DEAD MONEY

by TERESA HUNTER

  I didn’t sit, but studied the many pictures, certificates and trophies decorating the walls. I didn’t bother to count how many times Kelly had won Brewer of the Year, other than noting the last time was a few months before the company went bust.

  Some of the pictures dated back to early last century; charming sepia shots of horses and carts pulling barrels of beer.

  There were several family groupings. One, particularly, caught my eye. Positioned prominently, as if in pride of place, was a shot of Joseph Kennedy, father of Jack Kennedy, the US president, who was assassinated. Founder of one of America’s most famous dynasties, Joseph was a prohibition bootlegger; a taint of corruption never far from his name.

  “This picture?” I asked the receptionist.

  “The Kennedys, with Mr Jack’s mother and father, Mary and Robert.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Yes, they’re rather special.” Her phone rang. She picked it up.

  Photographs of Jack Kelly dominated the collection. There were various gatherings of staff, awards ceremonies, retirement do’s. And my, my, look who was guest speaker at this one? None other than David Ragland. Ronnie Raeburn was centre stage in another photograph with a group of brewery workers. All very cosy.

  A buzzer sounded. “They’re ready for you.” The receptionist beckoned me to follow her. A lump hardened in my throat, as I climbed the stairs; my heart thumping.

  “Stay calm,” I whispered to myself.

  Jack Kelly stood to greet me. He was everything I expected. Big built, larger than life. He was handsome, too. If my newspaper story had wounded him, he didn’t show it. His iron grey hair looked the sort that wouldn’t budge in a gale. His smile was fixed and wide, but it didn’t fool me. This man would eat me for breakfast given half the chance.

  “It’s little red riding hood, on an errand of mercy,” he said.

  “I’m glad you like my coat,” I quipped, refusing to be patronised. “Colour of highland tartan, isn’t it? Battle tartan, they call it.”

  “Colour of blood, don’t you mean…we don’t take sides, never have. Politics and business,” he shook his head “Bitter cocktail. Sit down.” He pointed to the chair opposite his desk.

  I sat, taking in the room. It was masculine, teutonic and above all black. Whereas the entrance had been startlingly white, this room, though well enough lit, was suffocatingly dark. Black units and cupboards lined the walls. They were shiny. Surely they couldn’t be marble too. He sat at a black desk almost the size of a billiard table, raised on a platform, like an altar.

  “You wanted to see me?” he began again.

  “I have some questions about your company and the pension fund.”

  “Ah, your little...” he hesitated, choosing the next word carefully, “obsession.”

  “It’s not an obsession, Mr Kelly. A number of people have legitimate questions.”

  “Red, I’m a brewer and distiller, not a pension’s expert. I make beer and whisky. I used to be good at it. I know nothing about pensions. I leave that to my advisers.”

  “And they say?”

  “They tell me your recent article was well-informed, if mistaken.”

  “Mistaken?”

  “My lawyers are considering what action we’ll be taking next.”

  His words didn’t frighten me. He was in no position to begin a libel action. Kane could afford to sue, Kelly couldn’t. There was a knock on the door. A dark-skinned woman arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Shall I be grand-mamma,” he asked, as she closed the door behind her. “Or does Red Riding Hood want to pour?”

  He was deliberately taunting me but I refused to be baited, so he began pouring. I resumed my questioning.

  “Remind me, Kelly’s went into liquidation about six months ago.”

  “March fourth,” he volunteered.

  “What happened?”

  “This Government is what happened. You know what happened. Our costs rose with every bit of new legislation. We couldn’t go on.”

  “And sales were falling.”

  “Sales were OK,” he contradicted me.

  “The pension fund?”

  “It was crippling us.”

  “Did you authorise those withdrawals?”

  “What if I did? It was my money.”

  “Hardly fair. It was your employees’ pensions.”

  He smiled that flashing smile, with teeth lined up like white Ross nail files.

