Mistakes We Make (21 page)

‘Logan Keir was never going to come,’ he said. ‘And in any case, we never did have any choice.’

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A
dam stood next to James on the steps in front of the Law Society of Scotland, facing his fate. They gazed at the imposing entrance to the tall stone building with its air of implacable authority, then looked at each other, each trying to make courage outshine apprehension in their expressions.

‘I never thought,’ said James, ‘that I would walk through these doors on an errand like this.’

‘No.’

‘It has to be faced.’

‘Yes,’ Adam said, drawing breath. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Of course, it was not a matter of ‘getting it over with’. Discussions with the Law Society were the start of a process, not its end. In a surprisingly ordinary office with walls painted a dull cream and lit by harsh fluorescent lights, they recounted what they knew.

‘The police will be informed immediately,’ said the official. ‘Their prime concern will be to apprehend Mr Keir, wherever he might be. If necessary, they will issue a European Arrest Warrant and work with other authorities around the world to find him.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said James.

‘In the meantime, we will send in a team of investigators and begin the work of interviewing partners and staff.’

‘Of course. We understand.’

‘All partners’ licences will be suspended while the work proceeds.’

‘All of them?’ Adam burst out. ‘Why? How will we be able to work?’

The official placed his elbows on his desk, folded his hands together as if in prayer, and said in a reedy voice that was already becoming irritating, ‘If, within a few weeks, Mr Blair, you are found not to have been a party to any deception, we may see fit to restore a restricted practising certificate. In the meantime, as I explained, we must suspend the certificates of all partners in the firm.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve reported this, for heavens’ sake! The others haven’t done anything wrong either.’ Adam tried to steady his hands.

‘Mr Blair,’ said the official with elaborate patience, ‘at this point we have no idea who might be implicated in the deception. There has to be a full investigation. We will send in a team of auditors who will interview everyone, including all the partners and, naturally, the cashier and delegated cash-room partner. It will take some time, although we will endeavour to be as speedy as we can with our investigations in order to minimise the impact on clients.’

‘On
clients
? What about our staff?’

The set of the man’s jaw said everything. Some hours later, it was agreed that James Blair would retain his licence in order to facilitate the investigations and keep the firm operating with a skeleton staff.

It was the first of many hammer blows.

‘Where is Agnes?’ James asked, glancing around the room.

People glanced at each other, then blankly back at him. There were murmurs, but no clear response. They were uneasy. The atmosphere in the boardroom was troubled. No meeting of all staff had ever been called in this way without notice. Everyone was present, from the most junior secretary to the most senior partner. Adam spotted Caitlyn Murray near the window. She was leaning against the shutters, gripping the corner of the wall with one hand as if to steady herself, and her skin was white. He tried to catch her eye, hoping a calm look from him might help her, but she was staring at the ground.

‘Has she phoned in?’ James was asking the room at large.

There were shrugs and vacant stares.

Adam, still trying to process everything that had happened, felt a chill in his stomach.

Agnes Buchanan. Chief Cashier.

Surely not. Agnes, ‘rock of ages’, who had been with them for forty years. Impossible. She could not be implicated in this.

And yet ... He glanced at James, but his father was drawing breath to speak.

If Logan Keir had been siphoning money out of the firm into false accounts, surely he would need help. The partners might all have failed to spot the missing money by clever book-keeping, but Agnes could not have missed it. Agnes knew where every penny went in Blair King, right down to the drawing pins used to hold up notices in the staffroom.

As soon as James had made his stark announcement and the meeting had broken up, Adam said to his father, ‘Agnes.’

He didn’t need to say more. There was a flash of understanding swiftly followed by something much stronger.

‘I’ll phone,’ Adam said. ‘And if she doesn’t pick up, I’ll go to her house. If she’s not there—’ His lips tightened. ‘It’s the police, I suppose.’

Agnes Buchanan lived in a neat little bungalow in a row of neat little bungalows in the middle of a 1940s estate. Each had a small front garden, most laid to grass with shrubs round the edges. Some had been bricked over to make driveways for cars, and Agnes’s silver Nissan was parked in her drive.

