The First Cut (Terrence Reid Mystery Series Book 2)

by Mary Birk

“The men you two were getting the information for are involved in killing all those young people at the University in Heidelberg. You must know from what you’ve seen that we believe they’re planning more attacks like that. You need to tell us whatever else you can remember so we can stop that from happening.”

  “Mark never would have helped those kinds of people. He couldn’t have known that.”

  Harry leaned over and got right in the woman’s face. “Shelley, we need to know everything he told you.”

  “He didn’t tell me any more than that, and I didn’t ask.”

  “You’re sure you know nothing else?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Let’s talk about the information you gave him, the memos, the conversations, everything, and I’ll just write it down.”

  She pushed back in her chair. “I need a cuppa.”

  Harry looked at Reid. “Guv?”

  Reid opened the door and sent one of the uniforms waiting outside in search of tea.

  Harry continued, “Let’s start, why don’t we, luv, while we wait for the tea.”

  Shelley sniffed in exasperation, but nodded.

  “Go ahead, then, tell us.”

  Shelley, nervously playing with her fingers, began to list what she remembered. “I kept a little file on it. In my desk drawer underneath my personal things.”

  The uniform brought in tea for all of them in paper cups, handed them around with whitener and sugar sachets, and left.

  Reid opened the duffel bag they’d brought and pulled out a manila file, handing it to Harry, who then put it in front of Shelley.

  “This it?”

  Playing for time, Shelley poured tea and sugar into her cup, followed the sugar with two packets of whitener, all the while stealing glances at the file, apparently trying to decide what her reaction should be. She took a gulp of tea, then spoke, her tone offended. “You’ve been through my desk?” So she was going to play the innocent victim.

  “Aye.” Harry took a drink of his tea.

  “That’s an invasion of my privacy.” Her voice was tentatively belligerent, as if she wasn’t really committed to her argument.

  Harry shrugged. “What can I say? No privacy in murder investigations.”

  Shelley’s face set into a sullen pout. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No? Well, we’ve been through the file as well. It looks like it’s full of copies of confidential memos, and of notes you took on confidential phone calls. All things that were supposed to be destroyed after the CS read them.”

  “The originals were destroyed. Chief Superintendent Steynton shredded the originals after he read them.”

  “So these were extra copies you made?”

  She gave a reluctant nod.

  “For Mark?”

  “I made two copies, one for Mark and one for my file.”

  “Why did you keep a copy in your file?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just in case, I guess.”

  “Right. So let’s go through them, and you tell me how you got each one of these, and when you would have given them to Mark. Write it down.”

  “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  “Right now we just need your help. Do you want me to read the caution again? We can get you a solicitor if you think you need one.”

  She threw up her hands. “Hello? I’m a victim here, myself.”

  “Then you don’t mind talking to us.”

  She bit the pen Harry handed her, then leaned over the paper in front of her and assiduously began to write.

  After she finished her statement, Harry reviewed it, then shoved it back to her so she could sign it.

  “Shelley, did Mark tell you how much he’d been paid?”

  “No, just that it wasn’t enough to get married yet.”

  Harry showed her a list of figures. “This is what we’ve calculated so far.”

  She shook her head. “It couldn’t be that much. We’d have been able to get married long ago.”

  “S’truth. We verified the amount with the bank.”

  She sat back, obviously stunned. “You don’t think he was going to marry me, do you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Her face crumpled with self-pity and grief. “What am I going to do now?”

  “Time, I’d expect, luv. You’re under arrest.”

  Reid opened the door and let the uniformed officers take her away.

  Chapter 53

  REID DIRECTED Allison to grab a uniform from CID to accompany her to interview DI Lawrence’s ex, and to sit in on the interview with her. He had no expectation that anything would come out of talking to Lottie Lawrence, but routine had to be followed.

