Murder on the Second Tee (17 page)

Trying to appear more robust than she felt, Flick watched the officers file out. Amy Moncrieff lingered behind.

‘Inspector,’ she said tentatively.

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for praising me there. It’s sometimes difficult, you know …’

‘Believe me, I know.’

‘Well I’m really glad you’re here. It makes a big difference for me.’

‘Well, thank you,’ Flick said, trying to hide her pleasure. ‘Now get on and find our murderer.’ As she watched Moncrieff join her colleagues, Flick wondered if the difference she made was as an example or a lightning conductor.

* * *

Flick spent the next half hour in her office, organising the material she would hand over. If she had failed to win the respect of the divisional commander she might at least demonstrate her worth to the person taking over. Dr MacGregor phoned to confirm what she already knew. Thornton had been first knocked down by one blow then killed by four or five blows to the back of his neck. The weapon had been his lob wedge, swung right-handed. MacGregor promised to have the report to her in writing within a couple of days. She could not bring herself to tell him she would be off the case. Minutes later the phone on her desk rang. She answered abruptly and found herself speaking to Murdo Munro.

‘Good morning, Inspector. I hope you’re well?’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Munro?’

‘I am presently in St Andrews with Lord Saddlefell and we have had an in-depth discussion. The long and the short of it is that he is willing to help your inquiry into certain activities within the Bucephalus Bank. He and I could be with you in twenty minutes or so and we would be happy to meet with you and Sergeant Chandavarkar.’

‘Oh, good,’ Flick said, surprise turning to wariness. ‘We shall expect you.’

As soon as Munro had ended his call Flick phoned Wallace and asked where Chandavarkar was.

‘He’s flying down to London, ma’am, chasing up a lead.’

‘This is very sudden. What sort of lead?’

‘He’s going to Haleybourne Golf Club, as both dead men had a connection with it.’

‘But he’s supposed to be investigating money laundering, not murder.’

‘He thinks everything’s connected, ma’am.’

‘Well Saddlefell’s coming in with Munro in twenty minutes to tell us something about the bank. Munro wants Chandavarkar to be there, but it’ll just have to be us.’

This time the car in which Munro and Saddlefell arrived at Cupar police office was a top of the range Audi, Munro driving. Both he and Saddlefell wore suits and had an air of authority about them. They greeted Flick and Wallace politely but showed their disappointment when told that Baggo could not be with them. ‘Is that a game-changer?’ Flick heard Saddlefell whisper to his lawyer.

After a moment’s discussion outwith the hearing of the officers, Munro nodded to Flick. ‘We’re ready,’ he said.

Flick led the way to an interview room with recording facilities. She and Wallace sat on one side of the simple, off-white table with Munro and Saddlefell opposite. As she reached to turn on the tape Munro put up a hand.

‘One minute, Inspector. Before this interview gets under way I would like to make clear the basis on which my client and I have come here. My client is anxious to assist your inquiries and is here voluntarily. He has information regarding certain irregularities in the Bucephalus Bank and we are concerned that the officer investigating these is not available. Nevertheless my client will give you a prepared statement. But he will refuse to answer questions. I hope that is clear, and that my client’s cooperative attitude will be remembered as the inquiry continues.’

With scant control of the situation and realising that Saddlefell was after some sweet deal, Flick would have liked to end the interview then and there but she could not risk losing useful evidence. Not reacting to Munro’s remarks, she switched on the tape, specified the date and time and who was present then cautioned Saddlefell that he was not obliged to say anything.

Munro nodded at his client, who drew from his pocket some sheets of hotel writing paper covered in bold handwriting. Flick could see a number of crossings-out. Saddlefell cleared his throat and read slowly.

‘I am here of my own volition to assist the police in their inquiries into certain irregularities within the Bucephalus Bank. Prior to 2008 our bank had been profitable and law-abiding. Like many others, our investment arm bought parcels of debt which we believed to be sound but which turned out to be toxic. Again like others, we misquoted the rates of interest we were being charged by other banks when reporting to the LIBOR authorities. I did not know we were doing this at the time. The person responsible was the late Hugh Parsley. Unfortunately, loans from other banks were not enough. Mr Parsley had given us far more exposure to American sub-prime mortgages than we had realised. The Sulphur Springs Bank in Atlanta was particularly supportive. In return Mr Parsley helped them in a money laundering scheme. Where that money originated I do not know, but one can guess it came from drug trafficking and other illegal activities. Mr Parsley used bearer bonds, which are illegal in America, to return the laundered money to the original owners. He also attracted a number of clients with questionable financial records to our bank and laundered money for them.

