The Man with No Face

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘What time is it, son?’

  ‘Two-thirty, going on three.’

  ‘You in now, son?’

  ‘Aye…’ Abernethy stood, brushing coke dust from his hands.

  ‘Good, that’ll please Margaret.’

  ‘I’ll be going to my bed for a nap now, Dad, I feel a wee bit tired. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No. No, thanks, son. What’s it like out?’

  ‘Blustery.’

  ‘Not raining?’

  ‘No. Not raining.’

  ‘Margaret will like that.’

  Abernethy crept out of the room and went to the kitchen, made a mug of tea and sat at the table to enjoy it, to savour it before retiring to his room. He had been acutely embarrassed about being the only son of elderly parents and, to his shame in adulthood, had attempted to pass off his real parents as his grandparents and had invented pretend parents who were ‘overseas’. Now in his twenties he felt a sense of privilege, his life had been different because of elderly parents, not better or worse, but different, and as such, a world that would otherwise have been closed to him, was opened to him. Before dementia took his father and cancer had taken his mother he could, in conversation with them, reach back further into the history of the city than his peers could with their parents, and his upbringing had, it seemed in retrospect, belonged to an earlier era. It made it all very interesting, as did the knowledge that he would experience the loss of his parents much earlier in his life than would others of his generation. That too, in a way, was interesting. And that also provided a sense of privilege, of being different, not better, nor worse, not greater, nor lesser, in any way, but a life led which is different. He sipped the tea. Very interesting.

  ‘A hunch.’

  That,’ Donoghue sniffed, ‘is an Americanism.’ He rattled the stem of his pipe against his teeth and avoided eye contact with Montgomerie, glancing instead out of his office window at the angular buildings of Sauchiehall Street under a blanket of grey cloud. ‘You’ve had the benefit of at least a part university education, Montgomerie, you could strive for British English. Or do you watch too much television?’

  ‘A notion, intuition…I went with it.’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘It seemed to be out of character for him to go anywhere except the gaol, although it was many years ago…but the whole point of me talking to Saffa was to get some background information about the deceased and so when Saffa mentioned that Ronnie Grenn had done something wildly unusual for him, really out of character, then I followed a . . .’

  ‘An intuitive notion…that’s what you followed, Mr Montgomerie, you followed an intuitive notion. We’ll leave “hunches” to the cousins. They can have all they want, we, on the other hand, will preserve the queen’s English.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Oh, and that extends to your written work as well. I want no Americanisms or media-speak creeping in there. Good, plain, easy to understand, simple English.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And with your facts presented in logical order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That reassures me and demonstrates to your colleagues that you possess clarity of thought. I like that in my officers.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Montgomerie was acutely aware that he was not perhaps DI Donoghue’s favourite DC. As a consequence he never relished being in Donoghue’s company, but he felt more than usually uncomfortable at the present, as if Donoghue was annoyed or irritated by something.

  ‘I reserve the right to instruct you to rewrite them if necessary.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’ My God, the man will not let up. Montgomerie searched his actions over the last few days. He was convinced he had done nothing wrong to merit this assault.

  ‘Mind you, it seems that it was as well that you went with your intuition.’ Donoghue paused and relit his pipe with a deft flick of his thumb on the gold-plated lighter. ‘You see, Tony Abernethy brought in what appears to be gold dust in the form of these.’ Donoghue patted the newspaper cuttings that Abernethy had brought to the police station.

  ‘Clippings?’ Montgomerie tried to sound interested and alert.

  ‘Cuttings!’ Donoghue put his hand to his brow. ‘Clippings, you understand, Montgomerie, belong west, or north, or south of New York City. They don’t belong east of that fair place.’

  ‘I see…as with…’

  ‘Yes, as with…’ Donoghue drew on his pipe. ‘But nonetheless the cuttings here relate to the kidnap of the Edinburgh heiress Ann “Annie” Oakley by name. You may remember the press coverage?’