  The neighborhood canvas had turned up nothing. People had been out visiting for Easter, or been busy inside with their own families. Similarly, the SOCO report had elicited little. DI Lawrence lived a bit beyond his means for a man who had child support obligations, and who’d been through a financially punishing divorce. His flat was almost militarily neat, and other than a glass that had been washed before being put in the dishwasher, the only untidy thing was a matching glass of neat whiskey carrying only Lawrence’s prints.

  Besides the financial information on Lawrence’s bank accounts, little personal paperwork had been found, an exception being a small address book which now lay on Reid’s High Street office desk.

  The entries were almost always just initials or one word—first or last name and then a number. He recognized a few entries: DI Lawrence’s ex-wife, some cops’ names, and the numbers for all of the stations in the Strathclyde police district, the district in which the Glasgow area was situated. Reid frowned. Frank Butterworth’s ex’s name was there, or at least that’s who Reid guessed it was. Jill B. was all it said. He’d give Frank first dibs at talking to her, otherwise either he or Harry could do it.

  Reid didn’t know how Frank had gone through the break-up of his marriage with no more emotion than he’d have shown about changing banks, but in the last two years, he’d often envied his friend’s detachment.

  His eyes went back to another name that had caught his attention. Glynnis. No last name, just Glynnis and a telephone number.

  Reid dialed the number. No answer. He let it ring until an answering machine clicked on.

  You’ve reached Glynnis. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

  The voice was Glynnis Taylor’s. Reid frowned. How had Lawrence known Glynnis Taylor? Probably through Von Zandt or Ramsey. There was nothing that looked like Richard Ramsey’s number under the R’s. But, under the tab for V, he found an entry with the initials HVZ. Henry’s office number. So Lawrence had known both Glynnis and Henry. But oddly, whereas with Henry, it had been the office number, the number for Glynnis was apparently her home or mobile. It certainly wasn’t her number at VZ Capital.

  Not surprisingly, DI Lawrence’s mobile was missing. They’d searched the man’s flat so hard they’d have found a mouse’s toenail, but there had been no sign of it.

  “Harry, get the accounts for Lawrence’s phones. His mobile and land line. And check to see if he had a personal mobile separate and apart from the department-issued one.” Call records to any of the Von Zandts would show much than just a name in an address book. For one thing, the timing of any calls would tell them when the last time Lawrence had talked to them.

  His sergeant gave him a pained look. Of course. Harry had already thought to do that.

  Reid gave him a wry look. “All right, just let me know when they come in.” Meanwhile, it was time to pay a visit to Henry Von Zandt’s wife. Shake him up a bit.

  Chapter 54

  REID WENT ALONE to interview Karin Von Zandt. He didn’t expect to get much out of her, but one never knew. Perhaps she’d let something slip that she didn’t even know was important.

  Henry and Karin Von Zandt lived in a large home in one of Glasgow’s more affluent suburbs. The house was new, as was the neighborhood. Reid opened the fr
ont garden gate and mounted the steps that led to the front door. Pressing the bell, he looked around. No sign of neighbors, no sign of children playing, in fact no sign of life at all from these houses that advertised that their owners had more money than taste.

  A young woman wearing a pink track suit opened the door. The nanny, most likely, as she had two children hanging on her legs. When Reid showed his warrant card and asked for Karin Von Zandt, she let him into the foyer.

  Speaking in a thick Czech accent, she said, “I’ll get her.” The nanny scooped up the smaller of the two children and took the other’s hand, leaving Reid alone. The foyer, as well as the formal living and dining rooms to his left, looked as if they’d all been furnished in one fell swoop by an expensive furnishings shop. He guessed that even the artwork had come from the furnishings store—in fact, it had probably been part of the same store display as the furniture. The rooms contained no personal touches at all, as if the home’s occupants were afraid to add anything that hadn’t been in the store display for fear of putting a foot wrong.

  He heard the click of heels on marble tiles and turned toward the sound. He’d seen Karin Von Zandt at the funeral, but here she looked in her element. Efficient wife and mother. Her short dark hair was perfectly styled. Above red high heels, she wore black stretch pants topped by a long red shirt.

