The Longest Shadow

by R. J. Mitchell

  “And now you know how confident we are about the unique quality of the Dark Ocean it is time, ladies and gentlemen, that you sampled it.” Cheung called out, “Miss Victoria,” and Victoria Roxburgh glided onto the stage to take up position at the other side of the sherry cask.

  Holding his hand out Cheung took Victoria’s and placed a kiss on the back of it then uttered one word, “Enchanté.”

  “Bet the smarmy bastard does that to every bird he meets,” muttered Hardie to Thoroughgood as the duo looked on, spellbound.

  Cheung stepped across to the bottle of Dark Ocean on the upturned sherry cask, poured a generous measure into the two glasses sitting on the table and lifted them, handing one to Victoria.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may you be the first to enjoy the pleasures of the Dark Ocean. Enjoy,” and with that Cheung toasted Victoria and turned to the guests, “Slianthe” said the Triad boss triumphantly. No sooner had he replaced his empty glass on the sherry cask than the watching detectives’ attention was drawn to the side of the stage where Pigeon and Bolt had arrived.

  “Please, no,” muttered Thoroughgood. But his worst fears were about to be realised and Pigeon mounted the stage with Bolt behind him and strode across to the Triad boss whose expression reflected his total disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of him.

  “Raymond Cheung,” boomed Pigeon, “I am arresting you for the murders of Alexander and Robert Roxburgh. I must inform you that you do not need to say anything but anything you do say maybe taken down and used in evidence against you. Have you anything to say?” demanded Pigeon, basking in his moment of supreme triumph.

  “This is ridiculous . . .” began Cheung before he regained his composure and clamped his lips firmly shut.

  “I thought not. DS Bolt, do the needful,” ordered Pigeon. Bolt slapped the cuffs on Cheung as the press photographers snapped away in a frenzy.

  Bolt and Pigeon escorted Cheung briskly offstage as his bodyguard, Lam, attempted to bar their path. He slid his hand inside his jacket, stopping when Cheung quickly nodded a warning that he was to go no further.

  Before Lam could move, two uniformed cops materialised at his side and grabbed an arm each. Both men were frogmarched through the marquee as bedlam erupted amongst the great and the good all around them.

  47

  CHEUNG WAS propelled towards the exit, with his bodyguard roughhoused along in his wake by his two uniform attendants and Pigeon strolling triumphantly, yards behind them.

  A flash lit up the marquee with a whole battery following it as the Hello! magazine photographer filled his boots with pics of what was sure to be the biggest scandal in the Scottish social calendar of that year, or many another. Jackie Marquis caught up with Pigeon and rammed her dictaphone in front of his face,

  “DI Pigeon, what can you tell us?”

  Pigeon played the straight bat, “Absolutely no comment.”

  “Can you confirm you have just arrested Raymond Cheung on suspicion of murdering both the Roxburgh brothers?” persisted Marquis, panting with excitement at her unexpected scoop.

  Pigeon turned to face the reporter full on and with her photographer hovering behind her, the DI smiled benignly and said, “Correct.”

  Detective Inspector Randolph Pigeon had just made the biggest arrest of his career – one he knew would take him a massive step towards achieving his lifelong ambition of one day becoming Assistant Chief Constable, Crime. The photographer’s flash lit up his face. Then the DI marched off as he sought to battle his way through the melee of disbelieving guests.

  Ahead of him Cheung had almost reached the marquee entrance when he spotted Thoroughgood, just yards away. The Triad leader muttered something to Bolt and the DS obligingly drew to a halt, allowing Cheung to shout across to Thoroughgood,

  “Please, Detective Sergeant, assure Lady Roxburgh and Miss Victoria I am innocent and will prove myself so. Tell them the Dark Ocean will not be ruined by this ludicrous . . .”

  Bolt snapped, “Enough,” and dragged Cheung out the tent.

  “Cheung an innocent man, eh! Methinks he doth protest too much,” said Hardie.

  Pigeon diverted from the slipstream of his prisoners and strode over to Thoroughgood and Hardie, a broad smile on his face. “Is there anything you want to say to me, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood?” asked Pigeon, almost glowing with triumph.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right man?” asked Thoroughgood, his voice emotionless.

