Authors: James Oswald
35
McLean left Grumpy Bob at Waverley to co-ordinate the investigation. He walked through the crowds of blithely ignorant tourists and shoppers back to the station, considering the various investigations he was juggling. They were all important, but try as hard as he might, it was always the dead girl in the basement who grabbed the lion's share of his attention. It didn't really make sense; she was a cold case, after all. Chances were very slim of finding anyone alive who could be made to pay for her death. And yet the fact that the injustice done her had festered for so long somehow made it worse. Or maybe it was because nobody else seemed to care that he felt the need to go that extra mile?
'I need to see McReadie, find out where he nicked those cufflinks from. Sort out a car and let's pay our cat burglar a visit.'
DC MacBride was hard at work tapping at the keys on his shiny laptop down in the tiny incident room. He stopped, closed the folder he'd been transposing, paused before answering.
'Err, that might not be wise, sir.'
'Why not, constable?'
'Because Mr McReadie's lawyer's already lodged a formal complaint alleging that his client was shown undue force when he was arrested, and that he was held without charge longer than necessary.'
'He's what?' McLean almost exploded with rage. 'The little bastard breaks into my grandmother's house on the day of her funeral and he thinks he can pull a stunt like that?'
'Aye, I know. He'll not get away with it. But it might be an idea to stay away from him awhile.'
'I'm investigating a murder, constable. He's got information that could lead me to the killer.' McLean looked at MacBride, seeing the discomfort written plainly on his face. 'Who told you this, anyway?'
'Chief Superintendent McIntyre, sir. She asked me to tell you to steer clear of McReadie if you knew what was good for you.' He held up his hands in defence. 'Those were her words, sir, not mine.'
McLean rubbed at his forehead with a tired hand. 'Great. That's just fucking great. Have you got the cuff-links there?'
MacBride shuffled some papers on the table, then handed the two evidence bags over. McLean shoved them in his jacket pocket, heading for the door.
'Come on then,' he said.
'But I thought... McReadie...'
'We're not going to see Fergus McReadie, constable. Not now, anyway. There's more than one way to skin this particular cat.'
*
Douglas and Footes, Jewellers to Her Majesty the Queen, occupied an unprepossessing shop front in the west end of George Street. It looked for all the world like it had been there even before James Craig had drawn up his master plan for the New Town. Its only concession to the ills of modernity was that, despite the 'open' sign, the door was locked; now you had to ring a buzzer to be allowed in. McLean showed his warrant card and was ushered into a room at the back that could have been the butler's pantry in an old country mansion, sometime around the turn of the nineteenth century. They waited for a few minutes in silence, then were greeted by an elderly man in an equally dated black pinstripe suit, a slim leather apron tied around his waist.
'Inspector McLean, how nice to see you. I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother. Such an intelligent lady, and a good judge of quality too.'
'Thankyou, Mr Tedder. That's very kind.' McLean took the proffered hand. 'I think she rather enjoyed coming in here; she often complained that the shops in the city weren't what they used to be, but you could be sure of good service in Douglas and Footes.'
'We do our best, inspector. But I don't suppose you came here to exchange compliments.'
'No, indeed. I was wondering if you might be able to tell me anything about these?' He pulled the bags from his pocket and handed them to the jeweller. Mr Tedder peered at the cuff-links through the plastic, then reached over to the nearby counter and switched on a large angle-poise lamp.
'May I take them out?'
'By all means, only don't get them muddled, please.'
'Unlikely, I think. They're quite different.'
'You mean they're not a pair?'
Mr Tedder pulled a small eyeglass out of his pocket, wedged it in his eye and bent over the first cuff-link, rolling it around in his fingers. After a minute, he dropped it back in its bag and repeated the process with the other one.
'They're a pair, all right,' he said finally. 'But one's been used regularly, the other's almost as new.'
'So how do you know they're a pair, sir?' DC MacBride asked.
'The hallmarks are the same on each one. Made by us, as it happens, in nineteen hundred and thirty-two. Exquisite craftsmanship, bespoke you know. These would have been part of a set given to a young gentleman, along with matching shirt studs and possibly a signet ring.'
'Have you any idea who they might have been given to?'
'Well now, let me see. Nineteen thirty-two.' Mr Tedder reached up to a dusty shelf full of leather-bound ledgers, running his fingers along them until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a slim volume.
