loose ends,” I suggested.
“Will you attend?” he asked.
“I’ve been called to give evidence. You?”
“I’m hoping to try and get there.”
“I’ve been called, apparently, because I was one of the last to see him alive. I’m trying to establish who else may have seen him in the run up to the…..”
My words faltered momentarily, then I continued.
“I’ve some dates to run past you. Did you see him on April 14...May 5… July 27?”
He didn’t answer but said instead, “You must stop this, Julia.”
“Did you see him on those dates?”
“I saw Ken almost every week of the year. He was one of our officers.” The smile had gone.
“But on those dates.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Can’t you look in your diary?”
“I don’t keep my diary.”
“Your secretary, then?”
He started fiddling with the cufflink at his left wrist, a chunky gold oblong.
“I haven’t time for this, Julia, so I’m going to be brutal. You have to stop this. Keep this up and no one will thank you.”
“Just walk away?”
“Oh grow up. I hate to shatter your illusions, but Ken was not the angel you always took him for.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He picked the pen up again and started tapping it rhythmically on the desk. “Do you remember the walkout over the Hannigan sacking?”
“The catholic kid?About eight years ago?”
“Ken took a back-hander from Kelly to get the men to return to work. Hannigan was the victim of a nasty piece of sectarian bigotry. Foreman, leading member of Glasgow’s Orange lodge, took a dislike to the kid.”
“Hannigan was reinstated, I remember.”
“Officially. Strachan agreed a deal to get him shipped back to Ireland, the men back to work, and a big new extension for his wife.”
I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, you believe it alright.” He stood now. “I must go, plane to catch. Take my advice, let sleeping dogs lie.”
As we shook hands, his cufflink caught my eye again. A tiny gold crate. The symbol of the Brewery Owners’ Association. A gift, no doubt.
Traffic was building up, so I took the tube back to the office, turning his words over in my mind. Could it be true? Corruption in unions was widespread a decade ago, which was why new brooms like Raeburn were brought in to clean out the dirty corners. But Ken of all people?
Back in the office, I called Richard Crippledown’s press team. A spokesman was clear, the junior industry minister had never met Mr Strachan. He relied on the local MP, David Ragland, to liaise with the union men on the ground. So that ruled Crippledown out.
Next, I called Ragland’s office, and asked for an interview.
“We’ll get back,” the voice at the other end of the line promised.
While I waited, I dialled Stephen Russell, the head teacher at Clydebank School, where Ken helped out with the football.
“I still can’t believe it,” Russell said. “I keep trying to understand.”
“Me, too.”
“It defies understanding, I’m afraid. We just have to…”
“Move on,” how many times had I heard those words.
“And remember the good times, and his achievements.” This headmaster had missed his vocation. He should have been a priest.
“Are you going to the inquest, Julia?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. Maybe it will shed some light.”
“Let’s hope. But ’til then I’m trying to trace his movements before he died.”
“If I can help…”
“There’re a couple of dates I’m interested in. Did you see Ken on April 14, May 5 or July…”
I didn’t get to finish.
“My dear, I saw Ken almost every week of the year. He was a regular visitor to the school. He helped out with football. In the holidays, he would offer to do odd-jobs round the premises. He took an interest in some of my difficult pupils.”
“I see.”
“Ken and I were old friends, at school together. Sometimes, I would tell him about a particularly troublesome youth. Confide in him. Some of my kids’ lives aren’t exactly a bed of roses. No male role model at home. Threatened, sometimes abused by mum’s boyfriends. Not much by way of love. Ken would find time for this lad or that one. Let them know they weren’t alone in the world.”
I got the picture.
“He was often at the school. I couldn’t give specific dates.”
“In the last few days before he died? Could he’ve been with you or your pupils?”
“Oh yes, most certainly.”
This conversation left me almost as confused as the last, but further speculation was interrupted by the ringing telephone. It was Ragland’s office.
“Mr Ragland is inviting you to take tea with him this afternoon in the members’ room,” a voice at the other end informed me. “He must be back in the House by 4pm for the debate on the health service. Can you make three?”
I agreed.
“Good, he’ll meet you in the foyer.” The phone clicked dead.
The House of Commons always put me in mind of Wordsworth’s freak show at Bartholomew Fair. A Parliament of Monsters, it was indeed. If only he had lived to see today’s political freak show, I thought as I walked down central corridor, past statues and paintings of our great leaders. What writing it might have spurred. Still, Rory Bremner, did his best.
Through no fault of his own, David Ragland, had been born with an unusually small head. An affliction which cost him dear. It was not unknown for some of his crueller opponents on the opposition benches to shout “pinhead”, when heckling his speeches. Even from a distance, there was something odd about the way he moved, the way he held himself.
We greeted each other with a cool handshake, and he led the way to the members’ room, holding the door for me to enter its museum- cum- library atmosphere. An undercurrent of conversation simmered as members entertained their guests. We sat at a table by a window. Boats glided past on the Thames.
“You’re troubled by this Strachan business, Ms
Lighthorn,” he began, decently enough.
“Shocked is more the word.”
Across the room, I saw a woman wipe a tear from her eye with a lace handkerchief. I hadn’t seen a lace handkerchief, since I was a child. Carlton Crabb and his huge cotton handkerchief flashed into my mind, and the bird and the hat.
Presumably, she was a constituent, pleading with her MP about some problem in her life.
“We are all shocked.” He was quick to reply, ordering tea for two. He insisted on paying. “I can’t be bought, you see,” he smiled, at his little joke.
“I’m trying to find out who Ken saw in the last few days before…”
“To what purpose?”
“In case he said anything, or indicated anything.”
“The police are examining these matters.”
“Did you see him the week before he died?”
“I met Ken Strachan on a regular basis. When I was in the constituency, he would drop into the office quite frequently.”
“You were friends?” The woman with the handkerchief was snivelling quietly, and the middle-aged man sitting opposite looked distinctly uncomfortable. I wondered what she was appealing about. A personal tragedy? Could she be lobbying on behalf of others? Maybe it was simply a planning matter. People could behave so strangely, when their bricks and mortar were threatened.
“That would probably be overstating our relationship,” he replied, as the tea arrived. We sipped in silence for a moment.
“Do you remember seeing him on April 14, or May 5 or…”
“I would never speak ill of the dead, but I have already explained that Ken Strachan could be quite a nuisance at my constituency office and here too.”
“In the few days before he died?”
“Monday is my day in the constituency. It’s possible. I honestly don’t remember.”
“Your diary?”
“It wouldn’t be logged, but before you turn this man into a hero.”
“I have no intention…”
“There were always suspicions,” he paused. “This is very difficult.”
“Go on.”
“He spent a great deal of time at Clydebank School and the asylum seekers centre…there were doubts about his motives.”
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