14 - Stay of Execution

by Quintin Jardine

  They took the lift to the fourth floor of the block and stepped out to find themselves facing a reception desk, in light beech, with a tartan-clad woman sitting behind it. She stood as they approached. ‘Superintendent Rose,’ she began, ‘Security told me you were on your way up. Mr Easterson’s ready for you, if you’ll follow me.’

  She led them out of the reception area, and along a corridor, stopping at a heavy wooden door, beech once more in common with the rest of the office’s furnishing. A brass plate, at eye-level, bore the initials ‘GMCB’. The receptionist knocked and opened it. ‘They’re here, sir,’ she announced, then stepped aside.

  The general manager, Commercial Banking, was on his feet behind his desk as the two officers entered his room. As Rose introduced them both, Steele glanced around. The office was tasteful, not ostentatious; ideal surroundings for meetings with clients one is out to impress but not intimidate. Its most impressive feature was a big, wide window which offered a view of the Usher Hall across Lothian Road and, behind it, of Edinburgh Castle.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Vernon Easterson, as he shook the superintendent’s hand. ‘I only wish you weren’t here on such grim business.’ He turned to greet Steele also. ‘Take a seat, please, at my meeting table. I’ll let my colleague know that we’re ready to begin.’ He turned to a complicated-looking phone on his desk and pressed one of its many buttons.

  ‘Would you like a refreshment?’ he asked. Rose and Steele both declined. ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted. ‘I can offer you tea or coffee, a soft drink or mineral water, perhaps. This is a dry office, I’m afraid. Unlike yours, I gather.’ He laughed nervously, almost a giggle. ‘My chief executive and I are invited to a cocktail reception by the chief constable. As it happens, neither of us can go, but Aurelia Middlemass, who’s about to join us, will be representing . . .’

  He broke off as his door opened again and a woman entered, perfectly on cue. She was tall, maybe five feet nine, half-way in height between Rose and Steele; her chestnut hair was close cropped and its highlights might just have been natural. Her eyes were her most distinctive feature, brown with a suggestion of a slant, set above high cheekbones. Even in her charcoal grey business suit, she was strikingly attractive, a complete contrast to the short, tubby, balding Easterson. The banker stood as she came in, and Steele followed him to his feet.

  ‘Aurelia,’ the GMCB exclaimed, ‘so glad you could join us. Superintendent, Inspector, may I introduce Aurelia Middlemass, our senior director of Commercial Banking, and at one point the late Mr Whetstone’s line manager. Take a seat, my dear, take a seat.’

  She followed his pointing finger to the chair beside his, directly opposite the two police officers. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, unsmiling, laying a folder on the table before her. She had carried it in her left hand, on which a large diamond ring sparkled, alongside a gold wedding band. ‘I gather from Vernon that you’re trying to resolve some lingering doubts about Whetstone’s death. Hopefully we can help you.’ Her voice was deep and honeyed and, on first hearing, without any distinctive accent. ‘I’ve read the statements that your press office has issued; they’re guarded, to say the least.’

  ‘Deliberately so,’ said Rose. ‘There was some confusion when the body was found, but that was caused by a petty thief, whose collar’s been felt. The remaining doubt comes from a couple of injuries that were revealed during the autopsy.’

  ‘Maybe I can help you resolve it,’ said Middlemass. ‘Vernon and I haven’t had all the information you had. Maybe that’s just as well, for when people in our position are faced with the apparent suicide of a popular and successful member of staff, some very specific concerns present themselves.’

  Beside her, Easterson nodded gravely. ‘Sad but true,’ he intoned. The woman by his side flashed him a brief look of annoyance at the interruption.

