The Longest Shadow

by R. J. Mitchell

  “Have you been down to the boathouse?”

  “No. I’ve been flat out 24/7 for the last three or four days, Gus.”

  “Jeez, Vicky, you should have informed DI Pigeon as soon as you became worried about your brother, and he certainly needs to know about it now. What about the diaries and the threatening letter – had Robbie told the DI about them?”

  “Robbie had shown him the letter, but he said he wanted to read the diaries before he handed them over to the Detective Inspector.”

  “Do you know how Robbie came by the threat? Was it posted or hand delivered?” asked Thoroughgood, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “I’m sorry Gus – all he showed me was a photocopy of the original and it looked like it had been computer printed – it was an A4 sheet of paper. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Has Robbie done a disappearing act before?”

  “Yeah, he has been known to go off on a bender and hit the casinos. Plus, he knew that I had everything under control with the help of your . . .” Victoria hesitated before adding, “Vanessa.”

  Thoroughgood shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was becoming intoxicated by Victoria’s delicious proximity, but he was quickly jolted back to the reality of his own domestic problems.

  “I don’t think Vanessa sees herself as mine or anyone else’s, Vicky. But that’s not important. What is important is that we get you to DI Pigeon and give him all the facts. We need to get to the bottom of this before anything else happens and we need to find your brother.” Thoroughgood placed a hand on Victoria’s elbow and guided her out of the stables.

  They found the Detective Inspector inside one of the giant entrances to the marquee. It was clear that he was taking a keen interest in the guests and Thoroughgood’s inquisitive glance soon found DS Harry Bolt located almost exactly opposite his gaffer, “Very imaginative,” muttered Thoroughgood, drawing a questioning look from Victoria.

  “Ah, Thoroughgood, good of you to introduce Miss Roxburgh, but really, it’s Robert Roxburgh I need to speak to,” said the DI.

  “I’m afraid that will be difficult, DI Pigeon, because as Vicky will tell you, he has gone missing.”

  Pigeon’s irritation showed as he snapped, “Very good, Thoroughgood. You can leave this to me now and go and enjoy the fashion show. You must be keen to see your lady friend in her full glory?”

  Thoroughgood turned to Victoria, “Just make sure you tell DI Pigeon everything and don’t leave the smallest detail out, Vicky. If you need me I’ll be in the marquee but don’t worry, you will get through this.”

  Victoria Roxburgh said nothing although the warmth in her eyes spoke volumes and Thoroughgood left them with his emotions back in the blender.

  He found Hardie leaning lazily on a high drinks table, halfway between one of the chocolate fountains and a refreshment table that was groaning under the weight of massed ranks of champagne glasses.

  “Feck me, it’s like a Who’s Who in here. Footballers, politicians and the aristocracy. Plus a photographer from one of those posh mags, jumping aboot like a kangaroo on fire! Fancy a game of I spy, Gus, son? Anyway, what’s new, mate? I hope you haven’t been messing with Miss Victoria’s heart again?”

  “We’ve got a problem – or rather, Randy Pigeon has. It looks like someone, almost certainly the same someone who took out Alexander Roxburgh, has now completed the family double on his big brother Robert who went missing just 48hours before his defining moment. Now ask yourself why, Hardie?” said Thoroughgood.

  “It’s pretty bloody clear. Someone who doesn’t want the Roxburghs saved, someone who is nursing some kind of grievance towards them. Christ, it must be a helluva grievance right enough.”

  “A grievance that I believe has its answers in a 70-year-old set of war-time diaries. Journals that reveal Ludovic, grand-daddy Roxburgh, the celebrated war-time hero and member of Churchill’s war-time government, was a philanderer who was involved in some sort of affair that may well provide the answer to this whole mess.”

  “All of which Pigeon is currently being made aware of by Miss Victoria? Right?” enquired Hardie and was met by a curt nod from Thoroughgood. “Aye, like I said a while back, Gus, thank Gawd this is his enquiry and not ours, mate. Plus, if you go getting involved at this stage, old Randy will blow a gasket and rightly so. I think we just need to take our seats at the side of the catwalk, enjoy the scenery and let DI Pigeon show us what a top cop he is.”

