Lethal Intent (25 page)

'And somewhere along the line, he took Tommy Murtagh under his wing.'

Greatorix smiled. 'Who else have you talked to about this?'

'Diana Meikle.'

The smile became a chuckle. 'She'll have marked your card, then. She hated Brindsley from the off. She reckoned that he supported Labour for business purposes, and that he sponsored Tommy for the same reason. She was bloody right, of course. I suppose she'll have told you about Brindsley and Rachel Murtagh too.'

'Yes, and about their daughter.'

'Ouch! That was naughty of her.'

'You seem to know a hell of a lot about Brindsley Groves,' said Martin.

'I should do,' Greatorix murmured. 'He's married to my sister.'

The deputy chief constable gasped in amazement. 'Jesus, Rod,' he exploded, 'you might have told me that earlier.'

'And spoil my big moment? Never!' He chuckled. 'Don't worry, Andy. None of this'll get back to him. I'm as worried as you at the idea of wee Tommy with all that power over the police.'

'I guess that when Graham warned me to be careful, he meant in speaking to you.'

'I guess; he probably assumed you'd know that Brindsley and I are related. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised that you've never met him. He's a pretty noticeable guy in Dundee. It's time I fixed that for you: come with me to the golf club tonight when we finish. He's always in the bar with his pals from about five thirty on; I'll introduce you.'

'You're on. I'm curious to meet this guy now. Tell me, does he still have Murtagh in his pocket?'

'He never did,' said Greatorix. 'Their relationship benefited them both. It wasn't just a case of Tommy using him as a ladder. As far as I can tell that's all in the past. Each one's served his purpose for the other, so they don't see each other at all now, or at least hardly ever.'

'And what about Cleo, the daughter? Where is she now?'

'I don't know, Andy, and I don't want to. I don't believe that my sister has any idea of her existence, and I want it to stay that way. She left Dundee long ago, and I've no idea what happened to her.'

'Did Brindsley acknowledge her at all?'

'From what I heard, he did; he provided for her, sent her to a good school and then to university. I wish he'd been as kind to my niece and nephew. Young Herbie can't stand him and Rowena couldn't leave home fast enough.'

'From the sound of things, you're not all that keen on your brother-in-law.'

'Frankly I'm not: to me, he was always a cold fish, and he's got worse in recent years. I think that Rachel Murtagh was maybe the only person he ever really loved.'

Forty-six

Paula Viareggio usually lunched alone, in her office, so Mario's call suggesting that they meet in a restaurant near his office had taken her by surprise. The place had looked unimpressive from the outside, but the food, if not delightful as its name suggested, had been good, and value for money too.

'So what prompted this?' she asked, as they sipped the incredibly strong Turkish coffee.

'Nothing,' her cousin-lover replied. 'Somebody at work mentioned it, and I thought it was time we gave it a try, that's all.'

'Who owns it?'

Unobtrusively he pointed a finger at a bald, stocky man standing behind a tiny bar in the far corner of the dining room. 'He does, or so I'm told.'

Paula glanced around her. 'It's just as well his kitchen's better than his decor,' she muttered. The restaurant's predominant colour was red, with garish flock wallpaper that might have come from the seventies, and a thick acrylic-fibre carpet. Even the two overworked waiters wore red ties and aprons.

'You should offer to give him a make-over.' He chuckled. Paula had been mulling over the idea of backing an ambitious young designer in the start-up of an interiors business.

'Ah, but could he afford us? The place is busy, sure, but he's not making much from the lunch trade. Still, I suppose the idea is to entice people like us into coming back at night.'

'Which we're not going to do; I was curious about it, but I won't rush back for a proper meal.' Mario finished his coffee and signalled for the bill. 'Don't base your business plan on it, love,' he advised her. 'Whatever your bright girl advised him, he'll always want this place looking like a harem.'

'You're still not sold on the new venture, are you?'

'If you've got your heart set on it,' he told her, 'I'll go along with it, but it's against my instincts, and Alex Skinner's advice. It's not a natural expansion for the Viareggio group, in that it bears no relation to our existing areas of business. You ask yourself, what would your father or our grandfather have said about it?'

