DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  “Than blasting their family away,” I finished for him.

  “Ciao, Hornlight,” he waved.

  I left the restaurant, wondering, for all the ‘big pals’ act, just how much Pitcher knew, and what information he was keeping from me.

  I walked back to George Square in search of a cab, and found myself passing Carlton Crabb’s office. On an impulse, I inquired at reception whether he was in. I was told to go through.

  Crabb was sitting behind his gold-embossed desk, the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner.

  “Ms Lighthorn,” he stood to greet me. “What terrible news from the inquest. I had already left.”

  “I thought I saw you there,” we both sat.

  “Did you see poor Mrs Strachan?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “Terrible, terrible. I understand she didn’t suffer.”

  I raised my eyebrows. The poor woman had suffered a great deal.

  “At the end I mean.”

  I changed the subject. “Mr Crabb, as a Scottish lawyer, what did you make of the inquest?”

  “Ah. Not our finest moment, I think we can say.”

  “Were you convinced by it?”

  “That rather depends what you want cc..ccc..convincing of?” His ‘Cs’ were still proving troublesome.

  “Indeed.”

  “My interest is largely in the will,” he explained. “It’s proving difficult, more difficult now that Mrs Strachan is gone, of course. I’ve her will, too, to sort out, now.”

  “Who are the beneficiaries?”

  “As I remember, Mr Strachan and his family are his mother’s beneficiaries. Now they’re pre-deceased, I would expect a fight over both estates. Mrs Jane Strachan’s family in Inverness has a claim, there’s a nephew in Milton Keynes, and some distant cousins in Canada.”

  “Is there much at stake?”

  “Not so much. No. Mr Strachan had remortgaged his house after losing his job. There’s not much equity left there. He did have substantial life insurance, though.”

  “Will these pay?”

  “The inquest verdict is ccc…cc..crucial. Not on a suicide. But they were joint life policies. They pay out on the first death. The inquest ruled that Mrs Jane Strachan died first. So they should pay out.”

  “Do they pay out on murder?” He didn’t reply. I looked at my watch. I’d stayed longer than I intended. “I’ll have to go or I’ll be late. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Always a pleasure Ms Lighthorn. So sorry your trip has been a sad one again. At least, Mrs Strachan is at peace now.” He held the door open for me.

  “Another funeral of course,” he said.

  “How’s the hat?” I thought of him walking away from me in the battered stained topper. “Did it clean up?”

  “Unfortunately, not. C..c..completely ruined. I’ve had to buy a replacement.”

  “Oh dear,”

  “In fact, it is what you might call deceased.”

  Good grief, I thought, as I walked back down the stairs. Carlton Crabb had just cracked a joke.

  Chapter 18

  3pm Wednesday, October 24,

  Stella Maris

  It was raining now, that blinding west coast rain that descends in a moment and silences the seabirds. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to the Star of the Sea community centre. According to my map, it was on the banks of the Clyde, a mile or two beyond an area called Black Top.

  The road out of the city was drab, pitted with ugly housing schemes. Further along, we passed vast mountains of rubbish. I’d heard gags about Glasgow being the best place to dump garbage. But it was no joke. Taking in other people’s rubbish was one industry at which the city excelled. Industrial stacks of debris, piled high, one after another.

  The rain had eased to a spit, by the time we pulled into the gates of the Stella Maris catholic church and community complex. The modern church looked like a UFO, squat like a flying saucer, with a huge apex towering from its middle. By its side was a tidy building, surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns. People cared about this place. A statue of Stella Maris, the star of the sea, stood alone on the front lawn. The former shipbuilding community could be a superstitious lot.

  I paid the cabbie and made my way to reception. Another effigy of the Star of the Sea stood in a corner on a wooden shelf.

  “Can you tell Sister Robert I am here,” I asked the receptionist.

  But she didn’t have to. I heard a door slam along the corridor, and saw a diminutive figure coming towards me.

  What she lacked in height she made up for in presence. When she reached me, I realised there was nothing small about her.

  “My dear child, what dreadful news. Poor Mrs Strachan,” she took both my hands in hers. “Were you there?”

  I nodded. “She didn’t suffer.” I found myself repeating Crabb’s words.

  “Dear Ken,” her eyes softened. “He’s a great loss to us. And now this.”

  “It’s about Ken I wanted to see you.”

  “I know. I’m glad you’ve come. But first can I show you something of our little centre. He was very proud of it. We all are.”

  And she was off, kitten heels clicking.

  “Without his efforts, we would never have opened our doors,” she continued down the corridor. “He helped fundraise to build this place. Lobbied the bishops to get them to release the land. He wasn’t even a catholic, charmed the locals into not objecting, badgered the authorities until they funded us.”

  She was right to be proud, the centre was an achievement. Marsha would have loved it. She led me through a lecture room, computer room, language lab, home cinema, a small recording studio, and a huge gym. Along the way, I heard more different languages than you would in Heathrow’s Terminal Three.

  Sister Robert spoke to several individuals on the tour. She knew most of them by name, mainly men. I guessed their womenfolk were either still back in their home country, or secured behind closed doors in one of the housing schemes.

