The female cop came forward. It was a tight squeeze with all four of us in my small porch.
‘Come away in,’ my dad said, reversing back down the hallway and throwing wide the livingroom door.
I tried to protest, but the cops were already on the march. The four of us regrouped in my livingroom. The cops sat down on the sofa, my dad in an armchair. I remained standing.
The female cop took off her hat and read from her notebook. ‘Black Bowmore. Value approximately three and a half thousand pounds. Can you believe anybody would pay that for a bottle of whisky? Says here it’s probably in a cardboard tube formerly used for a bottle of Co-op Highland Heather Dew, whatever that is.’
‘And the report we received said it was here,’ the male cop said, adding casually, ‘do you know anything about it?’
‘I know that if I’m a suspect in a theft you should be reading me my rights,’ I said.
‘No need to be like that,’ the male cop said. ‘I just thought—’
‘You just thought what? That you’d come waltzing in here accusing me of a theft?’
He stood up, hands in surrender mode, and looked appealingly at my dad. ‘Alex?’
‘Robbie,’ my dad said, ‘there’s no need to be like that, the man’s got a job to do.’
‘To come barging into my house saying he’s looking for stolen goods? I’ll bet he hasn’t even got a warrant, have you?’
The female cop butted in. ‘It was a telephone report. It was received less than an hour ago. To be honest, I thought it sounded fishy. The man who reported it said he couldn’t come to a police station to make a formal complaint until Monday, so, no, there isn’t a warrant. Not yet. It was Inspector Fleming who told us to check things out. He seemed quite keen.’
Dougie Fleming would be keen on anything that might potentially land me in bother.
My dad stood up and smiled. ‘There’s no need for a warrant.’ He went to the cupboard by the TV set, rummaged around the DVDs, pushed aside a half full bottle of Talisker and emerged with a familiar cardboard tube. ‘This what you’re looking for?’
‘Is that yours, Robbie?’ the male cop asked me, still, apparently, intent on not advising me of my right to remain silent. This time I did say nothing. Stern-faced, the cop took the tube from my dad and held it up to his colleague’s face. ‘This it?’
She shrugged. ‘Looks like it.’
He popped the lid and looked inside. Tilting the tube, he let slide out a bubble-wrapped package, which he carried carefully to the coffee table, setting it down as though it were an unexploded bomb. The female cop perched herself on the edge of the sofa and began to pick at the tape holding the protective layers in place.
‘Hang on,’ my dad said. ‘I’ll get you scissors.’
How petty could Suzie Lake possibly be that she’d try and stitch me up this way? Had she always planned for this? The words of Rupert Smith came back to me. You’ve already lost your fiancée. Do you really want to lose everything else as well?’ Like my career.
The female snipped delicately, as though she were removing an appendix from an abdomen and not a whisky bottle from some bubble-wrap. Eventually the sheets of plastic fell away. The female cop pushed it to one side and held up a bottle of Co-op finest blended.
My dad made a face. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, Robbie. I mean, I know it’s cheap but—’
‘Thanks for your help, Alex,’ the male cop said. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, Robbie. It looks like someone’s been playing a practical joke. One of your friends maybe?’
‘More like a disgruntled client,’ my dad said with a snort. ‘Plenty of them around.’ The male cop and he exchanged good-natured nudges and my dad guided the uniforms to the door, chatting awhile on the doorstep before returning to the livingroom.
‘You’ve still got the Bowmore?’ I asked.
‘Just because I wanted to cheer you up, doesn’t mean I actually trust you to look after it.’ He poked me on the chest. ‘And, by the way, you’ve got some explaining to do about that – and a few other things.’
‘Dad—’
‘Not now. Tell me all about it tomorrow. My place, Sunday lunch. I’ve a wee surprise for you.’
Was my dad smiling at me? Earlier in the day, he’d heard of my break-up with Jill. Now the bottle of rare whisky I’d, albeit accidentally, given him as a gift, had turned out to be hotter than a Victoria Secrets’ photo-shoot. And he was smiling? This couldn’t be happening. The pressure I was under, I’d finally cracked.
