Unnatural Justice (Oz Blackstone Mysteries)

by Quintin Jardine

  He hadn’t reached the street name before I exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, Ricky!’ But then I realised that he had never been there before; there was no reason for him to have known.

  ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s our old address,’ I told him. ‘That’s where we used to live.’

  Chapter 37

  There was little likelihood of sleep after that, so Susie and I got up, went down to the kitchen and made ourselves a pot of coffee. ‘When you sold, can you remember who the buyer was?’ I asked her, when I had my head together.

  She shook hers. ‘I never knew. I didn’t even sign off on the deal. Officially, it was the Gantry Group that bought the place from you: legally I never owned it. So when it was sold, the company secretary handled everything.’

  ‘And of course, in those days Greg McPhillips didn’t act for the Group.’

  ‘No. The company secretary then was old Barney Farmer.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’

  ‘Is Doris Stokes still around?’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ I had forgotten that Greg had taken over the company secretary job after his predecessor had fallen down dead in Union Street one day, overcome, it was said, by shock and grief after dropping a two-pound coin down a drain.

  ‘There will be records of the sale, though. Greg took over all Barney’s files. I do remember one thing: the old boy told me that the sale was made to another company. That’s right, he said they wanted it as a pied à terre for their chief executive.’

  I almost called Greg there and then and told him to get his ass into his office; however, having met Katrina McPhillips, I decided that a few hours’ patience was a better option. I did call Jay, though. Without going into all the details, I told him that the New Bearsden thing had come to the boil and that there was an outside chance of three angry bears looking in my direction.

  ‘I’ll talk to Mark Kravitz,’ he said, briskly. Mark had been Jay’s principal referee when we had employed him. He and I had met on my first film project, when he had been in charge of security. It hadn’t taken me long to realise that he was no ordinary security consultant, and that he had contacts in some very dark corners indeed, many of them on the state payroll. He and I had become friends, and he had helped me a couple of times since then, yet I didn’t think of him as someone I could call on for this sort of freelance work.

  ‘What will he do?’ I asked, a little tentatively.

  He laughed. ‘Make a couple of phone calls.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you won’t have a problem.’

  ‘I don’t want the police in on this, Jay, not yet, at any rate.’

  ‘They won’t be. Mark’s contacts have a role in fighting organised crime, but on an international scale. They don’t liaise too closely with the locals, but they do know who’s who, even relatively small fry like the guys you’re talking about. Sometimes they let them run about and play their games, because there’s more to be gained by doing that and getting feedback from them.’

  ‘Are you telling me that the Three Bears are MI5 informants?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but MI5 will know about them, and vice versa. Any message that comes from that quarter will not be ignored, I promise you. Okay to do that?’

  ‘Sure,’ I told him. ‘I wish we’d done it a couple of weeks ago.’ A thought struck me. ‘Any chance of them knowing the man behind all this?’

  ‘Every chance. I’ll ask Mark. Now, boss, you and Mrs Boss turn in. It’s the middle of the bloody night.’

  We took his advice, feeling a deal more secure than before, and this time slept like logs . . . or in Susie’s case like a bag of marbles. When the alarm wakened us again, at seven thirty, I ran the gauntlet of Katrina and called Greg.

  Quickly I explained what I was after. ‘Is this urgent?’ he asked. I’ve seen bleary eyes often enough, but a truly bleary voice is rarer; our lawyer had one.

  ‘Check the clock, man. Do I make routine calls at this hour? I need to get into those files.’

  ‘You couldn’t have picked a worse day. I’ve got a staff training seminar first thing this morning . . . bloody Law Society requirement . . . and then I’m due in High Court at ten.’

  ‘What are you doing in the criminal court? You’re a civil lawyer.’

  ‘Not at this hour of the fucking morning, I’m not,’ he shot back. ‘Actually it’s an old school pal; he’s upset the Inland Revenue and I’ve said I’ll prepare his defence.’

  ‘He must have upset them a lot, to be in the High Court.’

  ‘A great deal. Look, I really do have a hellish schedule today, Oz. Is there any chance of you getting to my office by eight thirty?’

