Gallowglass (21 page)

FORTY-THREE

W
e marched along Culzean Street before turning off and down to the High Street. Maybole is a bonny town, the main streets unchanged in decades, perhaps centuries. The houses and shops are in good local stone and are kempt and polished. In the distance, at the foot of the street, the turrets of Maybole Castle thrust assuredly into the calm blue sky. The branch of the Scottish Linen Bank sits proud and with an air of permanence in a prime location opposite the butcher’s.

‘Right, Airchie, remember today you are
Mr
Higgins. You’re an accountant from the Scottish Office seconded to assist the Edinburgh police – namely, me – with my investigations. I’ll do the talking. Jacket buttoned. Shoulders straight. Look keen. Your medal’s on the way.’

His little round face beamed and he made an effort to pull his shoulders back and puff out his chest. Like a mating pigeon. It was the best I could hope for. We pushed in the door and marched to the counter.

‘I’d like to see the manager please.’

The girl behind the counter was immediately into
oh, I’m afraid that’s not possible without an appointment
mode. Then I showed her my warrant card. She disappeared into the back and came out a moment later and lifted the hinged counter. She ushered us through.

Mr Alexander McCutcheon had his name emblazoned on the glass panel of his door above the title ‘Branch Manager’.
The timid lass knocked on the door; we heard ‘Come’ and went in. McCutcheon was standing behind his cleared desk, pulling down his waistcoat, buttoning his jacket and putting on his important face. A bowler hung just so on a coat-stand in the corner. Big man, small pond.

‘Mr McCutcheon, it’s good of you to see us so promptly. I’m Chief Inspector David Bruce from the Financial Services Special Unit of Edinburgh police, and this is Mr Archibald Higgins, seconded to me from the Scottish Office.’

I flashed my identity card at him long enough for him to see how official this visit was. I saw him swallow. He was in his middle years, undoubtedly born and bred in Maybole and reaching the pinnacle of professional success in the last few years. Senior member of the Rotary Club and golf club, and with a wife who knew a thing or two about finger buffets and the inner machinations of the Women’s Institute. The last thing he needed was a lightning visit by a senior detective from the capital on
special financial services
business.

‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. Allison, dear, can you please bring us some tea. And plenty of ginger biscuits.’ His voice was strong Ayrshire, with a good country burr.

‘Certainly, Mr McCutcheon.’ Allison all but curtsied and left us alone.

‘Now, gentlemen, please be seated and tell me how I can help. Head office didn’t warn me about your visit.’ He said it with pain in his voice.

‘That’s because they don’t know. I’m afraid I need your utmost discretion on this matter. It relates to the death of Sir Fraser Gibson.’

He shook his head. ‘A tragedy. A terrible tragedy. One of Maybole’s most famous sons.’

‘It is indeed. However, we have reason to believe that there are some irregularities at St Vincent Street.’

The word
irregularities
struck him like a harpoon. An irregularity for Alexander McCutcheon was being sixpence
out at the end of the day’s reckoning. Not some debacle involving head office and a murdered managing director.

‘My goodness! But what has that to do with my wee corner of the universe, Chief Inspector?’

I put on my gravest voice. ‘Transactions, Mr McCutcheon. Transactions. Money flowing in and out of accounts at head office which are – how shall we put this? –
not fully accounted for
. And some of them have wound their way through here. To this little corner of the bank. And then found their way back out again to destinations which
may not be wholly above board
.’

I might as well have come out and said embezzlement. The manager’s eyes were wide and I’m sure his pulse was off the chart. I felt sorry for him and quickly went on.

‘I should say we have no reason to believe that any blame or hint of wrongdoing attaches to the Maybole branch. It –
you
– may have been unwitting assistants to these… irregularities.’

He gulped for air as his brain digested the possibility that he was about to be frogmarched into a Black Maria and whistled off to sin city and its dungeons.

‘Right, I see. So, again, how can I help?’

‘Mr Higgins and I would like to examine some of your accounts; indeed, one in particular. The account belonging to Mr Mungo Gibson, brother of the late Sir Fraser.’

‘Ahhh. Of course, Mr Mungo Gibson. We were proud to have Sir Fraser’s brother here.’

‘Did he come into the bank in person?’

‘Oh no, no. Not for some time, now. Except… But I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that. Client confidentiality, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Normally, yes. But these are unusual circumstances. I have here’ – I produced the very official-looking search warrant – ‘the power to investigate all accounts and all ledgers of your bank.’

I let him read and digest the document, let him finger the red sealing wax imprinted with the official stamp of the High Court of Glasgow. How did Harry manage that in a hurry?

McCutcheon looked up. ‘I see. This all seems in order. So where do you want to start?’

