Murder on the Second Tee (19 page)

‘After them!’ Flick said, breaking into a run.

‘We’ll need tokens to get in,’ McKellar said at her elbow.

‘Can we not …?’

‘No. I’ll go round to the shop and buy them. You could stand by the door in case they come out.’

‘Okay,’ she said, trying not to show her impatience. ‘I’ll tell Wallace where we are.’

McKellar was away for five minutes. By the time he joined Flick at the door of the tower, she was highly agitated.

‘What can they be doing here?’ she asked, not expecting a reply but seizing a token.

The tokens persuaded the revolving metal bars to let them through. They found themselves in a dank stone chamber, well-lit by electricity and with stone steps leading upwards. There was no sound from the stairs.

‘They must be up there,’ McKellar whispered, aware of a slight echo. ‘This is the only way up and down.’

‘Shush,’ Flick said unnecessarily and she set off up the spiral staircase. McKellar followed her but began to struggle. The stones were black and wet and worn. They carried on up and round, up and round, tiring thighs and making both officers breathe heavily. Flick was now several steps in front and increasing the gap between them. As her body began to hurt she thought of other things. She remembered it was about this time of year, just before Christmas, that Prior Robert had been murdered at the top of this tower, if you believed the story. Anyway, this space, these stones she brushed past as she ascended, had seen centuries of life back to when human existence was nasty, brutish and short.

At last she came to the top step, a wire mesh door ahead. She took a deep breath. Suddenly fearful, she pushed the door open and stepped onto the wooden decking at the top of the tower. The first thing she saw was Simon Eglinton sitting on the waist-high parapet on the north side. He was posing for a photograph, looking serious. The photographer was his wife. Angling a mobile phone, she stood some six feet from him. She looked up when she heard the mesh door. An expression of fury twisted her face. She dropped the phone and lunged towards her husband.

Historic Scotland, anxious for the safety of their visitors, had erected a stout fence of wire mesh topped with wood a couple of feet back from the parapet. Both Eglintons were on the wrong side of that fence. Instinctively, Flick moved forward to stop Eileen. She leaned over the fence and grabbed her thick, tweed coat by the left arm which was stretched forward as if to push Simon over the edge. Then Flick pulled backwards and to her left. ‘Get down,’ she yelled at Simon.

Eileen Eglinton swung round and punched hard with her right hand. Flick squealed as the blow landed on her left eye. Her grip on the coat loosened. Swinging her left arm powerfully, Eileen pushed Flick backwards, causing her to slip on the wet decking and sit down heavily, her back against the door from the stairs.

Flick shouted at Simon, ‘She means to kill you.’

Simon, who had got off the parapet, looked at his wife incredulously. He moved towards her as if to embrace her. ‘Eileen, what … what … ?’ he stammered. Eileen made no move towards him. She stood still, glaring at Flick, rage and frustration on her face. Slowly, Simon climbed back over the fence and hovered indecisively in the middle of the decking.

‘She killed Parsley and Thornton,’ Flick said, ‘and she was going to kill you.’

Simon turned to Flick, shaking his head. ‘No, Inspector, it was I who killed Hugh Parsley. Eileen just tidied up. And I don’t believe she killed that boy. You’ve got it all wrong.’

‘Simon, be quiet, for God’s sake,’ Eileen snapped.

Flick felt pressure on her back as McKellar pushed the door behind her. She sensed that Simon, in particular, was more likely to talk if she was alone. ‘Let’s all stay exactly where we are and talk,’ she said loudly. ‘Of course you know I am a police officer and, while you’re not obliged to say anything, anything you do say may be used in evidence. You are both entitled to see a solicitor before speaking further.’

McKellar took the hint and ceased to push against Flick’s back. He did keep the door ajar so he could hear what was said.

Simon shook his head at Eileen. ‘Darling, I have to tell her. I can’t let you take the blame.’

For a moment husband and wife stared at each other across the safety fence then Eileen leaned back against the parapet. She said nothing.