'Not a lot of people commissioning pieces in the early thirties. The depression, you know.' He laid the ledger down on the counter, carefully opened it at the back and consulted an index written in neat copperplate writing, the ink slightly faded with age. His finger scanned the lines far faster than McLean could read the narrow, angular script. Then he stopped, flicked the pages back one by one until he found what he was looking for.
'Ah, yes. Here it is. Gold signet ring. Pair of gold cufflinks, set with brilliant round-cut rubies. Matching set of six shirt studs, also gold set with rubies. They were sold to a Mr Menzies Farquhar of Sighthill. Oh yes, of course Farquhars Bank. Well, they didn't suffer much between the wars. If I remember correctly, they made a lot of money financing the rearmament.'
'So these belong to Menzies Farquhar?' McLean picked up the cufflinks in their bags.
'Well, he bought them. But here it says there's to be an inscription engraved on the presentation case. "Albert Menzies Farquhar on the reaching of his majority August 13th 1932."'
*
'I want a word with you, McLean. In my office.'
McLean stopped in his tracks. Chief Inspector Duguid had stepped out of Chief Superintendent McIntyre's room just as he and Constable MacBride had walked past. He turned slowly around to face his accuser.
'Is it urgent? Only I've got an important new lead on the ritual killing.'
'I'm sure someone who's been dead for sixty years can wait a day or two longer for justice, inspector.' Duguid's face was flushed red, never a good sign.
'Ah, but her killers aren't getting any younger. I'd like to catch at least one of them before he dies.'
'Nevertheless, this is important.'
'OK, sir.' McLean turned back to MacBride, handing him the bagged cufflinks. 'Take these back to the incident room, constable. And see what you can dig up about Albert Farquhar. There should be a report about his death.'
MacBride took the bags and hurried off down the corridor. McLean watched him go for just long enough to make his point, then followed Duguid to his office. It was bigger by far than his own tiny space, with room for a couple of comfortable chairs and a low table. Duguid shut the door on the empty, quiet corridor, but didn't sit down.
'I want to know the exact nature of your relationship with Jonas Carstairs,' he said.
'What do you mean?' The room seemed to shrink on him as McLean stiffened, his back to the now-closed door.
'You know damned well what I mean, McLean. You were the first on the scene, you discovered the body. Why did Carstairs invite you round to his house?'
'How do you know he did that, sir?'
Duguid picked up a piece of paper from his desk. 'Because I have here a transcript of a phone conversation between the two of you. Made, I should add, just hours before his death.
McLean began to ask how Duguid had come by the transcript, then remembered that Carstairs' call had been routed from the station through to DC MacBride's airwave set. Of course it would have been recorded.
'If you've read the transcript, sir, then you'll know that Carstairs wanted me to sign some papers regarding my late grandmother's estate. He invited me around to supper I assume because he realised I'd have difficulty finding time to drop round the office during the day.'
'Does that seem normal behaviour for a solicitor? He could have just couriered the papers over here for you to sign.'
'Is it normal behaviour for the senior partner in a prestigious law firm to personally handle the execution of a will, sir? Would you expect him to attend the funeral? Mr Carstairs was an old friend of my grandmother. I suspect he saw it as his personal duty to make sure all her affairs were put in order.'
'And these messages that your grandmother entrusted.' Duguid read from the sheet. 'What's all that about?'
'Is this a formal interview, sir? Only if it is, shouldn't we be taping it? And shouldn't there be another officer present?'
'Of course it's not a bloody formal interview, man! You're not a suspect. I just want to know the circumstances of the discovery.' Duguid's face reddened.
'I don't see how my grandmother's last will and testament has anything to do with it.'
'You don't? Well, perhaps you can explain why Carstairs changed his own will, just a couple of days ago.'
'I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, sir. I only met the man a week ago. I hardly knew him.'
Duguid put the transcript sheet down on his desk and picked up another piece of paper. It was a photocopy of the front page of a legal document, the letters smudged by the fax machine. At the top of the sheet was the fax number and name of the sender: Carstairs Weddell Solicitors.
'Then why do you suppose he left the entirety of his personal wealth to you?'
~~~~
36
Grumpy Bob was reading his newspaper, feet up on the table amongst the evidence bags when McLean finally stumbled back into their tiny incident room.
'You all right, sir? You look like you just found half a maggot in your apple.'
'What? Oh, no. I'm fine Bob. Just a little shocked is all.' He told the sergeant his news.
'Jings. Your boat's certainly come in. Don't suppose you could lend me a few quid?'