  “I told you, I left all that to my advisers. When they said I could take money out, I took money out.”

  “So you did make those withdrawals?”

  “I’m not saying that, I’m not saying any withdrawals were ever made. If you think they were, publish the evidence. You haven’t published any so far. All I’m saying is, if any money came out, I was legitimately entitled to take it. It was my money.”

  “How can it have been? Your workforce had been paying into a pension, in some cases for forty years. They lost all their savings. What happened to that money?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “You’re a trustee, you’re responsible.”

  “I’m a brewer. That’s what I do. When it comes to pensions I follow advice. What’s the point of paying for it otherwise? You don’t keep a dog and bark yourself.”

  “Don’t you feel any responsibility?”

  “Do I look like a charity?” he grinned, that sinister grin again. “My priority was saving the brewery.”

  “Enough to raid the pension scheme.”

  “Any money that came out, came out legally. It was all signed off by our legal and actuarial advisers.”

  “I think that may be a moot point.”

  “Do I look like an idiot? Why would I take money that didn’t belong to me, when it would be clearly documented, and could put me in jail?”

  I could have replied, by paying crooked advisers.

  “These people have rights, there are laws.” I said instead

  “Get real Red. Grow up. The rights are all mine. I pay the bills.”

  I changed tack. He was never going to admit pocketing those withdrawals. “How well did you know Ken Strachan?”

  “Strachan was a pain of a man.”

  “What did you make of his death?”

  “He always struck me as a few pints short of a barrel…..don’t get me wrong it was a tragedy….tragedy for the family.”

  The phone rang. I sensed the interview was over.

  “I have to go,” he said, when he replaced the receiver. “Look Red, let’s be friends. I’m hosting a dinner tonight at Loch Lomond. Few local dignitaries and businessmen. Join us. I’d be honoured. It’ll help you find out a bit more about our business and the people we deal with.”

  “I’ve nothing to wear,” I was suspicious of his olive branch.

  “Come as you are,” his ran his eye over me. “You look ….” he hesitated… “ravishing.”

  “Oh don’t you worry. I can ravish alright,” I responded dryly. I decided to accept his invitation, though. It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

  “Good. Where are you staying?”

  “The Buchanan.”

  “We’ll send a car at 7pm.”

  I nodded again.

  “And Red…” he called after me, as I opened the door. “Remember your fairy stories. Wolves do bite.”

  Chapter 28

  3.30pm Wednesday, October 31,

  Glasgow

  The receptionist had arranged a car for me, and I didn’t argue. The driver spoke English, but with a strong accent. He said he was from Romania and his name was Piotr. “It’s the same as Peter.” He had been in Scotland for 18 months, liked the work, the weather, the food and the whisky. Yes, he missed his native Bucharest. He would go back one day, maybe.

  As we approached George Square, gaudy Christmas decorations sparkled in the darkness. Barely November, and already the countdown to the holiday had begun.

  “Good to see
you again,” the receptionist at the Buchanan greeted me. “Not another funeral, I hope?”

  “No, thank heavens. Not yet anyway.”

  She smiled. “We’re pretty full. Does it matter, bath or shower?”

  I shook my head and reached for my credit cards. The lift was broken as usual, so I walked the three flights. A familiar musty smell hit me as I entered the room; that faintly fusty odour, which seeps out of old curtains and carpets. But it was spotlessly clean, cheap and central. What it lacked in luxury, the staff made up for in warmth.

  I hung up my coat, switched on the kettle and dialled Pitcher’s number. We hadn’t spoken since he had me kicked out of the Bethnal Green flat. I needed him to get me in to see Mrs Livingstone.

  “It’s Foghorn,” he greeted me. He was still mad. “Contaminated any good scenes of crime today?’”

  “The other night… I only wanted to help.”

  “How? What could you do to help?”

  He was right. There had been nothing for me to do that night.

  “I’m in Glasgow.”

  “Thank heaven for small mercies. Remind me to cancel my next flight up.”