  She put out her hand. “Superintendent, what can I do for you?” Her voice was heavily accented. Northern Germany.

  “I’m looking into the murder of Richard Ramsey, and of another man as well, a Detective Inspector Mark Lawrence.”

  She frowned. “And you want to talk to me? Why?”

  “I assume you knew Mr. Ramsey.”

  “Ja, I met him a few times.”

  “Your husband gave you as his alibi for the night Mr. Ramsey died. After the birthday dinner for your mother-in-law. He told me I could ask you about it directly, so here I am.” Reid smiled, but the woman regarded him with ill-disguised suspicion.

  “Why would Henry need an alibi?”

  “Just routine. Especially for people who benefit from the victim’s death.”

  “Henry benefited?” Karin Von Zandt looked puzzled.

  “VZ Capital benefited, Henry indirectly.”

  “Ach, I see.” She thought for a moment, then said, “We went to Elisa’s birthday dinner, then came home and went to bed. My husband stayed here with me all night.”

  That was a curious choice of words. Stayed here rather than was here. He wondered if, like his father, the son kept a flat in town, perhaps Glynnis’s flat. Reid decided to take a chance. “He has a place in town, doesn’t he?”

  “No.”

  Reid pretended to think, took a little notebook out of his pocket, looked at something written there. “I thought . . .”

  Karin Von Zandt puffed out her lips and Reid could tell he’d hit on a sore point. “That’s not Henry’s place. It’s a guest flat for the company. He only stays there if he works too late for him to come home.”

  Reid nodded. “That’s the place on . . .” He looked back at his notebook.

  “That tall building next to the office,” she filled in. “But, he was here.”

  “Right. The other man we’re concerned about was killed on Sunday. Where was your husband Sunday?”

  “Sunday?” She puckered her face in thought. “Sunday was Easter. We took the children and went to Lynstrade Manor. We were there all day. All of us. The children, the nanny, Walter and Elisa, Frederick.”

  “All day?”

  “Yes. From the morning, when we did an egg hunt until about eight at night. The children love it there.” Recognition seemed to suddenly dawn on her. “Now I know who you are. I thought I recognized you. It is your wife that is working for Walter and Elisa on the gardens there, isn’t it?”

  He gave what he hoped was a proud husband smile, instead of the worried husband frown he actually felt. “Indeed it is.”

  She rested a finger on her cheek, and studied him. “So you’re Lord Reid, not just Superintendent, right?”

  He gave a slight nod.

  “Walter and Elisa are very impressed with your wife. They say she’s extremely talented.”

  “Aye, she’s that.”

  Karin Von Zandt’s face broke out into a smile. “You must come in to the den. Elisa’s here. Come say hello to her, now that we have our alibis out of the way.” Suddenly she seemed much younger and happier, on a more comfortable footing. “Why do you ask about Henry and this other man, this policeman? Are they supposed to know each other?”

  “His name was Mark Lawrence. I found your husband’s number in his address book.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And Henry’s secretary’s home number as well.”

  The smile turned to a scowl. “Glynnis?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ach, that one’s trouble.” She pursed her lips. “You should talk to her.”

  “I imagine we’ll have to, and everyone else in his address book, as well.”

  Karin glared. “What was the number he had for her? The telephone number?”

  “I’d probably better not share that.” Reid thought it would probably be unwise to give Glynnis’s home phone number to her married lover’s wife.

  Karin snorted. “I know her number. She has a mobile, though, not a landline. Henry has to call her sometimes outside of work hours.” She rattled off a number. “Is that the number you have?”

  It wasn’t, but he nodded. “Would you be able to give me the number of the company flat?”

  “Of course. I’ll write it down for you.” She took a notepad from a drawer in the table in the entry way and wrote out a number. Reid examined it, thanked her and put the note in his pocket. The company flat number and the number DI Lawrence had in his book for Glynnis were identical.