  ‘I will if you will. See you there.’ I put the phone down and headed for a very quick shower.

  Thanks to someone breaking down on the Expressway, it was almost eight forty-five when I walked into Greg’s big airy building . . . anything less like Ewan Maltbie’s place you could not imagine.

  He was in his office, waiting for me, and he hadn’t been wasting his time. A pile of documents lay on his desk. Normally he has someone bring things like that to him, as and when they’re needed. ‘Why the sudden interest in the purchaser?’ he asked, when he had stopped looking at his watch.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I just need to know who he is. It’s complicated, but there’s a link to the Three Bears business. ’

  ‘It’s not one of them, I can tell you that. I know all of the lawyers who act for them, and none of them were involved. The legals for the other side were handled by Murphy and Woolfson, a small firm in Largs. But the purchaser wasn’t an individual . . .’

  ‘I know that. As far as Susie knew it was another company.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Greg. ‘It was a trust: the Glentruish Trust, to be exact, whatever that is.’

  ‘Sounds like an obscure malt whisky. Who signed the documents?’

  ‘Maynard Woolfson, the solicitor, as administrator of the trust.’

  ‘Where did the funds come from?’

  ‘From the solicitor’s client account, I assume. There was no record of that on Farmer’s files.’

  ‘Was there a mortgage?’

  ‘I can’t say for certain,’ Greg replied, ‘but there’s nothing in the correspondence about a survey being carried out. That indicates that it was a cash purchase.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘And that, Oz, is as much as I can tell you.’

  ‘I’d better go and see Mr Woolfson, in that case.’

  ‘You can try.’ He copied a phone number and an address from a document in the file on to the top sheet of a notepad and gave it to me. ‘You won’t have much trouble finding him. Largs isn’t that big a place.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Good luck in the High Court, by the way.’

  ‘We’ll need all we can get. Just make sure you don’t wind up there.’

  I left with his warning . . . it was, it seemed to me, not wholly in fun . . . ringing in my ears, and retrieved the Lotus from his office car park. Once I was in the open air, I switched on my mobile and called the number Greg had given me. I checked that Woolfson was in, and made an appointment to see him, calling myself Mr More. I thought that it might not be wise to give him advance warning.

  There are two roads to Largs; the scenic way and the quick way. I don’t believe in combining sightseeing and driving, so I headed for the Kingston Bridge and the Greenock-bound M8.

  The traffic was down to a crawl on the bridge, and at one point it stopped altogether. I twisted round in my seat, gazing up at my old home, hoping, I suppose, that I might see that figure again, the one I had spotted when we had crossed in the other direction. There was no chance of that, though; all that hit my eyes was the glare of the sun, reflecting from silvery Venetian blinds. Neither Susie nor I had fitted those; no doubt about it, our successor really valued his privacy.

  By the time I was clear of the roadblock that is the Kingston Bridge, the congestion had eased off, and
I began to make better time down to Largs. Once I was through Spango Valley and out of Greenock, it didn’t take me long at all. I was almost there when my mobile sounded. I was rigged for hands-free, so I took the call: it was Ricky. ‘How goes it?’ he asked. I explained succinctly how it didn’t.

  ‘Surprise me,’ he grunted. ‘I’ve just checked the electoral roll. The voter listed there is Miss Susan Gantry: no one’s ever changed it. I’ve checked BT and the cable phone company too. No subscriber listed. But that’s not so rare these days.’

  I heard myself sigh into my collar mike. I tell you, among the many changes it has wrought in our society, the mobile phone has made things a bloody sight more difficult for private detectives.

  ‘He’s a cunning bastard,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll let you know if I get anything from my next call.’

  I arrived knowing three things about Largs; it’s the Millport ferry terminal, the Scottish Sports Council has a centre there, and it has a very famous ice-cream shop. The office of Murphy and Woolfson was as easy to find as Greg had predicted. I parked the Lotus with the hood up . . . it’s always windy on the Clyde coast . . . walked across the street, looked for the blue and white Legal Aid logo and spotted it three doors down. A quick look at the brass plate and I knew I had hit the spot.

