by Ian Simpson
Having been informed at reception that Wallace was seeing Mr and Mrs Knarston-Smith, Flick found their room. Though it overlooked the Old Course, it was not as grand as the Eglintons’ and was on the second floor of the spa wing adjacent to the Jigger Inn. Wallace opened the door. The golfer wearing the garish sweater was sitting on the bed, his pale face twitching, his hand gripping his wife’s knee. Flick had seen criminals look more relaxed during taped interviews. His wife, who had seemed so out of place in the conference room, was less tense than her husband but looked no happier than she had earlier. Flick sat on a chair facing them, her back to the window. Wallace pulled a second chair beside her.
Earnest looking, with thick, oily, black hair brushed straight back so that it gave him about three extra inches of height before flopping to the side, Gerald Knarston-Smith forced a smile. His wife, Cynthia, fashionably thin with artfully untidy, straw-blonde hair that hinted at a spirit of rebellion, pursed her lips and seemed to find something fascinating about her scuffed trainers.
‘Mr Knarston-Smith is the manager of the investment arm of the bank. He and his wife were telling me they went to the Jigger Inn last night. As I say, that’s the wee white cottage in the hotel grounds. They came back to their room just after eleven and saw nothing of interest,’ Wallace reported.
‘Who were you with in the pub?’ Flick asked.
‘Latterly just the Saddlefells.’ Between his rapid-fire delivery and his public school accent Gerald did not speak clearly. His eyes darted to his wife, as if seeking approval. She nodded.
‘Did the Saddlefells leave at the same time as you?’
‘We left before them, didn’t we, darling?’
‘Yes. Sandi, sorry, Lady Sandi, was set on trying another of her “superior” Islay malts.’ Cynthia’s tone was dry.
Flick made a mental note but decided not to pursue the matter. She asked, ‘Were you aware of any controversy or ill-feeling during the evening?’
Gerald shook his head. Cynthia showed no reaction.
‘And you remember nothing that might help our inquiry?’
‘Nothing.’ He stroked his nose then added, ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Did you like Hugh Parsley?’ Flick asked, hoping to stir some response.
‘Oh, er, yes. Yes.’ He managed to make the second ‘yes’ definite. His wife’s curled lip told a different story.
‘Simon Eglinton?’
‘A great chap.’ He smiled. His wife nodded.
‘Lord Saddlefell?’
Gerald shrugged. ‘I’ve never had a problem with him.’
‘Is there a director you do not care for, sir?’
As he hesitated, his wife raised her eyebrows.
Flick said quietly, ‘We are trying to find a murderer, and while we have open minds, it is entirely possible that one of Mr Parsley’s work colleagues killed him. The sooner we learn what tensions there are in the bank, personal as well as business, the sooner we’ll be able to eliminate people from our inquiry and arrest whoever was responsible. So please be frank with us. We won’t disclose what you tell us unless it’s necessary.’
Gerald frowned. Cynthia nudged his ribs with her elbow. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, in confidence, Inspector, I’ve never really seen eye to eye with Mark Forbes.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well … he doesn’t go out of his way to be liked. He’s respected, good at his job, doesn’t suffer fools at all …’
‘Those he thinks are fools,’ Cynthia cut in. ‘You’re a lot brighter than he is.’
‘Yes, well …’ Gerald shrugged.
‘Don’t be wet, Gerald,’ Cynthia hissed then addressed Flick. ‘Mark Forbes is a vile man, Inspector. He is rude, mean-spirited and he worships money. He refuses to give to charity because he thinks he pays too much in tax. Eileen Eglinton runs a charity clothing store but Forbes puts his stuff on e-bay. It’s people like him who give bankers a bad name.’
Suddenly bold, Gerald cut in. ‘This year Cynthia ran in the London Marathon. Her father died of cancer and she ran to raise money for cancer research. Everyone in the office sponsored her, even the cleaners, but when I asked Mark, he just said “Don’t be silly”. She did it in four hours, fifty-one and raised over four thousand pounds,’ he added proudly, patting her knee.
