Less Than a Treason

by Mary Birk

REID WALKED OUT of the cold night into the dimly lit restaurant. His eyes searched the room, briefly scanning the clusters of tables covered with red-checkered tablecloths, each centered with a candle held in a red glass snifter. He spotted his group: the blonde woman leaning over a baby carrier set securely between the arms of a high-back pine chair, and the redhead who sat on the other side of the baby, filling glasses from a bottle of red wine.

  He crossed the red terrazzo tile floor to join them. He gave Meg a quick peck on the cheek, then looked down at his son, kissing the soft face. Lastly, he turned his full attention to his wife, giving her a considerably more substantial kiss. “Hello, gorgeous.”

  “Hello, yourself.” She patted the empty seat next to her. “Sit here.”

  “Gladly.” He pulled out the chair next to Anne and sat down. “It smells great in here. I’m starving.”

  “We’ve ordered appetizers already, so you won’t be starving for long. Calamari, shrimp in garlic butter, and grilled vegetables. And there’s garlic bread.” She pointed to a basket in middle of the table. “You’ll have to pick your own entrée.” Anne smiled at him, picked a piece of lint from his jacket, and smoothed down the fabric.

  “I can do that. Lasagna, I’m thinking.” Reid grabbed a piece of bread and was just noticing the fourth table setting when George Greene walked in. He leaned toward his wife, keeping his voice down. “Is George meeting us?”

  “Yes.” Anne whispered. “I asked him to join us. He’s having such a hard time.”

  Reid nodded. He waited for the surge of jealousy to hit him, relieved when it didn’t. And he was hungry. Really hungry. He motioned for George to sit down.

  “How are you doing, George?”

  “I’m holding on.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk this morning.”

  “Not the right time.”

  “No.”

  Anne poured George a glass of wine. “Do you know yet when the services will be?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a damned dicey situation. I’m the executor of the will, but officially, Kensington is still the grieving spouse. He has the right to plan her services, and consulting with me is not in his plans.”

  “You have other ideas?” Anne passed George the garlic bread.

  He shook his head, declining. “No appetite. I want her buried where she’ll be next to me when I go.”

  Anne put her hand over the man’s, and again, Reid felt no jealousy, only pride in her compassion. Her voice was sympathetic, and Reid heard her mother in her. “This must be so difficult.”

  “I know she’d want what I want. Kensington doesn’t really care; he just doesn’t want me to be calling the shots.”

  “I’m sure it can be handled so no one’s hurt. Does her family have a place where they’re interred?”

  “Yes. On the estate where she grew up. Her brother lives there now with his family.”

  “Do you get along with him?”

  George nodded. “I see what you’re saying. I think even Kensington would agree that’s where Flora should be buried, and that having her buried there would be best for all three of the children.”

  Anne smiled, then passed George a menu. “Pick out an entrée. You need to try to eat.” To Reid, she said, “Are you definitely getting the lasagna?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’ll get the veal marsala. Do you want to share?”

  “Aye.”

  She peered at him appraisingly. “I think we’d better order salad, too. You need to eat more vegetables.”

  “Yes, my love.” Reid smiled, wondering if the golden eagle’s mate had arrived yet. He would call Arthur in the morning.

  The appetizers arrived, and they ate while Reid caught Anne and Meg up on what had happened earlier at the reading of the will, with George interjecting his own observations.

  Meg gently bounced Michael in her arms. “Sounds worse than a soap opera.”

  George nodded. “The will has made things thorny all around. Not just with Kensington, but Rodney is in a financial mess, or at least he thinks he is. He wants me to give him his portion of Flora’s estate right away as a distribution from the trust.” He took a drink of his wine. “But part of the reason Flora put her estate in trust for the children was to keep their shares from going to any creditors. Even though the person Rodney wants to give the money to isn’t technically even a creditor, this is exactly the situation she was trying to protect him from.”

  “What do you mean?” Reid reached for more garlic bread, ignoring Anne’s finger pointing to the platter of grilled vegetables.

  “As you know, Rodney’s basically a broker. He got Flora and another investor into a hedge fund—Meridian—and both of them lost their entire investment. Flora lost about two million pounds, which is why that amount will be taken from any inheritance Rodney gets. The other investor is angry and is demanding Rodney pay him back the money he lost.”

  Reid raised his eyebrows. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re right, it is ridiculous. A broker isn’t required to make his clients whole if they’ve lost their money. As long as he disclosed it was a high-risk investment, and he did, the risk is on the investor. He has no personal obligation to refund the investor’s money.”

  “Certainly not.” Reid speared a piece of calamari with his fork, then lifted his arm back to allow Anne to place some of the vegetables on his plate.

  “Rodney says that the man’s threatened to bring criminal charges. I told him he’s just blowing smoke up his arse.”

  “But he doesn’t believe you?”