Adam locked his car and studied the house. The garden was bounded by a low stone wall. A magnolia tree near the front window had been preserved when the drive had been laid and a couple of bushes afforded privacy from the bungalow next door. Some of the houses had been extended to accommodate young families. Agnes’s home was unchanged. She had taken care of it, however; that was clear. The window frames were pristine and white-painted and the door, which looked original, gleamed from its paint to its brass knocker.

How long had she lived here? Adam had a dim memory of a funeral – Agnes’s mother? – a number of years ago, and it came to him that perhaps she had lived here all her life.

What else did he know of Agnes Buchanan? Come to that, what did anyone know? She had worked for Blair King since she left school, aged sixteen. Forty years. When had that milestone been reached? Had they marked it in any way, celebrated her loyalty? Not, Adam realised, that he knew of. Had that rankled with the woman? Did she feel taken for granted, undervalued? She had never betrayed discontent.

People liked Agnes. She was calm, efficient, pleasant, and if she kept her private life private, well, who were they to pry?

He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a heavy thud.

He waited, listening.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Thud.

Nothing.

He pushed at the flap of the letterbox and stooped to peer inside. Beyond the hall a door opened at the back into what might be the kitchen.

‘Hello? Agnes? It’s Adam Blair.’

Silence.

‘Trying to get Miss Buchanan, are you?’

He swung round. On the pavement was an elderly man, his collar turned up against the chill air, a tweed cap pulled down over his eyes. A spaniel tugged at the lead he was holding.

‘Yes. Her car’s here. Do you know if she’s in? Are you a neighbour?’

‘That’s right. Next door. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Are you family?’

Adam walked across the drive to the low wall. ‘I’m Adam Blair,’ he said, extending a hand, ‘her employer. She hasn’t come in today. It’s so unlike her, we were worried.’

‘Never takes a day off, that one, she told me so herself,’ the man said, yanking at the lead. ‘Here, Jack.’

‘Do you think she might be ill? You don’t happen to have a key, do you?’

‘Aye, I keep a key.’ The man looked doubtful. ‘Never been inside, mind. I just keep it in case of emergency.’

Adam pursed his lips. ‘Maybe this is the time to dig it out.’

‘You think?’

‘She could have fallen. She could be in bed, needing a doctor. Anything. We could take a look, just make sure.’

‘Well, if you think so. Maybe—’

Adam waited, hopeful.

‘Or maybe we shouldn’t. She likes to keep herself to herself. She’s never asked me in.’

‘Mr—?’

‘Robertson. Jim Robertson.’

‘Mr Robertson, she may need help.’ Adam tried to keep his voice level. ‘I think we should go in. If she’s not there, or if she’s fine, we can leave. I’ll explain to her why we did it, if necessary. But if she’s ill and needs help, and we do nothing—’

Mr Robertson took a decision. ‘You’re right. Come on then, lad.’

They left Jack, protesting, in the kitchen at number forty, and returned a few minutes later with the key to Agnes’s front door.

‘Here goes.’

‘Agnes?’ Adam called again as soon as the door opened. ‘It’s Adam Blair.’

‘And Jim from next door.’

They found her in the bathroom at the back of the house, crumpled awkwardly between the radiator and the bath. Adam dropped to his knees.

‘She’s alive,’ he said, feeling warmth and fumbling to find a pulse. ‘Agnes, can you hear me? It’s Adam Blair.’

She had cut her head. Blood had trickled down her face and dried, so she’d clearly been there some time.

‘Agnes. Miss Buchanan!’

There was a soft moan.

‘I’m calling an ambulance right now. You’re not to worry about anything. You’re going to be just fine,’ Adam said with more conviction than he felt.

The paramedics were there in less than ten minutes. While they examined Agnes, Adam wandered into the hall and the kitchen. In the dining room, he stopped, surprised. The room was full of paintings. He spotted a large canvas that looked remarkably like a Joan Eardley, and another that had the hallmark of an Alberto Morocco. Prints, of course, they had to be – both were well-known Scottish artists whose works sold for thousands of pounds. He walked over to the Morocco and touched the canvas with a tentative finger. It was a great copy, that was for sure. The colours were faithful to what he knew of his style, and it had been printed onto canvas.

