Illegal Tender (Three Oaks Book 12)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘You’ll keep us posted?’ I asked anxiously. When Ian hesitated, I went on, ‘I know that it’s against your principles to tell the victims anything. The law gives the criminal, the police and the courts all kinds of rights but the victim is considered to be nothing but a bloody nuisance who should have had more sense than to be mugged, defrauded, assaulted or otherwise abused in the first place.’

  Duncan looked shocked, Elizabeth less so, but Ian grinned. ‘You’ve been listening to my father-in-law,’ he said.

  ‘My opinions are my own,’ I told him, though in fact I knew that the extra glass of wine was doing the talking.

  ‘I don’t go all the way with you, but I agree that the accused should have less rights and, yes, the victim should have more.’

  I gave him back his grin. ‘That’s very handsome,’ I said. ‘But in this instance it will cost Sir Peter’s estate even more money if we can’t make the right decisions; and we can’t make them if we don’t know what’s coming next and approximately when.’

  Ian sighed. ‘You have a cynical but generally accurate view. In fact, you still sound very much like my revered father-in-law. In this instance, however, you can see for yourselves, probably better than I can, that any leakage of information about the fraud and our progress towards solving it could affect the market and damage your credit. Because it might cost you more of the money that you were so anxious about, I think I can trust you to treat the information as confidential. In any case, we’ll have to refer to you for information. So I’ll see that you’re kept informed.’

  The discussion seemed to be drawing to a close. Elizabeth suddenly remembered the obligations of a hostess. ‘Where is Miss McLure going to sleep?’ she asked. ‘We have several bedrooms spare here.’

  ‘That’s very helpful of you,’ the WDC said. ‘But I’ll go back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Miss McLure thinks nothing of long drives,’ Ian said, ‘and she seems to get by on an absolute minimum of sleep. I’m told that she’s a chronic insomniac. She’ll be at work sharp in the morning.’

  Miss McLure ignored the statement as if it was too obvious to have been worth stating.

  Elizabeth and Duncan began to get up. I sat tight. But Ian surprised us. ‘We’d like a word with Mrs Ilwand,’ he said. ‘And later with her husband.’

  ‘What about?’ Duncan asked sharply.

  Ian made a vague gesture. ‘We were coming up here anyway, so Detective Chief Inspector Dornoch — the officer investigating the death of Mr Cowieson — has asked me to clear up a few points. Miss McLure is not strictly on that inquiry but I’d prefer her to remain.’ Ian’s manner had darkened now that we were back to the topic of the murder. He was no longer rendering official assistance to social acquaintances. I guessed that the incoming Detective Chief Inspector’s remarks were rankling and that Ian suspected his present errand of having been created to furnish another opportunity to blacken him with higher authority.

  Duncan nodded reluctantly and got up to leave the room. It seemed to me that the police suspected a connection between the fraud and the murder although, on what little we knew so far, coincidence might well have been at work. Police are suspicious of coincidences but in my experience so many things are happening at any given moment that many of them will inevitably coincide. ‘Perhaps Mrs Ilwand would like me to be present,’ I suggested. I noticed that WDC McLure was inconspicuously taking shorthand.

  Ian looked surprised but not concerned. ‘If she wishes,’ he said. ‘After all, she remains your ward for another few months.’

  But Elizabeth treated me to one of her rare smiles. ‘Thanks, Uncle Henry,’ she said. ‘It’s very thoughtful of you but I really must learn to . . . to stand on my own feet.’ I guessed that she had only just restrained herself from saying ‘wipe my own bottom’, an expression which she had taken to using whenever we discussed her assumption of responsibilities.

  I got up. ‘I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ I said. I followed Duncan into the sitting room but only for a minute or so. I was feeling uncertain and perhaps a little guilty, because I had intended to point Ian in the direction of several people who might well have had motivation towards one crime or the other. A minority of people rush to the police to accuse each other of criminal behaviour but most of us have a hang-up about it. For many, it may be the fear of reprisals; but I trace my own reluctance to my schooldays when peer loyalty made it unthinkable that one should ‘sneak’ or, in Scotland, ‘clype’.

