And close on that bitter realization came the acceptance that David had also pre-empted him in Maria’s affections, to the extent that her husband had had to remove the entire family from his reach. Looking back, it struck Richard that the unravelling of his whole life dated from his meeting with her. Though he’d undeniably been attracted to her, it would have been a passing fancy had she not instigated their affair by that first kiss. It now seemed to him that she’d been playing him all along for her own gratification and amusement, possibly because he reminded her of David. What was it Georgia had said about a health warning?
Having resolved to block all such introspection and concentrate on his daily schedule, he was considerably annoyed when, during the first lesson on Monday, the mobile in his pocket began to vibrate. He extracted it with the intention of switching it off, but the ID window was showing Number Withheld, which, in this new life, equated with the police, and his heart turned over. In the name of heaven, what now?
‘I’m sorry, class,’ he said, striving to sound calm, ‘I have to take this important call. Please read through what we’ve been discussing and I’ll ask you questions on it shortly.’
He left the room, positioning himself in the corridor where he could keep an eye on his class through the glass panel in the door.
‘Richard Lawrence,’ he said into the phone.
‘Good morning, sir,’ came the Scottish voice. ‘DI Mackay, Blaircomrie CID. I’m sorry to trouble you but there has been a development in the investigation into Mr Gregory Lawrence’s death and we need to contact the executor of his estate.’ He paused. ‘Am I right in supposing that would be you, sir?’
Richard briefly closed his eyes. Fresh humiliation and from an unexpected source. ‘No, no, the family solicitors handled it. May I ask what the development is?’
‘I’m not in a position to disclose it at the moment, sir. If you could give me the solicitors’ name and contact number?’
‘I don’t know their number offhand but the firm is Lansdowne, Forbes and Hunter and I believe it was Mr Jeremy Tyson, the senior partner, who dealt with it.’
‘Thank you, sir – we’ll be able to trace him from that. I’m grateful for your assistance.’
There was a click and the dialling tone sounded. Richard stood listening to it for several minutes before switching the phone off and returning to the classroom.
Blaircomrie
‘Mr Farthing’s’ assignment key, having been located among Johnnie’s possessions at the police station, was duly couriered across to the bank to await the arrival of the Lawrences’ solicitor who was taking the midday flight. It was just after two thirty that, the procedure at the bank having been followed, he and Stevenson arrived at the police station. The pair were shown into Mackay’s office where he and Grant awaited them.
Hands were shaken all round, after which the bank manager solemnly laid a bulky jiffy bag on Mackay’s desk.
Mackay, who wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, looked at it blankly. ‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all that was in the box, Mr Mackay.’ It was Stevenson who replied. ‘But as I explained on the telephone there was also a letter that had been filed separately. Please feel free to read it.’
He passed over a standard-sized envelope. It was addressed to the manager of the bank, with printed instructions to the effect that if unclaimed it should be opened on 21 July 2014 immediately prior to unlocking the deposit box.
Mackay flicked a glance at the impassive faces of his visitors before drawing out a single sheet of paper. It was dated Friday, 30 May.
I solemnly swear, he read, that the contents of my safe deposit box are genuine and were handed to me personally by Martin Petrie on the day before he was killed in a hit-and-run incident.
Petrie? Mackay exchanged a startled look with Grant, who was reading it with him.
In view of this unlikely ‘coincidence,’ the letter continued, I am lodging these papers to await developments, and intend to reclaim them by 21 July at the latest; if I fail to do so, I request that the box be opened under appropriate conditions and its contents handed to the police.
His signature was appended and, beneath it, As witnessed by Elizabeth M Monroe was written, along with the date.
‘Bingo!’ said Grant softly. He turned to his visitors, briefly explaining who Petrie had been and that there was an ongoing investigation into his death.
The two men nodded, but, discretion being ingrained in both of them, neither made a comment. After a minute, Stevenson turned to the solicitor. ‘Would you care to do the honours, Mr Tyson?’
‘Certainly.’
The flap of the jiffy bag had been reinforced with sticky tape and Mackay passed him a paper knife with which to slit it. Having done so, he withdrew a thick wad of paper, some of it held together with an elastic band, and a digital voice recorder. All four men watched with varying degrees of incredulity as Tyson spread them out on the desk.
Among the papers were photocopies of letters and invoices addressed to Parsons Makepeace, causing a further intake of breath by the two policemen, and several badly typed pages with crossings out and alterations in ballpoint, in which Petrie listed his growing unease about the means employed in trying to obtain the shopping mall contract. Other documents proved to be receipts for the supply of building materials across which he had scrawled SUB-STANDARD in large capitals.
Tyson picked up the voice recorder and turned it over in his hands. ‘This will be protected by a pin number,’ he said.
‘There’s a number circled in red scrawled on the front page of that typescript,’ Grant pointed out. ‘Worth a try, sir.’
As indeed it proved to be. They listened in silence as Petrie recounted conversations between directors of the firm about its parlous financial position and their decision, against his advice, to purchase what were cheap but obviously sub-standard materials; of how, as a safeguard, he had systematically photocopied incriminating documents, and his sense of horror and guilt at the collapse of the mall. He maintained he’d been awaiting the results of the investigation, and resolved that if his suspicions proved correct he would produce his evidence.
