Murder on the Second Tee (9 page)

‘Have you noticed any change in atmosphere in the bank recently?’

‘Yes. We were all shocked by Sir Paul’s death. And the bank seems like less of a family now that he’s gone. You may think that’s an odd thing to say, but we were quite close-knit, with mutual respect and quite a bit of banter. That’s changed. When Oliver Davidson decided he was gay people took sides. Then this business of lowering the wealth threshold has divided the directors. It wasn’t a live issue when Sir Paul was around. There’s been a bit of tension about that.’

‘Where do you stand?’

Anderson smiled. ‘A few people have tried to find that out. I have attempted to be Delphic, and I’m not going to tell you now.’

Flick nodded. ‘And you still want to be a director of this bank?’

‘Absolutely. Why ever not? We’ll get through this difficult time, I’m sure. It would help if you could catch this murderer,’ she added.

‘Do you want to ask something?’ Flick asked Wallace, who had been scribbling furiously.

‘No ma’am. I think that covers everything.’

Meaning it this time, Flick thanked Sheila Anderson. She stopped herself from wishing her good luck in the election. If Chandavarkar’s suspicions were right, a seat on the Bucephalus board would be a poisoned chalice.

In the corridor she nearly collided with a waiter. It was Chandavarkar. He looked harassed and as he hurried away Flick saw that his shirt-tail was hanging out. There was still a Do Not Disturb sign on Walkinshaw’s door.

With increasing desperation, Baggo typed in another variation on the theme – alexanderthegr8. He pressed the confirm button and said a silent prayer to Ganesh that at last he had hit on the password for file 123. The god with the elephant’s head, revered for removing obstacles, listened. The file opened and Saddlefell’s briefing for No appeared on the screen. It had taken half an hour going through files bursting with bums, tits and unspeakably obscene clips then a guessing game ended by Googling Bucephalus, but this was what Baggo needed to see.

Carefully, the brief described each director in turn: Forbes was a mean bastard; Davidson temporarily mixed-up; Walkinshaw a shagger; Eglinton a toff. All were clever, good at their jobs and very rich. Saddlefell himself came over as conceited but perceptive. He had viewed Parsley as a risk-taker and a charmer. His comments about the dead man and Eglinton hinted at a lingering resentment at their privileged backgrounds.

The brief dealt shortly with the boardroom argument over lowering the wealth threshold and identified Forbes and Walkinshaw as supporting Saddlefell’s position. On the chairmanship, the same two directors were identified as backing Saddlefell, while Davidson seemed likely to vote for Eglinton, should he throw his hat into the ring. The passage ended with a cryptic comment that Parsley had been loyal to Eglinton, who had recruited him to the bank.

The description of Gerald Knarston-Smith, the manager of the investment arm, was interesting. Baggo had scarcely noticed him around the hotel. His wife, thin but attractive in an off-beat way, appeared to be the dominant character, but according to the brief he was a mathematical genius, just the sort of person you’d need to keep track of a multitude of financial transactions, hiding rogue ones among the rest.

Sheila Anderson on the other hand, was portrayed as a rose among thorns; professional, very clever, hard-working, with skills that saved the bank’s clients millions of pounds without putting a foot outside the law. Saddlefell fancied her, Baggo was sure.

It was from the break-down of responsibilities within the bank that he learned most. If Sheila Anderson had half the integrity and intelligence Saddlefell credited her with, there was no way that any large-scale dishonesty was being practised in the wealth management arm for which she was responsible. That was consistent with the anonymous information linking Parsley and the investment arm with the purchases of bearer bonds. Generally, it had been the investment arms of banks that had made piles of money then caused the shit to hit the fan. The niche Bucephalus Bank was probably no exception.

The passage on Sir Paul Monmouth stressed his integrity, his predictability and his carefulness. Saddlefell reported that before his death he had been making enquiries about loans from the Sulphur Springs Bank, and had been anxious that Bucephalus might have been guilty of mis-reporting rates for LIBOR. The London Inter-Bank Offered Rate was an important barometer of interest rates world-wide and during the financial crisis of 2008 a number of banks had claimed they could borrow at rates significantly lower than those they were paying. This deception was designed to camouflage the parlous state of their finances. The thought that Bucephalus might have departed from long-established standards of honesty had clearly worried Sir Paul. Baggo wondered how much Saddlefell himself had known. The brief hinted at no dishonesty beyond mis-reporting for LIBOR yet the page dealing with euro-bonds he had seen in her room had appeared uncomfortable reading for Walkinshaw. Was it possible that Parsley, aided by Knarston-Smith, had been behind a series of illegal activities that had first saved the bank then swelled its profits while keeping the other directors in ignorance?

As he lay back on his narrow bed and tried to put his thoughts in order, someone thumped his door. ‘Baggo, you there, mate?’ It was Jimmy, a cheery Scottish waiter who had showed him the ropes.

