by John Dysart
Lunch had been prepared (cold salmon salad) in the little verandah that was tacked onto the back of the cottage. I was offered a sherry. The verandah was neat and tidy and let in lots of light yet protected us from the wind. At this time of year it was an ideal place to sit and chat.
And Alice could chat. In her own home there was none of the nervousness she had displayed when we first met. She explained how she lived, how she busied herself with the affairs of the village. She and her husband had come to live there after he had retired from his production management job with a large American paper-making company. They had been lucky because he had, over the years, accumulated a sizeable number of stock options and they had turned out to be quite valuable when he had cashed them in.
They had had two children – one was living down south (down south meant anywhere on the other side of the English border) and the other had emigrated to Australia.
I let her prattle on through lunch and, when she went through to fix some coffee I thought to myself what a nice little old lady she was, although she was probably only about ten years older than me. That Purdy was stealing from her was, in my book, disgusting.
When she brought back the coffee we turned to the subject of her investments and AIM.
“That man is definitely a crook,” she announced. “I watched him when you were asking about the ‘missing millions’. He’s a crook, there’s no question about it. I can feel it.”
I smiled at this conclusion which was uttered with such conviction, yet based on little more than female intuition as far as I could tell. But over the years I have discovered that female intuition can be a pretty powerful tool.
“I suspect you’re right but we can’t condemn the man without proof.”
“Why not?” she shot back. “A crook’s a crook.” “Alice, we don’t know yet for sure if he is. That he might be is all we can say at the moment. I and the friend I told you about feel that there is definitely something suspicious and we’ve decided to see if we can find out for sure.”
“That’s good.” She was clearly excited about the idea that this man would get his just desserts.
“So, in the meantime, what do I do about my money?” “I’d move it, if I were you,” I replied. “I can put you in touch with a good trustworthy financial advisor who will plan a proper investment strategy for you. But talk to him first before you move it. Let him handle that. He’s used to it. There may be ways around the penalty clauses. If there are, he’ll find them. What you can do for the moment is write to AIM and ask them how much you would get if you cashed in everything now. Just tell them that you have some important costs coming up and you might need to free up your cash. So you need to know how much you would get back if you sold out.
That will serve two purposes – you’ll be able to show their reply to Jack Thomson, who is the financial advisor, and also it might get Mr Purdy worried. After all, he didn’t like my question and he saw us chatting together after the meeting. He’ll probably put two and two together.”
That was how, sitting quietly in a verandah in a little village in Perthshire, I stuck a red hot poker into a hornet’s nest – but I didn’t know it at the time.
I gave her Jack’s phone number and she agreed to do what I had suggested. I told her I would keep the copies of her paperwork and asked her to send me a copy of whatever reply she received from AIM.
Before I left I asked Alice if she knew of any other people who were AIM investors.
“Only one,” she told me, and gave me a name and address in Perth. A David MacLean.
“He’s an old colleague of my husband’s. They worked for the same company. He retired a few years before Malcolm. But he must be about ninety by now, if he’s still alive.”
I thanked her for the lunch, promised to keep in touch and set off back home.
During the journey home I wondered how I might be able to track down other Alices or Davids. If APA was going to achieve anything we were going to need as much knowledge as we could dig up. Perhaps Steven would have an idea.
Chapter 8
I picked up Pierre at the hotel on Saturday morning and we drove through to Doune for our lunch appointment. I took him the more picturesque route through Glendevon.
The Ochil Hills stretch across that part of Scotland from North Fife to Stirling. They form a natural barrier to the Highlands farther north and Glendevon is one of the few roads piercing them. Driving through the glen is the quickest way to get a feel for the rugged wild country farther north. The road twists its way through the glen and comes out into the last low-lying countryside before you hit the mountains. From the shadow of the steep-sided glen we emerged into blue skies stretching to the north where the ominous grey shapes of the mountains filled the horizon.
We came out at the main road from Perth to Stirling, crossed it, and a few minutes later entered the famous golfing domain of Gleneagles, where we had agreed to meet Mike.
We stopped for enough time for a coffee and to show Pierre what a real golf course looked like. He was completely taken by the magnificent surroundings and we promised we would bring him over to play sometime soon.
We left Gleneagles in the two cars and proceeded towards Doune. Mike had announced that he would have to get back fairly early, because, he told me with a grin, he had “to pick up a photograph”.
The old grey farmhouse stood on the south-facing slope of a small hill. It was protected from the east wind by a copse of trees. We were on the southern fringe of the Highlands. In the distance were the mountain peaks of varying shades of grey and blue, eventually fading with the distance until they merged into the sky.
There were no crops in the surrounding fields. This was not an arable farm. Oliver, my brother-in-law, raised cattle for the meat industry. The fields were grass, populated by young cows, which he bought regularly at the local sales, fattened them up for a year or so and then sold them on to the meat-packing industry. It was a profitable enough business and it had the advantage of not being very labour intensive. He ran about three hundred cattle, buying and selling three or four a week except during the winter when he depleted his stock with sales, and built it up again during the spring.
