“Of course, Andrew,” replied Paddy softly. “Certainly I forgive you.”
“Thank you,” rejoined Andrew. “I had an unfortunate experience in Scotland, and I hadn’t expected to see you. I am afraid I took my frustrations out on you.”
“Does what happened have anything to do with the article in the Express?”
“That wasn’t all of it,” nodded Andrew, now allowing a wry smile to his lips, “but it didn’t help.”
“I saw it,” said Paddy. “I knew there wasn’t a word of truth in it.”
“I knew you had nothing to do with it, of course. I’m afraid it was just a matter of guilt by association,” Andrew went on. “—But my father said you have new information . . .”
“Uh . . . perhaps,” replied Paddy, cautiously glancing around at her curious colleagues as they slowly meandered back to their desks and workstations. Luddington, however, continued to hang around a little too close for comfort. Andrew saw the reason for her reticence.
“What would you say to telling me about it over dinner this evening?” he asked.
“I think that sounds wonderful . . . and I think I just might have an opening in my schedule,” she added with a smile.
“Good—I’m glad you can fit me into your packed social calendar on such late notice.”
Paddy laughed.
“Seven o’clock?”
“That will be perfect.”
“I’ll come by your place then.”
Andrew turned and strode from the room, leaving the newsroom in astonished silence, with every man and woman dying to know more about whatever incident had precipitated the unusual visit. Even Kirk Luddington, usually at no loss for words, found himself in no position to offer comment.
Four
I am so relieved to know we’re still friends,” Paddy said as the waiter left them. “These last two days have been miserable for me.”
“I am sorry again,” said Andrew. “I hope we can put it behind us. At least I want to put it behind me, since I am the one who caused it!”
“All right,” laughed Paddy, “consider it forgotten.”
“Now, I am eager to know what you have,” said Andrew. “My father said there was new information.”
“I don’t know whether it’s important or not,” replied Paddy. “But I’ve located Reardon . . . he’s in New Zealand.”
“New Zealand!” exclaimed Andrew. “Don’t tell me you followed him all that way, just as you did to Ireland!” he added, laughing lightly. “With haircut and sunglasses and everything . . .”
She laughed too, remembering her past attempt at detective work. “No . . . I didn’t follow him this time.”
“But you located him? How?”
“I have my sources,” smiled Paddy.
“As far away as New Zealand?”
“A long story,” answered Paddy evasively. She paused seemingly on the verge of saying something else, then changed her mind and said instead, “As far as I know, Reardon is still there.”
“What’s he doing?”
“All we can tell so far is that he seems to be meeting with people who have heavy interests in oil.”
At the word oil, Andrew snapped to attention. Instantly came into his brain the vision of his first minutes at the Ballochallater Games, the maroon BMW, and Robert Burslem’s brief argument with Ginny’s father. Quickly followed memory of the laird’s words:
“ . . . a Sassenach tryin’ t’ git his clutches on a wee parcel . . . up t’ the north, in the Shetlands.”
The north . . . that was where Scotland’s oil was.
“We can’t be certain it’s anything underhanded,” Paddy continued. She went on to explain briefly the visits of Andrew’s former deputy leader to the Auckland investment firm.
Andrew pondered the development thoughtfully.
“And is your . . . uh, your friend still keeping an eye on him?” he asked.
“As much as he can,” answered Paddy. “But he hates it. He’s just a photojournalist temporarily on assignment in New Zealand. He’s uncomfortable following someone around he doesn’t know. He—” Again she paused, as if on the verge of telling him something.
“He what?”
“He—oh, nothing. He’s just not a spy, that’s all.”
“One thing’s for certain,” said Andrew, giving her a puzzled look, “we’ve got to learn more. And we really ought to notify Inspector Shepley. Since Reardon is an active suspect in the Stone theft, Shepley has to know what you’ve found out. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” sighed Paddy. “I feel much better now that you know all this. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
Their conversation was interrupted briefly while the waiter brought their starters, then gradually drifted into other channels as dinner progressed. Andrew gave Paddy a brief account of his time in Scotland. He did not dwell long on his visit to Ballochallater, which had ended so painfully.
Actually, he had been about to tell her all about it when she floored him with the thing she had been trying to say all night.
It didn’t come easy for her. In fact, it required several minutes of fiddling with her fork, rearranging her napkin, clearing her throat.
“Your mother thought I should tell you something,” she began hesitantly. “I don’t know why I told her, except she was so kind and interested in my career and all, and—I usually just keep this kind of thing to myself, you know.—Not that it’s anyone’s business, really, but you’re a friend, and I thought, well . . .”
Andrew was intrigued. He had never seen his confident journalist friend this nervous.
“Why don’t you just tell me what it is?” he prompted gently. “I promise I can take it—even if you turn out to be Larne Reardon’s long-lost daughter.”
She managed a weak smile. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s not even that big a deal, only . . . it just seems strange to work so closely with you and you not know.”
“Know what?”
“Well,” she told him, “did I ever happen to mention to you that I’m married?”
