by Nick Elliott
‘Who told you that – his Lordship? We all signed NDAs at the Trinity House meeting you know.’
‘Come on. We had a little chat, that’s all.’
Grant’s companion was a good-looking lady laird from a neighbouring estate. Her long blue skirt and beret were in her clan’s tartan, which she wore with a casual elegance in stark contrast to Grant’s contrived portrayal of the strapping reiver chieftain.
‘I’ll keep you posted, Grant. I’m in the office on Monday and I’ll bring you up to speed then.’ There was no point in hiding anything if Kershope had already talked.
Claire came up to us and put her arm through mine. She was holding a glass of champagne and looked a little drunk.
‘Can I borrow him, Grant darling?’
‘Sure. Just don’t lose him okay? We weren’t quite finished.’
Claire dragged me off down the meadow to where it met the Liddel Water. The sun was low in the western sky and there was an autumnal chill in the air. Still, she took off her Barbour coat and spread it out on the damp grass so we could sit. She shivered and nestled against me for warmth.
‘Tell me about this Astro Maria case then, how come you’re involved?’ Grant had obviously been talking about it to her too, and God knows who else. This was the nature of the shipping industry. Everyone wanted to know everyone else’s business. Perhaps it was just human nature.
The casualty had been well reported in Lloyd’s List and other maritime press but I told Claire how the owners had asked me to assist.
‘And you’re going out to the wreck site?’
‘Possibly, I don’t know yet.’
She drew closer. ‘Mmm, the tropics. I could do with a bit of warmth and sunshine right now.’
The dark, peaty waters of the burn made burbling noises as they rushed over the stones. It was growing colder as the sun dipped behind the hills. I liked having her close to me like this, smelling her perfume, feeling her warmth.
‘What about your fraud cases? Are you still thinking there’s a connection?’
‘I just don’t know, Claire. I’m following the Sophia M but I’m not so sure about there being a connection with any of the others.’
‘Do you remember what I said?’
‘About following the money? Sure. I’m working on it. Or I was until the Astro Maria came up; or went down I should say.
‘Anyway, how’s the family? Wasn’t Iona starting a new school?’ I’d always found asking a woman about her family a safe way of changing the subject.
‘She’s fine. Both the children are fine, thank God.’ I knew Claire didn’t find balancing work with being a good mother easy. And she spent a lot of time on the road.
‘Iona’s settled in so well. I’m not so sure about Fergus. He’s not taking his studies at all seriously. His teacher’s asked to see me next week and I know it won’t be to commend him.’
‘Boys,’ I said as if that explained it. ‘Did you take your studies seriously Claire?’
‘I was a complete swot. It didn’t make me popular but I suppose I just wanted to always be top of the class.’ She smiled. ‘What about you?’
‘Let’s say I can sympathise with Fergus.’
‘I can’t imagine you at school.’
‘Best not to try. And how’s Edward doing?’
‘How’s Edward doing?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t know and I don’t really care to be honest.’
‘I see,’ I replied cautiously, sensing I was heading into dangerous waters.
‘What do you see Angus?’ She became serious, wistful. ‘I’m afraid if you could look into our relationship all you’d see would be a void. There’s been an absence of empathy, of intimacy, between us for a long time. At best our marriage is on autopilot.’ She tried to speak calmly, rationally, like the lawyer she was, but her voice was wavering.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said lamely. It was easy to imagine that someone like Claire had everything: looks, intelligence, a good career, two healthy children, money and, I’d always assumed, a happy marriage.
‘We lead separate lives.’ She hesitated, looking out across the burn to the hills beyond.
Edward Anderson, like Claire, was a lawyer. At one point he’d worked for the CMM but had left to set up his own practice specialising in contract law with a posh office in Edinburgh’s New Town. They’d met at Balliol and after an on–off sort of relationship finally tied the knot and started a family in Scotland, a year or so after my own brief tryst with Claire. I recalled dinner parties at their home in one of those quiet, leafy streets alongside the Royal Botanic Gardens. It had seemed a picture of domestic harmony at the time, but then what does anyone really know of someone else’s marriage?
