by Ian Simpson
‘I hear that was the problem at the Christmas Fayre. I wonder what he’ll be like tomorrow. Fancy another?’
The subtle, mature spirit made Baggo feel very good. He held out his glass. ‘This is even smoother than Amrut, our Indian single malt from Bangalore,’ he said.
Lance raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m flattered,’ he replied.
* * *
Osborne was aware of his head. It hurt. His mouth was dry. The phrase ‘like a badger’s arse’ swirled about in his mind. His stomach felt tender. He needed a pee. He opened his eyes. He was face down on a bed, some vomit on the sheet under his head. Lights were on. A lot of small bottles were scattered about. There was something tight round his throat. Elastic. He pulled at it and a flowing white beard came round from the back of his neck. Gingerly he got up and tried to walk but his ankles were tied together. He looked and saw a pair of red trousers half on, half off. He was wearing a strange, red jacket with fur trimmings. The horrors of the previous day began to come back to him. He shuffled past the open mini-bar door to the toilet and peed, not caring where he sprayed. Using all his coordination he drank water from the tap as he could not find a glass. Then he went back to bed. He tried to put the lights out but could not master the complexity of the switches. Avoiding the vomit, he carefully put his head down and went back to sleep.
17
‘It’s a dreich day, so you’ll need your breakfast,’ Jeannie said, looking out at a dark grey morning. Baggo did not have to go outside to realise it was going to be a day when the cold dampness would reach his bone marrow. Briefly he thought of Mumbai and sunshine then concentrated on swallowing the porridge in his bowl. He found it as unappetising as the previous night’s dinner had been delicious, but Jeannie was clearly proud of it and he had no wish to upset her. He was alert and ready for the day, having slept well in the Wallaces’ nineteen-year-old daughter’s room. She was at Aberdeen University studying English Literature, but if the posters decorating her room were anything to go by, her taste in music did not extend much beyond One Direction.
‘Lovely,’ he said after the last slimy spoonful had gone down. ‘No thanks,’ he added quickly as Jeannie offered him more. The two fried eggs and crispy bacon she put in front of him next were far more to his taste, and he ate happily while Lance cross-examined their seventeen-year-old son, Alan, about what he had done the previous night.
‘You were late home. Where were you?’
‘In St Andrews. At Willie Carlyle’s.’
‘So were Willie’s parents in?’
‘Aye.’ Alan, who had come down to breakfast late and bleary-eyed, wearing a tee shirt, tracksuit bottoms and nothing on his feet, spooned his porridge as if on autopilot.
‘Did they give you beer?’
‘Aye.’
‘And there were no spirits?’
‘Naw.’
‘And on Monday morning McKellar won’t tell me about you trying to get into pubs?’
‘Don’t know what he’ll say. Maybe he’ll try and frame us.’
‘Don’t cheek me. Were you in a pub?’
‘Only for a wee while, earlier. We just had a couple of pints.’
‘Which one was it?’
‘Didn’t catch the name. Relax, Dad. We weren’t caught.’
‘You’d be seen, though. By people who know who you are.’
‘By people who know who you are, Dad.’ Throughout this exchange Alan had not lifted his eyes from his bowl of porridge. Now he glared at his father across the table. Jeannie wrung her hands in distress as Lance ignored his bacon and egg and out-stared his son.
‘It must be hard to be the sergeant’s son in a small area,’ Baggo said, earning a silent nod from Alan. ‘And hard in a different way being the father.’
‘You can say that again,’ Lance said through clenched teeth. He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
‘I was very lucky,’ Baggo went on, ‘as my dad was in medicine, not the law, and it was not too embarrassing if I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have.’
Jeannie said, ‘Alan hopes to study law at university next year.’ Smiling proudly at her son, she put a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
‘Lollipop Logan was there too,’ Alan said huffily. ‘He was totally pissed, he’s younger than me and his dad’s the sheriff.’
