‘You’re the thin type,’ Keith said. ‘You’ll never get fat. Anyway . . . is this your own baking?’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be a self-inflicted wound then. Just tell me about the family, whatever comes into your mind.’
She finished her small meal, pushed her plate away and lit a cigarette. ‘When I first went there,’ she said, ‘they were already married and settled in and their two sons were away from home, neither of them married but living their separate lives. His daughter, Miss Gwen, was still at home then, although she married soon after and went off to Canada. Mr Winterton was not long retired, I think.
‘It wasn’t so bad then, though I think he was already seeing that he’d made a sair mistake. The mistress had – has – the devil’s own temper. She never lost the heid, mind, it might’ve been better if she had. But she was thrawn. If he didn’t give in to her at every turn, there’d be a silence so cold you could feel it right through the house.
‘The one thing she could never make him do was to give up his guns. He tried to explain that they were an investment, but she’d not listen. I think she was jealous of them, not of me. But he’d not give in to her on that. The guns were all he’d got.’
‘And you,’ Keith said.
‘Maybe. The real stramash started when she found out about her own son, Mr Clune. You ken about him?’
‘Yes. Poor sod,’ Keith said.
‘Aye. Until then, he’d been his mother’s boy. Not being a driver, she’d never been to where he lived. But one day she took Mr Moir’s taxi and went to see that he was being looked after. What she saw she didn’t like one bit. She came back to Halleydane House in such a taking you’d think it was the end of the world coming. Her husband tried to explain such things to her – I think he’d guessed what was up with the boy some time before – but she’d not listen, and when he said that she’d made the boy turn that way she went into a sulk that lasted a fortnight. After that, it was as if her own son had never existed and instead she was all over her stepson, Mr Michael.
‘But Mr Winterton was scunnered wi’ his own son, who was aye after him for money, being on the wild side and a devil with drink and women and betting and the like. He took the part of Mr Clune, being sorry for him.
‘So there they were, split in two camps, her with his son and him with hers. Any time there was a stishie, that’s how they’d take sides. And she’d aye be expecting him to dance attendance, but when he did she’d be that off-hand with him he’d go off and sit with his guns.
‘That’s what drove me out of the house in the end. She never stopped yattering at him to leave his guns alone. He was to sell them off and be a proper husband to her – not that she’d let him be that. It got so bad that I couldn’t bide there any longer. I cried when I said goodbye to him.’
‘I could cry now,’ Keith said. ‘I liked the old chap. He never let on that he was unhappy. God, what a way to end his days!’
*
Before leaving the farm, Keith borrowed the telephone and called his wife. Molly, it seemed, had been waiting anxiously for his call.
‘Mr Donelly was on the phone at lunch-time,’ she said.
It took Keith a few seconds to pin down the name. Then it came back to him. ‘The french polisher and repairer?’
‘That’s the one,’ Molly said.
‘What did he have to say?’
‘Not a lot. He seemed concerned about ten quid he said you promised he could have, to split with some barmaid. I believed him, because it sounded exactly like you. He gave me his address. And I found out that he works with Dougall and Symington. That’s a small cabinetmaker’s firm at Craiglockhart. He was phoning from there. Apparently, they’ve got an urgent job on.’
Keith conjured up his mental map and looked at his watch. ‘That’s this side of Edinburgh,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got time to look him up. Any news from Ronnie?’
‘Nothing. But, Keith, Mr Enterkin came out specially to say that before his secretary gave Mrs Winterton the inventory she took a photocopy of it. It’s here now. Do you want it?’
‘Do I!’ Keith said. ‘I want it like blazes. But I don’t have time to come home just yet. I’ve got to give a press conference at Halleydane House in a couple of hours.’
‘Do you? What fun!’
‘If you think that,’ Keith said, ‘you can give it.’
‘I would if I knew what to say. What are you going to say, Keith?’
‘Damned if I know. It depends what I can find out between now and then. Could you hop into the car and bring it to me at Halleydane House?’
‘Yes, of course. I’d love to.’ Molly had been wondering what excuse she could make to attend the press conference. ‘I’ll put on a funny hat and my glasses and make out I’m representing Woman’s Realm. How do I get there?’