  “Don’t be so mean. What about our deal?”

  “It’s pretty-much one-way from where I’m sitting.”

  “I want to talk to Livingstone’s wife.”

  “You and a million other hacks.”

  “She’s not talking?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Can you fix it for me?”

  “And what do I get in return?”

  “Don’t be so annoying. Can you fix it?”

  “I could fix it, probably.”

  “Then will you?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. I knew he was playing with me, teasing.

  “Please.”

  “That’s better. We’ll teach you some manners, yet.”

  “Is there any news on the body?”

  “There may be soon, actually,” he said seriously. “I think they’re getting close to an identification.”

  “So Mrs Livingstone? Can you fix it?”

  “I don’t know if I can be…” his other phone went. He answered it, leaving me waiting.

  “Look, I’ll see what I can do,” he said, when he finally came back.

  I made some coffee, drank it quickly, then went out to shop. A House of Fraser department store was a few doors up. I picked out a classic black velvet skirt and ivory white blouse. If I was dining out with local dignitaries and bigwigs, I would at least look the part. I wasn’t long back at the hotel when my mobile rang. It was Pitcher.

  “She’ll see you at 10am tomorrow morning, Mrs Livingstone. Got the address?”

  “It’s Cardonald, isn’t it?”

  “Just off Paisley Road West.”

  “Her name?”

  “Heather.”

  “You’re an angel,” I could have bitten my tongue out, as soon as the words left my lips.

  “I knew you’d see it one day.”

  I ignored him.

  “Guess where I’m going tonight?”

  “As long as I won’t be there, I don’t care.”

  “I saw Jack Kelly this afternoon. He’s invited me to dinner tonight.”

  “Very cosy.”

  “It’s a function he’s hosting.”

  “Ah…well, let me know how you get on.”

  “I will…about the other night.” I was curious to know whether any charges had been brought.

  “Stick to playing with numbers, Lightweight. It’s not a nice world outside.”

  He could be so patronising.

  A car arrived at 7pm to take me to Lomond Castle. Once the lights of Glasgow receded, the night was pitch-black. I could see nothing from the car, so I dozed lightly in the back. I opened my eyes again, as rows of blazing torches, burning magnificently, came into view. The taxi joined a procession of limousines gliding down the flaming drive, towards a spectacular towered and turreted castle. The driver let me out at the main entrance.

  To my surprise, someone was waiting to greet me.

  “Julia,” he put out a friendly hand. “I’m Tom Kelly. The one that doesn’t gobble up little girls in red,” he smiled warmly. “My father told me about your meeting. Don’t pay too much attention, his bark’s worse than his bite.”

  I doubted that. Tom, though, seemed different. He was as unorthodox as his father was conventional. He wore a dark dinner suit with trousers, unlike the rest of the guests who sported kilts of various tartan. His thick jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He had his father’s wide mouth, but his lips were red and generous. Perhaps this was Jack Kelly as a younger man.

  “A quick drink at the bar, then, I’ll take you in to dinner,” he said.

  The bar was a kaleidoscope of faces. Tom never left my side, but introduced me to a couple of guests. Everyone was connected with the drinks industry.

  “Wonderful to see Kelly’s back in business,” one bucolic-looking veteran said, shaking Tom’s hand warmly.

  “Can’t keep a good man down,” Tom quipped.

  “I knew it wouldn’t be long before the barrels began rolling again.”

  My teeth bit on my glass so hard, I thought it might shatter. Another overweight ruddy-faced, body joined us. Tom introduced us.

  “This is Julia Lighthorn. She’s a journalist. She’s convinced my father is Al Capone. Julia, Jonathan Hume, from Hume Whisky and Richard McIvor from McIvor Brewery.” He pointed to the two men.

  “Is she the one persecuting your poor father?” Hume was a blatant media-hater.

  “I’ve been asking legitimate questions about what happened to the pension fund, that’s all.”

