Illegal Tender (Three Oaks Book 12)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Is Miles really the heir?’ Gordon asked, frowning.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But it’s probable. Now add to the equation — in strict confidence — that the police have grounds to believe that Maurice’s death wasn’t entirely accidental. I can’t say more than that at the moment. I’ll stay in touch and see what develops.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘No point rocking the boat just yet. Better to change my metaphor and see how the cookie crumbles. Let me think about it and we’ll talk it out over lunch. Is that the lot?’

  ‘I wish. You remember the e-mail fraud that you told me about?’

  Gordon pointed out that our previous discussion had only been the previous Friday. So much had happened since then that it seemed more like a month.

  ‘Elizabeth Ilwand had already been caught, for a large sum. In fact, for the price of the farm which we sold to provide for the investment in Agrotechnics, plus whatever was in the account before that cheque cleared. I hope and believe that it was coincidence that she was hit during the few days when the estate’s current account was overflowing, but I’m keeping an open mind.’

  Gordon tutted but wasted no time in mere commiseration. ‘She can still complete the investment?’ he asked keenly.

  ‘No question about that. But it may take a little time to realize that sort of sum without throwing good money after better. I’m looking for the cheapest way to raise money in the fairly short term.’

  Gordon looked at his watch. ‘I’ve booked a table for lunch,’ he said, ‘but we have a margin of more than an hour. I’ll give you a list of numbers to call while I consult my partners. With a bit of luck, I may find that we have a client in search of a short-term investment.’

  *

  A fourth advantage of having the services of a chauffeur is that of not having to worry about the breathalyser. We had a good lunch and I had the lion’s share of a bottle of claret. I was in celebratory mood. The banks, insurance companies and pension funds had been overcome with greed at the prospect of a large, short-term loan and I had been forced to recognize for the thousandth time that almost the only honest way to wealth these days is to become good at something totally useless. For a while I was afraid that we would have to add to the wealth of a pop singer — one, in particular, whom I especially despised — but we tracked down among Gordon’s clients a National Lottery winner who expected to take occupation of a substantial and expensive property in the early spring and would be delighted to earn a better rate of return than his bank was giving him until the day when he had to pay over the money. In addition to this success, I still cling to the belief that red wine is good for the heart.

  All good lunches come to an end. Ronnie responded promptly to my phone call and carried me to an auction house where in the past I had spent a perhaps excessive proportion of my income. That at least was Isobel’s view, although most of my investments had proved to be sound and several of the paintings had risen sharply in value. I remembered one of the partners and, to my surprise, he remembered me. His name was Stoep, pronounced Stoop, and since he had indeed a pronounced stoop I had no difficulty recalling his name, which seemed to gratify him. He was as tall and thin as ever but his hair had thinned and his black moustache was now grey. He took me into an office where there was barely room for a desk and two chairs between all the unsold detritus from previous sales — goods which owners were still to collect or had finally abandoned.

  We exchanged a few courtesies but he was obviously waiting for me to get down to brass tacks. A stuffed but moth-eaten owl behind his right shoulder seemed to be holding its breath.

  ‘You remember Sir Peter Hay?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well indeed.’ I seemed to have caught his interest. ‘I was sorry to read of Sir Peter’s death. I remember — going back twenty years or more — when the big house burned and a lot of valuable stuff went with it. He bought some nice pieces through us for the new house. If his estate wants to part with any of them . . .?’

  ‘Not those,’ I said. ‘But they also had the other family place up north for the salmon and stalking. When he sold it, he kept a lot of the better furniture and pictures. Some of it was quite unsuitable for the smaller, modern house, so what he couldn’t bear to part with went into store. He may have expected his granddaughter to set up her own establishment while he was still alive.’ I paused and chose my words with care. The wine might have loosened my tongue and any mention of a need for money is an immediate signal for the vultures to circle. ‘They don’t have the same associations for his granddaughter and she now owns Hay Lodge, so the time may have come for a clear-out.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ he said. ‘Shall we have it uplifted?’

  ‘We’d prefer to have a valuation first,’ I said, ‘just to be sure that sale value exceeds sentimental value. I wondered if you could send somebody . . .?’

  ‘I’ll come myself,’ he said quickly. He opened his diary.

  *

  I was able to enjoy the fifth and, as far as I am concerned, final advantage of being chauffeur-driven. I slept for most of the way back to Newton Lauder. I had told Ronnie to take me back by way of Cowieson’s. I had to reassure myself that the business was in good, or at least adequate, hands and that no calamitous disputes were raging.

  With more tact than I would have given him credit for, Ronnie switched on the car’s radio as we neared the town and by the time we entered the industrial estate I had roused myself. Peter Hay must have had a similar need for an after-lunch nap, because Ronnie reached back over his shoulder with a box of Wet Wipes and a small flask of what turned out to be diluted brandy. Soon, refreshed inside and out, I felt rather more than my usual self again.

  In front of Cowieson Farm Supplies was parked a Jaguar, showing some rust and at least one minor dent although comparatively new. In the entrance hall, Beatrice Payne had emerged from her office to confront a small man in a dusty suit who was brandishing some papers and seemed to be in a state of considerable agitation.

