14 - Stay of Execution bs-14

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘How did your father deal with that?’

  ‘It broke his heart, but there was nothing he could do about it. I remember him once trying to persuade her to see the doctor about it: she bit his head off, and he never mentioned it again.’

  ‘The mausoleum, Bob,’ Gainer asked, quietly. ‘Who was entombed there?’

  ‘My brother.’

  The Archbishop’s eyebrows rose. ‘You had another brother? When I read of Michael’s death earlier this year, there was no mention of a third.’

  ‘There was none, only Michael. She was mourning his memory.’

  ‘Ah. There was a schism, then.’

  ‘That’s a fine Presbyterian way of putting it, Jim,’ Skinner murmured. ‘There was a fucking big bust-up, not to put too fine a point on it. My brother was no saint, but he was sinned against too, even though I didn’t know it or appreciate it at the time. If you read of his death, you’ll maybe recall that he spent the second half of his life in a Jesuit hostel in Greenock.’

  Gainer smiled. ‘In the care of Brother Aidan, the Irish leprechaun monk?’

  ‘That’s the guy. Michael went to live there after relations between the two of us broke down completely. Initially, it followed a period of treatment for alcoholism, but later, and for most of his time there, it was entirely voluntary.’

  ‘There was more to it than that, surely.’

  ‘Maybe, but that was at the heart of it. My father never came right out and told me, but I reckon now he was protecting both of us from ourselves when he arranged for him to take shelter there. Michael would have drunk himself to death, or into prison, eventually.’

  ‘And you?’

  The policeman frowned. ‘And me? Let me put it this way, Jim. I’ve had to defend myself on many occasions in my life, but my brother Michael is the only person I’ve ever physically attacked in a blind, murderous rage.’

  ‘Why?’ The question was whispered.

  ‘I was protecting my mother . . . or that’s what I told myself. In truth, I could have called my dad. He was in the house at the time, and he’d have dealt with it in his own way. But I didn’t, I just went berserk, and filled him in until the old man heard my mother screaming and hauled me off. Do you know the really shameful thing? Until recently, it didn’t bother me. I felt no remorse, no guilt.’

  ‘And what brought you to feel it?’

  ‘Michael’s death did; that and the discovery that he did feel remorse. He’d changed, as I learned from old Aidan, yet I never saw him again from that day on, nor did my mother. The schism, as you put it, was the end of her happiness. One son was gone, and she could never look at the other in the same way. No wonder she went on the piss.’ He looked at the ceiling. ‘I drove her to it, Jim. I led her to break my dad’s heart.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured the Archbishop. ‘This is a hell of a guilt trip, isn’t it?’

  ‘Justified, the way I see it.’

  ‘It’s gone far enough, though. From what you’re telling me of Michael, you had plenty of help in breaking your mother’s heart. The other side of the coin is that you helped rescue him. I know the story, man; when I read about it in the press I called Aidan. He told me the truth, at least as much of it as he knew. Whatever his weaknesses of the flesh, your brother died in a state of grace, with his soul cleansed, and you were the catalyst that triggered the process. Like it or not, my unbelieving friend, you were God’s agent.’

  ‘I doubt if He’d think so.’

  ‘I’m one of His vicars on earth and I’m telling you He does. He’s forgiven me, so why not you?’

  ‘What does He have to forgive you for?’

  ‘All my little everyday sins, my son, and some big ones too. Back then, not long after you were having your confrontation with your brother, you know how I spent my free weekends?’

  ‘Selling the War Cry round the pubs?’

  ‘Would that I had. No, my hobby was beating the shite out of Rangers supporters, and getting across their women when I had the chance. I was a gang leader in Glasgow. The Dublin Reds, we used to call ourselves, and we were feared. I was a tough boy, and nobody crossed me.’

  ‘So what happened to save you?’

