by Ian Rankin
‘Of course.’
‘But not too many of those need muscle like Terry Vass.’
‘His lieutenant?’ Fox guessed.
‘With a criminal record the approximate length of War and Peace.’
‘I’m assuming drugs play a part in all of this,’ Breck interrupted.
‘I’m sure they do,’ Kelly snorted.
‘But you’ve got no proof?’
Kelly shrugged. ‘Any help you can give...’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘Actually, you were pretty vague on the phone, Jamie. Maybe I should be asking what this is all about.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Breck replied.
‘But it might,’ Fox interrupted, ‘have to do with a murder and a missing person.’
‘The missing person being Charlie Brogan,’ Breck added.
‘Never heard of him,’ Kelly said, stirring his spoon in his cup.
‘He’s a developer in Edinburgh... don’t you watch the news, Mark?’
Kelly gave another shrug. ‘Bad time to be a developer... we had one top himself a couple of months back.’ He paused. ‘Hang on ... is this the guy with the boat?’
‘What did you just say?’ Fox asked.
‘I asked if it was the guy who went missing from his boat.’
Fox was shaking his head. ‘Before that - you’ve got your own dead developer?’
Kelly nodded again. He was still stirring his coffee and it was driving Fox demented. Another minute or two and he’d be snatching the spoon and tossing it the length of the café.
‘Don’t recall the name,’ Kelly was saying. ‘There’s a bunch of high-rises they’re demolishing. He jumped from one of the upper floors.’ Kelly noticed that Fox and Breck were staring fixedly at one another. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection...?’
Now the two men were staring at him.
Jamie Breck’s study.
Darkness had fallen. Food had been fetched from a Chinese takeaway, but half of it sat congealing on the worktop in the kitchen. Breck had opened a bottle of lager for himself, while the takeaway had sold Fox a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Breck had shifted over a little to make room for Fox’s chair in front of the computer screen.
‘And there we were accusing Dundee of being parochial,’ Fox said as Breck found the news item. There was a photograph of the ‘tragic suicide’. He was smiling at somebody’s wedding. There was a big, bold carnation pinned to his jacket lapel. The story put his age at sixty, but the photo showed a man of thirty-five or forty.
His name was Philip Norquay and he’d lived in the city all his life - local high school, local university, local businessman. He’d come to property developing ‘almost by accident’ - his parents had owned a shop, making their home in the flat above. On their death, there had been lots of interest in the property, leading the son to do some detective work. Turned out there were plans for a new housing estate nearby. Norquay hung on to his parents’ place until he could contact a supermarket group, who were glad of the chance to knock it down and rebuild, paying over the odds for the privilege.
That had given Norquay a taste, and by the time he was forty he’d built up a fair-sized portfolio of rental premises, moving on to full-scale development opportunities when his chance came. He’d made a name for himself by spearheading an attempt to buy the stadiums belonging to both the city’s football clubs. A new joint-share stadium would be built outside Dundee as part of the deal, but negotiations collapsed.
‘Charlie Brogan wanted to buy into Celtic at one time,’ Fox told Breck.
‘He had plans to pave Paradise?’
Still, Norquay was vocal in his support for the regeneration of the city, pitching in when the council put forward a proposal to regenerate the waterfront.
‘Just like Brogan,’ Breck commented.
‘They were going to get rid of that roundabout we walked past.’ Fox was tapping his finger against the computer screen.
‘And reroute the roadway - makes sense,’ Breck agreed. ‘Read further down, though.’
The next few paragraphs explained Norquay’s fall from grace. He had overstretched himself financially, buying up one of the ugliest pieces of real estate around, a hotchpotch of 1960s high-rise blocks on the city’s periphery. His plan was to knock the whole thing down and start again, but difficulties had presented themselves almost immediately. The buildings were stuffed with asbestos, which made them expensive to demolish. Then old mine-workings were discovered, meaning half the land was unsuitable for construction without spending a fortune on underpinning. In his enthusiasm for the project, Norquay had paid over the odds as it was. When the market tumbled south, so did confidence. Still, his suicide had come as a shock to all who knew him. He had been at a formal dinner that evening, and had seemed relaxed and jovial. His wife had sensed no change in him that might indicate growing despair. ‘Philip was a fighter,’ she had told one reporter.
‘Remind you of anyone?’ Fox asked Breck.
‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘But Norquay’s dead for certain, not just AWOL.’
‘He didn’t leave a note... didn’t visit his lawyer to make sure his will was up to date...’
Breck scrolled a little further down the page, then clicked on a link to an associated story. It didn’t add anything to their knowledge. According to the search engine, there were more than 13,000 matches still to go, but Fox had risen to his feet. There wasn’t much to see from the window, but he looked anyway.
