by Nick Elliott
After a few minutes a man entered introducing himself as Mr Johnstone. We shook hands. He was thin, neatly dressed, in his late fifties with a politely condescending air about him.
‘I understand you would be seeking your father’s papers deposited here by your uncle back in 1992? Am I correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you mind me asking the reasons for your request, Mr McKinnon? No disrespect of course but…’ He had that manner common to those in his line of work to whom distrust comes naturally.
‘No, not at all.’ I didn’t so long as he didn’t mind me not telling him the truth. ‘I’m compiling a family history. I know so little and yet it’s such a fascinating story. They were out in the Far East for generations. It all goes back to the early part of the last century when my great grandfather went to Hong Kong. He found work as a shipping clerk…’ I leaned forward, ready to go on.
‘Yes, quite so,’ he said interrupting me by standing up. ‘It sounds quite fascinating. Shall we pop down to the vaults and see what we can find then?’
I followed him out of the room, along the corridor and through a door that he unlocked. We descended a staircase into another corridor at the end of which was a large steel-fronted door with a wheel at its centre. Johnstone turned it to select the correct combination. Having done so, he swung it open using his body weight as a lever.
‘Concrete,’ he explained. The steel’s just the casing.’ Beyond this was a gate of steel railings which he also unlocked. We stepped inside. I was half expecting to see rows of gold bars. Instead there were just rows of steel drawers.
‘Let’s see now,’ said Johnstone. He found the drawer he was looking for, unlocked it and pulled out a large grey safety deposit box which he presented rather formally to me. ‘There,’ he said. ‘You take that while I lock up here.’
Back outside the vault I was invited to place the box on a table in the corridor. Johnstone gave me a set of two identical keys. ‘These are for you, to be kept safe,’ he added with a little smile. ‘Now, if you’d place one of them in this lock here.’ I did as I was told and turned the key. Then he did the same inserting another key into another lock. There was a click and the box was open.
‘Now, I’d better lock up here, eh?’ he said allowing himself a little laugh for making such a blindingly obvious point, ‘and we’ll take this back upstairs where you can peruse the contents at your leisure, Mr McKinnon. And Morag will get you a cup of tea.’
Upstairs Johnstone took his leave and I asked the receptionist for a coffee. ‘Black with one sugar please, Morag. Biscuits too if you have any.’
Morag appeared with the coffee and a digestive biscuit. ‘Only one biscuit, Morag?’
She looked flustered. ‘I’ll find you another one if you’d like? Have you not just had your breakfast?’
‘Another one or two would be most welcome thank you, Morag.’ She brought me three.
The box contained a large buff envelope, nothing more. I pulled out the contents. There was a note from my uncle and various papers which I glanced at. The note was scrawled in his handwriting which I remembered so well. It simply said: “Angus old boy, if and when...”
There were also three notebooks. Each had a blue cardboard cover with the year written neatly in the top right corner. I placed them on the table in date order. The last one was marked 1972. Two of the books had water stains in the bottom corner. On one of these there was a residue of what looked like mud. I ran my finger across the cover’s gritty surface. I put them back in the envelope without opening them.
***
‘Not coming down for dinner tonight?’ the girl at Reception asked when I ordered food to be brought to my room.
‘Work,’ I said. I’d have preferred some human contact instead of the task that lay ahead. My father’s three notebooks lay on the desk defying me to open them. The food arrived: haggis, neeps and tatties and a bottle of Bobbie Burns Shiraz that the receptionist had recommended. ‘It goes well with the haggis I’m told,’ she’d said, ’even if it is from Australia.’
The 1970 journal contained various case notes none of which followed any standard police crime reports I’d ever seen. There were no personal or domestic references either and at first I wondered why he’d bothered to record cases which surely would have been written up at his office according to official protocols. But I soon realised these were “cases” he chose, for whatever reason, not to record officially. Whether he was in breach of police regulations I wasn’t sure but I suspected he was. They covered all sorts of misdemeanours committed by subordinate police officers which it seemed he'd chosen to overlook. Often, they were recorded in a dry, humorous way. He had a fine sense of irony and I warmed to his style. He must have been a tolerant boss considering some of the things his junior colleagues got up to. Women, drugs and, in the case of the expatriate officers, alcohol, all featured prominently.
