Private Investigations

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘How about the Queen?’

  She grinned. ‘Possibly, but only if her husband placed the call, him being the Lord High Admiral.’ She paused, long enough for the smile to fade. ‘This much I can tell you. The man is on a short cruise; there’s a new piece of kit on his sub and they’ve taken it on a proving voyage. They’re expected back at some point in the near future. Does that help you?’

  I thought about it. ‘Yes, it does,’ I said. Then I really pushed my luck.

  ‘You’re joking,’ she exclaimed when I told her what I wanted. Then she looked at me and saw that I wasn’t.

  ‘Can do?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘But bloody hell, Bob, this is going to cost you.’

  ‘Name your price,’ I said.

  ‘I want you to agree to join my team. Not full-time of course, but on a case by case basis.’

  We’d danced around the subject before but it was a very serious request that she was making. I thought hard before I answered.

  ‘Okay,’ I told her when I was ready, ‘as long as it doesn’t involve me being a cowboy. I have a young family, and another on the way, and I really would like to see them all grow up.’

  Fifty-Seven

  ‘Why do you need this?’ Callum Sullivan asked. ‘I’m a bit leery about passing people’s names on to the police without them knowing.’

  ‘It may be relevant to our investigation,’ Sauce Haddock replied. ‘That’s all I can tell you just now.’

  ‘Are you saying it might help you find who killed Anna?’

  ‘It’s one line of inquiry among many, but yes, that’s possible.’

  ‘Then it’s yours, no problem. I’ll look it out and get it to you. Email okay?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll text you my address. Thanks, Mr Sullivan.’

  He ended the call, then tapped in his promised message and despatched it. ‘Done,’ he declared.

  Pye grinned. ‘Didn’t you offer to go to North Berwick and pick it up personally?’

  ‘Fuck off, sir,’ the DS grunted. ‘I forgot to ask you yesterday,’ he continued, a few seconds later, ‘since we were too busy talking about the boss; what did you think of our colleagues?’

  ‘I liked them,’ the DCI replied. ‘Mann’s formidable and Provan’s a character.’

  ‘It’s all an act with him: the way he spoke to the big man, his whole rebel “Don’t give a shit” attitude. There’s a guy hiding behind that, and he’s very, very clever.’

  ‘You heard what Bob Skinner called him: “the best detective in the city” wasn’t it? So why’s he still a DS, that’s the question.’

  ‘I asked him,’ Haddock said, ‘straight out. He told me he was offered DI, when Mann was promoted, but he turned it down.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘According to him it was so he could stay below the radar, but it was pretty clear to me, he did it for her. He worships the ground that large lady walks on. He loves her.’

  Pye laughed. ‘Romance in the ranks? That’s a bit fanciful, mate. He’s twenty years older than her.’

  ‘Nonetheless. When you and Lottie were talking I asked him about her, whether she was married and such. He told me her husband’s in jail. When he talked about him, his eyes were telling me that if the guy ever tries to come back, wee Dan’ll kill him.’

  ‘Indeed? Are you saying they’re . . . ?’

  ‘Hell no! That’s the sadness of it. On the surface he acts like he’s her uncle, but underneath . . .’

  ‘Then I hope it stays that way. They’re an effective CID team, obviously, but they’d probably make a lousy couple.’ He unsnapped his seat belt as Haddock brought his car to a halt outside the building that was their destination.

  The detectives stepped out, buttoning their coats against the bitter east wind as they surveyed their surroundings. The headquarters and factory of Destry PLC were located together in a long white building, by far the largest in an industrial estate in what once had been the New Town of Glenrothes, until it was stripped of that status by a Westminster government.

  ‘One good thing about being part of ScotServe,’ Pye remarked as they headed for the visitors’ entrance, ‘is that we don’t have to tell our colleagues in Fife that we’re coming on to their patch.’

  ‘Yes,’ Haddock agreed. ‘Now name another.’

