by Anne Randall
‘Step lightly.’
‘I’m on official business.’
‘Do I need to spell it out to you, Wheeler? One, you’re not in your own jurisdiction, you’re a Glasgow cop, remember? Two, that club is frequented by the great and good, people who not only uphold the law, but who actually make it. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’ She kept her voice low. ‘I’m not unaware, boss. I just passed Sir Brian Sutherland in reception. And it looks like Mark Ponsensby-Edward is a member.’
‘Go easy.’
Fucking outrageous, she thought. Kept her voice calm. ‘I’m not here to make a point, this is my bloody investigation.’
‘Then mind you keep it that way.’ The line went dead.
She turned to Ross. ‘You heard that, right?’
‘I heard enough. Stewart telling you to be diplomatic around these fragile rich folk in case you upset them. I’m surprised at the boss, he’s usually up for a confrontation.’
‘It’s not like him,’ agreed Wheeler. She wondered what was going on, what did Stewart know that she didn’t? Through the glass door she watched a man saunter along the corridor towards them. ‘OK, here we go. Let’s see who’s been sent to meet us.’
‘Although, it’s maybe for the best that I’m here too,’ Ross muttered.
‘Because?’
‘Because you lit up like a beacon when you heard that it was an all-male club.’
It was all that she could do not to hit him. ‘Are you fucking serious?’ she hissed before turning towards the man approaching them.
He was tall, wore a dark suit, a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, and a bow tie. His oiled hair was neatly parted to the side. He adjusted his cufflinks as he approached. His smile was confident, assured.
‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is my colleague, DI Ross.’
He held out his hand. ‘Alastair Brodie. I’m club secretary. My colleague at the gatehouse informed me that you were here.’ He offered his hand.
Wheeler shook it; it was limp.
Brodie continued, ‘Please come through and have a seat. Shall I order some tea, coffee perhaps?’
‘We’re fine, thanks.’ They followed him through to one of the smaller bar areas.
He closed the door behind them. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
‘We’re investigating a murder. A woman’s body was discovered in the East End of Glasgow on Wednesday morning.’
‘Oh dear. How awful.’
‘And we believe the victim may have worked in this area,’ said Wheeler. ‘Her name was Karlie Merrick.’
Brodie considered it for a moment. ‘The name isn’t familiar but I wouldn’t necessarily know all the staff; we have quite a few temporary and casual contracts. Our general manager, Anton Melville, is on holiday at present. As is our admissions secretary, Jeffrey King.’
‘Then maybe you could call them?’
‘I’m afraid not. They’ve both gone off on a trekking holiday in Nepal. They’re uncontactable. I could speak with housekeeping?’ Brodie offered. ‘They use a number of casual staff.’
‘I’d appreciate if you could check your records.’ Wheeler crossed to a chair, sat.
‘Of course. In the meantime, I’ve asked our head of security to join us; he’s aware of everyone who comes and goes in the club.’
He keeps the secrets, thought Wheeler.
‘Paul may be more up to date with those individuals who are here on a temporary basis.’
Wheeler held up a photograph of Karlie Merrick. ‘Perhaps you recognise her, Mr Brodie?’
Brodie glanced at it. ‘No, I’m afraid not. As I said, I don’t recall the name and I certainly don’t recognise the woman.’
The door opened and Wheeler looked at the man entering. Felt her stomach contract and the acid form in her mouth. Watched Paul Furlan use all of his six foot three physique to make an entrance. His suit was tailored to emphasise his muscles; a large watch just visible. Jade green eyes and a boxer’s nose. The bastard. She forced herself to swallow down the phlegm that had gathered in her mouth. She saw Alastair Brodie visibly relax.
‘Paul, I do hope your father had an enjoyable birthday lunch?’
So Eddie Furlan was in the building too, thought Wheeler.
‘Yeah, he had a great time, thanks.’
‘Allow me to introduce DIs Wheeler and Ross. They are investigating a murder; some unfortunate woman has been killed.’