  ‘At Mr Easterson’s request,’ she continued, ‘I’ve been carrying out a complete review of all of the late Mr Whetstone’s business dealings and relationships.’ She turned to the general manager. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to run through this with you,’ she tapped the folder, ‘in advance of the meeting, Vernon.’ Steele formed the instant impression that she was not at all sorry. ‘To set this in context,’ she continued, ‘let me tell you a little bit about him. I have to admit at the outset that he was not someone I’d have gone out and recruited myself. He didn’t fit my profile of the ideal corporate banker: he was twenty years too old, for openers . . .’ The GMCB shifted uncomfortably beside her. ‘. . . and his background was restricted almost entirely to retail banking. However,’ she said firmly, ‘if I’d dug my heels in and flatly refused to have him, I’d have been wrong.’

  A small smile of relieved satisfaction crossed Easterson’s face. ‘Ivor was the success of the team. I had a hunch about him and it turned out that my faith was well placed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Aurelia Middlemass agreed, ‘it turned out that Whetstone had built up something of a network in his time with the SFB’s predecessor, the Agricultural and Rural, and in the period after the demutualisation. He used it very shrewdly, and absolutely slaughtered his lending targets in his first year in post. As a result, he was given a promotion; he was also given a degree of extra autonomy on what he was doing.’

  ‘I thought that Mr Easterson said you were his line manager,’ Steele interrupted.

  ‘I was at the outset; but when Whetstone had his review he asked if he might report directly to Vernon rather than through me.’

  ‘Didn’t you object to that?’ asked Rose. ‘In our set-up, that would be a bit like DI Steele asking if he could report directly to the head of CID.’

  ‘Maybe it would, but maybe also we’re a more flexible organisation. I didn’t object because I reckoned it would be best for the bank. As I said, Whetstone wasn’t of my generation, and our thinking was completely different, but I couldn’t knock his performance. Frankly it seemed to me that having Vernon supervise him was an ideal arrangement all round.’

  She paused and took a deep breath, drawing herself up in her chair. ‘Of course, I assumed that there would be supervision.’

  It was Easterson’s turn to sit bolt upright. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, his guests forgotten for that moment. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean, Vernon,’ she replied evenly, ‘that I understood that Whetstone really would be reporting to you, not doing his own thing.’

  The little man’s face turned a colour that if not pure beetroot, certainly looked hazardous to his health. ‘I think we should continue this discussion in private, Aurelia,’ he hissed.

  Rose intervened. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Easterson, if there’s a disagreement between you but if Ms Middlemass has something to say that might have a bearing on Mr Whetstone’s death, then we need to hear it.’ She looked at the woman. ‘Please, continue.’

  The banker nodded. ‘When I said that I’ve been carrying out a review of Mr Whetstone’s business, I meant all of his business; not just the period when he was reporting to me, but the time since then. When I managed him, every lending transaction that he secured and every new business customer he brought to the bank was scrutinised by me and signed off by me, but only after I’d met the people involved and made my own risk assessment of each of them. It appears that hasn’t been happening since he left my orbit.’

  ‘Oh yes it has,’ Easterson protested. ‘Ivor brought every one of his deals to me for approval.’

  Aurelia Middlemass turned towards him, her brown eyes seeming to drill into his head. ‘I hope not,’ she said icily. ‘If you’ve heard of the Bonspiel Partnership, the situation is even more unfortunate than I thought.’

  ‘What’s the Bonspiel Partnership?’ Steele asked. ‘Something to do with curling?’

  ‘Got it in one, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘Bonspiel’s application for a credit facility says that the partnership is involved in the manufacture of curling stones made from traditional Ailsa Craig granite. The business plan proposes a d
istribution network throughout Europe and North America. The application is fine as far as it goes . . . only it doesn’t go far enough. In a situation such as this, the bank would always ask for personal guarantees from the borrowers. That wasn’t done in this case.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Rose, ‘but there has to be more than that.’

  ‘There is. The joint applicants are a couple called Alexander and Victoria Murray. Their business location is an industrial site in Stewarton, Ayrshire, and their home is listed as Galston. I’ve checked out both of those addresses; yes, they exist, but neither one has anything to do with the bank’s alleged customers, or their alleged business. The industrial unit is vacant and unlet, and the house in question belongs to a couple whose surname just happens to be Murray. He’s a teacher, she’s a nurse.’

