Unnatural Justice ob-7

by Quintin Jardine

  Thirty-Two.

  I really was itching to be back in Scotland, but a contract's a contract, and my being in Middlesex was keeping a lot of people in work. So I resigned myself to working as hard and as well as I could in the hope that I might be able to sneak some more time off at the end of the week.

  One of my great grandmothers was Irish and I suspect that she may have had a touch of leprechaun blood in her veins. Whatever it was, be it a four-leafed clover, a lucky charm or just plain random chance, the extravagant luck of the Blackstones worked for me again, just when I needed it.

  For virtually all of the rest of the week, the scenes we were due to shoot involved, among a few others, Louise Golding and me. I was on set at eight sharp next morning, still seething over my clash with Nat Morgan, but word perfect on my lines and ready for action. I strolled into make-up and sat in my usual chair, in front of my usual mirror, ready to have Mathew's facial scar applied for the day, only to see Paul Girone reflected behind me instead of Liz Ostrakova, the make-up artist. Not only that, but he looked uncharacteristically hesitant.

  "Oz," he began, a trace of French showing as always in his accent, 'how's your schedule?"

  I looked at him blankly in the mirror. "You know what my schedule is, man. You're the director. You draw it up, remember."

  "No, I mean how is your schedule after this project? What do you have lined up?"

  "I take a break as usual… nicely timed for the birth of my second child… then Roscoe's got me in a project in New York. Why, do you have something to offer me?"

  "Maybe, as it happens, but not so soon, and that is not why I ask. If this production was to overrun, it would not be a disaster, yes?"

  I turned in my chair. "It would not be a disaster, no, as long as it didn't overrun up to my next commitment. A bit of a pisser, I have to admit, but not a disaster. What's the problem anyway? Has the writer come up with some extra scenes?"

  "God no!" he exclaimed. "This movie is long enough as it is. No, the problem is that Louise Golding has come up with spots. In English I think you call it the chicken pox She will not be able to work for two weeks."

  "Can't you reschedule? Shoot other scenes to cover her absence?"

  He shook his head, sorrowfully. I could understand that; what he was saying was going to cost someone… an insurance company, but maybe not… a lot of money. "I tried to work something out, but almost everything we have left involves Louise, or Ewan, and I have released him till the middle of next week, to do some location work on his next movie. There is nothing for it but to close the project until Louise can come back to work, like I say, at least two weeks. You can go home if you like. I'll call you next week, to confirm that it's okay to restart the week after that." He paused. "How about you, have you ever had this thing? I'm told it's highly contagious."

  "Spreads like wildfire, man, but I'm okay. I've had the whole round of childhood ailments, so I'm immune." I grinned as I got out of the make-up chair. "You'd better keep your fingers crossed that Ewan is too. From what I gather, he's been closer to Louise than either you or me."

  As it turned out, if Paul hadn't taken the decision to fold there and then he would only have been delaying the inevitable. Twenty-four hours later, the focus puller, the best boy… a girl, by the way…

  Liz Ostrakova and the key grip were all as spotty as Louise. By that time, though, I was back home, keeping a distance between me and Janet, until Ethel convinced me that someone who'd had the disease couldn't be a carrier afterwards.

  Once back home, I was able to tell Susie what had been happening in the company, although by that time it wasn't news to her. My clumsy attempt to have Jay intercept and mislay the business newspapers had been pointless, since she had simply gone on-line, then bent Phil Culshaw's ear and later mine because she'd been kept in the dark.

  That persuaded me that it was probably better for her blood pressure to be in the know than to find out later, so before I left to meet Ricky Ross in Glasgow, I told her what I was planning.

  We met just after midday in the Ubiquitous Chip, a celebrity hang-out close to the headquarters of the BBC in Scotland. It was Wednesday lunchtime, but it was still early, and so the place was quieter than I'd seen it. Glancing around, I saw a familiar ex-foot baller… you know who I mean; he's everywhere… an evening news presenter with a lady that I hoped was his wife, given that they were holding hands, and one half of a television comedy duo, having what looked like a serious lunch with a journalist, or so I judged from the small tape recorder that was placed on the table between them. Its red record light was showing: I pointed to it and Ricky got the message. To be on the safe side, we moved to a table further away. I didn't want our chat to wind up in a reporter's audio notebook by accident.