‘Mr Higgins and I would like immediate access to the ledgers.’ I stood up to impress on him that I meant immediate. He got up too, tugged down his waistcoat, checked his tie was tight and walked out from behind the desk. I wondered if he was going to put on his bowler.

‘Gentlemen, please follow me.’

We did, into the back office. The dozen or so clerks began getting to their feet, but McCutcheon waved them down. He led us over to a large-bosomed lady with glasses on a cord round her neck, sitting at a desk at the back. He introduced us.

‘Miss Mathews, can you please provide these police officers with access to any file and account they wish. You have my full authority to assist in any way they wish.’

Miss Mathews put on her specs and appraised us. I might pass muster in my good suit and glasses, despite my beard. But Mr Higgins still looked like less like a Scottish Office bookkeeper than a down-at-heel bookie’s runner. He smiled encouragingly at her, which was enough to startle her into motion. She found him a spare desk as far from her own as possible and cleared it. He took up position and began issuing instructions. Miss Mathews brought the first folders to him and as she leaned over to place them on the desk Airchie looked as though he was about to sink his head into her big cushiony chest. I made him a throat-cutting sign to behave. He grinned and got down to work. We left him to it and went back to McCutcheon’s office. He closed the door behind us.

‘Exactly what’s going on, Chief Inspector? Can you tell me?’

Why not? I know Harry didn’t want news to get out about top-level shenanigans, but it was
my
neck on the line. I was
past caring if it embarrassed the Government – and maybe it would ginger some action. I waited till we were both seated and sipping the tea brought by Allison. McCutcheon was shifting in his seat as though he had piles. Our arrival was a big boulder in his small calm pond. I chucked another one in.

‘Someone at head office is diverting funds to some company accounts. These companies are almost certainly fronts for various forms of illegal financial trading. Money laundering, gambling, tax evasion. There was one major transfer three days before Sir Fraser’s murder to his brother’s account. And then three days after the death, a reverse transaction took place from Mungo Gibson’s account to a company called High Times, which operates illegal bingo games in Glasgow.’

McCutcheon looked as though he was having a barely stifled heart attack. His neck and cheeks flushed. As I spelled it out he was nodding his head in time to each new revelation. ‘Yes, yes. I know about those, Chief Inspector. The amount was ten thousand pounds and I personally had to authorise it. Any transactions over a hundred pounds have to be authorised by me, personally.’

‘Mr Higgins will find a record of these transactions?’ I enquired. That was presumably why McCutcheon was suddenly loquacious.

‘He will, but I can save you time in your search for the head office authority.’

I inclined my head to hear.

‘We received a credit note of that amount deposited at St Vincent Street and transferred to this branch just – as you say – three days before the terrible events.’

‘This took the form of a written credit?’

‘Mr Higgins will find it in the file.’

‘Who signed it?’

‘Sir Fraser himself.’

‘Was this unusual?’

‘No. Over the years, Sir Fraser has deposited similarly large amounts to his brother’s account to cover the care.’

‘The care?’

‘You are aware that Mungo had some – problems?’

‘Alcoholism and depression, yes.’

‘It has required constant care and special protection for many years. The money was to pay for the care home and the private treatment.’ He hesitated. ‘Sometimes it was to pay for him to be found. Private detectives were called in after he’d gone missing from the…’

‘Asylum?’

‘Exactly.’

‘This was Ailsa, the Ayrshire Asylum.’

‘Oh no, Mr Mungo Gibson was always kept at a home in Glasgow. A private mental institution.’

‘Constantly?’

‘No. The bills we received and paid showed irregular stays, some a few weeks, some days. That’s when he would go missing. Over the past ten years I’d say he was committed about half the time. The rest of the time, I believe he stayed with Sir Fraser and Lady Gibson.’

‘Committed? He was that bad?’

‘Sir Fraser had medical power of attorney.’

‘You said that the authority for the cash coming into the account came directly from Sir Fraser. Who authorised the money leaving it? Was Mungo out of care at the time? Did he come into the bank?’

‘No. It was authorised at head office.’

He didn’t say more; he knew what was implied.

‘Mr McCutcheon, who authorised the transfer of ten thousand pounds to the company called High Times?’

‘Mr Clarkson. Mr Colin Clarkson, our new chief.’

FORTY-FOUR

A
irchie duly appeared, flushed with success and the proximity to Miss Mathews. I doubted it was reciprocal. Airchie clutched the documents that confirmed the manager’s statement. I insisted on borrowing them, together with a strong foolscap envelope. Before we left I also got the Gibson boys’ old address in Maybole. I thought I might walk round there. But first I escorted Airchie to the train.