‘This activity did not stop after we had resumed our customary stability. Mr Parsley continued to launder money and the bank made large profits. I did not know anything of this until recently. Mr Parsley was the director responsible and he was assisted by Gerald Knarston-Smith, a mathematical genius, who disguised all the transactions. We have “Chinese walls” in the bank and do not inquire into other directors’ business. That prevents conflicts of interest but it also meant that I could carry on in ignorance of the true situation. Our auditors have not raised any questions about irregularities or possible illegality.

‘I have recently learned that two directors knew about money laundering from an early stage. They discussed matters with Mr Parsley and also with representatives of Sulphur Springs Bank. They are Mr Forbes and Ms Walkinshaw.

‘In the early part of September this year our late chairman, Sir Paul Monmouth, heard a rumour at one of his clubs and began to investigate. He spoke to me about the misstating for LIBOR, and was shocked that we should have done such a thing. Our bank has enjoyed a reputation for total integrity and Sir Paul was very proud of that. He could be quite dogged and I believe his sudden death at the end of September was not an accident. I persuaded my colleagues on the board to engage a private detective to investigate.

‘Concerned by what Sir Paul had said to me and by his death, I made inquiries and uncovered what had been going on. I admit that I should have informed the authorities, but what I did do was to take effective action as acting chairman to stop all illegal activity without harming the bank’s reputation.

‘I regarded it as essential that we should make changes to the business, such as expanding the client base, to account for the likely drop in profits. Both Forbes and Walkinshaw agreed and said they would vote for me as chairman. Parsley was loyal to his old friend, Eglinton, who is very upright. As chairman Eglinton would have been bound to find out what had been going on and he would never have taken the steps that might be necessary to confine knowledge of the money laundering to those who already knew. In the week before we came here to St Andrews I talked to Parsley and made him see that his only hope of keeping out of jail was to have me as chairman. He agreed to support me when it came to a vote. I don’t know if he told Eglinton before he died.

‘I have done nothing illegal. As soon as I learned about the money laundering I stopped it. I have assisted the police from an early stage in their investigation.’ He looked at Munro, who nodded, then he folded his papers and put them in his pocket.

Flick could not resist asking, ‘Why did you lie to us about the time you went to bed the night Parsley was killed?’

Munro cut in quickly. ‘I have made it clear that my client is not prepared to answer questions at this time.’ He got up and opened the door. Ushering a smug Saddlefell out before him, he left without saying another word.

Flick switched off the recording. ‘Do you believe him?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure, ma’am,’ Wallace said. ‘It’s a clever strategy. Could he really have been an active director all that time without having an idea that something fishy was going on?’

‘It’s strange, isn’t it? But there have been a number of cases in which rogue traders have ruined a bank, or come close to it, without the people who should have known even suspecting it.’

‘According to Eglinton, he and Davidson were kept in the dark for much longer. Baggo seemed to think that was possible.’

Flick said, ‘I can see Munro’s smart. We couldn’t refuse to see Saddlefell and now he’s on tape neatly giving Eglinton a motive for killing Parsley, while leaving himself with a motive for keeping him alive. And it all depends on a single conversation between him and the dead man.’

Wallace said, ‘He admitted nothing except trying to keep the illegality under wraps.’

‘And he’s talking about it now only because he realises the police are well aware of what’s been going on,’ she said pointedly. ‘He’s claiming credit for stopping the money laundering, but if they realised the Feds and the SFO were on to them a month ago they’d have stopped anyway.’

‘Do you think Baggo will want to use him and Knarston-Smith to convict Forbes and Walkinshaw?’

She said, ‘I bet Saddlefell’s dream result would be for him to go free in return for the prosecutors using him against Forbes, Walkinshaw and Knarston-Smith. You’ll note he gave very little detail about how he knows what he says he does. I think he’s making it up as he goes along.’

‘You still fancy him as our murderer, ma’am?’

‘I do. Even if Eglinton might have killed Parsley in a fit of rage if he was switching allegiance, I don’t see Eglinton in a frenzy hitting him again and again. He had no reason to kill Davidson, or Thornton, come to that.’

‘But we lack solid evidence pointing in any particular direction.’

‘Yes,’ Flick said. ‘I wish we could get our hands on that money clip. That would wipe the smile off Saddlefell’s face if we could link it to him. Make sure all possible leads on that are chased up.’

‘What do you plan to do this morning, ma’am?’