Five
It was later that same evening. Their dinner was long behind them, their long discussion about Bill wound down to a comfortable conclusion. Now Andrew sat beside Paddy at the desk in her flat, staring at her computer screen.
“I’m not as versatile with the Internet as I would like to be,” she was saying, “but earlier I managed to track down World Resources, Ltd. . . .”
She was clicking in commands as she spoke.
“There it is—but you can see this is just a generic sort of informational website. It was probably generated by their PR department—I doubt it will tell us much.”
“Can you probe more deeply into the company itself,” asked Andrew, “—ownership, board of directors, when and where founded, holding companies, sub-branches, finances . . . that sort of thing?”
“Theoretically we should be able to find out whatever we want. Everything’s on the Internet if you can figure out how to get to it. Let’s trace some of the keywords and see what links we can find. . . .”
She rapidly moved her mouse across its pad and began clicking options.
“Dead end . . . we’ll try another. . . .”
“That looks interesting,” said Andrew, watching the screen intently as she worked. “Can you follow up on that?”
“I’ll try. Let’s see what we get when we ask for more information . . . there we go—a company menu. Okay, which option do you like—Investment Opportunities, History, Employment Opportunities, Financial Rating—”
“Try Corporate Structure,” said Andrew.
A few minutes went by as Paddy continued to explore different directions in the various files.
“Board of Directors . . . recognize anyone?”
Andrew shook his head. “What about that?” he added, pointing to the screen, “—UK Division?”
“All right.”
Paddy clicked on the link.
> “Looks like another generic web page.”
“Wait—that looks interesting there,” said Andrew, “—on that small menu to the right . . . try Exploration Committee, and maybe Land Lease Holdings.”
Paddy clicked the word Exploration. The screen filled with new information. Gradually she scrolled down as they scanned the listings.
“What . . . look!” exclaimed Andrew, “—there’s Robert Burslem! I don’t believe it!”
She shook her head. “Name sounds familiar, but I’m not sure . . .”
“One of the Conservative vice-chairmen,” he reminded her, “an MP. I ran across him in Scotland a few days ago—under, shall we say, interesting circumstances.”
“Suspicious circumstances?”
“I’m not really sure. They struck me as odd at the time, but I’m not sure why—nothing I could put my finger on.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“He never saw me. Actually, I was growing a beard at the time, so I was well camouflaged.”
“I remember the beard—now there’s a news story!” She grinned. “May I run an exclusive?”
“Not on your life!—But what could Burslem be doing buried in the UK division of World Resources, Ltd.?”
“You think there’s a connection to Reardon?”
“I don’t know. But I am more than a little intrigued. Can we get a look at their real estate holdings, oil leases? Let’s look at that Land Lease thing for a starter.”
Paddy returned to the previous menu, then clicked on Land Lease.
“Looks like they are all over the UK,” she said.
“I would like to see an actual map of their holdings and leases.”
It took Paddy a few minutes, but eventually she was able to produce exactly what Andrew wanted.
“Good—wow, that’s super. Zoom in closer. Let’s isolate the Shetlands.”
Paddy did so.
“From this I would think they control half the islands. Can you print this?”
“No problem,” replied Paddy, entering the command.
“I wish I knew where the laird’s property was,” reflected Andrew aloud while they waited for the printout to emerge.
“The laird?”
“A Scottish fellow I met—sort of chief to a small branch of Gordons tucked away in the Highlands. He controls a parcel of land in the Shetlands that Burslem has been trying to get his hands on. The laird is none too happy about it.”
“I see what you mean . . . it is interesting.”
Suddenly Andrew became quiet. A strange, almost shocked, expression came over his face, as if the thought that had just flown into his brain had caught even him by surprise.
“What is it?” said Paddy. “I can tell you are thinking something.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
“I know it’s a long shot,” said Andrew, his voice soft and serious, “but I just had a wild idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t know if the Internet is the way to go, or old newspapers, or other records you might be able to dig into at the BBC . . . but I want you to look into something. I think it’s better I not be visible at first. If anything comes of it . . . we’ll cross that bridge later. . . .”
“What do you want me to find out?”
“The crazy idea that just came to me is this—that we ought to see if there might be a hidden link between Burslem and Eagon Hamilton.”
Now it was Paddy’s turn to gaze at Andrew with an expression of astonishment.
“That is quite a leap,” she said. “What makes you think such a thing might be possible?”
“I have nothing whatever to base it on,” answered Andrew. “The idea just came to me and I thought, why not?”
“What would be the point?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe to see if we might—”
Andrew paused and shook his head slowly, as if the idea was too far out there to say aloud. Paddy waited.
“—to see if we might discover a motive for murder,” he continued after a moment.
It was silent a few seconds as the word hung in the air.
“Are you suggesting that Robert Burslem—” began Paddy.
“No, not at all,” replied Andrew. “I’m suggesting nothing. But if there are hidden connections, hidden motives, hidden involvements in something like oil . . . who knows what else might be involved? It’s possible we may have just uncovered the tip of the proverbial iceberg here.”
