Fair Friday

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘No, thanks,’ said King.

  The man’s eyes hardened. He took the roll-up from his mouth and stared at King. Dangerous game, refusing drinks from Glaswegians.

  ‘Can’t,’ said King. ‘I’m on duty.’

  ‘You can t?’

  King shook his head. ‘I’d get my books.’

  Simpson grunted and took a deep drag on the roll-up. ‘I got my books on Thursday,’ he said. ‘I’ve been having a wee drink since then.’

  ‘Aye,’ said King.

  The kettle began to whistle. Simpson walked unsteadily across the room and brought it over to the table. He dropped a tea bag into the least dirty cup, slopped some hot water into it, shovelled some powdered milk in and gave the brew half a stir with the handle of a fork. No, thought King, please don’t, please don’t ask if…

  ‘Will you take a cup of tea, Mr King?’

  ‘Aye,’ said King. ‘That would be fine.’

  Simpson created a similar mess of tea for King and handed it to him in a waxy cup.

  ‘Thanks,’ said King. ‘Live alone?’

  ‘The wife’s away to her ma’s. We had a wee row and I gave her a wee doin’.’

  ‘Not been your week, has it?’ He lifted the cup to his mouth, balked at the next step and lowered it slowly to the table.

  ‘Och, she’ll be back.’

  ‘Reckon?’

  ‘Aye. She’s always away to her ma’s.’

  ‘Knock her about a lot, do you?’

  ‘You know how it is.’

  King knew how it was and he knew Simpson was probably right. She’d be back in a few days and put up with a hell of a lot because she’d grown up with it and didn’t know any different. But right then it wasn’t his concern.

  ‘What happened between you and Spicer?’

  ‘Him, Spicer. I’ll tell you what happened between me and wee Spicer.’ He sat on the bed, jabbing the air with the hand which held the dog-end, then said, ‘Och aye,’ and his head sagged forward. King waited. Moments later Simpson slowly raised his head and looked at King. ‘Listen, it was a while ago, I was in another world, on another planet. I had good money coming in and me and her were getting on. We had a bit put by and we thought we’d get a wee house. We saw one in Dennistoun, two rooms, a kitchen and an inside lavatory. We went to the council for a loan and they said we needed a solicitor and so we got on to Mr Spicer. Spicer the wee rat. We opened an account with him and gave him our money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three thousand five hundred pounds,’ said Simpson and then repeated the sum slowly, more to himself than to King.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We kept getting loans from the council so we could put in bids for houses and Spicer kept cancelling the loans when our bids weren’t taken.’

  ‘How long did this go on?’

  ‘Year, year and a bit.’

  ‘So then?’

  ‘So then we asked Mr Spicer for our money back and you know how much we had left? We had five hundred and forty-three pounds. I remember the amount because it’s in reverse order, five-four-three, like that.’

  King breathed deeply. ‘What was his story?’

  ‘He said it had gone on looking over our houses, I mean- Simpson made a circular motion with his hand -‘the houses we put in bids for.’

  ‘Surveyor’s fees?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what he said.’ Simpson pulled on the dog-end but it was done and the tip burnt his finger. He threw it on the floor and stamped on it.

  ‘Did you see the surveys?’

  ‘No. You never do. We only saw the bills. He showed us the bills.’

  ‘Do you remember the name of the surveyor?’

  ‘I’ve got a bill somewhere.’ Simpson pulled himself off the bed and walked shakily across the floor to the window, leaned under a chair and pulled out a biscuit tin. He rummaged among the contents of the tin and then held up a piece of paper, looking at King. King walked over and took the piece of paper. It was headed ‘Shawlands Surveyors—domestic and Commercial Properties’.

  ‘Can I keep this?’ asked King.

  ‘Aye. It’s nae use to me.’

  ‘We’ll likely be back to take a statement, Mr Simpson.’

  ‘Just let me know when you hang the bastard.’ Simpson sank into the chair and closed his eyes.

  On his way back to the city centre King stopped at a telephone kiosk and checked the yellow pages. There was no listing for ‘Shawlands Surveyors’.

  It was 6.00 p.m., Fair Saturday.