  Once the ex-foot baller and I had exchanged autographs, Ricky and I got down to business. "Morgan?" I asked him.

  "We've been tailing her as instructed, and as far as I can tell she hasn't caught on yet. It's been bloody dull for my people, following her from one business meeting to another. It's been time consuming too. You're going to have some bill when this is finished."

  "If you get me a result it'll be worth it. What about her sex life?

  Have you found the mystery man?"

  "What mystery man? The woman's fucking celibate…" I smiled at this contradiction in terms, but he didn't pick it up '… as far as I can see," he told me, 'unless she's shagging her lawyer or her accountant, because they're the only guys she's seeing consistently. She did make one trip to Glasgow yesterday, to a private address, not an office, but she only stayed for about an hour, and then she was off home again.

  Barely time for any meaningful action. Besides, Natalie's never struck me as the sort who has to travel to get seen to."

  "Who did she visit?"

  Ross shook his head. "I'm sorry. We didn't find that out. It was an apartment block, with a secure entrance, and there were no names on the door outside, only numbers. It could have been anyone in there."

  "Did she go in with a key?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Okay, if she goes back there again, tell your guy to be close enough to see what number button she pushes."

  "He's already told, don't worry."

  "Good. What about Aidan Keane? Has he gone anywhere near Ravens?"

  "No, but he'd be really bloody stupid to do that so quickly, Oz, and that's assuming your reporter pal's story is right."

  "Maybe, but you're tailing him, yes?"

  "Yes, of course we are. Keep your hair on. Tell you what, I'll get you an up-to-the-minute report." He took out his mobile, pressed some keys and held it to his ear. "Avril?" he said. "Where are you?" Five seconds passed, time enough for Ricky's confidence to evaporate. "Did you get the number?" A few more seconds, time enough for his forehead to furrow. "Magic. You'd better get back to his place then, and wait for him to show'

  He put the mobile away and looked up at me. "He's out of our sight.

  Avril was watching him, as normal, from her car. He left his flat in Crow Road, heading towards the bookie's on the corner, where he's gone every day this week at the same time. Only this time a motor pulled up beside him on the pavement, the back door opened and he got in. Avril was going to follow, but just as she was pulling out, a vehicle cruised past her going slow, with the driver looking out as if he was trying to find an address. By the time her exit was clear, the target car was out of sight. It could have been heading for Scotstoun, or the Clyde Tunnel, or the expressway."

  "The number?"

  "The slow car blocked her view. It was an old model Vectra, that was all she could tell me. Sorry."

  "You should be. It sounds to me as if she was rumbled; that second car could have been there to block her deliberately. It makes me wonder whether I should give you this next job."

  Ricky sniffed. He looked huffed. "Suit your fucking self. What job?"

  "We're playing call my bluff with the Three Bears," I told him. "I want them all tailed, every one of
them. If there's collusion, and I'm sure there is, we have to be able to prove it."

  "Are you sure about this, Oz? You don't mess with these boys, not on their side of the street."

  "They shouldn't have come on to mine. Tail them. These guys are supposed never to meet and never to speak to each other. If they do, I want to be able to prove it."

  "The case won't get to court, if your scenario's right. Nat'll have paid them off before then, as soon as she has control of the Gantry Group."

  "I don't want to prove it in court. I want to prove it in the press.

  When they meet up, I want pictures, location, the lot. Your best people, Ricky, no more Avrils."

  "She was unlucky, Oz."

  "In that case I want your luckiest people."

  Ricky sighed. "Okay. Actually, when I think about it, the job's not as dodgy as all that. If any of my people are spotted, the targets will probably assume they're the Scottish Drugs Enforcement Agency.