‘Apart from leering at the bank staff, you’ve done well today, Archibald Higgins. Here’s a fiver bonus for your time. Buy yourself a new suit.’ Harry was paying him a retainer directly but had given me funds for any eventuality. This seemed a good use. As I was closing the carriage door on him, he leaned forward.

‘Brodie, Ah just wanted to tell you, Ah’m fair enjoying masel’. It’s no’ just about havin’ fun wi yon lassie back there. Nor the medal – though that would be nice. Ah’m liking working for something – something real. Do ye un’erstaun’?’

‘I do, Airchie.’

‘Is there ony chance? Ah mean efter this is a’ by wi’. Is there ony chance of mair work for – you know who?’

I grinned. ‘I’ll put in a word. Let’s see.’

I closed the door, the whistle went and the train wheezed out of the station. I turned and walked back into town. My first stop was the post office. I addressed my big envelope to Harry Templeton in London and popped the incriminating documents
inside. I asked for special delivery. They’d arrive either late tonight or first post in the morning. Then I called him.

‘I don’t know if you got my package this morning, but I’m at Maybole and just sending you some more interesting material. Clarkson is your man. I don’t know if he’s been doing all the illicit transactions for Fraser over the last year or two, but he certainly authorised the ten thousand quid to High Times.’

‘It’s a timely call, Brodie.’ He sounded excited. ‘I got your notes this morning, had them typed and talked them through with Sir Percy half an hour ago. It did the trick. We’re going in tomorrow. Quietly, but in force. Your find today caps it. Want to join the party?’

‘Is it a bring your own masks and guns?’

‘Not a bit. Suits and briefcases. We will politely walk in and ask to speak to the boss. Very low key. Those are my instructions.’

‘Can I bring my wee friend? He’d be useful.’

‘Consider him invited. I’ll leave a message confirming the time with… who’s best?’

‘Inspector Duncan Todd, Central Division. He knows all about it, and he’s on our side.
My
side.’

I hung up and ran my hands over my face. Real action at last! Things were moving my way. I thought for a minute about whether I needed to do any more digging in Maybole but decided it couldn’t harm. The more I could build the case the better.

The Gibsons’ old home was – inevitably, if I were to believe the stories of poverty and dissipation – in the less salubrious part of town. The streets were late-nineteenth-century rows of council tenements; solid stone, but with the worn and neglected air that clings to the properties of councils with limited funds. Some mustered bits of turf either side of their front path. Some stretched to clumps of weed and plants and
a few rocks pillaged from the beaches down by Turnberry. I gazed up at Number 29 wondering what I could glean from this visit.

‘Hello?’

A small, white-haired woman peered out from her open window. It looked like her regular haunt. She was leaning on a faded cushion.

‘Oh, hello. Fine day.’

‘No’ bad. Who are you looking for?’

‘The Gibsons.’

‘Och, they’re long since away.’

‘Have you been here a while?’

‘Fifty-five years, nigh on. Ma first hame when Ah got married. Jimmie died ten year ago. Ah kent the Gibsons fine. What were you after them for?’

She was old, wanted company, why not?

‘I’m a policeman. Could I have a wee chat?’

I was scarcely in the door when the kettle was boiling and the best china dragged out from the back of the sideboard and given a quick wipe with a tea towel from Millport. As I sat sipping, I let her talk.

‘Always rows, that’s how Ah remember them. Stan and Jean. Fighting day and night, then making up a’ lovey dovey. It was the drink, ye ken. Always fu’. You should hae seen the piles o’ empties. It was thae boys that Ah was worried for.’

‘Fraser and Mungo?’

‘Aye. Sometimes they’d come in here to get oot the way o’ the rowin’. Pair wee things. Then as they got older they got into trouble mair and mair. Wee Mungo was always trying to keep up. Two years makes a difference at that age. Fraser got him to take dares and the wee fella did his best.’

‘Like what?’

‘Och, jumping off o’ high wa’s. He broke an ankle once. Smoking, drinking, lassies. Fraser got Mungo fu’ when he was only twelve or thereabouts. It’s nae wunner he ended up wi’
problems. It a’ stopped for a while when pair Jeannie Gibson died. She was only in her forties. They say it was an accident. Fell doon the stairs. Ah’m no’ so sure. Cigarettes and alcohol, Ah reckon.’

‘Then Stan took a new wife?’

‘Aye. Worse than ever. She was younger. And didnae get on with the weans. Mair screaming. Till Fraser just left one day. Ah think he was only fifteen. But he didnae dae too bad.’ She sighed. ‘Until the noo.’

‘What happened to Mungo?’

‘He went intae himsel’. Couldnae get a word oot o’ him. Left school at fourteen and hud a few jobs. Never stuck tae them. Got mixed up wi’ a gang in Ayr. And just drifted away, so he did. It was a shame. He came back a few years ago but by then he was a real boozer. Dossed wi’ pals or in a flat his brother paid for. Then he was in and oot of hospitals.’

