14 - Stay of Execution

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Because you didn’t ask,’ the older man spat back at him. ‘And what difference would it have made anyway? Philippe was killed by a drunken English driver, and poor Barty was made victim by some English lunatic who gets his kicks by poisoning toothpaste tubes.’

  ‘What difference would it have made? Jesus Christ, I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Two of your group die within three days of each other and that doesn’t strike you as even a wee bit odd?’

  The first sign of conciliation appeared on Malou’s face. ‘Look, I was there when Barty died, actually in the next room, through the wall. It was a terrible shock to me.’

  ‘What happened to Monsieur Hanno?’

  ‘It was in Hull,’ the Belgian replied. ‘We were in a club, and I had let the boys make it a party night. Philippe ran out of cigarettes, so he went across to our bus to get more . . . you can never buy Gauloises in England. When he didn’t come back, they found him on the road outside. He’d been hit by a car; they took him to hospital, but he was dead. The driver who killed him didn’t hang around afterwards. The police who came said that he was probably drunk, or that he panicked, or both.’ He spread his hands wide before him in a classic gesture. ‘Now Barty, Monsieur, that was completely different. When he collapsed, I thought it was a heart-attack, so did Major Tubbs, my kind host, and so, I remind you, did the lady doctor who answered the emergency call. It was only when your very clever pathologist did his tests that anybody knew differently.’

  ‘Her tests,’ said Pringle.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Her tests: the pathologist was a lady too.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Malou replied, as if it was of some consequence. ‘But, Monsieur Pringle,’ he continued, ‘suppose I had been alert in my sorrow, and had told you this yesterday, what difference would it have made?’

  ‘It would have changed the whole focus of our inquiries. It opens a new possibility, that Monsieur Lebeau’s death and that of Monsieur Hanno are linked. I’m not saying that it would have stopped us from ordering a nationwide recall of thousands of toothpaste tubes, but as it is, we’ve lost twenty-four hours when we’d have been doing things differently.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘For openers we’d have been interviewing your bandsmen in a different way. Now we’ll have to go back to the start with them and ask them a couple of new questions, the ones I’m going to put to you now.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I will. Does your band have any enemies in Belgium that you know of?’

  The colonel frowned. ‘No, but why should we? We harm nobody and we entertain many. I’m honest enough to admit that there may be some who think we are a bit of a joke, and that we’re, how do you say it, an anana . . . anach . . .’

  ‘Anachronism?’

  ‘That’s the word. But no, on the whole the Bastogne Drummers are popular. I won’t say we’re an institution, but people like us. I suppose, though, we can never be certain.’ His sharp eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment. ‘There are crazy people in the world.’

  ‘I’m glad you accept that, at least. So can I ask you to think back and try to recall whether you’ve seen anything odd around the band in the last few weeks? For example, have you been aware of the same face, or faces, showing up in different places? Have you ever had the feeling that someone might have been watching you?’

  ‘People watch us all the time, sir. Believe it or not we have some fans in Belgium, people who like us and follow us when we play. So as leader, I see a lot of faces, and I am aware of them. However, I cannot say that I have seen anyone odd as you describe, or had the feeling that anyone who was watching us might wish us harm.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Pringle conceded, ‘but keep thinking about it, please, and if anything or anyone does occur to you, tell me at once.’

  ‘I’ll do that, but don’t put the rest of your life on hold waiting for me to remember something. When you get to my age you tend only to remember those things you’d rather forget.’

  ‘I’m getting to your age, Colonel,’ Pringle growled. ‘I know. Still, let me ask you something else. Was there a connection between Philippe Hanno and Bartholemy Lebeau outside the band? Were they close?’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘Were they good friends?’

  ‘I only know my bandsmen as bandsmen,’ Malou replied. ‘I don’t concern myself with their lives outside the Bastogne Drummers. I care that they turn up for practice, that they keep their instruments in tune and polished, and their uniforms clean and with creases, and that they march sharply and play well. That’s all I care about. As for Philippe and Barty being good friends, they were okay, they knew each other a long time, but I wouldn’t say they were brothers.’

  ‘What sort of men were they?’

  ‘Good men, never been in any trouble I know of.’

  ‘But could they, do you think? I’m trying to establish whether they might have been involved in something outside the Drummers that might have got them killed.’

  ‘Then you will have to try somewhere else, for I wouldn’t know any of that.’

  ‘How long have you known these men?’

  ‘They were in the band for fifteen years.’

  ‘What did they do outside?’

  ‘Barty had a small job as a concierge; Philippe did nothing. They were pensioners from the army, like me.’ He paused. ‘Actually we go back longer than fifteen years. When I was with the band of the First Guides Regiment . . . it’s very famous in Belgium, you know . . . they were with me, on my staff.’

  ‘So,’ said Pringle, ‘there is a connection beyond the band.’

  ‘But historic, Monsieur, and ancient history now.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it exists; and what’s more it ties into you as well.’

  Malou gave something that was half snarl, half snort. ‘Hah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you suggesting that I might be next?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Colonel. However, I am telling you this: from now on, I want your men lodged at a single location, where we can offer you proper protection.’