‘These last few months,’ he went on, ‘I have had to live with the knowledge that if I’d come forward earlier the disaster might have been averted, but I’d no proof the materials would prove dangerous and it was pointless to make accusations that not only could not be substantiated but would have brought condemnation on myself. I trust these documents I’m belatedly supplying will bring about some kind of justice.’
‘Well,’ Mackay said flatly as the recording came to an end, ‘a credible motive has been the one thing we were lacking for the hit-and-run, and, like Johnnie, I don’t believe in coincidence. It seems someone got wind of what Petrie had been up to, giving Patterson a strong reason to despatch him to his maker.’
‘And quite likely,’ Grant added, ‘Johnnie Stewart as well.’
‘What do you think, boss?’ Grant asked when their visitors had left. ‘Are we about to clear up two murders for the price of one?’
Mackay pursed his lips. ‘Seems fairly likely, wouldn’t you say?’ He flicked a glance at the other man. ‘More likely than that fatwa story, anyway.’
Grant snorted. ‘Pure moonshine, that was.’
‘He was in Cairo at the time of the bombing. That much has been established.’
‘Och, I’m not disputing he was there, it’s the rest I can’t swallow. As good an excuse for not going home to the wife as I’ve heard in a long time.’
Mackay sighed. ‘You could be right, Sandy, you could be right. In the meantime, there’s work to do. Get Patterson in for further questioning, will you. We’ll see how he reacts to the latest evidence.’
Norman Patterson looked to be what he presumably was: a prosperous, well-established businessman. His suit was of good quality and even in the confines of the interview room, Grant noted, he was wearing a tie. Iron grey hair swept back from his temples, his
face was lean, his eyes deep-set and penetrating, his voice low and cultured. But his previous confidence appeared to have been dented and he was twisting the gold ring on his little finger.
His lawyer, sitting beside him, also looked less confident than when he’d arrived at the police station fifteen minutes earlier.
‘Mr Birch will have advised you, Mr Patterson,’ Mackay began once the tape was operating, ‘that we have obtained further information concerning the business dealings of Parsons Makepeace, which we believe has a bearing on Mr Petrie’s death.’
As Grant opened the folder on the desk and extracted a plastic envelope containing a selection of documents from the safe deposit, the colour drained from Patterson’s face.
‘Where the hell did you get those?’ he demanded sharply.
Mackay raised a hand. ‘I’m asking the questions, Mr Patterson.’
‘God,’ he murmured under his breath, ‘he must have been planning this all along.’
‘Mr Patterson, I advise you to say nothing,’ the solicitor broke in urgently.
But Patterson was shaking his head. ‘No, Birch, this is it; there’s no going back from here.’
‘I request time alone with my client,’ Birch broke in. ‘Really, I must insist—’
Patterson began talking over him. ‘All I can say is that it was a moment of madness – totally unpremeditated – and one I shall regret for the rest of my life.’
He took a deep breath, looking from one of his interrogators to the other. ‘I’ve worked for Parsons Makepeace since I left university,’ he began. ‘It was like an extended family and our relationships were social as well as business – godparents to each other’s children and so on. For years the firm did exceptionally well but the recession hit us badly; fewer houses were being built, building permits harder to come by. People were pulling their belts in all round. We began to feel the pinch and after a year or two things became really serious.’
He broke off to ask for a glass of water, which was swiftly provided.
‘Then we heard about the prospect of a new shopping centre here in Blaircomrie and it was like the answer to a prayer. We tendered for it, keeping prices as low as possible, but were underbid by a competitor to the tune of several thousand pounds. We cut back as far as we could and put in another bid, but again it was rejected. Then, as defeat stared us in the face, we were approached by a foreign company offering to supply materials at what, frankly, was a ludicrously low figure. And here I accept full responsibility: I made no attempt to look into the firm – on the contrary, I preferred to know nothing about them. We had an urgent discussion and I persuaded my colleagues to accept the offer without delay. It enabled us to reduce our price significantly and we pipped our competitors to the post.’
He took another sip of water. ‘It was a turning point for us. As work began more orders started to come in and our prospects improved dramatically. The mall, as you may remember, opened with a fanfare of publicity, all the major retailers fighting for a site.’
He stopped speaking, then went on heavily, ‘Then, just before Christmas when trading was at fever-pitch—’ He broke off.
‘I went into denial,’ he continued after a moment. ‘We all did. We couldn’t accept that the materials we’d used had any bearing on the collapse. Yes, we’d taken a calculated risk, but damn it, do you imagine we’d have even considered it if we’d had the slightest inkling of what might follow? Nonetheless, as a precaution we’d systematically shredded all our files, emails and faxes relating to the purchase more or less as they came in.’
He made a hopeless gesture towards the papers on the table. ‘Martin had obviously pre-empted us. He’d been against the deal from the beginning and was becoming a liability; he’d started to drink heavily, he looked drawn and admitted he wasn’t sleeping at night. We continued to stress that nothing had been proved, but that last evening, just as we were leaving the office, he suddenly said, “I can’t go along with this any longer, Norman; over a hundred people died, and we killed them!”
