Quintin Jardine - Thursday legends

'But I thought that Smith was a closed book, more or less.'

'As far as I'm concerned, it is. I'm just rereading it.'

'And what have you learned?'

'I've learned that Alec Smith liked his nuts…'

'Before they were burned off.' Karen murmured.

'Cashews, actually. I've learned that of all the people interviewed in North Berwick, not one had ever been inside Smith's house. I've learned that he was seen around walking his dog, but that at other times he let the animal run loose. I've learned that on the night he was killed, North Berwick was a ghost town; hardly anyone seems to have been out on the street. The pubs were full, though.'

'No suspicious sightings? No furtive bloke spotted carrying a Safeway bag with a wrench, a knife and a blowtorch in it?'

'No. One guy saw a figure in an anorak carrying a big parcel, but that was all.'

'An anorak? It was a warm night.'

Andy grinned. 'Makes no difference in North Berwick. Even on a mild night it can turn windy all of a sudden, and the haar can come in off the sea without warning.'

'So, to sum up, you've been wasting your time for the last hour?'

'Yeah,' he sighed. 'There's only one thing that struck me as slightly peculiar.' 'What was that?'

'Something from the post-mortem report, actually.' He leaned forward and picked it up from the coffee table. 'Sarah remarks that Smith was very fit and that judging by the musculature of his legs he must have taken a lot of physical exercise; walking, running or cycling, she suggests. Yet…' He paused.

'Yes?' Karen asked, eagerly.

'Yet Bob told me that Alec Smith gave up playing football with his Thursday night crowd because his right knee had packed up on him. Either he made a miracle recovery afterwards, or he was lying.

'If he was, it makes me wonder. Why did he really chuck it?'

'Maybe it occurred to him that a collection of middle-aged men kicking a ball around might look faintly silly.'

Andy laughed out loud. 'Don't you ever say that to Bob Skinner, or to Neil. It's their religion.' He tossed the report back on the table and stood up.

'You know what?' he began. 'I think I'll go to bed.'

She gave him a long, enticing look. 'Can I come too?'

He grinned down at her, on the sofa. 'That was the general idea,' he murmured.

'Don't be crazy, Bob. No way will I cut that plaster off for you; I have to work in the Royal Infirmary. Granted, your leg is not broken, granted, you probably will be kicking footballs around in two to three weeks; but it's still possible that you could have damaged ligaments which could cause long-term problems if you take liberties with them. The orthopaedic guys said you must wear that for a week, and a week it is.'

'Sarah, come on. It's itching like…'

'No!' She looked at the plaster. 'I'll tell you what; it's loosened off a bit; I'll pour just a little baby oil into it. That might ease it.'

'Anything; I'll try anything.'

She took a bottle of Johnson's oil from her dressing table and soaked a piece of cotton wool, then rubbed it around his leg, above the plaster, as he sat on the edge of the bed. 'Ahh!!' he sighed as the balm made its way down. 'That's my girl.'

He lay back and settled down on the divan, leaving his plastered leg hanging over. 'I think I'll go into the office tomorrow,' he said. 'I'll get a car to pick me up.'

'And hobble around, putting weight on that leg?' she exclaimed. 'No, you will not.'

'God, you're a hard woman. I wonder if Alec Smith's wife was like you; maybe that's what made him such a morose bugger.'

She snorted. 'People like the late DCI Smith are not made: they're born. This may not be very scientific, but I do believe in human nature.' She took off her dressing gown and slipped, naked, into bed beside him. 'Take our younger son, for example; he's you in miniature, already.'

He smiled as she switched the light off. 'I wonder how the new one will turn out?'

'Ahh,' said Sarah. 'She'll be like her mother; a more placid and co-operative baby I have never seen. Let's hope that the next two are like her.'

'The next two?' he gasped. 'One, okay, but… It's tough, paying university fees out of a pension, and I'll be retiring by the time Seonaid's at that stage.'

'I'd sort of hoped you'd be retiring before then.'

Suddenly she was aware that he was sitting bolt upright in the dark. 'What is it?' she asked, anxiously.

'It's you. Something you said. Oh, you little cracker.'

He switched on the light once more and scrambled for his address book in the drawer of the bedside table. She watched as he flicked through the pages until he reached the 'Mc' section, then picked up the telephone and dialled.

'Mario,' he said at last. 'DCC here. Sorry if I woke you, but it'll be worth it. I've just remembered something Alec Smith said to me a long time back. I was quizzing him one day about SB security.

'I remember it now, as clear as day. He gave me a long look and he said, "The only way anyone'll ever crack my safe, sir, is if they know my mother's Co-op number". Alec's mother lived in Lochgelly, in Fife. She died four years ago. I wonder how long the Co-operative Society holds on to the records of departed members?'

'What have you got for me, Jack?' Dan Pringle's heavy moustache bristled as he looked across at his sergeant.

McGurk laid a folder on the Superintendent's desk. 'Mr Luke Heard, sir. Age forty-four, senior partner of the firm of Paris Simons; married, wife's name Gwendoline, nee MacDonald, one daughter aged seventeen and two sons, aged fourteen and twelve. Educated at George Watson's and Edinburgh University; the kids are all at Watson's too. He's a member of the New Club, Drumsheugh Baths Club, Edinburgh Sports Club, and the Merchant Company of Edinburgh.

'His salary at Paris Simons is one hundred and seventy thousand pounds per annum; in addition, as an equity partner he shares in profits. As well as his involvement with the firm, he holds non-executive directorships in a few firms in which he's invested. One's a software development house in Livingston, another's a design consultancy, and a third specialises in the disposal of clinical waste.

'He's also chairman of a company called Linton Heritable Trust; it's an investment vehicle based in Liechtenstein owned by a man called Dominic Jackson.

'Heard's last tax return declared total income of four hundred and ninety-one thousand pounds.'

'Fuckin' hell,' Pringle growled.

'Well put, sir. Yet he's not as wealthy as he should be. His pension's healthy but his house is still mortgaged, and looking at his bank accounts he isn't as cash rich as you'd expect. Our Mr Heard's a bit of a gambler; he goes to the casino out at Maybury quite a bit. He isn't a big loser, but he's consistently in the red.

'He told the manager there that his ambition was to be very rich and retired by the time he was fifty. If the Golden Crescent deal had gone through, that would have realised it for him.'

The Superintendent nodded. 'Aye, he must really have been pissed off with Shearer.' He frowned. 'This man Dominic Jackson; what do we know about him?'

A slow, slightly smug, grin spread over the Sergeant's face. 'That's where it gets really interesting, sir. I asked the police national computer that very same question, and it came up with only one answer. Dominic Jackson is an alias of one Leonard Plenderleith, currently resident in HM Prison, Shotts, serving three consecutive life sentences.

Pringle seemed to sit bolt upright. 'Big Lennie Plenderleith! Tony Manson's minder!'

'Manson's heir, sir. When Terrible Tony was murdered, he left Plenderleith all his offshore cash; it's still there, untouchable, and it's growing. Heard visits him in Shotts every three months with investment reports.'