by Zach Abrams
Bracing themselves against the icy breeze, they approached the entranceway and Donny had pressed the doorbell before noticing Sandra indicating the security camera above the door.
After a few seconds they heard a series of clicks and clunks and the door was pulled open. A drift of warm air assaulted them through the opening and they were greeted by a rather small but very dynamic looking man. He was only about five foot six tall with a slight build and receding hairline but he had a presence, an aura that belied his small stature. He appeared to be dressed for summer in lightweight clothes, a bright blue Ralf Lauren Polo, open-necked, short sleeved shirt, beige chinos and comfortable looking loafers. What hair he had on his head was tightly cropped and his neatly manicured beard and moustache did little to camouflage his strong prominent chin. His bright green eyes had an unbelievable depth and intensity, giving the impression of being able to penetrate any covering and see you with x-ray vision. His real presence came from his confident air. Whether because of his wealth, his power or his experience, his persona gave him the ability to dominate his environment. They displayed their identification and he showed them into the house, crossing the hallway where they practically had to wade through the deep pile, wool carpet. After braving the cold outside, the very warm, temperature controlled hallway felt oppressive, and Sandra and Donny both quickly shed their outer garments and carried them over their arms.
The walls were very smooth and golden in colour giving the appearance of being painted with gold leaf and they were further adorned by classically styled paintings in expensive frames. Sandra was disappointed not to have been accompanied by Alex as she was confident he would have recognised and been able to give her commentary on the artists. They passed a huge glass display cabinet which held a large number of ivory carvings. Seeing her gazing through the glass, Ballantyne advised her that his wife collected a range of oriental works, antiques and antiquities and what they were looking at was her collection of netsukes and okimonos. The terminology meant nothing to her but she took careful note to check on what he had said and wondered at the coincidence of Ballantyne's wife collecting antiques, with a special interest in ivory, given Stevenson's profession and the way he had been killed. They walked past other display cases which held ancient looking pottery and figures. There were several standing figures of people or horses and a large cocoon-shaped jar. Some of the figures were terracotta coloured while others were painted and the jar was grey with some faded painted symbols on the outside. Sandra gazed through the glass, enthralled. She remembered seeing similar items when she had visited the Burrell Galleries at Pollock Park. Ballantyne explained they were Chinese and of different ages, the large jar dated back to 200 BC and the Han dynasty, the figures were less than half as old being from the Tang and Ming dynasties.
“Are they real? Shouldn't they be in a museum?” Sandra enquired. “They must be worth a fortune. Aren't you concerned to keep such old and valuable items in your house?”
Ballantyne answered the questions in turn, “They are real and although valuable, not excessively so. Antiques of one or two hundred years of age are very often worth more than these ancient pieces. They are worth a few hundred or a few thousand pounds each. There are quite a lot of them around, although it's rare to find them in such good condition as in China sometimes they're searched for using an excavator. Very often museums show broken pieces because they don't think visitors would believe that the complete ones are real. Your reaction confirms the point.”
“A couple of years ago, I went on a tour of China and I visited the Great Wall and saw the terracotta warriors and some of these figures look like miniature versions.”
“You're right,” Ballantyne answered. “Many of these are funerary pieces…”
“Ahem!” McAvoy interrupted. “This is all very interesting but we have some urgent business to deal with which I think we need to attend to first.”
If looks could have killed then McAvoy's wife would have been immediately able to claim her widow's pension as Sandra glared at him while she struggled to contain her fury at his outburst. She knew he was right but felt quite affronted to be interrupted in this way and particularly by a subordinate officer. “I'd love to talk about this some more but my colleague is right and we'd better deal with business first.”
They walked on further along the hallway and through to the back then out to a modern glass extension which was filled with exotic plants and classically styled, cane, conservatory furniture. He bade them to sit.
“Now what's this all about?” Ballantyne enquired once they had settled.
“We're investigating the death of Scott Stevenson,” Sandra replied. “We want you to tell us everything you know about him.”