  These guys are used to being tailed by the polis."

  That was a problem I hadn't anticipated. "In that case the SDEA had better know what we're up to, just in case they do have active surveillance on the Bears. Have you got a contact there?"

  He nodded. "Of course, loads of them, but the crime co-ordinator's the best bet. He's an old mate, from the Tayside Force. If he does have an operation underway, I could probably persuade him to pull it for a few days, as long as we feed him anything we turn up."

  "Fine. Go to it," I told him.

  "What about lunch?"

  "Who said anything about lunch?" I asked him. "I'm meeting Phil Culshaw here for lunch. You get your show on the road. If you get me the results I'm after, I'll buy you the biggest bloody lunch you've ever had, in the restaurant of your choice."

  He glared at me for a second, but he couldn't keep it up, and his grin broke through. Ricky's a pro; he knew it was urgent. "If you really mean that," he said, 'there's a place in Barcelona called the Seven Doors. And we'll fly there club class, thank you very much."

  "Deal. Now piss off."

  He did, and Phil Culshaw took his place at the table five minutes later. This time I asked for the menu.

  "I didn't expect to see you here this week," he said. "I was surprised when Denise gave me your message."

  I told him about the spotty actor. "It's fortuitous. Gives me a chance to put some things in place."

  "And to check up on how well I'm doing in Susie's absence."

  "Not even I would have the nerve to do that, Phil. But how's it going?"

  "As anticipated. McPhillips and Company had the expected letters of protest this morning."

  "Did they return the cheques, though?"

  "No, they didn't go that far. That doesn't mean anything, though; not presenting is adequate evidence of rejection."

  "So what happens next?"

  "There'll be a brief period of ritual dancing, and then they'll ask the Sheriff Court to set a date for an interdict hearing. By the end of the week, I'll expect."

  "And the Torrent bid? What's the timetable on that?"

  Culshaw shrugged. "You read the same papers I do. You know as much as me. Torrent's advisers told the Stock Exchange that it would be at the beginning of next week, on either Monday or Tuesday. Fisher's scheduled a board meeting for next Wednesday. Between now and then, I've instructed the investor relations consultants to sound out the minority shareholders… excluding you, of course."

  "Did you know that Fisher and Morgan's uncle were pals?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "Natalie."

  Phil slapped a hand on his forehead. "Jesus Christ, Oz." He cut himself off short as the waiter appeared to take our orders.

  "You didn't bloody speak to her, did you?" he continued as the young Australian left. (Sometimes, especially when I'm in London, or when I hear an interview with a Scottish rugby international, I find myself thinking that those people are colon ising Britain. And why not? What goes around comes around, I suppose.) "Of course I did. No one's rattling her cage, Phil, although they should be. I had to do something to try to put the wind up her."

  "And did you?"

  "Not much. She did something funny the day afterwards, though: paid a visit to someone in Glasgow. I don't know what that was about."

  "And I don't want to know any of this. It's one thing for you to set detectives on a business rival, but keep it to yourself, and outside the knowledge of the company. If you're rumbled and I'm called to give evidence at an interdict hearing, I want to be wide-eyed and innocent."

  "Well that's okay, for I didn't tell you that I've been tailing her.

  Now what about Fisher?"

  "What about him?"

  "I want his head."

  "You can't do that, Oz. He's too big a fish."

  "He's a fucking shark and he's out to eat my wife. I'm going to harpoon him before that happens. I'm asking you to call an extraordinary board meeting; propose a motion of no confidence. You'll have Susie's proxy."

  "He wouldn't sanction it; I can't call such a meeting without his cooperation."

  "You mean we're stuck with him until the Morgan offer is tabled?"

  "I'm afraid so. And you know what'll happen when it is."

  "It's been spelled out to me. That means one thing: we've got seven days to nail Natalie Morgan's olive skin to her office door."

  "And how do we begin to do that?"

  "Like you've just said, you don't. I begin with Mr. Aidan Keane, just as soon as he surfaces."