  6.30 p.m. Fair Saturday.

  King and Sussock sat in Donoghue’s office. Donoghue took his pipe from his mouth and raised his coffee to his lips. He sipped and then asked, ‘Are we getting anywhere, gentlemen? Is there progress?’

  ‘I think so, sir,’ said King. ‘The focus seems to be shifting. Gilheaney’s probably just another guy who got ripped off by Spicer.’

  ‘If anybody got ripped off,’ said Sussock.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Donoghue. ‘We have no proof.’

  ‘Still,’ King persisted, ‘it seems that Bill McGarrigle was chasing Spicer as something rotten in the legal community.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Donoghue replaced his cup on his desk. ‘Moves, gentlemen?’

  ‘Do we have any progress from Montgomerie?’ asked Sussock.

  ‘None, Ray,’ said Donoghue, filling his pipe with a blend made up by a city tobacconist to Donoghue’s specification. Dutch base with a twist of dark shag for depth of flavour and a slower burning rate. ‘He’s got a fairly fanciful-looking photofit.’ He held up a copy for King’s and Sussock’s edification. They both smiled. ‘He’s following it up but his feelings about the witness are such that he’s not too hopeful.’

  ‘So nothing yet,’ said Sussock.

  ‘If ever,’ replied Donoghue, and flicked his lighter and began to draw on his pipe.

  ‘We’ve nothing to suggest what AM brackets FFM may stand for?’ asked King.

  ‘Do you think it’s relevant, King?’ Donoghue leaned back in his chair. ‘You said earlier that you thought Spicer was the subject.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ King edged forward on his chair. ‘But the order of Bill McGarrigle’s abbreviations suggests that Spicer leads on to AM and FFM. Bill McGarrigle probably saw his goal as being beyond Spicer.’

  ‘What in the hell was he working on?’ Sussock appealed to the others.

  ‘I think I agree with you, King,’ said Donoghue, pulling and blowing on his pipe, ‘but it seems that this fellow Spicer is a key unit, a sort of linchpin. He can’t be overlooked. Moves, gentlemen?’

  Interview Spicer,’ said Sussock. ‘Put some pressure on him. Lean on him.’

  Bit drastic, isn’t it?’ Donoghue raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s sniff around the man first, he’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Go to the senior partner,’ suggested King.

  ‘That would be my inclination,’ agreed Donoghue. ‘Anybody had any dealings with McNulty, Spicer and Watson?’

  King and Sussock shook their heads.

  ‘He’ll probably be on our list,’ said King.

  ‘Probably,’ grunted Donoghue. ‘The really successful and senior ones get beyond being called out at 2.00 a.m. to advise suspects.’ He opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a booklet of A4 paper and began to run his finger down the columns. ‘McNab, McNally, McNulty, Abrahams, here we are, NcNulty, Spicer and Watson, Office number, home number…So what now?’

  ‘Don’t beat about the bush,’ said King. ‘Telephone him at home.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Well, King?’

  ‘Well, that enquiries have linked a partner in his firm to a murder. We would like to discuss it with him and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, and to look at the accounts relevant to Spicer’s practice.’

  ‘What will he say, do you think?’

  ‘He’ll tell us to take a running jump.’
/>
  ‘Do you think you can persuade him otherwise?’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘You, sir.’ Donoghue picked up the telephone on his desk, dialled 9 for an outside line and then held it out for King to grasp. King took the telephone and dialled McNulty’s home number. A few minutes later he replaced the receiver and said, ‘He’ll be expecting us, sir. This is his address.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Rory McNulty’s house was a solid stone building, all squares and angles, with a turret room sticking out of the top right-hand side. The house stood between the road and the river at the end of a long driveway which wound round a stand of Scots pine, so that the house could not be seen from the road. Donoghue halted his Rover beside a Rolls-Royce and he and King walked up the steps to the door. Donoghue rang the bell and then stepped backwards.

  The door was opened by a young woman in a black dress. She had a dark complexion and didn’t seem to be too worried by the heat. Italian, guessed Donoghue, or possibly Greek, and memories of a holiday came flooding back, his wife tanning in a red bikini, his children kicking at the waves.