  Miss Payne looked up as I entered and she seemed to brighten. ‘Here’s Mr Kitts,’ she said. ‘He’ll sort it out.’

  I was not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed by the assumption that I would wave some sort of magic wand, but she had left me no escape. ‘Can I help?’ I asked.

  The man had a red and weather-beaten face, small, piggy eyes and a bristling moustache. ‘Allardyce,’ he said brusquely. His voice was harsh and remarkably deep for such a short man. ‘McQueen and Allardyce, building contractors.’ He brandished his papers. ‘We put up this building and the Defects Liability Period is long gone. Forty-eight thousand outstanding and I’m not leaving here until I’ve got something very substantial on account.’

  ‘Then your visit may be rather a long one,’ I told him. ‘There is nobody here just now with any authority to write cheques on the company’s behalf.’

  His eyes, not very wide in the first place, narrowed further. ‘I know your name,’ he said. ‘Kitts. She told me. But who are you?’

  ‘I’m a director of Agrotechnics. I think that you’re doing a big job for us just now.’ The girl and the secretary were listening, fascinated, so I kept it as discreet as I could. ‘We have a larger debt to collect and we were granted a floating charge.’

  ‘So were we,’ he said triumphantly. ‘And the company goes on even if the boss has died. I asked my lawyer.’

  This was interesting. The media did not have the name of the deceased. ‘How did you come to hear about a death?’ I asked him.

  He hesitated. ‘Word goes around,’ he snapped. ‘Cowieson’s were never good payers at the best of times and this won’t make it any better. I’ve come to collect.’

  Just as I had feared. Maurice Cowieson had pledged the business to two different creditors. ‘Mr Maurice Cowieson died yesterday and Miles Cowieson is abroad,’ I said. ‘I think that we should discuss this outside.’

  He looked at me sideways but evidently decided t
hat I was not inviting him to physical violence. He nodded and we walked out into the car park. A cold east wind began to suck the heat out of me but I had developed a dislike of the man and I had no intention of being closeted in a car with him.

  When I was sure that we were out of earshot of the building I asked, ‘When was your floating charge granted?’

  ‘Nearly four months ago.’

  ‘Ours is nearly a year old,’ I said. ‘Even if they were both valid, which is legally impossible, I’m afraid ours would take precedence. Did you have a solicitor check the Companies Register and then register your floating charge?’

  Mr Allardyce was looking slightly nauseous. ‘He assured me that his solicitor had done all that on our behalf.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve been taken for a ride,’ I said. ‘We — Agrotechnics — are doing all we can to rescue Cowieson’s with a view to taking it over if necessary, in which event you’ve a good chance of being paid. But Maurice Cowieson had no right to grant floating charges to two different creditors. In fact, it was legally impossible and the attempt was almost certainly criminal. His death makes that aspect of it irrelevant but on the other hand, as you said, the company still goes on. The fact remains that if you make a public stink, we won’t touch it with a bargepole. We’ll repossess as much of the machinery as hasn’t been paid for, which is most of it, Cowieson’s will go into liquidation and nobody will get more than about twopence in the pound.’

  He could see the point but not the holes in my argument. All the same, he was reluctant to let go. ‘Even something on account . . .’ he said wistfully. ‘We need the money to buy materials for your job.’

  That isn’t how the building business is financed and we both knew it. ‘Your contract with Agrotechnics provides for payment for materials on site. Nobody was expecting old Maurice to drive off the top of an embankment,’ I pointed out. ‘The office manager only started this morning. As I told you, there’s nobody here with the authority to sign cheques. When Miles gets back from wherever he’s gone you can try him but, unless he’s managed to raise some new finance, the likelihood is that we’ll push for an agreed buyout immediately or, if we don’t get a satisfactory deal, call in a receiver.’

  He clenched his fists until the papers crackled and he walked slowly round in a small circle while he thought about it. ‘The bugger!’ he said at last. His red face had gone much the colour of a half-ripe plum. ‘If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him. You’ll see that we get a fair deal?’

  I was not at all sure of the law, nor whether Agrotechnics would go along with any promises that I made. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said. ‘I can only say that your chances of getting your money are very much better if you don’t rock the boat just now.’

  The fact that I hadn’t given him any easy promises seemed to reassure him. He even shook my hand before driving off. Ronnie was ready to open the Range Rover’s door for me but I hadn’t had my quiet word with Bea Payne. I found her back in her office. Colin Weir, who had sensibly stayed out of a row which was none of his business, was occupying the other desk. There was something indefinably different about the room, more full of paper but undoubtedly more orderly. If a room could look relieved, this was doing so. The atmosphere was one of satisfaction.

  ‘I thought we were never going to be rid of him,’ Bea Payne said huskily. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘There may be others,’ I said, ‘though I hope not. If there are, call me. Now, how have you got on today?’

  They beamed happily.

  ‘We’ve done some good business,’ Colin said. ‘There were one or two new customers and we followed up a lot of earlier enquiries which seemed to have been left adrift.’

  ‘At least Mr Maurice kept a list of approaches,’ Bea said.

