by Ian Simpson
Her father answered on the second ring. His familiar, cheerful South of England vowels immediately lifted her spirits. Her press conference had impressed him, at least. Gently, she explained that real life was quite different to detective novels. She was not about to put a hand to her brow, tell everyone she had been an imbecile, gather the suspects in the parlour and unmask the murderer. ‘I just go where the evidence leads me, Dad,’ she said more than once. She checked that he was looking after himself. A widower in his late sixties, he was increasingly content with his own company. Flick worried that he might become isolated, even living in a suburb of Maidenhead. His account of visits to Waitrose sounded too glib for her liking but before she could press him she was on the back foot, telling him that she was managing to keep warm and well as the Scottish winter approached. Putting the phone down, she wished she could break the news about his first grandchild due in the summer, but she and Fergus had agreed to keep that secret until twelve weeks had passed.
Fergus brought in the food and they sat together on the sofa in the warm sitting room, the golf tournament playing silently in the background as they ate, plates on their laps. Flick felt better with every mouthful. ‘Delicious, darling,’ she commented as she devoured the savory mince and al dente pasta.
He beamed. As a bachelor, canteen food and carry-outs had been his staple diet. After marriage, encouraged by the various cookery programmes on the television, he liked to prepare the meal, except in summer when evening golf exercised a stronger pull. He wished Flick was more relaxed about cooking. She could produce some excellent dishes but lacked confidence. It was his mission to build up that confidence, and not just in the kitchen.
‘He’s a real gentleman,’ Fergus commented, his mouth full, nodding at the screen.
‘Who?’
‘Phil Mickelson. Look, he’s signing autographs while waiting on the tee. He really knows it’s the public who ultimately pay his wages.’
She glanced at the screen. She knew she must overcome her instinctive coolness about golf if she was to live happily in St Andrews, particularly married to a man whose passion for rugby, which she shared, was being replaced by a growing addiction to golf. ‘He’s the one who’s left-handed, isn’t he?’ she asked.
‘Quite right, darling.’ Fergus hoped to make his wife a golfer one day. ‘If you’re not going to, I might as well have this.’ He reached for her wine glass and set it beside his. He took the dirty plates through to the kitchen and returned carrying mugs of tea.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked gently.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Well let’s have everything. Just explaining it all to me will help sort things out in your head.’
She got up and fetched a sheaf of notes from her briefcase. When she returned the television was off.
‘Shoot,’ said Fergus.
So she did, going through everything relevant that had happened or been found or said, not always in chronological order, but including her likes, dislikes, suspicions and fears. She told him about the divisional commander, Chandavarkar, Wallace, McKellar and Osborne. He listened without interrupting, his face giving no clue as to his thoughts. When she finished she saw how much information she had to work on. One way or another she had learned a lot about this mysterious, deadly bank. ‘Well?’ she said after a silence.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s all rather a jumble. Different things have been flying at you thick and fast all day, so of course they’re mixed up now. I think you should try to step back, look for the essentials. Let’s take the crimes themselves,’ he added quickly before she could interrupt. ‘They are both brutal and, I would judge, unpremeditated. Forbes and Walkinshaw may be up to their arm-pits in money laundering, and fully capable of murder, but they would plan a murder down to the last detail if they were going to commit it themselves. Or, more likely, pay someone else to do it, making sure nothing would lead you to their door. So let’s put them to one side, for the moment anyway. Davidson might have killed Parsley because of the homophobic bullying but I can see no reason for him to kill Thornton. They seemed to be getting on fine and Thornton was just about to take Davidson’s place as Santa. I suppose Thornton’s mum might have suddenly decided to kill him, but she clearly loved him and he would have had to say something terribly wounding to make her snap.’
‘I felt she was hiding something, but I couldn’t see her killing Bruce. I can see Davidson killing Parsley, though. Do you think we might have two killers?’
Fergus shook his head. ‘Two deaths linked by time and place and killing method, a violent method, too. No, my money would be on a single killer.’
