16
ROBERT ROXBURGH sat in his office at the Lomond Distillery, the heels of his Sandhurst brogues resting on his huge, mahogany Victorian desk. Also resting on the desk was his grandfather’s whisky flask which he was now in the process of draining, using one of the accompanying miniature drinking vessels.
The audience with Cheung had been a triumph and Roxburgh allowed himself a moment to savour his success. He swivelled his chair around and looked into the identical azure eyes of his grandfather, Ludovic, staring down proudly from above, garbed in full military uniform against the stunning backdrop of Loch Lomond.
Raising the vessel in salute to the portrait, Roxburgh’s lips moved in a silent toast to the most famous Roxburgh of the dynasty, confident he had saved everything his grandfather had held dear and also, in one fell swoop, turned impending disaster into the advent of a bright new dawn.
With the last drop of Dark Ocean consumed, Roxburgh got to his feet and made his way over to his drinks cabinet, intent on toasting his moment of triumph. He selected the special 1938 bottle of The Roxburgh he knew had been enjoyed by Ludovic himself, all those years before, on the eve of the war. The Roxburgh retained a special place in the cabinet, not just for its value and the famously rich taste which provided notes of fudge, cocoa and burnt sugar, but even more because it connected Roxburgh with the man who had been his biggest influence and whom he had, until this moment, felt he had failed.
His touch somewhat clumsy, he caught the bottle neck on the hand-carved bracket that ran down the side of the cabinet door, but his curse died on his lips as he saw that a secret drawer had sprung open from the bottom ledge of the cabinet. Startled, Robert took a step backward and peered into the drawer. Inside were three small booklets, tied together in royal blue ribbon. He placed the whisky bottle on the top of the cabinet, bent down and pulled the bundle out, making sure there was nothing else in the secret drawer before closing it.
He untied the ribbon, marvelling as he did so that what lay within might be some piece of secret family history that had not seen the light of day in generations. Opening the first booklet in his hands he saw “LVR War Diary Vol. 1, 1939-1940” printed in his grandfather’s neat and precise handwriting.
Robert repeated the exercise with the second diary which covered the year 1941. The final booklet, he observed, covered 1944-45, leaving him to draw the obvious conclusion that the diary covering the period 1942-43 was missing.
Picking up the second booklet Robert leafed through some random pages and began to immerse himself in his grandfather’s thoughts during the darkest days of the Second World War starting in September 1941 . . . ‘Joy of joys, am to be in charge of No1 Combined Training Centre, Inverorchy. PM determined to take the fight to the Hun, KGVI keen to come up to inspect the base. Have three months to get ready for His Majesty, LVR, Sept 01/41’
Tingling with the excitement of sharing his grandfather’s thoughts at the pivotal moment of his life Robert took another sip of The Roxburgh and moved on to the next page . . . ‘Meeting with my darling J at the Dorchester. Hear PM is also resident and will need to be careful!! Afternoon tea for two and then mucho fun! LVR, Sept02/41’
The words hit Robert hard and straight between the eyes. The grandfather he had revered above everyone else as the epitome of family virtue and all that was good, had been having an affair. Not only that, but Ludovic was meeting his squeeze in one of war-time London’s most upmarket hotels and not scared about running the gauntlet of a meeting with Churchill himself in the process of having ‘tea and mucho fun’.
It was the stuff of scandal given Ludovic’s lofty status as Under Secretary for War and his appointment, confirmed in the previous page, as the commander of Churchill’s pet project to take the fight back to the Nazis in Europe, after the success of the Battle of Britain.
The entry of Sept 02/41 hinted at scandal that would not have done Churchill’s war-time cabinet any good. It would also have called into question the great war-time leader’s judgement in appointing Ludovic OIC of the revolutionary No1 Combined Training Centre.
Goodness only knew what revelations lay in the pages ahead. Robert replayed images of his grandfather and grandmother Margaret from his childhood that had always cast the illusion that theirs was the happiest of marriages. Yet here was proof that it was all a sham. Laying all three diaries out on the desk Robert left a space for the missing journal. Questions filled his mind at a dizzying speed. ‘Where was it? How had it become separated from the rest of the diaries? Had it fallen into the hands of someone who would use it to harm his family?’
