Victoria blurted out words she immediately regretted, “What did Robert mean when he said Alex had been running off at the mouth about a Jacobite curse?”
Elizabeth moved across the room and joined her daughter on the golden settee, taking Victoria’s right hand in her own, “Mere old wives tales, my dear, and nothing for you to concern yourself with. What we must do is concentrate on what is important. Robert and I will need your help. You’ll be aware that I don’t exactly approve of some of your social connections, but now is the time we must make the most of them.”
Victoria smiled as she realised that at long last her mother was seeking her help for an event that could prove crucial to their family’s future, “You know I’d love to help, Mama, in whatever way I can. I’m thinking a marquee on the lawn, Belgian chocolate and champagne fountains, hog and lamb roasts. This could be one of the most memorable social occasions of the Scottish summer. It will be a triumph.”
Lady Roxburgh patted her daughter’s hand warmly, “I believe you have made some, what shall I call them . . . associations, at some of those fashion events you love so much which may now come into their own?”
Her daughter’s face lit up at the prospect of being handed a key role in the launch, “Yes, Mama, I have an idea. I was at a show to promote Vanessa Velvet’s new lingerie range last month and I met her at the post launch party afterwards. She’s planning to launch a new range of clothing that is, how shall I put it, less risqué than her usual creations. Let me see if I can persuade her to stage the launch here with us. She might be willing to preview it at the Hall and maybe raise money for charity into the bargain.”
“Your father will be resting uneasily at the thought of enlisting the services of that brazen woman to help us save our souls. But she has her name and face everywhere and anywhere, and I have no doubt that she will bring media attention with her.”
“You’re right, Mama. Once she knows the sort of people who’ll be there, I think she will find the proposition very attractive. Trust me, Mama, I won’t let you down,” said Victoria.
Lady Roxburgh knew this was an opportunity she could not deny her daughter, “Yes, Victoria you may pursue your idea. But I expect you to keep me aware of every development about this Velvet woman. Macintosh will oversee all organisational aspects of our, what should I say . . .?”
“Exclusive launch of The Dark Ocean liqueur. Believe me, Mama, it will not be too difficult to get the fashion magazines interested, and I would imagine if we can get enough of the ‘landed’ along, Hello! magazine might be tempted. After all, they covered the launch and close of the salmon season up on the River Tay, at Kenmore. I can make our launch bigger than that. Trust me on this, Mama.”
Victoria’s soft brown eyes met her mother’s gaze and Lady Roxburgh found herself welling up at just how much her daughter resembled her beloved William. The father whom Victoria had never known and who had never had the chance to see the daughter he had wanted so much, blossoming into a woman her mother was becoming increasingly proud of.
Tears welling up in her eyes, Lady Roxburgh quickly removed the lace handkerchief she kept up her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of her eyes.
Victoria embraced her mother and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, Mama, we will make sure father is looking down proudly from above with a smile on his face.”
“God, I hope so,” said Lady Roxburgh as her eyes strayed to the portrait of her late husband William, magnificent in full Master of the Lomond Hounds uniform, then she looked out of the window into the bluebell wood.
‘If only you were here now my darling’ said Lady Roxburgh softly to herself.
6
THE TRUTH was something he would never have shared with the rest of his family, yet now it had been forced out into the open by Alex, and his mother knew his tawdry secret. Forced to confront the weakness he had striven so hard to hide and which had contributed to the decline in his family fortunes, Robert Roxburgh blanched with shame.
As his Bentley swept through the gates of the Glen Lomond distillery, owned by his family for almost 200 years, the doubt that had been gnawing at him for days seemed to grow with every passing moment. The public face of the Gwai Lo consortium was one of a well-run conglomerate, but under the surface the money trail revealed that the cabal was essentially a money-laundering operation for a notorious branch of the Triad Chinese criminal fraternity.
