‘I manage to be just friends with you, don’t I?’ he challenged.
‘I’m your boss: you have to be.’
‘Not so. We could have a purely professional relationship; five o’clock, goodnight, that’s it. But we don’t. We’ve been out socially . . . as friends,’ he added.
‘And it’s nice,’ Maggie conceded. ‘I enjoy going to a movie or for a meal with you. You’re someone I can talk to; plus you don’t see me as easy prey, and I appreciate that.’
He reached across and touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘That doesn’t mean that I don’t find you attractive, ma’am. For the record, I do.’
‘I’ve been aware of that too, don’t you worry. And by the way, it’s mutual. It’s just that I’m only interested in being attracted up to a certain point. Understand?’
Stevie nodded. He looked at her as she leaned back in the passenger seat. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘But . . . a purely hypothetical question, I stress . . . what might happen if you got attracted beyond that point?’
She smiled back at him, then squeezed his hand. ‘If I did . . . of which, non-hypothetically, there’s precious little chance . . . then before anything happened, you’d get transferred; or I would.’
He grunted. ‘Just don’t send me to your ex-husband’s division.’
‘You’re not scared of Mario, are you? Did you see his New York photo in the Evening News on Monday, by the way, with that American cop, the guy who’s coming over as the other half of the exchange trip?’
‘Yes, I saw it, and no, I’m not scared of him. I just don’t fancy the Borders, that’s all.’
‘That may not be an issue for much longer,’ she said idly, to steer the conversation in another direction.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, intrigued.
‘Never mind.’
‘Come on, what’s up? Is Dan Pringle retiring?’
Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Meaning that Mario’d get his job and I wouldn’t?’
‘No,’ Steele protested, suddenly on the defensive. ‘You’re above him in the queue; and Greg Jay’s ahead of you both.’
‘You can forget Jay,’ she said vehemently. ‘But you’re on the wrong track anyway: Dan’s not going yet, not that I know of anyway.’
‘Someone is, though. You’ve let that much slip.’
‘Rumour! It’s rumour, that’s all, and I should have known better than let anything slip to you. Change the subject. How much of what that man Easterson told George and Tarvil was news to you?’
‘You don’t get off that lightly, Superintendent. Let’s go for a Chinese after work and I’ll grill you further.’ Steele grinned at her. ‘Now, to answer your question, most of it was. I’ve been aware of the Scottish Farmers Bank since it was formed out of the demutualisation of the Agricultural and Rural Building Society a few years back. But I’ve always known it as a personal-service set-up, fiercely independent and very targeted in its approach to its clients. Its mortgage book as a building society was heavily weighted towards the top end of the market.’ He pointed at the Whetstone villa. ‘Houses like that one, for example, were very attractive to them; that sort in the towns, and in the country, properties with a bit of land attached. They’ve maintained offices in the four cities, London and key rural population centres in Scotland, servicing clients who are, in the main, minted. That’s what I knew of them.’
‘Comprehensive,’ Rose acknowledged. ‘So what didn’t you know?’
‘I didn’t know that they now only have private banking halls in Edinburgh, Glasgow and London, for top-end clients. I didn’t know about the Internet banking set-up, and I hadn’t a clue that they’d sold their mortgage book to a Dutch bank. And the fact that they’ve done a complete about-turn and were using the cash generated from the mortgage sell-off to attack the corporate banking and lending market came as the biggest surprise of all.’
‘From what I’m told they’ve done it very successfully too,’ the superintendent added, ‘and according to Mr Easterson, a lot of the credit was due to the late Mr Whetstone. I find it hard to think of bank managers as debt salesmen, and yet it seems that’s what they’ve become.’
‘It’s the way of the modern banking world, like he told the boys, and Whetstone was their top salesman. Knocks Manny English’s suicide assumption even harder on the head, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not so sure that’s out of the question.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the inspector. The detective superintendent pointed across the road at a taxi that had just drawn up in front of the Whetstone semi. A woman appeared on the pavement on the far side of the cab; as it drove off they saw that she was struggling with a number of cream-coloured Jenners carrier-bags. Steele watched as the unknowing widow turned into her driveway. ‘There’s still the big “how” question, isn’t there?’ he finished.
