The First Cut (Terrence Reid Mystery Series Book 2)

by Mary Birk

  “I could meet you for a short time. As I say, I’ve a fair bit of work to get done.”

  “All right then. Let’s do it early rather than later. If you’re not up for my company for long, I’ll see if I can rustle up some young lady who’s not so picky afterwards.”

  “I’m not meaning to be rude, John, but I’m just not in much of a mood,” Reid said, feeling guilty that his response to his friend’s invitation had been less than eager.

  “Then we’ll just keep it open. If I can’t cheer you up and convince you to make a night of it, I’ll toddle off and amuse myself elsewhere. Where shall we meet?”

  “You choose.”

  “All right. Three Crows at six.”

  “What is it with you and that place?” Glasgow had a plethora of pubs and restaurants, but given the choice, Stirling always picked the same place.

  “I like it.” Stirling’s confidence wasn’t challenged by Reid’s skepticism. He liked what he liked, what made him feel good, and he never made excuses. Stirling was probably the most naturally happy person Reid had ever met.

  “Right then, Three Crows at six.” Reid hung up the phone just as Allison poked her curly head in his door.

  “You’ve got someone here to see you, guv.”

  “Who?” He searched his mind for any forgotten appointments, but nothing came to mind.

  “Cyrus Rothman. He says he was Ramsey’s solicitor. And Mr. Von Zandt’s, as well.”

  Reid considered, then said, “Show him in.” He stood up as his visitor entered and motioned for him to sit down. Cyrus Rothman’s quick eyes appraised the office, but the man would see only what he was meant to see: a government office with some maps on the walls and folders on the desk hiding from view any papers Reid had there.

  Reid waited until the man was seated, then asked, “What can I do for you, Rothman?”

  Cyrus Rothman was a thin, balding man in his early fifties who, Reid knew, had worked for Von Zandt for many years. His metal rimmed glasses perched on a large beak of a nose, and his thin lips looked dry and chapped. Reid had no doubt that Rothman was one of the reasons Von Zandt had managed to stay out of trouble with the authorities for so long. The lawyer was no simple mouthpiece; he was clever and well connected. But how could Rothman be both Richard Ramsey and Von Zandt’s solicitor when their affairs were so intertwined? How could that not be a conflict of interest?

  Rothman cleared his throat. “I’m here about Richard Ramsey. I thought that perhaps you would like to speak to me. You understand I’m not at liberty to share any client confidences with you, but I know you’re looking into his death and I thought that what I can tell you might be of some assistance.” He reached into the small folder he held under one arm, and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I’ve brought a copy of his will.”

  Reid leaned back in his chair, making no move to take the proffered papers. “We appreciate any information we can get, although I do have other officers working on the investigation into Mr. Ramsey’s death. Let me have one of them talk to you.”

  Rothman shook his head. “I’d prefer to talk to you.”

  Reid considered whether to challenge Rothman, and assign him to one of his subordinates, but decided not to play those kinds of games. Besides, he was dying to know what the will said. “All right. Go ahead.”

  The solicitor seemed to be swallowing his natural inclination to be offended at Reid’s lack of interest. Reid assumed Rothman had to have been sent here on instructions from Von Zandt to talk to Reid, and the solicitor was not going to disobey those instructions and leave without doing so.

  “I’ve had dealings with Mr. Ramsey for many years. I came to know him, or at least to know a considerable amount about his business, as well as about his business problems.”

  “Go on.”

  “Very few people knew it, but his business empire had begun to experience serious problems about four years ago. His businesses were interwoven, so when one thread came loose, everything was in danger of unraveling. He had considerable assets, but he also had a rapidly building debt that necessitated cash payments. He’d tried to expand too rapidly, and there was simply too much outlay before the infusion of profits began, and his obligations were all coming due at a time when his cash assets were temporarily tied up.”

  “Were you his solicitor at that time?” Reid asked.

