Scorpio's Lot (37 page)

orbes
entered the bank unannounced. He had no intention of arranging an appointment
with Stephen Buchanan and losing the element of surprise. He could not allow
the manager time to prepare his story and the opportunity to contact Ben
Johnson, the hotel publican, if the situation warranted it. An attractive young
woman of slim build and sparkling eyes greeted him at the information desk. Unfortunately
her total appearance was spoilt by the overuse of makeup, having been applied
thicker than that of a circus clown.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I wish to see Stephen Buchanan,
please.’

‘Your name please, and do you
have an appointment to see the manager?’

‘My name is Detective Sergeant
Alan Forbes and I have no appointment.’

‘One moment, sir. I’ll find out
if he has time to see you.’

She made her way toward an office
in the far corner in such style that Forbes thought she must be practising her
catwalk manoeuvers for some up-and-coming fashion event. He cast an eye around
this bank of modest size. There were seven customers queued and four teller
windows in operation to address the daily deluge. Today the outside ATM didn’t
seem to exert its influence. The woman returned, continuing her catwalk act,
and Forbes felt the urge to place a book on her head to test the law of gravity
in a somewhat absurd balancing act. Enough of these provocative thoughts,
Forbes told himself. There was a serious matter to be addressed.

‘The manager will see you now,’
she beckoned from halfway down the catwalk.

Opening the door, Stephen
Buchanan came forth to welcome the detective with an outstretched arm. He was a
man in his late-forties of solid build, with a trademark pug nose from his
earlier boxing years. Forbes sensed an air of caution and evasiveness about the
man.

‘I’m Stephen Buchanan. How can I
help you?’ Buchanan gestured for the policeman to take a seat.

‘I’m here on police business, Mr
Buchanan.’

‘Oh, I was hoping we may have had
the pleasure of acquiring your business.’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m here
investigating the murders of Jake Reynolds and Ruth Evans, together with the
Molly
Bloom
tragedy,’ responded Forbes calmly.

The banker’s smile was suddenly replaced
by a frown and he gave the appearance of being on full alert. ‘Why would that
have anything to do with me?’

‘It’s concerning your recent
visit to Peterswood. We need to establish the reason behind this trip.’

‘That’s bloody ridiculous. I was
up that way to do some fishing. What’s the crime in that?’ he replied, clearly
agitated by Forbes’s innuendo.

‘What, fishing in the middle of a
storm? Surely not.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that, and
besides, the fishing had finished before the rain hit -’

‘I would’ve expected a fisherman
to check the weather forecast beforehand,’ Forbes cut in. ‘Mr Buchanan, I
personally witnessed a telephone call between yourself and Ben Johnson. The
course of the conversation indicated that a business matter had to be finalised
and he wanted to know when you were returning to Pedley.’

The banker turned a slight shade
of red with this unexpected announcement.

‘I had need to assess a property
in Peterswood, which Ben Johnson expressed an interest in purchasing. If the
sale were to proceed the bank would finance seventy percent of the asking
price, so it was necessary for me to do an independent evaluation. Ben was
anxious to learn of my decision and asked when I would return to commence the
paperwork.’ Buchanan wondered how this transaction could possibly be connected
to the recent Pedley murders.

‘Let me enlighten you on events
that took place in Peterswood at exactly the same time as this alleged business
transaction.’

The detective described the
plight of Brigit O’Neill and Tom Harrison at the Peterswood property, their
encounters with a drug syndicate, the injuries inflicted upon the police and
their eventual escape from these assailants.

Stephen Buchanan listened
intently, not once interrupting. ‘I had no knowledge of this behaviour being
carried out,’ he said when Forbes had finished.

‘So tell me, Mr Buchanan, was it
the fishing trip or the sale of Ben Johnson’s property that persuaded you to
visit Peterswood?’

‘Both.’

‘My, you do cram lot into a short
amount of time. Tell me, were you alone on this excursion?’

‘No, I was accompanied by a mate
of mine who is a keen fisherman.’

‘Is the Peterswood property to
proceed?’

‘My advice to Ben Johnson was not
to purchase. I thought the cost was exorbitant and the present owner had placed
an exaggerated price through the local real estate agent to see if there were
any gullible takers. The property was overpriced by some two hundred thousand
when compared to similar addresses in the area.’

‘And what was Mr Johnson’s
reaction?’

‘He was furious to think that
someone had deliberately exploited his error of judgment. Ben has accumulated a
lot of property over the years, all of which he bought marginally below market
price. To the best of my recollection this is the first time he has made a poor
decision with regards to property investment. Had he not asked for my
independent evaluation and the bank’s financial assistance, there was every
chance he would have gone through with the purchase.’

‘I’ve taken up enough of your
time for today, Mr Buchanan. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I
will see myself out,’ concluded Forbes.

Departing the bank, Forbes couldn’t
help but think that something hadn’t been quite right with the interview. How
odd that a fishing trip coupled with a property evaluation could be achieved in
such a short time frame, and with the inconvenience of a storm to boot. Most
people would separate one from the other.

