Trail of Greed: Fighting Fraud and Corruption... A Dangerous Game

John Dysart

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places and incidents are products of 
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any 
resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, 
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by John Dysart

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be 
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or 
any information storage or retrieval system, without prior 
permission in writing from the publisher.

The right of John Dysart to be identified as the author 
of this work has been asserted by him in 
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and 
Patents Act 1988.

ISBN 978-1-909300-19-4

Published by 
The Choir Press, Gloucester

To my mother, father and Jud – and anyone else 
who recognises bits of themselves.

John Dysart was born in Fife and graduated from St Andrews University with an MA in Economics and Politics. After qualifying as a Chartered Accountant in Glasgow he pursued a career in Europe working for various international companies. He spent the last fifteen years working as an independent consultant before turning to writing. This is his first novel. He currently lives in France.

A knock on the door at three o’clock in the afternoon of a fresh Thursday in May.

“Now who the hell could that be?” I thought to myself, slightly annoyed at being disturbed from my reading. I put my book down on the table at the side of my armchair, levered myself reluctantly upright, cursing my bad back, and went to open the door.

I wasn’t expecting anybody. I very seldom had callers now – unless it was Mrs. Clark from next door with some delicacy that she had baked that morning.

I could see no one through the smoked glass panel in my front door and wondered, for an instant, if it was some kids playing tricks. The old prank of ringing the doorbells of elderly people living alone and then running off up the street had not yet died out. In a way I was glad. I’d done it myself as a boy and, annoying as it was, I reckoned it was pretty harmless.

I opened the door. If it was somebody trying to sell me something I was ready to send them packing.

“Yes?” I enquired politely as the door swung back. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you by any chance Mr Robert Bruce?” was the response from a well-dressed man, who looked about my age, standing a few yards back on the path. There was a slightly nervous, enquiring smile on his face.

Neatly dressed in an open-necked shirt and jacket, he had a full head of grey hair, cut short, and a small, slightly bronzed, face lit up by bright brown eyes. About five foot ten, I would guess. He was one of the lucky ones, like me, who had stayed slim with age and didn’t have to worry about how to cope with a paunch which prevented him from seeing anything below waist level.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” The man’s face relaxed into a genuine smile and he thrust out his hand to be shaken. I automatically returned the gesture before I realised that such a greeting was not quite habitual in a small Scottish village in the middle of Fife. The unusualness of the encounter was confirmed by his next words.

“Mr Bruce, my name is Pierre Collard. I am French, as you can probably tell from my accent, and I am over here in Scotland for a visit.”

I could think of nothing suitable to say except “Welcome to Scotland”.

“Thank you.” he replied. “Actually I have been here a few times before but, there are a couple of specific reasons for this particular visit.”

Being naturally friendly, and having assessed him as an interesting-looking character who seemed to pose no danger, I responded amiably.

“How can I help you?” “Mr Bruce, this may seem strange to you, but I am staying just down the road at the Fernie Castle Hotel for a few days. I am travelling on my own and would like to invite you to dinner this evening. Perhaps I can explain to you then?”

That rather took me by surprise and I reflected for an instant. A stranger turns up on the doorstep and invites you out to dinner. Not a very usual scenario.

“If you don’t mind me asking – why me? Do you often knock on people’s doors and invite them out to dinner?”

“To your second question – no.” He smiled. “And to your first question, I have a particular reason – two actually – but I would prefer to explain to you over a good meal. The hotel has an excellent wine list and, as I do know a little bit about you, I thought you might appreciate sharing a bottle of Château Maucaillou with me. Would you be so kind as to accept my invitation?”

“Why not?” I said to myself. He looks like a nice guy and I instinctively accepted. It sounded better than the bridie and peas that I had planned.

“Fine.” I told him. “At what time?” “How about seven thirty?”

“It’ll be a pleasure.” He thanked me for accepting and proffered his hand again by way of a goodbye, returned to his car which he had parked ten yards up the road and, with a wave and a “See you tonight”, he drove off down the main village street.

I watched the car disappear and went back inside, closing the door thoughtfully. It would make a change. He had looked pleasant and interesting and I genuinely enjoyed meeting new people. There was always something to be learned from anybody, no matter whom. It was a philosophy I had had all my life and I didn’t see why I should drop it just because I was “getting on a bit”.

My life for the last three years had been a quiet process of adjusting to the solitude of widowhood. That knock on the door was about to change all that and add to it a dimension that I would never have imagined.

After thirty-nine years of a very happy marriage, my wife Liz had passed away suddenly from a totally unexpected stroke. The following six months had been very difficult as I had had to adjust to the immediate loneliness and the prospect of a solitary retirement. Life can deal some pretty nasty blows.

Our son Callum had made his life in Australia and we had had no other children. So I had eventually sold the big house in Stirling and returned to my roots – the Howe of Fife. I now lived in a perfectly comfortable little cottage (minimum upkeep) in the tiny village of Letham and had slid into a calm, but reasonably satisfactory, rhythm of life suitable to a fairly fit sixty-seven year old. I had my books, the garden, my golf course was only five miles away and there were plenty of other great places to play within an hour’s drive. I wasn’t complaining but I have to admit to a little boredom from time to time.