  There remained a few of Peter Hay’s cigars, still safely shrouded in their individual metal condoms and quite smokeable. I fetched one from the humidor and carried it out with me onto the lawn.

  A good cigar is not to be hurried, particularly if it is being enjoyed in the afterglow of several glasses of excellent wine. I paced gently to and fro, enjoying the sounds of the night. The weather had cleared and it was a mild autumn night without a trace of dew. A bright moon was washing colour out of the garden. The silver birches shone brightly against a universally black background. An owl swept silently overhead. Newton Lauder was a sprinkle of lights down in the valley and a faint mutter of distant traffic. Spin, the spaniel, came out of the shadows and joined me but, sensing my mood, remained quietly and companionably at heel. He seemed to be deep in thoughts of his own but he was probably only waiting for something to happen.

  I had intended to clear my mind of all thoughts of money and greed, of crime and violence, but soon I found that it had entered a mood of wild speculation. Neither Elizabeth nor Duncan was capable of murder; of that I was sure, but in any event I had left Elizabeth in the house while surely the murder had been in progress. And she could have had no motive, beyond a minor tax advantage, for embezzling her own money.

  But Duncan had gone off in his six-year-old Cavalier nearly an hour before the fatality. Duncan. Elizabeth, I knew, had paid off his student loan and helped to establish him in the business partnership, but that had been all. His placid acceptance that his wife was rich while he was, if not poor, much less well endowed, added to his refusal to accept more than an occasional gift from her, appeared at first glance to be virtuous; but I had wondered sometimes whether any man really was quite so saintly. He fitted all the criteria to be the fraudster. But why would he wish to harm Maurice Cowieson? There was, I supposed, a possibility that the two had been hand in glove or that Cowieson had stumbled across evidence and had to be silenced, but that seemed very unlikely.

  If Duncan had been indulging in an extramarital affair, I thought, there would have been more chance of Cowieson, who seemed to have turned sex from a hobby into an obsession, happening on it. What, then, would Duncan’s attitude have been? The risk of a breach with his extremely well-to-do wife might well have driven him to murder. He seemed to be a very mild young man, but the same had been said of many famous murderers.

  The builder, Allardyce, seemed a more promising suspect for the murder. If he had discovered, as he inevitably would at some stage, that Maurice Cowieson had given him a worthless guarantee of payment, he might well have been overcome by fury; and a builder is in one of the professions most likely to have blunt but lethal instruments to hand.

  The moon had vanished behind a cloud. The clarity of my thoughts was doing much the same. I threw away the butt of the cigar. Another idea had been forming in my mind like a night-time shadow emerging from the mist, which might turn out to be a tree or a horse or a hobgoblin. Before it could take firmer shape, Joanna came out of the house, peering into the dark. The Inspector, she said, would like to see me.

  ‘Waiting for Hamish to fetch you home?’ I asked her.

  Her smile flashed white in the darkness. ‘A keeper can work all the hours God gives,’ she said. ‘And I’ve no liking for walking through the woods in the dark. There’s nothing to be feared of but you can’t help imagining things.’ She called Spin to her and vanished in the direction of the kitchen.

  Ian and WDC McLure were where I had left them, but neither Elizabeth no
r Duncan was to be seen.

  ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Is it my turn to be suspected of something?’

  ‘We don’t suspect you of either crime,’ Ian said patiently. He spoiled it by adding, ‘You wouldn’t have had time for the murder, you don’t know enough about electronics and your car has an automatic transmission.’

  I tried not to gape at him. His last remark failed altogether to fit in with any of the fragments which I had used as a framework for my thoughts. I had a sudden irrational fear that we might each be talking about several crimes unknown to the other. ‘What has my car to do with it?’ I asked.

  He smiled enigmatically, enjoying my mystification. ‘I wanted to ask you to confirm that Elizabeth Ilwand was in the house when you left, before you found the crashed car.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said.

