Murder on the Second Tee (5 page)

‘Detective Sergeant Wallace, meet Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar,’ Flick said. ‘He’s undercover, investigating possible money laundering at the Bucephalus Bank. I’ll go home this afternoon and he’ll brief me there. Don’t tell the rest of the squad about him, but you two should know each other.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Most people call me Baggo, but the Inspector always seems reluctant.’

The older man looked from Baggo to Flick. ‘I’m Lance – to most people,’ he said slowly. Both men grinned.

She said, ‘Where did you pick up these waiting skills, Chandavarkar? You never showed them off in the Wimbledon canteen.’

‘I learned this trade in the Taste of Mumbai on Kensington High Street. A holiday job. And if he had known all that I could do, Inspector No would have had me making him a vindaloo every day. You Christians would call it hiding my light under a bushel, but to me it was no more than common sense.’

‘And my common sense is telling me our murderer is part of the bank party,’ Wallace said. ‘The house to house inquiries have got nowhere, except one old biddy who says she saw a youth with a shaved head running out of Granny Clark’s Wynd and onto the golf course waving a hammer. It was two in the morning, she says. She was out looking for her cat. But she can’t remember if she had her glasses on, she had most of a bottle of Gordon’s inside her, and last month she complained about a witches’ coven meeting in the Valley of Sin. That’s the dip at the front of the eighteenth green, ma’am.’

Baggo sniggered. ‘Where are witches supposed to meet? It must be difficult to find a place to park your broomstick.’ He winked at Flick, who glared back. She had forgotten how irritating Chandavarkar could be.

Wallace looked at him then laughed. ‘So you’re a comedian are you? It was just some drunken students having a picnic so there were no broomsticks with parking tickets.’

Flick sighed. She wished she had a better sense of humour, and was disappointed that Wallace should find Chandavarkar funny. She had never seen him as the frivolous type and dreaded the prospect of the pair of them sparking off each other. ‘We’ll be duty bound to tell the defence about the old bat so she can muddy the waters at a trial,’ she said, trying to be less obviously out on a limb. ‘Now off you go,’ she said to Baggo. ‘You’re not getting a tip. I’ll see you later.’

‘Inspector, ma’am, it will be difficult for me to get off at four, and as we do not know much, it will not take long to brief you. I could do that now and say you were questioning me about the Parsleys and the Eglintons last night.’

Flick saw the sense in that. ‘Right, shoot,’ she said.

Baggo sat at the table and leaned forward. ‘As you know, the SFO have seconded me to SOCA. Under them, the UKFIU deals with proceeds of crime and terrorism, and we rely on SARs from the public.’

‘For goodness sake speak English,’ Flick said, her mouth full of tomato sandwich.

‘So sorry, Inspector ma’am. In the SFO the surest way up the greasy pole is to speak in acronyms. A SAR is a Suspicious Activity Report from the public, and it was through one of them that we learned that the Bucephalus Bank has been buying a lot of euro-bonds. These are unregistered bearer bonds in a denomination not native to the country of issue. For example, you might get a euro-yen bond issued in Britain. The important things are that the owner remains anonymous and they pay out to the bearer, whoever that may be. They are very useful if you want to keep your financial affairs secret. Such bonds have been illegal in the USA for thirty years. We have also been contacted by the Federal Reserve in America who are suspicious about the Sulphur Springs Bank of Atlanta. It has a traditional, blue-chip image but a lot of dodgy clients. It has a close relationship with Bucephalus. In 2008, like so many others, Bucephalus was near to going under. It was saved by a loan from Sulphur Springs. We believe the price may have included assistance in money laundering. The Feds think that drug money is paid by the criminals into Sulphur Springs. It disguises the source by pretending that some of its toxic debt has come good. It then sends the money to Bucephalus in exchange for fictitious invoices for banking or advisory services. Bucephalus then buys euro-bonds which it presumably passes back to the American drug dealers. They can either cash in the bonds and take the money home or simply keep the funds abroad. Of course both banks will have taken hefty cuts as money laundering can mean a lot of jail time.’

He paused, looking hopefully at the last egg sandwich.

‘Go on then,’ Flick said, pushing the plate towards him.

‘Bucephalus,’ he said, his mouth full, ‘has a lot of PEPs as clients. Sorry, Politically Exposed Persons. Dictators of Third World countries, international football committee men, people like that. They syphon off millions given as international aid or bribes, and euro-bonds suit them down to the ground. All banks are supposed to do money laundering checks, but we have heard that since 2008 Bucephalus barely looks at their PEPs. It used to be a by-word for integrity and class, too. What makes it difficult is that there are “Chinese walls” in the bank, and we have no real idea how many individuals are involved, who they are or how we might prove it. So I am here, eavesdropping, but I haven’t learned much, except how to fold a linen napkin in a fancy restaurant. They used cheap paper in the Taste of Mumbai.’