'It's not funny, Bob. He left me everything except his business assets. Why the hell would he do that?'
'I dunno. Maybe he didn't have anyone else to leave it to. Maybe he always had a thing for your gran and decided he'd rather leave it to you than the animal shelter.'
A thing for your gran. Bob's words brought back a memory suppressed by the rush of recent events. A series of photographs in an empty bedroom. A man not his grandfather who nevertheless looked just like his father. Just like him. Could that have been a young Carstairs? Could he have? No. His grandmother would never have. Would she?
'But he changed it just last week.' McLean answered his own question and Bob's both. He tried to remember the few conversations he'd had with the old lawyer since that first telephone call the day after his grandmother had died. He'd been friendly enough, almost avuncular at first. But at the funeral he'd seemed distracted, expecting someone else. And then the strange conversation the afternoon before the lawyer had been killed. What was that all about? What messages had his grandmother left for Carstairs to deliver after her death? Or was it something Carstairs himself wanted to say? Something had rattled the old man. Now he'd never know what.
'I don't know what you're complaining about, sir. It's not often a lawyer gives you money.'
McLean tried to smile at the joke, but found it hard. 'Where's DC MacBride?'
'He went off to the Scotsman. Something about searching their archives.'
'Finding out about Albert Farquhar. Good. How are we getting on with McReadie?'
Grumpy Bob put down his paper, moved his feet off the table and sat up straight. 'We've found items from the five burglaries we were looking into. Not everything reported missing's here, but certainly enough to put McReadie away for a good stretch. The IT boys have pretty much sorted out his computer, too. I don't think he's going to weasel out of it, even if he has got himself a fancy lawyer.'
'Good. What about the cuff-link? Did IT come up with an address for that piece yet?'
Grumpy Bob shuffled through the pile of bags on his desk, retrieving a slim sheaf of papers, leafing through them until he found what he was looking for.
'That was taken from an address in Penicuik about seven years ago. A Miss Louisa Emmerson.'
'Do we know if the theft was ever reported?'
'I'll check, sir.' Grumpy Bob shuffled over to the laptop computer, tapped at a few keys. 'There's nothing against that address or that name on the database.'
'I didn't think there would be. Grab us a car, Bob. I fancy a trip out to the countryside.'
*
Penicuik nestled in a valley ten miles south of the city and cut in two by the meandering river Esk. McLean had faded half-memories of weekend road trips to the Borders with his parents, stopping of at Giapetti's for ice cream on their way to visit historic sites. He'd been bored to tears by cold ancient buildings, but he'd loved sitting in the back seat of his father's car, watching the bleak and wild countryside go by, falling asleep to the rhythm of tyres on tarmac and the thrum of the engine. And he'd loved the ice cream too. The town had spread since then, sprawling up the hillsides and north towards the army barracks. The main street was pedestrianised now, Giapetti's long since disappeared under the bulk of a faceless supermarket.
The house they were looking for was a little way out of the town, heading along the old church road toward the Pentland Hills. Set back from the road in a large garden, surrounded by mature trees, it was built of dark red sandstone, with tall, narrow windows and a high-pitched roof; most likely a manse from the days when ministers were expected to have dozens of children. As the car drove up the long gravel drive and pulled to a halt in front of the heavy stone porch, a flurry of small dogs came flying out of the doorway, all fierce, deep barks and excitement.
'You sure it's safe?' Grumpy Bob asked as McLean started to open the door. A sea of wet noses and excited yelps greeted him.
'It's when they make no noise at all you need to worry, Bob.' He bent down and offered his hand as a sacrifice to be sniffed and licked. The sergeant stayed where he was, seat-belt firmly on, door tightly closed.
'Don't mind the dogs, they only bite when they're hungry.'
McLean looked up from the throng to see a portly lady in wellingtons and a tweed skirt. She was perhaps in her late fifties and held a pair of secateurs in one hand, a wooden trug draped over her arm.
'Dandie Dinmonts, aren't they?' He patted one of the beasts on the head.
'Indeed they are. It's nice to see someone with a bit of education. How can I help you?'
'Detective Inspector McLean. Lothian and Borders Police.' He produced his warrant card, then waited whilst the woman retrieved a pair of spectacles from a chain around her neck and placed them on her nose, peering first at the tiny photograph, then rather disconcertingly at him. 'Have you lived here long, Mrs..?'
'Johnson, Emily Johnson. I'm not surprised you don't recognise me, inspector. It's been, what, over thirty years since I last saw you?'