Simon paced up and down on the decking, not looking at either woman, talking as if to himself. ‘You know how we spent Thursday evening. Hugh and I went out late to practise our putting. We were both drunk and it was very silly. We went to the sixteenth green but couldn’t see so walked to the first, where there was a bit of light, and our eyes were getting used to the dark. At one point we swapped putters. He was very rude about my old-fashioned blade and I replied in kind. It got more heated than it should have. Then, out of the blue he said, “I can’t support you as chairman. I’ll be voting for Saddlefell.” I said, “You can’t mean that.” We’d always laughed at Saddlefell, with his preposterous wife and Yorkshire vowels. He said, “I mean it, old friend. I have to.” He turned his back on me and walked away. Couldn’t face me, I suppose, after all I’d done for him and his career. Then with the drink, the red mist descended. I took that ridiculous putter of his and swung it as hard as I could. It hit him on the right side of his head and he went down. I killed him, Inspector. I knew it then. And I panicked. I picked up my putter and ball and went up to the room. I told Eileen everything. She went out to make it look as if some local madman had done it. That’s why she hit him a few times, wiped for fingerprints, threw the putter and ball and that ball scoop thing into the burn and took some cash from his wallet.’

He stopped in front of Flick and looked down on her. ‘The next day I wanted to admit it, but Eileen … Anyway, I remember telling you I hoped God would forgive whoever was responsible, because I never would. And I meant it. I’ll never forgive myself as long as I live, even after discovering what Hugh had been up to. I’d never have believed he could have got mixed up in money laundering. But you’ve got it wrong about Eileen. Completely wrong.’

Flick said, ‘Your wife was meeting Hugh Parsley secretly at Hayleybourne Golf Club. We believe Bruce Thornton recognised her and she felt she had to kill him before he called her Mrs Parsley again.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’ He turned to Eileen.

A resigned look on her face, she said, ‘It’s true. I wanted to keep it from you and you’d be better dead than in prison. That’s why I was going to push you over the edge. You’ll hate me when you learn what’s been going on behind your back, and I can’t bear that. But now you’ll find out anyway. I might as well tell you myself, so you’ll get the truth.’

Simon took a step towards her but she waved him back. He reached out a hand to support himself on the fence then his long legs seemed to give way under him and he slumped down to sit on the decking to Flick’s right.

Eileen looked at Flick, curling her lip. ‘As they said in some television programme, “Listen very carefully. I shall say this only once.”’ She paused. No one smiled. ‘I have been meeting Hugh regularly for years. No, not for sex. He tried it on once and I told him to put it away and grow up. What we met for was something much stronger and more enduring, something I could never have got from you, my love.’ Suddenly tender, she looked adoringly at Simon. ‘We met to scheme. We schemed to make money, to become powerful, and for you to become chairman of the bank. You believe most people are good. You assume they are honourable until they show they are not. Hugh and I saw the world as a jungle, with rules to be used or broken as circumstances dictated. And the main thrill, as any huntsman will tell you, was the thrill of the chase, the excitement of breaking rules and getting away with it.

‘Of course it all started in 2008. Where do you think Hugh got all these contacts, people with illegal funds to launder? From me and my father. He may be old but he still goes to the House of Lords regularly, keeps his ear to the ground and enjoys a bit of scandal. After the crisis had passed Hugh and I couldn’t stop. I loved hearing about the American gangsters we were dealing with through Sulphur Springs, rumours about concrete coffins and real-life offers that couldn’t be refused. We had a dream of you being chairman of a wonderfully respected bank, while all the time the sharks, Hugh and I, would circle underneath and make your bank massively successful. That’s what we planned when we met, and it was our secret. Just ours. But he hadn’t told me he was switching allegiance to Saddlefell. I knew things were beginning to unravel, and I suppose Saddlefell nobbled him, offering him protection in return for his support.