‘I don’t care. You are my son and as long as you live in my house it’s my rules.’
‘Why do you call him “Lollipop”?’ Baggo asked, trying to divert the boy from a serious confrontation.
Alan looked at his mother, blushed and put the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled, sliding his bacon and eggs to his place.
‘That breakfast will keep me going all day,’ Baggo said, his imagination working on possible origins for the nickname. ‘We should be moving, Lance. As I was dressing this morning I had a thought.’
‘Right. We have a big day ahead. And you,’ Lance turned to Alan, ‘consider yourself grounded till further notice.’
Alan put down his cutlery with a clatter, got up and hurried out of the room. ‘Fuck off, Dad,’ he shouted before he slammed the door.
In an instant Lance was out of his chair, making after him.
‘Stop!’ Jeannie almost screamed. ‘Stop, stop. You have your work to go to. And he’s a good boy, really he is. All his mates go to pubs, as you know. It’s hard for him being your son. Please try to understand.’ She got up and stood between her husband and the door, her shoulders quivering.
Lance sat back down, breathing deeply. ‘Sorry, Baggo,’ he said.
‘It is nothing I haven’t seen before,’ Baggo replied. About midway between father and son in age, he saw both viewpoints but identified more readily with the son’s. He changed the subject. ‘As I was dressing this morning,’ he said, ‘it occurred to me that there is one thing both victims have in common that no one has considered. They are both connected to Haleybourne Golf Club. Parsley was a member and Thornton was an assistant pro. Today I would like to go there and ask some questions, and I ask a big favour. Please could you get me to Edinburgh Airport so I can fly down to London and be there by lunchtime? I could go to either Heathrow or Gatwick but Heathrow would be closer.’
Lance scratched his head. ‘Why are you so intent on going after the murderer? I thought your interest was the money laundering.’
‘I’m sure the crimes are all related. And until we find the murderer and gather enough evidence it will be difficult to properly pursue the financial criminals. I do not want them to get off in return for giving evidence for the prosecution in the murder.’
Lance said, ‘I see your point. I suppose it might give us the breakthrough we need. If you dropped me in Cupar at HQ you could borrow our car, but we’d need it tomorrow. When will you be back?’
‘I hope later today, but I might be delayed.’
‘There’s no way Sanderson, who organises the car pool, would lend one out to someone not in Fife Division.’
‘What about Alan?’ Jeannie asked her husband. ‘He could drive Baggo through and come straight back. It could be a sort of punishment for last night.’
‘Or this morning,’ Lance said grimly. He saw Baggo looking eagerly at him and capitulated. ‘All right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Jeannie, you’d better call him. But make sure he hurries.’
* * *
‘I’ll ride in the back,’ Baggo volunteered as Jeannie pressed a plastic box containing sandwiches into his hand. He made a mental note to bring a good present when he returned. Leaving most of his luggage, he had his computer over his shoulder and Knarston-Smith’s memory stick beside the money clip in his trouser pocket. For back-up he had sent the contents of the stick and No’s briefing from Saddlefell to a secure e-mail address, but he did not know what he would do with the clip. Perhaps, if he was positive he knew the identity of the murderer and there was not enough evidence … He preferred not to think about that.
Equally grim-faced and looking v
ery much like father and son, Lance occupied the passenger seat while Alan took the wheel. It was a short drive to Cupar and it passed in silence until Lance hissed ‘speed’ as they reached the outskirts. Alan kept the speedometer at a steady thirty-five miles per hour until they slowed for traffic lights. Police HQ was at the far side of the town. Alan skidded as he brought the car to a halt outside the front entrance. Ignoring his son, Lance wished Baggo good luck as he got out. Baggo moved to the passenger seat and Alan revved the engine before screeching away.
‘You drive well,’ Baggo told Alan some miles down the road after he had safely avoided a tightly-packed group of lycra-clad cyclists with an apparent aversion to signalling.