  “He’s not being rational. According to Rodney, Von Zandt took substantial losses with Pooley and Rodney both, splitting his account so he could get more shares. Stupid, but if the man wants to play in high-risk investments, he needs to be able to take the losses.”

  “Walter Von Zandt?” Reid’s throat went dry.

  “Aye. I think they’re well rid of him myself. He’s not someone I’d do business with.”

  “Good thinking.” Reid reached for his water, took a drink, trying to decide how much information he should share.

  George went on. “Rodney’s inheritance is protected, and he can tell Von Zandt to take his business and go to hell.”

  “I’d advise him to be careful. Von Zandt’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Does Rodney believe Von Zandt had something to do with what happened to Broddie Pooley?’

  For the first time, George seemed to grasp the seriousness of Rodney’s situation. “With Pooley? Do you think there’s a connection? Surely the man’s not crazy enough to kill his brokers over an investment.”

  Anne turned to Reid, concern vibrating through her. “You’d better talk to Rodney, Terrence. And Walter.”

  He put his hand on hers. “Yes.”

  “You know Von Zandt?” George’s question was directed to Anne.

  “I worked on his gardens at Lynstrade Manor last spring. Terrence is right. Rodney needs to be careful.”

  George took a drink of wine. “Maybe I’ll send him on a trip. Get him out of town for a while. Perhaps Miranda can go with him. It would do them both good.”

  “Good idea.” Reid looked up to see the waiter arriving with their food. He put his mouth to Anne’s ear. “I need to make a call.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have them keep your food warm.”

  DECEMBER 31 – THURSDAY

  Chapter 62

  REID TOOK the call from an officer he knew at Central Dispatch just before five that afternoon.

  DS Stuart Hannah said, “Superintendent, I thought you’d want to know about a call we just got. Another one of the guests from your Christmas party just turned up dead. Stabbed to death in his bed. A University student. Darryl Duggan.”

  Reid was instantly alert. “Who’s at the scene?”

  “The homicide unit from Strathclyde force. DI Huntington has the case.”

  “I know Huntington. What’s the
address?”

  Reid flashed his warrant card at the door of the flat and was passed through. He found Detective Inspector Ned Huntington directing the crime scene preservation. Huntington was a thin, middle-aged man with a yellow-tinged, weather beaten face that looked to never have seen a bottle of sunscreen. The pouch of fat under his neck had to be the only fat on the man’s body. Adding in the sharply spiked hair and overbite, Reid thought, if iguanas and humans mated, Huntington would be the result.

  “DI Huntington?”

  “Ah, Superintendent Reid. I was expecting you. I understand you have an interest in this matter?”

  “There’s a possibility it could be tied in to a couple of other suspicious deaths at Dunbaryn over Christmas.”

  “Yes? How?”

  “Darryl Duggan was another one of the guests at my family’s home.”

  “Remind me not to visit your family. Very unhealthy.” When Reid didn’t remark on the man’s wit, he said, “Right. I understand. A little too coincidental.”

  “Aye.”

  “What do you know about this Duggan?”

  Reid wondered how much to share and decided to start with the easy. “He was studying law at the University of Glasgow. He came to Dunbaryn as a friend of the young man whose mother was one of the two deaths I mentioned.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Probable homicide on the mother, definite on the other. How did Duggan die?”

  “Stabbed in the back.” Huntington gestured for Reid to follow him.

  Down the short hall, he stopped at the first door. It opened to a bedroom in which black furniture dominated. Masculine décor, inexpensive but tasteful, and almost completely impersonal. In the middle of the queen-size bed atop black sheets, lay a naked young man, face down, with longish blond hair falling to the sides of his face. A large black knife handle protruded from the white skin of the muscular back. Blood had spread from the wound, running down to pool and dry on the sheets.

  A crime scene tech crouched over the body, bagging the right hand.

  “Who called it in?”

  “Anonymous call. Male voice said a man had been killed at this address. The super let us in. He says the tenant has frequent visitors—male and female—but mostly male. I got the impression the super thought maybe the man was putting it out there for pay. A way to help defray his university expenses.”

  They stood aside to let the tech pass to the other side to bag the left hand.

  “Can you do the identification?”

  “As long as the face is intact.”

  “Aye, it is.” They approached the body, and Huntington took the victim’s head in his hands, gently turning it so Reid could see the facial features. “This Darryl Duggan?”

  Reid’s chest hit his throat. He waited until he could breathe again, then pushed the words out. “No. No, it’s not.”

  Huntington frowned. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. This is the young man I mentioned, the one whose mother was killed. Lance Kensington.”

  “That changes things.” The Detective Inspector called one of his men over. “Put out an APB on Darryl Duggan. He just went from being our victim to being our chief suspect.”

  *****

  The sterile interview room reeked of the pine-scented floor cleaning liquid that may have cleaned the old, mud colored linoleum but hadn’t done anything to make it look less ugly.

  Darryl Duggan sprawled in his chair, one arm draped around the back. Coiled, Reid thought, like a venomous snake considering where to strike.

