other payments were made on his signature. He controlled every penny going out.'
`Good luck, then. I imagine that you could be here for some time.' John closed the door softly behind him.
Higgins and her assistant, Inspector David Ogilvie, a young officer with an accountancy degree, pulled chairs up to the table and sat down. Cocozza took his place alongside Higgins, watching her every move.
They began with the Premier deposit account file. Soon they saw that it offered no help at all. As the manager had described, they showed a series of inward transfers from named accounts, and occasional withdrawals by transfer of funds to an Edinburgh stockbroker.
`Okay, David,' said Higgins, closing the folder. 'Let's get into this lot. You take the laundrettes. I'll take the pubs and the takeaways. Shout if you find anything that looks odd.' They selected the files according to the superintendent's allocation, and set to work.
Two hours later they broke for coffee. Cocozza, who had sat silent through all that time, could contain his mounting impatience no longer. 'Are you going any further with this farce, Superintendent?' he demanded.
Alison Higgins smiled across the table. 'Just as far as I have to, Mr Cocozza.'
It was Ogilvie who spotted the only anomaly in the meticulous records. 'Look here, ma'am.'
Higgins leaned across to follow his pointing finger. The file which was open before him was that of the Powderhall sauna.
`So far, the payment pattern in these statements is just the same as the rest, Payroll out. Tax and NI out. Supplier bills out. In these sauna accounts, the main suppliers are the Council, for business rates, the Evening News for small ads, one of Manson's own laundrettes, and Scottish Power. They're all paid by direct debit. The odd petty cash cheque, thirty quid or so, and that's it. An established pattern. Then all of a sudden, look at this.' He pointed out an entry on the page, showing a debit of four thousand pounds through a cheque drawn on the account. 'Drawn six days ago, last Wednesday. I wonder who copped for that one.
Higgins looked at the fat little lawyer. 'Well?' Cocozza said nothing. He sat there, grim-faced, and shook his head. She could not tell whether the gesture was one of refusal or ignorance.
`Let's find out, then.'
She left the room and returned just over a minute later, followed by Andrew John. The manager looked at the entry, then switched on a computer terminal which sat at a side table. He keyed in several numbers before he found the detail he sought. 'Cheque number 001237, drawn on the Powderhall sauna account. Presented to the Clydesdale Bank in Comiston on Monday last week, and cleared by us two days later. Payee is one L. Plenderleith. There's no other information I can tap into through this.'
`Can you call the manager of the Clydesdale and get more from him?'
`I can try. Let me go back to my office. I can check from there who he is. I suppose there's a chance I might know him personally.'
Higgins nodded, and the burly banker bustled from the room. As the door closed, the detective looked across once more at Cocozza. 'Well? L. Plenderleith. Does that name mean anything to you?'
Again the lawyer shook his head.
`You sure?'
`Quite sure.' His voice was quiet, his head still down.
`And you know nothing at all about any exceptional payment that your client might have made?'
`No.'
`I'll have to ask you to make a formal statement to that effect. You may wish to have another lawyer present when you do.'
Cocozza flashed her a sudden glance with suspicion bordering on alarm showing in his eyes. 'What do you mean by that?'
Alison Higgins smiled coolly back. 'Mr Cocozza, this is a murder inquiry, and we are under no illusions about your late client. I am suggesting that you might wish to take objective advice about everything you say to us. If you find that threatening, we have to ask ourselves why.'
Silence fell across the room, and hung there heavily until Andrew John returned two or three minutes later. He wore a satisfied smile.
`That was a stroke of luck. The manager wasn't a he but a she, Wendy Black, and she and I sat our bank exams at the same time. She'd have been within her rights to tell me to get stuffed, and to make you go through all the hoops to get what you're after. But the old pals act worked its charm.'
He sat down and continued. L stands for Linda. Mrs Linda Plenderleith, no kids, lives alone in a flat at 492 Morningside Road. She lives alone because Mr Plenderleith is doing time for something or other. Wendy didn't know anything else about her. She did say that this was the first cheque the woman had ever paid into her account, other than giros. All the previous deposits were cash. She was well in credit, though, even without the four-grand cheque from Manson. No mortgage or rent payments for her flat.'
Higgins' surprise showed on her face. 'How long has she lived there?'
`She was already at that address when she opened the account in 1990, and deposited ten thousand pounds cash.'
The detective whistled softly. 'Wonder where that came from. Did you ask whether there's been any further action since the cheque was cashed?'
For a second, John's enthusiasm was tempered by an offended look. 'Of course. And there has been. She drew out five hundred cash on Thursday, and asked for four grand in traveller's cheques. She had them picked up by courier on Friday. Banks don't like that, normally, but she made a special arrangement and the courier carried her letter of authority.'
Higgins' teeth sparkled as she smiled. 'Good work, Mr John! You can join my team any time.' She looked round at Ogilvie. 'David, you stay here and finish going through these files. Just in case there are any more Linda Plenderleiths. I'm going back to Torphichen Place to report this. Manson seems to have been keen to help this woman leave the country. Let's see if we can find out why.'
Ten
Andy Martin sat bolt upright in his chair.
Did you say Linda?'
Skinner, in the process of pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot which the divisional commander's secretary had just brought in, put it down quickly on the conference table and straightened up, his eyes alert and questioning.
Did you say Plenderleith?'
Detective Superintendent Higgins was taken aback by the speed and vehemence of her two colleagues' simultaneous reactions. She looked at each in turn, puzzlement wrinkling her eyes.
`Yes. Linda Plenderleith, 492 Morningside Road. Tony Manson paid her four grand last Wednesday, through the Powderhall sauna account. Why the interest?'
Once more, Skinner and Martin opened their mouths in tandem, to reply. They paused and looked at each other, smiling. 'Okay, Andy,' said the ACC. 'You first.'
'A girl called Linda something-or-other seems to have been Tony Manson's personal tart. Tony's and his friends, that is. Off limits to anyone else. We were told that she worked out of Powderhall, but the manager there denied it. We were also told that she'd dropped out of sight. So what does she mean to you, boss?'
Skinner looked at him. The girl? She means nothing to me. but her surname does. D'you remember big Lennie Plenderleith?'
For a few seconds, Martin searched his mental filing system, then he nodded vigorously. 'Yes! You put him away, must be about six or seven years ago now, for serious assault. Didn't he work for Manson?'
`Uh-huh: Skinner nodded in his turn. 'He was head barman in that pub of Manson's in Leith Walk. You know the rough-looking one, the Milton Vaults. The one they call the War Office. While big Lennie worked there, it was as peaceful as a Sunday school. The trouble was bartending wasn't all that he did for Manson. He did heavy stuff as well. . and I don't mean cellar work! Even as a lad, big Lennie was a real gorilla. Tough, tough boy. He was in the