  ‘Much the same as happened to your brother. In my case God’s agent was a priest called Brendan McCarthy. He ran a youth club, and one night, there being no Proddies handy to bash, my crowd went in there for a ruck. Father McCarthy told us to behave ourselves; I, being an idiot at the time, squared up to him. Did he whop me? Did he ever. He’d been army light-heavyweight champion or some such; he kept on knocking me down, and I kept on getting up. The rest of the Dublin Reds were long gone, but I wasn’t going to run. Finally, he really nailed me. I came to with him leaning over me, saying, “Do you realise, boy, that this is what’s going to happen to you for the rest of your fucking life, unless you come over to the side of the righteous?” He was persuasive, that fellow: I left my gang and joined his. He taught me how to box properly, and he made me doorman at the club. But he also taught me the ways of the Lord, and left me wanting nothing but to be like him.’

  Skinner looked at him. ‘Do you still box?’

  ‘Nah, these days I turn the other cheek. I’m not the boy I was then, any more than you are. Bob, if you want a penance from me, then here it is. Put flowers on your parents’ grave and move on from there. You have no reason for shame, and no reason to be taking your remorse out on your colleagues.’ He paused, taking a long breath. ‘Always assuming, of course, that there’s no other underlying cause for your ill-humour.’

  The DCC took a long slug of his Becks. ‘And why should there be?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I do know this. When you spoke earlier of the pleasure that you take in family life you spoke entirely of your children. Neither then nor at any other time since we’ve been speaking did you mention your wife. I remember a time, Bob, not so long ago, when her name peppered your conversation. Maybe I’m wrong, but I see this as a significant omission.’

  Skinner shifted in his seat. ‘With respect, Your Grace, it’s entirely likely that you would be wrong. In this area at least, I might know more than you.’

  ‘Ah, so I am right.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘Hah!’ Gainer laughed. ‘You’ve just implied that, as a priest, I can’t be expected to understand the nuances of what happens between man and woman. Leaving aside the raw experiences of my secular youth, throughout my priesthood I’ve been exposed to those very nuances, formally in the confessional, and informally in conversations such as this. You know this perfectly well, yet you try to sidetrack me. That tells me that you can’t lie to me, yet you can’t bring yourself to admit that I’m right. If this means that you simply don’t want to get into this area, fair enough, but that’s all you had to say.’

  ‘What’s your view on contraception?’ Skinner asked suddenly.

  ‘In line with that of the Holy Father,’ Gainer replied instantly. ‘But why do you ask me that?’

  ‘I wanted to knock you off balance, that’s all,’ said the DCC amiably. ‘But I see that I can’t. Sarah and I have known better times, Jim. How can I put this?’ he asked himself aloud. He thought for a few seconds then reached a decision. ‘Try this. Since you’re a marriage-guidance guru as well as everything else . . . you’re a veritable hypermarket of counselling services, my friend . . . you’ll probably appreciate that there, as in all areas of life, communication is everything. There have been occasions when Sarah and I have been unable to communicate properly with each other. Most of the time the fault has been mine, for not listening to her and considering her needs.’

  ‘But not this time?’

  ‘Sometimes communication backfires, Jim. Sometimes you learn things you’d be better off not knowing; when you do you have to work out for yourself whether you can live with them. Myra, my first wife, was a genius when it came to selective communication. As a result, we were blissfully happy until her car hit that tree. Yes, Sarah and I have
problems. But what advice can you give me, as a minister of your Church? Only, I think, that we should work hard at it and see them through together, for the sake of the children.’

  ‘True,’ the Archbishop conceded.

  ‘Then I thank you, for that’s the advice I’ve given myself. But I thank you also for reminding me that I have to work hard at keeping it away from the office.’

  8

  Vernon Easterson, the general manager of the Scottish Farmers Bank, stared across his desk. Detective Sergeant George Regan knew the look of disbelief in his eyes well enough. He and his detective constable companion, Tarvil Singh, had seen it countless times, from their earliest days in the force, when they had been sent to break the news of bereavement to the unsuspecting bereaved.

