Murder on the Second Tee (8 page)

‘Are you wired?’ Forbes asked languidly. With his plummy accent he sounded as if he was asking if Osborne had slept well.

‘No.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Why should I?’

Forbes gave a condescending smile. ‘Because you are desperate to know what I’m about to say, and I need to be satisfied I’m not being recorded.’

Osborne shrugged and unbuttoned his shirt.

The smile disappeared. ‘I’m not an idiot. Some devices are tiny. Strip to your boxers.’ Seeing Osborne’s frown he added, ‘I don’t fancy you, so don’t worry about that.’

Slowly, Osborne undressed and passed each garment to Forbes who, despite handling them with obvious distaste, subjected them to a meticulous examination. Then with Osborne standing self-consciously in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his grubby boxers, Forbes inspected him as a sergeant-major would a new recruit.

‘Good. Sorry about that,’ Forbes said eventually.

Osborne dressed quickly and took his seat again. ‘This had better be worth it,’ he said. ‘Now you.’

‘Touche,’ Forbes said. Without demur or embarrassment he peeled off his clothes and handed them over. Osborne noted nothing about them except that they were clean, smart and expensive. When Forbes stood in his boxers, white-skinned and puny-looking, his pot belly sticking out, Osborne made him lift both arms as if he might have hidden a bug under an armpit. Apparently unconscious of how absurd he looked, Forbes’s expression did not change, but Osborne felt he had at least done something to level the score.

‘Well?’ Osborne repeated after Forbes had dressed.

‘I did not murder Sir Paul Monmouth and I did not murder Hugh Parsley.’ Forbes paused for effect. ‘I do not know who did, and here I am assuming that Monmouth was murdered. He may not have been. You and I are two of a kind, out for number one.’ He paused again. ‘I see you don’t deny it. I want to pay you a large sum of money, more money than you will ever have had a chance of getting your hands on. I want to pay ten thousand pounds, or equivalent in any currency you name, into your bank account and I want to do it now. Then, on Monday morning, I want to pay you one hundred thousand pounds. Again in a currency of your choice.’

‘I’m not stopping you.’ Osborne’s heart raced. This was the sort of arrogant bastard he usually enjoyed being dismissively rude to, but not today. He tried not to show his surprise and excitement.

‘But you have to do something.’

‘There’s a surprise.’

‘You will plant this on Lord Saddlefell.’ He opened a drawer and brought out a small item wrapped in a handkerchief. Unfolding the linen, he revealed a gold money clip. Osborne peered at it. On the clip was an engraving of a bull sinking his horns into a man’s bottom. On the other side SHAFTED BY HP was inscribed.

‘You don’t need to know how or where I got this,’ Forbes said smoothly, ‘but it will focus police attention on Lord Saddlefell when they search his room, following information you will give them. You will also tell them that Lord Saddlefell did not go straight to his room after drinking in the Jigger on Thursday night. He stood beside the seventeenth fairway and smoked one of these naff little cigars he seems to like. I know because I went out on my balcony and smelled it. The porter will be sure to remember that idiot wife of his coming in ahead of him and needing her room card. For some reason she always leaves it with the porter.’

‘But …’ Osborne was lost for words.

‘Come on, you’ve planted evidence before. Lots of times.’

‘Yes, but on people who were guilty of something.’

‘I’d better explain. The directors of the bank are split into two factions. There are two issues: one, whether we lower the threshold to allow less wealthy people to become clients, and two, who will be the next chairman. The faction of which I am a member will prevail. Lord Saddlefell is presently its leader and will be elected chairman – unless he’s arrested for murder, in which case I will be chairman. Once the decision to appoint me has been taken, the flaws in the police case will become apparent and, assuming he’s not the killer, he will be released. So no substantial harm will have been done. Arguably, the arrest of Saddlefell will make the real murderer relax and make a mistake, and without that you and the police will struggle? No?’

Osborne did not know what to say. He did not like the sound of Forbes’s proposal. But there was the money …

‘What’s the number of your bank account?’ Forbes opened his laptop and pressed some buttons. ‘I’m ready to pay the ten thousand now.’

‘Fresh orange juice for Room 130. Ms Walkinshaw.’