During the cold months, when the cattle were inside, he needed a young lad to help with the feeding, but other than that he could run the whole place single handed. There had, however, never been very much opportunity for holidays when the kids had been small. Perhaps that is why they had both chosen other careers.
The life suited Heather who had always had a few horses. It was permanently busy but there was little in the way of the stress of city life, the professional politics and the bloody traffic that I had had to put up with all my life.
I had explained all this to Pierre as we had driven through and he was looking forward to meeting them.
I rang the door bell and was immediately rewarded by a pile of noises from inside the house. I say “a pile” because they all seemed to me to be stacked on top of each other.
“I’ll get it” – thump of running feet – “Get off” – “I’m first” – a crash of something falling over – a clunk on the inside of the door – the noise of the handle being wrenched open.
The door was hauled back to reveal two grinning, perspiring faces – Rory, ten and Paddy (Patrick), eight – Heather’s grandsons.
“Hi, Uncle Bob,” they cried in unison. “Hi, Uncle Mike.” “Hi, scamps,” I replied, ruffling their hair. Mike’s welcome was more violent. He lunged forwards and grabbed them both, one under each arm, and promptly turned round and walked over to the pile of grass clippings against the wall and unceremoniously dropped the two squealing boys into it.
“Hi guys,” he said with a grin, and came back to us, rubbing his hands. “That’ll keep them quiet for a while.”
Oliver came to the door to welcome us. Looking round he saw his two grandsons emerging, covered in grass clippings and, with a wink to us, roared at them, “What the blazes do you two think you’re up to?”
“It was him,” they cried, pointing fingers at Mike who was looking a picture of innocence.
“Me? Nonsense.” “Get yourselves cleaned up before you come back in the house.”
They scampered off round the corner, grinning at each other.
Oliver ushered us in through the hall and into the kitchen which was at the back of the house.
Heather looked up and smiled at us from behind a pile of kitchen utensils and food, spread out all over the place. She was in the middle of preparation for lunch.
“Hi guys, you’re early. I haven’t finished all this yet.” She waved her arms vaguely over the work in progress, a wicked looking knife in her hand. “Why don’t you go out the back and Oliver will get you a drink. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Out the back” was a stone-flagged terrace with a large teak table and eight chairs looking out over a small pond off to the left and a view across the carse to the mountains in the distance. The pond was the territory of a few ducks that were gliding around on the surface of the water.
Pierre had followed along behind and before we sat down I introduced him to Oliver as a friend who was staying at Fernie Castle and whom I had met at the golf club.
I had decided to break the news to Heather alone to give her a chance to absorb the shock on her own, rather than in front of Pierre.
I agreed to the beer suggested by Oliver and went back in to see Heather. She was just washing her hands, having finished whatever it was she had been doing. I went over, gave her a hug and signaled her to sit down for a minute.
“So the surprise friend is not female,” she said with a grin. “You had me wondering.”
“No, not female. French, in fact. I’ll introduce him to you in a minute.”
Oliver wandered through clutching several bottles of beer. “We’ll be out in a few minutes,” I called.
“Take your time.” I then proceeded to tell my wee sister about the unexpected visitor I had had the previous week, the dinner we had together and the astonishing news. She listened to the whole story without a word of interruption. When I had finished she looked at me closely.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” “Absolutely not. It’s all true. You can even see a family resemblance from time to time.”
“And you believe this story from someone turning up out of the blue?”
“I really do – and he’s a nice guy. Mike and I have got to know him over the last week and we’ve had a chance to get used to the idea. I have to admit it was a bit of a shock at first. But when you think about, it doesn’t seem an unreasonable story. Apparently he’s not the only person in France of that generation who didn’t know his father. I’m telling you, when he put that photo down on the table in front of me I was completely astounded. It’s a smaller version of exactly the same one as you’ve got hanging in your dining room.”
We explored the business from all angles for a few minutes until Heather seemed to me to be convinced. Finally she got up and said, “Well, I suppose I’d better go and meet him.”
Mike, Oliver and Pierre had migrated over to the duck pond and were chatting amiably, glasses in their hands. They turned as we approached. Pierre must have guessed that Heather had been told. He looked at her rather nervously.
She walked slowly up to him, her keen eyes taking in everything about him. She paused about three feet away, cleared her throat, swallowed and then said in a soft voice, “Bob has just told me.”
Her lips quivered and her eyes started to water. She took a step forward, put her arms round him and said “Welcome.”
She let go of him after a few seconds and stepped back. “It’s a bit of a shock, as you can well imagine, and it’s going to take some getting used to. Come on. Put your beer down and let’s go for a short walk. The lunch can wait a bit. It’s cold stuff anyway.”
She took him by the arm and walked off down the driveway.
Oliver clearly wondered what the hell was going on. He looked at me questioningly, then at Mike, then at his wife and this stranger wandering off down the drive talking to each other.