  “No. He hired me to help him get out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. He asked Walter—Mr. Von Zandt—for advice, and Walter recommended he retain me. I set up some support lines between VZ Capital and Ramsey’s businesses.”

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “Ordinarily, perhaps, but Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Von Zandt signed conflict waivers allowing me to work for them both.”

  “And?”

  “I set up some emergency funding that allowed Mr. Ramsey to escape almost certain financial ruin.”

  “In exchange for?”

  “VZ Capital was given certain non-monetary compensation and of course, some monetary repayment that would be put off until some future point when Mr. Ramsey had things under control again.”

  “The non-monetary compensation included seats on the board of directors of Ramsey International and what else?”

  “Stock in Ramsey International and several of the subsidiary companies Ramsey owned.”

  “What else?” Reid had a bad feeling about the document in Rothman’s hand. “Something in Ramsey’s will?”

  Rothman shifted in his chair. “Actually, yes. One of the conditions of the loan was that Ramsey make certain provisions in his will regarding Mr. Von Zandt in the event Mr. Ramsey passed away before the loan had been completely paid off.”

  Reid frowned. “And the loan wasn’t paid off when he died?”

  “That’s correct.” Rothman named the outstanding amount, an amount so small that Ramsey should have been able to pay it easily.

  “So what does the will leave to Von Zandt?”

  “Controlling interest of Ramsey International and the remaining assets of the estate in a trust to be administered by Mr. Von Zandt, with Mrs. Ramsey as the lifetime beneficiary of the trust.” As he spoke, Rothman rubbed each fingernail of his left hand with his right thumb in turn, as if he were polishing them, then reversed with the opposite hand—one of the strangest tics Reid had ever noted in a grown man.

  “Even though the loan had almost been entirely paid off?” This was unbelievable. Richard Ramsey had been a man of great wealth. Why wouldn’t he have paid off the loan in full?

  “Those were the terms of the agreement.”

  “But Ramsey was worth millions. He could have paid that loan off in full many times over, and he certainly could have made whatever the last few payments would have been.” Ramsey must have been deceived into either thinking that the loan had been paid off in full, or as to what would happen in the event of any amount being outstanding upon his death.

  “The loan obligations were staggered, and at this point, it had become an almost interest-free loan. Apparently Mr. Ramsey chose to leave it on the books and pay it off later. That was his decision.”

  Reid tried to keep his fury out of his voice, but he knew it leaked through. “You’ll have serious difficulties getting this to pass muster in probate proceedings.”

  Rothman narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so. Mr. Von Zandt committed a great deal of money to Ramsey’s company. It only makes sense that he’d need to get something of value back. Besides, I don’t think Mrs. Ramsey will choose to fight the terms of the will.”

  “I assume you’ll not be representing her.” That would take the bloody cake, Reid thought.

  “No, of course not. I’ll be representing the estate and the trustee.”

  “And Mrs. Ramsey?”

  “She’ll have to engage separate counsel if she feels the need. But I expect she’ll trust Mr. Von Zandt to see to her needs.”

  “What about Bert and Moira?”

  Rothman pursed his lips. “Neither
of them were actually Richard Ramsey’s children, either by birth or adoption, and neither was named in the latest will. But Bert works for the company. He’ll keep his position. Moira, well, Mr. Von Zandt provides for Moira.”

  When Rothman left, Reid read through the will, then picked up the telephone. This was not going to happen if he had anything to say about it.

  Chapter 39

  REID SHOWED UP at the Three Crows at six. He glanced around until he spotted the tall blond man leaning against the bar, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a petite brunette. Another young woman—this one a redhead—sat on the next barstool apparently enthralled by whatever charming swill Stirling was dishing out. Reid thought about turning around and leaving, but was stuck when his friend spotted him and waved him over.

  “Come meet these lovely young lassies, Terrence.”

  Reid went over reluctantly. “John, we can reschedule if you’ve made other plans.”