‘Wheeler and I are old army colleagues.’
‘I see.’ Brodie turned to her. ‘Perhaps you knew that already, Inspector?’
Wheeler ignored him, addressed Furlan. ‘Karlie Merrick worked here, didn’t she?’
‘She did a couple of shifts.’
‘And you never thought to call it in, when we were appealing for information?’
Silence.
‘When was the last time she was here?’
‘I can check our records.’ Brodie stood.
She stared at Furlan. ‘In the meantime, just from memory?’
‘She was here a few weeks ago.’
‘What was her job description?’
‘Erotic dancer.’
‘She was a stripper?’ asked Ross. ‘I didn’t think the McIver was that kind of a club.’
‘Nothing quite so vulgar,’ spat Brodie from the door. ‘Our clients are extremely respectable, professional gentlemen who wouldn’t dream of attending those types of places.’
‘And you have a list of the clients Karlie danced for? These respectable gents?’ asked Wheeler.
‘We don’t keep specific records. A client will put in a request for us to arrange a dance and then it’s arranged.’
‘So you have no record of who asked for the dance?’ said Ross. ‘Why not?’
‘A request form is left in the office. It doesn’t need to be signed, just the date and the time. We don’t monitor our guests, Inspector Ross. They are free to attend a dance appointment, just like any other club. I’m sure if you go to a less exclusive club, the lap dancing clubs you alluded to, you are not monitored. Your name and details aren’t recorded if you partake in a dance, are they? Or if you were clubbing? Would you expect management to record the details of everyone you’d danced with? Then, why on earth would we inflict this on our clients?’ The question was obviously rhetorical; Brodie didn’t bother waiting for her reply. The door closed softly behind him.
‘Have any of our clients been linked to this death?’ asked Furlan.
‘Process of elimination.’
‘Presumably for the night she died, Tuesday? I’ve already told you, she wasn’t here that night.’
Wheeler recognised the edge in Furlan’s voice. Knew that it preceded a violent outburst. Despite the slick suit, the expensive watch and the air of superiority he tried to project, Furlan was the same bully she’d known in the army.
‘Where were you on Tuesday night?’
‘Up to your old tricks again, Wheeler?’
‘Don’t make me ask a second time.’
‘I was here until midnight, then I went to a party at Ronald McMasters’ country house.’ He scowled. ‘I stayed over.’
‘Can anyone corroborate this?’
‘They don’t need to, I’m telling you.’
‘How well did you know Karlie Merrick?’
‘Hardly at all, I only saw her in passing.’
Brodie returned with a printout. ‘Our gatehouse entry has Karlie Merrick arriving at 8 p.m. on Friday 20 June and leaving at 11 p.m. She returned on Friday 27 June and was on the premises from 9.30 p.m. until 11 p.m. These are the only times she was at the club.’
‘I’ll need to talk to those staff on duty that night.’
‘Dancers are ushered in and out via the side entrance; they don’t walk through the club itself. Therefore, only security see them.’
‘And the client obviously.’ Wheeler addressed Furlan. ‘Did anything unusual happen when she was here?’
‘Nope.’
; She didn’t expect that he’d tell her anything. She tried Brodie. ‘We’ve had to look long and hard to find that she worked here.’
‘Our members are not involved in any way, so do try to be discreet, Inspector.’
‘Why so secretive and why did she have to sign a confidentiality agreement?’
‘It’s nothing ominous, DI Wheeler, merely that a great many of our clients are extremely well known. All employees, myself and Paul included, sign the confidentiality contract. Clients need to be assured that when they come here to relax, no one is going to sell their story or talk about them to the press. If details were made public, it would contradict the whole ethos of a private members’ club. Surely you can’t think we’re doing anything that other private clubs don’t?’
‘I’ll need to see where she worked.’
‘Of course, we’ve nothing to hide.’ Brodie checked the records. ‘Both evenings she worked in the Moroccan Room. Paul, could you show our guests downstairs?’
