Текст книги "Trail of Greed"

Автор книги: John Dysart

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Chapter 8

I picked up Pierre at the hotel on Saturday morning and we drove through to Doune for our lunch appointment. I took him the more picturesque route through Glendevon.

The Ochil Hills stretch across that part of Scotland from North Fife to Stirling. They form a natural barrier to the Highlands farther north and Glendevon is one of the few roads piercing them. Driving through the glen is the quickest way to get a feel for the rugged wild country farther north. The road twists its way through the glen and comes out into the last low-lying countryside before you hit the mountains. From the shadow of the steep-sided glen we emerged into blue skies stretching to the north where the ominous grey shapes of the mountains filled the horizon.

We came out at the main road from Perth to Stirling, crossed it, and a few minutes later entered the famous golfing domain of Gleneagles, where we had agreed to meet Mike.

We stopped for enough time for a coffee and to show Pierre what a real golf course looked like. He was completely taken by the magnificent surroundings and we promised we would bring him over to play sometime soon.

We left Gleneagles in the two cars and proceeded towards Doune. Mike had announced that he would have to get back fairly early, because, he told me with a grin, he had “to pick up a photograph”.

The old grey farmhouse stood on the south-facing slope of a small hill. It was protected from the east wind by a copse of trees. We were on the southern fringe of the Highlands. In the distance were the mountain peaks of varying shades of grey and blue, eventually fading with the distance until they merged into the sky.

There were no crops in the surrounding fields. This was not an arable farm. Oliver, my brother-in-law, raised cattle for the meat industry. The fields were grass, populated by young cows, which he bought regularly at the local sales, fattened them up for a year or so and then sold them on to the meat-packing industry. It was a profitable enough business and it had the advantage of not being very labour intensive. He ran about three hundred cattle, buying and selling three or four a week except during the winter when he depleted his stock with sales, and built it up again during the spring.

During the cold months, when the cattle were inside, he needed a young lad to help with the feeding, but other than that he could run the whole place single handed. There had, however, never been very much opportunity for holidays when the kids had been small. Perhaps that is why they had both chosen other careers.

The life suited Heather who had always had a few horses. It was permanently busy but there was little in the way of the stress of city life, the professional politics and the bloody traffic that I had had to put up with all my life.

I had explained all this to Pierre as we had driven through and he was looking forward to meeting them.

I rang the door bell and was immediately rewarded by a pile of noises from inside the house. I say “a pile” because they all seemed to me to be stacked on top of each other.

“I’ll get it” – thump of running feet – “Get off” – “I’m first” – a crash of something falling over – a clunk on the inside of the door – the noise of the handle being wrenched open.

The door was hauled back to reveal two grinning, perspiring faces – Rory, ten and Paddy (Patrick), eight – Heather’s grandsons.

“Hi, Uncle Bob,” they cried in unison. “Hi, Uncle Mike.” “Hi, scamps,” I replied, ruffling their hair. Mike’s welcome was more violent. He lunged forwards and grabbed them both, one under each arm, and promptly turned round and walked over to the pile of grass clippings against the wall and unceremoniously dropped the two squealing boys into it.

“Hi guys,” he said with a grin, and came back to us, rubbing his hands. “That’ll keep them quiet for a while.”

Oliver came to the door to welcome us. Looking round he saw his two grandsons emerging, covered in grass clippings and, with a wink to us, roared at them, “What the blazes do you two think you’re up to?”

“It was him,” they cried, pointing fingers at Mike who was looking a picture of innocence.

“Me? Nonsense.” “Get yourselves cleaned up before you come back in the house.”

They scampered off round the corner, grinning at each other.

Oliver ushered us in through the hall and into the kitchen which was at the back of the house.

Heather looked up and smiled at us from behind a pile of kitchen utensils and food, spread out all over the place. She was in the middle of preparation for lunch.

“Hi guys, you’re early. I haven’t finished all this yet.” She waved her arms vaguely over the work in progress, a wicked looking knife in her hand. “Why don’t you go out the back and Oliver will get you a drink. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Out the back” was a stone-flagged terrace with a large teak table and eight chairs looking out over a small pond off to the left and a view across the carse to the mountains in the distance. The pond was the territory of a few ducks that were gliding around on the surface of the water.