‘If it was one of the directors that means Saddlefell or Eglinton.’
‘Right. Eglinton had a relationship with Parsley – friendship, I mean. Might he have felt betrayed by Parsley’s financial crimes? He had the best opportunity to kill him.’
Flick said, ‘But Eglinton told Chandavarkar he first heard about the money laundering at the board meeting this morning. That’s something we can check with the others. So why should he spontaneously kill his best friend? And why kill Thornton? It couldn’t have been mistaken identity with him as he had been there when Davidson changed his plan to play Santa and meet him instead.’
‘So Eglinton has opportunity but no motive that we can see. Saddlefell keeps cropping up. He had opportunity and he has a temper on him, as I think our killer must have, but why should he kill Parsley or Thornton?’
‘Parsley because of the financial crimes. Maybe they were worse than Saddlefell had been led to believe. If Thornton opened the door wearing the Santa suit, Saddlefell might have thought he was Davidson, who was threatening to blow the whistle, so a case of mistaken identity.’ Flick was reluctant to drop Saddlefell as the prime suspect.
‘But what doesn’t ring true with that scenario is the way he called in Osborne to find Sir Paul’s killer. And he must have got Osborne to hurry here when Parsley was killed. That would be odd if he had just killed Parsley, and maybe even ordered Sir Paul’s death too.’
‘We both know Osborne’s a fool.’
‘But not everyone does. Remember how he collected all the credit for solving the literary agent murders? That credit should have gone to you and Baggo. Have you spoken to him?’
‘To Osborne? No. McKellar told me he’d caused a disturbance at the hotel’s Christmas Fayre. Apparently Davidson had asked for a large gin and tonic to be beside his seat as he gave out the presents. Osborne’s been off drink and when he played Santa he drank the gin and tonic. Then he went wild and supposedly assaulted a little girl. When the girl’s father saw police in the hotel he wanted to get us involved but the manager sweet-talked him out of it. What are you laughing at?’
‘That man can’t help making an arse of himself.’
‘Well he was my boss for too long for me to see the joke. I couldn’t believe it when I realised he had been brought into this case.’
Fergus saw she was angry. He held her hand. ‘Darling, I don’t find your problems at all funny. I just find Osborne funny in an appalling sort of way. But seriously, tomorrow morning you should talk to him. He’s got a good copper’s nose and he’s been coming at this from a different angle. He’ll know he’s in disgrace so you’ll be able to play the “I’m in charge” card for all it’s worth. It might even be fun, if you can make him squirm.’
‘Maybe.’ Flick sounded as doubtful as she felt. She would rather avoid Osborne altogether.
Fergus said, ‘Let’s look at the non-director suspects. Baggo probably gives Knarston-Smith an alibi for Thornton’s killing, and anyway, if he had just agreed to help the police would he rush out and kill someone? Of course he must have felt wronged by Parsley and terrified that he might show Cynthia that photograph, so he has to be a possible for his murder. Anderson can be excluded as the CCTV shows she was in her room at the material times. I think the bankers’ wives are unlikely. Belinda Parsley was all set to use divorce to
free herself so why resort to homicide? Now, Eileen Eglinton was out about the time Parsley was assaulted, and she’s one of those who could have killed Thornton but why should she want to kill either of our victims? Could she have been very angry with Parsley for some reason?’ He paused.
‘As we know, Simon says he didn’t know about the financial crimes till today, so assuming she didn’t know about them beforehand, what else could have angered her enough to kill Parsley? Besides, she’s left-handed and we have a right-handed killer,’ Flick said, glad to add to Fergus’s analysis.
Fergus said, ‘I can’t see Sandi Saddlefell or Cynthia Knarston-Smith killing these people.’
‘I agree. It would help if we could see a clear motive for someone with opportunity.’
‘Something made our killer attack really viciously, probably something that made him react almost instinctively.’
‘Him?’
‘I believe so. More men than women bludgeon people to death. That’s official,’ he added, glancing sideways at her, ‘as gender equality hasn’t reached bludgeoning.’