Alan shrugged. There was a hint of a smile.
‘My dad and I fought like cat and dog when I was your age,’ Baggo said. ‘He tried to teach me to drive. Did your dad teach you?’
‘He tried.’ Now the smile was real, if rueful.
‘We came over from India when I was a bit younger than you,’ Baggo continued. ‘But in India the driving is dreadful. If you want to overtake you put your hand on the horn and go ahead. My dad had no idea about driving in England, but he thought he knew it all. He took me out when I was learning and we had terrible shouting matches. Once I was so angry that I got out of the car but he moved over to the driving seat and went home. It took me two hours to walk back – in the rain. Was it like that with you?’
‘A bit.’
‘I still argue with my father. He wants me to marry an Indian girl, a Brahmin like me and I don’t want that, so we fight. But I never ever forget that he loves me and would do anything to help me. One night when our relationship was at its worst, I got into trouble. I hit an English boy who had called me a Paki and made fun of me. I broke his nose pretty badly and his friends said I had started it. The police came to question me, and my dad, who was a consultant at the local hospital, stood up for me and got me a lawyer he paid for himself. The charges were eventually dropped, but I learned two lessons. One, whatever we might argue about, my dad was always there for me, and two, when you are in the police you can have a massive influence on other people’s lives. Your dad is a good man, and I can see he cares deeply about you. Part of his authority comes from his reputation, so having a son who flouts the law, even just going to pubs under-age, makes him look bad.’
Alan drove on in silence. Some miles further on he said, ‘I know he cares, but …’
‘He has a difficult time in a small community where people know each other. Will you go away to university?’
‘I hope to be accepted for Edinburgh. It depends on this year’s Highers.’
‘Good. Things will improve, especially when you reach eighteen. But in the meantime, cut him some slack and maybe he’ll do the same with you.’
Alan said nothing but nodded. Baggo asked about school and the conversation became increasingly relaxed. By the time they reached the Forth Road Bridge Alan had laughed a few times. When he dropped Baggo at the airport he grinned. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said.
* * *
Flick sat on the edge of the bath, wiping her face. She had never looked forward less to a day’s work. If morning sickness was not bad enough the cold, damp dawn leading to a short, bleak day depressed her further. She despaired of the little she had achieved in the inquiry. Chandavarkar had found out far more than she had, and she had needed Fergus’s analysis to begin to make sense of the situation. Most of all, the small-minded resentment against her because she was young, female and English was getting her down. If only she could have the baby and never go near a Scottish police office again …
‘Get a grip and buck up,’ she said out loud, rubbing herself vigorously with her towel. She hadn’t got where she was by giving up. This was a hugely difficult, high-pressure inquiry and she had made real progress. In the short time between the alarm waking her and getting out of bed, Fergus had cuddled her and said, ‘You are good at your job and I believe in you. Don’t let anyone get you down.’ It was something to hang on to. And maybe she should give a little, like calling Chandavarkar Baggo. If he didn’t mind, why should she? He was an outsider, like her, but he had the gift of getting on with people in a way she never could.
In the car as she drove to Cupar for the daily briefing she thought about what she should say. About one thing she was determined, she would not tell them that she would be off the case within twenty-four hours.
The officers assembled for the briefing looked and sounded as grim as they had the previous day. If any were pleased to get overtime they failed to show it. They fell silent for Flick, who began by taking them through the information on the whiteboard, now decorated with photographs of the characters featured. Then she called on different officers to report. McKellar confirmed that early on Friday morning Mrs Eglinton had booked a time on the Eden in the names of Eglinton and Parsley. A number of officers had tried to identify the chambermaid said to have told Osborne about the gold money clip in Saddlefell’s possession. They had not been successful. Flick ordered them to keep trying.
