Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  A man sitting on a bench opposite St. James reading a paper periodically looked his way.

  Chapter 45

  St. James had always been active. He played basketball as a kid, hockey as a teenager, and ran track at university, moving fast in one sport or another most of his life. Now he was content with just lengthy walks and the odd golf game. Being forced to be completely sedentary was making him feel like a caged animal. Mind raring to go, body saying no.

  His mind drifted over the two cases, what the next steps should be.

  He would ask the Higgins law firm to search Cayman records for the names of everyone associated with the Stevens case, property titles, and commercial registries; hopefully uncovering information that would bring him closer to uncovering what had become of Jensen’s $23 million.

  For the CISI case there were a couple of Toronto people Dozer’s men should investigate. And this week he would see what could be learned from Basil and William Hughes. That could change everything yet again.

  He strolled around the grounds for another fifteen minutes or so, then wandered back to the room.

  Anna had moved the two piles of documents from the small table to the bed: more room to spread everything out, easier to cross-reference.

  Sprawled across the bed with her back to St. James, Anna said, “Everything checks out as far as I can tell. Every pound of every species in Basil’s files ties into the sheets in the Toronto file: no differences whatsoever.”

  “Hmm. What you just did was a very important first step, but only the first.”

  Anna sat up to face St. James. “Oh, what’s next then?”

  “Electronic versions of the same thing.”

  Anna watched St. James pull his laptop from its case, fire up Outlook, and send separate emails to Van Hoyt and Basil Hughes, asking each for electronic versions of the paper files Anna had just cross-checked. He also asked Basil for the name of the head office accountant assigned to his plant.

  While at it he emailed Higgins Johnson to request that they conduct the Cayman registry searches. Then, an email to Dozer asking him to run surveillance on Van Hoyt, Graves, and Blakie.

  Realizing he hadn’t notified David Kingston at Scotland Yard that he was in the UK, he emailed him to outline all that had happened and why he was on British soil.

  Ten minutes later his laptop pinged with electronic files from Basil. The head office accountant for Plymouth was a lady named Jennifer Quigley. He emailed her straight away and asked for electronic copies of Plymouth’s year-end inventory records, the very same documents he had requested from Basil and Karen.

  “Do you feel up to going out to dinner tonight, Hamilton?” Anna asked.

  “That could be the best medicine right now. I’m feeling cooped up; not a very good patient, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll ask the concierge for recommendations. He was excellent with shopping advice, no reason that wouldn’t extend to restaurants,” she said cheerfully.

  Anna pushed the concierge call button and discussed dinner venues with a man at the front desk.

  St. James’s computer pinged again. This time, a trail of emails. An email to David Kingston from DuPont dated the previous day, outlining attempts on St. James’s life and requesting protection for him and Anna while in England. Next, an email from Kingston to Plymouth’s Chief Sergeant Dempsey and Portsmouth’s Chief Sergeant Collingwood requesting protection the days they’d be in each city.

  “God bless them! Looking out for us,” St. James mumbled.

  “What’s that?” Anna asked, waiting for the concierge to check dining establishments.

  “Nothing, dear.”

  She let it go when the concierge came back on the line.

  “If you are looking for a true taste of traditional British dining,” he said, “Kitley House in Yealmpton is your best bet. It’s about eight miles outside Plymouth. You’ll love it.”

  Anna thanked him, disconnected, and relayed the choice to St. James.

  “Sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

  Anna made the reservation for seven, then arranged a car to collect them at 6:30.

  They continued working files until six, then took turns in the shower.

  En route to Kitley House St. James noticed the driver frequently checking his rearview mirror.

  “Something wrong?” St. James said.

  “Police are following us, sir. Not sure why, I’m well within the limit,” he said in a rough British accent.

  St. James smiled but said nothing.

  Chief Sergeant Dempsey on the job.

  It was 7:05 when the limo pulled up to Kitley House’s grand entrance.

  “My God,” Anna said as they approached the Inn. “It’s a mini Downton Abbey!”

  “Amazing,” St. James said, gazing over the vast, immaculately kept estate.

  The view on the drive up to Kitley’s entrance accented the beautiful silvery marble-granite manor. Situated on six hundred acres of beautiful English countryside, Kitley sat at the head of the Yealm estuary, which had been dammed to create the property’s freshwater lake. The gardens were extensive, the grounds perfectly manicured.

  Seconds later a police car pulled in behind, and a young, slightly built constable Anna thought could be no older than sixteen got out and introduced himself as Sandy Anderson. St. James recognized him immediately as the man on the park bench behind the hotel pretending to read the paper.

  “Chief Sergeant Dempsey asked me to provide you with security,” the constable said, smiling as they shook hands.

  St. James said, “We appreciate the help, Constable. Please thank the chief sergeant for us.

  “I will. I’ll shadow you for the next couple of days. How long are you planning to stay in Plymouth?”

  “Just until Saturday, then we’re off to Portsmouth,” St. James said.

  “Travel safe,” he said as he climbed back into his vehicle to stand watch.

