‘What’s happening in the City Chambers?’ Mann asked, after introducing herself and her sergeant.
‘The council’s opened a book of condolence for Leo,’ she replied. ‘Nice of them, considering he wasn’t actually from Glasgow, but from Paisley. Come on through to my room. I’ve looked out the document you’re here to see.’
‘How many people do you have in the firm?’
‘I’m listed as the senior partner, but actually I’m the only one. Mr Chesters retired a year ago, and I’m taking time to consider his replacement. My choice will come from my three assistants. They’re described as associates on their business cards, to give them a bit more status. I also have a paralegal clerk and a secretary. Since Mr Chesters left, we’ve been an all-woman firm. I don’t find that’s a hindrance at all.’
‘How many clients do you service?’ the DI continued as the three took seats around a small table. ‘Or is that a secret?’
Mrs Herbert smiled. ‘Not really, although the business editor of the Herald did describe the firm as “reclusive”. I couldn’t argue with that, even suppose I wanted to, which I don’t since I regard it as a backhanded compliment. I don’t advertise and I certainly do not have a website. Since Mr Chesters and I founded the firm twenty-eight years ago, we have always relied on word of mouth for new business development. Today we have thirty-eight full-time clients, all high net worth, and a turnover of just under three and a half million a year. I volunteer that because it’s a public figure, although our clients’ names are absolutely confidential.’
‘I imagine Leo Speight was your biggest,’ Provan ventured.
‘Your imagination is too narrow,’ the solicitor replied. ‘We have several clients who are wealthier than Leo was at the last calculation. Our list extends beyond Scotland, and includes two billionaires.’
‘We’re hearing various estimates of Leo’s wealth,’ Mann said.
‘Guesstimates, you should say. The estate’s inheritance-tax liability will be difficult to calculate; much of it will depend on property valuations, and that’ll be complicated by the fact that his holdings are in several different countries. I’ll be relying heavily on his property adviser, Charles Baxter, to pull all of it together. Then there are the businesses that he owned, companies, where the shareholding might have been spread. The Blacksmith, the hotel on the outskirts of the city, is an example. It has two shareholders, Leo and his son Gordon Pollock; with his death, all of his equity passes to the boy, to be held in a trust administered by me, until he turns twenty-one in three years’ time. That’s what the will says.’
‘The will,’ the DI repeated. ‘What does the rest of it say?’
Mrs Herbert picked up a document that lay on the table. ‘It contains several specific bequests: there’s a million pounds to Trudi Pollock, Gordon’s mother, and three million dollars to Rae Letts. That’s cash; the house on Lake Las Vegas is already in her name. Similarly, the house in Troon is in the name of Faye Bulloch.’ She looked from one detective to the other. ‘That may be important; Ms Bulloch styles herself as Mrs Speight, but the will doesn’t. That title doesn’t appear anywhere; it isn’t bestowed upon her, Ms Pollock or Ms Letts. Ms Bulloch is trying to lay claim to it in court, but there’s nothing in the will to help her . . . the opposite, in fact. Leo made a recent amendment leaving her one million sterling, provided that she drop her claim of spousal status, in the event of those proceedings not being concluded at the time of his death.’
‘That sounds as if he was anticipating it,’ Mann observed sharply.
‘Leo was meticulous,’ the lawyer replied. ‘He covered as many contingencies as he could imagine. He made the adjustment before his last fight. He also has an insurance policy that covered him being fatally injured in the ring. Other bequests,’ she continued, briskly. ‘The cars in the garage of the house in Ayr go to Gino Butler, as does a bequest of half a million pounds. The house itself, that’s interesting. When the will was drafted, it went to Gordon Pollock, but two weeks ago I had a letter from Leo telling me to remove that clause, pending a further instruction.’
‘Was that instruction ever made?’
‘Not that I know of, Detective Inspector.’
‘Will that give you a problem in winding up the estate?’