My dad slapped a trouser pocket. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go,’ he said, hearing the confirmatory rattle of car keys. ‘I’m meeting Diane tonight. We’re going to a barbecue fund-raiser. I got in first and bought the tickets.’
Was I even in my own livingroom? The way my dad was acting, it could all be a drug-induced dream, with me in a psychiatric ward, being fed happy pills through a tube.
‘Oh, by the way, is that book signed yet?’ he asked.
Of course it wasn’t and there was no danger of Suzie Lake ever signing it now. I should just have said no. Instead I nodded and heard myself mumble, ‘I’ll go get it.’ Somehow I found the way to my bedroom where his copy of Portcullis was lying on a chest of drawers. From a suit jacket hanging behind the door, I took a pen and signed: ‘To Diane, Best Wishes, Suzie Lake,’ on the fly-leaf.
‘Hurry up!’ my dad called, ‘I’ve got to get home and changed before I pick up Diane and the thing starts in two hours.’ I waved the book around and blew on the ink a few times in case it smudged.
He was waiting in the hallway when I came out of my bedroom. ‘Diane will be dead chuffed with this,’ he said as I handed over the book. ‘I told her the story was all your idea.’ He flicked it open. ‘How come you don’t get a mention?’
I clamped my hand over the book, before he could see the handwriting. I’d left Clyve Cree’s hardback lying on the phone table in the hall. I picked it up and thrust it at him. ‘I got you this.’
He looked at it suspiciously, but I could tell he was taken in by the exciting cover.
‘It’s by a new author,’ I said. ‘I thought you might like him. I had him sign a copy for you.’
The old man’s attention now successfully diverted from my forgery, he opened the cover. ‘See? This is a guy who knows how to acknowledge people. It’s only polite after all.’
I followed his finger to the words, For Wendy, and, below that, To fallen comrades R.I.P. It then went on to thank a host of people who had helped make this book possible – like the people who wrote it for him I supposed.
‘Come here.’ My dad gave me a friendly bear hug. He should have been strangling me. What was he so happy about? ‘Don’t forget tomorrow. Put on something smart. One o’clock okay for you? Good. Don’t be late.’
Chapter 51
Kaye Mitchell’s nine year-old son was playing keepy-uppy in the front garden when I arrived shortly before seven, in a dinner suit that hadn’t seen much action in a while.
‘Mum, it’s that lawyer guy!’ the boy yelled through the open door, not taking his eye off the ball. ‘The weird one! Nine, ten, eleven, twelve...’ The football, sliced off the side of the boy’s foot, bounced a few times and rolled towards me.
I trapped it under the sole of a recently polished shoe. ‘Thirteen? Not bad... for a kid.’
‘How many can you do, like, weirdo?’
I’d known Kaye’s son since the only dribbling he did was down his chin. The boy had issues. Most of them seemed to be with me. I looked at the ball and at my shiny shoes. How many could I do?
‘Well, smarty?’ The boy folded his arms, waiting, tapping a trainer on the garden path.
I bent over, picked up the football and took a deep breath. ‘Here goes.’ I bounced the ball a couple of times and booted it over into the next door neighbour’s garden. ‘Looks like I can only do one.’
Alan, Kaye’s husband came to the door as his son was clambering over the fence. ‘Oy! What ha
ve I told you?’ he shouted at him. ‘Keep that ball out of Mrs Gray’s garden!’ He looked me up and down and then both thumbs raised, pointed them backwards at his own evening wear. ‘Snap.’ He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.
‘Thought you’d stopped,’ I said.
‘Only between cigarettes,’ he replied. ‘And when Kaye’s about.’
Unfortunately, for him, Kaye was about. She joined her husband on the doorstep dressed in a rather fetching black frock. Without a word, she removed the cigarette from between her husband’s lips, dropped it and ground it underfoot.
‘You look nice,’ I said. ‘Is that a scoop collar? You know? You being a journalist.’
‘No,’ she said, hands on hips, obviously not a fan of the pun. ‘It’s not. What are you doing here? I already told you that your persona is very much non-grata at the big do.’