  Stirling shook his head. “We were just having a drink while I waited for you.” Stirling looked down at the two women, his face radiating fondness. “I told the ladies that I was having dinner with a very married friend. Didn’t I?”

  The redhead dropped down from her barstool, and said in an awed voice, “I know who you are. You’re Lord Reid.”

  The other girl’s eyes widened as she studied him. “He is, isn’t he?”

  Reid looked over at Stirling, mutely begging for rescue.

  Stirling frowned. “I’m not liking all the attention you ladies are giving my friend. Married, he is, did you hear me tell you?”

  The redhead nodded. “We know who he is. He’s been on the telly. Married to the American girl.” She clucked her tongue. “Scottish girls treat their men better than that.”

  Stirling cocked an eyebrow. “I can see it’s time we went in to dinner. Ladies, if you’ll excuse us. Till next time.” He smiled and moved Reid away to where the hostess was waiting with menus.

  His friend leaned into him, speaking in a whisper. “Terrence, my boy, you’re starting to steal my thunder with your tabloid appeal. This may be a problem in our friendship. I’m supposed to be the quine magnet.”

  “You can have it.”

  Stirling inclined his head. “Thank you. I accept. So, speaking of you being married, how is the fair Anne?” Stirling pulled a chair out at the table their hostess had indicated, and sat down.

  Reid followed suit, now in more of a foul mood than when he’d arrived. He’d hoped to avoid any mention of his wife tonight. But at least his friend had always seemed to accept his irrational attachment to a wife who’d never really been his wife.

  “She’s fine.”

  “In California still?”

  Reid beetled his eyebrows but said nothing. He’d not told his friend anything about what had happened in California.

  Stirling sighed. “I’m not blind, min. I see the news. Few of my friends are featured, but lately, you and your lassie have been in the forefront.”

  A waitress brought their drinks, took their orders, and left them alone again.

  Reid drank his whiskey in silence.

  His friend did the same for a time, then finally broke the silence, “You don’t want to talk about her?”

  “No.”

  “So she stayed in California after all?”

  Reid stared down into his glass, the dark honey brown elixir reflecting the light. “She’s here.”

  Stirling, obviously surprised, quickly drained his glass. He motioned the waitress to bring another round.

  “In town?”

  “Aye. She has a job here for a few months.”

  They sat in silence again, until the new drinks came and Stirling raised his glass. “To Anne finally being in Glasgow.”

  Reid looked over at his friend but did not raise his own glass. Nor could he think of anything to say.

  Not easily daunted, Stirling tried again. “No toast? I would think that would be good news.”

  Reid took a drink, letting the deep thick flavor fill his mouth, knowing that if he could confide in anyone, it would be John Stirling.

  Reid had been eight years old, abandoned by his mother, sent to school by his distraught father, knowing no one, and the target for tormenting by other boys who said vile things about his mum, when he’d met John Stirling. They’d formed an instant bond, as only eight-year-old boys can do. Together Reid and Stirling did their best to beat the shite out of anyone who’d dared to bring up the subject of Reid’s mother, which happened with some regularity as the news about his mother running away with her lover spread through the school.

  Things hadn’t gotten any easier after his mother had left her lover, coming back to his father with her stomach swollen in pregnancy. His classmates had left Reid no doubt about what she’d done that got the baby inside her. That fight had almost gotten him, Stirling, and the rest of their friends kicked out of school, but Reid’s father had intervened and somehow smoothed things over. Reid suspected money had been involved.

  Stirling waded back into the conversational bog. “Anne looked as bonnie as ever on the telly, and I got the impression from the later stories that you two were back together.”

  Reid nodded, finishing his whiskey. He couldn’t think of anything to say, even to his best friend. How could he tell him that he’d chosen a wife who’d done to him what his mother had done to his father? It was like some kind of unbelievably horrible cosmic joke.