‘It shouldn’t; if no instruction turns up, the value of the asset will be realised – I’ll sell the place in other words – and it will be part of the final settlement. “What’s that?” you’re going to ask me. After all the bequests have been made and inheritance tax paid, the residue of the estate, including Leo’s holdings in joint ventures with Mr Bryce Stoddart and others, and all property that isn’t ordered to be sold or specifically bequeathed, goes to Leo’s children as follows: ten per cent to Gordon, in addition to various hotel properties which become his by bequest, and thirty per cent each to his minor children, Leonard Bulloch, Jolene Bulloch, and Raeleen Letts. You see? Leo registered each of those births, but he didn’t afford his name to any of his offspring.’
‘Why no’, do you think?’ Provan asked her.
The solicitor leaned back, gazing at the wall facing her. ‘It may have been foresight, Detective Sergeant, a guess that Faye Bulloch might have used it in a future claim of informal marriage. But I don’t believe so; Leo told me once that it was out of deference to Gordon and his mother. He had been denied the Speight name on his birth certificate – Leo wasn’t even named as his father – so he didn’t want to favour the others over him.’
‘He really wasn’t the marrying kind, was he?’ Provan chuckled.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ she agreed.
‘And yet Sandra Bulloch, our boss, referred to him as her brother-in-law.’
‘A show of loyalty towards her sister, perhaps. She needed it,’ Joy Herbert continued. ‘There was another late alteration, advised by letter. In the original will, Ms Rae Letts was appointed as her daughter’s trustee, and Ms Faye Bulloch in the same capacity for her children. However, in a separate letter, not long after the beginning of the court action, Ms Bulloch was removed and I was named as trustee in her place.’
‘What did Moss Lee make of that?’ the DS wondered.
‘Neither he nor his client have any idea that it happened.’ She looked at Mann, and held up the document. ‘I’ll make copies of this for you, with the condition that nothing is released to the media before it’s lodged with the court.’ She grinned unexpectedly. ‘Let’s hope it’s the final version.’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ the DI asked.
‘The way the will was drafted,’ the lawyer explained, ‘it allowed for what’s known in Scots law as informal writings. That means it can be altered by a simple written, witnessed, declaration by the testator. The letters I mentioned were examples of that. I can only hope there are no others lying around in one of my late client’s many properties.’
Fifteen
‘The fee note comes to me,’ Bob Skinner told his oldest daughter.
‘We’ll deal with that when we know the outcome,’ Alex replied, smiling at him as the dying sun flooded the garden room of his seaside home. ‘Now,’ she continued briskly, ‘what’s this about you being involved with the Leo Speight situation? How did that come about?’
‘How do you think?’
‘I can only guess at insurance.’
He nodded. ‘On the ball as always, kid,’ he laughed. ‘How about your workload? Are you busy this week?’
‘I’m in the High Court on Tuesday, defending a client who’s accused of incest.’
‘Bloody hell! You’re not going to trial, are you?’
‘Absolutely not! She’s as guilty as sin.’
‘She?’ he gasped.
‘That’s right. My twenty-year-old client had sex with her eighteen-year-old uncle. It’s a very convoluted family . . . as is our own,’ she added. ‘I’m pleading her guilty then gambling that my
plea in mitigation might keep her out of jail. Her story is that she met the lad at a club in Glasgow, spent the night with him and went back to Edinburgh. Uncle took a selfie of the two of them – fully clothed, nothing raunchy – and showed it to his mother. She hit the roof. Mum had him in her early twenties; meanwhile, her mum, the boy’s granny, had divorced, remarried and had another child, at the age of forty-three. The half-sisters both looked remarkably like their mother, but the two never met, since the older sister severed all relations with her mother when she left her dad. You with me so far?’
‘Struggling,’ Bob admitted, ‘but I think so.’
‘Right. So the laddie’s mum looked at the selfie and saw the spitting image not just of her own mother, but of herself when she was that age. Of course auntie had left nephew her mobile number, and her name, which meant nothing at all to him but confirmed the truth to his mother. She screamed bloody murder and went straight to the police.’
