Unnatural Justice ob-7

by Quintin Jardine

  "Yup. I just hope you've got the cash to pay for it, after Morgan wipes out the family fortune next week."

  "I thought we agreed this was on a contingency basis. No win, no fee?"

  "Hey, wait a minute…" he began, then realised that I was pulling his chain.

  "Don't worry," I assured him. "If the worst does happen, I'm going to make a right few quid on the Gantry shares that I've been buying for the last week or so."

  Thirty -four.

  Next morning's press stories on the discovery of the latest hazard to navigation in the Clyde were circumspect, to say the least. I guessed that lawyers had poured buckets of cold water down the trousers of each of the tabloid editors, for they reported only the bizarre discovery of Keane's body, interviews with the lady who had been unfortunate enough to spot it, and little else.

  There was, of course, the obligatory police quote. Pending the findings of an autopsy, the death was being regarded as 'suspicious'.

  Only the Herald mentioned the dead man's connection to 'the beleaguered Gantry Group', carrying a quote from 'a company spokesperson' to the effect that "Aidan was a valued colleague', and that Phil Culshaw, acting Group managing director, had been hoping to persuade him to return to the post that he resigned last week.

  To the best of my knowledge that was a complete fabrication; but, like so many other things in this bizarre situation, its truth or otherwise could never be proved. As I read the story, I threw a mental nod in Phil's direction. "Nice one," I whispered.

  "What?" Susie asked across the breakfast table.

  "Nothing."

  She put down her Scottish Daily Mail. "Poor Aidan," she said. "This is terrible. It's his poor wife I feel sorry for now. What do you think happened?"

  I hadn't filled in all the details when I'd told Susie about Keane's demise that morning, but she'd guessed that he'd been unlikely to have drowned while swimming, fully clothed, in the Clyde in the middle of the day. (Poisoning would have been more of a possibility, actually.) "I guess he must have bet on the wrong horse, that's all. Aidan was a gambling man by all accounts. The betting shop that he used, the one where he was headed when he disappeared, is part owned by Jock Perry.

  Maybe he owed a few quid and was pressured into going along with the New Bearsden scam."

  "And maybe the police will be able to prove that," she exclaimed, brightening up.

  "Don't bet on that horse either, love. The police have never proved anything against Perry, or against either of the other two guys, not even when they were young, and answerable to bigger gangsters than they were."

  Her fleeting optimism disappeared. "Do you really think that the whole thing is linked to the takeover bid, Oz? Did Natalie Morgan really set it all up?"

  "I think it has to be, Suse, because of the leaks to the media. The Three Bears wouldn't have done that off their own bat, because press coverage is anathema to them. Someone has to have set this up, and the really big winner from the situation will be Torrent, in engineering the acquisition of a supposedly invulnerable company at a realistic price. But I still don't believe that Natalie set it up. She doesn't strike me as having the sort of imagination you'd need to dream up a scheme like this, and she doesn't associate with the sort of people she'd need to carry it out. I come back to this: there's someone behind her."

  "There's another question too," Susie observed. "Who's underwriting the takeover?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that Torrent as it stands just isn't big enough to buy me. The company doesn't have enough spare cash, and if they write new shares to trade for ours, as people are saying they've done already with the Sapphire holding, it will upset the balance of Torrent itself."

  She sucked her teeth for a second, and then went on. "I've been doing some sums, love. If I chucked in the towel and we accepted the offer, between us you and I would own at least thirty-five, and maybe forty per cent of the enlarged company. At the moment, Morgan owns ninety per cent of Torrent, but a new share issue would dilute that down to around the fifty mark, if that. She'd be struggling to retain control, and I'd back myself to have her out inside six months. So when this formal offer comes in, you'll find that new shares in Torrent have already been issued and that someone's subscribed for them. When the offer comes in it will be in cash, funded by that new equity, and maybe by some loan and venture capital. That's probably why Marvin de Luca and Nigel Lanark were at that lunch in the Atrium."

