Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘This is my new boss, Detective Superintendent Chambers. Ms Rose has been promoted, with effect from today.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Whetstone muttered. ‘A very capable woman. Come in and meet Murphy.’

They followed her into the drawing room. For once the dog was not there; where he had lain, there stood a towering young man; at least six feet six, Steele guessed, even taller than Jack McGurk. His mother introduced the two detectives and he reached out and downwards to shake their hands. Glancing up at him, they saw dark circles under his eyes, odd in such a youthful face.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t up for this yesterday,’ he said, in a soft voice, which hinted at the faintest of American accents. ‘But it was a hell of a flight, coming on top of a few days up in the mountains with my pals, with no sleep involved.’

‘I’ll make some coffee,’ his mother announced. ‘I don’t think I want to hear the details again,’ she added as she headed for the door.

Murphy Whetstone lowered himself into what had been his father’s chair, and looked at the two officers as they sat on the sofa. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured. ‘All of it, please. My mother couldn’t bring herself to; she said I should hear it from you if I’m to believe it.’

‘If you’re ready,’ Steele began. ‘Your father was found in the Meadows, last Wednesday morning. He was hanging from a tree and he had been there all night. The weather was extremely foggy; that explains why nobody came upon him sooner. My first thought was that he had been attacked, since there was no obvious means by which he could have done it himself. As it transpired, there was an explanation for that.’ He told the young man of the unhelpful intervention of Moash Glazier, and watched his face darken.

‘The bastard actually stole my dad’s coat off his body?’ he exclaimed.

‘I’m afraid so, and the steps that were lying underneath him. The guy’s a professional thief. His saving grace was that he phoned in an anonymous tip-off to tell us about it.’

‘It won’t save him if I ever get my hands on him. I don’t suppose you’d give me his name.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Worth a try. I’ve got friends in the police, though; I’ll be asking around.’

‘Please don’t do that,’ Mary Chambers asked. ‘Anyone who gave you information about him would be fired. Go on, Stevie.’

‘Yes. Finding that ladder made suicide a possibility, Mr Whetstone; indeed, it made it the likeliest explanation. There are two things you should know. The first is that a post-mortem examination showed that your father was suffering from a type of lung tumour which almost invariably proves fatal. The second came to light when we visited the Scottish Farmers Bank. We were given a copy of a file that shows that your father set up a dummy account and diverted loan funds to an offshore bank account.’

The young man’s face flushed as he shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that, and I never will. That is not my dad you’re talking about; he was the most honourable man you’d ever meet.’

‘I expected you to say that, and I understand. But these are the facts.’ The DI recited, virtually word for word, the contents of the Bonspiel folder. When he had finished, he looked across at Murphy Whetstone, and saw that he was smiling.

‘Do you actually believe that crap?’ the young man asked.

‘The procurator fiscal believes it; he’s accepted our report. I’m sorry; I know that it’s very difficult for you to take in, but those are the facts.’

‘No, not facts; a load of nonsense actually. I’m sure that there’s been a fraud, and I’m sure that the bank’s lost money, but it wasn’t my father who did it. I am absolutely certain of that.’

‘Why?’ asked Mary Chambers, quietly.

‘Are you a curler?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Do you curl? Do you play the roaring game?’

‘No.’›

‘How about you, Inspector?’

‘No, me neither.’

‘Well, my father did, and so do I. And I can tell you one thing. If he was going to set up a dummy company to defraud the bank, he’d have set one up that wasn’t an obvious con from the word go. In particular, he wouldn’t have involved it in making stones out of Ailsa Craig granite. Any curler would tell you how bloody stupid that is.’

‘So tell us,’ said Steele, intrigued.

‘Ailsa Craig curling stones are made by one firm and one firm alone. They’re called Kay’s, they’re from Mauchline, in Ayrshire, and they have exclusive rights to Ailsa Craig granite. My dad knew all that. I’m telling you; even if he was bent he wouldn’t have done that.’

The two detectives exchanged glances. ‘But he signed the application off himself,’ said Steele.

‘Or someone else did and made it look like him. I know it, he wouldn’t have done something as obviously phoney as that.’

‘But would it matter?’ asked Steele. ‘If your father knew that he was terminally ill and intended to kill himself, he’d only care that the money was beyond the bank’s recovery. He’d know the set-up was bound to be discovered after his death.’

‘And did he know that? Had he consulted his GP?’

‘No,’ the inspector admitted, ‘he hadn’t.’

‘There you are then,’ the young man challenged.

‘Very well,’ said Mary Chambers. ‘We’ll look into it, Mr Whetstone. We’ll go back to the bank and we’ll insist on carrying out our own investigation of the alleged fraud. But from what I’ve read of the files in this matter, it’ll take quite a bit to make us alter our view that your father committed suicide.’

Moash Glazier had deemed it wise to lie low for a few days. In particular, he had deemed it wise to stay out of Leith, in case someone spotted him and reported his presence in the area to Malky Gladsmuir.

He knew how unpopular he would be with the bar manager and had decided to give him time to recover from his visit from the CID and from his embarrassment over the coat that he had taken from him. The longer he delayed their inevitable meeting the more likely he was to escape a kicking. One thing was certain, though; never again would he be allowed a slate in the Wee Black Dug. In future it would have to be cash on the bar.

If anyone understood the meaning of the phrase ‘cash economy’, it was Moash Glazier. He kept his contact with the official world to a minimum; he had been given a National Insurance number once but he had no idea what it was, or what obligations it imposed on him. Moash wanted nothing to do with formal society. Somewhere he fitted into a chain of supply and demand, but he would have scoffed at the idea. He lived on what he stole and on the money realised by its sale, and that was that.

His lifestyle carried the hazard of imprisonment, but paradoxically it offered the priceless benefit of freedom from the drudgery that made him pity those ordinary straight people who went to work eight hours a day, five days a week. He was glad of their efforts, though. After all, who else filled the great lucky dip in which he delved for his living?

If he had been able to recognise it, though, he was trapped in a work cycle of his own. He had no bank account, no nest egg; he fed and watered himself on a day-to-day basis, and holidays were a luxury he could not afford. His close call in the Meadows had rattled him, and he had hidden away with his Granton woman over the weekend, but the cash he had raised from the mountain bike, the boots and the wee step-ladder. . which had not fallen off during his flight from the Meadows, contrary to the story he had told the police. . was running low, and it was time to go on the prowl.

He decided that the city centre was off limits for a few more days. That young inspector, Steele, had scared the crap out of him, and he had no wish to run into George Regan for a while either. So when he left his bolt-hole, he headed east for Leith and the docks, where there was always stuff lying about.