They walked in silence to the large, windowless room. The seven large lamps were lit and the room was cool and relaxing. The brightly coloured tiles in the mosaic floor glittered, and on the low leather sofas, plump cushions were neatly arranged.
Wheeler made for the hoist. ‘What’s this?’
‘Some of the girls use it as a prop, most theatre acts have them. It’s been specially adapted and fitted so there’s no way they can hurt themselves. Health and Safety tested. Nothing sinister, Wheeler. You always were one to jump to conclusions.’
‘Did you meet Karlie outside work?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s against the rules for staff to hook up. I only saw her here at the club. And I didn’t see her the night she died. Now, if we’re done here, I’m off.’
Wheeler stepped forward. ‘This is a murder inquiry, in case you don’t quite grasp the significance.’
Furlan’s voice was low. ‘I know more about life and death situations than you’ll ever experience, Wheeler. I’m telling you we’re done.’
She didn’t move.
Ross touched her arm. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I would be wary of dragging the McIver or its members through the mud of a murder investigation, if I were you. Karlie Merrick was only here a couple of times on a casual basis.’ Furlan paused. ‘Then again, you never were good at holding boundaries.’
Upstairs, Brodie stood in the corridor. ‘This is a very distressing time. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’
‘A few more questions if you don’t mind,’ said Wheeler. More of a statement. She didn’t know how much more access she was going to get to the club, but, judging from Brodie’s tone, very little. ‘Tell me about the club. How do prospective members join? Are they vetted?’
‘They must be proposed by a current member, and that, in turn, must be seconded by another.’
‘And then they’re in?’ said Ross.
‘Then their application is heard by the committee. Finally, if that is successful, there is an interview.’
‘Who sits on the committee?’ asked Wheeler.
‘A number of our distinguished members, for example Mark Ponsensby-Edward and Judge Storey rotate, depending on work commitments. Our accounts are held in our central office in Edinburgh.’
‘There doesn’t appear to be much information on your website,’ said Wheeler.
‘There’s nothing unusual about that, Inspector. We don’t need to advertise. We provide a private members’ club of such distinctive calibre that we attract a first-class membership. Here our gentlemen can relax in the bar or dine in the restaurant, where they can do business over lunch or dinner.’
‘When’s chucking-out time?’ asked Ross
Brodie winced. ‘We do not chuck our members out. They leave when they are ready. Mostly their chauffeurs are waiting to whisk them home around midnight, perhaps a little later, certainly, no one is here after 2 a.m. Alas, we have no overnight accommodation. Our club is very well attended. Edmund McIver founded it in 1854 and, of course, it was a much smaller establishment then. However, we’ve grown considerably over the years.’
‘Why not admit women?’ asked Wheeler.
‘Tradition.’
‘And you need such a high level of security that Paul Furlan is employed to run it?’ she said.
‘Some years ago there was an attempt to kidnap one of our most high-profile members, a prominent judge who was presiding over a controversial case. Thankfully, the attempt was thwarted and the men in question arrested and charged, but it was decided then that we needed to employ a professional to run security. We have to protect our clients. Without going into extraneous detail or breaching confidentiality, I can say that the majority of our members have high-profile professions. They are sometimes the target of maliciousness because they are either upholding the law at the highest echelons, or, frankly, they are making it. Adequate security is necessary in today’s climate.’ Brodie peered at her. ‘Surely you of all people must appreciate this, Inspector Wheeler? You strive to keep the streets of Glasgow safe; why would we be any different here? We keep our members safe, and in that regard there is very little difference between you and Paul Furlan.’
‘I’m a detective, committed to public service. Paul Furlan is a security consultant, committed to private service. I think there’s a difference.’
Brodie dismissed her with a flick of his hand. ‘Allow me to show you out.’
‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday night, the night she died?’
‘I was attending a birthday party for Hugo Ponsensby-Edward on Nicholas Watson-Dunbar’s estate in Perthshire.’