‘I know, but you don’t think I can just sit back and do nothing, do you? How else am I supposed to talk to Jill? She won’t take my calls and if she’s not in London she’s in Switzerland. I can’t just give up.’
‘Personally, I’d have sent a card with some flowers and chocolates,’ Alan said. ‘If a bunch of roses and a box of Thornton’s Continental don’t do the trick, it’s pretty much a hopeless cause.’
He might have been right if this had been a minor tiff with the wife; however, Jill was of a mind that I was having an affair with Suzie Lake and there were photographs floating around that wouldn’t help support my defence.
Kaye rubbed one of the satin lapels of my jacket between thumb and forefinger. ‘Hire this from the Victoria and Albert museum or is it a family heirloom?’
I twisted at the waist so that the lapel was pulled from her grip, took a step back and looked down at myself. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this suit. It just doesn’t get out a lot.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Kaye said. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. ‘She gave her husband a look. ‘Or how much Alan doesn’t want to come with me. You’re not going to the ball. From what I hear the security is going to be extremely tight. It’ll be like breaking into prison.’
‘What if I still drive you?’ I said. ‘Just to get myself inside the security perimeter.’ The two Mitchells looked at each other. There was a free bar at the ball. ‘All going well I’ll be able to drive you home again too.’
A small boy, football tucked firmly under his arm, barged past us and, head bowed, marched into the house.
‘Fine, by me,’ Alan said.
‘Just to the car park and then you’re on your own,’ Kaye said.
I accepted those terms and waited in their front room with a sulky nine-year-old, while Kaye made some finishing touches to her hair or face or something. Eventually, the baby-sitter arrived and we were off.
The Zanetti Technology Park was still partially under construction and comprised several buildings spread across several acres of East Lothian. The Gala Ball was taking place in the main building. Flood-lit, it was visible from afar off. Blue and yellow lasers danced across its facade.
When we turned off the main road and through the gates of the complex it became apparent that Zanetti had put in place some kind of car-parking segregation policy. A traffic attendant advised us politely that car park allocation was determined by the colour of one’s invitation. Kaye’s was printed on white card. Those with invitations of a different hue had their vehicles valet-parked before being escorted along a red carpet.
‘Still, it’s nice to be invited,’ Kaye said, as I set off in search of parking zone F, slowing down to admire Zone A, which wasn’t so much a car park as a showroom. I made out a Ferrari 458, a Lamborghini Gallardo and an Aston Martin DB9. Zone B was more of the same, including, I noticed, an apple-green, Bentley Flying Spur.
When eventually we arrived at our spot towards the rear of the building, my two passengers alighted, wishing me all the best.
‘Don’t feel you have to hang around,’ Kaye said. ‘We can phone a taxi if things don’t work out.’
Things had to work out.
Kaye began to walk away and then trotted back to the car. ‘When I see Jill, will I tell her you’re here?’
I doubted it would make any difference.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I want it to be a surprise’. She shrugged and I watched as, arms linked, she and Alan merged with the stream of second class guests flowing along a designated path to a more modest side-entrance that was guarded by a team of solid-looking gentlemen in white jackets, bow-ties and Bluetooth earpieces. They seemed to be checking-off each guest against a list on a clipboard fairly thoroughly. Jill wouldn’t be the only one surprised if I managed to sneak in past that lot. So I decided to wait. Door security would come down a notch or two as the evening progressed. Other than the need to deal with a few late-comers, the priority would no longer be reception duties and attention would turn to those guests inside the building. The organisers wouldn’t want the kind of rowdy behaviour a free-bar could sometimes, usually, engender.
The first hour passed slowly. I sat in my car listening to the radio. After a further half hour I could wait no longer. I remembered reading about someone whose hobby was to gate-crash prestigious events: The Oscars, Wimbledon, World Cup finals and the like. He’d said in an interview that the lower down the scale, the greater the security. Arrive at the turnstiles for the 100 metres final in jeans and T-shirt and without a ticket and you’d be chucked out in a new personal best time. On the other hand, stride up to the VIP entrance in blazer, slacks and a stripy tie, confidently stating you were with the European Olympics Committee and you’d be shown straight through to a soft seat.