  Inside they found themselves back in time a good five hundred years, and were instantly spellbound by a grand, sweeping oak staircase, antique hand-carved chests, solid wood panelling, and a wall of heraldic shields. They were captivated by a vast collection of rich art, all original paintings, each worth a fortune, each impossible to replace.

  The house manager met them in the foyer and introduced himself as Alec Simms, who took an immediate shine to Anna. Anna wasn’t shy about soaking up the attention, peppering him with questions about the property’s history and accepting Alec’s every word as gospel.

  Alec, who spoke with an upper-class English accent, was a dapper gentleman who reminded St. James of David Niven. He was immaculately dressed in a black custom-made Clements & Church suit and designer Gucci shoes, the shiniest St. James had ever seen.

  “It was built during the reign of Henry VIII,” Simms explained, “many famous artists and authors stayed here. Samuel Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Sarah Catherine Martin, to name a few.”

  St. James was hungry and didn’t care to dive this deeply into Kitley history. When the timing was right he politely pulled Anna away to the dining room where they enjoyed a bottle of Barolo, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding.

  But Simms was not giving Anna up that easily. He came into the dining room while they were still eating and insisted on a personal tour when they were finished. Once they had enjoyed the last bite and turned down dessert, St. James paid and they strolled back to the foyer where Simms latched onto Anna’s arm to guide her around, totally ignoring St. James.

  St. James had to admit the tour was interesting, but after an hour or so he was tired, and it was time to change the dressing. Eventually he persuaded Simms to arrange a car back to the hotel. As they left they waved to the young constable.

  Back in the hotel room, Anna tended St. James’s shoulder.

  “It’s looking much better, Hamilton,” she said as she redressed the wound. “Did you take a painkiller today?”

  “No. It wasn’t that bad. I think I’m over the worst.”
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  When she had finished bandaging, Anna sat on the bed and paused for a long moment.

  “I was thinking about Betty. She’s probably feeling very lonely without her husband. Does she have many friends to console her?”

  “I doubt it. She drives people away with her attitude.”

  “Maybe when we get back I can spend time with her. Woman-to-woman time might help.”

  “You’re welcome to try. Hope for all of our sakes, especially hers, you’re successful.”

  With that, they kissed, wished each other pleasant dreams, and turned out the light.

  Next morning St. James felt more energetic. He rose and made coffee in the small percolator provided in the room while Anna slept. He opened emails from Van Hoyt and Jennifer Quigley with the attachments he’d requested. No mention of Van Hoyt speaking to Jennifer or vice versa. He had hoped that would be the case. He wanted files from Jennifer’s computer independent of Karen’s. If they had talked they would have assumed the two requests a duplication, an error on his part, and he would’ve received just one set from one or the other. But he wanted the two files separately to see if Jennifer’s electronic files were identical to Karen’s. Without the two, he’d never know, and that would leave a significant hole in the investigation.

  So, he began comparing every pound of every species from the electronic versions to those on the hard copies. They all tied in exactly, as did costing and totals for the plant.

  Next he opened all electronic documents in different windows, beginning with Basil’s Excel inventory spreadsheet, and ran a finger down each column on the screen. Then he did the same with Jennifer Quigley’s, and finally, Karen’s. Just like hard copy to hard copy and electronic copy to hard copy, all species-pounds and dollars matched perfectly between all three electronic files.

  Satisfied with the comparison he set aside the hard copies and concentrated only on the electronic versions. Clicking back and forth he compared Basil’s spreadsheets to Jennifer’s, Jennifer’s to Karen’s, and Karen’s to Basil’s. Then he went around the circle again, repeating the process several times.

  Something was gnawing at him, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what. With three files from three different computers matching perfectly in every detail, that should have been the end of it, the dead end he dreaded. But for some reason he couldn’t let go; an obsession that something he wasn’t seeing was actually there, hiding in plain sight, but at the same time feeling it was all hopeless.

  He continued studying each window for some time. Again he clicked back and forth, back and forth. He wasn’t sure, but something seemed slightly different. He moved the cursor across Basil’s inventory summary and clicked on a single cell. Book Antiqua was the typeface and 12 the font size displayed in the dropdown window on the screen. He highlighted the whole worksheet. Typeface and font size were the same, Book Antiqua 12.

  He did the same with Jennifer’s. Once again the typeface and font size was Book Antiqua 12. Frustrated, he was about to give up, shut down the laptop, and go for a walk. But for some reason he stopped himself and moved the cursor to Karen’s file and clicked on a single cell. It wasn’t Book Antiqua that appeared in the dropdown window. It was Century 12.

  A huge smile washed over St. James’s face.

  Chapter 46

  Anna stirred.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning as she swung her feet from under the blanket.

  “Much stronger, thanks to excellent nursing,” St. James replied cheerfully.

  “What time is it?”

  “8:30.”

  “You plan to go back to the plant?”

  “Yes. When you’re ready I’ll call Basil.”

  It was ten when Henry dropped them off at the plant, and they walked to the back of the plant and into Basil Hughes’s small, sparsely decorated office.

