smart enough to cover his tracks by coming back to the scene of his own crime in the morning, but the fiscal will want to know.’
‘He was in Jenny Ha’s pub, with his Lochview girl-friend. The manager knows them both; she confirmed it. I wish we could find that bloody step-ladder, but he’s hardly going to have made that up. But even without it, “keep an open mind, Stevie” . . . that’s what you’re saying, is it?’
‘Exactly. You’ll have a new boss to impress next week. You won’t do it by chasing false trails.’
‘What’s she like?’ Steele asked. ‘I’ve never worked with her.’
‘Mary Chambers? She’s a first-rate officer and she’ll make a damn good commander. George Regan will have to watch himself, not least because Mary’s gay and he’s an unreconstructed male chauvinist. But you’ll get on well with her, not least because you won’t go out of your way to try to impress her . . . just as you never have with me.’
‘I thought I had.’
‘Not you, Stevie, and you know it. You just do your job the way you think it should be done, and you’re usually right.’
‘Not with Whetstone, though. I don’t know which side of the fence to land on there.’
‘Just keep sat on it, then, till it all becomes clear. Maybe our meeting at the Scottish Farmers Bank will give us a better idea.’
‘You’re still coming to that?’
‘I’m still in post till close of play tomorrow, and I made the appointment personally. I think I should.’
‘Suits me.’ He looked at her across her desk. ‘I’m going to miss you, Mags,’ he said.
‘Why?’ She chuckled. ‘Won’t you find me attractive in uniform? I’ll be in an office just down the corridor, remember. Or are you going to cut me out of your social life? Is it getting too crowded?’
There was a quick tension about his eyes, momentary, but it registered with her. ‘There’ll always be room for you,’ he replied.
‘Okay. In that case, celebrate my promotion with me. Tomorrow evening will be a wash-out because of Manny’s farewell do . . . it’ll be mine too, I suppose . . . but let’s have dinner on Saturday.’
‘Sounds good. Where do you fancy?’
‘My place. Just you and me, shoes off, no job talk; I’ll cook, you bring the wine . . . and no rubbish, mind. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are we due at the bank?’
‘Two thirty. We’d better be off. I’ll drive; I’ve booked a space in their car park.’
They left the CID commander’s small room, and walked out to her car, beside the back door of the West End police office. The fog had gone completely, chased by a cold east wind, but a persistent drizzle had replaced it. Rose took a circuitous but quick route, using the Western Approach Road to reach the financial centre, where a security guard admitted them to the bank’s car park and directed them to their reserved space.
They took the lift to the fourth floor of the block and stepped out to find themselves facing a reception desk, in light beech, with a tartan-clad woman sitting behind it. She stood as they approached. ‘Superintendent Rose,’ she began, ‘Security told me you were on your way up. Mr Easterson’s ready for you, if you’ll follow me.’
She led them out of the reception area, and along a corridor, stopping at a heavy wooden door, beech once more in common with the rest of the office’s furnishing. A brass plate, at eye-level, bore the initials ‘GMCB’. The receptionist knocked and opened it. ‘They’re here, sir,’ she announced, then stepped aside.
The general manager, Commercial Banking, was on his feet behind his desk as the two officers entered his room. As Rose introduced them both, Steele glanced around. The office was tasteful, not ostentatious; ideal surroundings for meetings with clients one is out to impress but not intimidate. Its most impressive feature was a big, wide window which offered a view of the Usher Hall across Lothian Road and, behind it, of Edinburgh Castle.
‘Welcome,’ said Vernon Easterson, as he shook the superintendent’s hand. ‘I only wish you weren’t here on such grim business.’ He turned to greet Steele also. ‘Take a seat, please, at my meeting table. I’ll let my colleague know that we’re ready to begin.’ He turned to a complicated-looking phone on his desk and pressed one of its many buttons.