  ‘I do. In fact more than that, I actually saw her once or twice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She was…well…this isn’t standard English, but she was a rare wee poseur.’

  Donoghue smiled gently. Tell me about her.’

  ‘I was in Edinburgh at the time, a student feeling very out of place among the smug, self-satisfied types who seemed to make up the Law Faculty. I mean, I remember statements like, “I’m reading law because you never meet a poor lawyer,” and another I remember, “You can write meaningless and long-winded letters on your clients’ behalf and charge it to them at whatever your hourly rate is.” I had enough after one year.’

  ‘Glad you have a conscience, Montgomerie, but tell me about “Annie” Oakley.’

  ‘Well, women can’t pose in wine bars like men can, they’ll get pestered too much. But what they can do is pose in their cars and Ann Oakley was notorious in Edinburgh for doing that. It seemed the whole town knew who she was…she was one of those names and images…a bit like the Queen…everybody knows her but she knows few.’

  ‘“Annie” Oakley…?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I just remember her during that first and last summer I spent in the capital…roaring up and down Princes Street in a wee Japanese four-wheel drive thing, a white one, blonde hair streaming behind her, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a mobile phone to her ear and looking very happy with her lot, and many women would: she had youth, she had beauty, she had money. But that’s all she seemed to do…apparently if you stood on Princes Street when “Annie” was in posing mood you’d see her roaring down the street towards Haymarket and then a few minutes later you’d see her barrelling back up towards Calton Hill and then a few minutes after that…’

  ‘She’d be on her way back to Haymarket…I get the idea. As you say, men do it in wine bars, women do it in open-topped cars.’

  ‘I caught sight of her a couple of times within a day or two of each other and I mention it because that was the summer that she was abducted. That’s really the reason why I recall her so clearly driving along Princes Street with a “you can look but you can’t touch” air about her. Thank God for her sake that she didn’t know what was ahead of her. Her body was never recovered, not that I recall.’

  ‘Not that I recall either. I have made an appointment to speak to the officer of the Lothian and Borders force who was in charge of the case, I won’t be in tomorrow morning

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The reason I mention “Annie” Oakley is that these cuttings were found in a shoebox in Ronald Grenn’s room in his mother’s house in Easterhouse.’

  ‘Aha…’

  ‘Yes, intriguing, isn’t it? And you say that Ronald Grenn went away for two weeks, eight years ago, towards the end of June of that year?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, so Kit Saffa informed me.’

  ‘You think he was being honest with you?’

  ‘Yes…yes…I think he was being fully cooperative with me with respect to Ronald Grenn, but I don’t think he was as white as the driven snow, as he claims. His wife was glaring dagger-like at me throughout my visit and his good humour showed signs of cracking under the strain. Perhaps I’ve been a cop…a police officer

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A police officer too long, but I left with the impression that he was up to something, though he had nothing to do with the mu
rder of Ronald Grenn and had nothing to do with Ronald Grenn’s criminal activities and so was willing to be truthful and helpful about him at least.’

  ‘I see. You see “Annie” Oakley was reported as having been kidnapped on the twenty-seventh of June, eight years ago.’

  ‘Just when Ronnie disappeared for a fortnight in the country. About.’

  ‘And the ransom was paid ten days later.’

  ‘Just when he returned to Easterhouse. About. Allegedly looking pleased with himself and talking about going straight.’

  ‘Was he now?’

  ‘So sayeth Kit Saffa.’

  ‘You see, Tony Abernethy makes the point, and I go along with him on this, that people may collect newspaper cuttings on a theme if they’re interested in that theme, or if it affects their lives in some way, but if someone collects and keeps newspaper cuttings about one incident, and one incident only, then it means that they have some connection with that incident.’

  ‘Or person, or place…or thing…Yes, I can see that, sir.’

