Country of the Blind (27 page)

"Not any more. What there was took a walk from the Manson & Boyd offices in Glasgow, probably overnight on Monday."

"Fuck's sake. You've got them comin' oot the woodwork, Jack."

Parlabane nodded.

152

"And polis connections? How do you know that?"

Parlabane paused.

"They killed my friend, Fraz," he said after a few seconds, looking him in the eye and then looking away, in his face a hurt and uncertainty Ken had never witnessed before. He didn't follow the logic, but it could wait.

"Jesus, I'm sorry Jack. Who. . . ?"

"Lafferty. Donald. . . " Parlabane shook his head. "It wasn't a suicide. Don't ask me how I know, but believe me, I know."

"But why? I mean, I thought. . . "

"They're killing anybody who knows anything, anybody who can pick a hole in the case against the Voss Four. This is someone very powerful but very desperate, and that's a fucking dangerous combination. That's why I'm here."

"What do you mean?"

"I need you to run this."

Ken laughed. "Christ, Jack, if the Queen suddenly confessed to killing Kennedy it wouldn't bump this story off my front page."

Parlabane smiled a little, at last. "I know, Fraz. But what I mean is I need to lead on the angle that someone tried very surreptitiously to kill Nicole Carrow, and that by a remarkable coincidence her boss was murdered the same day. I don't have anything solid on the other stuff; for instance, Nicole and I are the only people who know anything went missing from her office, and the reasons I have for believing Donald Lafferty was murdered would get the paper laughed off the news stands. But I need the world to know that someone is trying to kill Nicole, because that could be the only way to protect her and protect anyone else tied into this."

"How would that protect her? If these blokes are so powerful, surely they can still top her and leave us all wondering in vain who they are."

"It would change the game," Parlabane stated, leaning his elbow on top of a Mac monitor. "Right now they don't want anyone playing join-the-dots with the bodies they've left behind. They don't want people to know that these victims were specifically targeted. Lafferty's a guilt-ridden suicide, Campbell's murdered in a mugging, Carrow's supposed to die in a car-crash. These guys don't want anybody to know they
exist
, never mind that they're trying to stop anyone poking their nose into the Voss murders, because knowledge of their existence, their activities, their
agenda
, in itself casts doubt on the guilt of the current suspects. If we let them know we're on to them, let the world know Carrow is a target, then they can't kill her - or anyone else, such as my good self - without it turning the whole Voss affair on its head."

"And won't running this story do that anyway?"

"To an extent. And yeah, they could just decide to proceed with wiping out anyone in the know and hoping they don't get caught before they slink 153

off back to the shadows. But I'm hoping it makes them change their strategy. Cover their tracks some other way and let the mystery of these unsolicited improvements to Carrow's car fade from the public's short-attention-span interest."

"What'll you do then?"

"I'll keep breathing, and so will Nicole, and I'll take it from there." Ken took a seat on the high stool that had been tucked under the tall paste-up board, while Parlabane slumped into a swivel-chair in front of a big Mac monitor that was aswirl with multicoloured screen-saver patterns.

"So your friend," Ken began tentatively, "did you manage to speak to him at all after the Voss murders?"

"I hadn't spoken to him in months. I knew him from back when he was a cop in Glasgow. I didn't find out he was working at Craigurquhart until after he was dead."

"Right."

"Incredible, isn't it? Would have been a hell of a source, and I didn't even know that's what he was up to."

Ken gave a regretful little laugh. "It's funny," he said. "It keeps cropping up."

"What does?"

"Craigurquhart House. Been a great source of stories on its own in recent years." Ken reached down to beside another of the Macs and lifted a fat and tattered brown folder, dog-eared sheets of paper jutting untidily from its three open edges. He offered it to Parlabane.

Parlabane placed it on the table and began leafing through, glancing at the headlines on the clippings and the captions on the pictures. It was a wellworn and much-accessed library file, corroborating what Ken had just said. There were yellowed newsprint sheets dating back to the Twenties, when the place suffered a blaze which claimed five lives, through its restoration in the Thirties, visits by several Hollywood stars and starlets in the Fifties, when its owner was something of a playboy, and on until the political storms of recent years.