Pierre had followed along behind and before we sat down I introduced him to Oliver as a friend who was staying at Fernie Castle and whom I had met at the golf club.

I had decided to break the news to Heather alone to give her a chance to absorb the shock on her own, rather than in front of Pierre.

I agreed to the beer suggested by Oliver and went back in to see Heather. She was just washing her hands, having finished whatever it was she had been doing. I went over, gave her a hug and signaled her to sit down for a minute.

“So the surprise friend is not female,” she said with a grin. “You had me wondering.”

“No, not female. French, in fact. I’ll introduce him to you in a minute.”

Oliver wandered through clutching several bottles of beer. “We’ll be out in a few minutes,” I called.

“Take your time.” I then proceeded to tell my wee sister about the unexpected visitor I had had the previous week, the dinner we had together and the astonishing news. She listened to the whole story without a word of interruption. When I had finished she looked at me closely.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” “Absolutely not. It’s all true. You can even see a family resemblance from time to time.”

“And you believe this story from someone turning up out of the blue?”

“I really do – and he’s a nice guy. Mike and I have got to know him over the last week and we’ve had a chance to get used to the idea. I have to admit it was a bit of a shock at first. But when you think about, it doesn’t seem an unreasonable story. Apparently he’s not the only person in France of that generation who didn’t know his father. I’m telling you, when he put that photo down on the table in front of me I was completely astounded. It’s a smaller version of exactly the same one as you’ve got hanging in your dining room.”

We explored the business from all angles for a few minutes until Heather seemed to me to be convinced. Finally she got up and said, “Well, I suppose I’d better go and meet him.”

Mike, Oliver and Pierre had migrated over to the duck pond and were chatting amiably, glasses in their hands. They turned as we approached. Pierre must have guessed that Heather had been told. He looked at her rather nervously.

She walked slowly up to him, her keen eyes taking in everything about him. She paused about three feet away, cleared her throat, swallowed and then said in a soft voice, “Bob has just told me.”

Her lips quivered and her eyes started to water. She took a step forward, put her arms round him and said “Welcome.”

She let go of him after a few seconds and stepped back. “It’s a bit of a shock, as you can well imagine, and it’s going to take some getting used to. Come on. Put your beer down and let’s go for a short walk. The lunch can wait a bit. It’s cold stuff anyway.”

She took him by the arm and walked off down the driveway.

Oliver clearly wondered what the hell was going on. He looked at me questioningly, then at Mike, then at his wife and this stranger wandering off down the drive talking to each other.

“Could someone tell me what is going on?” Just then there was a shriek from the house, followed by the emergence of two young boys from the kitchen door dressed in swimming shorts. They pelted past us and plunged into the pond to the vocal disapproval of the sitting tenants. The ducks took off noisily and the boys had the water to themselves.

I looked at Mike. “Why don’t you go off for a short wander and explain to Oliver. I’ll look out for the boys.”

Mike nodded his agreement and he and Oliver went off with their beers in the direction of the horse field. I was left to sit on the bench and babysit while I awaited the return of the family.

When all four had returned and before we all sat down to lunch we agreed that it wouldn’t be right to tell the kids. Heather would organise breaking the news to their mother first.

Lunch was jovial. The food was, as always, excellent. The Pouilly Fuissé was deliciously cold. Jokes about the French cropped up. The kids were boisterous but also curious about a country they had never visited and peppered Pierre with questions which he handled with good humour. He was clearly interested in them and gave as good as he got. Vague plans were discussed about going out to France, although we had not yet mentioned how rich our new brother was.

I was quieter than usual and was more interested in watching Pierre slip into an affectionate relationship with my family. All in all things had gone even better than I had hoped. Pierre was delighted with his new-found sister. After we had finished eating she took him to show him round the farm and introduce him to the horses.

By the middle of the afternoon Mike had left for his evening rendezvous and Oliver, Pierre, Heather and I carried on chattering until Heather proposed that we stay for supper. The main subject was of course Dad and we were able to add still more of the picture to Pierre. He was also able to tell what he knew about that year in France from what he had heard from his mother. We knew almost nothing of that period in Dad’s life.