  ‘Are the applications signed?’

  ‘The signatures are a joke. They’re just squiggles, that’s all; one in black ink and the other in blue.’

  ‘What’s the borrowing facility?’

  ‘One million pounds, all of which has been drawn down already.’

  ‘And of course,’ Steele anticipated, ‘it’s already been transferred. ’

  ‘Correct. The money was moved last week to an account in the Isle of Man. As it happens, I have a contact in the receiving bank. The account holder is a Mrs Victoria Murray. Incidentally, those two names bear a remarkable similarity to the forenames of Whetstone’s wife and son.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Rose conceded, ‘but it’s pretty tenuous as evidence. Is the money still there?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Aurelia Middlemass laughed. ‘It was moved on the day after it was lodged, to a numbered account in a Swiss bank, and you may be sure it’s been transferred out of that too.’

  Vernon Easterson’s face had gone from bright red to pale yellow. ‘I knew nothing of this,’ he whispered. ‘How long have you been aware of it, Aurelia?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else about it?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Absolutely not. Our chief executive, Proctor Fraser, has to be told, though. I’ve asked him to meet with Vernon and me once this meeting is over.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ the GMCB gasped. ‘How could Ivor ever have hoped to get away with it?’

  ‘Without adequate supervision,’ Aurelia Middlemass said slowly, ‘he could have expected to, for a period at least. Sure, the auditors or someone would have discovered eventually that the application was fraudulent. Whetstone might even have worked a double bluff and blown the whistle himself; I’ve known that to happen. He could have claimed to have been shown the industrial unit, and that he had simply been duped. The worst that would have happened to him would have been an enforced early retirement. He’d have got away with it.’

  ‘Not if the money was traced,’ Steele suggested.

  ‘The money’s untraceable already. The Swiss are still holding on to their banking secrecy laws, in spite of pressure from the EU. They do co-operate in cases of money-laundering, but we’ll need to go to court to prove it. But as I said earlier, the money won’t be in Switzerland any more. There are still plenty of shelters around the world.’

  Rose leaned back in her chair, and looked at her colleague. ‘It could be, Stevie,’ she said. ‘Whetstone defrauds the bank, then panics and kills himself.’

  ‘Or he really was conned, and once the money was transferred, he was killed by the fraudsters to cover their trail,’ Steele suggested.

  ‘No.’ Vernon Easterson shook his head. ‘He broke a strict banking rule in this transaction, by not obtaining personal guarantees.’

  ‘Then maybe he was a partner in the fraud?’

  ‘The problem I have with that, Inspector, is that Ivor has owned the Edinburgh house for years, since his first stint in the city, before he moved into the bank house in Kelso. His remaining mortgage on it is minimal. He and Virginia planned to sell it on retirement and move to Kelso; it’s worth a good deal more than the third of a million you’re suggesting he might have been in this for.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Steele turned to Rose. ‘So what do we tell the f iscal?’

  The superintendent shrugged her shoulders. ‘On balance I think we suggest suicide and let him decide.’

  ‘He might want to know whether Mrs Whetstone was involved.’

  ‘There’s no indication of that on the file,’ Middlemass volunteered. ‘My contact in the Isle of Man said that the application form was downloaded from the Internet, and that he never met the applicant. But he did fax me the signature on the form. It’s a pretty good match for the scribbles on the loan application.’

  ‘You have been thorough,’ the superintendent murmured.

  The woman shot a glance, full of meaning, at her colleague. ‘It’s as well someone was,’ she murmured.

  Rose looked at him. ‘Did you have any luck with the equipment inventory I asked you about?’

  Easterson shook his head dolefully. ‘We don’t possess an item like the one you describe. We use contract cleaners, and they might, but when I asked them they said they lose equipment all the time, and that they’ve more or less given up keeping track of it. So I’m afraid that I can’t help you trace a pair of aluminium steps.’