  Next, she pounded through double swing doors into the canteen, leaving me to follow. It was busy, and the bubble of conversation, again all in different languages, sounded like the Tower of Babel.

  What had brought them here, I wondered, with their many cultures and languages? What awful pasts were they escaping, this kaleidoscope of nationalities, that they preferred life marooned in a Glasgow ghetto to all they had left behind?

  “You must be ready for a cup of tea yourself,” Sister Robert interrupted my thoughts, swinging out through the double doors, and leading the way back up the corridor to her office.

  It was a simple room, with white walls, and red carpet, but quite spacious. At one end, was a small desk with PC. The other looked like a sitting area with sofa, armchair and plasma television. A door opened into a kitchen alcove. A wooden crucifix hung above it.

  “Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said pointing to the settee. “I won’t be long.”

  She disappeared for a few minutes into the kitchen, returning with two mugs of tea, and sitting near me on the armchair.

  “The asylum seekers…” I began. “Are they all legal?”

  “We don’t ask.”

  “So some could be illegal immigrants?”

  “It doesn’t matter to us. We are here to help whoever we can. They are all God’s children.”

  “In what way exactly…help I mean.”

  “We try to help them find work, if possible. We have contacts. Usually, though, they need to boost their language first, find somewhere decent to live. We make sure they are claiming all the benefits due to them. Get the children into school.”

  “And the whole family to communion,” I mumbled cynically.

  “You have a sharp tongue, Ms Lighthorn. You should watch it, it’ll get you into trouble.”

  I blushed. She had me in one.

  “You are so right, Sister. Me and my tongue. I apologise.”

  “Ken always spoke highly of you.”

/>   “Yes, that’s what brought me here. I’m trying to trace his movements in the weeks before he…did he visit the centre?”

  “Yes, most definitely. As for dates…it’s hard to be precise. We are a drop -in centre. People come and go. We keep no record of their movements. I’m sure you understand….”

  I understood alright. Records would scare the living daylights out of illegals.

  “Helped with language, mainly.” She paused, running a ring round the top of her mug with an index finger, as if choosing her next words carefully.

  “He’d taken to spending a great deal of time with a girl we all called Roxy…that’s what we all called her anyway. She came from the Ukraine.”

  I nodded for her to continue.

  “A sad case. I found her in the church a few months ago, sobbing her heart out. Her mother had died, when she was young. Her father was a chemist. He’d been promised a job in a lab here in Glasgow, so they made the journey.”

  “Legally?”

  Sister Robert wouldn’t be drawn. The implication was clear. They had entered the UK illegally.

  She and her sister Marietta were put to work in a sewing factory somewhere in the city. Her father worked in a chemical lab. These factories are death traps. There was a fire late one night. He was killed. She didn’t know the full story. They just told her he was dead. Not long after that, her sister disappeared. When I found her, the child had reached the end of a long, agonised road. She was alone and desperate.”

  “Why weren’t the police informed?”

  “Julia, may I call you Julia. You have to understand, these people are invisibles. If someone doesn’t exist, there is nothing to investigate, when they die or vanish.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible in the 21st century,” I shook my head. “What did you do?”

  “We did the best we could for the child. Gave her love, and a home of sorts, when she wasn’t at the sewing factory. She was devoted to Our Lady. Would pray to the Star of the Sea for hours.”

  “And Ken befriended her you say.” I thought of the diary entry.

  Hoping to see R tomorrow. Then the game will be up.

  Could this Roxy be R? Had he somehow got involved in all this?

  “Sister, do you know if there’s any possibility, he saw her the Monday before he died?”

  “Most definitely. He did see her. I saw them here together.”

  “That’s fantastic. Can I see the girl. Where is she now?”

  “That’s the problem Julia, I have no idea. She disappeared the night Ken died. We haven’t seen her since.”

  I felt sick.

  “Where was she working? Where was she living?”

  “I explained. We don’t keep records. We don’t ask any questions. We just give our love.”

  “Did you call the police?” I knew the question was pointless.

  “To say what? Someone who doesn’t exist has disappeared. This centre would empty overnight, if we called in the authorities every time someone stopped coming.”

  I nodded, and took a deep breath.

  “Sister Robert, do you believe Ken Strachan killed his family?”

  “God is our judge. I leave such matters to him.”

  “What can we do to find the girl?”

  “I’ve been praying for her every night.”

  “With all due respect…”

  “I know, but what else can I do. My hands are tied. But you Julia, you could look for her. Find her for me please. She was such a sweet child. I’m worried something’s happened to her.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll ask the regulars to put the word out.” Her voice dropped. “Did you notice, it is mainly men in the centre?”

  “I had.”

  “The girls stop coming once they hit a certain age.”

  “What age is that?”

  “She is only 13.”

  Chapter 19

  5pm Wednesday, October 24,

  Glasgow

  I made it back to the hotel in time to meet the 6pm deadline. My report of the inquest shamelessly milked the drama of Mrs Margaret Strachan’s collapse for all it was worth. She deserved a good send off.

  Andrew fired back an email saying he was delighted with the material, and confirming it looked like we would break the story. But his hero-gram failed to dispel the gloom left by Stella Maris.