  “Never surer, Thoroughgood, but no surprise that you could doubt the ability of any copper to close a case of this profile other than yourself. We have Cheung and his underling Lam bang to rights,” crowed Pigeon.

  “Based on what, Detective Inspector? The evidence down at the boathouse, or what you located on the island opposite it?” asked Thoroughgood, examining the bottom of an empty champagne glass in an attempt to mask his fascination.

  “Oh, that and a whole lot more, Thoroughgood. I’m afraid you were right about Robert Roxburgh. We discovered his body on the island. He had been garrotted to death. An imaginative MO, and one used regularly by the Triads, funnily enough,” said Pigeon, his smugness obvious.

  “It’s hardly enough to slap the cuffs on Cheung, with respect, of course, Detective Inspector,” said Hardie.

  “You’re right, DC Hardie, but thankfully some new evidence has come to light that has made the case for the prosecution overwhelming.” Pigeon stopped abruptly, forcing Thoroughgood to ask the inevitable.

  “Which is?”

  Pigeon stroked the grey goatee that enveloped his chin and was in stark contrast to his shiny dome, as if in a severe dilemma over whether to spill. He smiled, “Under normal circumstances I couldn’t possibly share information from a case with an officer not on the enquiry team, but you have been helpful, Thoroughgood, eventually. I’ll give you that.”

  “Kind of you to say so,” responded Thoroughgood, “and here I was, thinking all I was going to have to show for that help was a sore jaw and a burst mouth.”

  “Indeed. Heat of the moment stuff. Actually, we have two new pieces of evidence that are damning in the extreme as far as Cheung is concerned. I have managed to get hold of the contracts for the deal between the Roxburghs and the Gwai Lo and there is a very imaginative penalty clause within it. Not one but two, in fact. The first was that if the Roxburghs failed to meet 80 percent of their sales and production targets they would forfeit any power on the board and lose control of their distillery. Both Robert and Alexander Roxburgh were aware of this.” Pigeon took a breather.

  “And the second?” asked Hardie.

  “The second penalty clause was cleverly camouflaged in the T’s and C’s, as they call them. This specified that if Robert, or both he and Alexander predeceased the completion of the deal, marked by the launch, then Cheung would assume complete and personal control of the Roxburgh whisky empire. I know for a fact that Alexander had no knowledge of this clause and I have grave doubts, although no proof, that Robert knew either. But I believe he missed the second clause, probably because he was too busy celebrating the seven figure bail-out he had negotiated. Now both are conveniently dead and Cheung is the last man standing. Things look very bleak for Lady Elizabeth and Victoria Roxburgh,” concluded Pigeon.

  “Nasty. The Roxburghs have been done up like proverbial kippers,” said Hardie while Thoroughgood remained stone-faced.

  Pigeon held his hand up just as Hardie made to speak again, “But there’s more, and this is game, set and match. The set of three diaries that Robert Roxburgh was reading on the night of his murder were recovered by uniform officers from the glove compartment of Cheung’s underling’s car, just over half an hour ago.”

  Hardie’s eyebrows shot up in amazement, “I guess it’s like you said, DI Pigeon, game, set and match to the StrathPol.”

  Thoroughgood remained unconvinced, “What about the other diary?”

  Irritation swept over Pigeon’s features, “Damnation, Thoroughgood – the weight of ev
idence is overwhelming yet it is still not good enough for you. Anyone would think you were on Cheung’s payroll, you bastard.”

  Thoroughgood lunged across the table, grabbing the DI by his coat and pulling him across the wooden surface between them, “Now you listen to me, Pigeon. You’ve just shattered the Roxburghs’ lives in one fell swoop by announcing, in front of both Lady Elizabeth and Victoria and an audience of hundreds, that Robert Roxburgh has been murdered, with not a thought for either of them. All you care about is making the big arrest and climbing the next rung and it doesn’t matter what the fallout is as long as your ambition is sated, you prick. But I remember your friend DCI Henry Farrell and his cosy little arrangement with Declan Meechan, and I think to myself just how close were you to friend Henry . . . so if you want to make aspersions like that be prepared for return fire, Pigeon. Now if you don’t mind, someone better go and pick up the pieces because you have just blown the Roxburgh’s world to smithereens.” Thoroughgood launched the DI backwards and permitted himself a smile as Pigeon tripped and fell flat on his backside just inside the marquee entrance.