I tried to return to my biography of Talleyrand but couldn’t concentrate. M. Pierre Collard clearly knew who I was and he had announced two reasons for his trip. I had no real connection with France apart from a few camping holidays when Callum had been young and, after he had grown up and gone off to conquer the world, a few golfing weekends in Brittany and Normandy. I spoke a bit of the language but that was all. I pondered over this for a while but soon came to the conclusion that there was no way on earth that I was going to guess what this was all about. I’d have to wait until the evening.

I didn’t know then that I was about to make a lifechanging discovery and thoughts of fraud, corruption and murder were definitely not on the agenda.

I pottered around in the garden for a couple of hours until it was time to organise myself for my evening out. I was actually rather intrigued by the idea of getting to know M. Collard a bit better and decided that Fernie Castle deserved a relatively smart Bob Bruce. So I dug out a notworn-very-often pair of smart cotton trousers and ran an iron over a shirt. I slipped on my old blazer and set off in anticipation of an interesting evening.

The Fernie Castle Hotel is only about two miles out of the village and is a comfortably elegant place. Previously home to a wealthy family whose name I couldn’t remember, it had been bought by a brewery and turned into a first- class hotel. They had got their strategy right because the central part of Fife (the Howe) doesn’t lack money. It is very rich arable land and there are a large number of well-to-do farmers. There are also the country estates of many who had made their piles of money in the second half of the nineteenth century from coal, jute, linoleum and the financial markets of Edinburgh.

M. Collard was waiting for me in the reception area of the hotel. Deep blue carpet on a stone-flagged floor, granite walls and a couple of suits of armour on guard. We greeted each other with another handshake and he suggested we repair to the bar for a pre-dinner drink.

Ensconced at a table in the corner of the dimly lit bar I watched him go up and order the drinks. He was obviously perfectly at ease in his surroundings. The girl behind the bar seemed impressed by the Gallic charm and he came back shortly with a pair of inviting glasses of a nice, deep amber liquid that was not unknown to me.

“Alors, M. Collard, comment allez-vous ce soir?” I asked him, with, what I hoped, was a reasonable imitation of a French accent.

“Verry weel, tank you verree mooch!” he replied with a grin.

We clinked glasses and quietly appreciated the first sip of what he informed me was a fifteen-year-old Glenmore.

He sat back and looked at me for a few seconds, as if trying to weigh me up. I had nothing to worry about so I just left him to it.

He then proceeded to explain to me that he had already been twice to Scotland but had only toured the west and the north – the Highlands and the Islands. This was the first time he had visited Fife and he loved it. Not so rough and barren – more akin to his Normandy. He had been to the charming fishing villages along the coast. He had visited the ancient Palace of Falkland and climbed the hill behind the village. It had been a clear day and he had seen the two Forth bridges in the far distance. From the top of the East Lomond you can see practically all of the county, or Kingdom to give it its proper name. He was planning a trip to St Andrews the next day.

I fully agreed with his comments on the beauty of the area. I had been raised in the village of Falkland and the whole area was home to me. That’s why I had moved back here two years ago.

“Robert – may I call you Robert?” he asked, “Shall we go and see what the chef has to offer this evening?”

“Certainly. But if you don’t mind, I prefer Bob,” I replied. “As you can imagine, with a name like mine, I suffered a lot of teasing when I was young and decided Bob was better.”

“OK, Bob, let’s go and eat.” I had my father to thank for the Robert. When my mother had questioned his choice, apparently his reply had been “If he gets hassle at school it’ll be good for him”. It certainly got me into a good few fights in my early years but, with hindsight, I now felt that Dad hadn’t got it far wrong.

Once we were seated and had perused the menu we decided that a local fish dish to start with and a good Aberdeen Angus steak would be perfect for both of us. The Château Maucaillou was ordered and once uncorked was put reverently on the side table to be served with our steak.

Still very curious about this unexpected visit and invitation, I broached the subject that I had been pondering over that afternoon.

“So, Pierre, what’s the particular reason for this trip and how come you knocked on my door this afternoon?”

“Research into family history,” he replied. “Let me guess. One of your ancestors was an officer in Napoleon’s army, like MacDonald?”

“No. Not so far back as that. In fact my father was Scottish.”

“With a name like Collard?” “No. That’s my mother’s name.” He saw I was intrigued and he then went on to explain. “There are quite a few of us in France of our generation who were brought up not knowing who their fathers were. It’s not surprising when you think about it. At the end of the war there were thousands of British, American and Canadian soldiers, young and away from home, and French girls are quite attractive. Many of the girls married and went back home with their soldier husbands. Some didn’t. My mother was one that didn’t and I was born and brought up not knowing who my father was – although I had a rough idea.”

The fish arrived and we both seized our utensils and got stuck in. I was intrigued, being a bit of a history buff.