‘And Forbes is a total fake.’ Cynthia warmed to her character assassination. ‘He’ll tell you he was at Rugby, but it was the comprehensive, not the real thing. God knows what he based that accent on. He makes The Queen sound common. His mother visited the bank once and he hustled her out of the door before she could speak to anyone. But Jean at reception told you she had a broad Midlands accent.’ She looked to Gerald for confirmation.
He nodded energetically then said, ‘He’s a terrible bully round the office. I think he enjoys making some of the girls cry.’ He paused. ‘And I’ve heard him boast about how he nipped out and pinched a taxi he’d heard a disabled man order in a restaurant.’
‘What does Mr Forbes do in the bank?’ Flick asked.
Gerald looked disappointed by the change of subject. ‘He’s in charge of futures, commodities and derivatives.’
‘Is there anything at all unusual or, well, dodgy about how he does business?’
Gerald’s eyes swivelled round the room. ‘I do not believe so.’
Wallace said, ‘But you were playing golf with Mr Forbes this morning, sir.’
‘That’s the way it was arranged. Hugh Parsley and Simon wanted to play the Old with their wives, but they didn’t get a time in the ballot. There were four more of us who really wanted to play the Old: Forbes, me, Oliver Davidson and Bruce Thornton. Actually,’ he giggled nervously, ‘we all wanted to avoid having to play with Lord Saddlefell. I’m not very good but he is dreadful. At our summer golf outing someone called him “the mad axeman”. His swing is a sort of chopping movement and he gets incredibly angry at bad shots. So it was worth putting up with Forbes. But I wasn’t looking forward to it. He plays unbelievably slowly and he never lets other players pass through. On the first tee, he immediately bagged Bruce as his partner. He’s a professional, you know.’
‘A professional golfer?’ Wallace asked.
‘Yes,’ Gerald said, pulling a face. ‘Oh dear. Well, I suppose you’ll find out anyway. There was a bit of a scandal. Oliver Davidson – he’s our currencies man - left his wife and children last year and came out as being gay. He’s brought his new partner, Bruce, here with him. Bruce is an assistant pro at Haleybourne Golf Club. It’s to the west of London. But he comes from St Andrews, I believe. Last night he went off to see some old mates. Either that or he was body-swerving dinner. Gosh.’ Gerald stroked his nose. ‘You know, I believe Hugh Parsley was a member at Haleybourne. Oh dear.’
‘What is it?’ Flick asked.
‘This could be nothing, Inspector, but Hugh Parsley was really homophobic.’
‘You must tell us what you know, Mr Knarston-Smith,’ Flick said, her voice severe, wondering if it was just nerves that had made him open up.
‘It was so embarrassing. Hugh didn’t care what he said. If Oliver had just been an employee and not a director I’m sure he would have taken the bank to the cleaners.’
‘What sort of things did Mr Parsley say?’
‘Hugh called Oliver “Pinkpound”. Last month Oliver announced that he had just made a million pounds by sitting on his bottom doing nothing, and Hugh said loudly, in front of staff too, “It’s not often your bottom’s doing nothing, Pinkpound”. The rest of us didn’t know where to look. It was awful.’
‘How did Mr Davidson react?’ Flick asked.
‘He ignored it, or pretended to, but you could see he was mortified.’
‘How do you get on with Mr Davidson?’ Flick asked.
‘Fine,’ Gerald said. ‘He keeps himself to himself. Some people think he’s lost interest in the bank.’ He smiled. ‘He keeps a jacket in a cupboard and drapes it over the back of his chair as if he’s somewhere about the office when all
the time he’s out for ages.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What did you think of Mr Parsley?’ Flick asked Cynthia.
Gerald bowed his head as she replied, ‘He would try it on with anyone. At one bank do he told me it would advance Gerald’s career if I had an affair with him. I told him to piss off. And yesterday I could see Sheila Anderson keeping her distance.’
‘What about his business ethics?’ Flick asked.
‘I really could not say.’ Gerald went back to stuffy mode while Cynthia looked sceptical.
‘But Mr Eglinton and he were great friends, I believe?’
Gerald nodded. ‘They’d been at school together. Simon Eglinton is a good man. He saw the best in Hugh.’
‘And Mrs Eglinton? Might Mr Parsley have tried it on with her?’
Gerald shook his head. ‘If he did, she’d have given him short shrift.’