‘I’ll get it!’ Baggo, his memory stick safe in his trouser pocket, had returned to the service area after refreshing himself in his room. He had not yet encountered the sole female director who had a formidable reputation in financial circles.

His knock answered by an imperious ‘come’, Baggo entered and placed the juice in front of Nicola Walkinshaw, who sat at the table beside the window, a sheaf of papers in front of her. As she ran her eye over him, he took in the artificiality of her black hair and young face on an old neck, but it was her nightdress that caught his attention. Ruby-red silk edged with lace, it brushed the tops of her thighs and plunged almost to her navel. She leaned forward for the juice and watched his reaction as her white breasts and pointed nipples were exposed.

‘I have an itch between my shoulder blades,’ she said in a matter of fact voice. ‘My idiot friend missed his flight yesterday so I have no one to scratch it. Would you?’ Without waiting for a reply she turned her back.

If he was going to flee, this would be the time to do it. Generally he was attracted to women with flesh on their bones, and she was much thinner than he liked, but there was something sensuous about her and he had missed sex. What was more, he might learn something useful. Words were redundant. Baggo stood behind her and massaged the gap between her shoulder blades with his thumbs. At the same time he read the top sheet of paper. It was a photo-copy of a handwritten letter from Saddlefell addressed to all directors. It called two meetings, one that day at noon, the second on the following day at eleven am. The business of the first meeting was to be the composition of the board. The business of the second was unspecified, but Webb van Bilt was to be present for part of it.

‘A bit to the right … firmer … lower,’ Walkinshaw purred as Baggo kneaded tight muscle.

Suddenly she stood, faced him and kissed him passionately. Surprised by the brazenness, if not by the approach, he responded, pushing his tongue between her spongy lips and putting his arms round her. Soon his hands were feeling her surprisingly firm, bare bottom. Without warning she broke away from him. ‘Do not disturb,’ she said, pointing to the door. By the time he had fixed the card she was naked on her back on the unmade bed, legs apart, knees bent. On the bedside table lay some twenty pound notes and a pack of Durex Pleasuremax condoms. ‘Strip,’ she commanded then added, ‘slowly … everything … turn round.’

Baggo did not see himself as being prudish but he disliked parading himself unclothed for the pleasure of this strange woman, who played with herself as her gimlet eyes strayed over his body. The large mirror behind the bed made him extra self-conscious but ‘in for a penny, in for a pound,’ as the odd English saying went. He adopted a legs-astride, arms-folded pose he hoped looked masterful then knelt on the bed between her knees.

‘Tongue first,’ she commanded.

A quarter of an hour later he lay on his back, exhausted. It had been an unforgettable experience, devoid of emotion and more like school PE with erotic sensations than love-making. At times what he saw in the mirror made him feel very foolish. He looked at Walkinshaw, also on her back, gazing at the ceiling.

‘So who killed your colleague, Mr Parsley?’ he asked, hoping to surprise her.

Apart from a flicker of her eyebrows she did not react. ‘What business is it of yours?’

‘Everyone is talking about it. It’s not every day a guest gets bumped off.’

‘Well I can’t help you. It wasn’t me, anyway. I enjoyed our occasional over-the-desk sessions too much to want to “bump him off” as you put it.’

‘Is it true Mr Osborne has been brought here to do a Hercule Poirot and solve the case before the police?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, young man. What is your name?’

‘Baggo, Ms Walkinshaw. Sorry, I did not mean to cause offence.’

‘Well, Baggo, get your tight little bottom out of my bed and into its trousers. I have work to do.’

He had hoped she would go into the bathroom, giving him a chance to look at her papers. Before he put his clothes on he said, ‘Excuse me, but I need the toilet.’ He did not wait for her permission.

Apart from enough cosmetics to stock a small chemist’s shop, he saw nothing strange about the contents. He ran the tap and rinsed his mouth, applying some of her toothpaste with a finger. Then he quickly wiped himself with a facecloth and pulled the plug.