'Nothing,' she conceded glumly. 'They'd just have laughed. Okay, I'll drop it as far as the group's concerned, but… I might put some of my own money into it.'

'Fine, you've got enough since you sold those saunas.'

'Not all that much: your mother had an interest too, remember.'

'That is something I'd rather forget.' He slipped two ten-pound notes into the folder that held the bill, and accepted their overcoats from the owner.

'Thank you, sir,' the man said. 'Are you in business around here?'

'Yes, we are.'

'Then maybe we'll see you again.'

Mario smiled at him. 'That could happen,' he replied.

He held the door for Paula, and they stepped outside into Elbe Street. Snowflakes were drifting gently to the ground, a sign of worse to come, according to the morning's weather forecast.

Her car was parked outside; she offered him a lift back to his office, but it was no more than a quarter of a mile away, and so he chose to walk. 'Are you going out with the boys tonight?' she asked, as she fastened her seatbelt.

'I was, but Neil's working somewhere so he called off. He's asked me if I'll take Spence to the mini-rugby tomorrow.'

'If it's on,' she pointed out. 'They won't let the kids play in the snow, will they?'

'Probably not. But I've thought of that, and if it happens, I've got a fall-back plan for him, and Lauren too if she wants.'

'But you're not doing anything tonight?'

'No, so I'll make dinner at my place, yes?'

She smiled. 'And breakfast.'

She drove the short distance to her office, and parked in her allotted space in the reserved section, on ground that the Viareggio Trust owned. Officially, she and Mario were joint trustees, but in practice they ran the family's enterprises as if they were directors of a conventional commercial group.

She hurried out of the snow and took the lift up to the third floor, stepping out into the small reception area that doubled as her secretary's work-station. Danni was at her desk as usual, but she was not alone. A slim man, with muddy grey eyes, was seated on the couch reserved for visitors; he rose as she entered, stretching out to his full height. 'Hello, Paula,' he greeted her. 'Nice to see you.'

She frowned at him. 'Mr Jay. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?'

'A word in private would be good.'

Paula made no attempt to hide her irritation at his presence. She looked at the wall clock and said, 'I can give you fifteen minutes. I have some important calls to make this afternoon.'

He laughed. 'Come on, lass, you can spare me more than that. I'm important too, you know.'

'Fifteen minutes,' she repeated harshly, 'and you're using them up. Come on through.'

'Would you like coffee?' asked Danni.

'No thanks: I've just had some and Mr Jay won't have the time.' She led the way into her newly redecorated office; it looked out on to the Scottish Executive office building and, from a certain position, to the new Ocean Terminal complex. As she settled behind her desk, she saw that the snow was starting to fall more heavily.

'What do you want?' she snapped, as Jay settled into an easy chair, one of two selected by her designer
protégée.

'Don't be so tetchy, lass.'

'Don't call me lass.'

His false smile vanished. 'Very well, Miss Viareggio, if that's the way you want to play it. I'm concerned about your relationship with Detective Superintendent Mario McGuire.'

She started out of her chair, but with supreme self-control, settled back down, fixing the man with a glare that would have chilled the snow outside. 'And what Goddamned business is that of yours?'

'As I said, I'm concerned about it.'

'In what respect? Are you jealous?'

'If I was younger I might have been, but that's a side issue. What you and McGuire do under the duvet doesn't bother me; it's what you do in business that I'm worried about.'

'I'm sorry,' said Paula. 'I think I'm missing something here. Why should I care what you're worried about, and why should my business be any business of yours?'

'Your father didn't teach you much in the way of respect, did he? Whenever I called on him he welcomed me with a smile and a glass of Amaretto… I'm very fond of Amaretto.' Suddenly the muddy eyes seemed to grow hard. 'He certainly had more sense than to talk to me like that.'

She held his gaze, unflinching. 'And what of my grandfather? Think back twenty years, to when you were a sergeant or whatever, and ask yourself if you'd have traipsed in here then, when he was sat behind that big old desk of his.'

'You're right; I was a sergeant, and I can tell you this too. If I'd called on your grandfather I'd have been accompanied by at least one other officer and probably by people from the Inland Revenue, with a search warrant in my pocket to back me up. Your grandfather's connections don't bear close examination, any more than his tax returns did.'