"The real fun went on while you'd have been living in the States a few years back," Ken explained. "The place was under the ownership of Lord Wainscroft, a Tory peer, whose freight and shipping business collapsed, you might remember, after the company finally lost an extremely distasteful negligence and compensation claim in Singapore."

"I remember the incident," Parlabane said. "Ship went down somewhere off Malaysia, didn't it? Lost about fifty crew and polluted the fuck out of some nearby islands. Set new standards in the cheerful contravention of safety procedures in pursuit of driving down operating costs. I think
Private Eye
154

started calling the proprietor 'Lord Wainscroft of Kuan Lan' afterwards. But that must have been way back in about '87."

"It was," Ken confirmed. "But Wainscroft's lawyers played a blinder at stalling every inquest, inquiry and report, as well as the court case itself. And the book of legal dirty tricks came out in a revised edition after some of the moves they pulled to avoid paying a wooden thrupenny to the widows and the islanders. Smear campaigns, intimidation, you name it. I think they were maybe hoping the plaintiffs would give up or even die so that they could walk away from it. But a verdict was eventually reached about four years ago, then upheld after the inevitable appeal which dragged the saga on for the best part of another year, and Wainscroft got it hard up the jacksie to the tune of about thirty mill."

"I wish I'd known at the time," Parlabane reflected. "I'd have drunk to that."

"Aye, it was fairly entertaining. Especially when the Singapore courts seized all of Pole Star's assets before Wainscroft could siphon the cash away and claim the company was skint. He didn't have the thirty mill, but at least they fleeced him of what there was. So back in Blighty, Lord W is on his uppers with a wife and six racehorses to support, and needs to liquidise some assets. He decides to sell Craigurquhart, as he only goes there for the odd shooting weekend now and again anyway, and happily finds a buyer."

"A company called HMG, by any chance?"

"The very same. They paid two mill of public money for the estate, cash which I'm sure came in very handy for Lord W at such a
difficult
time. Justification was the same line as for when they bailed out that Churchill tit with Lottery dosh, that it would be in public ownership, a fine country estate, invaluable part of Perthshire's heritage staying in the nation's hands, blah blah blah."

There was an inquisitive and expectant glint in Parlabane's eye, something Ken welcomed greatly after the shock of seeing him so unusually grave. "So what was the juice?" he asked.

"Guy from Leith phones me here, a chartered surveyor down in Bernard Street, which is CS central. Says he surveyed the place seven or eight months before, for revised insurance purposes. He put it at seven hundred K, and he's got the documentation to prove it."

"Ole," said Parlabane.

"Indeed. It was a happy couple of days round here, I can tell you. But like everything else with these unconscionable fuckers, they just rode it out, brassnecked it. Got the Voss papers to rubbish the evaluation, dug some dirt on the CS, full overkill, and by the time they're through, the establishment version is that the government stiffed Wainscroft by taking advantage of his urgent need for cash to snatch this incredible estate for a song. 155

Parlabane flicked further through the clippings file. "But the fun didn't stop there, I see."

"Far from it. They spent a further fortune doing the place up, then waited until the next royal extra-marital shaggarama was hogging the front pages to let slip that they're not opening the joint to Joe Punter. It's to become a facility for 'entertaining' civic guests, VIPs, and foreign businessmen considering major investments in the UK."

"By which you mean Beanoland Holiday Camp for major Conservative Party contributors and supporters."

"You're a harsh and cynical man, Jack. And absolutely correct. I've got a contact up there, a chef. Pal of my son's from college."

"You've got someone on the inside?" Parlabane asked, suddenly sitting up in his chair.

Ken shook his head, waving down his excitement. "I know what you're thinking, but it was a non-starter. He was the first guy I phoned when I heard, but he knows nothing. He wasn't even there. Voss and his wife weren't eating in Craigurquhart on Sunday night, they were supposed to be going to some party fund-raising shindig in Perth. Kitchen and waiting staff had the night off, as did half the folk who worked there."