“Scott Stevenson? I don't think I know that name.”
McAvoy showed him a photograph. “This man.”
Ballantyne face froze for a fraction of a second and then he blinked a couple of times and replied, “No, I don't think I've seen him before.”
“Not the sort of face, you'd forget,” McAvoy probed.
“No indeed. He looks a little bit familiar, but I can't place him. No, I'm sure I'd have remembered. I don't think I know him.”
“Let's see if I can help,” McAvoy tried again. “He's an antique dealer with a shop near the University, just off Great Western Road?”
“Ah, maybe that's it. Margaret, my wife takes me around all the antique shops, looking for her precious finds. I must have seen him in one of them.”
McAvoy was really enjoying baiting the man. He couldn't hide his smile as he placed three more photographs in front of Ballantyne. “This might also help your memory. We believe Stevenson was responsible for these photographs and that he was using them to blackmail you.” The photographs were very explicit and showed Ballantyne indulging in sexual activity with a young looking girl. In the first he was partially clothed, his trousers and underpants pulled down below his knees and the girl holding his erect penis in front of her open mouth. In the second and third pictures, Ballantyne and the girl were both completely naked and engaged in coitus, one was with Ballantyne on top of the girl and in the other she was sitting astride him. There could be no ambiguity about Ballantyne being the one photographed or about what was going on. It was the same girl in all three photos. She was pretty and looked to be aged about twenty with long dark hair and a very attractive figure.
Ballantyne looked at the photos for a few seconds and then looked down at the floor. His commanding presence betrayed him and for the first time he gave the impression of being small and frail, his shoulders slumped and turned in and his hands shook.
“It's not what you think,” he said in little more than a whisper.
“It seldom is, or so we're told,” McAvoy was clearly enjoying himself.
“No, you don't understand. I can't deny that's me, and yes, it was stupid but I was never blackmailed. I was approached but it never came to anything.”
“Okay, I think you need to explain,”
“Right, I met the girl and spent the night with her. We had a good time together. It wasn't just sex. She's an intelligent girl and we enjoyed talking together. It was all consensual, nothing illegal. We were even talking about meeting up again and going to the theatre. Then your man Stevenson turned up. I didn't know his name. He came to my office and told my secretary he needed to see me. He claimed he had a special delivery package which was for addressee only. He came in and showed me the photos. He said he wanted money. I refused. He said he'd go to the papers, the gutter press. I told him to do his worst. He said I was a public figure and he'd find someone to pay. He claimed he would damage my business and destroy my marriage unless I paid up so I'd better do what he said. I told him to 'sod off,' because he couldn't harm my business. I'm the majority shareholder so I couldn't be ousted and there was no basis for it anyway. The worst that could be claimed was that I cheated on my wife. I told him Margaret and I have an open marriage and he couldn't harm that. The only thing he cou
ld do was cause a bit of embarrassment and that didn't warrant me paying him a ransom. He said we'd see and then walked out, leaving me copies of the photos and said he's contact me again later. That was four months ago and I never heard from him again.”
“Why didn't you report this to the police?”
“I thought about it but what could you have done? I didn't have any evidence and, as I said, it could have been embarrassing if word got out. I wasn't completely bluffing but maybe I did overplay my hand a little. I didn't want everyone to know I'd been so stupid. I told Margaret what had happened, I had to warn her, in case there was a story in the newspapers, but he never did anything. She wasn't too happy as you can imagine, but life goes on and we're still together. Stevenson never came back, maybe he was saving it, wanting to make me sweat, to come back and try again later, but it never happened. What's going to happen now? Will it all become public?”
“We can't make any promises but we've no plans to say anything. Mind you, you did withhold evidence which you had a duty to tell us. If we'd known, we'd have been able to crack down on Stevenson and maybe have saved some other victims.”
“So he's being doing this to others?”
“We can't comment on that. Now what can you tell us about the girl? What was her name? And how did you meet her?”