‘It was Sir Paul who spoiled things when he began sniffing about. He was an old hypocrite. You should hear my father on some of the stunts he pulled when he was starting out. Because he had been a chancer in his day and could be like a terrier, he was dangerous. I said to Hugh, “It’s a pity he couldn’t have an accident.” A week later he did. Hugh had mentioned his name to one of our American gangsters and they had friends in the East End. It was frightening …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I was sorry about that little poof, Thornton, but he was collateral damage. I couldn’t let him live. I was going to throttle him, but the golf club came to hand.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘You were sleeping off the gin you’d had at lunch and didn’t realise I’d been out of the room.’

Incensed by the woman’s callous superiority and managing to keep her voice level, Flick said, ‘Bruce Thornton’s parents are mourning a son who died estranged from them. They are in a living hell and you are responsible.’

Eileen turned her cold eyes on Flick. The two women glared at each other in silence. Speaking as if to a careless servant, Eileen said, ‘I don’t know what made you drain that pond. I was sure my tights would disappear for good there. I couldn’t risk flushing them down the lavatory.’ She paused before adding, ‘Oh, and Hugh was still breathing when I found him, so of course I had to finish him off.’

While Simon sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Flick wondered at this statuesque woman who sat on the parapet, back ramrod-straight, lower jaw protruding, a sort of twenty-first century cross between a Hapsburg empress and Lady Macbeth.

Very deliberately, Eileen began to rock to and fro, leaning beyond the parapet.

‘Don’t, Mrs Eglinton,’ Flick said, keeping alarm out of her voice. ‘Your husband, whom you love very much, will never forgive himself if you go over. And during the next few months he will need you as he hasn’t needed you for years. Please don’t do the selfish thing. Do the brave thing.’

Eileen continued to rock back and forward. Flick knew that a movement towards her would probably make her lean back too far. She hoped Simon would sit still, and he did, as if he was frozen. At last Eileen stood up and looked round the panoramic views, breathing deeply. Moving laboriously, she climbed over the safety fence. ‘No handcuffs, please,’ she said. Flick got up. The mesh door opened and McKellar, followed by Wallace and two constables, came onto the decking. ‘No handcuffs,’ Flick repeated and with one constable in front and one behind, Eileen Eglinton made her way down the hundred and fifty-one steps and into captivity.

‘I don’t know you. I never knew you.’ Simon’s voice sounded hollow and forlorn. Flick doubted if Eileen would have heard him.

‘We won’t need handcuffs for him, either,’ Flick said and Wallace and McKellar escorted Simon down.

‘What will happen to him, ma’am?’ McKellar asked later.

‘It’ll depend on whether the pathologist can say which was the fatal blow. From what he said to me, they were cumulatively fatal, so they’ll probably both go down for murder. Did you notice that Simon said he struck Parsley only once? If that’s right Eileen must have hit him on the back of the neck as well as on the face.’

‘To mak siccar, as we say in Scotland, meaning make sure,’ McKellar observed. ‘But if I may say so, you handled that situation very well, ma’am. It’s just a pity we couldn’t get what they said on record.’

‘Oh but I did,’ Flick said. She took her mobile from her pocket. ‘I switched it to record mode. And I cautioned them both before they spoke. It’s worthwhile doing things by the book,’ she added.

McKellar smiled but said nothing.

An hour later, after both prisoners had been processed, Flick sat in her office, deeply satisfied but very, very tired. She put a hand to her stomach and worried.

The taxi was another Mercedes, but this one was dirty, with scrapes along the passenger side, a dented front bumper and a worryingly noisy engine. ‘So tomorrow it rain and day after it wind,’ the driver told Baggo. An East European, he used the journey time to practise his broken English. Sitting on a stained tartan rug in the back, Baggo checked the time. He had used his mobile to book a flight to Edinburgh leaving Heathrow at quarter past two, and hoped he would make it. The driver had no sense of urgency, hardly increasing his speed despite his passenger’s entreaties. The man also chattered non-stop, frequently looking over his shoulder. His gut churning and waiting anxiously for di Falco to phone, Baggo fidgeted with his computer strap and shut his mind to the driver’s prattling.