‘Bring Deborah. She should know the way by now.’
*
The firm of Dougall and Symington, being the sort of business mainly patronised by collectors and by those in the trade, was not easy to find. Keith, after the usual experience of discovering that the passers-by were all foreigners with cleft palates, happened upon that great rarity, a local resident who not only knew the whereabouts of his destination but was able to give directions which turned out to be accurate. He parked the jeep in a shaded yard where several small businesses existed and even seemed to thrive. The others were shuttered in Sabbath calm, but the double doors marked by a small plate with the firm’s name stood ajar. Keith knocked and entered.
It was a general-purpose workshop about the size of two squash-courts, smelling pleasantly of glue and varnish, hardwoods and warm machinery. Two men were at work. The nearer, a small man with a simian face, straightened his back and came to meet him, scowling.
‘Is Mike Donelly here?’ Keith asked.
‘That’s myself.’ The voice was faintly Glasgow-Irish.
‘I’m Keith Calder. You phoned my home. I wanted to ask you—’
‘About Duncan Laurie. I bet you did. But first. . . .’
Keith produced a ten pound note. It seemed to vanish before it was quite out of his wallet. Donelly still did not smile, but at least he was scowling less. ‘I can’t spare long,’ he said. ‘This is wanted by mid-week. What did you want to know?’
‘You used to give Laurie a hand in the evenings?’ Keith asked.
‘Most evenings. Just to clean up or mend whatever he’d bought.’
‘Did he ever say anything about a collection of antique guns?’
Donelly looked blank. ‘Not a word.’
‘Do you know where he was working earlier in the week, up to the time he died?’
‘Let’s see, now. Monday and Tuesday, he was on the knock between here, Peebles and Galashiels. He didn’t go far – that old van of his was on the blink and if it was going to let him down he’d rather it was near home.’
‘And Wednesday?’ Keith asked.
‘About Wednesday I can’t tell you, not of my own certain knowledge,’ Donelly said carefully. ‘Wednesday evening I had to visit my sister in hospital, and that’s when he was killed, d’you see? Leastways, the police are now saying he was killed. They called it suicide at first. If I’d gone to meet Duncan as usual, he’d’ve said where he’d been.’
‘If he was still alive.’
‘That’s right. Maybe I’d have saved him. Or maybe I’d have been done as well.’
‘But did he tell you, on Tuesday, where he was going to go the next day?’ Keith persisted.
‘He did that. But whether he did as he said he would or not. . . .’ Donelly paused hopefully.
Keith produced another fiver. ‘This is the last,’ he said.
‘The garage was taking the van in for the day. Duncan thought he’d take the train to Glasgow. There were one or two small pieces the Edinburgh dealers wouldn’t give him his price for, so he thought he’d try through in the west. And he was to deliver an ormolu clock one of the dealers had bought over the phone for a
special customer.’
‘Danny Bruce?’ Keith said.
‘I believe that was the name. It was Rutherglen Gardens, if that helps. It was a cash deal, not to go through the books, so Duncan was to take it to the dealer’s home.’
‘Gardens?’ Keith said. ‘Bloody Gardens?’
‘That’s right.’
Keith was staring vacantly at the ceiling while he digested this fresh information and he was only vaguely aware of the phone ringing and of the voice of the other craftsman. ‘Are you Mr Calder?’
‘He is,’ Donelly said.
‘If you can wake him up, tell him he’s wanted on the phone.’
Keith came out of his reverie and crossed the workshop to take the phone. It was Philip Stratton. Distortion of his voice suggested that he was using his radio-telephone. ‘Is that you, Keith?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God for that! Molly phoned me. She was just about to leave to come here when she got a call from the police in Falkirk to say that they had you in custody. She was sure that you couldn’t have reached Craiglockhart yet, let alone Falkirk if you’d changed your mind and headed that way. But no woman ever had a sense of time, so I couldn’t be sure. Can you make sense of it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Keith said. ‘No trouble at all. Is Molly on her way?’
‘Yes. That’s why she asked me to call you.’