But it wasn’t until I reached March 1971 in the second journal that I found what I was looking for. The entries read:
“24/3 – Jim G called. Tim Younger from South China Banking wants to talk about suspected advance payment con. Off the books. Meet TY Saturday.”
I’d already discovered that Jim G was Assistant Commissioner James Graham, several ranks above my father, but from previous references I gathered the two were friends and trusted one another.
“27/3 – Seen similar cases before. Thinking of the charter-party scam on a local shipowner who should have known better. Always depend on greed and gullibility of victim. This one’s different. Younger thinks it’s a scam but not so sure. Never heard a story like it. Filipino named Santos with Yakuza connections wants to use SCB to monetise gold looted by Japs and promising TY 1pct commission! TY says first consignment is from Sinclair Buchan ship sunk during the war. And more to follow from secret stashes in Japan and the Philippines - Santos was talking billions. TY says Santos will contact him in a week to see if he wants to play. Left no name or contact - naturally. Said I’d look at it. Starting with young Monty Buchan. I know he’s looking for the Lady Monteith and the gold he thinks is on board – never a thought for the poor bastards who drowned when she was sunk.”
So my father had got the bare bones of the story from a banker called Tim Younger. But it was another four months into the journal before I found the next entry relating to the case.
“15/7 – Can’t believe it. I get nothing from Buchan on the Jap gold case then Younger calls. Met in Dragon Boat Bar last night. He says Lady Monteith is Site 176 – last on a list of Golden Lily sites. He even has wreck location. Says he’s playing along with Santos contact telling him the gold can be exchanged for cash, bonds, etc. in Bombay or Cochin. Indian buyers would need to see what they were getting before making an offer. Warned him risk he was taking could land him in trouble. Wants me to play along as the crooked cop who can grease the wheels. No way. Or is there? I’ll talk to Jim.”
Was this my father succumbing to temptation or what? I poured myself more of Bobby Burns’ Shiraz and read on, enthralled. This time there was a gap of just a fortnight.
“1/8 Bloody hot. Aircon not coping. Jim reckons if Younger wants to run with this, let him. It can stay off the books so long as RHKP see no evidence of fraud on bank’s part.”
I carried on reading. Interesting though it was, I found no further reference to Site 176, Golden Lily, the Yakuza or Tim Younger of South China Banking. Either my father had dropped the case like a hot potato or he’d decided not to record anything further on it.
The final entry in the 1972 journal contained no case notes but was tragically prescient. It was dated 16 June:
“This rain – when will it stop. It’s no place to be.”
Two days after this we were all swept down the hillside in a torrent of mud and rubble. I drank the rest of the wine and went to bed. It was hours before I slept.
Chapter 13
Had my father known the location of the wreck? Had he noted the coordinates elsewhere? I’d n
ever know. But at some point in the night it occurred to me that, besides Ronnie Eastfield, there were others who might know something more of the history of this bizarre case.
Catriona, the receptionist, asked how I'd enjoyed the wine. I told her it was delicious. ‘So it’s a full Scottish for you this morning is it?’
I appreciated her cheerful invitation to sample the Scots’ proprietary take on the full English breakfast but declined. Instead I went for a walk to collect my thoughts from the previous night.
‘Someone called looking for you,’ Catriona declared on my return. ‘Do you not carry your mobile with you?’
‘I left it in my room. Who was it?’ In fact I'd ditched my mobile phone for fear that it might be used to track my whereabouts. I was now using burner phones.
She wrote a name and number on a pad and handed it to me. ‘She said her name was Morag. Is she your girlfriend like?’
‘No she is not, Catriona.’ I looked at the note: Morag McRae, Firth Bank, and the number. I went back to my room and called her on the landline.
‘Oh, Mr McKinnon, how are you this morning?’
‘I'm fine thanks, Morag. I believe you called.’