No sooner had the last of these questions faded into his subconscious than a cold and horrible reality dawned on Robert, Viscount Roxburgh. Pulling a sheet of A4 from his desk drawer, a note he’d found shoved under his desk door a couple of mornings earlier, he flattened it and finally took in the contents that, up until this moment, he had failed to comprehend. In nondescript print the threat was now clear and obvious. Only one line long, what had been completely cryptic now began to take on some meaning if, as Robert now suspected, it related to the content of the missing third journal.
‘THE OLDEST SIN CASTS THE LONGEST SHADOW.’
He took another sip of the ’38 malt and the thought stumbled into his shell-shocked mind that he was clutching at straws – that the missing diary must surely just have become separated from its companions and be resting somewhere in the drinks cabinet. Triggering the secret drawer he ran his hands over the woodwork, but there was nothing else there. Frantically checking for any other secret compartments he repeated the process that had triggered the opening of the compartment, this time on the other side of the cabinet. Nothing happened.
So there was, indeed, only one secret drawer. As he sat staring at Ludovic’s chiselled features he attempted to elicit some clue as to how the events chronicled in these meticulous, but secret diaries, could have unfolded. Robert’s imagination began to run riot. Was it possible that whatever was recorded in the missing journal, or perhaps even the other journals, sitting in front of him, was connected to the attempt on his life? He immediately dismissed the notion as ridiculous.
“Get a grip, man,” Roxburgh said as he attempted to reassure himself that the incident on the landing outside his office was a burglary or robbery gone wrong.
But he could not help asking himself, “What is the oldest sin?”
He read the single line out loud, “THE OLDEST SIN CASTS THE LONGEST SHADOW.” Then Robert Roxburgh cradled his head in his hands.
17
ROBERT WAS brought back to the present when the door to his office was ripped open with such force that it rebounded violently onto the whitewashed wall of the landing outside. The elder Roxburgh swivelled round in his chair and observed the powerful figure of his younger brother, Alexander.
Robert could feel his jaw setting as he awaited the impending verbal broadside. Placing his drink on the desk he massaged either side of his forehead and attempted to meet Alexander’s pulsing venom with as much calm as he could muster.
The younger Roxburgh spat, “So, you have returned from your meeting with Cheung and are clearly savouring saving your skin. You sit there beneath the portrait of our grandfather, full of smugness and self-satisfaction while you have mortgaged to the hilt everything we hold dear. Worse still, you have done so with the Triads.”
So Alexander was fully aware of the true nature of the Gwai Lo and just what Cheung represented. As discreetly as he could, Robert pushed the diaries into his desk drawer hoping that Alexander’s anger would mean they did not register on his consciousness.
“What’s wrong big brother? Surely not more of your secrets?” demanded Alexander.
Robert smiled benignly and attempted to divert his interest, “No, they are not my secrets Alex. But let us stick to the subject you are here to talk about. For your information, what I have done is present Raymond Cheung with his first opportunity to sample the new Dark Ocean liqueur and tantalise him with
the plans for its launch, left him tickled and whelping with joy like a freshly born puppy on his back, little brother.
“Cheung’s eyes have been opened to the full extent of the possibilities that are open to him through his partnership with the house of Roxburgh, Alex. The prospect of having the Dark Ocean launch splashed over the pages of Hello! which Vicky has arranged, plus the charity fashion show planned with Vanessa Velvet, had him drooling.”
But Alexander would have none of it, “Don’t feed me your bullshit, Robert. Tell me about the penalty clause, which I believe, is the sword of Damocles hovering above every deal done with the Triads.”
Robert knew that his options were limited and he tried to stall, “Look, Alex, join me over a glass of the ’38 to mark the bright new future that the Ghost Men have just guaranteed us, just as I am sure grandfather would have,” he said.