‘Right,’ Flick said. ‘You’ve given us a lot to think about. These inquiries could well be linked. Do you have anything on Sir Paul Monmouth’s death?’

Baggo shook his head. ‘Only that he was a creature of habit and careful of himself. He was run over in Camden High Street going home from work at his usual time. It was a stolen four-by-four and travelling very fast. The vehicle was abandoned nearby. No trace of the driver.’

‘Well keep in touch. We’ll have to pool what we know.’

‘Of course, but please, Inspector ma’am, do not compromise my inquiry. You have very delicate feet, but it would be bad if they were to trample unwisely.’

Flick looked at him coldly. ‘I have no intention of doing any trampling, but this is my territory and a murder inquiry takes precedence over money laundering.’

The companionable atmosphere had evaporated. They swapped mobile numbers then Baggo cleared up and took away the tray. Flick thought for a moment. ‘I think Messrs Davidson and Thornton should be next on our list,’ she said.

* * *

As he made his way back to the serving area Baggo was deep in thought. Fortune had it over him in three ways: this was her territory, murder trumped money laundering, and she out-ranked him. The chances were that the murder or murders were connected to the financial crimes and that the Fife police would ruin things for him by scaring off informants or offering immunity in return for evidence. It had taken a good deal of persuasion before he had been allowed to go undercover and a successful outcome of this inquiry would be a major plus on his CV. Baggo was ambitious and Superintendent Chandavarkar had a good ring to it. There was only one solution: he would have to solve the murder himself. His starting point would be something he had not shared. The anonymous report which had alerted SOCA to the unusual number of bearer bonds bought by Bucephalus had named Hugh Parsley as the director most involved.

As a director, Oliver Davidson merited a room overlooking the Old Course on the first floor along the corridor from the Eglintons. He let Flick and Wallace in, then resumed his seat at a table beside the window. A plate of smoked salmon, half-eaten, lay in front of him. Opposite him Bruce Thornton, the young man who in the conference room had appeared nauseous, finished off an American-sized burger. Between them stood an empty bottle of sauvignon blanc. Davidson gestured towards the bed. Wondering if he had deliberately put her lower than him and facing the light, Flick sat down. Wallace remained standing.

There was a world-weary defiance about his tone as Davidson offered no platitudes about the deceased. He claimed to have had an ordinary professional relationship with him. He had dined at Saddlefell’s table the previous evening then had gone to the Jigger, staying for only one dram. He had returned to his room about quarter to ten and found Bruce already there. As they had an early time on the Old they had gone to bed. Neither had left the room. A tall man with crinkly fair hair going grey, Flick thought there was a melancholy look to Davidson’s prematurely wrinkled face. On the other side of the table, Thornton alternately stared at his plate and nodded like a puppet. The scene in front of her made Flick think of under-rehearsed amateur actors playing a married couple.

She turned to the younger man. ‘It would be helpful to know what you were doing last night,’ she said.

A rabbit caught in headlights expression flashed across his face. ‘Oh, I went out to meet friends.’ His voice was high, the accent Scottish but not broad.

‘Yes?’

‘I come from St Andrews actually. I arranged to meet some of the guys I played boys’ golf with.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Ma Bell’s. It’s on The Scores.’

‘A few drinks?’

‘A few.’ He grinned nervously.

‘When did you get back here?’

‘About half past nine.’

‘Did anyone see you come in?’

Thornton shifted on his chair. ‘Can’t remember.’

Wallace intervened. ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ He moved close to Thornton and peered at the left side of his face. ‘That looks very like a black eye, son. How did you get it?’

‘Oh, that.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Wednesday morning in the pro’s shop. The other assistant was trying to balance a driver upright on his index finger. It fell and hit me.’ He held out his right index finger and balanced an imaginary club on it. He laughed again and shrugged. Flick noted the bulging muscle at the base of his thumb.

‘His name?’ Wallace asked.

‘Tony Longstone.’

‘The club where you work?’

After a moment’s hesitation he whispered, ‘Haleybourne’.

‘And if we ask Longstone, he’ll back you up?’ Wallace’s voice oozed scepticism.

Davidson snapped, ‘Are these questions necessary?’

‘Yes,’ Flick replied. ‘Will he back you up?’

‘Please don’t contact Haleybourne.’ Thornton looked from one detective to the other. Neither spoke. ‘They don’t know …’

‘That you’re gay?’ Flick spoke gently.

Thornton nodded unhappily.

‘We have no wish to embarrass you or anyone else, but we must know the truth – all of it.’ She fixed her eyes on Davidson. ‘From both of you. Now,’ she turned back to the younger man, ‘did you get the black eye from an accident at Haleybourne?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go out last night, meet old friends and return about half past nine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your friends’ names, please.’