‘Yes, that's right. Mr Johnstone asked me to get in touch. He'd like a word, if you’d hold on.’ She put me through.
‘Mr McKinnon. Good morning to you. I'll get straight to the point if I may?’ He stopped talking.
‘Yes, please go ahead.’
‘Right, yes. Well, I owe you an apology, sir. A complete oversight on my part I’m afraid. The items your uncle left: there is something else, a further item which was kept in another drawer in our vault. We have one area for documents you see and another for items of a different nature and value.’
‘And?’ I asked after he’d paused again.
‘Well, would it be possible for you to call by and collect this further item? I’d rather not describe it over the telephone you understand.’
Curious, I took a taxi back to Dundas Street. ‘Well now, Mr McKinnon. How nice to see you back again so soon.’ Morag was animated this morning, considerably less prim than on our last meeting. ‘Mr Johnstone is in a meeting but he has authorised me to take you down to the vault today and young Kirsty will look after Reception while we’re down below. We’re rather busy today.’
Young Kirsty duly appeared and Morag led me back down to the vault.
What she produced from another box larger than the one my father’s notebooks had been contained in, was a revelation. Folded inside a soft black cloth was a small statue no more than five inches high. I weighed it in my hand. It was heavy. It was either gold or gold plated, perhaps over brass or some other metal. The statue was a seated Buddha with its right hand raised and facing outwards.
Morag was fidgeting. ‘Excuse me for saying so, Mr McKinnon, but this is a very interesting piece. I must say. If you’ll forgive me, I am really quite fascinated in the subject of Buddhism.’
This was a different Morag altogether. She was captivated. ‘Clearly, this is a Protection Buddha. The raised right hand symbolically represents a shield you see, and its second meaning, overcoming fear, is closely related to that of protection since one who is receiving protection would be less fearful, do you see? This statue signifies courage and offers protection from fear, delusion and anger. It looks Chinese to me, from Yunnan maybe – certainly southern China.’
‘I’m impressed, Morag. Do you know how old it is by any chance, or what it’s made from?’
‘Ah now, there I can’t be of much help I’m afraid.’ She held out her hand and I passed the statue to her. Holding it close to her face she peered over her glasses at it. ‘See here where the gold plate has begun to wear off on the back, just ever so slightly mind. I couldn’t tell you for sure but it looks to me like it was cast in silver beneath the gold plate. As to its age, I’d say it is old, really quite old.’
‘How old would you guess?’
‘Well now, don’t hold me to this. There are others better qualified, but certainly over a hundred years. I’d get it assessed if I were you. As to its value, I really couldn’t say. I rather think its worth is more sentimental for you is it not?’
‘Yes, you’re right. Thanks, Morag. I’ll take it with me for now.’
‘Aye, well if you want it kept safe, you know where to come.’
And with that I signed for it, we parted and I returned to the hotel.
***
The two men my father had mentioned in his notes were Jim Graham and Tim Younger. Graham’s name appeared online but only in a brief obituary in the South China Morning Post from four years earlier. He’d died in New Zealand to where he’d retired. I was luckier with Younger. He had retired from the bank years before but his name appeared in a story from six months ago in The Scotsman. Younger, it seemed, was alive and well and living in Perthshire.
The story covered the opening of a new cattle mart and Sir Timothy Younger of Canmore had performed the honours. Canmore was his 2,000 acre estate in the hills north of Pitlochry. Unable to find a phone number or email address I decided to pay him a visit.
I'd hired a car, a Jaguar, my reasoning being that if I sensed I was being followed I could shake off my tail in something fast, so I told myself. Against that of course was the fact that the Jag was more conspicuous. But after my encounter with Oddjob and the video of Zoe they’d shown me, I wasn’t taking chances. If I was followed to Younger’s place they could, after I’d left, force the coordinates out of him. This seemed unlikely since with Zoe held to ransom they knew I would willingly surrender the wreck’s location in return for her liberty. Indeed, to force this case to a conclusion, it was crucial that they did learn the wreck’s whereabouts, the sooner the better. So after weighing the balance of probabilities, I settled on the Jag.