Alexander eyed his grandfather’s flask and drinking vessels and exploded, “You bastard! You’ve clinched the deal by supping from grandfather’s flask with a jumped-up Chinese gangster. You make me sick. If you think I will denigrate grandfather’s malt by toasting your sordid deal with these Oriental hoodlums then you are off your head, man.”
He stormed over to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a large glass of the 18-year-old malt that was usually Robert’s favoured refreshment. Turning round to face his elder brother he took a slug and washed it around his mouth, enjoying its distinct taste and swallowing abruptly.
“Come on, Alex, sit down and let’s get this all in perspective once and for all,” said Robert. “I will be honest with you. There is indeed a penalty clause, but it is so lenient it is not remotely a threat and never will be.”
Alex slotted himself into the leather chair and said, “At last! The truth will out. So come on big brother, are we to be homeless and potless within a year?”
Robert smiled, “No, we are not. All we need to do is hit 80 percent of the profit target, year in and year out, and everyone is happy and we are safe. Come on, Alex, you know the potential for a new liqueur in the Asian market is massive and you also now know the type of clout that the Triads have over there. It may be a deal with the devil, but for us it’s one made in heaven.”
The only sound that came from the other side of the mahogany desk was the increasing rasping of Alexander’s breathing.
Robert became concerned, “Are you okay, old man?”
“Just a bit hot under the collar,” said Alexander and loosened his tie. “I have hardly slept in the last month because of all this . . .” he stopped mid sentence and his hands shot up to his throat as he gasped violently for air, then pitched forward off the seat and crashed to the floor.
Robert sprinted around the desk and cradled his younger brother’s head in his arms: “Alex, c’mon old boy, you just got a bit worked up . . .”
Alexander’s body gave a violent convulsion as it jerked in Robert’s arms and staring wildly down at him, Robert could see the fear in his brother’s eyes. Feeling utterly helpless he tried to reassure him that he would be fine while at the same time trying not to let his desperation become apparent to Alexander.
Placing his hand on Alex’s forehead he felt the cold clamminess that had broken over his skin, and as his younger brother’s eyes began to take on an increasingly glazed look his body was racked by another violent spasm. “C’mon Alex fight it, it’s going to be okay!” he shouted, but already the life was draining from Alex and Robert found himself enveloped in panic. A panic that he was losing his little brother and it was his fault.
With one final violent shudder Alex’s eyes turned up in a frozen, glazed stare just as a rattle escaped his throat. Gazing down at his younger brother, Robert Roxburgh stared in disbelief at the uncomprehending horror that had just unfolded in front of him. As he did so he noticed the strange, sweet but bitter scent from Alex’s mouth which was totally at odds with the aroma of the 18 year old malt he had just drunk. His complexion was almost cherry-red in colour.
Laying his younger brother down, Robert’s eyes remained locked on Alex’s now permanently vacant eyes, and felt moisture fill his own. Trembling with grief he tried to coordinate his fingers in a bid to punch 999 on the office phone.
He did not know what else to do.
18
THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie sat in silence in the estate office at Balfron Mill as they examined the staff records and every bit of paperwork they could get their hands on, relating to the business and its employees. The process of interviewing the staff had been exhaustive and frustrating in almost equal measure, and both detectives had no doubt that there was something they had been kept in the dark about. Something they couldn’t quite put their finger on.
So far there had been no sign of Sophie Balfron or her abductor, but Thoroughgood remained confident that although 48 hours had passed since the armed raid, the murder of her husband and her own abduction, there was a missing piece of jigsaw that would help them see the big picture – if only they could locate it.
“Look, gaffer, there is something we aren’t being told and, for my money, the best way to get it is from one of the farm labourers. I’ve spoken to them all, but there’s a boy by the name of Billy Carson and he’s as nervous as a kitten. If you don’t mind I’d like to bring him back in for a second bite at the cherry.” said Hardie as he tapped the end of a Silk Cut on the office desk.
Thoroughgood remained still in the seat that had once been filled by the late Johnny Balfron himself and, as Hardie had drawn to a close, the DS’ eyes looked up from the list of employees and the notes he had made pertaining to each one.