  She frowned. "That's how it's being done, Oz. I'm certain of it. If you're right and the New Bearsden ambush was a planned attack on our share price, then the person who was behind it is almost certainly Natalie's new investor."

  "Need there be one person in the background?" I asked. "What if I'm wrong and Ravens, Perry and Cornwell have been driving the thing all along?"

  Susie shook her head. "No, not a chance. Guys like those don't think that way. These are Glaswegian heavies, Oz; I was born and bred in the city, and I know the sort. I've even met Jock Perry, years ago in a disco that I think he owned. He tried to pick me up, without any pretence at subtlety either. I invited him to fuck off, which he did eventually, but with an ill grace. Then one of the guys I was with told me who he was. He was shaking in his boots, because he thought we'd all struggle to get home alive. But somebody must have told Perry who I was, because a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket arrived at our table, with a note addressed to me, saying "Sorry"." She paused.

  "There's another reason why it couldn't be them. If they underwrote a deal like this, they'd be doing it with bent money. Sure, they all have front businesses, like Ravens' pubs and Perry's betting shops, but none of them are in this league. If the banks had the slightest suspicion that Torrent was funding its expansion by laundering money, they would drop the company like a hot potato. And even if Natalie isn't bright enough to work that one out for herself, her professional advisers certainly are."

  I whistled. "Magic. So we don't just have a mystery enemy. We have a mystery enemy with serious money, and the ability to persuade Glasgow's three biggest heavies to do his bidding." I looked across at my wife.

  "Do any names suggest themselves to you?"

  "If only…" she whispered.

  "Me neither." I looked at her. "Suse, I'm not giving up, but… suppose we don't get lucky before next week? How will you feel if we lose?"

  "Richer," she replied, but bitterly. "But before that sinks in, I'll feel humiliated, beaten, a failure, all of that stuff." She smiled at me, softly. "Oz, love, I'm sorry if I disappoint you. I know you were hoping that when I went on maternity leave I might change, that I might decide to be a full-time mum for a few years, and be content to be non-executive chair, instead of Fisher. That might even have been an attractive proposition, but for all this. There's a lot to be said for spending the next few years travelling the world with you and the kids, from film location to film location. But if it all ends like this, I'll be the most miserable travelling companion you could ever imagine.

  My mind will always be back in Glasgow, thinking of ways to get back at Morgan and whoever her new partner is."

  She looked away from me, up at the ceiling, and I saw a small tear appear in the corner of her right eye and roll down her cheek. "I suppose what I'm saying is that if I lose this business, it'll break my heart."

  I reached across and took her hand. "Then that will not happen, my darling." I gave it a squeeze. "You've got my word on that."

  She got up from the table, kissed me on the forehead, ran her fingers through my hair, then, mumbling something about going to see Ethel, hurried out of the room.

  I gathered up the newspapers and carried them through to the working conservatory, where I switched on my computer and checked my morning's e-mailbox. I saw one from 'ecap' titled "Out, out, damned spot' and opened it; it was a brief message from Ewan wishing me well, and advising me that he, on the other hand, had a face, as he put it, 'like a cherry cake' and felt decidedly poorly.

  There was also a message
from Paul Girone. It was less colourful, but it confirmed Ewan's news and advised me that their insurers… to hearty sighs of relief from the investors, no doubt… had accepted medical advice and would fund a further week's postponement. He also asked me not to eat too much, since he didn't want me reporting back noticeably fatter than before the break, but I'm professional enough to have worked that out for myself. In any event, obesity is not a Blackstone family trait.

  My final e-mail brought me my first really good news of the day. It was from Roscoe and it advised me that Miles Grayson was about to achieve a lifelong dream by making a cricket movie. It would be about the notorious Bodyline tour of Australia, in the thirties, in which Douglas Jardine, the captain of England, decided that the best way of combating the threat of Donald Bradman was by trying to kill him with continuously short-pitched bowling.