I drove a very happy Pierre back through to Fife and deposited him at his hotel. We agreed to get together the next day. I still had to tell him about my visit to Alice.

The next morning I was obliged to call Pierre earlier than anticipated.

“Hi, it’s Bob. Morning. Sorry to bother you but could you come over this morning? I think I’ve had a break in at home.”

“What?” “I said that I think someone has been in my house – presumably while we were away yesterday. Can you come over?”

“That sounds crazy. Has anything been taken?” “I don’t think so. That’s what’s so strange.” “Hold on. I’ll be with you in three quarters of an hour.” He arrived fifty minutes later. During the time I was waiting for him I had gone over the house a second time to make sure that nothing was missing. I saw his car draw up outside and went to let him in. He entered, looking concerned. I offered him a drink. While I was pouring a beer he looked around the downstairs looking puzzled.

“If nothing is gone, how do you know there’s been a break in? How did they get in?”

“I haven’t a clue. There are no broken windows or bust locks or anything. If I’m right they were professionals.”

“What do you mean nothing? How do you know someone’s been in here then?”

I explained how, when I had got up and was having my breakfast, I suddenly had a feeling that there was something strange about the house.

“I couldn’t put my finger on it but it troubled me. When I was putting the breakfast things away I noticed a leaf lying on the floor in the kitchen. I absentmindedly picked it up to put it in the rubbish. Then I thought, wait a minute, that’s queer. I’m normally very fastidious about brushing my feet when I come in the back door from the garden. How the hell did this leaf get there? I’m sure it wasn’t there yesterday when I left. I’m sure I would have noticed it.”

“So, what then?” asked Pierre. “I had a look around. Everything seemed normal, but . . .”

I then explained to him how I had gone back into the living room. I had stood in the middle of the floor and scanned the room slowly. It had seemed as usual.

“But you get used to certain things being in certain places when you live on your own. And you know that you’re the only person that can move things.”

“That I understand,” said Pierre. “I have one particular hang up which always used to annoy Liz. I hate pictures that are not exactly horizontal. Sometimes I even check them with a spirit level. Liz thought I was daft but it’s always been something that disturbs me. I’ve even been known, much to her embarrassment, to straighten pictures in other people’s houses, or tell the proprietor of a restaurant that his pictures are squint.”

“What did you notice?” “Dad’s picture, on the wall leading towards the kitchen, was not quite right and that big oil over there of Glencoe that Liz gave me for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was definitely on a slant. How the hell could that have happened?”

I then described to Pierre how slowly the idea had started to percolate into my brain that someone had come into the house while I was out and had been snooping around. Impossible. Crazy. But what if it was true?

I had gone straight to the front door to check if there were any signs of illicit entry. Nothing. I had checked all the windows – upstairs and downstairs. Nothing. The back door, which led off from the kitchen seemed unmolested.

I had concluded that I must be imagining things. Old age catching up with me. Bullshit. I still had all my marbles.

“I even went out the front door and crossed the road to look back at the house, to see if there was anything unusual. All seemed as you would expect it to be. I walked up the lane at the side of the house and looked over into the garden. Still nothing different. The only thing I did notice were fresh-looking car tyre tracks on the verge, as if a car had stopped there. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for that, although not many cars go up the lane because it only leads to Jack Gibson’s farm a mile and a half further on.”

“Let’s do another check,” suggested Pierre We started upstairs but without any result. We went back into the living room. It was then that I noticed that one of the drawers in the hall table was not properly shut.

“Pierre, look here,” I called him over. “This drawer isn’t properly shut. It needs some sanding so that it’ll close smoothly and neatly. I’ve been meaning to fix it for months but I’ve never got round to it. As it is, it needs a special technique. You have to push it closed on the left side first. It is a bit of a fiddle to do but I always do it because it looks untidy otherwise.” Pierre tried to close it without success. If you didn’t take the time to find out the technique it would remain partly open at one side. That was the giveaway. Someone had definitely been in my house. I then started to look much more carefully. There were hardly any signs. Whoever it was had been extremely professional and careful. Practically nothing had been disturbed – practically nothing, but not nothing.