  ‘Even if he didn’t do anything about them,’ Colin said. ‘So far, seven farmers have agreed to demonstrations of major machinery.’

  ‘I looked at the books and it’s been the best day this year,’ Bea said. ‘By far.’

  This was excellent news but I was not going to take it at face value. ‘And who,’ I asked, ‘is going to demonstrate the machinery?’

  ‘I am,’ said Colin. He seemed surprised to have been asked the question. ‘Miss Payne has heard most of the answers by now, but she can reach me on my mobile if anything tricky turns up.’

  Things were working out better than I had ever hoped. ‘That’s very good. I think Mr Cowieson Senior believed in the philosophy that if you can build a better tractor the world will beat a path to your door,’ I said, ‘which may with reservations be true. But once the world has arrived at your door, you have to be both helpful and knowledgeable.’

  ‘That’s us,’ Bea said cheerfully. ‘I’m helpful and he’s knowledgeable.’

  ‘On that happy note,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

  Chapter Six

  That evening, the atmosphere at Hay Lodge had deteriorated. Elizabeth clearly felt both guilty and vulnerable. I was given to understand that she had been toying with the Internet messages, but from her listless and depressed attitude I could guess that any attempt to follow the electronic trail had been made in the shallow manner of one who knows that the task set is impossible. Duncan’s degree had been in electronics and computing but Elizabeth’s, I recalled, had been in mathematics, in which computers were merely tools of the trade, to be used rather than comprehended.

  ‘The police should be able to sort this out in minutes,’ she said angrily. ‘Every time I think I’m making a little progress I come up against some obstructive bastard at Telecom or the Internet. I cannot follow it up from the electronics alone and that’s an end to the matter. We’d be better spending our energies harassing the Serious Fraud Office.’

  Every attempt at encouragement from me or at technical assistance from her husband was deemed to be patronizing or was taken as criticism and she made no secret of her resentment. We dined in almost total silence and the wine decanter remained untouched.

  When Elizabeth was in one of her (happily rare) moods, there was little to be done but to stay clear. Duncan made a patently transparent excuse to go back to the shop for the evening, to finish off some urgent reprogramming which he had earlier admitted could have waited a week. I had no wish to spend the evening with Elizabeth who, hating herself, was taking her hatred out on anyone handy, but manners prevented me from taking too obviously to flight. For once, however, I was grateful for one of the phone calls which would normally have infuriated me. I answered the extension phone in the sitting room for no better reason than that Elizabeth, in the study and back at the computer, obviously had no intention of doing so. A not unattractive female voice assured me that she was not going to sell me anything — I could have assured her of that! — and then proceeded to extol the virtues of somebody’s double glazing and conservatories.

  I made vaguely affirmative noises and then hung up in the middle of the lady’s peroration. I crossed the hall and put my head in at the study door. Elizabeth, with the main instrument at her elbow, was staring helplessly at a screen full of apparently unrelated letters and numerals. There was no indication that she had listened to my phone call.

  ‘That was an old friend on the phone,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen him for years. You won’t mind if I go and meet him at the hotel?’

  Elizabeth who, for all her faults, was both well mannered and hospitable, would normally have suggested that I invite my friend to the house, but she seemed pleased at the prospect of having the place to herself. ‘Go and have fun,’ she said and heaved a sigh expressive of lonely martyrdom. Fun, it said, was for others to enjoy.

  Once in the car, I reviewed my options. I had made several friends in the locality but there was always the possibility that Elizabeth might phone the hotel to speak to me, either to apologize for her curtness or more probably to seek advice about some estate problem which had arisen without warning. I nearly went back into the house to give her the number o
f my mobile, but she would have seen through that in seconds. So I descended the long hill, parked in the Square and entered through the hotel’s plate-glass doors.

  Much of the hotel’s ground floor was taken up by the dining room with kitchen premises, a rambling public bar which was usually filled with voices raised above the sound of a jukebox and a large and suffocatingly formal lounge where the local dowagers sipped sherry or drank coffee according to the time of day. Fussier and more knowledgeable patrons, however, gravitated to a smaller and quieter cocktail bar tucked away off a minor lobby.

  This, I found, was in its usual state of tranquillity. I exchanged a smile with the plump barmaid, a long-standing acquaintance — she being the wife, I hasten to add, of Ralph Enterkin. Two or three couples were whispering together in the darker corners, a salesman was studying his catalogues and the inside of a brandy snifter at an end of the bar while, at a table strategically placed between the bar and the hatch to the kitchen, Keith Calder was established with his wife and daughter. To judge from the debris on the table, they had taken a bar meal and Keith at least had enjoyed several whiskies. The residues in the ladies’ glasses might have been tonic water or heeltaps remaining from large vodkas.

  Keith beckoned to me and got up to appropriate another chair. ‘You’ll take a dram?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure that I should,’ I said. ‘I had wine at lunchtime, followed by a brandy. It might not take much to put me back over the legal limit and I’m parked in full view of the police building.’

  He smiled and his lived-in face became boyish again. ‘I have two non-drinking drivers with me,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure that one of them can chauffeur you home.’