  “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, Lord Reid, come and say hello to Elisa.” Karin led the way into a large room, with formal furnishings. Elisa Von Zandt sat on one of the sofas, a small black dog beside her.

  “Elisa, look who’s come to check Henry’s alibi for Richard Ramsey’s murder. Lady Anne’s husband.”

  Reid went over and shook her hand. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Von Zandt.”

  “And you as well, Lord Reid. Please be seated.”

  Karin excused herself to see to having tea sent in.

  Reid gave Elisa a rueful smile and sat down. “I imagine that was what you were hinting to me at the funeral, that my wife was going to be working on your gardens?”

  Elisa smiled faintly. “You didn’t know. I didn’t think so.”

  “Not at first.”

  “I’m surprised you let her work there.”

  “I’m surprised your husband allowed you to engage her.”

  “Jonas did a wonderful job on a similar garden for some friends of ours in England, and your wife worked with him on that. Jonas is wild about her.”

  “They work well together. Your friends’ garden was another Russell Page garden, my wife tells me. Did you get Jonas and Anne’s names from them?”

  “Yes, but our estate manager researched it on his own as well. There are a few other designers with experience in Russell Page gardens, but Jonas and your wife are supposed to be the best.”

  “I believe they are. I hope you’ll be pleased with the results.”

  “I’m certain we will be.”

  Reid was relieved to receive confirmation that Elisa Von Zandt had indeed been the catalyst, at least initially, in engaging the services of Anne and Jonas. Still, Von Zandt should have vetoed hiring them when he found out who Anne was.

  He looked toward the door and then back to Mrs. Von Zandt. “Before Karin gets back, can you tell me what you know about Glynnis Taylor?”

  “Henry’s secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you didn’t want to ask in front of Karin, I assume you know she’s Henry’s mistress?”

  “Yes. Does Karin know?”

  Elisa
shrugged, puffed out her cheeks. “Probably, but she pretends not to. We wives always know even when we try not to. Karin thinks it’s awful that I tolerate Moira. But I know Walter is not in love with Moira. Unfortunately, Henry is, I think, in love with Glynnis.”

  “But he stays with Karin?”

  “Walter doesn’t want Henry to divorce, so Henry stays. Glynnis has the company flat downtown. A peace of sorts.”

  Karin emerged, trailed by a maid carrying a tray of tea things, and the conversation between Reid and Elisa ended. Reid stayed only long enough to drink his tea, then headed out to his car.

  Just as he opened his car door, a sleek black convertible pulled into the driveway behind him and an angry man got out. Henry Von Zandt’s ears must have been burning or else someone in the house had told him Reid was there.

  Chapter 55

  THE BUILDING where Jill Butterworth lived with DI Tony Grant was three stories high, with two flats on each floor. Harry hadn’t known Frank when he was married to Jill, but he’d heard more than enough about her from scuttlebutt, although not from Frank. The gossip was that as soon as she found out that Frank’s injuries were permanent, she’d started looking around for someone else. At least there were no children—but maybe that would have been better. Frank would have been left with something.

  According to Frank, Jill had moved in with DI Grant a little over a year ago. She was a librarian, of all things. Harry had had a better impression of librarians until he heard that. As she worked the afternoon-to-evening shift today, she’d reluctantly agreed to have him come to the flat.

  Jill Butterworth was pretty in that brittle way some women get when they get older, are too skinny, and smoke too much. Her hair was dark and short, but teased up on the top to give it a little height. The flat reeked of tobacco smoke, and Harry had to adjust his face not to show his distaste.

  “Hello, Ms.—is it still Butterworth?”

  She nodded. “Call me Jill. Come in.”

  The main living area was large enough, furnished with inexpensive furniture—Swedish style, Harry was fairly sure. He’d learned more than he wanted to know about furniture from a girl he’d dated who worked in a furnishings store. He had a ginormous hairball of random knowledge like that, things he’d absorbed from women through the years.