‘Quiet, please!’ he said abruptly as his phone sounded. It was di Falco.

‘I have good news and bad news,’ di Falco said.

The good news was that the bug had paid off. About half past eleven that morning Forbes had received a phone call during which he listened and said little. He ended the call by saying, ‘This is serious. I’ll have a word with Nicola and we’ll come round to your room in quarter of an hour.’ He had then phoned Nicola Walkinshaw, telling her it was an emergency and asking her to come and see him immediately. When she was with him, Forbes told her that Webb had just heard from his right-hand man in Atlanta. Hours earlier, in what appeared to be a well-organised operation, the Feds had mounted a dawn raid on the Sulphur Springs Bank and removed a lot of records. Worse, Webb’s divorced brother, who had missed a family Thanksgiving he said due to illness, had in fact spent the last three days talking to Federal agents, and had probably incriminated not only Webb but also Forbes and Walkinshaw. They agreed that both had, at different times, spoken to Webb and his brother about buying commodities or overseas stocks to avoid the money laundering being done using only bearer bonds. In the UK all the actions were authorised by Parsley and executed by Knarston-Smith, and their involvement would not appear from the records. But they had been party to activities illegal under American law and it looked as if the Feds might be able to prove it. ‘The words “Federal Penitentiary” make my blood run cold,’ Forbes had said as he and Walkinshaw left the room, presumably to see van Bilt.

The bad news was that all three had disappeared. On hearing the recording, di Falco had asked Jocelyn to discreetly find out where in the hotel Forbes, Walkinshaw and van Bilt were, but they were not in their rooms, or any of the bars or restaurants, or the spa, or the Pro’s Shop. Joe the porter had not seen them leave by the main door and they had not checked out. As di Falco spoke, Jocelyn was phoning the local taxi companies to see if any of their drivers had picked up a fare in town.

Baggo heard a female voice. Di Falco shouted, ‘A Golf City taxi has just dropped off two men and a woman at Edinburgh Airport. One of the men was American. The other was a “wee, fat posh shit”. Forbes didn’t leave a tip.’

Baggo said, ‘Well done! I should land in Edinburgh about half past three. Try to find out what flight they are booked on. I am arriving at Terminal Five now. I shall ring you back before I board. Oh, and get Gerald Knarston-Smith to the phone. I’ll need to speak to him.’

‘Keep the change,’ Baggo snapped as he scrambled out of the car, slamming the door and shutting off the driver’s wordy thanks for a ridiculously generous tip. With no time to spare, Baggo ran to the check-in desks, flashed his warrant and, with profuse apologies and smiles, barged to the front of the queue. ‘Cutting it fine,’ the clerk commented disapprovingly as, with a trace of reluctance, she handed over his boarding card. Using his warrant again, he went to the express lane at security where a yellow-vested special needs helper moved aside grudgingly and a man in a wheelchair cheerfully waved him past. At the gate boarding had started, but he needed to speak to Knarston-Smith.

Di Falco answered on the first ring. ‘As far as I have been able to find out, they’re not booked on any flight this afternoon. Do you think they’re using false names and passports?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps. Keep trying, and persuade the Edinburgh police to detain them if they find them. I’ll have to go soon, so can I speak with Knarston-Smith?’ Baggo smiled at the attendant at the desk and walked slowly down the arm to the plane.

‘Mr Knarston-Smith, we believe Forbes and Walkinshaw are doing a runner with van Bilt,’ he said as soon as he heard Gerald’s breathless voice. ‘Can these bearer bonds be traded electronically?’

‘Yes, it’s through …’

‘Never mind how. Could Forbes and Walkinshaw trade using their mobiles?’

‘Yes. They’d both need to be on line at the same time and use the right passwords. One director on his own could not activate a trade away from the office.’

‘I believe they are certain to try to transfer huge sums in bearer bonds or take a large amount of money out of the bank. They may be doing that right now. Can you stop them?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘If necessary get DC di Falco to persuade Saddlefell and Davidson to help you. But hurry. There is no time to lose.’