I took a circuitous route via Loch Tay stopping along the way, but at no point in the journey did I sense I had company, except for the little Buddha statue on the seat beside me.
Younger’s Canmore estate was up a B road some miles north of Pitlochry. The sign at the old stone gates said West Port. There was a lodge inside to the left of the gates. Despite a light rain that had begun to fall, washing was hanging out in the garden. I pulled up and got out of the car as an elderly man appeared in the porch of the cottage.
‘Aye?’ His manner was neither friendly nor hostile.
‘I've come to visit Sir Timothy.’
He eyed me and the car at some length. ‘Are you expected?’
‘I'd like you to tell him I'm here. He was a friend of my father - Kenneth McKinnon.’
‘Aye, I'll call the house for you.’ He went back inside. It was fifteen minutes before he reappeared. ‘Just go on up to the house then.’
I drove for half a mile or so through rolling parkland scattered with huge oaks and sycamores that must have been there for a hundred years or more. Herdwick sheep grazed alongside shaggy Highland cattle. The house appeared, framed artfully between the trees, a white, turreted baronial pile somewhere between Medieval castle and French Renaissance chateau, a style much favoured in Scotland.
A woman was waiting, dwarfed by the huge wooden door. I guessed she was the man’s wife from the lodge. They were of an age. I wondered what she’d say if she knew he hadn’t brought the washing in. She ushered me indoors.
Younger was standing in front of a large stone fireplace occupied by a log fire which blazed and crackled. He was lighting his pipe. His glasses reflected the light from the fire making it difficult at first to see his eyes. He must have been well into his eighties. His corduroy trousers were worn at the knees and his cardigan looked moth-eaten.
He extinguished the match by waving it around in the air then used the match box to pack down the tobacco as he sucked on the stem of the pipe to ensure successful combustion. Sparks flew out onto the rug. He stamped on them aggressively but I could see many small black holes where the same thing had happened. I waited while he completed this ritual then stepped forward to introdu
ce myself.
‘I apologise for arriving unannounced. I couldn’t find your phone number.’
We shook hands. ‘You look like your father. I suppose people have told you that?’
‘My uncle said I did.’ Ronnie Eastfield had too but I wasn’t going to bring his name into the conversation.
‘Same shaped head. Same build.’ He spoke in a distracted way as if disoriented. I sensed he was a little senile.
He gestured to an armchair beside the fire and settled himself down opposite me.
‘So, what can I do for you? You’ll not have come all this way to discuss old times.’
‘Actually, I have,’ I said, taking a direct approach. I feared if I didn’t his mind would wander. ‘Did you ever learn the exact location of the wreck? The Lady Monteith?
‘Bad business,’ he mumbled. ‘So many dead. Your whole family.’ He was talking about the landslide now, not the victims of the Lady Monteith sinking. I tried again.
‘Yes, but the Lady Monteith: do you remember that case? Golden Lily’s site 176, do you know where the wreck lies?’
The woman had brought in tea and biscuits.
‘What? Oh, yes of course. Another bad business. These things trouble you more as you get older you know. They don’t fade with time. Not for me anyway. Yes, I know exactly where the damn thing lies.’ He looked at me, a sideways look and I wondered if he was really as dotty as he seemed.
‘You’d better tell me what this is all about, eh?’
So I told him a version of the facts leaving out the IMTF and Alastair Marshall’s death. I described the cold case I’d been assigned by the CMM, of Buchan’s determination to claim the cargo, of my encounter with Nakamura on the Toyama Maru, their threat against Zoe and of my father’s notebooks which led me to where I was now sitting.
‘Yes, a rum business if ever there was. So young Monty Buchan wants to claim the treasure he thinks is on board and replenish his bank account, but where the devil does Dark Ocean fit in? You say they’re helping Buchan salvage the cargo but not just to see him rescue his ailing business surely. They were never noted for their altruism. If they were just a bunch of Yakuza hoodlums I wouldn’t be so worried but as you say, they have an ultra-nationalist agenda.