Paddy nodded as she took in Andrew’s comment with interest.
“I mean, look at it,” Andrew went on. “We know that Reardon’s been up to no good, but we don’t really know what his motives are. And we’ve got Reardon in New Zealand with a company involving Burslem, a company heavily invested in oil and with holdings all over the Shetlands. Then I see Burslem in Scotland in heated conversation trying to buy a piece of Shetland real estate that its owner says is worthless. Let’s just say all that strikes me as one coincidence too many.”
“But there’s nothing here even remotely suggesting murder,” said Paddy.
“Not yet . . . but there is money in oil—”
“Not to mention power,” added Paddy, picking up the scent.
“Two powerful motives.”
“But why would Hamilton have been murdered?”
“Who knows? I haven’t a clue. I just—”
“And what connection could they have—Burslem and Hamilton, I mean? Their politics are all wrong. On the face of it, everything would suggest no connections. What would a Conservative like Burslem and a Liberal Democrat like Hamilton have in common? They were opposite on everything, from the Scottish question to free trade, from taxes to welfare.”
“I see what you mean—the look of the thing is all wrong,” nodded Andrew with a sigh. “You’re probably right—how could there be anything? It makes no sense. I just thought it was an avenue we might explore.”
Six
The next morning Andrew went to Scotland Yard to see Inspector Shepley. He told him briefly what he had learned.
“Do you know where Reardon is staying?” asked Shepley.
“The Auckland Towers,” replied Andrew.
“All right . . . good work, Trentham. I’ll make a call immediately, and we’ll have him picked up. Whatever is going on, we have two eyewitnesses to his involvement with the Stone—you and the Rawlings woman. If we can get our hands on Reardon, then perhaps he will lead us to Dwyer and the rest.”
“Keep me posted, Inspector,” said Andrew as he rose to leave.
“Are you back in the city now?” asked Shepley. “I thought I heard you went north for the recess.”
“I’m here only briefly,” replied Andrew. “But you have my numbers if you need me.”
“And likewise,” said Shepley. “So far you’ve uncovered more in this case than I have! So call me if you happen to crack it wide open.”
Andrew laughed. “That’s your job, Inspector. But right, I’ll let you know if I learn anything more.”
Seven
SNP Deputy Leader Baen Ferguson read the brief message through a second time, then tossed the slip of paper into the fireplace.
Ferguson,
Meet usual place. Midnight Thursday. Bring Fiona. Next phase may require woman’s touch.
R
Bring Fiona . . . right! As if he had any idea where she was! He thought she was with Reardon, so what was this all about?
Two evenings later, at twenty minutes before midnight, well bundled and with a wool cap pulled tightly down over the tops of his ears, the SNP Deputy Leader walked slowly over the bridge across the Thames toward his appointed rendezvous. A thick fog prevented visibility from one end to the other, in spite of the numerous light poles lining the walkway.
As he neared the far end, a tall, slender silhouette came gradually into view under the pale yellow glare of a bridge-lamp above him. Ferguson continued on. It was not until he was nearly upon the figure that
he suddenly realized it was not whom he had expected.
“What are you doing here?” said Ferguson in surprise.
“I sent you the note,” replied the man.
“What? I thought it came from Reardon. How did you know about the bridge?”
“He told me how to contact you. He’s hot, so it’s up to you and me now.”
“You’re in on this?”
A slight nod was the only reply. “Where’s Fiona?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” snapped Ferguson, irritated at the now obvious fact that he had been left even further out of the loop than he realized. First Fiona had double-crossed him, as he saw it . . . and now this. He hardly knew what to make of it. “I haven’t seen Fiona since June,” he said. “Look—I want to know what you have to do with this. What’s going on?”
The tall man laughed. “Don’t be naive, Baen. Do you think things happen without connections . . . high connections? We’re not talking about some penny-ante theft of a chunk of Highland sandstone, but a major restructuring of the European power alliance. I’ve been involved from the beginning.”
“But what about—”
“Reardon? Let’s just say circumstances required a partnership, so we brought him in some years ago. But he was never running this operation.”
“Maybe I don’t like these kinds of surprises. Did you ever think that so far I’m the only one in the clear, and that I could blow the whistle on you all?”
“You’re not going to blow the whistle on anyone, Baen,” rejoined the man, a hint of threat creeping into his tone. “You’re not as in the clear as you think. If you make one false move, the Yard might suddenly discover that they missed a fingerprint on the sgian-dubh that killed Eagon Hamilton—your fingerprint.”
“That’s ridiculous—I was nowhere near Aberdeen.”
“Tell it to the Yard. I am only telling you that your fingerprint is already in the files; they just don’t know it yet. All they need is a little nudge to reexamine the evidence, and they’ll find you everywhere they look. I happen to have inside information that Shepley still has you at the top of his list because of your Glencoe cottage. So I suggest you keep your cool.—But enough of this. Things are starting to move fast, and I need Fiona.”
An Ancient Strife Page 30