  “I blame the media,” McIvor joined in. “It’s all their fault.”

  “I’ve told my advisers,” Hume continued. “If I’m forced to pay any more into the pension fund, I will shut the company down. Go to hell with their jobs. I’ve had enough of this.”

  “If only I had a pound, for every time I’m told it’s all the media’s fault,” I muttered to Tom, as the master of ceremonies called us in to dinner.

  The banqueting hall, packed with tables, was also lit with blazing torches. Tom seemed to know where we were sitting, and led the way through the crowd.

  There was a long top table for the guests of honour. We joined a round table close by. My heart sank when Hume and Ross joined us at our table.

  The banging of a gavel announced the proceedings were about to begin, and we stood to welcome top table, which was piped in to Scotland the Brave. I nearly fell back in my seat, when Jack Kelly took his place at the centre of the top table, with none other than David Ragland at his side.

  No expense was spared on the meal or its setting. We began with Scottish poached salmon, and moved onto venison. The wine was a good quality Bordeaux, but only a token amount was drunk before the men moved back to their beloved whisky.

  “How well does your father know David Ragland?” I asked Tom.

  “He’s our local member of parliament…. an important contact.”

  “And where do you fit in?”

  “Fit in?”

  “In the business.”

  “Oh, here and there, you know.”

  “Go on….”

  “It’s dad’s business.”

  “But will be yours one day?”

  “I have my own business interests.”

  “How fascinating. Tell me about them.”

  So he did. He had not initially wanted anything at all to do with the brewery, and went to Glasgow Art School. Afterwards, he put money into various business enterprises, which he hoped would produce a sufficient income to maintain his independence from the family and allow him to pursue his interest in art.

  “So art’s your great love?” I asked.

  “Art and sailing. I’ve a boat on the coast. And my nightclub, of course.”

  “Nightclub?”

  “I’ve several clubs actually. But the big
one, on Sauchiehall Street, is my baby….the flagship. More of an entertainment centre. We stage all kinds of acts and events.”

  “Like an arena?”

  “I guess.”

  “And is it successful?”

  “It ticks over. You must come one evening.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” I was surprised to find I meant it. After dinner there were some short speeches, all in fulsome praise of the achievements of the Kelly family. This was followed by some Scottish music, a final reading of some Robbie Burns and then it was time to go.

  Tom accompanied me once more to the sumptuous drive at the front of the castle, where cars were waiting. I was about to get into one, when I heard David Ragland’s voice. I stepped back to let another guest leave before me.

  “Mr Ragland,” I approached him as he came out. “It’s Julia Lighthorn. You were trying to get hold of me.”

  “Ms Lighthorn. What a surprise, and, may I say, a pleasure to see you.”

  “Your office called to say you wanted to see me…”

  “Did they really? Now there’s a mystery….I’ve no idea what they had in mind…no...complete mystery,” and with those words he stepped into the next available car.

  Chapter 29

  10am Thursday, November 1,

  Cardonald

  The press pack was already in position outside the Livingstone home in Cardonald, when I pushed my way towards the front gate. Two policemen stood as sentries, but they let me pass when I mentioned my name. A police woman opened the front door, and waved me through to the lounge. Again she seemed to be expecting me.

  It was the sort of room I found hard to breathe in. Net curtains hung at a bow window; carpet orange nylon; furniture teak.

  The woman sitting on the sofa was unusually thin for Glasgow, where fashion was to the large. She looked drained.

  “Mrs Livingstone,” I walked towards her, with hand outstretched. “I’m Julia Lighthorn. Thank you for giving me a few moments at this difficult time.” She looked up at me without responding. She seemed disconnected from the scene around her. I let my hand fall and sat in an armchair by her side.

  “I’ll make a brew,” the WPC said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Mrs Livingstone, I know this is a very difficult time for you,” I repeated. “But publicity may help to get to the bottom of what has happened. We all want to get to help you find out what happened to your husband.”