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t invited if that’s what you mean. Grant feels he let the Club down when he left, and Grant’s inclined to harbour grudges.’
I didn’t want to ask where the problems in their marriage lay and I didn’t want to sound as if, in her husband’s absence, I was coming on to her either.
‘We’re friends Claire. If you ever want to talk …’
I thought she was going to unburden herself but she seemed to think better of it. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s getting cold.’ She let me help her up and before I knew it she was in my arms. Our mouths met and we kissed unhurriedly, savouring the moment.
‘Oh, Angus. We should go back to the house,’ she whispered when we eventually broke away. ‘Grant will think you’ve ridden off with me on your little reiver pony!’
She kissed me again but this time it was more perfunctory, as if to dismiss the fervent embrace we’d just enjoyed.
The ten-car garage Grant had built was discreetly positioned amongst a stand of Scots pines off to one side of the house. I walked over to have a look, but there were only four cars parked in it.
‘Where are the rest?’ I asked Grant who was standing talking to Viscount Andrew Kershope, James Hamilton-Hunter and the class surveyor, Stephen Barclay who’d somehow managed to swing an invitation.
‘Patience, Angus. I’ve got my eye on a fine old ‘37 Derby right now. But I’m letting the seller sweat a little. He knows I’m interested but he wants too much for it.’
Grant’s Bentleys did not cause him any awkwardness or embarrassment. He had that easy-going American attitude towards the trappings of wealth, oblivious to any fatuous labels that the envious might attach to such indulgences.
They were standing beside what was clearly the oldest car of the four. He patted the bonnet.
‘1931 Birkin Blower,’ he said proudly. It was immaculate in British Racing Green with the Union Jack emblazoned on the doors, its shiny supercharger jutting out in front of the radiator. Even its colour reinforced his seemingly naïve Anglophile attitude. But Grant was not naïve. He just liked people to think he was.
‘Got attitude, this old girl,’ said Hamilton-Hunter kicking one of the tyres. ‘Sticks two fingers up at anyone who dares challenge her, eh Grant?’ His laughter bellowed around the garage and we all joined in. He had a mercurial manner and there was no doubting his charm, although it all seemed a bit false to me.
‘Where’s old Timson then?’ It was Kershope. ‘Thought you said he was going to be here, Grant. Haven’t seen him in years.’
‘Don’t know,’ Grant replied. ‘He said he’d be here. You heard from him, Angus?’
‘No,’ I lied. If Timson wanted to talk to me quietly I figured it might be something he didn’t want to share.
‘No matter,’ Grant turned to me. ‘Listen, we need to talk.’ We moved out of the garage and walked over to the pine trees where we were out of earshot.
‘A friendly word, Angus. Don’t go turning this Astro Maria business into another of your personal crusades, right? With you the end doesn’t always justify the means.’ No doubt he was referring to our disagreement that the recent spate of CMM fraud cases were somehow linked.
‘I’ve told you, Grant, they’re payi
ng me. I can’t afford to turn work like this down. And you know my contract with CMM isn’t on exclusive terms.’
‘Sure, as you frequently remind me. Just don’t forget where your bread and butter come from, buddy.’
‘It won’t interfere with my other case work. I can handle that while I’m on the road. Modern communications, Grant, you should try it. By the way, have you heard from Andreas Kyriakou? He was going to call you.’
‘Okay, smart ass. Sure, his son called, Michael. I said it was fine for you to handle the case – but then I had to say that, didn’t I.’
‘I don’t know Grant. What about Alastair Marshall? Have you spoken to him lately?’
‘No. Why, should I have?’
‘No, I just wondered. By the way, did Kershope mention that my handling of this case might provide an opportunity for the CMM to pitch for the Kyriakou account next year?’
‘No, he didn’t. But get real, Angus. The CMM isn’t in any position to handle a fleet like that. Be content with the old bangers. That’s what I tell the directors, and H-H agrees.’