He gasped. ‘The fiscal charged them?’ he exclaimed.
‘He charged her. The police found that her grandfather, the boy’s great-grandfather, had a photo of him aged seventeen on his mantelpiece. She visited him a few times every month. She admitted that she’d seen it, but swore that she never made the connection when they met in a dark nightclub full of fake smoke and strobe lighting. The dyspeptic advocate depute, my old adversary Paula Benedict, didn’t buy it and served the indictment.’
She shifted in her chair and drained the last of her sparkling water, straight from the bottle. ‘So you see, Pops, I can’t plead her not guilty, because according to the indictment she is, but I can do my damnedest to persuade Lady Ingram, the judge, that she’s innocent nevertheless and get her an absolute discharge.’
‘That’s a belter,’ he agreed. ‘I must tell June Crampsey about it and make sure the Saltire’s legal editor’s in court when the case is called.’
Alex laughed. ‘When you joined the board of InterMedia, it must have been the best day of that woman’s life,’ she observed. ‘You’ve turned into a newshound, a managing editor’s dream.’
‘No I haven’t,’ he protested. ‘I have a responsibility as a director for the success of the paper, and if I can contribute to it by passing on information that comes my way, so be it.’
‘Will that include the Leo Speight murder?’ she asked.
‘There I’m slightly compromised. I’m bound by confidentiality.’
‘Who’s binding you?’
‘Theoretically, the insurers that I’m supposed to be representing.’
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘this is Alex. I’m not really going to fall for that story. The information the insurance company needs it can get directly from the police or the prosecution. They’re unlikely to settle a claim for the enhanced payout specified in the policy until there’s a conviction for murder.’
‘What if no arrest is made?’ he countered.
‘It could be tied up in the civil court for years, unless the Crown case is so strong that they’re advised to settle. Either way, they didn’t need to parachute you in there. Admit it, Maggie Steele and Mario have asked you to advise the CID team.’
‘They wouldn’t do that.’
‘They would, given half a chance.’
‘Then they couldn’t do that.’
‘They could, if they chose. They could bring in Sherlock; there’s nothing in law to stop them.’
‘But they didn’t.’
She sat up in her chair, staring him down. ‘Well somebody did. Come on, Pops, you’re holding out on me. I’m an officer of the court, out with it.’
Skinner sighed, then reached inside his gilet and produced his wallet, from which he retrieved a laminated card. ‘Client confidentiality, okay?’ he murmured as he handed it over.
‘Always,’ she replied, then looked at it. ‘Jesus!’ she gasped, her eyes widening. ‘Consultant director. When did this happen?’
‘A few months ago. A situation arose that you really do not want to know about, and I was pulled in by Amanda Dennis, the head of the Security Service. As you know, she and I have been friends for years, as well as occasional colleagues. It was supposed to be a one-off, but it’s evolved into . . . well, let’s call it an informal association. If she really needs me, I’m there. Non-operational, though,’ he added quickly. ‘I don’t wear a white tux and carry a Walther PPK.’
‘Why is she interested in Leo Speight’s death?’ Alex asked.
‘There’s a suggestion that he – or the people around him – may have had links to criminal organisations.’
‘I thought Speight was squeaky clean. That was his image, certainly.’
‘He may well have been. I said only a suggestion, remember, but if people like that were around him, something he announced at his retirement party last Friday night might have upset them.’
‘Do you really think so?’ A sadness crept into her eyes. ‘I hope not; I was a fan of his.’
‘I have an open mind at the moment; I need to speak to a couple of people before I firm up my thinking. As for you being a fan of his, you were not alone among women. Leo had two families that I know of, two and a half if you count his teenage son.’ He smiled as the door opened and Ignacio walked into the room. ‘And speaking of teenage sons . . .’
‘Buenos noches, Papa y hermana,’ he said. ‘Sarah dice que estará aquí tan pronto como Dawn se vaya a dormir.’
‘We’re working on my Spanish,’ Bob explained to Alex. ‘It’s the official language of InterMedia, and mine is crap. I might need to pick up some Italian as well. Prego and grazie are all I know.’