  Reid picked up his own chair, turned it around, and straddled it. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “How the bloody hell do I know? I wasn’t there.”

  “How did Lance get into your flat?”

  Duggan smirked. “He spent the night with me. He does that a lot.”

  “So you let him in. What happened? You have a fight? Maybe about you talking him into killing his mother?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that. I never said anything like that to him.”

  “He told people you did.”

  “That’s shite.”

  “You fought, you got a knife from your kitchen . . .”

  Duggan interrupted, color draining from his face. “My kitchen? The knife came from my kitchen?”

  “Part of a matched set.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Who then?”

  “I don’t know. When I left, he was alive. He was sleeping, but he was alive.” A note of panic crept around the edges of Duggan’s voice.

  “We’re going to find out the truth.”

  “You don’t care about the truth. You just want to dump me into the shite for this.”

  “We’re running tests. DNA, fingerprints, everything.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find my DNA all over him. We’d fucked the night before, and that morning, both.”

  “We’ll need to take a sample from you, to confirm.”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you find the body? Call it in?”

  “Not me.”

  “Who then?”

  Duggan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Reid leveled one look, a look that brooked no mercy. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Duggan splayed out his hands, some of the bravado starting to crack. “I had a bloke coming over.”

  “When Lance was there? You were going to do someone else while Lance did what? Give us a break.”

  “Lance should have been gone by then. In class. I wasn’t expecting him back until last night.”

  “If you were meeting someone at your flat, why didn’t you show up there?”

  “I did. But when I got there, the filth was crawling all over the place, so I left.”

  “If you didn’t know what had happened, why did you take off?”

  Duggan shrugged. “I figured they were trying to pin something on me.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I don’t know anything about any drugs.”

  “The police found a considerable supply of cocaine, marijuana, and ecstasy at your place. As well as a great deal of sexual paraphernalia.”

  Duggan’s face broke into a sneer. “Sexual paraphernalia? That’s not illegal.”

  “Didn’t say it was. Rumor has it you’ve been entertaining clients in your flat.”

  “Clients?”

  “Prostitution.”

  “That’s a bloody lie.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I meet people, and if we get on, well, sometimes it goes further. Sometimes they show their gratitude.”

  “With money?”

  “In whatever way they feel like.”

  “What about the drugs?”

  “Maybe your lot put them there, or maybe they were Lance’s.”

  “Hard for us to ask him now.”

  “Tough luck on you.”

  “Tell me about your clients.”

  “I told you, they’re not clients. Just people—men who want to be with someone like me or women whose husbands don’t pay enough attention to them.”

  “And Lance?”

  “That was different.”

  “How?”

  Duggan scowled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If it wasn’t you that killed him, any idea who did?”

  “I don’t know.” Duggan’s face actually showed a sign of human emotion, but whether it was regret or grief, Reid couldn’t tell. “Maybe it was the bloke that found him. He wouldn’t have been too happy to find Lance there. Everyone wants to think they’re the only one.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  Duggan hesitated.

  “We’re going to find out one way or the other. If he killed Lance, he’s going to have to answer for it.”

  Duggan closed his eyes, then opened them. “His name is Al Kepner. He’s in accounting.”

  �
�Where?”

  Duggan named a prominent accounting firm.

  “We’ll check him out.”

  “Whatever. If he killed Lance, I hope you pin him to the wall.”

  “Let’s get back to you. Where were you all day?”

  “I left the flat at about nine. I went to class, then work. Punched out at three. After I came home and saw your lot all over my building, I went to a park to walk around and think about what to do.”

  “You’re studying law, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You work where?”

  “A place near the courthouse called the Club.”

  Reid nodded.

  “You know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Caters to poofters—mostly lawyers and financial blokes.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to be judgmental.”

  Duggan shrugged. “I call it what it is. I like men and women the same. Sex is sex.”

  “Is the Club where you make your friends?”

  “Some. Not the women, obviously.”

  “Where did you meet Lance Kensington?”

  “A pub near the university.”

  “When?”

  “Early in the term.”

  “How did you happen to come to Dunbaryn with him for the holidays?”

  “He asked me. I thought it would be a lark, going to stay at an earl’s house for one of those house parties you always hear about.”

  “I understand you knew Rafe Kensington even before you came to Dunbaryn.”

  Duggan looked surprised, then smiled. “Bloody hell. I would never have believed he’d have the balls to tell. Good on him.”

  Reid didn’t correct Duggan’s assumption. Let him think Rafe had told. “It’s true, of course?”

  Duggan nodded. “I met Rafe first.”

  “And Lance?”

  “Someone pointed Lance out to me at one of the law students’ parties as the son of a solicitor. I recognized him from the photos in Rafe’s flat.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. I went after him just for fun at first. Then, well, we just got on.”

  “Did Lance know about his father and you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No way.”

  “You still continued your relationship with Rafe?”

  “I never told him we were exclusive.”