“Her name's Sophie. Sophie Baxter. She's twenty-one and in her honours year studying biochemistry. That's what she told me and it sounded credible. She knew what she was talking about when it came to Science.”
“You still haven't told us how you met?”
“That's a little bit more embarrassing. I sometimes get a bit lonely. It sounds strange when I've been so successful and I'm wealthy but sometimes it's hard to find someone to talk to. I mean someone to have intelligent conversation with. Quite often I go on the net. I use it for business of course but sometimes I just use it for relaxation, just to talk to people on blogs or in chat-rooms, occasionally through the day, but more often in the middle of the night.
“Anyway, here's the sad part. I logged into a site called 'Alone in Glasgow.' I'd been on it a few times but this time, a few months ago, I got speaking to someone who turned out to be Sophie. We got chatting and we just seemed to hit it off. She knew I was older right from the start, but she didn't care and I sure as hell wasn't complaining. She talked about often being attracted to older men, an Electra complex maybe? I suppose I thought it was more likely an attraction to my money and my power, it's happened before. And while I'm not proud of it, I suppose I find it quite flattering, a pretty young thing like her wanting to talk to me and even spend time with me. It was all on the internet and the relationship developed, if I can call it a relationship. The conversation started getting quite risqué and then we exchanged photos and even spoke to each other with webcams. It was like having an affair without ever meeting. Then we took the next step. We arranged to meet, just for a coffee, at the Costa in Sauchiehall Street. It was only for an hour or so but we got on like a house on fire. She leaned across the table and touched my hand. It was like an electric shock, I was like a teenager again. I was all pins and needles. She was wearing a light fruity perfume and she had the smell of fresh soap, I could almost taste it. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to have her. I needed it. She said she felt the same way. I suggested that I could get us a hotel room but she refused. She said it was too clichéd, too sordid. She said she had a friend with a flat and she'd arrange to borrow it and she'd get the keys. We arranged it for the following night. I was thrilled, like a schoolboy, as I said. We met at seven in the evening and she'd prepared us a light supper and we drank sparkling wine. You know the rest, you've seen the photos. We spent the night together and I left in the morning. We were meant to meet again the following week but it never happened. Instead I had the meeting with Stevenson.
“At first I was angry. I wondered what he'd done with Sophie but he just laughed at me and told me he wanted money to stay quiet. Then it made sense. I felt such a fool. I'd been set up. I'd been groomed into the relationship to set me up for blackmail. I was still angry, but more at myself for my stupidity and for letting myself fall into their trap. My own vanity lured me into it.” Tears of frustration were welling up in Ballantyne' eyes.
“When did all this happen?” Sandra asked.
“It was over the course of about three or four weeks and it ended about the end of May. I'm sure it was in early June Stevenson came to see me. I know it was just before I was due to present at a seminar in Southampton, because I was tempted to cancel, but in the end I didn't.”
“Where was the flat you met at?” McAvoy enquired.
“It was one of the new flats at the Glasgow Harbour development, just off South Street. I remember being quite impressed that Sophie was able to borrow one of those flats for the night. Of course it makes more sense now.”
“Was this the address?” Sandra asked, handing Ballantyne a piece of paper showing the address of the flat which Stevenson owned.
“Yes, that's it, Sophie phoned me with the address and I went there and she buzzed me in. I went up in the lift and she was there waiting for me.”
“This flat was owned by Scott Stevenson.”
“That adds up now.”
“Mr Ballantyne, can you please tell us where you were between the hours of twelve and six pm on Thursday the third of November?”
“I was working from home. I have an office next door, I can show you. I'd been working on an NHS tender that was due in on Friday.”
“Have you anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”
“I'm not certain. I think Margaret was in part of the day and you can check that I submitted the tender on Friday.”
“Were you at home the whole time?” McAvoy probed.
“Nearly, I ran a couple of errands. I went to the post office at one point and in the late afternoon, I drove out to Edinburgh to hand-deliver the document before the deadline.”