  He grunted. ‘I’ll just have to go back to DCI Dornoch and report progress in a backward direction. He’ll be delighted. At least I have an excuse for asking him not to make any more use of my services. I know too many of the witnesses personally — but, apparently, not well enough. Tell me, what’s your frank opinion of Mr Duncan Ilwand’s character?’

  I had been asking myself the same question without arriving at any firm conclusion. ‘I’ve never had reason to believe that he’s anything but open and honest. And, in fact, totally laid-back. On the face of it, he’s the most relaxed and imperturbable person I ever met.’

  ‘I asked for your frank opinion. You’re not being frank, you’re qualifying everything you say.’

  An hour earlier, out of a sense of duty, I had intended to direct Ian’s attention towards Duncan, but now that his attention was on the young man I found myself unwilling to risk focusing it. ‘I’m trying to be precise,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen a great deal of Duncan and he speaks so little that I can’t claim to know him. He seems so open and honest that, just before you sent for me, I found myself wondering if he wasn’t . . .’

  ‘Too good to be true?’

  ‘Something like that. Can’t he account for his movements?’ I asked.

  I heard Miss McLure give a tiny hiss of surprise at the irregular question but Ian knew me well and took it in his stride. ‘He can account for them,’ he said. ‘So far, the people he met are rather vague about the times. But my colleagues will get there in the end, given a little help.’

  ‘And the builder?’ I said. ‘Allardyce? I have to be sure who I’m dealing with. In confidence, has he accounted for his movements?’

  I had gone too far. Ian drew himself up. WDC McLure closed her notebook with an audible snap. No doubt I was about to be treated to a severe snub. But before it could be delivered we heard the sound of a car on the gravel. It was not being driven particularly fast or carelessly and yet there was something about the rhythm of the driving that disturbed me and I could see that Ian recognized it too.

  Joanna was at the door before the visitor could reach it. I heard the mutter of voices and then she appeared at the study door.

  ‘Mr Miles Cowieson wants to speak to you,’ she said. She was looking at me.

  *

  Miles Cowieson, when he walked into the room, was no longer the brash and self-confident young man from the après-shoot party. His healthy outdoor colour seemed to have faded and his manner was hesitant. He picked mine out from the three faces.

  ‘I . . . I’ve just got back,’ he said shakily. ‘I went home. There was a policeman there and my home’s sealed up. He said that my father’s been killed. I’m told that you found him and that you seem to know more about what’s going on than anybody else outside the police. I came to find out as much as I can before I see them.’

  That information would hardly have come from the policeman left to guard the house. He must have encountered Bea Payne. ‘I’m afraid it’s all true,’ I said. ‘You have my condolences. But you’re too late to do your homework before you talk to the police. This is Detective Inspector Fellowes and WDC McLure.’

  Miles switched his attention to Ian. ‘I think I’ve met your wife,’ he said vaguely. ‘Are you investigating my father’s death?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Dornoch is in charge of the case,’ Ian said. ‘I’m here on quite another matter. Because I was coming here anyway, it was left to me to clear up certain points concerning your father’s death. Mr Dornoch will certainly want to see you.’ Ian paused and went on reluctantly. ‘But, since we’ve met up, we may as well get a few preliminary questions out of the way. Do sit down. Where have you been for the last few days?’

  Miles lowered himself slowly into a chair. ‘I’ve been in Holland. But I want to know what happened.’

  ‘Were you on holiday?’

  ‘Part of the time,’ Miles said. ‘I was overdue for a break. I did a year’s study around the plant nurseries a few years ago, so I have some friends in Holland and I speak a little of the language. Mostly, I was chasing up finance. My father had . . .’ He stopped dead.

  ‘We know about your father’s financial difficulties,’ Ian said. ‘They will be treated in confidence if possible.’

  ‘Yes. But you still haven’t told me how he died.’

  Ian assumed his stubborn face. I could see another bout of verbal fencing coming up. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that Mr Cowieson is concerned whether his father may have committed suicide.’

  Ian’s face cleared. ‘There was some question of that but it has been eliminated.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Miles said fervently. He breathed deeply. ‘My father had run the firm down badly, that has to be admitted. The stockbrokers had turned their backs and any bank loans that he’d been offered would have been crippling. He promised that if I could raise the money to tide us over the serious cash-flow problem, he’d let me have more of a say in the running of the company and digging it out of the red.’ He looked back to me again. ‘This isn’t the best of times to talk business, but I hope to have some good news for you very soon.’