  I had ten minutes to kill before my appointment with the lawyer, so I strolled along to Nardini’s and had an ice-cream. That hit the spot too. I resolved that whenever I could, I would bring my family there. Maybe we’d cross to Millport as well; no harm in giving wee Janet and her brother a taste for the high life from the start.

  The office of Murphy and Woolfson was on the first floor, above a bank, as so many Scots lawyers’ premises seem to be. It was in the Maltbie mode rather than McPhillips, but slightly less dusty. I guessed the sea breezes discouraged cobwebs, even in legal chambers.

  There were two desks in the reception area, but one was unattended. There was a girl behind the other; I couldn’t describe her as a woman, for she didn’t look more than fourteen. ‘Work experience?’ I asked. She nodded, blushing; the kid couldn’t take her eyes off me, so I guessed Mr More’s cover was blown.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Woolfson,’ I told her. ‘Or was it Mr Murphy?’

  ‘There is no Mr Murphy,’ she burst out.

  I smiled at her candour, and as I did, the driver of the other desk came into the room. She was a woman, and no mistake; tall, busty, dark-haired, and just about old enough to have been the kid’s mother, or aunt, for I thought I saw a likeness about the eyes.

  ‘Mr More?’ she began, but with not a flash of recognition.

  I nodded. ‘I called you a while back.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Nancy Macintosh. Mr Woolfson’s free now.’ She headed back towards the door.

  As I made to follow, the youngster let slip an ‘Eh?’ I turned back, and read her question in her eyes, for I had seen it countless times before. Without a word, I picked up a sheet of headed notepaper from a pile in one of her trays, autographed it and handed it to her. As I did so, I glanced at the heading and saw only one name listed. There never had been a Mr Murphy either, I bet myself.

  The whole exchange only took a couple of seconds; Ms Macintosh had been watching, and looked puzzled, but said nothing. I followed her into the hall to a half-glazed door. She opened it and I stepped inside.

  Maynard Woolfson was a small man, with a hook nose and black crinkly hair that managed to look younger than the rest of him, which I guessed had to be at least fifty.

  ‘Mr More,’ he said, as we shook hands.

  ‘I’m afraid not. He couldn’t come. I’m Oz Blackstone.’

  He blinked and looked at me again. ‘Of course you are,’ he exclaimed. If I had a shekel for every time that’s been said to me, I’d be richer than all the lawyers in Ayrshire . . . but then again, maybe I am anyway.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m on a detective mission, Mr Woolfson. That used to be my day job, and I just can’t get away from it.’

  He looked at me with a non-committal expression in his eyes. I’d seen that before too; it’s the one lawyers, bankers, and those millions these days who hide, rightly or wrongly, behind the Data Protection Act, give you before the shutters come down.

  ‘A little while ago, you acted in the purchase of an apartment in a block in Glasgow. The vendor was the Gantry Group, and your client was the Glentruish Trust. You signed on its behalf. I need to contact the principal of that trust, but I have no idea who he or she is.’

  ‘Why not just call on them?’

  ‘I want to know on whom I’m calling.’

  ‘Check BT then, or NTL.’

  ‘Have done; it didn’t help.’

  Woolfson ran his fingers through his hair: I waited for that shutter to fall, but it didn’t. ‘Then I don’t know if I can. The fact is, I have no idea myself who the principal of the Glentruish Trust is.’

  ‘Someone must have instructed you, surely.’

  ‘That’s true, someone did, but it was another firm of solicitors. The Glentruish Trust goes back to them, and through them to another vehicle, the Casamayor Trust, this one registered in Douglas, in the Isle of Man. You’ll be aware that that is outside UK jurisdiction, like the Channel Islands. I set up and registered Glentruish with funds it provided, then used it as a vehicle to purchase the property in question from the Gantry Group. As trust administrator I pay the council tax on the property, the electricity, service charge and so on. And I concede to you that if there is a BT phone in use at that address, I know nothing of it.’

  ‘So how do I go about cracking the Casamayor Trust? Catch a plane to the Isle of Man?’