For a moment he thought he had hit the wrong note then she smiled and cuffed his ear, misshapen after his rugby career.
‘That’s a statistic that could change soon,’ she said.
‘What about the rooms?’ Fergus asked. ‘You haven’t told me where they are in relation to one another.’
‘The Knarston-Smiths are in a room overlooking the golf course but in the spa block from which they can exit without going through the lobby. And they can go along corridors to the main part of the hotel. On Thursday night Knarston-Smith could have gone to his room then gone out again without us knowing. The only CCTV camera which would have picked him up wasn’t working. The rest are in a first-floor corridor in the main block. All the directors have superior – God, how I hate that word …’
‘Why?’
‘Because Lady Sandi Saddlefell can’t stop using it. She must be the stupidest, most affected person I’ve ever met.’
‘I can think of a few who might give her a run for her money. Anyway, what superior things do the directors have?’
For the first time that evening Flick laughed. ‘Rooms, you clot, rooms with balconies looking out over the golf course. As you go from the spa direction, they are next to each other in this order: Walkinshaw, Forbes, Davidson, who has been moved as his room is a crime scene, Saddlefell, Eglinton and Parsley. The lift is opposite Forbes’s room and Anderson’s room is beside the lift, facing the back. Why do you ask?’
‘To get a mental picture. You know, assuming Thornton was alive when his mum left him, his killer moved quickly and decisively. He,’ he smiled, ‘or she must have a steady nerve.’
‘You’re right, and this has helped me get my thoughts in order. But I feel we need a game-changer, a smoking gun leading us to the killer and proving the case.’
‘How are you getting on with your squad?’
‘Okay, I think. I really like Wallace. McKellar is an asset with his local knowledge but he can be so insolent I want to lay hands on him.’
‘He’s been used to answering to older men from this part of the country, men he respected instinctively. You have to earn his respect, and I’m sure you’ll do it in time. It must be good to have Baggo with you, a familiar face.’
‘But he’s so irritating, looking for a joke in everything. Wallace seems to find him funny, and that encourages him. Why does everyone insist on calling him Baggo?’
‘Because he’s comfortable with it. I saw that up in Pitlochry when we met. It may help make him feel accepted. When you call him Chandavarkar it probably makes you sound stiff and formal.’
‘It’s a perfectly good name. Baggo sounds demeaning somehow.’
‘He’s happy with it, darling.’
Flick scowled. ‘Anyway, he breaks the rules. I told you about that photograph.’
Fergus turned round and faced her. ‘I sometimes break the rules, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘The way Baggo has played it he’s maximised the chances of Knarston-Smith helping us as much as he can and at the same time saving his marriage.’
‘But still, productions should always be properly logged as they are found. If they aren’t you are likely to give the defence an open goal.’
‘There are things you want to do that aren’t regular and can be concealed by a white lie, but are not basically dishonest. I think what Baggo has done with the photograph is one of them. It’s a bit like rugby. Some of the laws of the game are routinely ignored – like putting the ball into the scrum straight. Any top-class rugby player will do things he knows are illegal if the referee isn’t looking – like holding the ball after he’s been tackled. It’s funny, you know, how rugby and golf are so different from that point of view. In golf everyone sticks to the rules. Should you not allow a bit of the rugby ethos into your policing?’
Flick looked at him aghast. She had not expected to hear what the divisional commander had said to her that morning and she certainly had not expected this from Fergus. Previously when they had talked about ethics he had said little apart from condemning cops who planted evidence or made up verbals. Now she knew why. ‘I don’t see it that way,’ she said huffily.
There was so much he wanted to say about restrictive rules of evidence, ivory-tower judges and sheer common sense, but this was not the time for it. Flick believed that if a police officer compromised his or her principles in any way they were no better than the criminals they were pursuing, and for now at least he should not challenge that.
The less than companionable silence that followed was broken by the phone.
‘It’s nearly midnight,’ Fergus grumbled as Flick answered.
