Lethal Intent (26 page)

'Who the hell are the Groves family?'

'They own a large construction company in Dundee. The trust was established by Herbert Groves senior, and his heirs and successors have benefited from it ever since.'

'He's getting thirty grand a year from a builder?'

'No,' Wrigley exclaimed. 'The trust exists entirety separately from the company. It is not required to declare its beneficiaries, other than to the Inland Revenue, and before you ask, your subject is not evading any taxes.' She finished her cake, and then eyed McIlhenney's, which was untouched; he pushed it across to her.

'I've also checked the register of MSPs' interests,' she told him. 'Your subject declares among his assets a shareholding in Herbert Groves Construction, plc, and in a number of quoted companies. He doesn't declare the trust income, because he doesn't have to: it isn't remunerated employment.'

She ate the second piece of fudge cake, slowly and with relish. 'There,' she announced, when she was finished, with undisguised self-satisfaction all over her face. 'The people who set you on this errand will be happy. You can go back to them and report that while the man appears to have a background which is at odds with his,' she glanced over her shoulder again, 'political philosophy, he is, legally, squeaky clean.'

Forty-eight

Malky Gladsmuir did not have the sunniest of dispositions at the best of times, and his mood was never improved by a visit from the police. So when Mario McGuire shoved his way through the heavy swing doors and into the Wee Black Dug, he was greeted with the scowl that he had expected.

The detective superintendent glanced around as he shook the snow from his jacket. The looming weather had taken a drastic toll of the evening turn-out: only two drinkers leaned against the bar, while another sat at a table in the furthest corner of the saloon. The assistant barman, with little to do, fixed most of his attention on a snooker tournament on television.

'What can I do for you?' asked Gladsmuir, with a degree of belligerence that almost brought a smile to McGuire's face.

'Your office: now.' He stepped behind the bar, as the pub manager shrugged and opened a door behind him.

'You're not to bother me,' he protested. 'Did you not get told?'

'Sit down, Malky.'

'Ah'll stand if I want.' Gladsmuir backed towards his desk, reaching behind him with his right hand and picking up a heavy glass paperweight.

'Okay, if that's how you want it.' He took half a pace forward; the cornered man swung at his head, hard and fast, but the detective simply smashed aside his assault, sending the weapon flying into a corner of the room, then hit him, once, hard, in the middle of the forehead. The publican's eyes glazed, his legs turned to jelly and he slumped semi-conscious into the chair behind him.

McGuire grinned. 'I told you to sit down.'

He waited until Gladsmuir's eyes began to focus once more, then pulled up the small office's other chair and sat facing him. 'That's the second time we've done this dance in here, Malky,' he said. 'When's it going to dawn on you that it'll only ever get you hurt? Or did your talk with Greg Jay make you think you were safe from me? Tell me something, my friend, which of us really scares you the most? Me or Greg?'

'You don't scare me,' Gladsmuir retorted; but his tone branded him a liar. 'Mr Jay never threatened me; he never came in here looking for trouble.'

'Neither did I; all I wanted was a conversation. It was you who took a swing at me, remember? But, Malky, did you really think that you could just go whining to Greg and that he'd warn me off, tell me to let you carry on with whatever sleazy understanding you and he had? I've told you before and I'm telling you again: I know that in his time this place was a police-free zone, but those days are gone.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

McGuire laughed. 'Don't give me that! Of course you do. What I want now is for you to tell me how it operated, what sort of stuff you were feeding him to make it worth his while. It doesn't show from my divisional records, that's for sure. I've been talking to my guys as well. None of them could recall a single arrest that was made on the basis of a tip from you. All they said was that Greg let it be known that you were his. I'll say this for him, he kept your cover bloody well. Come on, what did you give him?'

'Stuff,' the publican mumbled.

'What you mean "stuff"?'

'This and that, just wee things I heard in the pub.'

'Such as?'

'I can't remember.'

'You'd better start, pal. While you're thinking about it, tell me how you came to complain to Greg about me.'

'Ah didn't, honest. He came in here to see me. It was him that asked me how things were going wi' you. I told him the truth, that you wanted me to keep on feeding stuff to you, but that there were to be no more scams going on in here.'