“Is there anything else you might want to tell us?” Sandra enquired.
“No, I think that's it,” Ballantyne replied.
“Okay, Mr Ballantyne, thank you for all your assistance, you have been most helpful. We may need to come back to check out some more details but that will do us for now.”
A rather contrite Martyn Ballantyne walked Sandra and Donny to the front door and out to their car. “If this can be kept out of the public eye, I'd be most grateful. Although she already knows about it, I'd like to avoid Margaret from suffering as a result of my indiscretions. I don't mind incurring the humiliation. Well, I do mind but I can stand it. I'd rather that she didn't have to.” He shook hands with them both and turned back into the house.
“Will I need my travel sick pills again or are you a bit more relaxed for the journey back?” Donny enquired as they turned back onto the road.
Sandra did not reply for a few seconds until she had manoeuvred the vehicle round the first bend of the driveway and then floored the brake pedal. “You impertinent bastard! I'll give you something more to worry about. Don't you ever speak to a superior officer the way you did to me back there in the house. Do you understand me? You may not be far off your retirement but any more of that and it could happen a lot sooner than you want and without your full pension. I was just putting Ballantyne at his ease, letting him talk casually about what interested him so he'd be more likely to open up when interviewed and you bloody jump in with both feet.” Sandra was bluffing, she knew she'd been allowing her pre-interview chat to ramble because she was interested to find out more about the antiquities but she was furious at McAvoy's impudence. She was aware of his prejudices and knew he would never have acted that way with a male officer. She wanted to place a marker to ensure he knew it was unacceptable and so he didn't think he could get away with bullying her.
“Sorry, Sarg,” he muttered, not very convincingly.
“We've got enough to contend with without you being unhelpful. Now let's think about work.” Sandra started to summarise, “We know
a lot more now. We know how Stevenson worked his little operation. Next, we want access to the flat to see what we can find, and we want to get more information on that website and see how he's done it. There was nothing found on Stevenson's computers so he must have been using another one or getting Gordon Black to do it for him. That's quite likely as it was Black's specialism.”
“I'm not so sure Ballantyne is completely in the clear either,” Donny interrupted. “Too much of a coincidence his wife collects antiques, and ivory in particular, and then Stevenson happens to pick on him as a victim. Maybe they had a run in at some time and Stevenson targeted Ballantyne to get revenge. Maybe Ballantyne didn't like that and did away with him. Ballantyne is a scientist. He knows all about forensics, he'd have known how to cover up so as not to leave evidence.”
“Your imagination's having a bit of a stretch there, isn't it? You're right, to keep an open mind, but really? Sure he had motive, he doesn't have an alibi so there could be opportunity, but look at the actual killing. Ballantyne is a puny little rat, his feet certainly wouldn't be a size eleven and he could never have wielded the tusk with the power that was used. God, I'm stronger than him.”
“You're stronger and more scary than half the men I know,” Donny replied with a bit of a sneer.
The words could have been accepted as a compliment but Sandra knew they weren't intended to be taken in that way. She had an uncomfortable working relationship with McAvoy. She knew he was narrow and still lived in a past when coppers were nearly all men and the few women making up numbers were never taken seriously. His chauvinism was reluctant to accept women working in any responsible positions. Having to work with women was bad enough, but following Sandra's promotion, he often had to work for her and the atmosphere could be uncomfortable.
She knew better than to let him get away with his jibes and quietly responded to his quip, “You'd better believe it.”
Much of the remainder of the afternoon was a frustrating waste of time as they tried to find people who could give them access to the records of the University and the halls of residence, hoping to track down photos of Gordon Black. Being Sunday, no one they needed was at their offices and they had no luck tracking them down at home. They tried on the off chance of finding him at the Otago Street address, but they were no more fortunate there. They spent some time writing up their files and following a sequence of dead-end leads. Before he could leave for the night, Sandra gave Donny the task of sending an email to Alex to bring him up to date. Then she herself left to meet up with Sanjay.