‘Reckon they’re watching us?’ Breck asked him.
‘No ... not really.’ Fox sipped from his can. There was a slight tremor running through him, and he didn’t know whether to blame the sugar, the caffeine, or Breck’s driving on the trip back from Dundee.
‘You don’t think he killed himself?’ Breck asked.
‘Do you?’
Breck considered for a moment. ‘Guy was haemorrhaging money ... probably about to lose everything... and here was this white elephant just sitting there mocking him. He climbs to the top and decides to end it.’
‘Except everyone says he wasn’t the type.’
‘Maybe they just didn’t know him.’ Breck leaned back with his hands behind his head. ‘Okay, then - what’s the alternative?’
‘He could have been pushed.’ Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘He was at a dinner ... told everyone he was headed straight home... instead, he jumps into his BMW and makes for the asbestos jungle he’s just bought. I can think of better ways to die, Jamie.’
‘Me too.’ Breck paused. ‘Could he have been meeting someone?’
‘Either that or they followed him - can you get your pal on the phone?’
‘Mark?’ Breck picked up his rented mobile. ‘What am I asking him?’
‘Mind if I do the talking?’
‘No.’ Breck punched in the number and handed over the phone. Fox pressed it to his ear.
‘That you, Jamie?’ Mark Kelly answered.
‘Mark, it’s Malcolm Fox. Jamie’s here next to me.’
‘What’s got you so excited, Malcolm?’
‘We were just looking at some of the stuff on the internet about Philip Norquay.’
‘I hope you’re on overtime.’
‘We do this as a hobby, Mark. Listen, one thing you could help us with...’
‘Fire away.’
‘Did anyone think to check Norquay’s phone records?’
Kelly considered for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose it ever came up. The guy killed himself; there wasn’t anything you’d describe as an “investigation”. What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’
‘Just wondering what took him to the block of flats... the straw that broke the camel’s back...’
‘I suppose I could ask the widow.’
‘Or give us her details and we’ll do it,’ Fox suggested. There was silence on the line. ‘Mark? You there?’
‘You don’t think he jumped,’ Kelly stated.
‘Chances are, that’s exactly what he did, but with this thin
g in Edinburgh...’
‘How are the two connected?’
‘Again, I’m not sure they are...’
‘But they might be.’ It was statement rather than question. Kelly exhaled noisily, causing static on the line. ‘You think we might have missed something?’
‘I’m not trying to score points here...’
‘Okay, look - if I get the info to you, and you do find anything...’
‘We come to you first. That’s not a problem, Mark. How long till you get back to us?’
‘Depends how merry the widow is. Talk to you soon.’
The phone went dead and Fox handed it back to Breck. ‘He thinks we’ll try to throw some custard in Tayside’s face.’
‘It might come to that,’ Breck said.
Fox nodded. ‘But if so, he wants to be the one to break the news.’
‘Wouldn’t do his career any harm. Did he say how long we’d have to wait?’
Fox shook his head.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I think I’m going to go home.’
‘I can run you.’
Fox shook his head again. ‘The walk will do me good. I’m sure you’ll want an hour or two on your game.’ He wafted his hand over the top of the computer.
‘Funny thing is,’ Breck told him, ‘it’s lost some of its appeal, now the real world’s turned more interesting...’
Friday 20 February 2009
24
Next morning at eleven a.m., Fox had a meeting with Linda Dearborn. There was no resemblance to her brother - she was petite and fizzing with energy, and her outfit would have had church ministers walking into lamp posts. The miniskirt was pleated, the bare, tanned legs reaching all the way down to pale-brown cowboy boots. Beneath her suede jacket she wore a blouse with the first four buttons undone, showing ample bronzed cleavage. Just a hint of make-up, and straw-blonde shoulder-length hair.
She had picked the rendezvous - a café called Tea-Tree Tea on Bread Street. There was a bearded guy behind the counter and he tutted audibly when Fox ordered coffee. Fox had arrived twenty minutes early, giving him time to scan the newspaper. He’d added a cheese scone to his order, and settled himself at a table by the window. The sun outside had some warmth to it, hinting that spring was maybe finally on its way. Linda Dearborn arrived for the meeting ten minutes early. She smiled as if in recognition.
‘Linda?’ he asked anyway.
‘I hate to say it,’ she laughed, ‘but you do look like a cop. I think it’s the posture, or the way your eyes flit around all the time - Max is just the same.’ She had placed her heavy-looking satchel on the chair next to Fox.
‘Well, I’m not sure you look like a news-hound,’ Fox responded.
‘It’s my day off.’