  Thirty-Three.

  As it happened, Aidan Keane surfaced at seven o'clock that evening. His return was announced by the screams of a female pedestrian, on the iron footbridge across the Clyde, who happened to be looking over the side when he floated beneath her downstream, staring up at her with a terminally surprised look on his face.

  I heard the news on the late-night edition of Reporting Scotland: they didn't name the victim at that stage, but I had a terrible suspicion, which was proved right inside half an hour when Arnott Buchan rang me.

  "Are you sure?" was all I could say after he told me, although I was certain of it myself.

  "I got it from a police source. Identification wasn't a problem. There was a photographic driving licence in his wallet."

  "Did he drown?"

  "If he did it was the four bullets in him that weighed him down."

  "What's the betting?" I asked, as innocently as I could.

  "My money's on Ravens deciding that he didn't need him on his payroll, or that the other two guys took cold feet and decided to take him off the pitch. If that's right, it could look good for you."

  "How could it? Off the record, our suspicion is that these three guys are colluding to extort money from the company, but Keane was our only real chance of proving it."

  "Hmph." Buchan gave a muffled grunt. "Is that all you suspect?" he asked. "You don't think this is linked to the takeover bid?"

  "If I did, I wouldn't fucking tell you. Our counsel won't let us go public with what I just said to you."

  "Sounds to me, then, as if you're as far up the creek as the boy Keane."

  "Maybe that depends on how you guys report his murder."

  "There'll be no mention of the Ravens link I told you about, you can be sure of that. It's no more than pub talk and no lawyer would let an editor run it. The story will be that Keane left the employment of the Gantry Group after Sir Graeme Fisher's investigation into the New Bearsden cock-up, and less than a week later, he's dead. To be brutally honest with you, if the coverage points the finger at anyone it'll be your wife. And, forgive me for saying this, given who her father is, there'll be a few people believe that."

  "I may not forgive you," I retorted, coldly. "Any newspaper that does imply that will be sued out of business… yours included."

  "Don't worry, Oz, it won't be me that does it. But I will be doing a piece for Sunday, so is there anything else you can tell me about Keane?"

  I could have told him that the start
of his last journey was witnessed by a detective in my employ, but I decided firmly to keep that to myself for as long as I could. If I spilled that, every one of our surveillance targets would be looking over his, and her, shoulder from that point on.

  "I can tell you that it's time something effective was done to stamp out gun crime in this country, but apart from that you're on your own."

  I rang Ricky as soon as Buchan had hung up. Alison Goodchild was with him, so I killed two birds with one call by telling her to call Phil Culshaw and agree a company statement about Keane's death.

  Once she had gone to do that on her mobile, I spoke to Ross. He knew, but he hadn't picked up the news from the telly as I had. Avril had called him after a man and a woman she recognised as CID officers turned up at Keane's flat, and took his hysterical wife off shortly afterwards in their car. She had followed them all the way to the city mortuary.

  "We may have her," I told Ricky.

  "What the hell do you mean? Have who?"

  "Natalie. I threw Keane's name at her on Monday night; I told her that he had been fingered as the inside man in the Three Bears plot. Two days later the guy's fished out of the drink. If that doesn't point in her direction, nothing does."

  Ricky growled down the phone. "Hold your horses there, man. Natalie Morgan is not the sort of person from whom Mark Ravens, or Jock Perry or Kevin Cornwell, takes hit orders. You knew about Keane because that journalist told you. If his source was talking too much and Ravens, or the three of them, decided there was a danger of their being exposed prematurely, they wouldn't need telling to take him out."

  "But she knew, Ricky. She knew and now he's dead. That trip she made to Glasgow yesterday: could it have been one of the Three Bears she saw?"

  "I doubt that very much. Her visit was in the city centre, and as far as I know none of them live there. But I'll double check, if you like.

  Maybe one of them has a fuck pit that his wife doesn't know about."

  "You do that. As for the chat we had earlier, is everything in place?"