“Could someone tell me what is going on?” Just then there was a shriek from the house, followed by the emergence of two young boys from the kitchen door dressed in swimming shorts. They pelted past us and plunged into the pond to the vocal disapproval of the sitting tenants. The ducks took off noisily and the boys had the water to themselves.
I looked at Mike. “Why don’t you go off for a short wander and explain to Oliver. I’ll look out for the boys.”
Mike nodded his agreement and he and Oliver went off with their beers in the direction of the horse field. I was left to sit on the bench and babysit while I awaited the return of the family.
When all four had returned and before we all sat down to lunch we agreed that it wouldn’t be right to tell the kids. Heather would organise breaking the news to their mother first.
Lunch was jovial. The food was, as always, excellent. The Pouilly Fuissé was deliciously cold. Jokes about the French cropped up. The kids were boisterous but also curious about a country they had never visited and peppered Pierre with questions which he handled with good humour. He was clearly interested in them and gave as good as he got. Vague plans were discussed about going out to France, although we had not yet mentioned how rich our new brother was.
I was quieter than usual and was more interested in watching Pierre slip into an affectionate relationship with my family. All in all things had gone even better than I had hoped. Pierre was delighted with his new-found sister. After we had finished eating she took him to show him round the farm and introduce him to the horses.
By the middle of the afternoon Mike had left for his evening rendezvous and Oliver, Pierre, Heather and I carried on chattering until Heather proposed that we stay for supper. The main subject was of course Dad and we were able to add still more of the picture to Pierre. He was also able to tell what he knew about that year in France from what he had heard from his mother. We knew almost nothing of that period in Dad’s life.
I drove a very happy Pierre back through to Fife and deposited him at his hotel. We agreed to get together the next day. I still had to tell him about my visit to Alice.
The next morning I was obliged to call Pierre earlier than anticipated.
“Hi, it’s Bob. Morning. Sorry to bother you but could you come over this morning? I think I’ve had a break in at home.”
“What?” “I said that I think someone has been in my house – presumably while we were away yesterday. Can you come over?”
“That sounds crazy. Has anything been taken?” “I don’t think so. That’s what’s so strange.” “Hold on. I’ll be with you in three quarters of an hour.” He arrived fifty minutes later. During the time I was waiting for him I had gone over the house a second time to make sure that nothing was missing. I saw his car draw up outside and went to let him in. He entered, looking concerned. I offered him a drink. While I was pouring a beer he looked around the downstairs looking puzzled.
“If nothing is gone, how do you know there’s been a break in? How did they get in?”
“I haven’t a clue. There are no broken windows or bust locks or anything. If I’m right they were professionals.”
“What do you mean nothing? How do you know someone’s been in here then?”
I explained how, when I had got up and was having my breakfast, I suddenly had a feeling that there was something strange about the house.
“I couldn’t put my finger on it but it troubled me. When I was putting the breakfast things away I noticed a leaf lying on the floor in the kitchen. I absentmindedly picked it up to put it in the rubbish. Then I thought, wait a minute, that’s queer. I’m normally very fastidious about brushing my feet when I come in the back door from the garden. How the hell did this leaf get there? I’m sure it wasn’t there yesterday when I left. I’m sure I would have noticed it.”
“So, what then?” asked Pierre. “I had a look around. Everythin
g seemed normal, but . . .”
I then explained to him how I had gone back into the living room. I had stood in the middle of the floor and scanned the room slowly. It had seemed as usual.
“But you get used to certain things being in certain places when you live on your own. And you know that you’re the only person that can move things.”
“That I understand,” said Pierre. “I have one particular hang up which always used to annoy Liz. I hate pictures that are not exactly horizontal. Sometimes I even check them with a spirit level. Liz thought I was daft but it’s always been something that disturbs me. I’ve even been known, much to her embarrassment, to straighten pictures in other people’s houses, or tell the proprietor of a restaurant that his pictures are squint.”
“What did you notice?” “Dad’s picture, on the wall leading towards the kitchen, was not quite right and that big oil over there of Glencoe that Liz gave me for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was definitely on a slant. How the hell could that have happened?”
I then described to Pierre how slowly the idea had started to percolate into my brain that someone had come into the house while I was out and had been snooping around. Impossible. Crazy. But what if it was true?
I had gone straight to the front door to check if there were any signs of illicit entry. Nothing. I had checked all the windows – upstairs and downstairs. Nothing. The back door, which led off from the kitchen seemed unmolested.
I had concluded that I must be imagining things. Old age catching up with me. Bullshit. I still had all my marbles.
“I even went out the front door and crossed the road to look back at the house, to see if there was anything unusual. All seemed as you would expect it to be. I walked up the lane at the side of the house and looked over into the garden. Still nothing different. The only thing I did notice were fresh-looking car tyre tracks on the verge, as if a car had stopped there. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for that, although not many cars go up the lane because it only leads to Jack Gibson’s farm a mile and a half further on.”