  The detective sighed. ‘Don’t worry about it. We know that they exist and that they were used. But frankly, finding them has become less important. What we’ve been told here shifts the perspective of this investigation . . . indeed it may open a new one altogether. If you’re making a formal report of a theft, I’ll need to open a formal investigation. In any event the information you’ve given me will need to be put in front of the procurator fiscal, since it may be material to the circumstances of Whetstone’s death.’ Rose turned to Middlemass. ‘I’ll need copies of all the papers in that folder for our report to the fiscal.’

  ‘I anticipated that,’ she replied. ‘This file is for you.’ She slid it across the table, and the superintendent picked it up.

  ‘Come on, Inspector,’ she said to Steele. ‘That’s us done here for now. Looks as if we have another unpleasant call to pay on Mrs Whetstone.’

  24

  Skinner sat behind his desk, looking out of the window. He could have had another office, adjoining that of the chief, one that was slightly larger and which enjoyed year-round sunshine, but he had chosen to stay in his first room in the command corridor. It was cooler in the summer and, the clinching fact in its favour, it allowed him to look down the roadway that led up to the main entrance to the headquarters building, and to keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings.

  He had been surprised a few hours earlier, just over an hour past midday, to see Sarah drive up the slope and park in one of the visitor spaces. He had been on the point of going along for lunch and had invited her to join him, but she had declined. So he had asked for a salad to be sent along from the dining room, and she had watched him eat.

  At first he thought it might have been a business call, but she had assured him that it was purely social, following on from a food shop, before she went home to write her report on the morning’s autopsy. She had been in a funny mood, but then, he had to admit to himself, so had he: he had felt a distraction, the reason for which he still found it hard to pin down.

  He had kissed her goodbye as she left, but there had been a distance between them, one that he knew needed to be closed. On impulse he picked up the phone and dialled Sarah’s private line in her office at home. ‘What is it?’ she asked him irritably. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Me too, but I’ve got time for this. I thought I’d take tomorrow afternoon off, and you and I could get in the car and go up to Gleneagles Hotel for the night: no kids, just us. We’ll stay till about noon, then get back in time for dinner with the American at the club. How about it?’

  She felt a shiver of crazy anxiety. Had she been spotted following Stevie to his place? Had someone told Bob? She discarded the notion in a second: she knew nobody brave enough to tell him. ‘What’s pricke
d your conscience?’ she asked him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he told her truthfully. ‘It’s just something I think we need to do.’

  ‘Maybe we do at that,’ she conceded, after a few seconds’ thought. ‘Okay. Will you book it?’

  ‘Sure. See you later. Maybe we can manage to finish dinner tonight.’

  She laughed and hung up. Bob cradled the phone for a second, then buzzed through to Ruth Pye, his secretary. ‘Do me a bit of extra-curricular, please?’ he asked her. ‘I’d like you to book me a suite for tomorrow night, dinner, bed and breakfast, at Gleneagles.’

  ‘I take it Sarah’s going too.’ There was a laugh in her voice: he had told her earlier that her husband was being transferred back to Edinburgh from the Borders, and she was still basking in the news.

  ‘What?’ he grunted. ‘Yes, of course. If I was taking anyone else I’d book it myself, Ruthie, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I hope you’d choose somewhere a bit more discreet than Gleneagles, in that case.’

  ‘Discretion’s never been my strongest card.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing. By the way, you had a phone call just now, while you were engaged; a Ms McElhone, from the Scottish Executive Justice Department. She wouldn’t leave a message, but she asked if you’d call her back as soon as you can. Will I do that first?’

  ‘Yes, please. Get her for me, then call Gleneagles.’

  He hung up, waited till the phone sounded again and picked it up on the first ring. ‘Mr Skinner?’ Like every ministerial private secretary he had ever heard, Lena McElhone sounded very young, very keen and very confident. ‘Ms de Marco would like to speak to you. If you hold on I’ll put you through to her.’

  He felt himself smile as he waited, wondering whether the minister’s brother had been so upset at being chucked off the Pope’s platform that he had asked her to use some muscle. If that was the case, the ball would be passed to Jim Gainer, double quick.