Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘He had the money with him?’

Mrs Briggs nodded, wide-eyed at the memory. ‘Showed me it, all in a smart-looking briefcase.’

‘A briefcase?’

‘Lovely and shiny it was.’

Siobhan scribbled a note to herself. ‘And what happened?’ she asked.

‘Well, I had to fetch the manager. I mean, that amount of cash...’ She shivered at the thought.

‘This was Mr Samuels?’

‘The manager, yes. Lovely man, old George.’

‘You keep in touch?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, George... Mr Samuels, that is, took Mr Mackie into the office. The old office.’ She nodded at where they were sitting. ‘It used to be over by the front door. Don’t know why they moved it. And when Mr Mackie came out, that was it, we had a new customer. And every time he came in, he’d wait until I could deal with him.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Such a shame to see him go like that.’

‘Go?’

‘You know, let himself go. I mean, the day he opened the account... well, he wasn’t dressed to the nines but he was presentable. Suit and what have you. Hair might have needed a wash and trim...’ She patted her own hair again. ‘. . but nicely spoken and everything.’

‘Then he started going downhill?’

‘Pretty much straight away. I mentioned it to Mr Samuels.’

‘What did he say?’

She smiled at the memory, recited the reply: ‘“Valerie, dear, there are probably more eccentric rich people out there than normal ones.” He had a point, I suppose. But he said something else I remember: “Money brings with it a responsibility some of us are unable to handle.”’

‘He could have a point.’

‘Maybe so, dear, but I told him I’d be willing to take my chances any time he felt like emptying the safe.’

They shared a laugh at this, before Clarke asked Mrs Briggs how she might find Mr Samuels.

‘That’s an easy one. He’s a demon for the bowls. It’s like a religion with him.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Do you give up churchgoing because it’s snowing outside?’

It was a good point, and one Clarke was willing to concede in exchange for an address.

She walked past the bowling green and pushed open the door to the social club. She hadn’t been to Blackhall before, and the maze of streets had defeated her, twice misleading her back on to the busy Queensferry Road. This was Bungalow Land, an area of the city that seemed to have stepped straight out of the 1930s. It seemed a world away from Broughton Street. Here, you appeared to have left the city. There was precious little commerce, precious few people about. The bowling green had a careworn look, its grass a dull emulsion. The clubhouse behind it was a single-storey affair of brown wooden slats, probably thirty years old and showing its age. She stepped inside to a furnace-blast from the ceiling-mounted heater. There was a bar ahead of her, where an elderly woman was humming some show tune as she dusted the bottles of spirits.

‘Bowls?’ Clarke called.

‘Through the doors, hen.’ Nodding in the general direction without losing her beat. Clarke pushed open the double doors and was in a long narrow room. A green baize mat, twelve feet wide and about fifty long, took up most of the available space. A few plastic chairs were scattered around the periphery, but there were no spectators, just the four players, who looked towards the interruption with all the ire they could muster until, noting her sex and youth, their faces melted and backs straightened.

‘One of yours, I’ll bet,’ one man said, nudging his neighbour.

‘Away to hell.’

‘Jimmy likes them with a bit more meat on their bones,’ the third player added.

‘And a few more miles on the clock, too,’ said player four. They were laughing now, laughing with the confidence of old men, immune from penalty.

‘Wouldn’t you give your left one to be forty years younger?’ The speaker stooped to pick up one of his bowls. The jack had been dispatched to the far end of the carpet. Two bowls sat either side of it.

‘Sorry to interrupt your game,’ Clarke said, deciding immediately on her approach. ‘I’m Detective Constable Clarke.’ She showed them her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for George Samuels.’

‘Told you they’d catch up with you, Dod.’

‘It was only a matter of time.’

‘I’m George Samuels.’ The man who stepped forward was tall and slender and wore a burgundy tie under his sleeveless V-neck jumper. His hand when she shook it had a firm grip and was warm and dry. His hair was snowy white and plentiful, like cotton wadding.

‘Mr Samuels, I’m from St Leonard’s police station. Would you mind if I had a word?’

‘I’ve been expecting you.’ His eyes were the blue of summer water. ‘It’s about Christopher Mackie, isn’t it?’ He saw the look of surprise on her face and broke into a smile, pleased that he still had some force in the world.

They sat in a corner of the bar. An elderly couple sat in the other corner: the man had drifted off to sleep and the woman was knitting. A half-pint of beer sat in front of the man, a sherry in front of his companion.

George Samuels had ordered a whisky, doubling its volume with water. He’d signed Clarke in so that she could drink as his guest, but she’d only wanted coffee. Now, after the first sip, she was wishing she hadn’t bothered. The catering-sized tin of instant behind the bar should have given her the first clue. The second should have been when the barmaid started chipping away at the contents.

‘How did you know?’ she asked.

Samuels ran a hand over his forehead. ‘I always knew there was something wrong with it... with him. You don’t just walk into a building society with that amount of money.’ He looked up from his drink. ‘You don’t, do you?’

‘I’d like the chance to try,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘You’ve been talking to Val Briggs. She said much the same thing. We always joked about it.’

‘If you thought there was something odd about it, why take the money?’

He opened his arms. ‘If I hadn’t, someone else would. This was twenty years ago. We weren’t under any obligation to tell the police if something like that happened. That one deposit made me Branch Manager of the Month.’

‘Did he say anything about the money?’

Samuels was nodding. There was something Christmasy about his hair; Clarke imagined playing with it, like playing with fresh snow. ‘Oh, I asked,’ he told her. ‘I came straight out.’

‘And?’ A couple of biscuits had arrived with the coffee. She bit into one. It was soft, felt greasy in her mouth.

‘He asked if I needed to know. I said I’d like to know, which wasn’t quite the same thing. He told me it was from a bank robbery.’ Her look pleased him all over again. ‘Of course, we both laughed. I mean, he was joking. The notes... their serial numbers... I’d have known if they’d been stolen.’

Clarke nodded. There was a paste in her mouth. The only way she could swallow it was with the help of a drink, and the only drink available was the coffee. She took a swig, held her breath and swallowed.

‘So what else did he say?’

‘Oh, he said something about the money coming to him in a will. Him having cashed the cheque to see what that amount of cash looked like.’

‘He didn’t say where he cashed the cheque?’

Samuels shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I’d have believed him, even if he had.’

She looked at him. ‘You thought the money was...?’

‘Tainted in some way.’ He was nodding. ‘But no matter what I thought, there he was, offering to place it in an account at my branch.’

‘No qualms?’

‘Not at the time.’