  ‘Mais ce n’est pas possible,’ the old soldier protested. ‘That means a hotel; the band cannot afford that.’

  ‘That’s not a consideration you need worry about. But it is necessary, and it is going to happen.’

  51

  Paula Viareggio looked old; that was the only way that Skinner could describe her. He had allowed Mario to break the news of Mawhinney’s death in private, and had only gone into her office with McIlhenney when he had called to them.

  Her eyes were red with tears, as unexpected and incongruous on her as on a man, and her olive complexion had gone white; somehow the effect robbed her silver hair of its striking quality and made it look that of a woman in her fifties, not one twenty years younger. As he looked at her he saw the image of her redoubtable grandmother, Nana Viareggio: he saw her future.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ she murmured hoarsely, sitting on the edge of her desk, and leaning on her cousin for support. ‘He was in my house last night. He ate with us, and he left to go home and then . . .’ She looked away and gripped Mario’s arm, hard.

  ‘We all ate with him the night before that,’ Skinner reminded her. ‘It’s as big a stunner to me, and to Sarah; I’ve just called to tell her.’

  ‘In that case, guys,’ said McIlhenney, the calmest person in the room, ‘since you were all involved with the deceased on a personal basis, it’s best that I put the questions that need asking. Strictly speaking Sammy Pye should do it, since you’ve put him in charge, boss, but he might just be a bit nervous interviewing you two.’

  ‘What do you think happened, Neil?’ Paula asked.

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ he replied. ‘It looks as if Inspector Mawhinney went down to the docks after he left you, found a length of heavy chain, tied it round his waist as a sinker, stuffed his pockets with stones to make sure, and jumped in. That’s what it looks like; but we have to establish his state of mind. So
, how did he strike each of you? You first, sir.’

  ‘I only met the man twice, Neil, as you know,’ Skinner said. ‘The first time it was in official surroundings, so I hardly had a chance to consider him as a private individual. Even on Saturday, although I tried to make it a social night, I felt that he was a bit shy, a bit reserved. I won’t say he was humourless, just quiet. But on neither occasion did he make me think that he was considering walking the plank. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Thanks. How about you, Paula? What did you think of him?’

  She sniffed, then blew her nose on Mario’s handkerchief. ‘I thought he was just a lovely man, a very nice guy. He couldn’t have looked after us better in New York; he knew everything about the city and he went out of his way to make my visit interesting in the time he spent with both of us. He was a friend.’

  ‘Did he talk about his wife a lot?’

  ‘He never talked about her to me, and I didn’t like to ask him about her. Mario told me, of course, but I thought it was best left undisturbed.’

  ‘Last night,’ McIlhenney asked, ‘how much did he have to drink?’

  ‘He didn’t get pissed, Neil, if that’s what you think!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that. I just want to know.’

  ‘Nothing excessive. We kept off the Amarone, stuck to Valpolicella. I got the Strega out later on, but Colin didn’t like that too much, so I gave him some Remy Martin. If he had been showing it, I’d have made him take a taxi back to the Malmaison.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘No. He insisted on walking.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘Just after ten. We turned on the news on telly just after he left, so I remember.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’ McIlhenney turned to McGuire. ‘Now you, Mario. You knew him better than any of us. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ his friend told him bitterly. ‘I think that if I’d walked back with him last night, if I’d gone back to my place, and seen him into the Malmaison, we wouldn’t be here now, having this bloody awful discussion. That’s what I think, and I’ll always fucking think it.’

  There was a whiteboard on the wall of Paula’s office, with a ridged platform below it holding some magic markers and a long pointer. McIlhenney picked it up and handed it to McGuire. ‘What’s that?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘It’s a big stick; you can beat yourself with that as well if you like. This was a grown man, Mario, a senior New York police officer. He didn’t need a chum home, and anyway, if he was planning to top himself, you seeing him to his front door wouldn’t have stopped him. So let me ask you again, but more specifically this time. What was your opinion of Colin’s mental state? Do you find it beyond belief that he should kill himself?’

  McGuire walked over to the window; he looked out and along Commercial Street, back towards the dock where Mawhinney had been found. Finally he turned back to face McIlhenney and shook his head. ‘To be honest, I don’t. There was a great well of grief in the man, not far below the surface, and if finally he’s decided to jump into it, it wouldn’t, it doesn’t, astonish me. When I stood beside him the week before last in Ground Zero, and when he told me that as far as he was concerned we were standing on his wife’s grave, I had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t be bothered if he had to join her there.’

  He went back to Paula and took her hand. ‘Maggie told me last week that she had a probable suicide on her patch but that there were a couple of unresolved doubts about it. If that’s how the fiscal wants to dispose of this one, he won’t have a problem with me.’

  He handed the pointer back to his friend. ‘And by the way, you know what you can do with that.’

  52

  ‘Why have I never heard of this bank, Stevie?’ asked Mary Chambers as they stepped from the lift into the beech-clad reception area. ‘My grandpa was a potato farmer in Lanarkshire.’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, Superintendent,’ Steele chuckled, ‘but I think this lot were after barley growers and big beef and dairy producers.’