  Miles, a good judge of character, wanted me to play Jardine. He would play Bradman, of course. (A challenge for make-up, I thought, since Miles is around twenty years older than Bradman was then, and looks nothing like the dour little man.) Did I fancy a couple of months next winter touring Australia? Too bloody right I did. I sent Roscoe an instant reply. "Make a show of being hard to get, then say "yes"."

  I signed out of AOL, and swung round in my chair, picking up the Scotsman, the only newspaper I hadn't read that morning. I scanned through it until I found the Aidan Keane story. It was there, of course, but buried almost as deep as he would be soon, at the foot of page six. Gangland killings in Glasgow do not figure high on the priority lists of Edinburgh copy-tasters.

  It took me less than a minute to read, and then I put it aside and turned my attention to the rest of the paper. Having spent the early part of my adult life in Edinburgh, it was my instinctive paper of choice, even though the issue that was delivered to our home went to bed much earlier than the Herald. As I do about once a week, I resolved that I would cancel the lot and read the on-line editions instead, but since that day's issue was there, inking up my hands, I delved into it.

  For a few days, I had been keeping an eye out for a certain story. That morning, I found it. It was on page three once again, but, although it commanded more space than a floater in the Clyde, since it emanated from the East of Scotland, it was no longer a front-page lead.

  It was headed "Pig Farm murders: identities confirmed', and it read:

  "Detectives leading the investigation into the deaths of a couple whose bodies were found last week on a remote life pig farm confirmed that they are Walter and Andrea Neiporte of Pittenweem, life.

  "Mr Neiporte (37) is an American citizen, although he was officially resident in Scotland, and worked at St. Andrews University. His wife (29), an executive with a hotel in North East life, is originally from Orpington in Kent.

  "The identifications were confirmed after the completion of DNA tests on the bodies and on samples from relatives in America and England.

  "Police last night released further details of what is now officially a double murder hunt. Detective Inspector Tom Reekie, in charge of the investigation, confirmed that police were searching in the vicinity of the farm for the murder weapon, a shotgun.

  "He revealed also that police suspect that the crime may be drug-related, after a significant quantity of ecstasy tablets were found in an inch-by-inch search of the couples cottage.

  "Inspector Reekie said that he believed that the couple were killed on the evening of May 23, the date and time recorded on Mr. Neiporte 's wristwatch, which had been found on the body, smashed by a shotgun pellet."

  I blinked when I saw the date. Laying the paper down, I turned back to my computer terminal and opened my electronic diary. It confirmed my first thought; the Neiportes had been killed on the day before I had sent Jay to life to deal with them. After all that anxiety, and yes, I confess it now, after all those bad dreams, it turned out to have been just another drug-land execution.

  I breathed a single huge sigh of relief. It had barely faded before a question rose up in my mind. "Why was Jay so secretive?"

  But when I thought about it, it took me about three seconds to convince myself that it was simply a sign of his absolute discretion. It was one worry out of the way, but, God knew, there were plenty left. Of these, I realised suddenly, the greatest was that I had made a promise to my wife; but how was I to keep it?

  Thirty-Five.

  The problem I faced was a simple one. In the fight against our opposition, I had run out of bullets. Ricky and I were making all the obvious moves to try and find evidence that would tie Natalie Morgan to the Three Bears. The only other things we needed were luck and patience. As I've said, I have more than my fair share of the former, but it's not a weapon that can be called upon at will.

  As for patience, I find that the older I get the less I have.

  So what could I do, I asked myself, to make things happen? Turning once again to my one-man army, Jay Yuille, was not an option. I was sure he would help, but I could never be sure how, given his 'no questions' policy.

  After a day of thought, some of it spent working out in my gym, some spent swimming, and some spent hitting increasingly erratic golf shots, I had decided what to do. It would be chancy, and it might even be risky, given the people involved, but it was all I had, my only weapon.

  I didn't know how it would work out, but I did know that it would require the performance of my life.

  I called Ricky on my mobile, just before six. "Where's Morgan?" I asked him.

  "Homeward bound," he replied. "There's nothing on the other three, though, Oz. It's just another day at the offices for all of them."