  ‘Police,’ said Donoghue. ‘Inspector Donoghue and Detective-Constable King to see Mr McNulty. I believe he’s expecting us.’

  ‘Please come in,’ said the girl, stepping aside.

  The inside of the house was cool and smelled richly of wood polish and furniture wax. There was a rug on the parquet floor and a tapestry hung on the wall. The girl showed Donoghue and King to a room on the right of the hallway and at the foot of a broad stairway.

  ‘I’ll tell Mr McNulty you’re here, gentlemen.’ The girl spoke in heavily accented but grammatically faultless English. She also impressed Donoghue as being very much at home in the house, very confident, her manner seemed more that of a daughter than a servant or an au pair. She shut the door behind her with a gentle click.

  The room was unostentatiously decorated in dark shades with the McNultys’ tastes running to woven carpets and solid, expensive furniture. The view from the window looked out over the vale to the distant rooftops of the Bridge of Weir. A large fly buzzed and battered itself against the window, and though neither man spoke they both found the insect a curiously welcome addition. It made the room seem lived in, the house alive.

  Donoghue leafed through an atlas which was lying on an occasional table. King walked round the room looking at the prints hanging on the wall. Twenty minutes after they had been shown into the room the door opened. A tall golden-haired man entered. He was wearing cavalry twill slacks, sandals, a silk shirt and a maroon cravat in paisley.

  ‘I’m McNulty,’ he said.

  ‘Inspector Donoghue.’ Donoghue and McNulty approached each other and shook hands. Donoghue introduced King.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ McNulty waved a hand indicating the room. Donoghue sat in a chair, King at the end of a long settee. ‘What will you drink now? And don’t give me any nonsense about being on duty.’

  ‘Brandy sour,’ said Donoghue. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think I’d like a lager, sir,’ said King. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think I’ll join you in that.’ McNulty pulled a cord which hung on the wall.

  The maid entered the room and McNulty asked her to bring the drinks, addressing her as ‘Lennie’. Short for Leonora, guessed Donoghue, wondering whether it was too late to change his request and also have a lager. He decided against it: he didn’t want to appear indecisive.

  ‘Lovely weather,’ said McNulty, sitting in the chair opposite Donoghue. ‘Are you going away for the holiday?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Donoghue replied. ‘I like to take my main break in September. It’s my favourite month. My wife and children are taking a short break, though.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fond of September too,’ said McNulty. ‘Beautiful evenings. And you, Mr King, are you going away?’

  ‘No, sir.’ King shifted his position slightly. ‘I’ll be taking leave, of course, but I’m planning to use it to work on the house.’

  Lennie brought the drinks into the room, and offered the tray first to Donoghue, then King, and finally McNulty. When she had gone McNulty said. ‘Well, what is all this?’

  ‘In the course of a murder enquiry, sir,’ said Donoghue, ‘our enquiries led to a partner in your firm, a Mr Spicer.’

  ‘John Spicer.’ McNulty nodded. ‘Is he under suspicion?’

  ‘No, sir. But our enquiries have revealed that he may have been party to some underhand dealings. In a word, fraud.’

  ‘I see.’ McNulty sipped his lager. ‘Do you suspect the whole firm or just John Spicer?’

  ‘Just Mr Spicer, for the moment.’

  ‘For the moment?’

  ‘Yes, sir. For the moment.’

  ‘I see. Can I enquire as to the nature of this fraudulent activity?’ McNulty rested his glass on the low table.

  ‘Misappropriation of clients’ money, withholding clients’ money without reason.’

  ‘The latter is not a matter for the police, Inspector. Neither is the former unless there has been a complaint. Has there been a complaint? You indicated that you stumbled across these allegations in the course of a murder enquiry.’

  ‘There has not been a complaint to us with regard to the misappropriation of clients money,’ admitted Donoghue, ‘Only about the withholding of money.’

  ‘Which is a matter for the Law Society of Scotland, or else a civil action raised by the client in question.’

  McNulty pyramided his fingers and rested them against his chin. ‘I fail to see how I can help you, gentlemen.’