  Double doors opened automatically, admitting them to a reception area, with a waiting area on the right and an enclosed booth on the left, where a young woman sat at a desk with a switchboard. She wore a headset and was speaking into its microphone as the newcomers approached. ‘Just one moment, caller,’ they heard her say, ‘and I’ll put you through.’

  She flipped a switch, then rose. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ She was tall, dressed in a black suit with a tight–fitting skirt that stopped just below the knee, and a man’s white shirt underneath, the first two buttons undone to reveal a hint of cleavage. A badge on her lapel introduced her as Marcella Mega. The cut of her dark hair made Haddock think of Cheeky.

  ‘We have an appointment with Mrs Stewart,’ Pye began.

  The receptionist glanced at a wall clock. ‘Yes. You’ll be her ten thirty. If I could see your credentials?’ Her accent was not local; Edinburgh, private schooling, the DCI guessed.

  The officers displayed their crested warrant cards; she leaned over the divider to inspect them.

  ‘Thank you, detectives,’ she said. ‘If you’ll take a seat; Mrs Stewart’s running a little late.’

  ‘No worries,’ Pye replied. ‘We’ll stand, if you don’t mind. We’ve been sitting all the way from Edinburgh. You worked here long, Ms Mega?’ he asked, casually.

  ‘Six months. I’m just completing the integration process.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Hold on.’ She stepped back to the board, flipped another switch, and announced their arrival to someone called Linda, then rejoined them. ‘All new employees have to spend time in each department before we’re finally assigned, regardless of our skills. I have a First in Chemical Engineering, but when I started here Mrs Stewart stuck a brush in my hand and had me sweeping the factory floor for a month.’

  ‘Not in that suit, I’ll bet,’ Haddock remarked.

  ‘Nor these shoes,’ she laughed, raising a foot to display heels that accentuated her height.

  ‘Is all your management located here?’ Pye asked.

  ‘Our executive management, yes; Mrs Stewart is the chief executive officer, as I imagine you know. She runs the place. We have a parent company, but that’s based in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Yes, we know that too. Do you see much of Mr Higgins here?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him. Rory visits once a month, and once every three months Mrs Stewart and Mr Orchard, the production director, go to a board meeting in head office.’

  ‘Rory?’

  She looked at Haddock. ‘Mr Higgins Junior.’

  ‘He’s informal, is he?’ the DS asked, lightly.

  ‘Not with everyone,’ she replied. ‘He and I have a little history, away from business. We’ve been on a couple of dates.’

  A very small frown suggested that there might be no more to come.

  ‘Didn’t you like the movie?’ Haddock ventured.

  ‘It shows, does it?’ she said. ‘The first time, I did. Second time, I didn’t like where he took me: a seedy little pole-dancing bar at the top of Leith Walk. We met the owner, Callum, a business friend of his, Rory said. He may have been, but they both spent a little too much time eyeing up one of the dancers. I went to the ladies, then left by the side door. We haven’t spoken since.’

  ‘Did you . . .’ Pye began, but before he could ask whether there had been a third man present, a tall, lean, brooding guy, a door burst open and a stout middle-aged woman bustle
d into the reception area.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she exclaimed, ‘sorry to have kept you. I’m Linda Lee, Mrs Stewart’s PA. She’s ready for you now; follow me, please.’

  She turned on her heel and headed in the direction from which she had come; following was their only option. She led them along a wide corridor. The far end was open, affording them a glimpse of a factory floor, filled with machinery and lengths of white material. The sharp sound of power saws assaulted their ears, until their escort opened a door on the right and ushered them into a small anteroom with another door beyond. It was open; another woman stood there, framed by it. She was the antithesis of her receptionist; she was clad in blue overalls and her white hair was wild.

  She took a step towards them, extending a hand. ‘Joan Stewart,’ she announced, in an accent that was pure East Fife. ‘CEO. Come into my sanctum; it’s the only oasis of quiet we have in this bloody great shed.’ She held the door open for them, standing aside as they entered. ‘Coffee, gents?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Pye said, as the trio settled into chairs. ‘We’ll get straight to business if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Mrs Stewart replied. ‘I’m curious to know what that might be. You weren’t very forthcoming with Linda when you made the appointment.’