  ‘He’s what?’ the banker gasped, as he gazed at the photographic driving licence in his hand. It had been taken from Ivor Whetstone’s wallet.

  ‘He’s been found dead, sir, hanged from a tree in the Meadows.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘I can’t say that, sir,’ Regan replied. ‘We’re at an early stage in our investigation. What can you tell me about Mr Whetstone?’

  ‘He was a most valued colleague,’ said Easterson, firmly. ‘He transferred to the business banking division a year ago from Kelso. He was our branch manager there, and I think he’d hoped that he would be able to see out his working life in the town. His main customers were landowners and farmers, and so many of his business meetings took place on the Roxburgh golf course . . . he was a very keen golfer.’

  The man frowned. ‘That wasn’t to be, though. Thing is, personal banking as Ivor knew it is doomed. The days of the “financial GP” are over. Many of our high-street branches have been rationalised . . .’

  ‘You mean closed, sir?’ asked DC Singh.

  ‘Correct. Private customers are being directed, wherever possible, towards our new telephone and Internet banking options. I could see Ivor didn’t like it at first. It took him time to get used to the idea, but eventually he agreed to accept the job of associate director of Commercial Banking, here in Lothian Road, at our head office. I persuaded him that the primary business of the modern banker is lending money. While the personal-mortgage and hire-purchase sides are important, the main growth has to be achieved through expanding the base of business customers, financing new-start companies and helping those already established on to the next stage. Those were the marching orders handed down to me by the board, and it was up to me to find the brightest, the most experienced and the best to carry them out. Ivor was very definitely among them.’

  ‘He was successful?’ asked Regan.

  ‘Very. There were several associate directors, all reporting to our senior director of Commercial Banking, Aurelia Middlemass. She’s in her thirties; she came here from a career abroad. She’s very highly rated and there are those who say she’ll become the first female chief executive of a Scottish bank before she hits forty. A slight exaggeration, perhaps,’ Easterson murmured. ‘Aurelia’s a hard driver: she handed each of her people very steep lending targets to sort the wheat from the chaff. We had one resignation and one emotional breakdown within six months, but, within that same period, Ivor attained his lending target for the full year. Before his posting to Kelso he had done time in branches in London, Aberdeen, and Edinburgh, and he had maintained nearly all of the contacts he had made in each city. He had a ready-made network, and he put it to effective and profitable use. He was rewarded: he was made director of Commercial Banking, reporting directly to me, and he was given a raise and a better bonus scheme. He’s never looked back since. He and Virginia had even bought a bungalow down in Kelso, for his retirement when it eventually came.’

  ‘When did you see him last, sir?’ asked DS Regan.

  ‘Last night. He was still here when I left, but that wasn’t unusual. Ivor was often first in last out.’

  ‘Would you have known if anything was troubling him?’

  ‘I’m sure I would. He and I were basically old school; we’d both adapted to the modern world, that’s all.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about his family background?’

  ‘Well, there’s Virginia, his wife, and there’s one son, Murphy. He graduated a couple of years ago; he works in the US; something with Jack Daniel’s, Ivor said.’

  Regan pulled himself out of his chair; his colleague followed. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s been helpful.’

  ‘Are you going to see Virginia now?’ the banker asked.

  ‘Oh no, sir. That job’s not for us: our bosses draw that short straw.’

  ‘What should I do now?’

  ‘That’s up to you. But if you come across anything you think might help our investigation, please let us know.’

  ‘You can count on that,’ he called after them as they left.

  ‘Would that be as the banker said to the actress?’ Singh muttered to Regan.

  9

  ‘What do we say to this woman, Maggie?’ asked Stevie Steele, as they sat in the inspector’s car, outside the red sandstone semi-detached villa. Steele had an eye for the property market and he reckoned that in the Grange District, a house like that would fetch well over four hundred thousand pounds, and might even top the half-million mark.