  “That’s all very well, faither, but Vicky is in danger and so is the Dowager Lady Elizabeth. I would put good money on there being someone under this bloody tent who wants them dead.”

  “So who stands to make the most of it if this deal falls through? It’s gotta be Cheung, I would imagine. If he is bankrolling the whole thing and the Roxburghs are just its respectable front, default on the terms would put him and his, what are they called again?”

  “Gwai Lo – Ghost Men in English,” answered Thoroughgood helpfully.

  “Exactly, them, in complete control. So it’s gotta be Cheung who’s behind this, although it’s a bit bleedin’ obvious. Plus, Pigeon has already had him questioned.”

  Thoroughgood’s features were a study in bafflement, “What if someone had discovered dirt on the Roxburghs and informed Cheung for a tidy sum? Victoria told me that the last time she saw Robert he showed her some threatening letter with the phrase: ‘THE OLDEST SIN CASTS THE LONGEST SHADOW’ on it. I think the secret is in these bloody diaries,” said Thoroughgood.

  “So where are they?”

  “That’s just it. Robert Roxburgh only had three of them – the fourth one was missing and is presumably in the hands of our unknown assassin, or assassins.”

  “So find the diaries and we find our killer,” said Hardie.

  Before Thoroughgood could answer, a familiar female voice could be heard behind him. As he turned round his eyes immediately locked on the sight of Vanessa Velvet in full 1930’s cocktail dress magnificence, standing on the temporary stage at the end of the catwalk.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The show will start in precisely five minutes,” she said into a microphone. Her gaze found the DS and Thoroughgood went comfortably numb.

  “By Christ, she scrubs up well!” said Hardie.

  43

  THOROUGHGOOD NODDED to Hardie to make his way to the exit and was impaled on a scowl for his trouble.

  Heading outside, the duo found they were walking against the tide as the guests headed for the seats surrounding the catwalk. As Thoroughgood glanced back he saw that Hardie was still clutching his champagne glass and attempting to drain its contents on the move.

  “Put that down man, we have work to do. Get a move on, Hardie.”

  As they headed over the lush lawn Thoroughgood found his arm gripped tight and turned to find Hardie had clamped a hand on him. “Listen, Gus, I can guess what you are up to. It ain’t right and it’s gonnae land us in the soup good and proper with DI Pigeon.”

  “For cryin’ out loud, Hardie, you know as well as I do that Pigeon couldn’t catch a cold. He’s been dragging his feet with this whole enquiry like he does with every bloody investigation that comes his way. We need to get down to that boathouse and give it the once over. Now are you in or out on this? Because we don’t have time to fuck about.”

  Hardie folded his arms and dug his heels in, “Look, Gus, this isn’t your fight. You’re probably still exhausted from all that shit with the Poles. Why don’t you come back into the marquee, sample the champers and enjoy the show?”

  “No can do,” snapped the DS, his green eyes blazing anger.

  “I’m sorry, Gus, but you’re on your own on this one. For Chrissakes – never mind cutting Pigeon’s grass, we ain’t even on duty,” said Hardie flatly.

  “All right, Hardie, have it your way, but if you are going to sit on your arse you can at least make yourself useful. Promise me you won’t let Vicky Roxburgh out of your sight.”

  “You h
ave my word,” said Hardie and with an air of resignation he turned and marched back into the marquee.

  Thoroughgood walked down the dirt lane that led to the boathouse, and as he turned right he took in the view. A single storey building with a clock tower positioned centrally, which had an archway acting as the entrance to a courtyard through which lay a shingled beach and a jetty.

  Thoroughgood’s anger from his spat with Hardie still burned and the DS took a deep breath as he tried to regain his focus on the job in hand. He knew he was breaking all the rules and was possibly about to contaminate a potential crime scene, but equally he knew he didn’t have time to play by the usual rules of police procedure. The bottom line was that whoever was behind the terrorising of the Roxburgh family would do everything in their power to wreak their havoc before the crowning glory of the launch and, with it, the Roxburgh’s salvation.