‘She’s a real lady,’ Cynthia said. ‘She speaks the same way to everyone, and she has a great sense of humour. Her father’s the Earl of Knapdale, you know. She’s actually Lady Eileen Eglinton, but she never rams it down your throat.’
‘What about the woman on the board, Nicola Walkinshaw?’ Flick asked.
‘I don’t see much of her,’ Gerald said shaking his head emphatically.
‘Any reason for that?’ Wallace asked.
‘No.’ He shook his head again. Cynthia frowned.
‘How do you get on with Sheila Anderson?’ Flick asked, looking at Gerald.
He seemed to relax. ‘I don’t have a problem with Sheila, honestly. I know why you ask: the vacant seat on the board. Gosh, I suppose there’ll be two now.’ He put his hand to his mouth. To judge from her raised eyebrows, his wife had realised this already.
‘Who do you want to be the next chairman?’ Flick asked.
Knarston-Smith gulped. ‘Well …’
‘My husband has not come out in favour of anyone,’ his wife interjected sharply.
‘What about lowering the wealth threshold?’
‘I … I haven’t decided.’
Flick exchanged looks with Wallace. She asked, ‘Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell us that might assist?’
They both shook their heads.
Flick thanked the Knarston-Smiths and told them not to hesitate if they thought of anything else. Out in the corridor she realised she was hungry. ‘I could do with something to eat. Let’s go to the conference room and order a sandwich.’
* * *
After some discussion with Jocelyn, the conference room they had used that morning was given to the police for their inquiry and a Police Only notice was pinned to the door. Flick was handed a key and sandwiches and coffee were promised. To her surprise it was Baggo who brought them, carrying the tray one-handed at shoulder level. As he laid out a tablecloth, plates and knives, Wallace finished a call on his mobile.
‘Detective Sergeant Wallace, meet Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar,’ Flick said. ‘He’s undercover, investigating possible money laundering at the Bucephalus Bank. I’ll go home this afternoon and he’ll brief me there. Don’t tell the rest of the squad about him, but you two should know each other.’
The two men shook hands.
‘Most people call me Baggo, but the Inspector always seems reluctant.’
The older man looked from Baggo to Flick. ‘I’m Lance – to most people,’ he said slowly. Both men grinned.
She said, ‘Where did you pick up these waiting skills, Chandavarkar? You never showed them off in the Wimbledon canteen.’
‘I learned this trade in the Taste of Mumbai on Kensington High Street. A holiday job. And if he had known all that I could do, Inspector No would have had me making him a vindaloo every day. You Christians would call it hiding my light under a bushel, but to me it was no more than common sense.’
‘And my common sense is telling me our murderer is part of the bank party,’ Wallace said. ‘The house to house inquiries have got nowhere, except one old biddy who says she saw a youth with a shaved head running out of Granny Clark’s Wynd and onto the golf course waving a hammer. It was two in the morning, she says. She was out looking for her cat. But she can’t remember if she had her glasses on, she had most of a bottle of Gordon’s inside her, and last month she complained about a witches’ coven meeting in the Valley of Sin. That’s the dip at the front of the eighteenth green, ma’am.’
Baggo sniggered. ‘Where are witches supposed to meet? It must be difficult to find a place to park your broomstick.’ He winked at Flick, who glared back. She had forgotten how irritating Chandavarkar could be.
Wallace looked at him then laughed. ‘So you’re a comedian are you? It was just some drunken students having a picnic so there were no broomsticks with parking tickets.’
Flick sighed. She wished she had a better sense of humour, and was disappointed that Wallace should find Chandavarkar funny. She had never seen him as the frivolous type and dreaded the prospect of the pair of them sparking off each other. ‘We’ll be duty bound to tell the defence about the old bat so she can muddy the waters at a trial,’ she said, trying to be less obviously out on a limb. ‘Now off you go,’ she said to Baggo. ‘You’re not getting a tip. I’ll see you later.’
‘Inspector, ma’am, it will be difficult for me to get off at four, and as we do not know much, it will not take long to brief you. I could do that now and say you were questioning me about the Parsleys and the Eglintons last night.’