  ‘Spuds weren’t good enough for them? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘I think that the founders of the Scottish Farmers Bank, and before that the Agricultural and Rural Building Society, regarded all root vegetables as beneath them. They were the posh people’s lender, until they found the competition in that sector too hot, and reinvented themselves as a business bank.’

  The inspector walked up to the tartan-clad receptionist. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I called earlier and spoke to Mr Easterson’s secretary. We’re expected.’

  She smiled at him, brightly, professionally, and superficially, with the twinkle that reminded him of an ad for dishwasher tablets. ‘Yes, Mr Steele, I know. If you’ll give me just a second.’

  She picked up a phone and dialled, then spoke briefly and in a whisper that he could not decipher. Hanging up, she pointed to the waiting area. ‘If you’ll just take a seat over there, we won’t keep you long.’

  ‘You’re bloody right you won’t,’ Mary Chambers muttered under her breath, as they walked towards the leather chairs and the table strewn with that day’s newspapers. ‘We’re the polis, hen.’

  After only half a day with his new boss, Steele knew that they would work well together. Mary Chambers was a straight talker, and he welcomed that. He had seen that she felt awkward about raising the subject of his relationship with Maggie, but she had gone ahead anyway because she had felt it necessary; that was okay with him, since he had never beaten about too many bushes himself. There was a surprising humour about her too, bubbling beneath her plain exterior, looking for opportunities to show itself.

  In fact they were kept waiting for five minutes. Steele was on the edge of annoyance, when a stocky, middle-aged man swept into the foyer and came straight towards them. ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long,’ he exclaimed, ‘but I had my chairman on the line. Unfortunately he’s not given to short conversations.’ He extended a hand to the inspector as the two detectives rose to their feet. ‘Superintendent Chambers, I take it.’

  ‘Does he look like a Mary?’ the new divisional CID commander asked cheerfully, managing somehow to intercept the handshake.

  ‘Terribly sorry,’ the man exclaimed, without convincing either of them that he actually was. ‘I’m Proc Fraser, the chief executive.’

  ‘I was under the impression we’d be seeing Mr Easterson,’ said Steele. ‘I made the appointment with his secretary.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed,’ Fraser muttered. ‘Come along to my office and I’ll explain.’

  You don’t bloody have to, thought the inspector. It took her even less time than I thought.

  He stayed silent, though, as they were led along the narrow corridor, and shown into an office, larger than that of the absent GMCB and more expensively furnished, although still stopping short of opulence. There was a jug of coffee on the meeting table, and three china cups; Mary Chambers wondered if he would ask her to pour, but he did that himself.

  ‘You called Vernon?’ he began. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘We’ve been speaking to Ivor Whetstone’s son,’ Steele told him. ‘He’s raised some concerns about our view of his father’s death, and he’s pointed to a possible anomaly about the fraud of which he’s been accused. We’ve decided that it warrants a few more questions, and maybe even a full-scale investigation by us. Where is Mr Easterson, sir?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ Fraser replied superfluously. ‘He’s on leave, in fact. He was really rather overwrought in the wake of Whetstone’s death. Ivor was very much his man, if you know what I mean, and he’s taken it very badly, so I’ve suggested to him that he has some time at home to let him come to terms with things.’

  ‘Would that be what they call gardening leave, sir?’ Mary Chambers caught his eye as she spoke.

  The chief executive attempted a wry smile. ‘There’s no fooling you, Superintendent, is there?’

  ‘It doesn’t happen
often.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, you’re right again. A million-pound embezzlement is a serious business in any bank, especially for the line manager who lets it happen.’

  ‘What is your management structure here, sir?’

  ‘We have a five-person board, of which I’m the only executive member. I manage the organisation, which has two divisions, Commercial Banking and Personal Banking. Each of those is run by a general manager, and they report to me.’

  ‘So Mr Easterson is your deputy?’

  ‘One of two, Superintendent; he and the general manager, Personal Banking have equal status in the organisation. We run the two divisions entirely separately. Several of our private clients . . . in fact I think I’m correct in saying the majority . . . are directors or senior executives of companies to which the commercial-banking division is the principal lender. Therefore it’s only right that we should have very effective Chinese walls between the two sides of the operation, and we do.’

  ‘It’s a pretty short line of command,’ said Chambers, ‘and it begs a pretty obvious question.’

  ‘I know.’ Fraser sighed. ‘Who investigates me in circumstances like these? That’s what my conversation with the chairman was about. He wants to put the matter in the hands of our auditors. He feels, and he’s right, that we have a duty to our shareholders to have an external investigation.’

  ‘I feel that you have a duty to the law as well,’ the superintendent countered. ‘This is a criminal matter. Last week we were satisfied by your senior executive’s, and by my predecessor’s, study of the papers you provided, that Whetstone was guilty, and we reported that to the fiscal. He looked at the file in his turn and agreed with us. However, what Murphy Whetstone told us this morning has persuaded us that we should take a second look. You can forget your auditors, sir. This is our investigation.’