The second and more puzzling
aspect was Buchanan had clearly said that he opposed the purchase of the
property and yet the telephone conversation had indicated that Ben Johnson had
to see Buchanan at his bank upon returning to Pedley. Logic told the detective
that Buchanan would surely have indicated this during the call, so why the need
for a bank rendezvous if the deal fell through?

~ * ~

It
was late morning when Paul Marsh entered the premises of the Esplanade Hotel.
In what appeared to be organised chaotic behaviour, staff members were hastily
going about their business in readiness for the expectant patrons. Trading
would commence at eleven-thirty, in half an hour’s time, and there was still
much preparation to be done.

As the detective wandered through
the many areas of this old and conventional establishment, he could see clean
glasses being organised behind the main bar, someone vacuuming in the vicinity
of the horse punter’s corner and last-minute, pre-luncheon orders being
arranged in the bistro. When he returned to the main saloon the sudden presence
of a stunning barmaid literally stopped him in his tracks.

Wearing a cotton mesh blouse
revealing sufficient cleavage, tastefully complemented by the presence of an
exquisite cameo necklace, the barmaid paused from her duties to attend to Marsh’s
obvious need for assistance. She was about thirty-five and her physical
attributes were captivating, but there was also a degree of mystery and
fascination about her presence that left the detective spellbound. She had a
rare quality he seldom encountered. Why aren’t all my investigations like this,
he thought.

‘May I help you?’ she enquired
with welcoming eyes.

‘Ah ... yes, certainly,’ replied
Marsh in a delayed reaction, almost forgetting the reason why he was here.

‘Well?’ she prompted with an
encouraging smile.

Marsh pulled himself together. ‘My
name is Detective Senior Constable Paul Marsh and I wish to speak to your
publican, Ben Johnson, if he’s available.’

‘Mr Johnson is in. I’ll try and
find him if you could just wait here.’

‘By the way what is your name?’
he asked in case she didn’t return. ‘Piochsa,’ she responded with a broad grin.

‘Porsche?’

‘No, I’m not a car.’ She laughed
at the detective’s poor attempt. ‘Pronounced Pe-or-sha. It’s Hungarian and
rarely heard of in this part of the world.’

‘An unusual but beautiful name,
if I may say so. What brings you to Pedley, of all places?’

‘Well, it started off as a
working holiday and perhaps in some ways it still is, but I’ve been in your
country for nearly five years now by way of an extended visa. I was living in
the city and sharing a house with a friend who persuaded me to move down here
around three years ago. So here I am, about to serve drinks to all those
thirsty customers.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you again. Do you
work here full time?’

‘From Thursday through to
Saturday, but on rotating shifts.’

‘Well, Piochsa, it’s been a
pleasure to meet you.’ Marsh watched the Hungarian beauty disappear through a
side passageway.

Leaning against the bar, he
studied the vast range of spirits on display with their bottles turned upside
down waiting to tantalise the next set of taste buds. Superbly decorated, the
pub had an appealing, old-world charm. Various paraphernalia adorned the jarrah
paneling and a slate billiard table sat invitingly in the far corner.

He heard the sound of approaching
footsteps upon the polished timbered passageway and a man in his mid-forties
with an impatient face and agitated mannerisms stopped in front of him.

‘My name is Ben Johnson, how can
I help the police?’

‘I’m Detective Senior Constable
Marsh.’ Marsh extended his arm for the customary handshake. ‘The reason for my
visit is the recent telephone call you had with Stephen Buchanan while he was
in Peterswood.’

‘What bloody phone call? I don’t
know what you’re referring to.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Johnson. My
superior, Detective Sergeant Forbes, witnessed your conversation with the
banker.’

‘Is this some sort of joke,
detective? I’m a very busy man and can ill-afford wasting my time listening to
this rubbish.’

‘You don’t seem to fully
understand the grave nature of our investigation. Let me explain the drama that
unfolded in Peterswood, which coincidently happened when Stephen Buchanan was
allegedly in the town. In addition to the
Molly Bloom
incident, you may
then appreciate why we are going to such lengths to uncover every minute detail
in this case, be it directly related or not.’

Following Marsh’s detailed
briefing, the publican snorted at the accusation and threw his arms up in a
defiant display of disapproval.

‘Let me tell you, buster, you’re
barking up the wrong tree coming here with your idle threats. For starters,
Stephen Buchanan was in Peterswood on my behalf checking on a property I was
planning to buy. I’m just now starting to piece your little game together. That
phone call was made in a cafe over breakfast and that fat ugly motherfucker who
sat on the next table must be your illustrious Detective Forbes, would it not?’

‘Yes it was, but this sort of
behaviour will get you nowhere,’ declared Paul Marsh, standing his ground.

‘Then why doesn’t he confront me
with his allegations himself, the gutless wonder? He has to send you to do his
dirty work.’

‘Did the sale of the property go
through?’ asked Marsh, deliberately changing the subject.