In the living room, another large canvas dominated the room. Barbara Rae’s bright, colourful hand was unmistakeable.

They had to be copies. Unless Agnes had come into a fair legacy from her parents, there was no way she would be able to afford work such as this.

‘Looks like she might have had a stroke.’

Adam turned. The paramedics had moved Agnes onto a stretcher and into the hall. She still seemed to be unconscious.

‘Is it bad?’

‘Hard to say. Depends how long she’s been lying there. The cut on her head almost certainly happened when she fell. Anyway, best get on. Are you coming to the hospital with her?’

‘Hospital? No,’ Adam said, disconcerted. ‘I’ll call later to find out how she’s doing.’

While Agnes was being transferred to the ambulance, he took out his phone and quickly photographed several of her paintings. He’d ask Patrick Mulgrew later what he knew about them. Patrick would know.

‘Messages for you, Mr Blair,’ said the girl on reception as soon as he stepped inside the office.

He took the notes she handed to him and glanced through them. Adrienne Keir had been on the phone several times – why hadn’t his father talked to her? A number of clients had been trying to get hold of him. Had word got out already?

He spoke to a panicky and incredulous Adrienne and promised to drop in to see her as soon as he could get away.

He called each client and gave them the line he’d been advised to give by the Law Society.

Finally, he called Molly.

‘I know Adrienne is worried, Molly. I’ve spoken to her. Yes ... Yes ... It’s true, no-one knows where he has disappeared to. No, really, I have no idea.’

He gripped the phone tightly. ‘Molly – I’m sorry, love. There’s something I have to tell you about your brother—’

Part Two

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M
olly didn’t need to open her eyes to know that she was in the flat she shared in London – she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves of the Thames on the small mudflat outside her window. Gulls were squabbling angrily over some titbit washed up by the tide. A boat sped past, its wash smacking against the houseboats moored on the bank.

Her first thought was that living by the river had been an unexpected bonus – it had compensated greatly for losing her beautiful apartment at Fleming House.

Her second thought was ... where’s Logan?

The change in the sequence of thoughts was an improvement, but the feeling of deep desolation stayed with her after the boat had passed and the gulls had fallen silent.

A gentle rap on the door heralded Julian’s voice. ‘You awake, darling?’

Molly hoisted herself to a sitting position and her mouth softened into a small smile. ‘Sure.’

She ran her hands quickly through her hair to neaten it – not that Julian would mind, however sleep-tossed it was. Julian Granger’s friendship was solid and comforting, and in the whirlpool of emotion and activity into which she had been plunged, she clung to it, sometimes with desperation.

‘I brought you some tea. Can I come in?’

Barnaby had introduced her to the softly-spoken banker soon after she arrived in London – he’d just broken up with his partner and was ‘right off men, darling’. Sharing suited them both. The door inched open and Julian appeared, a mug in each hand. His dark hair was damp, but he was dressed already, his pale pink shirt ironed to pristine crispness, his suit trousers neat as new. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, light and fresh. He always judged things nicely.

‘Wanted to be sure you were all right, sweetie. Haven’t seen you for days.’

Molly switched on her bedside light and accepted the mug with a grateful ‘thanks’. Julian was one of the best-looking men she had ever set eyes on. He had magazine-model looks, with dark hair and eyes, and eyelashes that were impossibly thick. He was naturally slim, his fingers were long and elegant, and high cheekbones lent his face stunning definition. It was a crying shame that he was off limits, but it did make life simpler.

‘What star did you zoom down from, Jules? I swear, you’re an angel sent from heaven.’

Julian sank down on the corner of her bed, smiling. ‘You do say lovely things. Seriously – how are you? We’ve been missing each other all week. I needed to know you were still alive.’

The tea was hot and strong, just as she liked it. Julian had a knack of knowing what she needed, and providing it at exactly the right time.

‘I’m fine. It’s been a busy week.’

He shrugged lazily and raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s new?’