‘Would you like a refreshment?’ he asked. Rose and Steele both declined. ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted. ‘I can offer you tea or coffee, a soft drink or mineral water, perhaps. This is a dry office, I’m afraid. Unlike yours, I gather.’ He laughed nervously, almost a giggle. ‘My chief executive and I are invited to a cocktail reception by the chief constable. As it happens, neither of us can go, but Aurelia Middlemass, who’s about to join us, will be representing . . .’
He broke off as his door opened again and a woman entered, perfectly on cue. She was tall, maybe five feet nine, half-way in height between Rose and Steele; her chestnut hair was close cropped and its highlights might just have been natural. Her eyes were her most distinctive feature, brown with a suggestion of a slant, set above high cheekbones. Even in her charcoal grey business suit, she was strikingly attractive, a complete contrast to the short, tubby, balding Easterson. The banker stood as she came in, and Steele followed him to his feet.
‘Aurelia,’ the GMCB exclaimed, ‘so glad you could join us. Superintendent, Inspector, may I introduce Aurelia Middlemass, our senior director of Commercial Banking, and at one point the late Mr Whetstone’s line manager. Take a seat, my dear, take a seat.’
She followed his pointing finger to the chair beside his, directly opposite the two police officers. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, unsmiling, laying a folder on the table before her. She had carried it in her left hand, on which a large diamond ring sparkled, alongside a gold wedding band. ‘I gather from Vernon that you’re trying to resolve some lingering doubts about Whetstone’s death. Hopefully we can help you.’ Her voice was deep and honeyed and, on first hearing, without any distinctive accent. ‘I’ve read the statements that your press office has issued; they’re guarded, to say the least.’
‘Deliberately so,’ said Rose. ‘There was some confusion when the body was found, but that was caused by a petty thief, whose collar’s been felt. The remaining doubt comes from a couple of injuries that were revealed during the autopsy.’
‘Maybe I can help you resolve it,’ said Middlemass. ‘Vernon and I haven’t had all the information you had. Maybe that’s just as well, for when people in our position are faced with the apparent suicide of a popular and successful member of staff, some very specific concerns present themselves.’
Beside her, Easterson nodded gravely. ‘Sad but true,’ he intoned. The woman by his side flashed him a brief look of annoyance at the interruption.
‘At Mr Easterson’s request,’ she continued, ‘I’ve been carrying out a complete review of all of the late Mr Whetstone’s business dealings and relationships.’ She turned to the general manager. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to run through this with you,’ she tapped the folder, ‘in advance of the meeting, Vernon.’ Steele formed the instant impression that she was not at all sorry. ‘To set this in context,’ she continued, ‘let me tell you a little bit about him. I have to admit at the outset that he was not someone I’d have gone out and recruited myself. He didn’t fit my profile of the ideal corporate banker: he was twenty years too old, for openers . . .’ The GMCB shifted uncomfortably beside her. ‘. . . and his background was restricted almost entirely to retail banking. However,’ she said firmly, ‘if I’d dug my heels in and flatly refused to have him, I’d have been wrong.’
A small smile of relieved satisfaction crossed Easterson’s face. ‘Ivor was the success of the team. I had a hunch about him and it turned out that my faith was well placed.’
‘Yes,’ Aurelia Middlemass agreed, ‘it turned out that Whetstone had built up something of a network in his time with the SFB’s predecessor, the Agricultural and Rural, and in the period after the demutualisation. He used it very shrewdly, and absolutely slaughtered his lending targets in his first year in post. As a result, he was given a promotion; he was also given a degree of extra autonomy on what he was doing.’
‘I thought that Mr Easterson said you were his line manager,’ Steele interrupted.
‘I was at the outset; but when Whetstone had his review he asked if he might report directly to Vernon rather than through me.’
‘Didn’t you object to that?’ asked Rose. ‘In our set-up, that would be a bit like DI Steele asking if he could report directly to the head of CID.’
‘Maybe it would, but maybe also we’re a more flexible organisation. I didn’t object because I reckoned it would be best for the bank. As I said, Whetstone wasn’t of my generation, and our thinking was completely different, but I couldn’t knock his performance. Frankly it seemed to me that having Vernon supervise him was an