  Turning to Hardie, Thoroughgood asked, “Are you coming?” and stormed through the gathering crowd of disbelieving guests without waiting for an answer.

  In his wake Hardie quickly made his way round the table and helped the raging Pigeon to his feet. “Aye, I’ve seen death messages delivered with a bit more sensitivity, to say the least, Detective Inspector. With respect, of course” said Hardie, and walked off.

  By the time Thoroughgood had arrived at the front of the stage Victoria was nowhere to be seen and Lady Elizabeth had also been ushered away. Just as Hardie caught up with him Vanessa called out, “Gus, over here!”

  The two detectives made their way over to Vanessa. “How are they?” Thoroughgood asked.

  “Vicky is backstage in a bit of a mess. But the Dowager has vanished. I’m doing my best with Vicky but we need to get her out of here and up to the Hall, away from the audience. I’d be obliged if you could find the Dowager, Gus. To have lost both her sons is something any woman would struggle to cope with, even a woman as formidable as the Lady Elizabeth.”

  “My guess is that Macintosh will be doing his best to comfort her, Vanessa. We picked up on a couple of signs that they were close, earlier on.”

  Vanessa ran her hand through her blonde tresses and her agitation was clear, “I can’t believe that imbecile Pigeon did that, right there in front of everyone. What difference would a few minutes have made? Shouldn’t Lady Roxburgh and Victoria have been informed of what happened to Robert before he arrested anyone? I mean, he could have arrested Cheung discreetly outside the marquee.”

  “Of course he could, Vanessa, but it wouldn’t matter where he arrested Cheung, he is still going to have jailed the wrong man,” said Thoroughgood.

  48

  THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie walked out of the rear of the marquee and headed for one of the wooden bridges spanning the ornamental lake.

  “Christ, it’s beautiful out here on a day like this,” said Hardie.

  Thoroughgood pointed to a wooden bench located on the other side of the bridge and the duo took a seat, far from the madding crowd.

  “What now?” asked Hardie, “I don’t see what your problem is with the arrest of Cheung, other than the way it was executed.”

  “You didn’t see the crime scene down at the boathouse. It was like a chimp’s tea party,” retorted Thoroughgood. “Everything was just too . . . too bloody obvious. Did you notice the way Pigeon blanked me on the missing diary?”

  “Yeah, old Randy wasn’t having it. He’s got his man and that’s it, but to be fair, Gus, although he’s used Cheung’s arrest to showboat and put himself right in the limelight, I think you’re clutching at straws, mate. I mean one brother is poisoned with cyanide and the other garrotted? They’re not exactly your bog-standard MOs, Gus. He’s got Cheung, hook, line and sinker and there ain’t nothing you can do about it other than say ‘Good job, Randy Pigeon,’ then grin and bear it,” concluded Hardie.

  “Wrong,” snapped Thoroughgood.

  “Come on, Gus, it’s clear that Pigeon is going to let your little altercation down at the boathouse go, so just let it be and enjoy the rest of your sick leave,” advised Hardie.

  “Not before I find the third diary. If I am right then Victoria, and maybe even her mother, is still in danger. Do you want to help me on this or am I on my own?”

  “In danger from whom, Gus?” demanded Hardie, his exasperation becoming increasingly clear.

  “Macintosh. He is behind all this. I don’t know what his motive is, but I believe he has the third diary and has framed Cheung. The answer to that and the murders of Alexander and Robert are in that bloody diary and I am going to find it, come hell or high water.”

  “And just how are you gonna do that, mate?” asked Hardie sceptically.

  “It’s time to take a butchers at Macintosh’s gatehouse pad down at the edge of the estate. I need you to keep him under surveillance for me from here on in, faither, until I get to the bottom of this. You saw how close he has become to Lady Elizabeth and I will guarantee he’s up at the Hall now, comforting her. Take Victoria up there and keep your eye on her, but while you are there make sure that the other one is firmly on that slimy bastard Macintosh.”