She might have bloody guessed. Hugo Ponsensby-Edward, son of Mark. And Watson-Dunbar, a top QC, who was presently defending in a high-profile case. He was also one of Scotland’s biggest egos.
Brodie smiled stiffly, his voice cold. ‘Please do feel free to bother Nicholas Watson-Dunbar with a call, Inspector Wheeler. I’m sure he would be only too pleased to drag himself away from the trial. He’d be delighted to answer your obviously very important questions as to our whereabouts the night the poor unfortunate woman was murdered. I’m curious why you seem to view the club with such suspicion; perhaps you are a little biased? Goodbye, Inspector.’
Outside, Ross started the car, indicated and pulled out. ‘Well, that went well. I think you won them over by dint of your sunny disposition.’
‘It’s not my job to win anyone over.’
‘Just as well.’
‘They’re arrogant pricks.’
‘You didn’t cut them any slack; you went in guns blazing.’
‘All that about “important questions”, Brodie might have just said “from the little lady”. Patronising git. And comparing me to Furlan.’
‘Of all people.’ Ross tried for a smile.
‘It’s not the same though, is it? Our Code of Ethics reflects the values of our police force and demands that we show integrity, fairness and respect. I know from experience that Paul-fucking-Furlan is completely lacking in integrity.’
‘You’ve memorised that whole document, haven’t you?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No, I got the gist of it and obviously I agree with it, but I think your take on the McIver may be influenced by Paul Furlan. The tension between you two was palpable.’
‘The tension wasn’t between us, Ross. It was in the room. I was aware of it too. He’s hiding something. He didn’t inform us that Karlie worked there.’
‘He didn’t want the club involved. Other than that, concrete evidence?’
‘None yet. And as for Brodie, what’s your take on him?’
Ross pulled up at a red light before he replied. ‘A bit of a throwback, but if you can get by that, he seemed OK. He offered a rational explanation about the club and its history. Also, it made sense about why Paul Furlan’s employed. There are nutters out there who will try to get at a judge if they have a gangland boss who’s going down; you’d need securi
ty to be tight.’ The lights changed and he drove on. ‘The McIver is expensive and exclusive, so you’ve got a load of rich, influential guys in one place; they’re sitting targets. The club can’t have the security letting it down. You’ve got to agree, Wheeler, don’t you? You saw who was at the bloody reception.’
She said nothing, stared out of the window.
‘But that doesn’t suit your argument about Paul Furlan, does it?’ said Ross.
‘I don’t need arguments; I deal in facts.’
‘You two have unresolved issues and maybe—’
She cut him off. ‘I’m a professional, Ross.’
‘All I meant is that you have a bit of a grudge against him. Don’t let it get in the way of the investigation.’
Wheeler waited until a huge HGV rumbled past before she answered. ‘I might not like him, but it doesn’t mean I’ve lost my ability to be analytical.’
‘Be careful, Wheeler. Paul Furlan might make this look like your problem, that you have a personal vendetta against him.’
‘Furlan’s a bully and a bullshitter, Ross. He always was.’
Inside the McIver, Paul Furlan closed the door to his office. Made the call.
Five minutes later, Mark Ponsensby-Edward entered the office. ‘I hear we have a problem.’
‘We’ve had a visit from the police.’
‘About the girl’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Purely routine?’
‘They know she worked here.’
‘I see.’
‘The cop in charge is an old adversary of mine, she means to make trouble.’
‘Then we’ll need to deal with her, Paul. Won’t we?’
Chapter Forty-Eight
The DCC’s Office
An hour later and the informal meeting had already begun. The Deputy Chief Constable, Gregor McCoy, was seated behind his desk. Across from him, Mark Ponsensby-Edward relaxed into a chair and smiled at his friend. ‘Gregor, I do hope you don’t think I’m interfering in this investigation?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m just concerned that one of your officers is a bit of a loose cannon at present, and what with you being in line for—’