‘I’m coming back right away, or even sooner,’ Keith said. ‘Look after Molly when she arrives – I think something’s going to happen. And see if you can contact the detective inspector who’s on duty in the mobile HQ. His name was Fleet, I think. Or possibly Feet. Tell him that if he cares to meet me at Halleydane House, I should have something useful for him.’
He hung up. Deep in thought, he stared at the box in front of him and only realised slowly what he was seeing. ‘Is this the urgent job you’re working on?’ he asked.
‘That’s it,’ said Donelly. ‘I’m putting on an antique finish while Jim makes the brasswork. It’s a rough old job, but the customer’s in a hell of a hurry.’
‘Do you know who it’s for?’
‘Not the faintest idea,’ Donelly said cheerfully. ‘Cash customer. He paid half in advance and he’s coming in for it on Wednesday.’
‘Good God!’ Keith said. ‘It all fits together.’
‘I’d bloody well hope so,’ Donelly said. ‘The customer would soon complain if it didn’t.’
Chapter Seven
Keith tore the jeep out of Edinburgh past the massed cars of Sunday golfers at Fairmilehead and swung off on to the Peebles road.
As he went, he wondered what inspiration had led Ronnie to identify himself to the arresting officers as Keith Calder. Could his brother-in-law have suffered a sudden onrush of intelligence? But he remembered that Ronnie had, during their wilder past, often used his name when confronted by hostile officers and he had occasionally returned the dubious compliment. Old habits, it seemed, died hard.
As he drove, part of his mind shuffled the known facts. The remainder was willing the miles away.
The gravel sweep at Halleydane House would be choked with reporters’ cars. Rather than add to the congestion, Keith turned through the gates and then swung hard off the drive through a narrow gap in the undergrowth. Leaving the jeep, he hurried across the lawn towards the house.
A car overtook him on the drive, only a few yards away but out of his sight. If this were Danny Bruce or any permutation of his relatives and retainers, he would be swallowed whole by the reporters. But surely he would have telephoned and been told that the house was under siege?
Looking ahead, Keith saw that all was not as expected. Instead of a huddle of press cars, Philip Stratton’s minibus and his own hatchback stood opposite the front door. Two men were getting out of a police-car at the corner of the house, and that was all.
Keith broke into a run. Philip Stratton walked to meet him. As they met, Inspector Fleet came up with another man. A third policeman, the driver, waited in the car. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone was with me when your message came in,’ Fleet said. ‘He’s in charge of the Duncan Laurie case. So I brought him along.’
‘How d’you do,’ Keith said. ‘Philip—’
‘So what’s this new information?’ Ovenstone asked. He was a large man, older than Fleet, with a bald head but hair sprouting elsewhere like weeds through broken paving. His nostrils and ears were particularly well provided.
‘Hang on a moment, please. Philip. What happened? I was expecting reporters by the dozen. Wouldn’t they come?’
‘They came,’ Philip said. ‘The place had been buzzing all day. But—’
‘I want to know what this is about,’ Ovenstone said loudly.
‘And so you shall,’ Keith said. ‘Just as soon as we all hear what’s happened. Philip . . .’
‘About ten minutes ago,’ Philip said, ‘a taxi arrived at the door. A man driving, no passenger.’
‘Moir?’
‘That’s right. Immediately, Mrs Winterton appeared on the steps. She said that if Mr So-and-so of the Bootle Advertiser was there – or something like that, I don’t remember which paper she mentioned – there was a message for him. A helicopter had crashed in flames on top of the Lammermuirs with Prince Philip aboard and another member of the royal family and he was to get over there immediately with his photographer. Then she hopped into the taxi and went off.’
‘What a load of horse-crap!’ Keith said.
‘That’s what I thought and I said so. But none of them dared risk ignoring what might have turned out to be the story of the year. I tried to point out that if you’ve seen one incinerated royal you’ve seen the lot—’
‘I’m surprised you stayed here yourself.’
‘If there really was a chopper down,’ Philip said, ‘which I doubted, there’d be nothing in it for a freelance while just about every paper was rushing to the scene. On the other hand, I could get an exclusive here. I decided to stick it out.’