Flick saw the sense in that. ‘Right, shoot,’ she said.
Baggo sat at the table and leaned forward. ‘As you know, the SFO have seconded me to SOCA. Under them, the UKFIU deals with proceeds of crime and terrorism, and we rely on SARs from the public.’
‘For goodness sake speak English,’ Flick said, her mouth full of tomato sandwich.
‘So sorry, Inspector ma’am. In the SFO the surest way up the greasy pole is to speak in acronyms. A SAR is a Suspicious Activity Report from the public, and it was through one of them that we learned that the Bucephalus Bank has been buying a lot of euro-bonds. These are unregistered bearer bonds in a denomination not native to the country of issue. For example, you might get a euro-yen bond issued in Britain. The important things are that the owner remains anonymous and they pay out to the bearer, whoever that may be. They are very useful if you want to keep your financial affairs secret. Such bonds have been illegal in the USA for thirty years. We have also been contacted by the Federal Reserve in America who are suspicious about the Sulphur Springs Bank of Atlanta. It has a traditional, blue-chip image but a lot of dodgy clients. It has a close relationship with Bucephalus. In 2008, like so many others, Bucephalus was near to going under. It was saved by a loan from Sulphur Springs. We believe the price may have included assistance in money laundering. The Feds think that drug money is paid by the criminals into Sulphur Springs. It disguises the source by pretending that some of its toxic debt has come good. It then sends the money to Bucephalus in exchange for fictitious invoices for banking or advisory services. Bucephalus then buys euro-bonds which it presumably passes back to the American drug dealers. They can either cash in the bonds and take the money home or simply keep the funds abroad. Of course both banks will have taken hefty cuts as money laundering can mean a lot of jail time.’
He paused, looking hopefully at the last egg sandwich.
‘Go on then,’ Flick said, pushing the plate towards him.
‘Bucephalus,’ he said, his mouth full, ‘has a lot of PEPs as clients. Sorry, Politically Exposed Persons. Dictators of Third World countries, international football committee men, people like that. They syphon off millions given as international aid or bribes, and euro-bonds suit them down to the ground. All banks are supposed to do money laundering checks, but we have heard that since 2008 Bucephalus barely looks at their PEPs. It used to be a by-word for integrity and class, too. What makes it difficult is that there are “Chinese walls” in the bank, and we have no real idea how ma
ny individuals are involved, who they are or how we might prove it. So I am here, eavesdropping, but I haven’t learned much, except how to fold a linen napkin in a fancy restaurant. They used cheap paper in the Taste of Mumbai.’
‘Right,’ Flick said. ‘You’ve given us a lot to think about. These inquiries could well be linked. Do you have anything on Sir Paul Monmouth’s death?’
Baggo shook his head. ‘Only that he was a creature of habit and careful of himself. He was run over in Camden High Street going home from work at his usual time. It was a stolen four-by-four and travelling very fast. The vehicle was abandoned nearby. No trace of the driver.’
‘Well keep in touch. We’ll have to pool what we know.’
‘Of course, but please, Inspector ma’am, do not compromise my inquiry. You have very delicate feet, but it would be bad if they were to trample unwisely.’
Flick looked at him coldly. ‘I have no intention of doing any trampling, but this is my territory and a murder inquiry takes precedence over money laundering.’
The companionable atmosphere had evaporated. They swapped mobile numbers then Baggo cleared up and took away the tray. Flick thought for a moment. ‘I think Messrs Davidson and Thornton should be next on our list,’ she said.
* * *
As he made his way back to the serving area Baggo was deep in thought. Fortune had it over him in three ways: this was her territory, murder trumped money laundering, and she out-ranked him. The chances were that the murder or murders were connected to the financial crimes and that the Fife police would ruin things for him by scaring off informants or offering immunity in return for evidence. It had taken a good deal of persuasion before he had been allowed to go undercover and a successful outcome of this inquiry would be a major plus on his CV. Baggo was ambitious and Superintendent Chandavarkar had a good ring to it. There was only one solution: he would have to solve the murder himself. His starting point would be something he had not shared. The anonymous report which had alerted SOCA to the unusual number of bearer bonds bought by Bucephalus had named Hugh Parsley as the director most involved.