She looked at him steadily. ‘This morning when we get to St Andrews I’m going to hunt down the appalling Inspector No. It could be interesting.’

‘Do you want me there?’ he asked innocently.

Flick smiled. ‘No thank you, Sergeant. I’ll see him on my own.’

There was a flight to Heathrow at five past ten and Baggo secured a place on it by the skin of his teeth. He boarded the plane and found his seat in the middle of a row near the back of the plane. The window seat was taken by a middle-aged man whose nose was buried in a newspaper but the aisle seat next to him was empty. His hopes of unexpected comfort were short-lived because an obese man, panting with effort, crashed into the vacant seat and overflowed into the space Baggo had paid for and was entitled to occupy. ‘Sorry,’ the man muttered, appearing genuinely embarrassed. Feeling his right arm pinned to his side by rolls of fat, it was on the tip of Baggo’s tongue to make a cutting remark, but he sensed something decent about the man. ‘You’re fine, mate,’ he said, thankful that the flight would last only just over the hour.

The man had difficulty fastening his seatbelt and Baggo helped him extend its girth to the maximum. Sweating and fidgety, he was not a happy traveller. At take-off his whole body stiffened, he shut his eyes and Baggo felt a clammy hand holding his. ‘Sorry,’ the man repeated once they were through the clouds. ‘No bother,’ Baggo replied, deep in thought.

Although he felt his hunch was a good one, he hoped he was not on a wild goose-chase. As his cover had been blown on a Saturday, he had delayed reporting to his superiors, but he knew that when he briefed them the next day he would be recalled immediately. He felt strongly that both the murders and the money laundering should be investigated together, otherwise quick-witted or well-advised criminals might slip through the net. Real progress was needed and he would not have much time at Haleybourne if he was to get a return flight that afternoon.

When the drinks trolley arrived the man ordered two miniatures of Johnnie Walker. ‘Want one?’ he asked Baggo.

Taken aback, Baggo said ‘no, thank you’.

‘Come on, I’ve been a nuisance to you,’ the man said. ‘Have a dram as we leave Scotland.’

‘Do you have Amrut, the single malt from Bangalore?’ Baggo failed to control his natural facetiousness. ‘No, don’t bother,’ he said quickly as the flight attendant made to inquire in the galley. ‘An orange juice would be fine. Thank you very much,’ he said to the man.

As Baggo sipped his drink carefully, holding it in his left hand, the man introduced himself as Ron Barker and told him about his family (happily married, living in Woking with children at university), his job (events catering, trading as ‘The One Ronnie’), and why he had been in Scotland (an investment seminar). ‘They’d laid on pheasant shooting for today, but I didn’t fancy that, though I love eating game, so I got them to book me on this flight. The girl at check-in said she’d try to put me next to an empty seat. Did you come along late?’

‘Very,’ Baggo admitted.

‘Are you on business?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me guess. You’re in IT?’

Baggo could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘I’m in the police.’ That usually shut people up.

But not Barker. ‘How exciting! Are you on a serious case?’

‘Yes, but I cannot tell you much about it. Only that I’m heading for Haleybourne Golf Club.’ Hoping to appear confidential, he tapped the side of his nose.

‘Haleybourne?’ Barker exclaimed, making the man in the window seat turn and stare. ‘I know it well.’

‘It is near Woking, I believe?’ Baggo asked, hoping for directions. ‘I will hire a car at Heathrow and I will need SatNav.’

‘I’ll take you there myself. I live in Woking and it’s hardly out of my way.’

‘Really, would you do so? It would help our investigation enormously.’ Normally Baggo would not accept a lift from someone who might be over the drink-drive limit, but a lift from Barker would give him valuable extra time. Anyway, taking account of his weight, Barker would almost certainly be under the limit, providing he hadn’t had a skinful the previous night.

They did not have to circle long before landing and even walking slowly, it took little time to reach Barker’s car in the multi-storey. It was a large, silver Mercedes with cream leather upholstery. It purred majestically as it headed for Woking, its proud owner hardly drawing breath as he described how he had built up his business from nothing. Although impatient to make progress, Baggo was almost sorry when his luxurious ride came to an end. Barker insisted on driving him up the rhododendron-flanked drive to the front door of the clubhouse. Baggo thanked him profusely and looked around.

* * *

When Flick returned to the hotel all the paraphernalia of the Christmas Fayre had been cleared from the lobby, and where the previous day there had been carol singing, a loud Glaswegian voice could be heard.