"Which whoever killed Voss must have known. Fewer potential witnesses."

Ken nodded. "Plausible enough. Anyway, this chef - Davie Evans is his name - has always kept us informed of who the taxpayer's hospitality is being extended to at Craigurquhart."

"In advance?"

"No, no. He just lets us know who's been, and it's served us quite well. A sort of 'running embarrassment', 'on-going scandal' kind of thing. I mean, there
are
people entertained at Craigurquhart who are on diplomatic business or might well be planning to start an electronics firm in Livingston or whatever, but the number of free-loading wankers who are up there as gratitude for political or financial services rendered is astronomically greater.

"We waited until it had been up and running for a few months before we broke the story. We ran a wee table of who had been there, weighing up the legit against the liggers to emphasise the point. And every so often after that we'd update it, mainly for mischief value, as the Scottish Office never gave the slightest indication that they cared a fuck what anyone thought of the situation. These days we only dig it up if somebody that the average lefty reader finds particularly loathsome has been hunting, fishing and guzzling at public expense. There would probably have been mention in the paper this week of Roland Voss's stay there, if circumstances hadn't cut it short the way they did."

156

Parlabane gave a dry laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Cannae quite see the VIPs queuing up for a weekend there now."

He put the folder down on top of the computer's keyboard, open at the maligned CS's report. Ken rubbed at his beard in a manner so familiar that it often irritated himself when he realised he was doing it.

"Don't suppose you've got any theories about who actually did it, Mr P?"

Parlabane exhaled slowly, opening his bloodshot and tired eyes wide. "Not a scoob, Fraz." His hand strayed idly to the folder, fingers toying with the edges of pages without actually turning any. "It's obviously someone very powerful, very connected and very ruthless, but that doesn't really narrow the field much, as that kinna profile fits a lot of people in the circles Voss moved in. Think about it. Voss owned people - politicians, cops, Intelligence - not only in this country, but probably every country in Europe and quite a few beyond. His friends and enemies would too. I mean, we're not just talking about media magnates or international businessmen here, Fraz. We're talking about arms dealers, arms manufacturers, people who make, buy and sell fighter jets and fucking tanks. The big media moguls get such a high profile simply because it comes with the business they're in, and maybe it's a business that attracts a fairly extrovert personality, but Voss was in partnerships - and rivalries - with guys whose names few ordinary people have heard, but who have a sight more money and clout than any newspaper baron."

"The old military-industrial complex chestnut?"

Parlabane smiled. "Well, not exactly. I know how that sounds. But what I'm saying is that we'll probably never know what this was really about, what Voss did to deserve it, never mind who actually called in the hit. Even if we did catch who pulled the trigger or wielded the blade, they're not going to talk -

that's if they live long enough to be asked any questions."

"Aye, true enough," said Ken. "We'd never know the real story. But I don't imagine those four poor bastards up in the hills would be worrying about that. If you found out who did pull the trigger, then at least it would prove it wasnae
them
."

Parlabane gripped one arm of the swivel-chair, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"I know, I know,
Christ
," he said. "But I've nothing to go on. If I knew a wee bit about what was found, what evidence there is, it would at least be a start. Working out how is usually a big help in working out who. But it's not like the polis are gaunny let us have a wee traipse round the murder scene. In fact, the cops are wrapped so tight about this one that my own contact is giving me heayy vibes that I should keep my head down for both our sakes. Let me tell you, it's a hell of a trick discrediting the evidence against someone if they won't tell you what the evidence is."

Parlabane reached for a couple of the many old newspapers that were scat157

tered about the small room liberally enough to cause a fire safety officer to torch the place himself just to get it over with. He placed a copy of
The Times
on the desk first, then slapped a
Saltire
down on top of it.

"I mean, look at this," he complained, indicating the two front pages. "This is as much as anyone's got. Same details, same quotes, even the same fucking stupid graphic."

"Well, Keith was working on our own," Ken explained in half-hearted defence, "but Lump crashed the system, so we had to just pull that one off the wire at the last minute. It's from NewsGraph or Infographics or somebody."