Her face was grim as she listened to the slurred voice of Jamieson, the divisional commander, berating her efforts with a torrent of abuse.
‘… I told you, I told you, to be careful with Saddlefell, and there you are, on national news, national news mind you, saying you hope for an early arrest then you lead Lord Saddlefell out covered in a blanket like a common criminal when you don’t have a fucking case and you have to let him go after a couple of hours. What were you thinking of? And I get home after dinner to find messages from the chief constable, MPs, members of the House of Lords, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, asking one fucking question: what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Christ knows what the papers will make of it tomorrow.’
‘But …’
‘And there’s been another murder right under your nose so we’ll have the media with us till we catch the killer. I’m not going to be made to look a fool because of you, Fortune. So tomorrow don’t step an inch out of line, try and find something out and be ready to hand over the case to someone competent first thing on Monday morning. I’d take you off it now if I could but I’ll have to speak to Maxwell’s boss.’
‘Maxwell?’
‘I know he’s your husband, but he’s a bloody good policeman and that’s what we fucking need. So do you understand? Tomorrow you find out as much as you can, collate everything you’ve got and on Monday hand it over. And don’t do anything else.’
‘But sir …’ The phone clicked as the divisional commander rang off. Flick looked helplessly at Fergus.
‘I could hear a bit of that. Don’t worry. I’ll refuse to take the case.’
‘Could you do that?’
‘I will anyway, and I’m pretty sure my divisional commander will back me.’
Flick put her head on Fergus’s shoulder, he put his arm round her and they remained like that till she was asleep. He gently roused her and tenderly helped her to bed. His shirt was wet where her head had rested.
* * *
‘So what is the inspector really like?’ Lance Wallace asked Baggo.
He had driven Baggo to his home, a modest detached house built with light brown sandstone on the main street of Dairsie, a village on the St Andrews to Cupar road. With its neat gravel path and small, tidy borders on either side, the whole impression was of solidit
y and order. Lance’s wife, Jeannie, had been forewarned and greeted her guest as if Scotland’s reputation for hospitality depended on it. Steaming plates of mince, tatties and peas which Baggo said tasted as good as a biryani, had been followed by Caboc, a soft buttery cheese coated in oatmeal and served on big, coarse oatcakes. Washed down by heavy beer, it relaxed both men after their traumatic day, Baggo having long since ceased to care about eating beef. After they had finished Jeannie had tidied up while Lance poured the special Glenmorangie. After some talk about the inquiry Lance asked the question he had really wanted to ask.
‘The inspector? I like her, but she often does not give a good impression. She is very private and difficult to get to know. Her main problem is she does not have a proper sense of humour. She will generally laugh a bit after everyone else as if she needs them to tell her something is funny. I have found myself cracking jokes to wind her up. But she is decent, honest, brave and clever. She does not take advantage of her position and can talk to anyone. I met her husband during a cross-border inquiry, as she did. He seems a good bloke. How is she getting on here?’
Lance pulled a face. ‘So-so, at best. She’s seen as being too serious and a stickler for the rules. Of course she hasn’t been with us for long.’
‘It’s hard for women in the police. I would find it daunting to have to order a lot of Scotsmen about. There’s a sense of clannishness here that strikes me. Of course, I’m what most people still call a Paki. Cheers!’ Hoping he had not given offence, Baggo raised his glass.
Lance ignored the Paki remark and the implied criticism of the Scots. ‘What about this odd private eye who’s going about the place creating mayhem?’
‘Noel Osborne, known as “Inspector No”, was in charge of Wimbledon CID. I got on alright with him, but it was a different story for Flick Fortune. If there was an irregular way to do something he’d do it. He’d cleaned up the East End of London years ago, according to him, and he’d done it with planted evidence, false confessions, the lot. He and Fortune hated each other and were always scoring points. She complained about his sexist attitude and he mocked her university degree and called her Felicity, which is her name but she never uses it. That drove her mad. He’s an alcoholic and when he’s drinking he’s hopeless.’