‘You’ve chosen a brave get-up.’ She didn’t seem to understand.
‘Bare legs in winter.’
She looked down at them. ‘With what this tan cost, I can’t afford to hide them. Some of us suffer for our art, and my legs are a work of art, don’t you think?’
‘What can I get you?’
But she was already bounding towards the counter. The proprietor had perked up, and knew her order before she got the chance to tell him. Lapsang souchong with a slice of lemon. Fox pretended to read his paper while the two of them chatted. Dearborn stood on tiptoes with her elbows on the counter. She twirled a hank of hair while she talked. Fox tried not to think how attractive she was. She was Max Dearborn’s sister. She was a journalist.
The proprietor insisted on carrying the tea to the table for her. She thanked him with a crinkling of her nose, then sat down next to Fox rather than across the table from him, having removed her satchel from the chair. She crossed one leg over the other while he assumed an interest in the art on the walls around them.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
‘It’s handy - my flat’s on Gardner’s Crescent.’
Fox nodded and turned his attention to the window. There were two shops across the street. One was a hairdresser’s, the other a vet’s. Linda Dearborn had leaned down to find something in her bag. When she placed the laptop on the table, she peered down the front of her own blouse.
‘Almost a wardrobe malfunction there,’ she pretended to apologise.
‘Does the act always work?’ Fox asked, fixing his eyes on hers.
‘Mostly,’ she eventually conceded.
‘Well, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but maybe we could ...’ He tapped the laptop. Dearborn gave a little pout but lifted the screen anyway and switched the machine on. Fox looked away as she typed in her password. Twenty seconds and a couple of clicks later and she was angling the screen towards him.
‘Companies House is all well and good,’ she began. ‘But it helps that my newspaper hasn’t yet scaled down its business desk. The accountants aren’t even halfway through dealing with everything Mr Brogan left behind, but what seems clear is that CBBJ was buoyed in the early days by large injections of cash. As far as anyone can tell, these weren’t always accompanied by effective paperwork. ’
‘Meaning?’
‘We don’t know where the money came from. But there are plenty of other actual shareholders.’
‘Would one of them happen to be called Wauchope Leisure?’
Dearborn ran one long-nailed finger down the mouse pad, the names and numbers on the screen scrolling with her.
‘Not quite,’ she said, placing the cursor over a name and highlighting it - ScotFuture (Wauchope).
‘Would that company be Dundee-based, by any chance?’ Fox asked.
Dearborn just nodded. ‘Remember you asked me to look at Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum’s client base? They just happen to represent a company called Wauchope Leisure. As far as I can ascertain, LMM’s job was to disguise the sleaze factor in a series of adverts for lap-dancing clubs up and down the country. Meantime, Wauchope’s managing director has been put in jail...’
‘Fancy that,’ Fox mused. When the journalist saw she wasn’t going to get anything more out of him, she turned her attention back to the screen.
‘There are a lot of small companies listed here - private companies, meaning they don’t have to file much in the way of information about themselves. The lads on the business desk were intrigued. Charles Brogan seems to have had friends all over the country - Inverness, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Kilmarnock, Motherwell, Paisley ... and further afield, too - Newcastle, Liverpool, Dublin...’
‘I don’t suppose these friendships survived the financial melt-down, ’ Fox mused.
‘No, I don’t suppose they did. Anyone who bought into Salamander Point, for example... well, nobody seems to think they’ll get back more than five pence in the pound.’
‘Ouch.’
‘And our benighted banks take yet another hit - Brogan had loans totalling just over eighteen million, and he was behind on his payments.’
‘Could they go after his widow?’
‘Unlikely - that’s the beauty of a limited company.’
‘Is Joanna Broughton’s name on none of the paperwork? She wasn’t company secretary or anything?’
Dearborn was shaking her head. ‘She didn’t hold a single share.’
‘Yet her initials are right there in the company’s name.’
‘That’s why I dug back a little further. She was a partner at one time, but her husband bought her out, around the same time she started her casino.’
‘Does CBBJ happen to own a slice of the Oliver?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She cupped her chin in her hand. ‘And neither does Wauchope Leisure. So where’s this all leading, Malcolm?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You think some of the money in CBBJ was dirty?’
‘Is that just an inspired guess?’
She smiled. ‘It’s what my business editor thinks. Problem is, the paper trail is almost impossible to follow.’
‘Maybe if you gave it a bit longer...’
She stared at him.
Her eyes were almost violet. He wondered if they were tinted lenses. ‘Maybe,’ she said. Then: ‘By the way, how’s suspension treating you?’
‘Can’t complain.’
‘That’s funny... sort of.’
‘Because I’m in the Complaints, you mean?’ He watched her nod.