  ‘So Ronald Grenn, who never left Easterhouse unless it was to reside for a brief period of time as a guest of Her Majesty, is revealed to have had some possible involvement with the abduction and possibly murder of an Edinburgh heiress eight years ago. Then, three and a half years later, he pleads guilty to a crime he hasn’t got the skill, the expertise, the nerve to commit, but still he seems happy to collect seven years. He’s released four and a half years later having been of good behaviour whilst in the pokey and upon release he travels to a place unknown, to call upon a person unknown, and a few hours later his lifeless body is found sans face and brain lying on a grassed area in a part of the city with which he has no known connection. It has a whiff, do you agree, of old fish about it?’

  ‘A can of worms, sir.’

  ‘Did Mr Saffa indicate where in the country Ronald Grenn had his two-week holiday?’

  ‘Not specifically, but he did indicate that it could have been one of many Scottish place names which begin “Kil” or “Kirk”, such as Kilmarnock or Kirkcaldy, for example.’

  ‘Did he?’ Donoghue reached for a sheet of paper which lay amongst the newspaper cuttings which had been found by Tony Abernethy. ‘A place such as Kilsyth, for example?’

  ‘Could well be, sir.’

  This’—Donoghue handed the sheet of paper to Montgomerie—‘as you see, is an Ordnance Survey map of the area to the north and east of Glasgow.’

  ‘The Kilsyth area.’

  ‘Among other places. But you will note that a small circle has been drawn on the map near the town of Kilsyth.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I see it.’

  ‘Now, that very map you’re holding was found with newspaper cuttings about the abduction of “Annie” Oakley in the same shoebox in Ronald Grenn’s bedroom. What I’d like you to do, if you have sufficient daylight left, and you should if you press on, is to photocopy the map and return the original to me. Draw a camera from stores and drive out to that location which is circled on the map. It seems to encircle a building of some description. I want to find out what the building is, take a photograph of it, just for our records. Don’t approach it, don’t leave the road, don’t hang about. And if you attract attention to yourself, forget about the photograph, we can live without it for the time being. Don’t want to tip anybody off.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then get back here and if you can, before they close for the evening, contact the Land Registry. We want to know who owns that building now and who owned it eight years ago.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You see, Montgomerie, I have

  ‘A hunch?’ Montgomerie offered. He thought he was being reckless but he offered it anyway.

  Donoghue scowled at him but then allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Yes, I have a “hunch”, a dreadful one at that, that the building in question is a crime scene. I have an even more dreadful “hunch” that that building or the grounds thereof contains the remains of Ann “Annie” Oakley.’

  King drained the coffee and replaced the cup on the tray which lay on Pulleyne’s desk without taking his eye from the file. Then he looked up at Pulleyne. ‘Westwater?’

  ‘Gary,’ Pulleyne smiled, ‘my half-brother. Different fathers. My father died when I was quite young; after a while my mother remarried and they had Gary together. We’re as close as full brothers. He’s my wee brother, wee Gary. Well, wee Gary, he grew up to be tall and lanky, like his dad. I take after my own dad, short and stocky. But Gary’s dad was a good guy, still is, lives in retirement now, on Arran. Treated me like his own, didn’t give Gary preferential treatment, no nonsense like that…I had my place in the family as the eldest brother, Tom Westwater saw to that, even if that meant me getting the odd wee privilege that his natural son didn’t get. That was the right thing to do for Gary as well. Got to be quite close and he was a director here and was the man who took the responsibility for the Bath Street claim, which is why you see his name so often.’

  ‘Perhaps I should be taking up his time?’

  ‘Perhaps you should, but not on these premises, not in his capacity as one of the directors.’

  ‘You haven’t fallen out?’

  ‘Bless you, no.’ Pulleyne smiled. ‘Fall out with Gary, never!’

  ‘Full brothers almost, I recall.’

  ‘Full brothers do fall out. Cain and Abel set the precedent for that, but Gary and I are full brothers in spirit if not by blood. Heavens, we owe the financial health of the company to Gary, perhaps not in the way he intended but the outcome of it is that we do.’

  ‘How so?’