'Is that you admitting that there were, and Greg knew about it?'

'I'm admitting nothing.'

McGuire leaned forward and stuck out his chin. 'Take another swing at me, Malky, go on.'

'Naw! Why? Are you daft?'

'No, I'd just like another excuse to get your attention, that's all. I'll ask you again. Was something happening here, and did Greg Jay know about it and turn a blind eye? I want the truth, or you and I are going to my office, and very publicly too, for as long as it takes. Now, give me a one-word answer within the next five seconds. One…'

He had reached 'three', when Malky Gladsmuir muttered, 'Yes.'

'That's good,' said the big detective. 'That's the first sensible thing you've said to me since I walked in here. Now we've made this breakthrough, let's have the rest, all of it.'

Forty-nine

Stevie Steele had never found it more difficult to concentrate on the job. Fortunately his workload was light and he had been able to afford himself the luxury of dwelling upon a turn in his life that would have been astonishing only a month or two earlier.

The night before, he and Maggie had celebrated with a bottle of cava from the fridge, and a home delivery from Pizza Hut. They were still shell-shocked from their discovery, and had ended the evening in helpless laughter at the prospect of a pregnant chief superintendent in uniform.

Although a smile was never far away, he had managed to keep a straight face at the office for most of his shift, even in the face of the apprehension of a thief in a Father Christmas suit who had tripped over his own hem when running out of the Cameron Toll shopping centre with a snatched handbag.

However, his new-found contentment was swept to one side when his door opened just after five fifteen, as he was finishing his paperwork and making ready to leave. He had expected Mary Chambers, calling to wish him good night, or perhaps to ask him what had made him so bright and breezy. Instead, George Regan stepped into the small room.

A glance at the sergeant's face told him that the reality of his loss had begun to catch up with him. His eyes were hollow and his hair, normally impeccably groomed, was untidy. Instead of the usual grey suit, he wore a heavy jacket over a sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.

'Hello, mate,' said Stevie quietly. 'How goes?'

'Bloody terrible, thanks. I'd to get the doctor to Jen yesterday afternoon; she broke down completely and he had to sedate her. She's on industrial-strength Valium now; walks about like a zombie for most of the time.'

'And you?'

'I'm trying to stay off the helpers, other than the odd beer or two.'

'Want one now? I'll come to the pub with you, if you like.'

'Cheers,' said Regan, gratefully, 'but I'd better not. I don't want to be away too long. I just called in to tell you that we've arranged the funeral. It'll be next Wednesday; twelve noon at Warriston Crematorium. Family flowers only, by the way.'

'Can we make a donation to charity instead?'

'If you want; something that benefits children would be nice.' He sighed. 'I'm done, Stevie,' he murmured. 'Looking at Jen, I just feel so bloody helpless; I don't know how to stop her crying, man.'

'Maybe if you joined her, George, just for a while.'

Regan looked at him. 'If I start to cry, I might never stop; that's what scares me.' He slumped into a chair. 'I've tried everything else, mind. I even pulled your report from big Tarvil and staked out the Castle Terrace car park for a couple of nights, with the daft notion that I might find someone who'd seen something on Sunday. I'm not implying that you didn't do a proper job,' he added quickly. 'I suppose I just hoped I'd get lucky.'

'Of course you did. I told Tarvil he could give you the report. No joy?'

'Of course not. I found a couple or three people who'd been there around that time, but none of them had seen a damn thing… because there was nothing to see. The silly wee bugger just tried one of his stunts, Stevie, that's all there is to it, and broke his parents' hearts in the process.'

Fifty

The signs for Hawthorn Moor Golf Club had occasionally caught Andy Martin's eye as he commuted from his home in Perth to his office in Dundee, but he had never followed them until Rod Greatorix directed him into the car park outside the clubhouse. It was an old building that had been adapted and greatly expanded to fit the purpose, clearly chosen for its location. It was dark and so Martin could see nothing of the course, but it was clear that during the day the members' lounge offered a panoramic view.