‘I’ll remember that when Michael Kyriakou asks for a rate indication. A twenty-six-ship fleet, average age just under seven years. Would look good in the Club’s prospectus wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re winding me up, buddy. You know that’s not how I meant it. Anyway, that’s one for H-H.’ Everyone referred to James Hamilton-Hunter as H-H. ‘He’s probably talking to his Lordship about it right now.’ And Grant liked to refer to Kershope as his Lordship. It reinforced his belief in the British class system and didn’t do any harm to the Club’s reputation either.
‘Listen, I gotta get back to the fray,’ Grant said, suddenly keen to escape my barrage of questions. ‘Those Young Turks over there need showing how to use a bow and arrow.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be sure to stand well clear.’
Grant had done what I’d have done in his shoes. He’d sounded a friendly warning. Maybe I should have listened.
CHAPTER 14
Captain Derek Timson had not shown up for Grant’s big day. That didn’t alarm anyone at the time. He was retired after all and wouldn’t feel obliged to. Nevertheless, next morning I tried to call him. Both numbers went to voicemail. I sent him a text, then an email. Then I asked Phyllis what she knew about Timson’s circumstances.
‘As far as I know he’s just an old-fashioned bachelor type. If there was a woman, or any partner in his life, I didn’t know about it.’ She would have done though. She tilted her head, thinking. ‘Before he left us last year he said he just wanted to go for long walks by the sea and call into the pub for a bite to eat and a pint. To live a “normal” life after all those years roaming around Africa, he said.’
This all sounded plausible but by Wednesday I still hadn’t heard from him and I was due to fly back to Athens on Friday. Timson had said it was something important. Much of my work was based on hunches despite what the experts said about investigative procedures, so that afternoon I caught a flight to Exeter, hired a car and drove to the address Phyllis had given me.
A storm was on its way in from the Atlantic as I drove slowly along Exmouth’s Esplanade, its white Georgian houses glistening in the early evening sunlight shafting in beneath the threatening clouds. Timson’s flat was above the Esplanade in a street called The Beacon. I parked at the end of the road and walked up it until I came to his address. His first-floor flat had its own entrance to the side of the building. I rang the bell, waited and, when there was no response, tried the door. It was open. I walked up the stairs cautiously, aware I was trespassing.
‘Derek?’ I called. Silence. I went back down the stairs, wiped the front door handle and bell push and pulled on a pair gloves.
I went through each room but there was no sign of him. The flat was furnished simply. There were clues to his life in the form of a pair of kudu horns on the wall at the top of the stairs and a few bright African paintings, but not enough to make the place look cluttered. The wooden floors were stained dark with bright, hand-woven tribal rugs scattered across them. Timson’s desk was set against the front window of the living room which looked down to the seafront. Waves were tumbling onto the beach then dragging sand and shingle back into the water as they receded. A woman was struggling into the wind with her dog which had that rapturous sweptback look dogs assume in such conditions.
Derek’s old oak desk was tidy. There were a couple of wooden trays containing a few bills and statements, a calculator, a calendar and a cheap ballpoint. Two black cables were lying on the desk, one for power, the other for a USB connection. This one led back to a hub, in turn leading to a printer and a scanner. The wi-fi router’s blue lights showed it was giving out a signal. The computer, presumably a laptop that the leads served, was missing. And there was no sign of an external back-up hard drive. As with the rest of the flat, the desk’s surface showed no sign of dust.
I walked through to the bedroom. The bed was made. I pulled back the duvet. A pair of grey pyjamas were neatly folded under the pillow. In his wardrobe and chest of drawers clothes were clean and orderly, shoes polished. In the bathroom Timson’s razor, toothbrush and toothpaste were all in place. The shower cubicle had some moisture in it suggesting recent usage and one of the towels was still damp. The laundry basket was empty. I went to the kitchen. A half-finished two-pint plastic bottle of milk was wedged into the door compartment. The use-by date was a week ago. I smelled it but it hadn’t gone off.