The pictures, the leaf, the drawer – and I noticed also that a wooden box that I kept papers in had been slightly displaced. There were signs in the dust that it had been moved. My cleaning lady only comes in once a week and although she’s good with a vacuum cleaner and she’s got a thing about clean windows, she’s not too hot on the dusting, bless her.

Pierre was thoughtful as I pointed out the evidence to him.

“If you’re right and someone has been in, why didn’t they take anything?”

All I could think of as an answer was that there wasn’t much of value in the house anyway.

“Could they have been looking for a document or documents? That fits with looking behind pictures.”

“I don’t have any documents of any importance. Anything like that I keep in the safe deposit box at the bank.”

I stopped suddenly. Documents. “Shit!” “What is it?” asked Pierre.

“Alice’s envelope.”

“What do you mean?” “The documents that Alice Hetherington gave me at the conference. All her papers concerning AIM – the stuff I showed you the other evening. I put the envelope down on the bureau over there and, as it is not something that’s usually here, I’ve only just realised that it is missing. I know I put it down there on Friday evening when I got back.”

“Why would anyone think that papers in a brown envelope would have any value?” asked Pierre.

“God knows.” We looked at each other, both coming to the realisation at the same time.

“It can only be Purdy or someone sent by him. He saw Alice give me the envelope . . .”

“. . . which means,” went on Pierre, “that they are important, at least to him, and he doesn’t want anybody poking his nose into one of his client’s correspondence . . .”

“. . . which means he has something to hide . . .” “. . . which means that we’re maybe right and there definitely is something fishy about AIM,” I said, finishing off the combined train of thought.

Chapter 9

As it was warm and sunny we went out into the back garden and sat down on my patio. I looked ruefully at the garden which definitely needed some attention. For a start the rose beds were becoming overgrown with weeds. I hated the task. Down on your hands and knees wrestling with dandelions, chickweed and daisies, which had somehow migrated from the small patch of grass that I had. I told myself I would have to do something about it within the next few days.

I told Pierre about my visit to Alice and how, unfortunately, she only knew of one other person who had invested in AIM. I thought I might try to contact him.

“I wish there was some way we could get hold of the names of more people. Perhaps that would give us more information.”

“What about Alice?” Pierre asked.

“What do you mean?” “Can you get her to recopy her papers and send them over? We might discover what it was that Purdy found so important.”

I was struggling with the cork of a bottle of Beaujolais when Pierre spoke again.

“Bob, I’ve just had another thought. If these papers of Alice are so important and Purdy sees that they are copies, do you think he might try to get hold of the originals?”

“Bloody hell. I didn’t think of that.” I finally got the cork out and poured us each glass. The wine had been in the fridge and was deliciously cool.

“We’d better warn her.” “What about putting a guard on over there?” suggested Pierre.

That seemed to make sense because if anyone did try to do another burglary on Alice’s house a guard might catch him in the act. We’d have a way of confirming who was behind it and something to nail him with.

“Can you fund the cost?”

“No problem.” I got on the phone to Mike, who answered with a “morning after the night before” voice.

I told him about the break-in and the disappearance of Alice’s papers and explained our concern about a repetition on Alice’s house.

“Have you contacted Doug and Mac yet?” I asked. “Yes. They’re up for it. I’m seeing them tomorrow to give them a rundown and send them over to Edinburgh.”

“Good. Can you change the plan a bit? Would Mac be able to go and babysit Alice for a few days? Our idea was that we would offer to repaint the outside of her house for free and she could put Mac up for the three or four days that it would take and be bodyguard at the same time. Maybe nothing will happen but you never know. And you and Doug could do the Edinburgh side of things.”

He agreed and promised to organise it like that. I gave him Alice’s name and address and said I would phone her straight away. He could assume all was on if he didn’t hear from me. That way I’d save the price of a phone call.

Next, Alice. She was horrified when I told her about the break in. “Told you so. That man is definitely a crook.” I then explained how we were concerned that they might pay her a visit as well, so we planned to supply some security. I had no trouble persuading her to accept a repainting job on the outside of her house, free of charge. She was a Scot after all. And she agreed that she could put Mac up for the few days it would take, on condition that he was a non-smoker. I assured her that he was although I hadn’t a clue. I was going to have to phone back Mike after all.

