Ferguson,” he said.
“Gerald. Please.” He looked around, then put his finger to the side of his nose. “Fancy a wee dram?”
Banks and Annie sat on the high barstools. “We wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble,” said Banks.
Gerald waved his hand and looked toward the door they had entered by. His fingers were surprisingly long and tappered, Banks thought, the nails neatly clipped and shiny. Perhaps he played piano as a hobby. “What he doesn’t know won’t harm him. What’s your poison?”
It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, Banks thought, as he scanned the row of bottles and settled on the cask-strength Port Ellen.
“Detective Sergeant Cabbot?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.”
“You certain?”
“Certain.”
Gerald shrugged. “Up to you.” He poured two glasses of Port Ellen, very generous measures, Banks thought, set one in front of himself and another in front of Banks. “
“
“Aye, he’s that, all right.”
Banks caught the tone of disapproval in his voice. “You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?” said Ferguson, pouring himself another Port Ellen. Banks guessed it wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last one of the day, either. At least this time he sipped it slowly.
“Tell us what you do think of him, then.”
“He’s a thug in fancy dress. And as for that factotum of his-”
“Jamie Gilbert?”
“If that’s his name. The one with the queer hair.”
“That’s him. Go on.”
Ferguson took another sip of whiskey and lowered his voice. “This place used to have a bit of class, do you know that? I’ve worked here going on twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all come and go. We’ve had MPs – a prime minister and an American president once – judges, foreign dignitaries, businessmen from the City, and some of them might have been stingy bastards, but they all had one thing in common: they were gentlemen.”
“And now?”
Ferguson snorted. “Now? I wouldn’t give you twopence for the crowd we get these days.” He glanced over at the doors again. “Not since he came.”
“Mr. Lacey?”
“Mr. George bloody Lacey, General Manager. Him and his new ideas. Modernization, for crying out loud.” He pointed toward the windows. “What do you need modernization for when you’ve got the best bloody view in the world and all nature on your doorstep? Tell me the answer to that, if you can.”
Banks, who knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, gave a sympathetic nod.
“Since he came,” Ferguson went on, “we’ve had nothing but bloody pop stars, actors, television personalities, whiz kids from the stock market. Christ, we’ve even had bloody women. Sorry love, no offense intended, but grouse shooting never used to be much of a woman’s sport.” He knocked back another mouthful of Port Ellen.
Annie smiled, but Banks had seen that one before; she didn’t mean it. Ferguson had better watch out.
“Half of them don’t even know one end of a shotgun from t’other,” Ferguson went on. “It’s a wonder we don’t have more accidents, I tell you. But they’ve got plenty of money to throw about. Oh, aye. Take a bloke like that there Clough. Thinks if he tosses you a few bob at the start of the evening you’re at his beck and call for the rest of the night. Pillock. And Mary, she’s one the lasses clean the rooms. Nice lass, but a couple of bob short of a pound, if you know what I mean, the stories she’s told me about some of the things she’s found.”
“Like what?” Banks asked.
Ferguson thrust his face forward and whispered. “Syringes, for a start.”
“In Clough’s room?”
“No. That were one of the pop stars. Stayed here a week and never once came out of his room. I ask you. Money to throw away, that lot.”
“Back to Barry Clough, Mr. Ferguson.”
Ferguson laughed and scratched his head. “Aye. Sorry. I do run off at the mouth sometimes, don’t I? You got me started on one of my little hobbyhorses.”
“That’s fine,” said Banks, “but can you tell us any more about Barry Clough?”
“What sort of things would you be wanting to know?”
“Did you see much of him while he was here?”
“Aye. I was on the bar every night – I get help when we’re busy, like. Mandy, one of the local girls from Longbridge – and Clough was always here for drinks before dinner, and most times he ate here, too.” Ferguson looked around and leaned forward conspiratorially. “They say the food’s spectacular here, but if you ask me there’s nowt edible. Foreign muck, for the most part.”
“But Mr. Clough enjoyed it?”
“He did. And he knew what wines to order with what courses – we’ve got a wine waiter, sommelier, as he likes to call himself, the stuck-up bugger – from his Chateau neuf du bloody Pape to his Sauternes and his vintage Port. See, he’s got all the trappings, the expensive clothes – Armani, Paul Smith – all the top-quality shooting gear and what have you, and he thinks he’s got style, but you can tell he’s common as muck underneath it all. Must’ve read a bluffer’s guide, but he couldn’t fool me. There’s one thing you can’t fake: class. Like I said, a thug. Why? What’s he done?”
“We don’t know that he’s done anything yet.”
“I’ll bet you suspect him of something, though, don’t you? Stands to reason. You mark my words, bloke like him, he’s bound to have done something. Bound to.”
“Did you talk to him much?”
“Like I said, he came on like he thought he was a gentleman, but he couldn’t pull it off. For a start, a real gentleman wouldn’t pass the time of day talking to the likes of me. He might make a friendly comment on the weather or the quality of that day’s shooting, but that’s as far as he’d go. There are clear lines. This Clough, though, chatty as anything, propping up the bar, drinking his bloody Cosmopolitans and smoking his Cuban cigars. And that bloody ponytail.”
“What did he talk about?”
“Nothing much, when all’s said and done. Football. Seems he’s an Arsenal supporter. I’m a Newcastle man, myself. Goes on about his villa in Spain, about going to parties with all these bloody celebrities. As if I give a toss.”
“Did he ever talk about his business?”
“Not that I recall. What is it?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.”
“Well, I won’t say some people don’t sometimes let something slip, you know. Comes with the territory. I’ve actually managed one or two good investments over the years based on things I’ve heard on this job, but don’t tell anyone that. I’m paid to stand behind this bar all bloody night and sometimes people, they look on you as a sort of father confessor, not that I’m Catholic or anything. Straight C of E.”
“Not Clough, though?”
“No. That’s why I can hardly remember a word he said.”
“Was he with a party?”
“Yes. About five or six of them.”
“Who?”
“They were a mixed bunch. There was that pretty young pop singer whose picture you see all over the place these days, the one where she’s wearing hardly more than a pair of gold silk knickers. Amanda Khan, she’s called. Touch of the tarbrush. Lovely skin, though.”
Banks had seen the image in question; it was on the cover of her new CD and also graced posters in HMV and Virgin Records. She looked about as old as Emily Riddle.