‘Archie Turnbull, Linda Hughes, Gregor Mathieson, Tam Auld, Ellie Johnston, Fraser Thompson. And you can talk to them. They’re okay about me being gay.’ He emphasised ‘they’re’.

‘You come from here, yet you’re not staying with your parents?’

Thornton looked at her with respect. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, they can’t handle it. Dad especially.’

‘Had you planned to see them this weekend?’

‘Archie said he’d visit them, but unless they’ve changed their attitude, no.’

‘And you’ll give us addresses of your parents and your friends?’

‘If you really want them.’

‘Please.’

Thornton shrugged, went to the bedside table and wrote some names and addresses on an hotel notepad. He tore out the pages and handed them to Wallace.

‘I can’t remember all of them,’ he said unapologetically.

‘Did you see anything at all odd as you came in last night?’ Flick asked.

‘No.’

‘And did you or Mr Davidson leave the room after he had come up to join you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you like Mr Parsley?’ Flick shot in the question she was really interested in.

‘Where is this leading, Inspector?’ Davidson interjected. ‘Are we suspects?’

‘We are trying to eliminate persons from our inquiry, sir,’ Flick said smoothly. ‘If people answer questions truthfully at this stage, it is generally less embarrassing for them in the end. Did you like Mr Parsley?’ The question was addressed to Thornton. ‘I believe he was a member at Haleybourne.’

The rabbit in headlights look returned. ‘Well I …’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t have much to do with him. I believe he played mostly at some other club.’

‘Did he see you here yesterday?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him.’

Davidson cut in. ‘Bruce came up on the train yesterday evening and went out soon afterwards. He hasn’t been around the hotel much.’

‘Have you talked about Mr Parsley?’ Flick asked.

‘Not really,’ Davidson replied immediately, before Thornton’s shrug became obvious.

‘But you didn’t like Mr Parsley, did you, sir?’ Flick eyeballed Davidson.

He glared back at her.

‘He called you “Pinkpound” round the office and subjected you to a lot of homophobic abuse.’

As Thornton buried his head in his hands, Davidson’s face became red. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but he did make the odd comment.’

‘It was more than the odd comment, wasn’t it? It was persistent verbal bullying.’

Davidson shook his head.

‘Did you realise Mr Thornton’s employers did not know about his sexuality?’

‘I don’t want to say anything more,’ Davidson said forcibly.

‘And before you came to St Andrews, did you know Mr Parsley was a member at Haleybourne?’

Davidson turned to stare out of the window.

‘I’ll take that as a “no”. So when you learned he was a member of the club where Mr Thornton works, you knew that he could make things difficult for him?’

Davidson showed no reaction.

‘You wanted to protect your partner, didn’t you?’

Davidson clenched his fists and stood up so that he towered over Flick, who remained seated on the bed. Watching carefully, Wallace moved closer. After a moment’s tension, Davidson stepped towards the door. With such dignity as he could muster, he said coldly, ‘Homophobia takes many forms, Inspector, and is sometimes quite subtle. This interview is at an end, and should you want to question either of us again, we shall have lawyers present. Good afternoon, Inspector.’

Flick remained seated. She said, ‘It would help us to eliminate you if we could find someone else with a motive to kill Mr Parsley. Are you sure you can’t help us with that?’

Davidson opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ he repeated.

Without a word, Flick got up and strode out, Wallace close behind.

* * *

‘I’m Lady Sandi Saddlefell. Pleased to meet you.’ The heavily made-up Blonde Plastic extended her right hand as if it were to be kissed rather than shaken. ‘That’s S-a-n-d-i, the superior way of spelling it,’ she added with a condescending smile, more twisted than her surgeon would have intended. While the ‘Oi’m’ was pure Essex, the ‘Seddlefail’ was evidence of ambitious elocution. Flick glanced at Wallace, who was paying close attention to his notebook. He looked as if he was biting his tongue.

Twenty minutes later Wallace’s expression had changed to one of boredom. Saddlefell was a master of the art of answering questions with apparent frankness while giving away nothing. His unapologetically Northern accent reminded Flick of a cricketer her father had loathed, Yorkshire’s Geoffrey Boycott, who had the ability to remain at the crease for hours without scoring many runs. Saddlefell could certainly keep a straight bat. The only new information he had divulged was that he and his wife had finished their drams in the Jigger and had gone to bed at about quarter past eleven. They had seen none of the rest of the party then and had remained in their room until morning. There was no significant personal ill-feeling among the directors, and if he had heard homophobic remarks addressed to Davidson he would have reprimanded the speaker. The bank was making satisfactory profits, though like all others they had experienced some difficult moments in 2008. It had been the inherent strength of the bank that had saved it, not loans from America or anywhere else. At no point did the bullish façade waver.