Hurriedly Baggo closed the file, shut his computer and put it to one side. ‘Come in,’ he shouted, trying to sound drowsy. ‘I didn’t sleep last night and I’m knackered,’ he explained to Jimmy.

‘Well ye’d better shift yer arse aff yer bed and get along to room 215. Yon private eye wants tae speak to ye aboot yon prawn vindaloo ye gave him last night.’

‘I know all about that,’ Baggo muttered. Remembering how Walkinshaw had told him to get out of bed, he smiled wryly. To come to think of it, he was knackered.

* * *

‘Ah, Baggo, come in!’ No was in expansive mood. ‘Have a seat. Funny place, St Andrews. I’ve just been for a walk. Had enough fresh air to last a lifetime but it’s the only way to smoke an honest fag round here.’

In the Wimbledon CID room, where he ignored the no smoking rule, it had always been obvious when No was about to bore his team with one of his Thumper Binks stories. Baggo sensed something similar was coming.

No held out a clear tubular bag of brown, candied nuts. ‘Have some of these. Almonds roasted in sugar. Got them in Fuengirola. Next best thing to a fag.’ After Baggo had taken a few, No tipped half the packet into his own hand and started to crunch them. ‘They call this the Home of Golf, Baggo, and that odd grey building you can see from the front of the hotel is The Royal and Ancient Clubhouse, the headquarters of the game world-wide. It’s not impressive, Baggo. Dunno about being royal, but it’s certainly fucking ancient.’ He paused to put more nuts in his mouth. ‘I looked in that big window and there were just a few old farts in leather armchairs. Half-dead, most of them. And this is Saturday, Baggo. I waved at one and he glared at me as if I was a fucking undertaker come to take him away before his time. It needs a membership drive, Baggo. Should be obvious to anyone. So I went round the side to the main door and asked the geezer in a blue uniform if I could take out temporary membership – the bank would pay, and the clubs in Spain do it – but he looked at me as if the cat had dragged me in. Wouldn’t even let me have a gander round the place. I can’t see it lasting, Baggo. You can’t run a sport as big as golf like that. Here, have some more.’ He emptied the nuts into Baggo’s hand.

Baggo looked at the un-ironed green shirt, open at the neck with a missing button, the beige linen jacket carrying evidence of many meals, the creased trousers and the worn and discoloured suede shoes and was reminded of Groucho Marx’s line about not wanting to join any club that would have him as a member. His heart sinking, he could tell that No wanted something big.

‘Golf is a very challenging game, gov, if I may call you that. I have taken it up recently and it is conspicuous for its ethics. It is not the done thing to cheat at golf. Do you play?’

No raised his eyebrows. ‘No time, Baggo, no time. But one day … Now, there’s something I need you to do for me, Baggo, and I’ll see you all right, know what I mean? I’ve cracked it, Baggo. I know who murdered Parsley. And Monmouth too, I’m sure. But you remember the old problem, Baggo, fucking proving it. And I need to move things along so the case stands up and no smart-arse lawyer can get the guilty man off. And that’s what will happen, Baggo, unless you help me.’ He paused. ‘Another fucking guilty man will walk. I don’t want that to happen, and I know you don’t either.’

He can’t possibly have solved the case already, Baggo thought, but said nothing.

‘See this.’ No took a linen handkerchief from an inside pocket, laid it on the table beside him and unwrapped it, revealing a gold money clip. ‘Watch for prints,’ he said as Baggo bent forward to examine it.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a money clip. You fold your cash and this holds it together. It’s for people who are loaded. This has to be found in the killer’s possession. And that’s where you come in.’

‘You want me to plant it.’ A statement, not a question.

‘Old-fashioned methods work, Baggo. You know that. It’s how I got my results in the East End. And I only went for villains, Baggo. Whatever bleeding-heart liberals say, innocent men did not go to jail. I’m not that sort of guy. And I’ll make it worth your while.’ He rubbed thumb and forefinger together.

‘Who’s the murderer then?’

No looked round the room as if the walls had ears and whispered, ‘Saddlefell.’

‘Saddlefell? If I plant something on him I could lose my job and spend years in jail.’

‘But you won’t, Baggo. You can easily get into his room. If you’re picked up on CCTV you can say it’s room service. And they’ll assume if anyone’s planted evidence it’ll have been a policeman.’ He wrapped the clip and put it in Baggo’s hand. ‘In with his underwear would be best. Soon as you can. Must be by mid-afternoon.’

‘How do you know it’s Saddlefell?’

‘Because I’ve had an anonymous tip I know I can rely on. And he’s been telling porky pies about his bed-time on Thursday night. His wife went up to their room half an hour before he did. The porter will say that. He was outside, near the scene of the murder. The stupid bastard smoked one of his poncy little cigars after drinking in the Jigger Inn, yet he’s telling people he went to bed with his wife. Circumstantial of course, but he had a financial motive as well. I’ve seen a lot of bank papers, you know.’