  Thoroughgood clocked what appeared to be the office to his left. He placed his hand inside a handkerchief and tried the handle of a rickety door with its faded blue paintwork barely visible. Although locked, three dunts from his shoulder sprung it open.

  Thoroughgood strode in and scanned the office and its contents. A splintered desk which had certainly seen better days, but it was what was on the desk’s surface that grabbed his attention. A bottle of 18-year-old The Roxburgh single malt with maybe one glass, perhaps two, missing from it; an old jug, half-full of water, at an odd angle on the desk top. A shoogly waste paper bin held the whisky bottle’s black peel.

  Something else caught his eye, on the cold flagstone floor. Bending down, Thoroughgood pulled a pen from his inside pocket and lifted the object gently, making sure he avoided contaminating a potential piece of evidence. It was a strip of blue silk ribbon. He replaced it where it had been.

  He tried the drawers and found them empty. “Damn!” said Thoroughgood, his hope that the diaries lay inside proving a forlorn one.

  An old dresser to the left of the desk also proved useless. He observed a set of hooks holding various keys and noticed the one named ‘Boat Store’ was missing its key.

  Thoroughgood stared through the window at the beauty of Loch Lomond while he summed up his thoughts, ‘So, Roxburgh comes in for a dram and a butchers at the diaries and then what? No sign of a struggle, but then no sign of the diaries? Blue ribbon must have been used to bind them, so why leave the ribbon but not the diaries? Where is the whisky glass?’ Boat store key gone.’

  He thought aloud, “Outside.”

  He ran out of the office and made his way down on to the shingle beach looking left and right for anything that may help him. Staring down at the water, its calm irritated him and he put that down to the exhaustion of the preceding days catching up with him, ‘Maybe Hardie was right, Gus, there’s nothing here for you, mate, time to head back to the marquee and play the game.’

  At that moment a glint of brilliant light flashed its reflection out of the tiny wavelets that were breaking on the shingle. It was a whisky glass. Thoroughgood picked it up by its rim with the help of his hanky and sniffed for content. The trace of whisky, washed out as it had been by the water, was slight but still discernible. He replaced the glass where he had found it.

  ‘The diaries must have stayed inside the office. So Roxburgh came out here to enjoy his dram and maybe digest what he had just been reading, leaving the diaries in the office and then . . .’ the voice inside his head once again escaped, “Whack,” said Thoroughgood.

  He began to check the shingle for any signs of a struggle. To his left a log sat on a raised part of the beach and there, impaled on a splinter, was a torn shred of navy blue wool.

  Thoroughgood ran his eyes across the log and noticed a dark-coloured patch at the thicker of its two ends. The conclusion he leapt to was the obvious one – the log had either been used to assault Roxburgh or had in fact been the murder weapon.

  ‘So where is Roxburgh’s body if he’s bought it?’ he asked himself as a seagull squawked overhead.

  He continued along the shingle, searching for he knew not what. He headed for a clump of trees, all the time seeking for any signs that a body had been dragged along the shingle. Nothing. As his attention fixed on a small island about 100 metres out, it dawned on him he had been going in the wrong direction.

  “Put two and two together for once, Thoroughgood,” he chastised himself before retracing his steps, back past the log and towards the small jetty, which he now realised was directly opposite the island.

  Quickly, he walked out to the edge of the jetty and, as he hunkered down, observed small dark rivulets that had congealed onto the wood.

  That was it, Thoroughgood reasoned, Roxburgh had been attacked from behind then dragged to the jetty, and was most probably dead, before being rowed out in the missing boat to the island where his body was probably concealed.

  As he gazed out to the island the DS had no doubt it would prove to be the final resting place of Robert Roxburgh. But Thoroughgood couldn’t help himself shaking his head. ‘Something ain’t right, pal,’ said the voice in his head.

  The sound of footsteps snapped the DS back to the here and now. Turning round he saw the grey-bearded, shiny-domed presence of Detective Inspector Randolph Pigeon marching down the jetty with DS Harry Bolt in his wake. Pigeon stopped a foot short of Thoroughgood and smashed his right hand off the DS’ jaw.

