My hand flew to my mouth.
“The girl that Strachan befriended. Her father was killed in a fire,” I said.
Kane simply nodded.
“Clubs, prostitution, drugs,” I said, glancing over the pages. “Tom Kelly’s empire. But was any of this connected with the Kelly Brewery and the pension fund? With the deaths of the Strachan’s Livingstone and Black?”
Kane winced slightly at the last name.
“Read these accounts and reports carefully,” he said. “They build a picture of a traditional family business in trouble. A family determined to preserve its position in society. A family looking for more lucrative money -making opportunities.”
“Where does the pension fit in?”
“Study the accounts,” he repeated. “As the pension scheme shrank, Tom Kelly’s empire flourished. You can trace the money out, to the purchase of his properties.”
“Would all this stand up in court?”
“It might. It’d need a water-tight case, probably confessions. Start with Patterson,” he opened the bank statement file again.
“Look here,” he pointed to a payment of £1.2 million. “He received this ex gratia payment for his services. What services? Cameron’s were already well-paid.”
“It was a bribe to agree those transfers?”
“Go and see him. I think you’ll find he’s ready to be helpful.”
I mulled this over.
“Have you seen him?”
“I think you’ll find he’s ready to be helpful,” he repeated.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”
“One of my senior staff is dead.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t dare. Anyway, I’m well protected.”
“Why not take it straight to the police?”
He took off his glasses and began cleaning them again. He seemed miles away as he spoke.
“We are bankers. We must respect the confidentiality of our clients. Our clients don’t like it, if they see us turning over details of other customers’ finances to the police.”
“Even of murderers?”
“It is a breach of our terms and conditions.”
“Why choose me?”
“This may sound strange, but I admire your work. You’re like me. You never give up.”
“So Omar was right about the libel action. You just wanted to frighten me.”
“We saved you from a brutal attack. And these papers will build you a far more glittering career than the one you claim I destroyed. That makes us quits, doesn’t it?”
We got up to leave, and walked together slowly down the cathedral aisle to the exit.
“It all started with Patterson, didn’t it?” I said.
“They needed money desperately, and he found a way for them to get it.”
“Why? He was at the top of his profession.”
“Weak. Patterson was weak...and arrogant. Convinced himself it was all above board.”
“Do you think he’s genuinely ill?”
“Guilt can do strange things to people.”
And with those words we parted. I watched him walk back towards the river, disappearing gradually into the mist.
Chapter 47
8.15pm Monday, November 26,
Southwark
I ran the hundred or so yards to my flat, dropped the box-file onto the table and dialled Pitcher’s number. I had to tell him about the addresses in these files. If Black’s dossier was correct, it was possible Roxy was being held at one of these properties.
His mobile clicked onto answer phone. I left a message, remembering he was in the wilds of Perthshire, so there was no knowing when it would get through to him. I tried his office at the Met, and was assured they would try and get a message through to him. Finally, I called Strathclyde, and spoke to a duty officer who said “No,” he wasn’t sure where he was, but “Yes,” he would try and contact him.
I flicked the switch on the kettle, took off my coat and made myself a cup of coffee, before dialling Sandy and asking him to come South the next day.
“That’s going to be difficult, Julia.”
“Please, Sandy.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, fine. I can’t go into details now, but trust me. It’s urgent.”
“Well…it’ll be awkward, but I could cancel my meetings tomorrow and fly down.”
“Fly into Southampton, will you?”
He paused for a moment, as if trying to work out what I was up to.
“Fine,” he gave up, with a sigh. “If that’s what you want. Meet me, I’ll text you the time.”
I spent the evening analysing the documents Kane had given me. The Liechtenstein Trust dossier made the most interesting reading. There were 34 addresses in all, scattered around Scotland’s major cities, from Dundee to Perth, Inverness to Stirling. Most though were in Glasgow, with a few in Edinburgh. I copied Sandy a set of the papers, to hand him the next day. For the time being, I didn’t want anything traceable on email. Who knew what spies were lurking on my computer?
Then, I copied another set for me to take and two more. One copy, I placed in an envelope for my brother in Australia, and addressed another to Carlton Crabb. He had proved himself strangely trustworthy from the start. I thought about ringing Omar, but his being a lawyer, my lawyer, complicated everything. There was still an injunction out prohibiting me from interviewing Patterson. He would insist I let Sandy go alone.
Pitcher had not returned my call, when it was time to go to bed, so I tried him again. Nothing. The next morning, I posted the packages before hitting the road to Southampton.
Sandy’s flight was on time. I pulled into the designated pick-up area to wait, turning on the radio to catch the 10 0’clock news. But I soon stopped listening, when I saw a tall man, with a Trilby atop iron-grey hair, walk through the airport doors, and get into a black limousine, parked illegally right outside. I would know Jack Kelly, anywhere.
The car pulled off seconds before Sandy emerged, and walked over to the prescribed pick up area.
“I hope this is going to be good,” he leaned across the car and greeted me with a kiss. I was too preoccupied to respond. “Could have been better,” he teased, as he pulled his seat belt on.