Kaye’s invitation was designed also as a parking ticket, the letter on the reverse allocating our parking zone was to be left on display. I took it from the dashboard, trekked back to the front of the building. Sure enough there was now only one white-jacket on door duty. I walked boldly down the red carpet towards him, flashed the invitation and was almost inside when my progress was halted by a broad hand spread wide across my chest. ‘Name Sir?’
‘I’m with Kaye Mitchell,’ I said, holding up the invitation and pointing to it.
‘Name?’
‘Alan Mitchell,’
The doorman put a lapel of his pristine white jacket to his mouth and mumbled something into it. His eyes glazed over for a minute before he replied, ‘Mr and Mrs Mitchell are both inside the building,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said, with a patronising smile. ‘I was, but I had to nip back to the car for something. Hope you don’t mind me not using the tradesmen’s entrance.’
The hand on my chest remained firmly in situ. ‘I don’t think so, Sir,’
‘But—’
‘If you have a problem please take it up with reception at the side-entrance.’ He shoved the invite at me. I took it and walked away. I was almost back at the car when I heard someone call my name. I turned at the sound of the voice. It was Alan. He was standing in a group of around fifty or sixty people under an immense blue and yellow awning that was annexed to the side of the building and decorated with garlands and bunting. I went over to him. The canvas sides of the awning were topped with artificial flowers and only around a metre or so high, presumably to allow the smoke to escape, for it was clearly a pound for nicotine addicts of the lower orders. I imagined the VIP guests were given something better than a fancy tent.
I walked over to him.
‘No luck?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
He took a quick look around and then turned his back on me. ‘Get in,’ he muttered over his shoulder, glancing about again, taking a quick draw on his cigarette. By the time he’d exhaled I’d clambered over the canvas barrier, plastic foliage and all, and into the awning. Those few guests who’d noticed, looked on with little interest. I was wearing a dinner suit, perhaps I had fallen out of the tent and this was me climbing back in. Who cared? They were only there for the free booze.
Alan took a smoke from his
pack and handed it to me. ‘Blend in.’
I pointed to a door at the furthest away corner of the awning. There were two white suits either side. I’d been to prisons with less security. ‘Is that the way in?’
Alan nodded. I was about to set off when he stopped me. ‘You won’t get far without one of these,’ he said, and, sticking a thumb under his lapel, pushed a tiny, silver Z-shaped badge at me. ‘We were given these Zanetti pins when we came out. Same as getting your hand stamped at a nightclub, except a lot more classy.’
I looked at him.
He looked at me and sighed. ‘There are two dozen half-cut journalists in there. Try not to become a headline.’
Chapter 52
I was in. I took a few moments to acclimatise myself to my new setting as I took in the ambience and gazed around at my opulent surroundings.
The venue for Zanetti’s big do had not been specifically designed to host such an event. It was an immense structure, all steel and glass, which, once the opening celebrations were over and done with, would be put to the industrial purposes for which it had been constructed. Before, when I’d been outside longing to get in, I’d half-imagined a cold, soulless gathering of technicians, company officials, dignitaries and other stiffs, standing around, sipping G and Ts and wittering on about the economy and green-shoots, with maybe a few journos like Kaye getting quietly smashed in a corner.
How wrong I was. The place had been skilfully transformed into the perfect party setting. Every interior surface of the building was decorated with style and elegance, the predominant colours being the standard Zanetti livery, or variations thereof. I could not begin to guess the costs involved; other than it was a lot more money than I’d ever see. If Jill had helped put this event together then she really had to be congratulated. But I’d have to find her first and that wasn’t going to be easy. There had to be upwards of one thousand people. I hadn’t seen that many dinner-suits since The March of the Penguins.
Satisfied that I had successfully evaded the security staff and wasn’t about to be forcibly ejected, I helped myself to some nibbles from one of a number of buffet tables, nonchalantly casing the joint while I chewed. The centre of the hall, not surprisingly for a ball, was a vast dance floor in the middle of which, on a raised island, a Glenn Miller tribute orchestra bashed out, ‘It Must be Jelly Cos Jam Don’t Shake Like That.’
Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5) Page 25