Detective Chief Inspector Ovenstone had listened to this exchange with increasing impatience. ‘I’ve no intention of waiting around here at your beck and call,’ he said. Keith tried to break in but Ovenstone raised his voice and ignored any attempt to interrupt. ‘If there was a helicopter crash, I’d have heard of it.
‘I’ve no reason to believe that there’s any connection between the two cases. If you’ve any evidence to the contrary, I want it now.’ He smiled, with maddening superiority. ‘At first, we took your statement to my sergeant very seriously. Especially when we found an entry in Laurie’s diary for the day he died. It said “D.Bruce, Rutherglen”, and underneath was a word which might have been “guns”. You won’t know this, but Danny Bruce has been in prison—’
‘He’s a fence,’ Keith said. ‘And he lives in Rutherglen Gardens.’
‘That’s right,’ Ovenstone said. ‘What’s more, Laurie spent the day he died in Glasgow, so he could not have been the dealer who came here. The entry in his diary read “Rutherglen g-d-n-s”. So there’s no connection.’
‘The two cases are connected, all right,’ Keith said. ‘I’m not wholly sure how yet, but they are. I know it and I’ll prove it to you before I’m done.’
‘I’ll say one thing for you,’ Philip said admiringly. ‘You’ve got grit!’
‘Grit?’ Keith said. ‘Grit? That’s it! I think you’ve just said the magic word.’
‘You can sort all this out later,’ the detective chief inspector said sharply. ‘If you’ve got anything for me, I want it now.’
‘Be patient,’ Keith said. ‘If you’ll just give me a minute—’
‘Not another moment! I can always arrest you for hampering the police and withholding information,’ Ovenstone pointed out. He was a tall man and he drew himself up to seem taller, but he had a drooping moustache which Keith suspected was designed to hide a weak mouth.
‘You probably could,’ Keith said. ‘In which case you’d get the story a few minutes earlier and you wouldn�
��t get the proof at all. Something’s going to happen and—’
‘What’s going to happen?’ Ovenstone asked impatiently.
‘Shut up!’ Keith snapped. To his surprise, Ovenstone fell silent, gaping at him. Keith hurried on before the policeman could regain the initiative. ‘The reporters have been decoyed away, and a trap was set which was supposed to keep me out of it. There are visitors coming. Let’s get these cars hidden. Over the grass and round the back of the shrubbery. Then, when we’re out of sight, I tell you the whole story.’
‘It won’t do the lawn any good,’ Philip said, ‘and the marks may give the game away.’
‘The lawn’s already chewed up with reporters’ cars,’ Keith pointed out. ‘Get going. Molly!’
‘I think we’d better do as he suggests,’ Fleet said. Ovenstone grunted.
Molly and Deborah were waiting in the hatchback. Keith spoke to his wife through the open driver’s window. ‘Do you have cameras with you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Molly, a dedicated wildlife photographer, would as soon have travelled without her cameras as Keith without his guns.
‘Follow the other cars,’ Keith said. ‘Hide this one and bring your cameras back. Hurry. Deb, stay with me.’
Deborah jumped out and Molly drove off on to the grass. Keith, in a fever of impatience, waited with his daughter at the end of the drive, ready at an instant’s notice to dive into hiding, until the other four returned. While he waited, he stole a look at the inventory before slipping it into his pocket. ‘I thought so,’ he said aloud.
‘This way,’ Keith said. He led them round the back of the house, at first over the lawn and then through a small rose-garden. They stepped over low hedges, skirted a rockery bright with alpines and passed the double garage.
Keith, as he went, was looking up at the roof of the house. ‘This has to be the place,’ he said suddenly.
‘Why does it have to be what place?’ Ovenstone asked. His tone had changed from arrogant to plaintive.
‘Get under cover,’ Keith said. ‘They could be here at any moment.’ Beyond what was evidently a rear extension from the drive, a vegetable garden was screened by a hedge of clematis. Flowering was over for the year and the clematis was an untidy tangle. He led the way round it. On the far side, a walled compost-heap provided a dirty but not uncomfortable seat. ‘Sit down and you’ll be out of sight,’ Keith said.
The Executor (Keith Calder Book 10) Page 11