  I decided that I would be the judge as to whether his news was good or not. ‘Where are you expecting the money to come from?’ I asked bluntly.

  ‘I don’t think that I need to comment on that. As long as Agrotechnics gets paid . . . Can you tell me what happened to my father? I’m not getting much sense out of these two.’

  ‘I will give you all the sense you can want,’ Ian said grittily. ‘Mr Kitts found your father’s car standing on its nose at the foot of the steep embankment above the Den Burn. Your father was in the driving seat, supported by his seat belt and the air bag. Neither Mr Kitts nor the ambulance staff detected signs of life and he was declared dead at the hospital. His head had suffered fatal damage. At first glance, it looked as if he’d had a blackout or lost concentration and gone straight ahead where the road takes a bend.’

  ‘But you’re not satisfied?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Miles Cowieson’s temper began to fray. The last vestiges of his innate charm vanished and he took on the look of an animal making up its mind to attack. ‘If you were bloody satisfied,’ he said, ‘there wouldn’t be a bloody detective chief inspector investigating, plus yourself and Miss McLure and the copper at my house and probably a few bloody dozen others. If you’ve got to ask questions, at least let them be sensible ones.’

  Ian had been doing no more than dangling a little bait, but he could hardly offer that explanation. He pursed his lips. ‘No, we’re not satisfied, for a number of reasons which I’ll go into later. You flew out on Sunday morning?’

  ‘I did. I think . . .’ Miles dug in an inner pocket. ‘Here’s the counterfoil of my ticket.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Let’s get this straight. Do you think that I killed my father?’

  Ian studied the ticket carefully before passing it to WDC McLure. ‘I have no opinion on that,’ he said before looking up, ‘but we wouldn’t be doing our duty if we failed to eliminate any doubt. Whoever travelled on this ticket was in the air before your father died. Can you prove that it was you?’

  Miles ca
st up his eyes. ‘I showed my passport before getting on the plane,’ he said patiently. ‘On the plane, I used my credit card to buy a bottle of whisky and some gifts for my Dutch friends. The card has my photograph on it and the slip has my signature. Is that enough?’

  ‘If it checks out. What car do you drive?’

  Miles’s eyebrows went up but he answered promptly. ‘A green Mondeo, two years old.’

  ‘Automatic or manual?’

  ‘Automatic. It’s outside if you want to see it.’ It was plain that Miles was as puzzled by this turn in the questioning as I was.

  ‘Shortly. Can you think of anyone who would want your father dead?’

  Miles locked eyes with Ian for some seconds before deciding that truth came before filial loyalty. ‘Dozens who might be pleased that he’s dead,’ he said. ‘Just don’t ask me to name them. But I can’t think of anybody who’d have killed him. Dad wasn’t always too finicky in his business dealings and he was a devil when it came to women.’ Miles smiled crookedly. ‘Sometimes I wish that I’d inherited a little more of his . . . his brass neck, his machismo. He thought nothing of asking a woman he’d only just met if she fancied a meal and a night of carnal pleasure. It didn’t matter if she was married or in a relationship. He got his face slapped a few times but he got a lot of overnight company too. It got so that I had to knock before I went looking for my breakfast. It’s embarrassing to walk in on your father and a lady in a state of partial undress. And as far as he was concerned, any such relationship usually ended sharp after breakfast. There must have been a lot of angry husbands and partners, and slighted ladies.’

  ‘We did know most of what you’ve just told us,’ Ian said. ‘I apologize for making you live through it again. But we’ve been looking for these ladies without finding more than one or two.’

  ‘They’re hardly likely to advertise,’ Miles pointed out. ‘I couldn’t help you. Dad and I went our separate ways outside office hours and moved in different social circles. I recognized very few of the faces, and none of those within the last year or two. Confidentiality is the very essence of hochmagandy, at least in a wee country town like this.’