  I felt deeply uncomfortable after the interview with Sister Robert. The girl Roxy complicated everything. If she were the R, what was Strachan up to? I thought of Ragland’s words, “Why does a middle-aged man hang round centres full of displaced, vulnerable children and teenagers?” And Raeburn’s, “No one will thank you.”

  Then I remembered Andrew. “Let them present the evidence. Otherwise keep going.”

  What if I did keep going? What if I did what Sister Robert asked and found the child? What can of worms might I be opening?

  I called Ross’s mobile. He didn’t reply. I clicked the line dead without leaving a message. I tried Pitcher. He didn’t pick up either.

  Finally, I called Omar.

  “How’d the inquest go?”

  “Terrible. His mother dropped dead at the end.”

  “It happens in court hearings. What was the verdict?”

  “Strachan killed his family then killed himself. There was an eight hour delay going into the house, apparently. The Sheriff has ordered a Met officer to launch an inquiry into Strathclyde’s conduct that night.”

  “Interesting, who?”

  “It is interesting actually. They’ve appointed the inspector who came to see me. He was at the hearing.”

  “Ah Hercule. Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes, he was pretty scathing about the inquest, and the lack of forensic evidence.”

  “I see.”

  “And I dropped in on Carlton Crabb. He agreed. They both seem to think it was all a bit of a charade.”

  “Was Crabb at the inquest?”

  “He’s trying to sort out the will. There could be a big insurance payout.”

  “The Strachan’s weren’t murdered over an insurance payout.”

  “No.” I agreed. “But there is another development.”

  He cut me dead. “Julia, there’s a cab at the door. I’m late for a dinner. Let’s catch up properly when you get back.”

  “Sure,” and he was gone.

  I flicked on the television, for lack of anything better to do, and caught the old Raymond Chandler movie, the Big Sleep. What I could do with the insight of Philip Marlow.

  I called Ross twice more during the commercial breaks. No answer. I was beginning to give up on seeing him before I flew home, when my mobile rang around nine, as the film was coming to a climax.

  “Have you been trying to contact me?” It was Ross.

  “Mr Ross?” I tried to sound as courteous as possible. “It’s Julia Lighthorn. I wondered if you could spare me a few moments, before I catch my flight home tomorrow.”

  “I’ve meetings most of the day.”

  “Please. I’d only take a few minutes of your time.”

  He sighed.

  “Can you be here at 10am? I may have a few minutes free then.”

  “At your office in Melville Street?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  We clicked off, simultaneously.

  I woke just before six and stretched a sleepy hand to the television controller to switch on the news. Within seconds, I was sitting bolt upright and wide-awake. A body had been fished out of the Clyde late the previous evening. I got straight on to the police press office.

  “No, we have no idea who the deceased might be.” The duty officer sounded as though he had been fielding calls since the small hours.

  “Will you be calling Mrs Livingstone...”

  “Not yet. The body is badly decomposed... nearly a fortnight in the water... identification is going to be…”

  “I see.”

  “Don’
t jump to conclusions,” he warned. “This could be anyone. Drunks fall into the river all the time. And then….”

  “Plenty more get pushed,” I finished for him.

  Time was running on, so I dressed quickly and headed for Queen Street Station, where I grabbed a bacon roll, and made the 8.45am to Edinburgh. The train rattled through the bleak landscape of Falkirk, on to prettier Linlithgow, then crept slowly under the shadow of the castle, into Waverley Station.

  It was cold, infinitely colder than Glasgow, but I was glad of an icy east wind to sharpen my wits, as I walked to his office. I was greeted in reception by Mrs Morag McKenzie, and recognised her voice immediately. She was far more personable than her telephone manner, and her face was kindly. This was disconcerting.

  She had disappointing news, though.

  “I’m afraid Mr Ross has been delayed. He will be with you as soon as he can. I’ll show you into his office.”

  I followed her into a room. It was a modern office, but not a large one, not for the boss.

  “Can I get you a coffee?”

  I smiled, appreciatively.

  The room had a comfortable feel to it. A strengthening autumn sun flooded every corner with an ocean of light. The desk was awash with paper, and I had to smoother an urge to start sifting through the documents strewn across it. So I walked over to the window and gazed out. A steady stream of human traffic rumbled by; businessmen in dark suits, late for work; business women, too, dressed like them in sober colours and cuts. This was Edinburgh’s Square Mile; the heart of the financial district. Elegant Georgian town houses were given over to investment banks, fund managers, insurance companies, actuaries, advisers and their staff. Discreet, stoic and refined, it couldn’t be more different from the brash whirlwind of the city of London.

  Mrs McKenzie re-entered carrying a tray, drawing my attention back to the inside of the room.

  “He shouldn’t be much longer. Meeting overran. Make yourself at home.”

  She put the tray down on his desk, and left me. I moved towards it to pour a cup for myself. As I reached for the coffee pot, my eyes rested on a family photograph, pinned to the side of his computer screen. Four children, two boys, two girls, with their father. I’m not good with children’s ages any more, but they looked about six to fourteen, the youngest, not much more than a baby.