'Nice,' he muttered to his colleague. 'I take it that outside it's covered in hawthorn bushes.'

'The title doesn't mean a damn thing,' Greatorix told him. 'That's just a marketing name the investors or their PR men dreamed up. It used to be farmland, until the owner moved with the times and put it to other use. It's a limited company; Brindsley's a shareholder, of course. And guess who built this clubhouse? Of course you can.' He pointed to a group of three men seated round a table in the window. 'As expected, that's him holding court over there.'

As he led the way across the spacious room, one of the trio noticed them and muttered something inaudible. The man in the centre turned to look over his shoulder, then stood up. 'Here comes the filth,' he said, in a gruff, cultured accent, with just a trace of Dundonian, as he extended a hand to Greatorix. 'Brother-in-law, how are you? Come and join us.'

'I'm fine, thanks,' said the head of CID, 'and we were planning to.'

'Who's your friend?'

'This is the deputy chief constable, Andy Martin. I didn't realise till lunchtime that you and he hadn't met, so I thought I should do something about it.'

'Giving me my place in the community, you mean?' He and Martin shook hands. 'Hello, good to meet you. I'd heard about you, of course, from Graham Morton. He and I are brother Rotarians.' Without being asked, his two companions moved their chairs round, making room for the newcomers at the table. Groves glanced in their direction. 'These two codgers are Jack, on the left, and Archie. They're golf addicts, I'm afraid; no hope for them.' The two, who looked to be in their late sixties, nodded happy agreement, then turned to their own conversation.

Without being summoned, the bar steward appeared beside them. 'What can I get you, gentlemen?'

'I'll have a pint of orange squash,' Martin replied.

The man turned to Greatorix. 'Large whisky, please. I'll catch a lift back with you, Brindsley.'

'Sure.' Groves turned to Martin: he was a big man, an inch or two over six feet, and looked considerably fitter than his brother-in-law, even though the two had to be around the same age. 'What do you think of Tayside?' he asked.

'I like it very much.'

'Won't stretch you very much, though, given where you've come from.'

'My previous force was bigger, that's true, but in manpower terms as well as area. So the two jobs are pretty well commensurate, in terms of being stretched.'

Groves jerked his thumb towards Greatorix. 'I suppose you're this guy's boss now?'

'My management portfolio includes CID, that's true, but no way would I interfere with Rod. He has twenty years more experience than me, and he's a better detective than I ever was.'

'That's not what I heard,' Groves said grunted, oblivious to the implied slight. 'I was told that you had a formidable reputation, and that you've been in some real scrapes in your time. Even shot a couple of people in the line of duty, isn't that right?'

The question took Martin aback; fortunately the arrival of his drink gave him time to react. 'It's not something I dwell on, and it's certainly not something I talk about.'

'I can see why you wouldn't. Still, you can't blame people for wondering about it. I can't imagine what it must be like to kill another man, or woman, as the case may be.'

'I'm happy for you in that case. It doesn't bear imagining.' Abruptly he changed the subject. 'You've spent all your life in Dundee, Rod tells me.'

'Apart from the year I spent doing my post-graduate qualification. These days you can do an MBA by correspondence; I had to go away for mine. Don't think too harshly of me, though: our city is a very interesting place, as you'll discover if you spend long enough among us.'

'I'm prepared to concede that already. It has to have something; after all, it's given Scotland its current First Minister.'

'Ah, Tommy,' he murmured, pausing. 'Yes,' he continued, 'give him long enough and he'll be regarded as our most famous son.'

'Who's the current holder of the title?'

'Oor Wullie, I believe.'

Martin smiled. 'Yes, it's a unique claim to fame, having a cartoon character as your top citizen. I can't knock it, though. I'm a Glaswegian and ours are all footballers… most of them dead footballers, at that.'

'We have something in common, then: we're both sons of cities that are music-hall jokes.'

'Don't tell too many Weegies that.' He sipped his orange squash, noticing that Groves was drinking what appeared to be cola. 'How long have you and Rod been in-laws?' he asked.

Groves frowned. 'Since God was a boy, it seems. Celia and I were married when I was still at university, and before you ask, our son was born six months later.'