‘I’ll tell you how he could have done it,’ Rose replied. ‘The call to the emergency services showed up on screen as coming from a mobile number, a phone that was nicked a couple of days ago. There were cycle tracks on the grass around the body. It could be that our anonymous tipster had also stolen the bike he was riding, that he stole the overcoat that Easterson said Mr Whetstone wore to work yesterday, and that he stole whatever makeshift stand he used to step off with the belt around his neck.’
‘Who’d nick a milk crate?’
‘Or a small step-ladder?’
‘Where would Whetstone get that?’
‘He could have taken it from his office. No one saw him leave.’
‘Well I’ll tell you what; you ask the thief . . . only catching him might not be too easy.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Rose argued. ‘I could probably give you a dozen names, and he’d be among them. As it is, the emergency service has a tape of the call. I’ve told George Regan to get hold of it and have a listen. If nobody in our office twigs the voice, he’ll take it around the CID offices to see if anyone else does.’
‘But he won’t have the gear any more, so he won’t say a word . . .’
‘Depends how I ask him.’
‘You could get the DCC to ask him, and you still wouldn’t get anywhere.’
‘Time may tell, but for now, Mrs Whetstone’s had time to get her coat off. Let’s go and break the bad news.’
‘Unless she’s been out shopping for a new black suit already,’ Steele muttered.
‘Cynic,’ Rose chided him. ‘Come on.’ She stepped out of the car, into the cold grey afternoon.
They crossed the street and opened the blue-painted iron gate, then walked once again up the paved pathway to the entrance porch. Steele rang the doorbell.
In fact, the woman was still wearing her heavy coat when she opened the door. She was naturally large and formidable, and it made her look all the more imposing. Although she was in her early fifties, she was fresh-faced and she wore no makeup, other than mascara and a very light lipstick. ‘Not again,’ she exclaimed.
‘Excuse me?’ said Rose.
‘I said, not again,’ she repeated. ‘I had two of you people at the door on Monday afternoon. I thought I made my feelings perfectly clear then. If not, let me say it again. I am not sympathetic to fundamentalist religious views, I think that you are vain, silly, obsessive people and I would like you to go away.’
The detective superintendent took out her warrant card and held it up; Steele following suit. She smiled. ‘Mrs Whetstone,’ she explained, ‘we’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re police officers. I’m Detective Superintendent Rose and this is Detective Inspector Steele.’
The woman in the doorway blinked. ‘You are?’ She peered at their identification. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. They’ve been canvassing this area lately, you see, and I find that unless you are very firm with them you have trouble getting rid of them. How can I help you? Has there been a crime in the neighbourhood?’
‘No,’ said Rose, quietly. ‘That’s not what it’s about. May we come in, please? It would be better if we d
id.’
The first sign of uncertainty showed on Virginia Whetstone’s face. ‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow them to enter, slipping off her coat as they passed her and turning to hang it on a hallstand. ‘Go into the drawing room; first door on the left. Don’t mind the dog; I’ve only just let him back inside, and it would be cruel to put him out again.’
Stevie Steele was a dog lover . . . he would have owned one, but for his single lifestyle . . . but he had never seen one quite like the animal that looked up at them as they entered the big, well-furnished room. It was lying on a rug in front of the fire, as big as a German shepherd, with a pure white coat. He might have taken it for an albino, but for the fact that it had vivid blue eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘He’s a Siberian husky,’ said his owner. ‘The size of him scares some people, but Blue’s as docile as they come, just a little down because I haven’t been able to walk him in this damn fog. That should be my husband’s job, of course, but he’s never . . .’ She faltered, as if she was no longer able to keep her anxiety at bay. ‘This is about Ivor, isn’t it? Has there been an accident?’