‘I’ll need access to a computer.’

‘Get the hotel to help. I’m sure they will. Now please hand the phone back to di Falco.’

In a couple of sentences he gave di Falco his instructions. He rang off as he entered the plane.

* * *

They did not have long to wait before take-off. During the flight Baggo was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Declining refreshment, he smiled sweetly at the neat, bird-like flight attendant with elegantly thin calves but she told him firmly that, policeman or not, he might not use his phone and that there was no way he would be allowed into the cockpit to use the radio. As he squirmed in his seat, ignoring the grunts from the man beside him, he used the time to ask himself what the three fugitives would do, where they might go and how they might get there. By the time the captain announced ten minutes to landing he thought he knew the answers, but he had no idea how he could try to stop them.

The plane broke through the cloud above the patchwork of East Lothian then headed out over the dark, cold waters of the Forth. As it swept round, Baggo could see the famous rail bridge, its floodlights shining through wispy cloud and advancing dusk. Soon they were lower, over golf courses. He could make out a figure in a bunker. The Scots were hardy people, he thought, mad about their golf.

The landing was smooth and the plane taxied towards the terminal. Baggo phoned di Falco before the seatbelt sign went off, ignoring the flight attendant’s glare.

‘It’s a private charter,’ di Falco told him, confirming his fears. ‘It was booked late this morning in the name of the Bucephalus Bank, and they’ve filed a flight plan. They’re heading for Caracas. The plane’s a Dassault Falcon 50 EX, which is a long-range corporate jet. I tried to stop them but as we don’t have a warrant the flight controllers wouldn’t listen and take-off’s scheduled for quarter to four.’

Baggo’s heart sank. If they reached Venezuela and managed to take a lot of money with them they would be untouchable. Citizenship could be bought and Venezuela did not extradite its own citizens. He had less than quarter of an hour to stop them. ‘I will need back-up to arrest them. Please contact the Edinburgh police,’ he said then rang off.

The plane came to a halt. The captain said something about an arm. Baggo peered out of a window. The floodlights were on. He could see a number of planes belonging to different airlines. Passengers were disembarking from one, using mobile steps. A truck-like vehicle approached the rear door of a different plane and stopped beside it. The rear part, the size of a small cabin, rose from the vehicle until it was level with the door of the aircraft, a bridge was extended and someone wearing a yellow vest pushed a person in a wheelchair into the aircraft.

Baggo’s plane moved a couple of hundred metres, but the doors did not open. Increasingly frustrated, he looked out of the window once more. This time he saw a jet, smaller than most commercial planes and without the markings of an airline. A door front left of the fuselage was open. A woman with black hair was climbing steps leading up and in. She was followed by a short, rotund man.

‘I need to get off this aircraft!’ Baggo shouted at the bird-like attendant. ‘This is very urgent. Serious criminals are escaping justice as we speak.’

The attendant stared at him as if calculating whether he might make trouble. She went to the cockpit and was admitted. She came out a minute later and nodded towards Baggo. Then the captain announced that because of difficulties in the allocation of arms, passengers would be asked to disembark using steps. Any passengers who might find this difficult should speak to one of the crew. At once the daughter of an elderly lady put up her hand, causing her mother to scowl.

It took more precious minutes for the steps to be positioned. Waving his warrant, but no longer smiling, Baggo was first down. He looked over to where the Falcon had been, but it had gone. He scanned the airport anxiously then saw the Falcon trundling towards the east end of the runway where three aircraft queued ready for take-off. He knew he was too late, but nevertheless prayed silently to the Hindu god, Shiva, who defeated demons by dancing on them.

As he pictured the god dancing on Walkinshaw and Forbes, the disabled lift vehicle approached. ‘Thank you, Shiva,’ he said aloud and stood between the vehicle and the plane, his hand held up to stop it.

‘I am a police officer on urgent business and I am commandeering this vehicle right now,’ he shouted at the startled driver as he climbed into the cab beside him. ‘Here is my warrant,’ he added, pushing it in the man’s face.