  ‘You may have to eventually, but I can help you on the way.’ He hesitated, fretting as if he was out of his comfortable depth. ‘Your visit isn’t a complete bolt from the blue. I had a call this morning from the Casamayor Trust administrator. He said that it was possible someone would visit me with questions about Glentruish. Until now, my instructions have always been to cite client confidence and say nothing at all, but I’ve been advised that in the light of changed circumstances I can refer you up the chain.’

  ‘Changed circumstances?’

  ‘That was the phrase that was used. It puzzled me, I admit. I wonder if the ultimate beneficiary of this chain of trusts might be deceased.’

  That thought had crossed my mind too, but I reckoned that if the Three Bears had offed the mystery man, Natalie Morgan wouldn’t have left the place alive either.

  ‘Whatever the circumstances,’ Woolfson continued, ‘if you wish for further information, you should consult the Casamayor representative. You’ll have to go to Edinburgh for that, I’m afraid. His name is Wylie H Smith and he’s a partner in the firm of Kendall McGuire.’

  ‘Well, well,’ I thought. ‘Even suppose I was the sort of gullible sod who believes that all life is governed by a chain of coincidences, I still wouldn’t buy into that one.’

  Chapter 38

  This time I didn’t bother to phone ahead to arrange an appointment. I put the pedal down, let the Lotus express itself in the single carriageway road back to the motorway, then creamed it through to Edinburgh. I didn’t waste time calling Ricky; anyway, I wanted to do this job myself.

  From my days of anonymity as a private enquiry agent, I knew where all the city solicitors were based, including Kendall McGuire, although they were one of the few big players I hadn’t worked for.

  Edinburgh’s a real swine of a place to park, even in something as manoeuvrable as my two-seater, but my destination was in the West End, in one of the big circular places where there were always more private homes than offices, so I found a bay without too much difficulty, even though it was forty minutes after midday.

  The Kendall McGuire office had a secure main door, which had to be unlocked by the receptionist pressing a switch beneath her desk. I wasn’t sure whether its purpose was to keep the clients in or out, but she didn’t ask who I was through the
intercom before letting me in, so I guessed that it must be the former.

  ‘Oz Blackstone for the newsagent,’ I told the blonde behind the desk; everything about her screamed ‘Harvey Nichols!’ at me.

  She looked at me from under long eyelashes, unimpressed: they were used to having far bigger Hinwies than me walk through their door, I guessed.

  ‘If you mean, Mr Smith, please take a seat, and I’ll check whether he’s in.’

  I pointed to a wooden ‘in-out’ board on a wall beside the door, an array of slots, each one bearing a lawyer’s name. ‘That says he is.’

  She ignored me and pressed a button on her switchboard console. ‘Wylie,’ I heard her say, ‘there’s a man here to see you. He says his name’s . . .’ Her look said that she expected me to remind her, but I knew that she was putting it on; that pissed me off a little.

  ‘Miles Grayson,’ I snapped, ‘Rumplefuckingstiltskin, tell him what you like. He’s expecting me anyway, I know that.’

  Unruffled she looked away, lowering her voice this time. Within a minute, a bulky figure came jogging heavily downstairs. This time, he was wearing a jacket over the blue and white striped shirt. ‘Oz,’ he exclaimed, ‘how good to see you again.’ I accepted his handshake, but I squeezed a deal harder than was strictly necessary.

  ‘Time will tell, WHS,’ I responded, quietly, ‘time will tell.’

  ‘Shall we go for lunch?’

  ‘As long as it’s quiet and as long as it’s on the Casamayor Trust.’

  ‘Of course,’ he exclaimed, but his laugh was a little forced.

  It takes the average Edinburgh taxi firm two minutes to answer a call to a lawyer’s office; they know where the money is. We had to wait for a minute and a half. The cab took us the short distance to William Street, and dropped us at a small restaurant called Peter’s Cellars. (Say it out loud: if you’re of a certain age you might laugh, but the Goon’s been dead so long that the joke wore off for most people years ago. Still, the name goes on unchanged, and why not, since the punters keep rolling in.) I’d have walked there happily, but it was uphill all the way, and the day was overcast and humid, so I thought of the strain on Wylie’s armpits and went along for the ride.