‘You can’t force me to tell you that. It’s none of your business. I know my rights.’ The speaker had his back to Flick and was leaning across the table between him and di Falco. A shiny pink island of scalp on the top of his head was surrounded by turbulent waves of black, greasy hair.

‘It’s in case further information comes to hand and we discover you or your wife might be able to tell us something,’ di Falco said, his tone reasonable.

‘What will you do with the information once you no longer need it?’ The Glaswegian sounded aggressive.

‘Once it’s no longer required by us or the lawyers it will be destroyed.’

‘You can promise me that, can you?’

‘I won’t destroy it personally, but we have well-established procedures …’

‘That are not always followed.’

‘Why won’t you tell us where you and your wife will be over the next week?’

‘This is not a totalitarian state. My wife and I are innocently going about our business and I see no reason to give you that information.’ He sat back, defying the young detective.

Di Falco shrugged and looked up at Flick, who walked round to his side of the table.

‘I’m Inspector Fortune, and I’m in charge of this inquiry. I quite understand your position, Mr …?’

‘Henderson.’

‘Mr Henderson, we have to be very careful with data protection, but if we need a warrant, as this is a murder inquiry, we’ll easily get one. And we’ll find out all sorts of details about you and your wife, far more than we need to know now, including why you might not want to help the police in a serious case.’

As Henderson digested the implications of this, a tall girl perhaps in her early twenties rushed over. Designer clothes showed off her splendid figure. Long, shapely legs disappeared up a skirt too short to provide warmth and her blouse had more buttons unfastened than fastened. PC Amy Moncrieff was with her.

‘Harry, darlin’, this clever policewoman has found it!’ she trilled, her accent from the West of Scotland.

‘Oh good,’ Flick said, sensing an advantage. ‘What has she found?’

‘My ring. I thought I’d lost it and all the time it was in the soap basket.’ She pushed out her left hand. On the third finger a huge ruby on a gold band sparkled. It was the only ring on that finger.

‘We’ve been talking to, er, Mr Henderson about your whereabouts over the next few days,’ Flick told her.

‘Oh that’s alright. I’ve given Amy all our details, and she knows not to let on about our wee break here.’

‘Why’s that?’ di Falco asked, smiling at Henderson.

‘You know,’ he said then got up. Shorter than Flick, he scowled at her, roughly took his ‘wife’ by the hand and made for the exit.

‘It’s amazing what money will do for your pulling power,’ di Falco said to Amy as Flick left.

Some people need more help than others, Flick thought as she went to visit Knarston-Smith in his room.

* * *

She found him there alone. Cynthia had gone out, he explained. She had not said where or when she might be back. Despite the comfort of his surroundings and the fine view out of the window, from his demeanour he might have been in a cell already. He looked up at Flick with a mixture of fear and a desire to please. When she said she had some questions for him his shoulders sagged with relief. She guessed he might have a bag of essentials packed in case he was summarily arrested.

‘On Thursday night after you left the Jigger Inn what did you do? I want the truth this time.’

He ran his hand through his hair, making it look more like a mop. ‘Cynthia and I went upstairs, but Lord Saddlefell had whispered that he wanted a word outside in ten minutes. I went down and we talked behind that mound to the right of the seventeenth fairway.’

Flick looked puzzled. Knarston-Smith got up from the bed where he had been sitting, went to the window and pointed it out.

‘What was said?’ she asked.

‘He was just checking that I had printed out the papers for the meeting the following day. They detailed the money laundering and some other things. I had put them all in my room safe.’

‘How was his mood?’

‘He was cross about something. I assured him I had done exactly as he had told me and then I went back to my room leaving him smoking his little cigar.’

‘When was this?’

‘About quarter past eleven, I’d say. That’s not exact, of course,’ he added anxiously.

‘Can you say when he came in?’

‘No.’

‘Had he been cross that evening?’

‘He’d been tense, certainly. We all had a bit to drink and I suppose we became quite loud. Later on, in the Jigger, he was quieter and frowned a lot. I didn’t know why. Sandi was going on about golfers’ clothes.’

‘When you went out later were you aware of anyone else about?’

‘Someone coughed and we spoke more quietly, but I didn’t see or hear anyone else.’

This information put the housekeeper’s evidence about hearing voices in context, and it left Saddlefell angry and alone, smoking a cigar in a place where he might have seen or heard Parsley and Eglinton making their way to the first green. He had lied initially about his rendezvous with Knarston-Smith, but once he knew the police realised he was lying, why had he not put forward some explanation? The answer, Flick supposed, was that he did not want to be caught out in another lie, but if he was innocent of the murder, and he knew the police were aware of the money laundering, why should he lie at all?