The popularity of Scottish malt whisky in the Chinese domestic drinks market had made the purchase of the Glen Lomond Distillery particularly attractive to the conglomerate members. The idea of mixing business trips with the pleasure of the golf tours they regularly undertook around Scotland’s prize courses – one of which, The Carrick, straddled the shores of Loch Lomond, itself only miles from the grounds of Roxburgh Hall – was particularly appealing.
Roxburgh’s disastrous addiction to the tables of Glasgow’s casinos had ironically proven his salvation, for it was there, with his wallet empty and his luck broken, that he had met Raymond Cheung. Plausible and generous, and a fellow student of the school of fortune, Cheung had observed Robert’s disastrous run at the tables one December night. He had seen Robert’s painful embarrassment and bailed him out by slapping down ten grand in rolled notes and dismissing Robert’s hollow protests.
Later, Cheung had insisted he buy Roxburgh a whisky at the casino bar. As Roxburgh laughed at the irony of being bought liquor that was none other than one produced by his own distillery, he unloaded the worries under which he and his family were drowning.
It was then that Cheung had mentioned he and his associates might be interested in brokering a deal which would save the whisky dynasty – one that would allow his cabal to introduce a signature whisky liqueur into the Asian market which would in turn elevate the Gwai Lo to a pre-eminent position in their homeland.
Fast forward and Roxburgh now had 48 hours to make his final decision on the deal that was the only one on the table and thus, his sole shot at salvation.
Robert now understood he would be getting in bed with a notorious criminal fraternity, but he also knew that their need for his expertise in marketing the new brand, as well as that of his brother, in maintaining the distillery, was essential to the Gwai Lo and exactly why Cheung was likely to remain happy as a sleeping partner. Further reassurance had soon been provided by the Triad boss that neither himself nor his associates would be seen or heard, other than to check in person that their new venture was in good health, using their golfing tours as a front. Yet despite his understated way, and behind his immaculate manners, Roxburgh knew that should he cross Cheung, his future would be painfully short.
Seated behind his desk in the distillery office, Roxburgh opened the bottom drawer, reaching instinctively for the bottle of 18-year-old malt that would help dull the throbbing headache he had developed since he had left the Hall after his quarrel with Alex and his shaming in front of his mother.
“Damnation,” he cursed as he relished the malt and recalled how shaken his mother had been by the whole unsavoury business. It hadn’t helped that Vicky had happened to come by, although thankfully she had arrived too late to hear Lady Elizabeth haranguing him. He took another deep slug of the golden liquid and swilled it around his mouth, staring at the black and white photograph on the office wall showing his grandfather Ludovic and the staff of the distillery, taken on the eve of the Second World War.
The old man would never have got himself into a mess like this and would be cursing him from beyond the grave. “Damn the tables!” He cursed his weakness out loud and stared at the fierce burning eyes he shared with his grandfather. Ludovic, the war-time hero and key member of Churchill’s post war cabinet. Robert wondered, not for the first time, how he had managed to combine that position while maintaining and expanding the distillery’s fortunes. The thought made him queasy with guilt.
He shook his head. He needed fresh air. Opening the office door he stepped out onto the wrought iron staircase and leaned on the railin
g that encased the landing. The deliciousness of the fresh pine from the towering tree that cast its shadow over his office, assaulted his senses and he filled his lungs with its freshness. But the questions that came with his plan to bail out the business and preserve his family, and all they stood for, would not stop eating away at him.
Could he really trust Cheung and his cabal to honour their word and leave him to run the business as they had said they would? Or would he become the puppet that Alex believed was his fate?
Yet, while he knew the implications of doing business with the Gwai Lo, he also believed that they were hardly likely to ignore the legitimacy of one of the most respected family names in the Scottish whisky industry. A name that commanded respect worldwide; a name that would help gloss over their illegal activities and this new and diverse way of laundering their ill-gotten gains around Europe.
Yet his shame was nauseating. Why had he allowed his gambling debts to get out of hand? As he took another sip of his family’s signature malt the question kept rebounding around his head.
