‘We’re not here to blackmail you, Mr Weir,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘We’re just trying to get to the truth. Who was the dealer?’
Weir swallowed.
‘Sammy Finnegan.’
The name didn’t mean anything to Jasmine, but Fallan let out a wry chuckle that suggested he understood why this was a flag Weir wasn’t happy to wave.
‘He was the final member of the team at Kildrachan. He was a joiner, to trade, and Darius brought him along as set-builder on a cash-in-hand basis. Sammy was a very cash-in-hand kind of guy. He wasn’t a bad chippy, but that wasn’t why he was hired. He was Darius’s dealer and principal drug buddy. He had connections in Glasgow and drove down to score new stuff when he needed it.’
‘You knew him?’ she asked Fallan.
‘Showbiz Sam,’ he replied. ‘Cultivated a niche market that was about quality over quantity, and I mean the quality of the customer and therefore what he could charge them because he guaranteed discretion and reliability. He sold to people who couldn’t afford to be caught scoring off some wee ned in a nightclub.’
‘Sells,’ corrected Weir. ‘Present tense. Which is why it wouldn’t help me to point out that my involvement with him was thirty years ago. He supplies drugs at the high end of the market. Discretion assured, yes, but if people find out I’ve a connection to a guy like that, then innuendo would take care of the rest. As far as anyone knows, he could have been quietly supplying me for decades.’
‘He was also known as Snobby Sam,’ Fallan added. ‘He was effete and pretentious, which in that game you can’t get away with unless you’re also hard as nails and have a couple of guys on your payroll who are also hard as nails. He’d a genuine taste for culture, though. Other folk couldn’t muscle in on his market because they couldn’t move in the same circles, didn’t know how to speak the language.’
‘He learned that at Kildrachan,’ Weir said. ‘When he first showed up he’d have thought Chekhov was just a bloke in Star Trek. Now I gather he’s quite a fixture on the scene: all the opening nights, all the gallery exhibitions, a reputable patron of the arts, a respectable family man who’s on first-name terms with all the movers and shakers.’
‘Movers and shakers such as Murray Maxwell, perhaps?’ Jasmine suggested.
‘I didn’t say that. Murray certainly partook back then, but we all did. A few spliffs to wind down with, a bit of speed if we were wanting to work on something through the night. Darius was into his trips, though: always interested in altered states. He was fascinated by what transforms consciousness, what makes you who you are, whether if you alter the mind you alter the person so that it’s someone else inside the same body: the same themes he explored in his movies.’
‘And how did Hamish feel about all this going on in his house?’ Jasmine asked.
‘All right at first. He didn’t mind a bit of blow, and I think he’d have been okay as long as he knew his family were out of the country, but it was Tessa who really objected. It was getting in the way of the work, and if she wasn’t happy, Hamish wasn’t happy. She and Sammy ended up having a stand-up argument in which there was only ever going to be one winner. Hamish fired him, part of a doomed last-ditch attempt to hold everything together and get the rehearsals back on track. That’s why the police never found any drugs: Sammy was gone, which was another reason everybody went for it that night. We were blowing what was left because we knew the party was over.’
The Fugitive
Catherine’s hackles were well-risen by the time she had made it from the front entrance of the Royal Scottish Bank’s ostentatiously plush Edinburgh headquarters to the reception desk on the far side of the lobby, across an expanse of marble floor larger than her garden. Clearly not everybody was quite so struck by the building’s interior splendour as management would like, as there was scaffolding up on two sides as part of a controversial multi-million-pound refit. Having been bailed out by the taxpayer to the tune of eleven figures, in their chastened state it was heartening to see the banks embracing a new era of corporate austerity. We were, let’s not forget, all in this together.
Looking at the opulence of her surroundings, she couldn’t help but think of the condition of most police stations she’d been in recently, and more to the point the state of Duncan and Fraser’s school. It was a flimsy eighties-built one-storey structure that looked like a temporary building-site headquarters, an effect enhanced recently by a proliferation of men in hard hats who had concluded that the place was literally falling apart.
Mustn’t go down that road, though, she thought. That’s the ‘politics of envy’. If anybody in this country ever deserved a slap in the dish with a dead salmon, it was whichever smug and spoiled little prick came up with that one. Execs were trousering bonuses of several million pounds, even for the years in which their companies had recorded a huge loss, while freezing wages down the line where they weren’t simply laying people off. But if you pointed out the inequity of this, that phrase was their catch-all comeback.
She thought of the joke Drew had told her the night before, when she informed him of the next morning’s first port of call.
A banker, an asylum seeker and a Daily Mail reader get shipwrecked and end up floating on a raft with nothing but a ten-pack of Mars bars to sustain them. The banker announces that he is an expert in resource management and so for everyone’s good he should take charge of the food. He proceeds to open the pack and stuffs nine of them into his mouth. Once he’s swallowed the last he gives the remaining bar to the Daily Mail reader, saying: ‘I’d keep my eye on that asylum seeker, if I were you. He’ll be after your chocolate.’
‘My name is Catherine McLeod,’ she said. ‘I’m here to see Gavin Shields, your head of marketing.’