  ‘There are strong indications that your firm, particularly Mr Spicer, is linked to the murder of a journalist who was investigating on behalf of a client who alleges very poor service from Mr Spicer. We intend to interview Mr Spicer, but prior to that we’d like to have access to the accounts relevant to Mr Spicer’s work.’

  ‘Out of the question. Totally out of the question. There’s the matter of professional etiquette. I can’t even look at Mr Spicer’s accounts or files, let alone give someone else permission to do so, even if they are police officers. Which reminds me, I haven’t seen your identification.’ Donoghue and King reached into their jackets and McNulty said. ‘All right, I know a police officer when I see one. Even so, there’s also the question of confidentiality.’

  ‘The alternative is for us to seize them following a complaint being made,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘But there has been no complaint.’

  ‘This afternoon,’ said King, ‘I visited a client of Mr Spicer. He did not make a complaint as such but he would do if I invited him to. I could note his complaint and take his statement within an hour. We would then get a warrant…’

  ‘I know, I know.’ McNulty sighed. ‘You need not tell me that it’s in my interest to keep this out of the public eye if possible. That firm is my life. What is it you want?’

  ‘We’d like to look at the accounts relevant to Mr Spicer’s practice.’

  ‘They’re at the outpost.’

  ‘The outpost?’

  ‘That’s what our sub office has come to be called. It’s in Byres Road. We’re trying to break into the West End market. Mr Spicer is in charge there. He has a staff of four, two clerks and two secretaries.’

  ‘Do you have keys for the Byres Road office?’ asked Donoghue.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to accompany us there?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now! Out of the question, man. I have a social engagement.’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr McNulty.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘The trail is still hot, as it were,’ said Donoghue. ‘We’re quite prepared to have a warrant sworn on the basis of the complaint DC King made reference to.’

  McNulty sat back in the chair. ‘You don’t give me much option,’ he said. He stood and pulled the cord.

  ‘How long has Mr Spicer been associated with your firm, sir?’ asked Donoghue. />
  ‘Since he left school. He joined us as an office boy and then started serving articles. He was taken in as a partner when he was in his early thirties. That was just over ten years ago.’

  ‘So now he’s in his mid-forties?’

  ‘He’s forty-three,’ said McNulty. ‘He lives with his wife on the Isle of Bute. His wife is much younger than he, still in her twenties, I understand. But they seem happy enough. 1 dare say that that is all that matters.’

  Lennie pushed open the door and stood at the entrance to the room, deferentially looking at McNulty.

  ‘Bring me my safari jacket, please, Lennie,’ said McNulty, ‘and when Mrs McNulty returns will you say that I suggest she proceeds to the Baxters’ alone. Say that I’ll be along later and if she wants to contact me I’ll be at the Byres Road office.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Lennie and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She returned a few moments later with McNulty’s jacket, still on its hanger.

  The three men drove into the city, McNulty following behind in his Rolls-Royce.

  It was Fair Saturday, 8.00 p.m.

  Sussock pulled the unmarked police car to a stop against the kerb outside a small house in Rutherglen. The heat of the day had subsided and the city was enjoying a pleasantly warm evening. He walked up the drive and went to the back door of the house and rapped on the frame. The door was opened by a young man dressed in a black, tight-fitting T-shirt, baggy trousers and plimsolls. He had a ring in his ear.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ said the young man, smiling. He stood aside as Sussock entered the house. ‘Meet Benjamin, Daddy.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the other young man who sat on the settee. He wore tight-fitting jeans and clasped his hands together on his lap.

  ‘Mummy’s in her room, Daddy,’ said the first young man and added, by way of explanation, ‘She saw you coming. She’s frightfully upset.’

  He had recently separated from his wife and the separation had come as a final blissful release. He didn’t know where it had gone wrong, probably when their child was born and his wife’s disappointment that it was not a girl had not waned, but had developed into entrenched resentment. His wife had become aggressive and openly hostile, their son became homosexual, they colluded against him. When he was reduced to sneaking apologetically in and out of his house and sleeping on the sofa, he decided to quit and took his bedsitter. It was a decision which had brought new hardships but it was a decision which he did not regret.