Lost in his silent world of self-imposed torture Robert did not hear the footfall on the gravel behind the giant pine tree. A whipcrack sounded out, shattering the silence of the night and smashing into the railing, inches away from his right hand. Before he knew what was happening, a second shot rang out and this time the office window behind him exploded.
“Jesus Christ!” he swore and dropped to his knees, cowering behind the partial cover of the wrought iron railings.
He needed to get inside the office, and quickly. Roxburgh crawled across the landing and opened the door just as two more bullets slammed into it. His breath rasping in short sharp bursts he charged into the office and slammed it shut behind him. Using his military training he forced himself to calm down and consider his options.
From the open desk drawer he removed the military revolver that had been there since his grandfather’s days, and checked that the chamber was still filled with ammunition. It was. Dimming the office light to make sure his silhouette was no longer visible to his would-be killer, he cautiously opened the door and made his way onto the landing at a crouch. Aiming the revolver into the night he felt comforted by the weight of the gun in his right hand.
Once again the silence was broken, but this time Roxburgh saw a single headlight illuminate and heard the noise of the motorbike engine rev. Then it was gone in a screech of rubber, obscured by the foliage at the limit of the distillery grounds.
His would-be assassin had gone, but who had wanted him dead? Roxburgh already knew that sleep would not come for him that night.
7
“JESUS H Christ, Thoroughgood! Every time you turn around you must expect the Grim Reaper is keeping you company! It’s uncanny, I tell you. Still, at least O’Driscoll’s demise should mean the end of Meechan and everything he stood for, once and for all. Er, yes, of course I am glad it was him and not you!” said Detective Superintendent Valentino Tomachek, holding his pipe in one hand and ripping open his desk drawer with the other before scrabbling about for his favoured pipe tobacco.
His attention on his pipe, the room went quiet as Tomachek salivated at his impending moment of sweet satisfaction. Aware that both Thoroughgood and Hardie were subjecting his every move to intense scrutiny, Tomachek looked up and pierced them both with his pale grey eyes.
“You pair of bally buggers! Let me teach you something about this beauty,” said Tomachek waving the index finger of his left hand, still clutching said pipe tightly, at the two detectives, “This beauty is a Cairngorm bent. Manufactured by no less than Blakemar of Northampton, a family business which has handcrafted the finest briar pipes since 1890.”
Applying a match Tomachek was soon off and puffing. A deep inhalation was followed by the customary billow, but the detective superintendent had not finished extolling the virtues of his not-so-secret passion, “The tobacco of the moment, for your information, dear boys, is MacBaren’s Vanilla Cream.” Holding his right hand up Tomachek made sure that both his subordinates knew he had far from finished.
Hardie could not help himself, “Correct me if I’m wrong, boss, but I thought you were strictly a walnut man when it came to the pipe, and that nothing beat the Condor moment when it was down to the tobacco?”
Tomachek unplugged the pipe both detectives now knew was called a Cairngorm Bent from the cavern that was his mouth, and jabbed it in Hardie’s direction, “Now listen here, Hardie, don’t try and get smart with me or I can assure you any chance of that set of stripes you’d sell your dear old mammy for will be long gone.”
“All very fascinating,” muttered Thoroughgood under his breath and found himself impaled on the end of one of Tomachek’s famous stares.
“I heard that, Thoroughgood, and when it comes to your pips read Hardie and stripes,” snapped the detective superintendent.
“Apologies, sir,” said Thoroughgood, his exasperation showing.
“Yes, yes that’s fine. Now let’s proceed to the heart of the matter. Your next case, gentlemen, is indeed one which will represent something of a different challenge for you. A departure, of sorts, from the usual mayhem you find yourselves so routinely involved in,” Tomachek paused for a billow, and through the smoke Thoroughgood could see his eyes sparkling.
Tomachek proceeded in an orderly fashion, “Gentlemen, we have an increasing problem with a series of specialist robberies in our city, and one that must be brought to an end.”