So have I, Baggo thought. ‘How much?’ he asked quickly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How much? For me?’

‘Two K.’

‘It’s a big risk.’

‘Three.’

‘Four. Cash. By Monday lunchtime. Plus five hundred now.’

No glared at him. ‘Don’t know if I can do that.’

‘You always carried cash. Just in case, you said. You’ll have five hundred here “for emergencies” and this is an emergency.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Baggo. All right.’ He reached inside his jacket and produced a wad of notes. He counted out six fifties and ten twenties and handed them over. ‘Let me know as soon as you’ve done it. I’ll stay here till you contact me. You mustn’t let me down, and if anyone asks, we’ve been talking about that vindaloo you made. It’s got a helluva kick, you know.’

‘I hope it didn’t upset you,’ Baggo said innocently as he left the room.

* * *

Along the corridor was a room Baggo knew was unoccupied. He used his staff key to get in. He needed thinking time. He carefully unwrapped the money clip and smiled at the engraving. After a moment’s thought he put it back into his pocket. He didn’t want to risk anything happening to it and he would work out later what to do with it.

He counted the cash again. Six hundred quid in tips for a morning! Pity he would have to declare it all. Or might he stay silent about having sex with Walkinshaw? That would make him the butt of a lot of jokes. He wondered who was paying No to frame Saddlefell. There was no way the ex-inspector would have agreed to pay so much if it had been his own money.

He checked his watch. It was just after twelve. The board meeting would have started. If ever there was a time to plant something, this was it, but that would not be a good idea.

On the other hand, a search of all the bankers’ rooms would reveal a lot of documents which would help his money laundering case. If the inspector were to legally search for a clue in the murder, the officers could look for evidence about what had been going on in the bank. He thought carefully then took a decision.

* * *

‘Sharon!’ Baggo hissed and looked into the room she was cleaning.

‘Whit do you want?’

‘Can you tell me something?’ He moved closer to her and gave her his best smile.

She put her nose to his collar and sniffed. ‘Ye dirty beast. You’ve been shagging yon Walkinshaw. David Beckham after-shave and your curly black hairs all over her sheets. No’ just on the pillow.’

He felt himself blushing. Her eyes blazed and her small but lethal ski-jump nose twitched. Denial was futile. ‘She was very persuasive,’ he said lamely.

‘Aye, right. Can ye no’ do better than that?’

He grinned. ‘That’s a hell of a nose you have.’

‘I’m no’ going to spend all my days cleaning other folks’ rooms. One day ye’ll find me working at the perfume counter of fucking Harvey Nicks.’

‘You should be there already. But I do need to know something.’

She stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘Whit are you doing here? And dinnae tell me ye’r a fucking waiter ’cos I willnae believe you.’

Remembering she didn’t like the police he said, ‘I’m a journalist. There’s a big story about the Bucephalus Bank and I’m trying to get it before the authorities do. And I really need your help.’

She nodded. ‘That makes sense. How much do ye need my help?’

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘If I’m tae get intae fucking Harvey Nicks, I’m going tae need whit they call eeloc-ution lessons. Three hunner pounds.’

One look told Baggo that haggling would be pointless. He produced the cash but held on to it. ‘I have to know you can help me. There’s a fat, slobby man with a red face who’s a private detective working for the bank. I need to know where he was between ten and ten-thirty this morning.’

A smile spread across her face and she held her hand out. ‘He wis right where you’re standing, here in yon Forbes’s room. I dinnae ken whit they were talking aboot, but they had the Do Not Disturb sign up for a good half hour.’

He felt like kissing her but stopped himself. He handed over the money.

She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose and stuffed it into her bra. ‘I’m done here, so I’ll leave ye. I dinnae want tae see whit ye do.’

‘Thank you, Sharon, and this conversation hasn’t happened.’

‘Weel, I’m no’ a fucking grass anyway. And I dinnae want tae see my face in any fucking paper.’ She gathered her dusters and left, shutting the door behind her.

Baggo had searched many rooms in his time, but seldom one as meticulously tidy as this. For all Forbes was said to be tight with his money, he knew how to spend on himself. Everything was of the highest quality, neatly arranged and in immaculate condition, but there was nothing of interest. Forbes must have taken all relevant documents and his laptop to the meeting.

Baggo wanted to be able to pretend to No that he had planted the clip, so moved along the corridor to Saddlefell’s room and knocked. There was no reply and he let himself in. From the bathroom he heard splashing and a tuneless female voice singing
I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right out of my Hair.
Was Lady Saddlefell another in the group who had enjoyed guilty pleasures, or did she just like old musicals? Smiling, Baggo checked for incriminating documents, found nothing and left without Lady Saddlefell becoming aware that she had entertained someone.