and I will never do or say anything, in public or in private, to undermine them. My argument with Murtagh was strategic. I do not subscribe to the view that all serious crime in Scotland goes back to the drugs trade, simple as that.’
‘We’ll have a longer discussion about that,’ said de Marco, ‘and soon. Before I go though; you’ve got contacts, could you help me build up my advisory network?’
‘I’ll think about it, but I can give you a couple of names right now: Mitchell Laidlaw and Lenny Plenderleith.’
‘I’ve heard of Laidlaw,’ the minister murmured, ‘but not Lenny Plenderleith. Should I?’
‘As of today you should have. You’ve got him locked up for murder. Lenny was a gangster, and I put him away, but he’s a very bright guy, and in a strange way he and I have become friends. His motivation has changed, and so has his outlook on life. He knows more about the prison service than most of the guys who run it. If you really want to understand what happens inside, he’s the guy to put you right.’
‘I’ll read his file. Let’s meet, Bob, privately; the evening would be best.’
Skinner hesitated. ‘I can’t do it before Monday,’ he said cautiously.
‘That suits me. We’ll confirm arrangements later. I have to make some more calls now.’
He laughed. ‘Not least to your brother. You can tell him he’s back on the platform at Murrayfield.’
25
‘What did you think of that?’ Rose and Steele had driven away in silence from Lothian Road; neither had spoken until they were through Tollcross, when the inspector could contain himself no longer.
‘Just be thankful you don’t have anyone like Aurelia in your team,’ the superintendent replied. ‘We get that type in the police from time to time, but they don’t usually get rewarded for it. She will, though; maybe not right away, but in a few weeks, when Whetstone’s death has faded into the background, poor wee Vernon will get the early retirement package and Ms Middlemass will move into his office. And if the chief executive of SFB has any bloody sense, he’ll watch his back from that moment on.’
‘I wonder what Mr Middlemass is like.’
‘I don’t think he is Mr Middlemass. I did some checking up on the key players at SFB in advance of the meeting. They’re listed in the last
‘As long as she, or anyone like her, never steps through mine.’ He paused as a thought struck him. ‘Mary Chambers isn’t like her, is she?’
Rose laughed. ‘A greater contrast you could not find.’
She drove on, in silence once more, until once again they reached the Whetstone house at the Grange. This time, Steele had phoned ahead to announce their visit, although he had not said what they wanted to discuss.
The door was opened by a woman they had never met; she was middle-aged, she wore black, and her puffy eyes showed signs of recent crying. ‘You must be the police,’ she decided, before Rose had a chance to speak. ‘I’m Aisling Reynolds, Ivor’s sister. Virginia told me she was expecting you. She’s upstairs, resting; she’s had precious little sleep, poor thing. If you’d like to wait in the drawing room, I’ll tell her you’re here.’
Blue, the Siberian husky, was in his usual place in front of the fire as they went into the bay-windowed room. Steele walked round the couch and knelt beside him, ruffling his thick fur. ‘How’re you doing, boy?’
‘Missing his dad, I’m afraid,’ said a voice from the door. Virginia Whetstone seemed to have shrunk in twenty-four hours, but as she moved into the room they saw that she was wearing sheepskin moccasins, with virtually no heel. She was dressed in black jeans and a crew-necked sweater, and her hair was tied back in a pony- tail. Like her sister-in-law, her grief showed around her eyes. ‘I took him for a walk this morning, though; or rather, he took me. Did Aisling offer you tea?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Rose answered, ‘but we’re fine, thanks.’
The widow nodded, and sat in the chair beside the dog. The superintendent took a seat close to her on the couch, and Steele joined her.
‘How are your investigations proceeding?’ Mrs Whetstone’s voice seemed stronger as she turned to business.
‘We have reached a conclusion,’ Maggie Rose told her. ‘We’re going to report to the procurator fiscal that your husband probably took his own life. There was a slight doubt cast on that by the post mortem, but on balance that’s how it looks.’
The woman drew in a breath and gazed directly into the detective’s eyes. ‘I see,’ she said evenly. ‘And if I choose to contest that?’
‘I should tell you to consult your solicitor about that, but . . . You could ask the fiscal to hold an inquiry into your husband’s death under the 1977 Act. He has the discretion to do that, and it would allow you to have all the circumstances examined in open court, before the Sheriff. You could have legal representation; you’d hear evidence in open court, and be able to cross-examine witnesses. Also you’d be able to give evidence about your husband’s state of mind, and maybe even introduce other people who knew him.’
‘Are you suggesting that I should do that?’
‘It’s not for me to make such a suggestion; I’m only telling you that it’s a possibility. But before you go down that avenue, there are some things we have to discuss with you. Did you know that your husband was ill?’
Mrs Whetstone’s look of blank astonishment answered for her.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Rose continued. ‘He had lung cancer, sufficiently advanced for the pathologist to take the view that it would have proved fatal.’
‘My God,’ the woman whispered, ‘poor Ivor.’ She looked at the detectives. ‘But even so, my husband was a man of some determination. I don’t believe he would just have given up . . . if he knew about it.’ She shook her head. ‘He was never very good at keeping secrets from me, you know.’
‘The pathologist did say that he might not have known about it.’
‘Then what makes you so sure he killed himself?’
‘That’s the other thing we have to tell you; it relates to your husband’s job.’
‘Well? As they say . . . shoot.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Bonspiel Partnership?’ asked the superintendent.
‘The what?’
‘The Bonspiel Partnership; it’s one of your husband’s clients. Did he ever mention it to you?’
‘Never. I’m quite certain of that. It’s hardly a name one would forget. Why do you ask?’
‘Because the Bonspiel Partnership does not exist: yet it appears that your husband approved lending facilities of up to a million pounds and that the full amount was transferred to an offshore bank account.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true, I’m afraid. It was revealed by an internal investigation at SFB. The offshore account was in the name of Victoria Murray. The money’s moved on since then, and the bank’s view is that it will probably be untraceable.’
Mrs Whetstone gasped. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ She held up the document case she had brought from the car. ‘All the papers are in here. I have to ask you again, Mrs Whetstone . . .’
‘I won’t listen to any more!’ the woman shouted; her eyes were blazing.
Rose waited for her to subside. ‘I have to, I’m afraid. To be honest, I’d be justified in making this a formal interview, given the information I’ve seen, but I’m bending over backwards not to do that. I just need you to answer this question. Did you know, or did you have any reason to believe, that your husband might have been defrauding his company?’
‘No, I did not,’ she replied stiffly. ‘You can show me all the evidence you like, and I still won’t believe it.’
‘I’m not going to do that. I’ll report to the fiscal, and he’ll make the decision on how to dispose of the case. I’m sorry, but I cannot justify taking this investigation any further.’
‘What would you expect him to do?’
‘I can’t say; it’s his decision.’