When he emerged, Walkinshaw, wearing a white toweling dressing gown, was sitting at the table, sipping her orange juice and reading. Baggo dressed, positioning himself behind her. He could see columns of notes and figures with headings in capitals. From the left these read: ACCOUNT; DATE OF OPENING; INVESTMENT; EURO-BONDS HELD; EURO-BONDS PASSED. Once dressed, he tidied his hair in the mirror and hovered about beside the table. ‘Can I take your glass when you are finished?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said without looking up, frowning at the data in front of her and drumming her purple nails on the table. He could feel where these nails had scratched him.

‘Wait,’ she said as he made to leave. ‘Come here.’ She pushed some notes into the waistband of his trousers and patted his crotch. ‘Five,’ she added with a smile.

‘Five?’

‘Out of ten. A good score for a waiter. Had you been rich and powerful, it would have been eight or nine. I may need some more fresh orange juice before I go, so be prepared.’

He nodded and left, feeling like an insect after a bruising encounter with a Venus Fly-trap. He nearly bumped into a woman emerging from a room on the opposite side of the corridor. It was Inspector Fortune. She gave him a quizzical smile but said nothing.

* * *

Flick had driven to St Andrews silently resenting male police officers and bankers. She decided to question the two female bankers, partly to see how they coped in the man’s world they occupied. When she arrived at the hotel preparations for the annual Christmas Fayre were under way. A full month before the day which she privately called ‘Cashmas’, and with a murder to solve Flick had seldom felt less festive. The hotel staff did not share her feelings. Many wearing silly hats, they were busy hanging glitzy decorations and creating red and silver arrangements.
Ding Dong Merrily on High
was playing in the background. In a corner beside the main door what looked like an open shed was taking shape, a sign advertising Santa’s Grotto beside it.

After checking at reception that both Walkinshaw and Anderson had made the phone calls they had claimed on Thursday night, Flick and Wallace went to Nicola Walkinshaw’s room to find a Do Not Disturb card outside. Sheila Anderson’s room was almost across the corridor and she was available.

Flick remembered her as the woman with wet hair who had come to the conference room from the spa. Her hair was now wavy and honey-coloured and she wore neat black trousers and a frilly pink shirt. She sat in a chair by the window, her laptop open on her knee. Apparently unfazed by the police, she gave them a business-like smile as if inviting questions.

Flick started by asking about her family. Her husband, Donald, was at home looking after their two children, Alan, three and Dotty, two. Donald was a self-employed surveyor whose career had stalled in the recession and he was the one who stayed at home if the children needed attention. She explained this freely, a hint of the West Country in her soft voice. With no hesitation she agreed with Flick that this was an important weekend for her career. ‘They will be taking a vote on new directors today at noon,’ she added, smiling nervously.

‘How did you get on with Mr Parsley?’ Flick asked.

‘I didn’t see much of him.’

‘Had he ever made sexual advances towards you?’

Anderson blinked then scowled. The directness of the question had surprised her, as Flick had intended. ‘I can’t see how that’s relevant.’

‘I’m afraid it may be but we will not betray confidences unless we have to.’

Anderson looked down at her computer as if the appropriate response was there. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘but I have nothing to be ashamed of, so I’ll tell you.’

‘Thank you,’ Flick murmured.

‘You obviously know that there is a vacancy, two now of course, on the board. Last week I was working late and Hugh Parsley came to my room. He sat close to me, fondled my knee and all but said that he would vote for me only if I had sex with him. He showed me he had some condoms in his pocket. I told him to go fuck himself, Inspector. You may find that hard to believe, but it’s true.’

‘Why should I find it hard to believe?’

‘Because from your face in the conference room yesterday, you despise bankers, just like everyone else.’

It was Flick’s turn to be surprised. She felt herself warming to Anderson. ‘Was that the only occasion?’

‘Well he made a suggestive remark on Wednesday night, but I didn’t react so he gave up.’

Wallace cut in, ‘Did you not tell me you had a drink with him after dinner on Thursday?’

‘Yes, I did, but Simon Eglinton and Nicola Walkinshaw were there too. If I were to be elected to the board I’d have had to work more closely with Hugh. I wasn’t going to give anyone a reason for not voting for me.’

Flick asked, ‘Did you tell anyone? That was sexual harassment.’

‘No. I don’t know what it’s like in your world, Inspector, but in mine a complaint would be a sign that I couldn’t take a joke.’ She looked directly at Flick, who knew exactly what she meant but kept a poker face.