The receptionist glanced at her computer screen, scrolling with her mouse, then fixed Catherine with a polite but steely stare.
‘I can’t see any appointment listed for today. Are you sure he’s expecting you?’
‘I’m pretty sure he’s not,’ Catherine replied, producing her warrant card. ‘But why don’t you phone upstairs and see if he can squeeze me in.’
Gavin Shields’ office looked north, with a view of the castle to the left and Princes Street Gardens spread out beneath at the foot of the Mound. Catherine guessed that you could see across to Fife on a clear day.
He had escorted her inside without delay, and had his secretary offer her freshly brewed tea or coffee. She wasn’t thirsty, but accepted, wanting to give the impression this was little more than a polite visit. When you say no to the drinks, they know they’re in trouble.
Shields was putting on a false face too, but in his inexperience he’d chosen the wrong one. He was being friendly and cooperative, polite to the point of solicitous. From the moment he’d come down to the lobby – in person – he’d been acting like her visit was no imposition, or if it was, that he entirely understood the importance of it and was extending his assistance accordingly.
A busy man who had done nothing wrong would have every right to seem just a little miffed at having the police show up unannounced and insinuate themselves into his working day. A man with nothing to hide, and who had already given the police a statement, might betray a hint of resentment that they were back for more on his time, as opposed to theirs.
Of course, it was always possible she was misreading this, due to having failed to factor in bank executives’ natural humility.
‘Did you know Hamish Queen?’ she asked him.
‘No, not personally. I’d only ever met him once before the other night.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Same place, same circumstances. A previous trip to Cragruthes for the moonlight Shakespeare thing. It was, let me think, 2007.’
‘Did he have a connection with the bank? Was there a reason he was there on the same night as your corporate booking?’
‘No connection that I’m aware of. Just coincidence. I’m told he came to one performance of the moonlit play each
summer. Chances were we’d cross paths, as we’ve had at least one trip every year since it started.’
‘At least one?’
‘Yes. It’s a very popular event. There have been years when we’ve had multiple outings. We’ve cut it back to one since the, er, late unpleasantness.’
‘We’ve all had to tighten our belts,’ Catherine said, trying to keep the pH of her voice not too far below seven.
If Shields picked up on the dig he wasn’t going to show it. He was too intent on being the cooperative witness.
‘I’m guessing that made the places all the more coveted,’ she suggested. ‘A Wonka’s golden ticket.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Shields. ‘I realise some people would make a fuss about us spending five hundred pounds a head on a hospitality junket, but that’s what Oscar Wilde was talking about when he said people knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. You’ve no idea how valuable a trip such as this one is in terms of keeping business flowing.’
‘So who decides who’s all coming?’
Shields gave a good-natured sigh; or at least his best impression of a good-natured sigh.
‘That’s a more complex and delicate political process than Middle East peace negotiations, believe me.’
‘Perhaps you could talk me through it, give me some examples. Can you get this year’s list up on your computer?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Catherine stepped around the back of his desk and stood alongside him as he opened the document.
‘What kind of notice do people have?’ she asked. ‘I mean, would they know they were coming a month back? Longer?’
‘We try to invite people six weeks in advance, which allows us to re-allocate places if anybody can’t make it.’
‘Yes. Sir Angus told us you sometimes keep places empty right up until the last minute. Is that in case you have a blue-chip VIP show up at short notice?’
‘It has been. Or as likely somebody we need to compensate for a screw-up,’ he suggested, laughing. ‘It’s just a question of leaving a little slack in the system. Sometimes it goes empty, as this year. You can often fill it at literally the last minute – tell somebody that if they can pack a bag and be there on time, the place is theirs – but sometimes it’s just not practical.’
‘I see. I was just curious because of this. Do you mind?’ she asked, taking the mouse from him.
‘No, go ahead,’ Shields replied, sounding a little unsure.
Catherine did as Beano had shown her, clicking on the Review tab at the head of the document, which changed the array of icons laid out across the top of the page. She then pulled down the Show Markup sub-menu and placed a tick against the Insertions and Deletions option.
The previously neat document was suddenly a mess of coloured fonts, shaded underlays and outlined bubbles.
‘Wee trick I learned. It shows all the revisions that have gone on. I guessed it would tell quite a tale in terms of who was added and subtracted at various stages.’
‘Yes,’ Shields said, giggling, trying to sound in amused agreement rather than nervous. He still thought he might be getting away with it, though. ‘It would be serious blackmail material round here if it showed who took certain names out.’
‘Ah, but it does show that. See? There’s even a different colour for each user who’s edited the document. And the reason I’m showing it to you is that before sending us the copy we requested, user GShields – that’s you, I take it – removed the name John Smith. Can you see it there? See the scoring-out marks to indicate it was a deletion?’
She turned her head to clock his response. He looked like she could have been showing him Goatse.
‘Both printed copies of the seating plan for your corporate dinner were removed from the Cragruthes dining room and the document deleted from the castle computer, as was the earlier version of this list sent to finalise the booking. Right now I could do you for concealing evidence from a murder investigation, and I reckon I could easily bump that up to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, because I’m sure you’re not the only person who’s lying about this. So I’m only going to ask you once: who is John Smith?’