Maggie Rose found herself wondering how often she had been asked that question in her police career. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But what we have to tell you is still the worst possible news. The body of a man was found on the Meadows this morning. We believe it to be that of your husband.’
Virginia Whetstone blinked, then looked down at the dog. She reached out a hand and touched the back of a blue, cloth-covered armchair, then seemed to feel her way round it, until she sat down. ‘I see,’ she whispered. ‘You believe that it’s Ivor.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re certain?’
The superintendent glanced across the room at a large framed photograph that stood on a sideboard against the wall, beside the door. It showed Mr and Mrs Whetstone in evening dress; two tall, smiling, confident people. ‘As certain as I can be without a formal identification. There was a driving licence in his wallet.’
‘I see,’ the widow said again. She looked quickly up at Rose, then back at the dog; she stayed motionless for several seconds, until suddenly she stood up. ‘Would you excuse me for a few minutes?’ she asked. ‘I think I need to be alone for a bit.’ Her cheeks, pink when she had opened the door, had a pale yellowish tinge to them.
‘Of course,’ Rose agreed. ‘Would you like us to wait in our car for a while? We don’t mind.’
‘No, no. You stay here with Blue. I’ll just go upstairs and,’ she paused, ‘compose myself.’ She frowned. ‘Or better still,’ she said, with an attempt at briskness, ‘I’ll go through to the kitchen and make us all a cup of tea. They say it’s called for at a time like this.’
Steele would have preferred coffee, but he decided not to ask for it. Instead he stood silently to one side as she left the room. ‘Should we be doing this?’ he asked. ‘Leaving her alone, I mean. If this is a murder inquiry . . . and it bloody well is . . . she might be a suspect, for all we know at this stage.’
‘She couldn’t have got him up there,’ the superintendent pointed out.
‘Maybe she had help. I mean . . .’
‘I know, I know. Stranger things have happened, but in the absence of proof, let’s just be kind, and assume that we’ve broken the worst news this lady’s ever had in her life, and let’s help her handle it the best we can.’
Steele smiled grimly. ‘I suppose so. You’re right, of course. Listen to me, for Christ’s sake, quoting the book at you. It must have been exposure to Manny English this morning that did it.’ He crouched down beside the dog and scratched it behind the ear; the animal rolled on to its side. He played with it for a while, and it was still licking his hand when Mrs Whetstone came back into the drawing room. She was carrying a tray with three mugs, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Her face was still as pale, and the rattling of spoons on the tray told the detectives that she was trembling. Steele jumped quickly to his feet and relieved her of her burden.
She asked for no milk, one sugar; having been brought up to believe that hot sweet tea was a remedy for everything from shock to shingles, the inspector gave her two. She sipped the brew as she settled back into the armchair. The two detectives took their mugs and sat on the settee, part of a traditional suite.
‘You understand that there are some questions we must ask you, Mrs Whetstone,’ Rose began.
‘Of course.’ Her voice was strong and steady, but the officers could tell that it needed an effort to keep it that way.
‘It doesn’t have to be now, though. I can put that off for a bit, if you wish.’
The woman shook her head. Reflections of the room’s central light sparkled in her hair. ‘No, I’ll deal with that now. I have some questions of my own first, if you don’t mind.’
‘What can we tell you?’
‘You can tell me what happened to Ivor. Was he attacked? Was he mugged?’
Rose took a deep breath. ‘He was found hanging from a tree,’ she replied quietly.
Virginia Whetstone flinched; her hand shook violently for a moment, spilling some tea into her lap. ‘Oh dear,’ she whispered, pawing absently at the marks. ‘Had he been there long when he was found?’ she asked.
‘All night; at least, that was the police doctor’s preliminary view.’
She frowned, as if that would help her make sense of what she had been told. ‘Are you telling me that Ivor killed himself?’ There was incredulity in her tone. She looked from one detective to the other.
‘No,’ Steele replied. ‘We’re not telling you that.’ He caught Rose’s quick glance, and her message. ‘The circumstances were such that we have to regard his death as suspicious,’ he concluded cautiously.