  “For cryin’ out loud, Gus, where is this all coming from? So what if he has managed to shoehorn himself into Lady Elizabeth’s affections? Christ, she deserves someone to make her happy, and they looked pretty close earlier. Right now Macintosh has a job to do, because that poor woman will be in a helluva state. Are you sure this isn’t more about Pigeon getting his big arrest than Cheung being the wrong man?”

  “When I was leaving the boathouse Macintosh appeared as if by magic and he said something to me that didn’t add up,” said Thoroughgood. “I asked him if Robert Roxburgh had revealed to him if anything had been troubling him and Macintosh knew all about the diaries, the fact that one was missing and the infidelity of Ludovic Roxburgh.”

  “So what, Gus? Macintosh is a trusted employee and obviously one who is close to the family, so why wouldn’t Robert Roxburgh confide in him? You’re on a wild goose chase, mate,” said Hardie flatly.

  “But that is where you are wrong, Hardie. Victoria Roxburgh told me Robert had found out about Macintosh’s recent liaison with Lady Elizabeth and was determined to boot him out of his job as butler, estate manager or whatever the hell he is. So why in the name of the wee man would Robert Roxburgh share anything confidential with a weasel like Macintosh, who was trying to warm his old girl’s bed for her?” demanded Thoroughgood.

  “An interesting concept,” said Hardie rubbing his chin before adding, “But hardly compelling evidence that Macintosh is a criminal mastermind and has just successfully set up Glasgow’s answer to Fu Man Chu.”

  “Precisely, and also exactly why, my old friend, I need you to play the role of babysitter-in-chief up at the big hoose while I have a little clandestine inspection of Macintosh’s des res. Comprendez?”

  “Maybes aye, maybes naw. Okay, I’ll do it, but be careful Gus. If this all blows up then we want a way out,” said Hardie.

  “Just trust me on this one Kenny.”

  “Do I have an option?” asked Hardie.

  Thoroughgood smiled grimly and walked off.

  It took Thoroughgood fifteen minutes to walk to the gatehouse, thanks to the flow of traffic streaming out of Roxburgh Hall after an afternoon’s entertainment that none of the guests were ever likely to forget. About 100 yards before the gatehouse Thoroughgood diverted round behind a large privet hedge and approached the gatehouse from the rear.

  As he did so, doubts began to surface in his mind. Was he wrong after all? Hardie had a point. The murders of both the Roxburgh brothers bore all the hallmarks of Triad killings while Pigeon’s revelation over the second clause in the contract between the Gwai Lo and the Roxburghs was another powerful nail in the coffin of his argument.


  But then, what of Cheung’s impassioned plea of innocence and his desire to make Victoria aware that the deal wouldn’t fold? It didn’t add up and Thoroughgood was sure the only way he was going to work things out was to locate the third diary. Would Macintosh be foolish enough to leave it in his own home? There was something else, too. He replayed his accidental meeting with the estate manager at the boathouse and somehow it was all too premeditated. Either way, Thoroughgood was determined that if the diary was in the building he would find it. But time, he was very much aware, was not on his side.

  He emerged from behind the hedge and saw that the rear door was 15 feet away. With Macintosh ensconced at the Hall there was no need for caution and he quickly approached it. The top of the door was panelled with individual glass panes. Looking around for something useful to help him make his entrance he noticed a spade, conveniently leaning against an outhouse. Peering through the outhouse windows he saw something else that interested him. Picking up the spade he went to work on the outhouse door and eventually it gave way.

  Inside, under a brown dust sheet, was the clear outline of a motor bike. As Thoroughgood ripped the covers off, he saw it was no ordinary machine. There, sitting in pristine metallic magnificence, was a motorbike Thoroughgood recognised to be of huge value. Closer inspection of the vintage bike revealed it to be a Brough SS-100, made famous by the great war-time hero, TE Lawrence of Arabia. But it was the inscription on the silver tank which took Thoroughgood’s breath away. Three letters were inscribed on it: “LVR”.

  The voice in his head spoke, ‘Robert Roxburgh was shot at down by the distillery office and how did the perp make his getaway?’