  “But not now?” Stirling emptied his own glass.

  This time it was Reid who motioned the waitress for another round. He was silent until his fresh drink arrived. This one he left untouched, pushing it away and taking up his glass of water. “Can we talk about something else?”

  Stirling sipped his whiskey. “Of course.”

  “We’ve been intercepting some coded communications and we’re having the devil’s own time deciphering them. Darby sent them to Interpol, and they’ve come up with nothing. Could you take a look?” Reid took a folded set of papers from his pocket and smoothing them out, passed them and a flashdrive to his friend. While they had been in military intelligence, this kind of work had been Stirling’s specialty. “I think we’re close. We’ve decrypted the transmissions, and been able to trace them unofficially to an Islamic cell in Nigeria. But we’ve not been able to make sense of the messages. We need to get enough to determine the next target—then, at least we’d have a chance of stopping them. Searching in every European city with a university is unmanageably hopeless.”

  Stirling nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.” Reid rubbed his temples. “John, about Anne—I just can’t discuss it right now.”

  “Aye, I understand.” Stirling gave the side of Reid’s head a soft slap. “Let me know if I can help.”

  “Thanks.” Reid doubted his friend actually understood, but, at least momentarily, he felt less alone.

  “Order us some coffee.” Stirling said, then pulled out his reading glasses and began perusing the papers Reid had given him.

  Reid was on his second cup of coffee before Stirling spoke again. “I get what they’re doing. It’s like in Gibraltar. Like Llanito.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. The language they use there.”

  “I know what Llanito is, but what do you mean?” Reid and Stirling had spent their initial posting for military intelligence together in Gibraltar, where Stirling’s natural genius for codes had emerged. Under the guidance of Nelson Schilling, now Deputy General of MI5, Stirling’s talents had resulted in him being conscripted into rewriting the military code books.

  “In Llanito, not only is the language already a combination of other languages, but they also do code-switching.” He tapped the papers with his finger. “That’s exactly what they did here. Combined languages, then used code-switching.”

  “Code-switching?”

  “Right. That’s not exactly what it sounds like. It’s referring to language, not codes.”

  “Li
ke using a word here and there from other languages?”

  “No, it’s more than that. You actually use more than one linguistic variety, keeping the syntax and phonology of each variety intact.” Stirling signaled the waiter. “Let’s order some food to take with us. I need to be somewhere I can set up my computer. I’m pretty sure I’ve got this.”

  “Got what?”

  “Not what, where. For specifics, I need my computer, but I have some general locations.”

  Reid’s mind finally tumbled to what Stirling was saying. He grabbed his friend’s arm. “Where? For God’s sake, where?”

  “Paris is first, then London, then Rome, then Brussels, then Edinburgh.”

  THURSDAY, APRIL 9

  Chapter 40

  REID HAD been up most of the night working with Stirling. He was exhausted, but at least now they knew the targets. When was still unknown, but they finally had some progress, and high priority alerts had been sent to the targeted cities and universities. The list was mindboggling: The Sorbonne; four targets in London in a simultaneous attack, including the London School of Economics, Kings College, University College, and Imperial College; Sapienza in Rome; Libre in Brussels; and, finally, the University of Edinburgh.

  The walk to the car after the morning’s press conference was far enough and windy enough to make Reid grateful for the efficacy of the car’s heater during the drive to see Peter MacTavish. He wished it would start feeling like spring. The damp cold was beginning to depress him, despite the brave, shivering daffodils that poked up from the ground. They didn’t look like they were really convinced it was spring themselves; rather, it was as if they’d been forced to show up to a place they neither wanted to be nor expected to be seen. Reid felt a bit like that himself.

  He’d scheduled the press conference for a time that ensured the interview would make the midday television news. The positive side of Reid’s tabloid fame was that the press seemed to be ready to pay more attention than ever to anything he wanted to release. He decided he might as well use his new notoriety if he had to be plagued with it.