‘Hospitals?’

‘Loony bins. For his drinking. Look, Ah’ve got a photo or twa put by.’

She levered herself up and went to the old sideboard. She pulled out three thick albums, glanced at each and selected one. She brought it over and flicked through, sucking her teeth at times and smiling at others. Finally, she pulled out a black and white family photo: a man, a woman and two boys aged about ten and eight. Same dark hair and light eyes shared among the mother and her sons.

‘That’s them. An’ here’s the boys again.’

She passed me a black and white of the boys, older, well into their teens. They looked happy. And suddenly it came back. The very pale eyes. Staring up at me from the dead man’s face. The memory shuttled through my brain like a burst of slides from a projector…

. . . the hot, deserted street. Marr Street. Everyone at the Govan Fair. Walking into the dark close, feet echoing.
Climbing the stairs, heavy briefcase in left hand, gun in right. Reaching the top landing. Two doors. Music from the left:

I step forward and strike the door with the butt of my gun. Twice. I push, and the door swings open. A hall with two doors. I place the briefcase on the floor and push open the first. Gun up. Empty. A scullery.

Down the short corridor comes the singing. The Andrews Sisters.

I walk towards it, revolver high and cocked. I turn the handle and fling the door wide. A wireless burbling on a mantelpiece. Bare wood floor. A broken wooden table tilted on its side. Some rope next to it. A slight movement of the door. A loud creak from behind me. I whip round. Gun up. The blow takes me on the back of my head as though the ceiling is falling in.

Waking in pain. Trying to focus. The ropes and the wireless gone. The table upright on all four legs. The dead man on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. My gun lying near where I’d fallen…

I left the old woman before she ran out of tea and I ran out of composure. I mooched back to the station, thinking, assembling the picture in my head. I’d been hit from behind. By someone in the room. Someone else was coming down the hall. A simple trap by two kidnappers? If so, it removed the last lingering doubt that I’d somehow fired my gun accidentally and blown a hole in Gibson’s forehead. Bang in the centre.

But the broken table and the scattered rope I saw before I
was knocked out suggested something else. Fraser Gibson had been tied up, had got free and broken off a table leg as a weapon. It was
Gibson
who’d felled me, shortly before the kidnapper or kidnappers had returned. Had they been waiting next door? And if Gibson had hit me from behind, only the most unlikely of ricochets could have put a bullet in his head. Whoever had shot him had tidied the place including propping up the table with the broken leg.

When I got back to Glasgow at midday I took the risk of calling Duncan Todd to tell him of my revelations.

‘Great, Brodie, but of course Sangster would say it was awfie convenient to have your memory back.’

‘I know. But it makes me feel better. Besides, we might not care what Sangster thinks. Harry Templeton and his merry men are raiding the bank tomorrow. I’m joining him. He’ll call you first thing with timings and I’ll call you when I can get to a phone.’

‘Maybe I should tag along, eh?’

‘I would steer clear, Duncan. You might find it awkward to explain how you knew about it. Keep pretending you know nothing. Be my fifth column. We don’t want Sangster’s suspicions raised. Speaking of which, any news?’

‘Some. Some good, some bad.’

‘Good first.’

‘Well, even the good isnae
that
good. But it’s joining a few more dots. Your pal Cammie, the elusive chauffeur, is Cammie Millar.’

‘So?’

‘Son of Meg Fulton.’

‘Fulton? You’re kidding me. Related to…’

‘You’ve guessed it: Angus Fulton. Cammie’s mammie is Gus Fulton’s sister. Uncle Gus.’

‘And Uncle Gus and his wife Annie own this bingo enterprise that just received a windfall from SLB. “What a tangled web we weave…” What’s the really bad news?’

‘The prints. The Scottish Linen Bank finally realised that somebody had broken in. They’ve had our forensic boys round to take prints.’

‘Shit.’

‘Shortly to hit the fan.’

‘When?’

‘They went in yesterday. It’ll take them a few days to look through the files.’

‘We’re safe until at least end of tomorrow?’ My first thought was the return of Airchie Higgins and me to the scene of the crime in the morning. We might as well go straight to jail without passing Go.

‘The forensic boys huvnae got any faster since your day, Brodie.’

‘Higgins is safe for twenty-four hours?’

‘Should be nae bother. But I’d get him off the streets after that.’

‘What about me? They’ll check mine, even though I’m dead?’

‘They will, my friend. Slow but diligent wee bureaucrats so they are.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, at first they’ll no’ believe it. Why should they? You’re deid. Then Sangster will get them to check everything again. Couple of days at least. They won’t want to look stupid.’

‘Then?’

‘They might decide to dig you up.’