  "Hang in there," I said, then hung up.

  I found Susie in Janet's playroom; she looked as glum as she had in the morning. "I have to go out," I told her.

  "Where?"

  I pinched a few words from my favourite poem, and recited them in my best Ewan Capperauld accent. "I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

  She sniffed. "Be mysterious then. Just don't wake me when you come in, that's all."

  I took the Lotus; it's my favourite toy when I'm alone. I didn't burn rubber or anything like that, but I made Edinburgh in an hour and a half, and from where we live, that's reasonable. I was glad that Natalie hadn't moved, for it meant that I knew exactly where I was headed. As I cleared the Barnton roundabout, I called Ricky again. "Is she still at home?" I asked.

  "Yes, and all alone."

  "Good. Tell your operative to be ready for action."

  "When?"

  "Soon, I hope."

  Less than five minutes later, I pulled into the private car park attached to Natalie's block. There were several spaces in the visitors' area: I picked one, locked on my steering wheel immobiliser … Scotland's capital city hates to admit it, but there are car thieves in Edinburgh too… and wandered over to the entrance door. I knew that Ricky's operative would be watching me, but that didn't matter. I was paying his tab, and if things went pear-shaped in any way, and it became necessary, I would have been the Invisible Man. Not that I thought it would. I had rehearsed my performance time and time again. It was going to be good.

  The first time I had entered the building, I had done so… informally; this time I pressed the button with the name "Morgan' beside it.

  She must have been near the intercom phone for she answered almost straight away. "Hello?"

  "Natalie? It's Oz Blackstone."

  "Oz! What the hell do you want?"

  "A chat. We need to talk, you and I. I have news that may interest you."

  "Indeed." She sounded uncertain. "You'd better come up then." The door buzzed: I pushed it and it swung open. Last time I had used the stairs. This time I took the lift, all the way to the top.

  She was waiting for me as I stepped out, framed in her doorway, her long legs disappearing into a pair of very brief shorts, her high breasts encased in a matching halter top. "Sorry to be overdressed," she murmured, 'but I wasn't expecting you."

  The lift door hisse
d shut behind me as she stood aside, letting me into her sanctum. I looked around. "You've refurnished," I said. The place looked a lot more spacious, somehow, than when I'd seen it before.

  "Totally," she replied. "I had interior decorators give the place a make-over. Then I hired a feng shui consultant. Remember the Fosters ad on the telly? Well, I actually did it."

  I laughed. "There's one born every minute, Nat, but I never thought you were one of them."

  "Nor I you." She moved in on me, standing close, gazing up into my eyes. "So what brings you this way. What do you have to tell me that'll interest me? Got a part for me in your next movie?"

  "Sorry. Glenn Close does Cruella De Vil."

  She chuckled. "Ouch. What can it be then? Is it that you've realised that you fancy me, and that you've decided to trade little Susie in for a winner? If so…" She reached up and tugged at the cord securing her top, but I put a hand up and stopped her.

  "Sorry, but I've seen a lot better than those at work… and at home for that matter. Once upon a time, Natalie, I'd have fucked your brains out before I put the boot in. Not any more, though. That wouldn't be right and proper, so I'll get straight to it."

  Her eyes narrowed. "How gallant of you to spare my feelings."

  "I don't give a bugger about your feelings. It's my wife I'm thinking about. I wouldn't want to take anything from you back to her."

  "Okay." She was definitely out of seductress mode. "Say what you have to say, then go."

  I fixed her with my coldest stare. "Gladly," I hissed at her. "It's this. You will stop this vindictive nonsense towards Susie, and you will announce tomorrow that you are no longer interested in acquiring the Gantry Group."

  "Why should I do that?"

  "Because you wouldn't last a week in Cornton Vale Prison. You'd hardly be in there before you'd a brush handle up you. We've got you, Nat, Ricky Ross and I. We know you set up the New Bearsden plot, we know how you did it and why. When I called you a couple of nights ago, I dropped the name Aidan Keane, a little on purpose; let's call it bait.