  ‘We want to talk to you about your company’s acquisition of Mackail Extrusions.’

  The woman underwent an instant attitude change; her open demeanour closed up tight. ‘Destry didn’t acquire Mackail. We bought its assets from the liquidator. There’s a big difference.’

  ‘What about its order book?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘We weren’t interested in that. It didn’t have many clients, other than ourselves, and those it did have were all our competitors. We bought a facility and brought it in-house, that’s all.’

  ‘Bought it cheap?’

  ‘Market value plus five per cent.’

  ‘Was it an auction?’

  ‘No, we did a private deal.’

  The DS pressed on. ‘When you say “we”, who do you mean? Did you handle it yourself?’

  She shook her unkempt head. ‘No. The negotiations were all done by our parent company. I wasn’t party to them.’

  Pye leaned forward slightly. ‘Mrs Stewart,’ he said, ‘it’s been suggested to us that Destry contrived to bring about the bankruptcy of Mackail Extrusions by withholding payment unreasonably for materials supplied.’

  She bristled, visibly, almost comically, sitting bolt upright, her jaw jutting out as if she was ready for combat. ‘Suggested by whom? Hector bloody Mackail? Who are you guys anyway?’ she demanded. ‘The Fraud Office? If you are, this conversation’s over.’

  ‘We’re not, and it isn’t. We’re mainstream CID and we’re investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Hector Mackail.’

  She blinked, once, twice, a third time. ‘Hector’s dead?’ she gasped. ‘I never knew. What happened? He didn’t bloody top himself, did he?’

  ‘No,’ Haddock responded, ‘somebody did that for him. Hit-and-run. It didn’t make the national press, not at the time.’

  ‘Well, I know nothing about it. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘We’re not suggesting that you do,’ Pye assured her. ‘All we want to do is establish the truth of stories we’ve been told, that Mr Mackail had a grievance against Destry and its parent company. It’s a straight question, Mrs Stewart, in an unrecorded conversation. Did you starve him of funds or did you not?’

  She took a breath, making her round cheeks even rounder, then let it out in a sigh. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘Hector was naive. He turned out a good product but he was no businessman. He responded to the slump in the home improvement industry by jacking up his prices, not cutting them. He was his own worst enemy; he’d have gone bust anyway.’

  ‘But you helped him?’

  She nodded. ‘The parent company told me to make him a decent offer for his business. I did but he turned it down. He got quite aggressive with me about it. When I reported back, I got the word to put the squeeze on his cash flow. It didn’t take long after that till the bank called in his debt and he went under. That was no surprise,’ she added, ‘not with that bank.’

  ‘Why not?’ Haddock asked, curious.

  ‘Because Eden Higgins has a twenty-nine per cent stake in it, held personally, not through the holding company. Some of the subsidiaries bank there.’

  ‘I see,’ Pye murmured, fighting off his surprise. ‘What’s the history of Destry?’ he asked.

  ‘My late husband and I founded the business twenty-five years ago,’ she said. ‘Initially we did replacement windows, but pretty soon we expanded into conservatories. James died from cancer in two thousand and three, but by that time the business was secure. He’d always majored on design and manufacture while I did everything else. The product range was established when he passed away, so it wasn’t difficult for me to carry on.’

  ‘When did you sell to Mr Higgins?’

  ‘Two thousand and six. I recruited Justin Orchard after James died, to replace him, and by that time he was well established in the job. He had an idea for a new product range, free-standing modular glass garden buildings. I liked it, but it would have taken a lot of working capital to get it going, plus it would have been a gamble at a time when the economic storm clouds were just starting to show over the horizon. Around that time I met Eden Higgins at a Scottish CBI gathering. Do you know him?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Haddock chuckled. ‘We’re just humble plods.’