Hardie shot Thoroughgood a quick glance, unable to comprehend how either of them had failed to hear the first thing about these robberies.
“I see I have your attention now, my fine fellows. You are both asking yourselves how can it be that Glasgow’s finest don’t have a clue about a problem that is bringing terror to a section of the city’s business community?”
“Yes, boss,” was the best Thoroughgood could do.
“Well, it’s all here and printed fresh off the case management system ten minutes back, by the pretty little WPC on secondment to my office, bless her.” said Tomachek, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Hardie’s patience was first to snap and the veteran DC grabbed the manila casefile, “What kind of robberies, boss?”
“Indeed, my dear Hardie,” purred Tomachek agreeably, “I can see you’re hungry to get to the meat of it, as always.”
Thoroughgood was unsure if the detective superintendent was playing some kind of joke on him and his partner, “Come on, governor, put us out of our misery.”
But it was Hardie who provided the moment of enlightenment his gaffer craved, “Butcher shop robberies!” spat out the DC and the disgust in his tone said it all.
Tomachek removed his pipe from his mouth in an exaggerated gesture. “I’m sorry, dear boys, I really am, but something has to be done about this. It started before Christmas, on Christmas Eve to be precise, when a butchers in Drumchapel was turned over and he lost all his Christmas orders to the tune of ten grand. Bastards even stole his wee boy’s BMX bike.”
Tomachek took another puff and then continued apace, “The whole problem has got out of hand and we’re averaging around one turn a week. We’re talking a six figure sum in stolen meat and the chief constable has taken a personal interest in the matter after the bloody Evening Times ran an exposé on the whole business.”
“So you want us to take a butchers?” asked Hardie sarcastically.
“Indeed I do, my dear Hardie. It may not have the profile of your previous entanglement, but by God, it is starting to generate a rotten stink with the press. Right now, who else would the chief constable want most on the trail of the butchers shop bandits but our two most celebrated detectives – Messrs Thoroughgood and Hardie. Well, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so insistent until today’s Evening Times,” with that Tomachek whipped out a copy of the city newspaper and shoved it to the other side of his desk.
Thoroughgood impulsively read the headline out loud, “Butcher shop bandits give cops the chop –
again.”
“Quite so,” said Tomachek before continuing, “That bastard Donald Hurry, the Times crime correspondent, has slapped the latest robbery, which just happened to occur at the chief’s favourite Bearsden butchers, right on the front page.”
“Great. Just bloody great,” said Hardie in an involuntary reaction that was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“Now look here, Hardie, I can see this has left you less than chuffed but . . .” Tomachek paused and couldn’t help the smile behind his pipe developing into a hearty chortle before ploughing on, “I want you to take the long view here, dear boys. Look at this as the opportunity to clinch the promotions you are so desperate for. Your mission is to find these bandits and bring them to justice before it all goes pear-shaped and someone gets seriously hurt. Should you do so, I can promise you shall go to Pitt Street for the next promotion parade,” Tomachek took another puff from the Cairngorm Bent, removed it and pointed to the door with the stem, “There’s the door, my fine fellows, but before using it make sure the case notes accompany you out of the exit.” In a more placatory tone, “Solve this one, lads, and you will have my eternal gratitude and more importantly that of the chief. E = MC2 as dear old Uncle Albert put it, eh?”
The two chairs on the opposite side of the desk scraped back and Thoroughgood scooped up the manila casefile and the newspaper en route to the exit.
As they made for the rear yard of Stewart Street City Centre nick they could hear grunts and snorting as the city centre CID relished the news of their latest mission. Just before they reached their car a voice shouted. “Aye, about time you went on a real steak-out, Hardie,” before another one added, “Porks of being the old man’s pet, Thoroughgood!” Hysterics erupted from all four corners of the yard before another jibe reached their ears, “Make sure you bring home the bacon, Thoroughgood!” Then in unison a chorus of moos burst out.
The Longest Shadow Page 3