Shields seemed to deflate, his head slumping to his elbows on the desk, his face disappearing into his interlocked fingers. He took a couple of breaths, then straightened himself in his chair.
‘This is not what you think,’ he said, his voice barely above an apologetic rasping whisper.
‘That’s not what I asked you. And if the next two words you issue are not—’
‘Francis Wyngarde. Our mystery guest was Francis Wyngarde. Do you get it now?’
Francis Wyngarde. The man who had presided over the Royal Scottish Bank’s tailspin into crushing debt, all the while still lining his pockets in a manner that would have shamed most third-world dictators. He was the poster-child for the credit crunch and, in Catherine’s opinion, along with Fred Goodwin something of an Aunt Sally whom the financial sector were content to abandon to public flogging because hatred of individuals lessened the impetus to attack the system itself.
Several years on, Wyngarde was still fiercely reviled by the public, but apparently retained certain connections in high places. The bank evidently knew it was way too early to begin any attempt at rehabilitating his reputation, but they were dipping their toe in gentle waters at Cragruthes, where he would be in the company of RSB executives and certain highly favoured business people whose discretion could presumably be relied upon. Perhaps sounding out the latter group’s response had in fact been the purpose of the exercise, knowing that if they disapproved they would do so quietly. And perhaps they just wanted him to know he still had friends.
‘We kept his name secret because all sorts of people see this list,’ Shields explained. ‘This was not a public event. It’s not like we had him in our sponsors’ box at the Scottish Cup Final.’
‘I understand the distinction,’ Catherine said, disguising her growing anger.
‘When Hamish Queen was shot we knew we had to get Francis out of the picture. He was gone before the ambulance or the police even arrived. We had a driver and a limo up there; we always do, in case somebody suddenly has to be somewhere fast. It was already going to be toxic from a PR point of view, but if the media got wind that Francis Wyngarde had been our guest, that night of all nights …’
‘Quite. I can certainly see why that would be your number one priority, with a guy lying dead on the grass near by.’
‘With respect, there was nothing we could do about that.’
Catherine took a moment, making sure she didn’t respond in anger. She forced herself to smile, an invaluable exercise in screwing the nut that Moira had taught her. Not only did it help stem the flow of emotion and allow her to compose herself, but she lost nothing in terms of conveying her dismay. Shields found it all the more disturbing than if she was blazing in rage.
‘You don’t see it at all, do you?’ she said. ‘The arrogance. It’s quite breathtaking. Thinking your business is so important that it doesn’t need to pay its respects to a dead man, and prizing its reputation above the needs of our investigation into that man’s murder. That’s why I could think of no more fitting redress than to make sure this appears on every front page tomorrow; every news bulletin.’
She took in the horror in Shields’ face for a few moments, letting him truly contemplate what that was going to feel like.
‘But I won’t.’
He stared at her, his expression confused and apprehensive, as though afraid to believe this was for real. Eventually he found his voice.
‘Detective Superintendent, I don’t think I need to say how much I appreciate—’
‘Save it,’ she interrupted. ‘But understand this. One day, Mr Shields, I am going to come to the RSB in my professional capacity to ask for a favour; most likely a very, very big favour. And when I do, you are going to be the bank that likes to say “yes”.’
Catherine was still fizzing with
rage as she made her way back across the marble tundra towards the exit. She was so furious she had half a mind to go back on her word and tell the media anyway. Fortunately, professional caution intervened. She knew she didn’t want that media nightmare all over what was already a high-profile investigation. Besides, she knew that her real anger was down to the fact that the missing name had turned out to be nothing. They’d all wasted their time over a red herring and up at Cragruthes they were literally scrabbling in the dirt looking for a clue.
Her phone rang as she emerged on to the street, a light drizzle blowing towards her from the east. The display read DI Geddes.
‘This better be good news, Laura, because I just hit a brick wall here.’
‘Then allow me to shunt you back on to the track. We’ve found the shooter.’
Drug Culture
Jasmine was waiting in the circle bar of the Theatre Royal, watching Sammy Finnegan and his wife enter for their pre-ordered interval drinks. He’d have been difficult to pick out if she hadn’t seen some recent photographs, as nothing about the man’s appearance said ‘drug dealer’. Indeed, it said it all that the pics were from the society pages of a glossy called Caledonia Life, captioned pap-snaps of the great and the good at a black-tie charity fundraiser held inside Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. Not for him the ned-with-cash vulgarity, sun-lounger orange complexion and threads at least a decade too young for him.
In the course of her work Jasmine had seen a few of Glasgow’s bad boys made good, and those who had cultivated an air of respectability tended to look like retired boxers or football players: smartly dressed, nothing to prove to anybody any more but still carrying themselves with a certain bristling edge. Finnegan was known to be able to look after himself, but there were no exterior indicators. He looked like this was where he belonged. His wife did too. She was older than him, dressing elegantly for her age, no evidence of Botox or lip-filler. She looked very much at home, unselfconscious, double-kissing friends as Finnegan headed to the bar.
When the Devil Drives Page 27