Not quite thirty-three years, and he'd been not yet five. Putting his mother and father to rest in a corner of Mortonhall cemetery. Christ, but the world could be small sometimes.
'I thought you moved to London after the plane crash.' It was a random piece of information he had picked up many years later. That awkward teenage phase when he'd obsessed about his dead parents, collecting every scrap of information he could find about them, and about the people who had died on the plane with them.
'You're right. I did. But I inherited this place about seven years ago. I was growing tired of London, so it seemed the ideal time to move.'
'And you never remarried. You know, after...'
'After my father-in-law killed my husband and your parents in that damn-fool aeroplane of his? No. I didn't have the stomach to go through all that again.' A grey frown passed over the woman's face, almost a scowl. 'But you didn't come here to reminisce, inspector. You weren't expecting to find me here at all. So what did bring you here?'
'A burglary, Mrs Johnson. Just after a Miss Louisa Emmerson died at this house.'
'Louisa was Toby's cousin. She was married to Bertie Farquhar. Old man Menzies bought them this house as a wedding present. Can you imagine that? She dropped her married name when Bertie died. That would have been the early sixties, I think. It was all a bit messy really. Got blind drunk and piled his car into a bus stop. She lived out here on her own until she died. I only found out afterwards that she'd left it to me. Guess there was no-one else in the family to pass it on to.'
'So Albert Farquhar's belongings would have been here?'
'Lord yes. Most of them still are. The Farquhars never really needed to sell things off to pay the coal bill, if you know what I mean.'
McLean looked up at the large the house, then over at a lower building set a bit away; a converted coach house. A brand new Range Rover poked its nose out of a wide garage. Money just seemed to cling to some people; they were so rich they didn't even notice being robbed. Was he like that? Would he get that way?
'Did you know that the place had been burgled, Mrs Johnson?'
'Goodness, no. When did you say it happened?'
'Seven years ago. March the fourteenth. The day Miss Emmerson was buried.'
'Well, it's the first I've heard of it. I didn't get the house until July of that year; there was a mountain of paperwork to sort through. That's what brought me back to Scotland, and once I was here, well, I realised how much I'd grown to hate London.' Mrs Johnson paused for breath, then narrowed her eyes. 'But how do you know there was a burglary, inspector?'
'We caught the burglar trying to steal from another house. He kept records of where he'd been, and mementos from each job.'
'How very stupid of him. What did he take from here?'
'A number of small items, including a gold cuff-link we can now positively identify as belonging to Albert Farquhar.'
'And is that important?'
'It could well be the clue that solves a particularly nasty murder.'
*
'Sounded like you'd met before. Did you get what you were looking for?'
McLean studied the road as he drove the pool car back towards the city. Grumpy Bob hadn't moved from the car during the whole conversation.
'Mrs Emily Johnson was married to Andrew Johnson, whose father Tobias was flying the plane that crashed into the side of Ben MacDui on its way from Inverness to Edinburgh, killing himself, his son, and my parents in nineteen seventy four.' He stated the facts simply, wondering why it was that they kept on coming back to haunt him. 'The last time I saw her was at their funeral.'
'Jesus. What're the chances of that happening?'
'Greater than you'd think, Bob.' McLean explained the tortuous convoluted relationships that linked the current owner to Bertie Farquhar.
'So you reckon Farquhar's your man, then?'
'One of them. I asked Mrs Johnson if she recognised the nickname 'Toots,' but it meant nothing to her. She said she'd have a search through the attic for any old photographs and stuff, though. And she came up with one other interesting piece of information.'
'Oh, aye. What's that then?'
'Farquhar and Tobias Johnson were old friends. They served in the army together during the second world war. Some special forces group based in West Africa.'
They fell silent after that, as McLean drove the car past the turning down to Roslin and its enigmatic chapel; past Loanhead and the blue-box IKEA warehouse, its car park overflowing with eager shoppers; under the bypass and through Burdiehouse; and finally up the hill towards Mortonhall, Liberton Brae and on into the city. As they passed the entrance to the crematorium, he hit the brakes, darting in through the gates to a blare of horns from the car behind. Grumpy Bob grabbed the dashboard, slamming his feet into the passenger footwell.
'Christ! Give us a bit of warning will you.'
'Sorry Bob.' McLean pulled into a space in the car park, killed the engine and threw the keys to his passenger. 'Take the car back to the station, will you. There's something I have to do here.'
~~~~~