“Yep, that sounds good. I’d wager a pint that something happened around Christmas that left a bad smell lingering around Balfron Mill. I think it had something to do with the Poles. The employment register says three of them were made surplus to requirements, slap bang in the middle of the busiest part of the year, with Christmas trees virtually running out of the door by themselves. It doesn’t make sense, and your boy Carson would have been working alongside them. Bring him in.”
Moments later Hardie re-appeared at the office door and beckoned in a ginger-haired male. “Billy Carson, gaffer, at your pleasure,” said the DC, giving the reluctant witness a prod in the small of the back to propel him into the estate office and towards the empty chair.
Thoroughgood remained seated at the other side of the desk and trained his gaze on the new arrival. Carson, he already knew, was 20 years of age and had been employed as farm hand, odd-job man and a variety of other trivial pursuits since he had left school as a 16-year-old.
The DS smiled reassuringly at the new arrival, “Have a seat Billy. I think you may have some information that could help us find Mrs Balfron.”
Carson rammed his hands into the pockets of his overalls, the involuntary jerking of his knees betraying his nervousness at the prospect of helping the police with their enquiries.
“Don’t know what you mean, boss,” was his opening gambit.
From behind him, Hardie’s voice begged to differ, “Listen to me son, and listen good,” said the DC and for good measure took a step closer to Carson before bending down and speaking into the his right ear. “We don’t have time to fuck about, wee man. What we have here is a murder enquiry in which the deceased’s missus has been abducted and three of the gang involved in the robbery are also pan breid. But what DS Thoroughgood and I are asking ourselves is, just why Sophie Balfron ain’t lying cold, like her old boy, on the slab? We’ve heard some gossip we think you know plenty about and which we believe could be a big help to this enquiry. Bottom line, sonny, is that you spill what you know or . . .” Hardie paused and placed a not so reassuring hand on Carson’s left shoulder, “You’ll be heading for Stewart Street nick and the Bar-L for attempting to pervert the course of justice and hindering a murder enquiry. That plain enough for you, son?”
Carson’s eyes had remained staring at his dancing knees all through the Hardie monologue, but at last his gaze rose and he
found it impossible to avoid the scrutiny of Thoroughgood’s piercing green eyes. Still he remained silent.
Thoroughgood leaned back in his chair, “Look, Billy, I’ll make it easy for you. There was a group of three Polish workers here, grafting alongside you before Christmas, helping with the Christmas trees and all of a sudden, a week before Santa hitches up Rudolph to his sleigh, they get binned and there isn’t a word of explanation in the employment records.
“But there’s more to it, isn’t there, Billy boy, than just a bunch of Poles getting the boot for being lazy buggers? ‘Cos the short and curlies of it is that Poles don’t do lazy, do they, pal? So why boot your best grafters out on their tattered arses when the Christmas tree harvest is going into meltdown?”
“How wid I know, boss?” whined Carson, unconvincingly.
This time Hardie whispered sweet nothings into the farmhand’s left ear. “But that’s just it, wee man, you do know and you know plenty. Now spill.”
Thoroughgood, spotting Carson clenching his jaw, decided to offer him some help with his bout of selective amnesia. “Look, Billy, rumour has it that one of your Polish pals was proving very popular with Mrs Balfron. The smart money is on her old man finding out and applying his size 10s to our friends from Eastern Europe tout suite in order to end their mutual admiration society. That about right, Billy boy?” A furtive movement of Carson’s eyes indicated that Thoroughgood was onto the truth and the DS was not about to let go.
“Okay, son, here we go,” he added. “We have three Polish labourers one minute, enjoying loads of overtime at the peak of the Christmas tree harvest and the next minute, five days before the glorious 25th they are all axed, but two of them turn up at the Smithycroft Farm down the road and the other . . .” Thoroughgood glanced at the employment record and continued, “a Janek Boniek, aged 23, disappears off the face of the earth. You know what that is telling me, son?” asked Thoroughgood, amiably enough.
The Longest Shadow Page 8