  “Would it be possible to meet your plant accountant?” St. James said after pleasantries were exchanged.

  “Absolutely,” Basil said. “Follow me.”

  In an office two doors down they were introduced to a short round freckled-faced kid named Eli who might have been twenty-five.

  “Eli, these people are from head office doing some consulting work for Cameron,” Basil explained. “Please be completely open with them and provide anything they ask for.”

  “Right, Mr. Hughes,” Eli said obediently.

  “I have some work to do, I am afraid. I leave you in good hands,” Basil said.

  Anna and St. James nodded simultaneously, then turned to Eli.

  “Eli, how long have you been working here?” Anna said.

  “About two years,” he said, seeming somewhat hesitant.

  “What’s your background?” St. James said.

  “Two years college. Bookkeeping diploma.”

  “Is this your first job?”

  Eli smiled. “Yes. And I like working here very much.”

  “How much interaction do you have with Jennifer Quigley?”

  “Almost daily. There’s always procedural changes, things to check, clarify, analysis to do, that sort of thing.”

  “Generally, what are procedures for inventory counts?” St. James said.

  “We get email instructions about a week before the count, then daily updates up to and sometimes after counts, whenever they think of something new or remember something left out of the first instructions.”

  “Hmm. Were you here during last year-end’s count?” St. James asked.

  “Sure was. It was my job to organize it,” he said proudly.

  St. James continued. “Tell us about inventory on trawlers then, how the process worked around that.”

  Eli pointed to a window laden with grime and dead flies facing the waterfront.

  “Well, sir … There were three trawlers tied up out there. One was a shrimp boat, very high-value product.”

  “What were the other two carrying?”

  “One was haddock, the other cod. First set of instructions from HQ said the trawlers were coming here. Then, a short time later, Jennifer said the trawlers were going to Portsmouth to be processed and included in their inventory.”

  St. James interrupted, “What time was that?”

  Eli’s face clouded, trying to remember.

  Finally he said, “I can’t remember the exact time, but it was late morning, maybe noonish.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I got another email saying the trawlers were now coming here. By this time I was starting to panic. I didn’t know whether to call in night shifts. Line workers need time to plan, to make arrangements at home. Some are single parents and have to find someone to look after kids. On top of all that I was getting vulgar messages from the three captains who were receiving the same confusing messages I was. They wanted to know what the hell was going on.”

  “What time did the trawlers actually tie up?” St. James asked.

  “Somewhere around 3:30 or 4:00.”

  “Were the auditors still here?”

  “They finished observing plant counts somewhere around three, I think. That’s when they returned to their office.”

  “So the auditors didn’t see the trawlers?”

  “No. Long gone by then.”

  St. James made a note.

  “Are you sure about that, Eli?” he asked politely, wanting Eli’s answer confirmed without sounding doubtful of him.

  “Quite sure.”

  “That was a number of months ago. How can you be so sure?” Anna said.

  “Because count teams were mad because they had to stay late. They were yelling at me. Auditors didn’t have to stay, why should we, is what they said. It was memorable. Captains yelling at me. Count teams yelling at me. And when I called in two shifts with very little notice, they yelled at me too. There’s no forgetting the worst day of my life.”

  St. James smiled. “Good enough, Eli. Thank you.”

  “Did Jennifer say the reason for the change?” Anna asked.


  “No … and I didn’t ask. HQ doesn’t like to be questioned.”

  “Didn’t you think it odd that there were conflicting instructions?” St. James said.

  “Very odd. It made no sense at all. If catch was to go to Portsmouth, it should have been sent there in the first place. At the time I received the first instruction, trawlers were almost equidistant from both plants. So why tell them to set sail here first and then Portsmouth a short time later? And sometime after that, reverse the instructions again? That’s why they were so late arriving here.

  St. James took another moment to make notes.

  “What did the captains say about all this when they docked?” St. James asked.

  “They were very upset, yelling at Basil and me as if we gave the instructions. Said we wasted their time and fuel, that they wouldn’t be accepting any price reduction per pound for catch that was hours older than it needed to be.”

  St. James paused a few seconds, peered out the window and pointed to a vessel tied up at the wharf.

  “Was that one of the trawlers here on count day?”

  Eli squinted, looking through the grimy window.

  “Yes, that’s Captain Thorne’s trawler.”

  “Would he be around now?”

  “Most likely. He’s never far from The Mistress.”

  St. James hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll see if Captain Thorne is willing to chat. Excuse me. Anna will have more questions for you if you don’t mind, Eli.”

  “Not at all, Mr. St. James. Happy to help any way I can.”

  Anna gave St. James an evil eye that could only mean, “What the hell am I supposed to ask this kid?”

  He smiled.

  “Oh, before I go … most companies use Times New Roman or Calibri typefaces for electronic documents. I notice here you use Book Antiqua. Curious about the choice.”

  Eli looked at St. James in an odd way, as if to ask what that had to do with inventory counts.

  “It’s Mr. Hughes’s preference. He insists everyone use that font.” Eli shrugged. “Just likes it, I guess. Don’t know any other reason.”