‘Why do you need that?’ Ignacio asked.
‘I have to research and maybe locate an Italian guy with a wonderfully expressive name: Aldorino Moscardinetto.’
‘The film director?’
Bob stared at his son. ‘You know him?’
‘Unless there are two of them; it is not a name you will forget. It’s funny, too; I have a little Italian, and in rough translation his apellido means “little octopus”. In Spain, his nickname is Pulpito. It means the same.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘Quite a lot; I am interested in film and I researched him for my Spanish school certificate, before I came to Scotland. He is very progressive as a film-maker. He does both drama and documentary, and his work is always controversial. Most of it has been in Italy, but he made one movie in Spanish, a history of the Blue Brigade – very bloody – and a couple of feature films in English for the American market. One was called Lovechild. There was a Scottish actor in it, Joey Morocco.’
Father and daughter exchanged glances. ‘I remember it well,’ Bob murmured. ‘I was taken to the Scottish premiere. Far too intense for me, but the boy Morocco was okay. I had no idea who directed it, though; the screening was in Glasgow, so all the publicity was about Joey. Give me a moment, you two.’ He pushed himself to his feet, picked up his mobile and walked outside into the garden.
Closing the door behind him, he scrolled through his contacts, going no further than ‘A’, then clicking on a number.
‘Bob,’ Aileen de Marco exclaimed, her surprise undisguised. ‘What can I do for you? Or did you misdial?’
‘No,’ he told his former wife. ‘I called the right number, but it’s not you that I’m after. I need to speak to Pal Joey. Do you know how I can contact him?’
‘That depends on why you want him. You haven’t decided to settle scores, have you?’
‘If I ever did,’ he replied, ‘you’d be the last person to know, but as I’ve told you before, I closed that account a long time ago. I don’t care about the pair of you. There’s something I need to ask him, that’s all.’
‘In that case . . .’ she paused, ‘he’s here. We’re in Glasgow. We came up for a party on Friday night and stayed over so that Joey could visit his parents. We’re on
the red-eye tomorrow.’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘I know why you were in Glasgow, and whose party you were at. I saw your names on the guest list.’
‘Were you invited too? You were well hidden if you were; I never saw you.’
‘No, I wasn’t part of the late Mr Speight’s circle.’
‘How did you come to see the guest list? Are you . . . ? You’re not back on the force, are you? You haven’t taken the chief constable up on the job offer you told me about?’
‘Hell, no! Some people I’m associated with have a peripheral interest in the situation, that’s all.’
‘That sounds very spooky. I know you well enough not to ask any more. Here’s Joey.’
The background noise stilled for a while, as she told her lover that the call was for him, he guessed.
When it resumed, there was a second’s hesitancy. ‘Mr Skinner?’ Joey Morocco ventured cautiously.
‘Bob, for fuck’s sake,’ he retorted. ‘Given what we have in common, I think we can be on first-name terms. I need to ask you about someone you know, someone I want to speak to, Aldorino Moscardinetto. I know he was at Leo Speight’s bash at the Blacksmith on Friday, but I don’t know where he is now, or how to get in touch with him.’
‘I’m not sure of his whereabouts either,’ the actor admitted. Skinner listened for traces of his origins in his off-screen accent but could detect none. ‘I know the guy, yes, from one movie, but we’re not buddies.’
‘Do you know why he was there?’
‘Not for sure, but I suspect that he was doing some sort of business with Leo. The champ was a very hot property, once he’d retired undefeated. There was a publisher after him, and at least three film production companies wanting to dramatise his life. Between the two of us, I’ve been sounded out about playing him, by Aldorino.’
‘Is that why you were at the party?’
‘No, no; Leo didn’t even know about that. He and I were friends for years. We met at one of his fights, and I was a regular after that, whenever I could make it. I’ve visited him in London, and Las Vegas. I’ve even met Rae; she’ll be broken hearted, poor girl.’
A Brush With Death Page 11