“Sandy, we need to see Patterson, urgently,” I swung the car round the roundabout and headed back to the M27, at top speed.
“What’s the urgency?”
“It’s a long story.” I threw his set of documents onto his lap. “Did you see anyone on your flight?”
“Lots of people, why?”
“Look back on the inside lane. We’ve just past Jack Kelly. He came out of the airport before you.”
“What’s he doing here?” Sandy turned back to face the road ahead.
“My guess is, he’s going to exactly the same place we are.”
As I checked my mirror, I saw the limousine pull over to a service station.
“They’re stopping for petrol, or breakfast. Good. He didn’t see me. That leaves us a fighting chance.”
“A fighting chance of what? Julia please stop speaking in riddles.”
“A fighting chance of getting to Patterson first.”
But Sandy had stopped listening. He was working his way through the documents, shaking his head thoughtfully, as though it confirmed much of what he already suspected.
Patterson’s nursing home was deep in the New Forest. I knew the way. It was a crisp south coast winter’s day; strong sun, and cloudless blue sky. The leafless trees stood ramrod straight like ghostly, silver sentinels.
Sandy winced, as he reached the dossier on the trust fund, with the addresses, and briefing notes. The forest was deserted, our only companions the wild forest ponies and deer.
“Where did you get this stuff?” he asked, when he finally looked up. I told him about the previous evenings encounter with Kane.
“So, he thinks Patterson will confess,” he said.
&n
bsp; I nodded. “He said that would clinch it.”
“Yeah and a few others. But how?”
“I dunno...from the way Kane was speaking...”
“They’ve already done a deal.”
“I dunno,” I repeated. “Something must be going on. What’s Kelly doing here? I wonder if Patterson knows about Black and Livingstone? Maybe we should play up the danger he’s in.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to play up, Julia,” he looked at me, wrily.
St Agatha’s, formerly the ancestral home of a military family, was at the end of a long lane, with a statue of a general on a horse in the centre of the front lawn. Today, all fight had gone out of this place. It was inhabited by patients, who had surrendered in that great battle called life.
“I can’t be myself,” I said, as I moved to get out of the car. Sandy raised his eyebrows. “The injunction, remember. I’m not allowed to be here.”
“OK, let’s play it by ear,” he replied.
A bruiser of a man, more nightclub bouncer than Florence Nightingale, stood at the front entrance.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“We have come to visit Mr Patterson.”
“Visitors are only allowed by prior appointment. Do you have appointments?”
“No, but as we are old family friends, holidaying in the area, we thought we should pop in for a few moments, with Christmas coming.”
“Hardly Christmas yet,” he muttered, turning and pointing inside. “Try reception, they may be able to help.”
We followed his directions to the incongruously-named welcome desk.
“This place is like a prison,” I muttered to Sandy.
“Quite.”
We gave our details at the reception, claiming again to be close family friends. The girl on reception was chatty, if none too bright. I crossed my fingers, hoping our luck might be in.
“Mr Patterson is popular. Had a very important-looking visitor a few days ago, and expecting another at noon. And now you turn up.”
The clock above the desk said 11.35am. I felt my pulse quicken. We had to get in and out before Kelly arrived.
The receptionist picked up a phone and dialled a number. “I’ll let Mr Patterson’s ward know you are here. You’re supposed to make an appointment,” she winked, “but as it’s nearly Christmas…”
Someone answered, and she said, “I’ll show them through... yes, of course, I’ll run the security.”
She put the receiver down, pushed a book in our direction and asked for identification. Sandy filled it in as Mr and Mrs Ross and handed over his ID. She seemed happy with this, and didn’t question us further.
“We’ll have to get away within ten minutes or so, if we want to avoid Kelly,” I whispered to Sandy.
Patterson was sitting at a small round table, waiting for us, when we were led from the elegant hall to a back sitting room. He was still dressed pristinely in pin-stripe suit and red, bow tie. Other patients sat at other tables, or in wide-winged armchairs, some staring blankly into space, others muttering to themselves. A few had visitors.
“How are you?” Sandy stretched out his hand to the frail figure, who stood to greet us.
“Very much better, since I saw you last, very much better…” so, he knew who we were.
There were three exits from this room, besides the one we had entered, with guards on each door. This was a place from which there would be no easy escape.
The furnishings and décor were luxurious. The off-white carpet was soft as velvet under foot; the armchairs around Patterson’s table a neat, bucket-shaped velveteen. Sandy neared a powder blue one, I picked the salmon-pink and Patterson sat again in a white seat.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked, as we sat. We nodded, at which he called one of the attendants and courteously asked if some tea could be brought. The ‘nurse’ looked like he could put four squaddies through a plate glass shop front with one hand.
“It’s been an interesting couple of weeks,” Patterson sighed. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to his incarceration here or the deaths north of the Border.
“Are you comfortable? Do they look after you well?” Sandy asked kindly. I was quiet, as if suffering from lock jaw.
“Ah...” Patterson sighed again. He looked down, shaking his head. We watched him in silence for a few moments. When he looked up again, I swear, there were tears in his eyes.