‘First, please tell me if there is anyone in the cabin that rises up,’ Baggo ordered.

The man was in his fifties, balding and though overweight, not obese. He was unshaven and his skin was pale. In a Scots accent he said, ‘My mate Jamie is there.’

‘Tell him to get out now.’

The driver hesitated.

‘Now, or serious criminals will escape.’

The driver used an intercom. ‘Jamie. There’s an emergency. Get out now.’

Baggo added, ‘And tell him to call the police. Come on, we must move.’

‘Are ye alright, Archie?’ Jamie asked.

The driver paused. ‘Aye, I’m alright. The guy with me is polis. But call some more. I think he needs help.’

Baggo heard a metal door open then shut. A younger man appeared beside the cab and looked anxiously at his colleague.

‘Come on,’ Baggo shouted. ‘Make for the middle of the runway.’

He watched carefully as Archie drove away from the clutter of planes and airport vehicles near the terminal. ‘How do you make the cabin go up and down?’ he asked.

‘You press this button.’ Archie pointed to a red button in the middle of his dashboard.

‘And you drive this like a car?’

‘Aye. You can see the gears and the wheel. The pedals are normal.’

‘Thank you. Please put on the lights and get out. You have been very helpful.’

Archie brought the hoist to a stop. There was about thirty metres of paving between them and the runway. Archie switched on the headlights then turned to Baggo. ‘I fear ye’r going to do something bloody daft,’ he said. ‘You could kill someone doing what I think ye’r going to do.’ He climbed out of the cab.

‘I know what I am doing,’ Baggo said, sliding along the bench to the controls. Shaking his head, Archie slammed the door.

A British Airways plane thundered along the runway in front of him, heading west to rise over the fields of West Lothian. The Falcon was next up for take-off. Timing would be crucial. Go too early and the pilot would harmlessly abort, too late and what followed would be too terrible to contemplate.

The Falcon turned so it faced down the runway. It began to move. Baggo pushed the red button and pressed down on the accelerator. The mechanism lifting the cabin creaked and groaned, indicating it was working. Baggo was now on the runway, just short of the broken lines down the middle. He turned right to face the Falcon and took his foot off the accelerator. The vehicle stopped. He did not think the Falcon could get up in time to fly over him and there would not be room for it to pass. If it carried on without deviating its left wing, full of fuel for the trans-Atlantic flight, would hit the disabled cabin. Baggo could see the pilot waving an arm. He closed his eyes, suddenly afraid he had made the biggest blunder of his life, and perhaps the last. He thought of his mother and father.

He heard a loud screech and a roar to his left. He looked behind him and saw the Falcon bumping across the long grass on the far side of the runway, muddy gouge marks in its wake. It came to a halt and sat, lop-sided and ridiculous, like a great bird of prey with a broken wing.

Stunned by the success of his plan, moments passed before he decided to approach the Falcon, ready to arrest anyone who emerged. Blaring sirens and flashing blue lights announced the arrival of three police cars. It was Baggo who took most of their attention and they eyed him with suspicion even after seeing his warrant and hearing his explanation. Once inside the terminal it was apparent that Baggo’s stunt had made the airport authorities incandescent and they wanted every available book thrown at him. Phone calls to Fortune, Jamieson, the Serious Fraud Office, the Federal Reserve and finally Scotland’s Chief Constable persuaded the Edinburgh police to take no action against him. After all, he had secured the arrest of serious financial criminals and no one had been hurt. Jamieson, in particular, sensed kudos from his division’s assistance in what turned out to be a highly successful operation, and perhaps even a goodwill trip to the States.

At one point, van Bilt, Forbes and Walkinshaw were led along a corridor in which Baggo was standing. When she saw him, Walkinshaw’s face remained stony. She passed him then turned and struck like a cobra, her long, purple nails raking his cheek and narrowly missing his left eye.

Once she had been restrained he went up to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Only worth five? I reckon today was worth a ten.’