  ‘So was his sister, I believe,’ she countered. ‘That’s why I asked. Anyway, we got talking. He had just started to diversify at the time, but he still thought like a furniture guy. Anything you could furnish, he was interested in it. A couple of weeks later he came to me and made me an offer for a controlling interest in the company, with an injection of new working capital. It was a great deal; I still have a one-third stake in a business that’s gone from strength to strength under his management. I don’t have any stake in Higgins Holdings, nobody else does, but I still draw salary, and dividend, from here.’

  ‘His management,’ Pye repeated. ‘Is his style always as rough as it was with Mackail?’

  ‘No,’ Joan Stewart replied, firmly. ‘That was unusual; it wasn’t like Eden at all. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell me in person; maybe he found it difficult, maybe he felt guilty.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Haddock intervened. ‘Are you saying it wasn’t Eden Higgins who told you to hold back payment from Mackail?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Look,’ she exclaimed, ‘what he was telling me to do wasn’t something you put on paper, or in an email, or even in a phone call. The message came from him, word of mouth, via his vicar on earth.’

  ‘Who?’ both detectives asked, simultaneously, in a duet.

  ‘Sorry,’ she laughed. ‘That’s what we call his right-hand man, Walter Hurrell. He gave me the instruction.’

  Fifty-Eight

  The morning after I’d made my promise to Amanda Dennis, I awoke from a confused dream. It was set at the beginning of the Godfather movie; I was the undertaker Bonasera and a grotesque male version of Amanda took the role of Don Corleone.

  I’d given my friend a commitment that I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret. When it became clear that I was heading for the exit door of the police service she had offered me, tentatively, a permanent role with the Security Service. I’d have been in charge of the Scottish outstation, installed as Clyde Houseman’s boss. I turned her down, firmly, citing two reasons, the first being that in his shoes, I’d have resented me, the second, and by far the more significant, being that most of the work would have bored me rigid and that any that didn’t might have involved an element of risk, the kind that I’d promised Sarah I’d avoid in my middle years.

  She’d used the help that she w
as giving me with Gates to back me into a corner. I’d have done the same, but I’d been deadly serious in the proviso I’d attached to my acceptance.

  Having put the daft dream out of my mind and having seen Sarah off to work, I had nothing to do. I had given my ‘advice’ to the four detectives; whether they took it or not, that it was up to them. With that time on my hands, I decided to devote the morning to administration.

  Not that there was much of it to do. Along with her report, Carrie McDaniels had given me a detailed invoice; her terms specified ‘Payment within seven days’, but with the fate of the man Mackail and his company fresh in my mind, I decided to do better than that. I put the details of her bill into my purchase ledger, then set up a payment through my business bank account.

  I had thought about playing a few holes of golf with anyone who might have been hanging around the club, but a note on the bank’s website told me that it would take an hour before I could complete my cash transfer. That, and the fact that it was freezing outside, put exercise on the back burner.

  That frustration, and the fact that it had to do with Carrie, triggered something that I’d forgotten completely: the memory stick that she’d given me with her report on the insurance claim for Rachel Higgins’ stolen jewellery. Mentally, I’d filed it under ‘Irrelevant’, but with nothing else to do I retrieved it from the pocket where it had lain since it had been handed it to me, and plugged it into a USB port on my computer.

  There wasn’t much to it; as Carrie had said, the swag consisted of three items, a necklace, matching bracelet and a pair of earrings, diamonds set in platinum. Each had been photographed, at the insistence of the insurers, no doubt, and it was equally certain that these had been circulated after the theft to every jeweller in the land, and to all the auction houses.

  Waste of time, all of it. There was no chance of any of it being offered for sale through any legitimate outlet. The stuff would have been sold on for one third of its insured value, tops, on the ‘no questions asked’ market, and would never be recovered.

  Carrie had done a thorough job for her client; she had interviewed Rachel Higgins, the investigating police officers, and the management of Mackiltee Lodge, the boutique hotel where the theft had occurred. The story was consistent; the jewels had been put in the hotel safe overnight, and in the morning they were gone. No alarms had been triggered and the safe did not appear to have been forced.