  They had been there for half an hour. They had been on edge when they had rung the doorbell: no police officer, however experienced, however senior, relishes the job of telling a married woman, or man, for that matter, that from that point on they will be using the word ‘widowed’ on official forms. But there had been no reply. Mrs Virginia Whetstone was not at home.

  At first, they had assumed that given the wicked weather, she was away visiting friends, but Maggie Rose had noted that there were two cars in the drive.

  ‘Maybe someone’s heard about it, and beaten us to the punch in telling her,’ Steele had suggested. ‘Maybe she’s with neighbours. ’

  ‘Maybe. But the name hasn’t been released yet. Let’s just wait here for a while and see if she shows.’

  So they had gone back to their car, and waited in the fog as the minutes ticked by. It was still thick, but not as bad as it had been, and a few vehicles were beginning to venture out. ‘How’s Andrea?’ Maggie asked casually.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘That’s all? Fine?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Are you still seeing as much of her?’

  ‘Who says I ever was seeing that much? We’re friends, and that’s it.’

  The detective superintendent smiled. ‘No comment.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not capable of being just friends with a woman?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘I manage to be just friends with you, don’t I?’ he challenged.

  ‘I’m your boss: you have to be.’

  ‘Not so. We could have a purely professional relationship; five o’clock, goodnight, that’s it. But we don’t. We’ve been out socially . . . as friends,’ he added.

  ‘And it’s nice,’ Maggie conceded. ‘I enjoy going to a movie or for a meal with you. You’re someone I can talk to; plus you don’t see me as easy prey, and I appreciate that.’

  He reached across and touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘That doesn’t mean that I don’t find you attractive, ma’am. For the record, I do.’

  ‘I’ve been aware of that too, don’t you worry. And by the way, it’s mutual. It’s just that I’m only interested in being attracted up to a certain point. Understand?’

  Stevie nodded. He looked at her as she leaned back in the passenger seat. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘But . . . a purely hypothetical question, I stress . . . what might happen if you got attracted beyond that point?’

  She smiled back at him, then squeezed his hand. ‘If I did . . . of which, non-hypothetically, there’s precious little chance . . . then before anything happened, you’d get transferred; or I would.’ />
  He grunted. ‘Just don’t send me to your ex-husband’s division.’

  ‘You’re not scared of Mario, are you? Did you see his New York photo in the Evening News on Monday, by the way, with that American cop, the guy who’s coming over as the other half of the exchange trip?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it, and no, I’m not scared of him. I just don’t fancy the Borders, that’s all.’

  ‘That may not be an issue for much longer,’ she said idly, to steer the conversation in another direction.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, intrigued.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Come on, what’s up? Is Dan Pringle retiring?’

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Meaning that Mario’d get his job and I wouldn’t?’

  ‘No,’ Steele protested, suddenly on the defensive. ‘You’re above him in the queue; and Greg Jay’s ahead of you both.’

  ‘You can forget Jay,’ she said vehemently. ‘But you’re on the wrong track anyway: Dan’s not going yet, not that I know of anyway.’

  ‘Someone is, though. You’ve let that much slip.’

  ‘Rumour! It’s rumour, that’s all, and I should have known better than let anything slip to you. Change the subject. How much of what that man Easterson told George and Tarvil was news to you?’

  ‘You don’t get off that lightly, Superintendent. Let’s go for a Chinese after work and I’ll grill you further.’ Steele grinned at her. ‘Now, to answer your question, most of it was. I’ve been aware of the Scottish Farmers Bank since it was formed out of the demutualisation of the Agricultural and Rural Building Society a few years back. But I’ve always known it as a personal-service set-up, fiercely independent and very targeted in its approach to its clients. Its mortgage book as a building society was heavily weighted towards the top end of the market.’ He pointed at the Whetstone villa. ‘Houses like that one, for example, were very attractive to them; that sort in the towns, and in the country, properties with a bit of land attached. They’ve maintained offices in the four cities, London and key rural population centres in Scotland, servicing clients who are, in the main, minted. That’s what I knew of them.’