‘Exactly what does your bank do?’ Flick asked in exasperation.

The simplicity of this question seemed to surprise Saddlefell. ‘What any bank does. We look after clients’ money.’

‘And make money for yourselves?’

‘Of course,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I’m not sure that I like the tone of that question, Inspector. I have to say I am disappointed by the amount of attention you have devoted to me and my colleagues when it is clear that this murder must have been the work of some unfortunate local with severe mental health issues. You are, if I may say so, quite inexperienced and during the time I have spent waiting for you today I have made contact with your divisional commander. It appears that we have a number of mutual friends. Should it become necessary, I will have no hesitation in making known my views on the investigation.’

The feelings of hurt and anger, so familiar to Flick when she was Inspector No’s sergeant, weighed down her stomach like lead, but she was not going to let it show. ‘Lord Saddlefell,’ she said quietly, ‘you can express your views to anyone you like. I shall investigate this death as I think fit, and I can tell you that we are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry. I assume you want to help us as much as you can, so I will ask you: what was Mr Parsley’s role in the bank?’

Saddlefell’s expression did not change. He would be a good poker player, Flick thought.

The next few seconds felt like minutes. Then Saddlefell spoke. ‘There are two arms of our bank, the client wealth management arm and the investment arm. Mr Parsley’s area of special responsibility was in the investment arm, overseeing lending, when our money goes out, and gearing, when we borrow from others. All directors have special responsibilities. They have to bring something to the table. For example, I am responsible for our property holdings. I trust that makes it clear.’

‘Are you aware of any irregularities in the area for which Mr Parsley was responsible?’

‘No. He was extremely good at his job.’

‘And did he always obey the rules?’

‘Yes. I trust you are not suggesting otherwise or I will telephone your divisional commander.’

Brusquely, Flick thanked the Saddlefells and left, not troubling to ask them to let her know if they learned anything useful.

‘The Bucephalus is a superior bank, you know,’ Lady Saddlefell trilled as Wallace closed the door.

Flick wondered what the Saddlefells talked about when alone. The intelligence gap was as broad as the Firth of Tay. After wittering about ‘superior’ Islay malts, Lady Saddlefell had sat at a window, applying a ‘superior’ shade of pink to her fingernails and ignoring the increasingly tense confrontation. She appeared totally underwhelmed by the magnificent view from her window across the Old Course to the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse, an iconic building due to its situation and the confident confusion of its architecture.

In the lift Flick muttered to Wallace, ‘Please God give that woman another word for tomorrow. If I hear “superior” again today, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’ As she spoke she realised that Sandi fought a battle against feelings of insecurity, just as she did. She just tackled it differently.

‘It’s undoubtedly a superior sort of mystery, ma’am,’ Wallace said innocently, earning one of Flick’s killer glares.

* * *

‘And if ye try onything, ye’ll have ma brither tae answer to. He gets ootae Perth next week.’

‘Ootae Perth?’ Baggo was mystified. Sharon was the chambermaid who looked after the first floor where the bank directors’ rooms were situated. Having negotiated some time off from his boss, he had invited her to have a drink with him that night. Now he wondered if he would understand anything she said.

‘The jail, daftie. Whit planet are ye aff?’

‘I am from Mars. And you are from Venus. I’ll see you at the staff entrance at ten. Must fly.’ He blew her a kiss, flapped imaginary wings and rushed back to the service counter.

* * *

‘Dr MacGregor! What can you tell me?’ Flick spoke from the newly set up incident room in Cupar. The sight of desks, telephones and computers with people working at them had given her a boost. She hoped this call from the pathologist would enable her to put plenty of information on the whiteboard.

‘Quite a lot Inspector, from the important to the trivial, but then who knows what small detail is going to snare the killer?’

‘Tell me.’

‘For a start the late Mr Parsley liked a drink. He had consumed both whisky and red wine before he died. At the time of death he was roughly three times the UK drink driving limit. His last meal was a steak, medium-rare I suspect, with spinach and chips, followed by cheese, probably Stilton. I’ll give you all the technical details in writing tomorrow, but I believe that he died about one this morning. I could be out by up to an hour either way.’

‘What about the cause of death?’

‘Intra-cranial haemorrhage, as I thought. I might be accused of speculating to some degree, and not all of this will appear in my report, but aided by the putter recovered from the burn, I have a pretty clear picture of what happened. The first point of interest is that there are no defensive wounds, nothing on the outer aspect of the arms or hands to suggest Mr Parsley tried to shield his head from any part of this vicious assault. I infer that he was taken by surprise. The heaviest blow was to the right of his skull above his ear. Based on the shape of the wound and the damage to the skin, I believe that blow could have been inflicted by the face of the putter recovered from the burn. It could not have been inflicted by the back of the putter. None of the injuries could have been caused by the ball scoop.