‘So he was attacked?’
‘That’s a strong possibility,’ said the superintendent. ‘When did you see your husband last, Mrs Whetstone?’ she continued quickly, not wanting to be questioned any further herself.
‘Yesterday morning, when he left for the office.’
‘Did he use public transport? I notice that there are two cars in your drive.’
‘Sometimes he used the bus, but quite often he walks.’ The present tense registered with her at once; she bit her lip awkwardly. ‘It’s his main form of exercise, now he has less time for golf, although he hasn’t been doing it as much lately.’
‘So the MO was right, and he didn’t come home last night.’
‘He was right.’
‘Didn’t this alarm you?’ The question was put softly.
‘No.’
Rose was puzzled. ‘It didn’t? Weren’t you expecting him?’
‘No, because he called me in the afternoon, after the fog had closed in, when it was really very bad. He said that he could hear buses crawling along Lothian Road, and bumping into each other, and that the streets just weren’t safe. He told me that if it hadn’t lifted, or at least got a bit better by the evening, he might well take a room in the Caledonian Hotel. I assumed that he had.’
‘So he didn’t phone to confirm that?’
‘No.’>
‘And you didn’t phone the Caley?’
‘No. I spent the evening with a neighbour, Connie Dallas. She’d just bought a DVD of the extended version of The Two Towers and she invited me to watch it with her. I didn’t get back here until after eleven.’
‘Did you think to check your answering service,’ Steele asked, ‘to see if your husband had called?’
‘We don’t have an answering machine, Inspector, and we don’t use the BT service. Ivor has a mobile,’ she flinched again at her mistaken tense, ‘and that’s all.’
‘Did you try to call him at his office this morning?’
‘No,’ she said, stiffly. ‘Why should I? I have never interrupted him at work, unless it was absolutely necessary.’
‘Were you surprised that he didn’t call you?’
‘A little,’ she confessed. She sniffed, and added, ‘Enough for me to deci
de to get my own back. When the fog cleared a little I called a taxi and went to Jenners for some retail therapy. It’s always been my way of letting Ivor know when I’m displeased.’ As she spoke, her voice became a whisper, and her gaze dropped. ‘Isn’t that right, Blue?’ she murmured to the dog. Finally, tears began to roll down her cheeks; she reached out to a side table and ripped a handful of tissues from a box, roughly, as if she was annoyed by her weakness.
Rose let the silence last for a few seconds, giving Virginia Whetstone time to gather herself, and to drink some of her tea. ‘How was your husband’s state of mind recently?’ she murmured eventually.
‘Robust!’ The answer was fired back in an instant. ‘Ivor has never been more successful in business, and we are both . . . have both enjoyed being back in Edinburgh.’
‘He’s never mentioned any worries?’
‘None.’ The widow knitted her brows. ‘There were a few concerns at first, I suppose; he didn’t care for the woman he had to report to, for instance.’ There was something in Mrs Whetstone’s tone which hinted that she had shared his dislike. ‘The new approach to business came as a surprise to most of the managers, and as a terrible shock to some who couldn’t adapt. Ivor could, though, as Vernon Easterson anticipated. After some self-doubt, his new post began to stimulate him far more than Kelso had in recent years. To be frank he’d become a bit of a boring old sod down there; he was just filling in the years to retirement. The change was a challenge and he embraced it very quickly. It made a new man of him.’
‘Did he talk about his work at home?’
‘When we were in Kelso, never; I knew many of his clients and so it would have been difficult. But here, since he took over the new job, he’s spoken much more of what he’s been doing. Why? Do you think this might have had something to do with . . .’ As she looked across at Rose, it was clear that her emotional strength was all but spent.
‘We don’t think anything at this stage, Mrs Whetstone,’ she answered. ‘We’re a few hours into our investigation, that’s all. I think that we should end this conversation now. You’ve had terrible news, and we should help you to deal with it. You have a son, I believe.’
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