‘I took his arm and steered him into the nearest pub where I tried to reason with him, but he was beyond listening. He muttered something about having discussed it with someone and taken his advice – which put the fear of God into me – after which he pushed back his chair and walked out of the pub. I was left sitting there wondering what the hell to do and drinking my second double whisky, faced with the bleak fact that my whole life was about to disintegrate, not only my career but my home, which is heavily mortgaged, my children’s education and probably my marriage once the truth was known. And I knew that somehow he had to be stopped.
‘I knew he travelled home by bus – I’d often heard him say, “If I hurry, I can catch the 402” – and without pausing to consider any plan of action I collected my car and drove out to his stop. A couple of buses arrived and the passengers spilled out, but he wasn’t among them. I was beginning to think I’d missed him when he appeared and turned in the direction of his house, a ten-minute walk.’
Patterson took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. ‘I sat there for a while,’ he went on, ‘trying to sort things in my mind, but the whisky had numbed it and everything was a blur. I decided to go after him – but I swear at that point it was only to try further reasoning. So I set off, and as I rounded a corner he came into sight walking ahead of me. And … that’s when madness took over. Without any prior intention, I swear, I put my foot down and aimed straight at him.’
Patterson shuddered. The other three men sat unmoving, waiting for him to continue. His hand trembled as he reached for the water and drank what remained in the glass.
‘But again you were too late, weren’t you, Mr Patterson?’ said Mackay. ‘You knew he’d already passed on the information, so killing him was no longer enough – you had to go after Johnnie Stewart too. Or Gregory Lawrence, to give him his proper name.’
Birch emerged abruptly from his paralysed silence. ‘Are you bringing another charge, Inspector? I understood my client was being questioned concerning Parsons Makepeace and the death of Mr Petrie—’
Patterson brushed him aside, looking at Mackay with an expression he could have sworn was genuine bewilderment. ‘Who?’ he asked blankly.
‘Come, now, Mr Patterson. Mr Petrie was overheard arranging to meet him, wasn’t he? Perhaps he was followed and seen to hand over these very papers?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,’ Patterson declared.
‘You’re not trying to tell us you haven’t heard of Johnnie Stewart? If so, you must have been in outer space for the last month or so.’
‘Of course I’ve heard of him; he was the man who was stabbed in the street and turned out to have several aliases. But where does he enter the equation?’
Mackay indicated the papers on the desk in front of him. ‘It was he, or rather his bank manager, who handed these in.’
Patterson wrinkled his forehead. ‘Are you saying Martin knew him?’
Mackay’s heart was sinking fast. Either Patterson was an extremely good actor or, damn it to hell, he was innocent. Nonetheless, he doggedly continued. ‘He did indeed; and I suggest that when Mr Petrie told you he’d confided in someone, he went so far as to name that individual as Johnnie Stewart. So he had to be dealt with too.’ He paused. ‘As you say, he was stabbed in the street. Nine days after Mr Petrie’s murder.’
‘I insist on having a private conversation with my client,’ Birch said firmly, but again Patterson brushed him aside.
‘Nine days after Martin’s death,’ Patterson repeated. ‘What date would that be?’
‘Thursday, fifth of June.’
‘Ah.’ Patterson sat back in his chair and released his breath in a sigh. ‘On Saturday the thirty-first of May my wife and I left the country for a holiday that had been booked months in advance. My passport will confirm that. I’m sorry, Detective Inspector, but though I appreciate it would be convenient, you can’t pin that one on me.’<
br />
Stonebridge
‘So you didn’t meet his wife?’ Nina said.
‘No; she didn’t feel up to coming.’
‘A pity; I’d like to have known what she looks like.’
‘We did see a photo,’ Will offered. ‘She’s small and fair – quite pretty.’
‘As pretty as your mother?’
Will looked down, embarrassed, and Nina said contritely, ‘I’m sorry, darling, that was unfair. I’m just wondering what she had that Sally didn’t that made him want to marry her.’
They were sitting over pre-dinner drinks. To Will’s relief David and Julia had elected to join them and the atmosphere between them seemed less tense. Perhaps, as Sylvie had hoped, Saturday’s embarrassment had instigated the first tentative steps towards a rapprochement.
Will glanced at his wife, who was handing round a dish of the bite-sized canapés she’d prepared in lieu of a first course. He couldn’t imagine either of them looking at anyone else, but David must once have felt the same. Perhaps their mother too; the course of true love had had a bumpy ride in their family.
‘What of the offspring?’ Henry asked.
‘The son, Richard, looks very like David,’ Julia said. ‘It was a bit disorientating.’
‘He was a surly individual,’ David added. ‘I had the impression he resented us, which I suppose is understandable.’
‘More understandable for you to resent them,’ Nina said sharply.
‘And the daughter?’ Henry pursued.
‘She really made an effort to be friendly, as did the two partners. Under other circumstances I think we could have been friends.’
‘Was their DNA also taken?’ Henry asked gruffly.
‘Yes, but they haven’t had the results yet. Not that there’s much doubt, when you look at Richard and me.’
A Tangled Thread Page 20