Once that was all settled Pierre and I reviewed the situation. There was not much we could do over the next few days. Mac would be guarding Alice. Mike and Doug would be investigating Purdy. And I would have a chat with Steven in a couple of days to see if he had found out anything.

His article in the Thursday paper had been just right. A brief report of the conference with no reference to the awkwardness caused by my question. It was neutral on the issue of AIM’s results, which would not please Purdy very much. But he couldn’t complain. It was factual.

Pierre was quiet and thoughtful as I did my little “where we’re at” speech.

He left me in the early afternoon. As he was leaving he informed me that, as not much was likely to happen in the near future, he was going to go back to France for a few days. He would be back on Wednesday or Thursday. He didn’t tell me why. But then why should he? I simply nodded and asked him to call when he got back.

Nothing happened over the next few days. I called Alice a couple times. She was delighted with the painting. She and Mac had agreed on an olive green for the woodwork, which she thought would brighten things up and would go well with all the shrubs and trees she had in the garden.

I spoke to Mac who had nothing to report except that he was eating like he hadn’t done in a long time. Alice was spoiling him and was clearly enjoying having someone to cook for. His only complaint was that he had to play Scrabble every evening and she always won.

I tried to get in touch with Steven but his assistant told me he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until the end of the week.

I managed a round of golf. I went over on Tuesday and bumped into Keith in the clubhouse. He was about to go out with Jack and he invited me to join them. I played reasonably well. Jack was not on form with his putting and Keith thumped his way round the course, cursing bad shots, complaining about the greens when he missed a putt and celebrating as if he’d won the Open when anything went in from over ten feet.

On Thursday morning I had a call from Mike who suggested that he come over and report on his and Doug’s efforts over the last three days. We agreed to a bar lunch at Fernie. He’d come over himself and leave Doug on the job.

Just as I was about to leave the phone rang again. It was Pierre.

“Hi,” he said. “What’s new? I’m just back and wondered if you fancied lunch.”

I told him I was meeting Mike so his arrival was well timed. We’d see him in about half an hour.

Mike was waiting in the bar. No sign, as yet, of Pierre, so we settled down for a debriefing on Edinburgh.

We had hardly started when Mike glanced up and said “Here’s Pierre”.

I looked round over my shoulder and saw Pierre wending his way through the chairs and tables towards us with a smile on his face. He was dressed in his usual tidy, elegant way – blue, cotton, neatly-ironed trousers, soft brown loafers, fresh cream shirt. His face was, if anything slightly more tanned than before. A couple of days in the sun, I thought.

Mike and I glanced at each other. Mike raised his eyebrows. We had been expecting him but we had not been expecting him to be accompanied.

We got to our feet as he approached and shook hands and welcomed him back.

“Hi, guys. Good to see you,” he said and then stepped back to motion forward the person who had been following closely behind.

She was a distinctly attractive lady and looked as if she was in her early forties. She had an open and friendly expression on a face that was tanned and very appealing. She was an inch or so taller than Pierre, slender with shoulder-length black hair and was dressed neatly in a blue cotton blouse and a white denim skirt which stopped just above the knees. Bare legged. Sandals with just enough heel to tighten up the calf muscles. There was no doubt the picture was exquisite. She took a pace forward and shook us each by the hand. There was a whiff of a seriously expensive perfume in the air.

“It’s good to meet you both,” she said, with a slight touch of a French accent. “Pierre has told me all about you.”

Pierre pulled out a seat for her and we all sat down again, Mike taking slightly longer than the rest of us. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She seemed aware of this and smiled back at him.

“Bob, Mike, I’d like to introduce you to Sophie Lamarre, a long-time friend of mine.”

We nodded and smiled a welcome to her. Mike promptly got up to order drinks for the new arrivals.

“Beer for you, Pierre? And Sophie . . .?” “A small glass of cold, dry white wine, please,” she said, her eyes following him as he went over to the bar.

Pierre sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face, as if he had made exactly the effect that he had intended. He said something in French to Sophie who laughed out loud, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

There was a definite elegance about her, but also an indication of strength and fitness in that slim body. Someone who looked after herself or someone who enjoyed outside pursuits. The slight tan seemed to indicate the latter.