Patterson composed himself as the ‘nurse’ placed a tea tray on the table between us.
“Thank you, Ronnie,” he said, handing us a cup each. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you,” Sandy answered for us both. We sipped for a few minutes in silence. Fine rain had begun falling in delicate sheets. I looked out the vast windows and noticed how late the last golden fall had come this far south. Soon all the trees in the forest would be naked.
“We wanted to see you about the Kelly pension,” Sandy began.
Patterson was silent, sipping his tea thoughtfully, as if savouring the last few moments of a perfect world, a world about to shatter. He made no attempt this time to deny recollection.
“You must make a statement,” Sandy continued.
“If I thought...” Patterson began.
“Mr Patterson. We could get you out of here.” I had found my voice.
He raised his eyes to the four doors, taking in the guards, as if doubting my statement.
“You could be in danger.” Sandy’s voice was low. “I have to warn you, Livingstone is dead. He worked for Sherlock, took over the account after Cameron’s. That leaves only you, who knows what went on.”
Patterson listened, saying nothing. His right hand began to tremble. His cup and saucer tinkled as it shook.
“A banker has been killed.” Sandy continued. “I have been threatened. My children, too. Ms Lighthorn here was attacked, and might have been killed.”
“Jack Kelly is on his way to see you now,” I continued. “He will never leave you alone, Mr Patterson. You or your family. Unless we put him behind bars.”
At that moment, a woman in a white coat entered the room and marched across to us. She seemed agitated. She did not look at us, but focussed on Patterson.
“Mr Patterson, I wonder if we could have a quiet word.”
He looked at her resigned, as if he knew what was coming.
“Mr Patterson,” she repeated.
“I will come and see you directly my guests leave, doctor,” his attempt at firmness was feeble.
“We must speak immediately. You have another visitor due soon,” she reached across and grabbed both his hands. “You are not well. I cannot allow this. It is too much.”
She signalled to the heavies to approach, then turned to us with a diplomatic smile. “I’m very sorry, I must ask you to leave.”
Sandy looked at his watch. I already knew it was 11.50am. “We have to go anyway,” he said, standing. “Mr Patterson, if I can help you any time, you call me.”
There was no arguing. The heavies moved closer. Leaving was the only dignified course of action left. We were frogmarched across the lounge. As we reached the door, I looked back. Patterson was being marched out another exit. As I stared at him, so he looked back at me. His eyes had the look of an old dog, who knows its days are numbered.
I let out a stream of expletives once back out on the drive and kicked the gravel in frustration. Sandy walked straight for the car and waited until I joined him, rain splashing off his shoulders.
A limousine swept into the drive. Jack Kelly had arrived. There was no point trying to hide. His car pulled up beside ours. I waited for him to get out.
“Ross,” he nodded a brusque acknowledgement to Sandy, before turning to me. “You’ll never learn will you, Red.”
“Learn what Mr Kelly?”
“What a very dangerous person you are,” he flashed that sinister white smile.
“Me, dangerous?” I said, slowly.
“Think about it, Red,” he said, before rushing in out of
the rain.
I climbed back behind the wheel and started to drive. Sandy didn’t say anything, but his face was taut. He was as angry as me, but he was trained not to show his emotions.
“Do you want to head back?” I asked, pulling out of the drive.
“No, I could do with a drink and something to eat.”
I remembered a watering hole at Buckler’s Hard I had discovered, when I’d been sacked and had run away to the New Forest to hide. It was barely half a mile. I knew the way, the food was good and it would be quiet at this time of day. I headed in that direction. A slight mist was creeping off the Solent, as we parked outside the Master Builders. On the clearest of days, this waterfront was a place of ghosts. Nelson’s victory fleet had been built in the old shipyard, and a flotilla of small craft had mustered here before setting off for Dunkirk.
A roaring log fire was burning in the grate to welcome. Sandy ordered two drinks, and a shepherd’s pie lunch for himself. I couldn’t face food. Gradually, the colour returned to his face.
“We were so close,” he said, licking the froth from his pint off his lips.
“I wonder if Kelly rang ahead, and got us turfed out.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Dreadful place. Do you think it’s legal?”
“Private hospitals aren’t regulated, Julia. They can do as they please.”
“Those guards were scary. You know, I almost felt sorry for him.”
“Don’t waste your time.”
His lunch arrived.
“Another drink?” I asked, emptying my glass. “I’ll go to the bar.”
“Half please.”
There was no one else at the bar. The weather had kept both locals and tourists at home. The bar man was lonely. He wanted to talk.
“Nasty weather this. Far to go?” he asked, in the soft burr of Hampshire.
“I’ve to get back to London tonight, but my friend’s heading for Edinburgh.”
“Not flying, I hope. Southampton’s shut. Fog-bound. Nothing’ll take off t’nite”
“Oh dear.”
“Weather’s been terrible for days. Yacht went down yesterday. One of them city types. More money’n sense. Buys a boat for half a million, takes it out and holes it on its maiden voyage.”
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