  44

  THOROUGHGOOD RAISED himself on his elbows and looked up into Pigeon’s livid features then ran his right hand across his throbbing jaw; tasted blood.

  “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doin’, Thoroughgood? In fact, don’t bother answering that because we both know what you’re up to, don’t we Detective Sergeant?”

  “You’re cuttin’ my bleedin’ grass, you son of a bitch, and tryin’ to play the hero again in front of Miss Victoria and your Velvet tart. ‘Thoroughgood the hero copper saves the day at Roxburgh Hall’ – you just can’t get enough of the headlines, can you Thoroughgood? You’ve become as much a fame junkie as your celebrity girlfriend. That’s it though, Thoroughgood, you want a piece of the limelight and you’ve been tryin’ to hog it ever since that business with that crazy fuck Tariq, the Imam. Every high-profile case that comes up you’ve got to get your fingers into it, you snivellin’ arsewipe. But not this one, Thoroughgood. Not my case, not my investigation. You will swing for this and I’ll make sure of it. You are finished.”

  Thoroughgood shakily hauled himself to his feet and grabbed hold of one of the wooden stanchions at the side of the jetty. He took a deep breath. “Hold on a minute, Pigeon, you are way wide of the mark,” but before he could plead his case for the defence Pigeon lunged at him and grabbed his lapels.

  Their faces millimetres away from each other, Pigeon let the DS have it with both barrels, “Don’t even try and bullshit me, Thoroughgood. Even your own man has refused to back you up on this one. You grilled Victoria Roxburgh before I had the chance and left me to take her statement knowing it was going to take time to get the job done properly and knowing that would give you enough space to snoop around the crime scene and steal a march on me. You treacherous bastard, this job is hard enough without you trying to trip up your own side.”

  Thoroughgood had had enough. He brought his fists up in a violent motion that knocked Pigeon’s hands free, then rammed a right hand into the DI’s midriff. Pigeon staggered back clutching his guts while Bolt quickly propped him up. Wiping the blood away from the side of his mouth, Thoroughgood decided there was no point in observing the niceties, “Why don’t you get a grip, Pigeon? The truth is, you’re out your depth and if you hadn’t been dragging your feet as usual then Robert Roxburgh would never have gone missing. You’re right about what you said, but I only wanted to get down here and get things moving as quickly as possible because we don’t have time to pussyfoot about. This is a crime scene all right, and one that will probably lead you to Robert Roxburgh’s body out there.”

  Thoroughgood stopped in full flow, turned and pointed
to the tree-covered island in the loch and added, “Because I am confident somewhere on that island is the sixth Viscount Roxburgh, most certainly dead rather than alive. You know what that will mean, Pigeon?”

  The Detective Inspector had straightened up, but a hate-filled scowl was his only response.

  “It will mean that whoever is behind these killings will then be trying to take out Lady Elizabeth and Victoria Roxburgh, and most probably before the launch reaches its climax. So, can you see why I might have been doing your dirty work for you, Pigeon? Time, man, is the answer. Or is that just too much to ask of you . . . Detective Inspector?” Thoroughgood drawled out the last two words with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

  As the winded Pigeon continued to gasp for breath it was Bolt who asked the obvious question, “So what have you found, Thoroughgood?”

  “Almost certainly the scene of Robert Roxburgh’s murder. In the boathouse office you’ll find a piece of ribbon most probably used to bind the diaries Roxburgh was reading. Next is the whisky glass glistening out from the tide, down there on the beach, where you will also find a piece of navy blue wool impaled on a log, which happens to be blood-splattered, just like the jetty. Then there is the missing key from the boat store, and most likely one of the boats with it . . . do you think you can join up the numbers? But I’m done doin’ your donkey work for you, Lightning. Somewhere on that island you’ll find Robert Roxburgh’s body. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna catch the rest of the fashion show, safe in the knowledge that StrathPol’s two finest detectives are on the job.” With that, Thoroughgood walked straight past Pigeon and Bolt.