Flick had been gazing out of the window as she thought. Now she turned to Knarston-Smith. ‘Thank you, Mr Knarston-Smith. Please stay in the hotel today. We may have more questions for you.’ It was time to seek ex-Inspector No.

* * *

In some ways Osborne felt worse when he woke up, daylight exposing the horrors of the previous day and night. Moving gingerly, he went for a shower and let darts of hot water cascade over his head and shoulders. He took time to towel himself then attempted to tidy the worst of the mess. He collected the empties from the mini-bar in a bucket and wrapped some of the bedding to conceal the vomit. He ran the electric razor over his face and put on relatively clean clothes. He still felt dreadful, and a glance in the mirror told him he looked it. Most depressing of all was that the craving was back. If he hadn’t emptied the mini-bar already he would have done so then and there. He decided that fresh air would help. He slunk unobtrusively out of the hotel by the Pro’s Shop door, with an effort of will passed the Jigger’s door and turned left, walking along the road beside the seventeenth and away from the town. The cold sharpening his senses, he sat on the low wall bordering the road and breathed deeply, then smoked two cigarettes, one after the other. Looking behind him at the hotel, he wondered what was the point of the small pond between it and the wall. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he muttered then decided he needed to warm up, so went back to the hotel.

He found a corner of the dimly lit library, sat down and ordered coffee. He took it black and strong and was refilling his cup from the pot when Inspector Fortune entered the room and sat down opposite him.

‘Good morning, Felicity!’ he said with a bullishness he did not feel.

She looked at her watch. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Osborne.’

He did not respond. Neither wanted to speak first.

Flick broke the silence with a line she had rehearsed. ‘You made a fool of yourself yesterday. You’re lucky you weren’t arrested.’

‘Bollocks, Felicity. Anyway, my drink was spiked. Probably by the person you haven’t caught yet. How is your inquiry going? Your first murder, is it?’

‘We’re making progress. But what are you doing here?’

‘Earning an honest crust, Felicity, to add to my tiny pension.’

‘Do you have information about the murders? It is your duty to help us if you can.’

Osborne grinned at her, all the time trying to work out if Baggo had told her about Forbes’s scheme to plant the money clip on Saddlefell. ‘But I’ve retired. I’m not paid to do your job.’

‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Osborne.’ Flick glared at him and leaned across the table, catching a whiff of stale alcohol. ‘Tell me what you know now. If I find out you’ve been obstructing or hindering this investigation I’ll have no hesitation in charging you. I’ve become quite an expert on the Police (Scotland) Act.’

‘Ooh, that makes me quake. Ask me specific questions and I’ll answer them.’

‘Right. Why are you here at all?’

‘The board asked me to investigate the death of Sir Paul Monmouth to see if there were suspicious circumstances. When Mr Parsley was murdered I was asked by Lord Saddlefell to come here immediately.’

‘Have your inquiries got anywhere?’

‘No. I was about to start interviewing when Thornton was killed and with your activities it has not been possible for me to do much.’

And your drunkenness Flick thought, but decided to keep quiet as he appeared to be cooperating. ‘Did a chambermaid tell you about a money clip probably owned by Mr Parsley which she had seen in Lord Saddlefell’s possession?’

Baggo hasn’t told her, he thought. ‘Yes.’

‘What did she look like?’

His confidence soared. ‘Oh, pretty, a brunette. Nice pair up front, a lovely pert arse, very slapable but not as nice as yours.’

Flick felt the colour rise in her neck and face. ‘Have you seen her since?’

‘No, don’t believe I have. Can’t give you her name, either.’

‘You can do better than that.’

‘How dare you say I could do better when your investigation is obviously getting nowhere fast? When I had my first murder I didn’t have all the technology and fucking stupid gadgets you rely on. I had my personal radio, we had a forensic lab and a fingerprint lab and that was it. Apart from our common sense. My first murder victim was dismembered, fucking limb from limb, with grass stuffed in his mouth and his tongue cut out. Our suspects were vicious gangsters who wouldn’t hesitate to kill, not bloody millionaire bankers who hate getting their hands dirty. But we persuaded people that it was better to have the police on their side, we got them to talk, and three guys went down for murder. Proper police work is done with people and common sense, not fucking gizmos and human rights. Now go away and write up this interview in fucking triplicate then use your brain.’