I went through the whole flat again, this time more slowly. In a bedside drawer I hadn’t looked in before I found a smart-phone. It was the same model the Club issued to all its officers. The SIM card was still in place. I switched it on and tried my own password in the hope that the IT department was lazy enough to have issued everyone with the same one and Timson hadn’t changed it. I was in luck. The messaging icon was showing one unread text. I tapped into it and saw the message I’d sent him the previous day. There was similar evidence of my attempts to reach him on the call log. Of the messages that had been read there were several from various people in the office, the most recent of which had been sent four months ago. And there were a few that only showed the number from which they’d been sent, not the name of the sender. Most of these began with the digits +27 – South Africa.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and continued my search. It was almost dark now and I didn’t want to draw attention by switching lights on. When I’d finished I closed the downstairs front door behind me and stepped into the narrow alley, but instead of walking onto the street I turned the other way to the back of the house where, as I’d expected, the rubbish bins were kept.
It’s a sordid fact that in my line of work there are occasions when useful information can be gained by going through the rubbish of companies and people under investigation, and that’s what I did now.
There were six wheelie bins outside, two for each of the three flats in the building. Two were marked in white paint with a figure 1/F denoting Timson’s first floor apartment. I lifted the lid of the black bin. Inside were two or three black plastic bin liners full of rubbish. I lowered the lid and tried the blue bin for recyclables which might contain papers giving a clue as to what was going on in his life. As I lifted the lid first the stench hit me, then the cause of it. I recoiled. In order to get the lid closed they’d stuffed Timson in in such a way that his head was twisted to one side with his face pointing up, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding. He had the look of a grotesque ventriloquist’s dummy crammed back into its case after the show was over. It was certainly over for Timson.
Holding a handkerchief over my nose and mouth with one hand I reached down into the bin. He was wearing a sports jacket. I went through each pocket but there was nothing there. I couldn’t bring myself to reach further down to his trouser pockets. I doubted I’d find anything in them.
I closed the lid of the bin and went back into the flat. Knowing now he’d been murdered made me sure I must have missed som
ething on my first search. I stood in his living room, breathing deeply trying to rid myself of the sight and smell of the corpse. I looked around. His laptop was gone. What else might contain evidence? I went back to the bedroom and went through the cupboards, then the wardrobe. On the shelf above the coat hangers was an old overnight bag. I pulled it down. It was empty. I returned it, pushing it to the back of the shelf but something was obstructing it. I removed the bag again and reached up with my hand. At first I couldn’t feel anything. Stretching further my fingers brushed against something. I pulled down a dark blue camera bag. Timson was a surveyor and every surveyor carried a camera. I opened the bag and pulled out his SLR. Switching it on I went to the image search function. Twenty-six grainy pictures came up, all with a yellowy cast showing they’d been taken at night. All were port and shipboard scenes with only the ship’s cargo lights and those from the shoreside cranes for illumination. The first shot, taken from the berth, was of a ship loading, her name clear on the bow: Astro Maria.
The rest were taken on deck and in the hold showing cargo operations. I could make out crates, machinery, conveyor belts, and what looked like stainless steel pressure vessels. I couldn’t identify each item but I didn’t need to. It was the mining construction equipment loaded in Durban for her final voyage.
It was dark now. I switched the camera off, stuffed it back in its bag and hastily left with it over my shoulder.
Out on the street I breathed in lungfuls of the fresh air. Salt spray mingled with the rain blowing in on the gale. I was glad of it as I hurried back to the car.
I drove to the hotel I’d booked, went to my room and fished a couple of miniature whiskies from the minibar, my hand shaking as I poured them into the glass.
Looked at separately, Wongsurin’s murder might not have been connected to the Sophia M and Timson’s might not have been linked to the Astro Maria. Taken together though, it would be naïve to assume that they weren’t. The shipping industry wasn’t so violent a business as to make such brutal killings everyday events and these two had taken place within weeks of each other.