  The Bath Street claim. It was Gary who accepted the proposal on behalf of the company.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Oh yes. No other company would accept it, or if they did, their quote was impossible to meet, which amounts to a rejection of a proposal, but Gary clearly felt we ought to accept it.’

  Richard King the man returned Pulleyne’s beaming smile, but the cop within him began to sit up and growl. But, still smiling warmly, he said, ‘Tell me the story.’

  ‘Not a great deal to tell, Mr King. It’s going back some years now, but a woman called Carberrie came to the office having made an appointment with Gary.’

  ‘Carberrie?’

  ‘Yes…why is there something amiss?’

  ‘It’s a name that has cropped up before. It’s too early to speculate.’

  ‘I see…but you think perhaps

  ‘Mr Pulleyne, I don’t think perhaps anything at the moment. Let’s just explore with an open mind and see how far we get.’

  Pulleyne extended an open palm towards King. ‘I’m in your hands.’

  ‘So the first question is why should the Carberrie woman make an appointment with Gary Westwater, I mean specifically him?’

  ‘No reason, no reason at all, but the policy of the company is that for a proposal of such magnitude, a director would have to vet it and approve it. I could have done it, any of the other three directors could have done it.’

  ‘I see.’ King stroked his beard, black, neatly trimmed. ‘Fair enough. Now the next question is, would you think it likely that if the Carberrie woman saw yourself or any of the other directors they may well have been able to accept her proposal, but would they have been likely to have done so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem certain?’

  ‘I remember the ructions in the boardroom when Gary reported what he had done. The other three directors were hostile. I was upset that he’d put so many, in fact all, our eggs in one basket. We pointed out to him that a full claim on that policy could finish us and the other three directors threatened to resign and withdraw their assets from the company. I did what I could to keep the peace, Gary being my brother, but privately I was angry…seething, in fact. Talk about going out on a limb…he should have consulted the board.’

  ‘I can understand that…you see, there are a number of questions spinning round in my mind…I’ll try a
nd catch them one at a time…the first question is why did the Carberrie woman have difficulty obtaining insurance from other companies?’

  ‘I don’t know how much difficulty she had, I don’t know who she tried…in fact, come to think of it, it may not have been said in so many words.’

  ‘May not?’

  ‘We’re going back six or more years, Mr King…and if you force me to think, I have to confess I had a notion that she had been trying to raise insurance because of something that Hugh said

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘Hugh Smeaton, he’s one of the directors.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘In the board meeting which nearly became a battleground, Hugh said something like, no wonder she fetched up here, no one else would touch this proposal.’

  ‘So she could have made this company her first call?’

  ‘Well…yes…she could…it was just Hugh’s remark that had me thinking all these years that she’d been walking round the central business district of Glasgow trying to find somebody who’d insure her business premises before she came here…that and the fact that we’re small and not a household name…but yes, she could have come here first of all.’

  ‘And got what she wanted?’

  ‘It would seem.’ Pulleyne looked as though a seed of doubt and worry had been sown in his mind.

  Tell me what it was about the Carberrie woman’s proposal that so upset the other directors?’

  ‘Well…in the first place she seemed to have come from nowhere…no business history…no insurance history…she just appeared as the owner, or joint owner, of an antiques business which occupied the whole of a four-storey building in central Glasgow, stocked with valuable antiques, furniture in the main, but oil paintings, and jewellery…if you want the catalogue, you write and ask for it and enclose a cheque for the appropriate amount and then view a particular item by appointment. That is top-class, short-league end of the antiques business, no walking in off the street and handling any object that takes your fancy with Cernach Antiques, if you please.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘But Gary went ahead, accepted the proposal, insurance against fire and theft and buildings, three million pounds in all. We stood to lose, and, in fact, did lose that. We made the cheque out to Cernach Antiques. The property in question is being developed, McGuires have it. I walked past it the other day. It had stood a burnt-out shell for years and now McGuire Construction has it. They seem to have built half of Glasgow over the years, they’re developing the site. I can only presume that Cernach Antiques have sold up and moved on somewhere.’