Paula felt her control slip away. 'Right!' she shouted. 'Your fifteen minutes are up. Get the hell out of here, or I'll call a real policeman to remove you.'

Jay remained seated. 'I'll go when I'm good and ready, and I'll be back before too long. When I come, it'll be with specialist officers from another force, and we will go through the records of your businesses with the finest-toothed of combs. And I don't mean just the last couple of years. We'll go back all the way to the old man. When we're done, there will be no way your beloved can stay in the force. Who knows? We might even have the two of you in court before we're done. It won't stop there, though: Mario's been advanced pretty rapidly in the force. I doubt if someone who'd made such an error of judgement could survive either.'

He pushed himself slowly to his feet. 'It's been a pleasure to see you again… lass,' he said. 'But I'm going to enjoy my next visit even more. Goodbye for now.'

Paula stared at his back as he turned it to her; she stared at the door as he closed it behind him. And then she picked up the telephone and called Mario.

He could almost hear the rage build up within him as he listened to her story, without interrupting her once. Even after she had finished, he stayed silent for a while.

When he did speak, his voice was soft, the way she knew it could sound when someone was in the worst trouble of his life. 'That's it,' he murmured. 'I was asked to take it easy on Jay, and I agreed. But now all deals are off. Before I've done with him, I'm going to see that bastard shivering in his own piss.'

Forty-seven

In the circumstances, there was no question of Neil McIlhenney visiting Debbie Wrigley in her office. Instead, he accepted her suggestion that they meet in the John Lewis cafeteria, where they were least likely to be spotted by anyone either of them knew.

This time, he was first to arrive: he found a space in the NCP car park beside the department store and took the lift up to the fourth-floor restaurant, where he bought a cappuccino, a bottle of sparkling water and two pieces of a thick fudge cake, took a table at the window and sat down to wait.

He looked out over the city, down Leith Walk and across to Calton Hill, cursing quietly to himself at the change in the weather, anticipating the drive through to Glasgow with Mackenzie with no pleasure at all. He had never liked stake-outs even in his younger days, and found the prospect of an evening's bogus conversation with the Bandit to be almost more than he could bear. He found himself praying that the Johnny Groat pub had a television, even if it was tuned to
Coronation Street.

'Cheer up, Neil,' said his banker friend, as she slid into the seat facing him. 'You're supposed to like the snow at Christmas. It's meant to fill us all with seasonal joy.'

'Bugger that for a game of soldiers,' he grunted. 'All I see is traffic chaos, and all I hear is my son moaning because his rugby's been cancelled.'

'Let me cheer you up, then.' Wrigley sipped her coffee, nodding approval. 'You can't have been here long. This is almost warm.'

'Try the cake,' he urged. 'That's real comfort food; should suit you a treat.'

She looked at him over the top of her spectacles. 'Good job we're old friends,' she muttered.

'So what have you got for me, friend?'

'Nothing on paper,' she replied at once. 'I couldn't take the chance of being seen photocopying. You'll have to make notes… that's assuming that policemen still carry notebooks and pencils.'

'This one does, although the pencil's a shade up-market.' He took a pad and a Mont Blanc ballpoint from his pocket. 'Birthday present from my wife,' he explained.

'Very nice.' Wrigley attacked her fudge cake. 'So was that,' she added. 'Now to business.' She checked that the booth behind her was still empty and that nobody else was within earshot.

'Your subject is comfortably off,' she began. 'His salary goes in every month, like anyone else, and it is his principal source of income. However, it is not the only one. There are small payments made to him every six months; I've checked them back and found that they are dividends paid through a blind trust, which looks after his private shareholdings and any other investments.'

'That's standard practice for… people in his position.'

'Yes, dear, I know. I administer several of them. There's nothing out of the ordinary in that at all. However, he has other income which is not quite so orthodox. He receives monthly payments of two and a half thousand pounds, transferred from an account held in the Dundee branch of my own bank. I traced that back also; what I found might interest you. It is the working account of a discretionary trust set up more than fifty years ago to benefit members of the Groves family.'