Gilsland had with him in Cupar the computers seized in the search but had yet to find anything interesting on them. They were well protected by passwords and he admitted that it would probably be necessary to call in officers who were also IT specialists. He added that he was being careful in case a wrong move should delete everything. Wallace reported that nothing relevant had been picked up by the microphone in Forbes’s room. He said that di Falco was continuing to question guests but had not learned anything of note.
Amy Moncrieff had visited Grace Thornton’s friend, Ina Campbell, the previous evening. Mrs Campbell had been devastated to hear of Bruce’s murder and alarmed to hear that his mother had visited him minutes before he died. At first she did not want to speak to the police, but when informed that Mrs Thornton had told them about their lunchtime meeting, had recounted what they had said.
It had been, Mrs Campbell explained, the first time Bruce’s mother had mentioned his sexuality. With her husband refusing to admit the boy was gay, Grace had talked about Bruce being confused and needing to sort himself out. Though the two women had been best friends for decades, it had been very hard for Grace to describe the circumstances that had brought Bruce back to St Andrews without visiting the parents who had doted on him.
Ina had secretly entertained doubts about Bruce as he had never had a girlfriend. She assured her friend that it did not reflect badly on his parents, and that he still loved them. However he needed them to accept the truth, and it was that need for acceptance that created the barrier between them. There were many worse things in life than having a gay son. Gay sons were often more dutiful and loving than those who were conventionally married. Inside, Bruce would be longing to restore his relationship with his parents, especially his mother.
Ina Campbell had been uncertain about how much Grace had accepted, but she had been persuaded to visit Bruce and talk to him face to face. Ina had reassured her that if she showed some understanding, he would more than likely meet her half way. ‘Did I do wrong?’ she had asked Moncrieff, wringing her hands with anxiety. ‘Is it my fault …?’ That possibility in the forefront of her mind, Moncrieff had tried to be both non-committal and consoling.
‘Well done, Constable,’ Flick said when she finished, aware of sneers on the faces of a number of the men. ‘You got that absolutely right. Now, we have a lot of material, and I want to have it all collated by the end of today, so every statement must be typed up and all information logged. We need to find out why these two people were killed, and to do that we have to keep talking to suspects, hotel staff, anyone who might tell us something. Remember, it’s the small details that often unlock a case, so don’t be shy about reporting things that seem unimportant. They may turn out to be vital. Let’s make today count.’
Trying to appear more robust than she felt, Flick watched the officers file out. Amy Moncrieff lingered behind.
‘Inspector,’ she said tentativel
y.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for praising me there. It’s sometimes difficult, you know …’
‘Believe me, I know.’
‘Well I’m really glad you’re here. It makes a big difference for me.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Flick said, trying to hide her pleasure. ‘Now get on and find our murderer.’ As she watched Moncrieff join her colleagues, Flick wondered if the difference she made was as an example or a lightning conductor.
* * *
Flick spent the next half hour in her office, organising the material she would hand over. If she had failed to win the respect of the divisional commander she might at least demonstrate her worth to the person taking over. Dr MacGregor phoned to confirm what she already knew. Thornton had been first knocked down by one blow then killed by four or five blows to the back of his neck. The weapon had been his lob wedge, swung right-handed. MacGregor promised to have the report to her in writing within a couple of days. She could not bring herself to tell him she would be off the case. Minutes later the phone on her desk rang. She answered abruptly and found herself speaking to Murdo Munro.
‘Good morning, Inspector. I hope you’re well?’
‘What can I do for you, Mr Munro?’
‘I am presently in St Andrews with Lord Saddlefell and we have had an in-depth discussion. The long and the short of it is that he is willing to help your inquiry into certain activities within the Bucephalus Bank. He and I could be with you in twenty minutes or so and we would be happy to meet with you and Sergeant Chandavarkar.’
‘Oh, good,’ Flick said, surprise turning to wariness. ‘We shall expect you.’
As soon as Munro had ended his call Flick phoned Wallace and asked where Chandavarkar was.
‘He’s flying down to London, ma’am, chasing up a lead.’