We chatted for a few minutes as one does when a stranger suddenly arrives in your midst and you want to make them welcome. Have you been to Scotland before? What do you think of the weather? And other such comments.

I tried my best to get the conversation going but I couldn’t bring up our Purdy adventures because I didn’t really know who she was. Was this Pierre’s partner? Could be. They certainly seemed to be very much at ease with each other.

Meanwhile Mike, unusually for him, hardly opened his mouth.

When I started to stall a little Pierre decided to let us off the hook. He murmured again to Sophie in French and received a nod of the head in return.

“Listen guys, we both know what you’re thinking. We’re used to it. Let me just say straight away that Sophie and I are not, as you say it over here, an ‘item’. We are just very good old friends. Most people have the same reaction, which I take as a compliment to my sense of taste. Sometimes we let people think so because it gives Sophie some protection. But this time I have to tell you straight away. I just wanted to have a little fun.”

“Well you certainly looked very much like a couple when you came over here,” I said. “Pierre, the well-dressed Frenchman, with his beautiful partner” – I can be a charmer when I want to be!

“In France we dress to please the ladies,” said Pierre. Mike grinned and couldn’t stop himself from coming out with a rejoinder.

“Over here we undress to please the ladies.” Then he realised that he’d perhaps over-stepped the mark, coloured slightly and buried his face in his beer. Sophie was clearly not bothered by this remark and joined the laughter.

Pierre continued. “I hope you guys don’t mind but I’ve invited Sophie over here to help us in our project.”

He then proceeded to explain to us that Sophie had worked for his company from just after she had graduated from college and she had been with them until he sold out. She had developed into a top-class IT security and hacking expert. When Pierre had sold the company she had sold the shares that she had accumulated from various bonuses and had set herself up as an independent expert.

“Bob, when you mentioned that it would be good if we could get hold of other AIM investors, I immediately thought of Sophie. Perhaps she can hack into their systems. So I went over to discuss it with her. She has some free time at the moment and said she’d love to help.”

“D’Artagnan,” said Mike. “I beg your pardon?” said Sophie, looking puzzled. We then had to explain to her why we had called ourselves APA Consulting. She liked the idea immediately and accepted to be D’Artagnan.

I readily agreed to the help that Sophie could bring. If she could get into their systems we’d be in an excellent position to unmask Purdy.

Mike agreed for reasons known only to himself – but suspected by me.

Over lunch I called the meeting to order and we reviewed the steps we needed to undertake.

“Sophie, what do you need to be able to get into their systems?”

“Just a simple connection to a server or access to WiFi,” she replied.

“Well I’ve got internet at home, which is only five minutes away. Will that do? Or I’m sure they have WiFi here in the hotel.”

“Yours would be better,” she replied. “Fine. Pierre can bring you over tomorrow. It’ll give me time to tidy up a bit and clear a space for you to work.”

Mike then gave us a report on what he and Doug had found out in Edinburgh.

He showed us photos of Purdy leaving his expensive-looking house in Barnton, arriving at the office, going out for lunch, the AIM building, his top of the range Lexus and then . . .

“This is an interesting one,” he said. He pulled out another picture. It was of Purdy walking up a street somewhere in the city, not readily identifiable, with a young, shapely blonde woman on his arm. They were obviously talking to each other in a very friendly fashion.

“Why?” we asked.

“She’s not his wife.” He pulled out a glossy AIM brochure which had a photograph of a group of people taken at some public event and in the middle of the group was Purdy with a dark-haired lady standing next to him.

“That’s his wife,” said Mike, pointing to her. “That’s great. Purdy has a mistress. That could be useful. Do you know who she is or where she lives?”

“Yes. We have a name and an address. She is a divorcee and runs a hairdressing salon in the High Street. We’ve quite a few photographs of her.”

“Fine. Keep away from her now. We don’t want to run any risk of her finding out she’s being watched. As long as we know how to get to her if we need to.”

“Anything else?” asked Pierre. “We’ve only managed to come across two blokes who he seems to frequent. He goes to a squash club down in Leith twice a week. He always plays with the same guy. We followed him there on Tuesday and after he’d gone I had a look at the board of court reservation and his name was up every Tuesday and Thursday with the same guy and at the same time. It’s obviously regular.”