‘Ah well,’ Flick said noncommittally.

Wallace cleared his throat.

Flick moved on. ‘Do you know if Mr Parsley made advances to other women connected to the bank?’

‘As I said, Inspector, I didn’t see much of him at work and that suited me fine.’

‘What about office gossip?’ Wallace asked.

‘I don’t know if I should be saying this, as it may be untrue, but a cleaner told me she had come across him having sex in his office. Of course it could have been another man using his desk. Or an over-active imagination.’ She shrugged.

Flick asked, ‘Did he have any enemies in the bank?’

‘Enemies? If so they kept it well hidden. He was really mean to Oliver Davidson. Do you know about him?’

‘Yes. We’ve been told about his … change in direction,’ Flick said.

‘I feel sorry for his poor wife Violet, and the children.’ A flash of anger showed in her eyes.

‘Can you think of anyone apart from Davidson who might have wanted to kill him?’

‘I really can’t help you there, Inspector.’

‘It would help if you told us how the bank works. I understand you are the Client Wealth Manager?’

‘Yes. Pretentious, isn’t it? The bank has two arms, one of which is wealth management, which is really just looking after our clients, handling their investments and financial affairs generally. I am an international tax lawyer and pensions expert, so my skills come into play. The other arm is the investment arm and deals with the bank’s assets. Gerald Knarston-Smith manages it.’

‘Is he good at his job?’ Flick had put him down as a chinless wonder.

‘Oh yes. He is very organised. Seriously bright, too. He’s an actuary and can make numbers sing. He does the most amazing sums in his head. He’s not got a lot of common sense, and that goofy public school act drives most of us demented, but his job is all about margins and percentages and, as I say, making the numbers sing for the bank profits.’

‘What do the other directors do?’

‘Each one has a different expertise, and their skills are available to both branches of the bank. Davidson deals with currencies, Eglinton UK corporate, Walkinshaw international corporate, Saddlefell property and Forbes futures, derivitives and commodities. Parsley was in over-all charge of the investment arm and Gerald was effectively his assistant.’

‘What about Sir Paul Monmouth?’

‘He handled blue-chip companies. So-called. He assured us that Royal Bank of Scotland was “sound as a bell” less than a week before it crashed. Actually that’s a bit unfair. Lots of others who should have known better were fooled. He was a really nice old man, a complete gentleman. Integrity was everything to him. After 2008 he took what he called a supervisory role, in other words he got in the way a bit, but as he had built the bank up in the past and a lot of clients looked to him, the directors let him carry on.’

‘Do you think his death was an accident or murder?’

‘He was quite old, seventy-five I think, but he was careful of himself. You could tell the time by when he arrived in the morning and when he left at night. I don’t know. It’s horrid to think someone killed him.’ Anderson shuddered.

‘How do you get clients?’ Flick asked.

‘We can all introduce clients, provided they pass the wealth threshold. The person doing the introducing puts the client through all the preliminary stuff, money laundering regulations and so on, then each client gets a number. Their name is known only to the introducer and others on a need to know basis. That keeps things confidential. The client deposits some money, at least half a million, with the investment arm, earning them an excellent rate of interest. My arm handles the rest of the money and assets they give us to manage on their behalf.’

‘Are you aware of any irregularity in the way the bank is run?’ Flick carefully watched Anderson’s reaction.

She looked her straight in the eye. ‘No, Inspector. I should tell you that I have had a number of approaches from head-hunters representing other financial institutions, and I have turned them down. I enjoy working for Bucephalus. I like to be in control of my area, as I can in a relatively small organisation. I guarantee that there is nothing wrong with my arm of the bank, and if I thought there was something crooked about the other arm, I would not want to become a director. That would be like flushing my career down the toilet.’

‘Do you trust your colleagues?’

Anderson thought before she answered. ‘I have to. Once trust goes we might as well shut up shop.’

‘How did the bank recover from the turmoil of 2008?’

‘Hugh Parsley was a real rain-maker. He went round the world attracting clients who showed faith in us. So we pulled through. Simon and Eileen Eglinton were good, too. She’s very well-connected. Her father was a big noise in the Tory Party during Thatcher’s time. He seems to know anyone who’s anyone anywhere.’