Poisoned Cherries ob-6 Read online

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ I told her. ‘My fame grows by the second. Plus. .’ I hesitated; she looked up at me, curious.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just had a meeting with Greg; Prim’s signed the divorce settlement and so have I. All we need to do is go through the petitioning process itself; we can do that in Scotland, right now. We don’t have to wait for a year or anything like that. I’ll be a free man in a few weeks.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And all things will be possible.’

  She held me at arm’s length. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I never know what I’m saying,’ I replied, defensively. It was true; I really wasn’t sure. I hadn’t planned any of this; the words were just falling out of my mouth like pebbles into a pond, and I had no idea how far the ripples would go. Until my meeting with Greg, I’d had no idea that the ties between Prim and me could be severed so quickly.

  ‘Well, when you do know, tell me,’ she said.

  ‘You’d be interested in hearing, then?’

  ‘Yes. Now if we’ve finished sparring; drop the subject until you actually are divorced.’

  I felt myself grinning at her like an idiot; I couldn’t help it. For the first time since Jan had died I could see real happiness stretching into the future. She laughed at me, then kissed me again. ‘What do you think of Ethel, then?’

  ‘Magic. Where did you find her?’

  ‘My father. . Joe, that is. . knew someone whose daughter had her until her kid was ready for school. She gave me references going back twenty-five years, and was happy for me to speak to her last employer.’

  ‘Wee Jan’s in good hands; and so are you, for now.’

  I went off to see the baby; she was awake and content so I did the Daddy thing for a while, carrying her around, showing her the view across the city from the windows. ‘One day, kid,’ I promised her, ‘all this will be yours.’

  Eventually, she became restless; maybe I was boring her, but I think she was hungry. I handed her back to Susie; she plugged her in for a while, then I burped her. I’d had plenty of recent practice with Bruce, but I still couldn’t stop her barfing down my shirt.

  Luckily, I had another. When the taxi turned up at seven-twenty, I looked not bad at all. Susie looked much better than that; she wore a blue sequinned dress which clung to her in a way that made the driver’s eyes pop out like organ stops. I couldn’t object; I’d just shoved mine back in.

  The Rogano restaurant is one of the most famous in Glasgow; it’s in the city centre and for several generations it’s been the top watering hole for the top people. Its decor goes back to the thirties, when shipbuilding was king, and its dining room is after the style of a liner of that period.

  The food has kept pace with the times, though; so have the prices. We went past the bar and straight to our table when we entered; on the way several drinkers and diners nodded to Susie; one even gave her a half bow.

  ‘Who were they, then?’ I whispered as we were seated.

  ‘A mix of council and business; the woman near the door runs a staffing consultancy, and the guy next to her is a big wheel in the city Labour Party. . New Labour, very much. The man who gave me the wee bow is a steel stockholder. I put a load of business his way.’

  As if to prove it, a bottle of champagne arrived at the table, in a bucket. Susie looked across towards the bar; Mr Steel was smiling at her. He dropped another courtly bow as she mimed her thanks. I’d have shone up for the stuff myself, but I wasn’t about to turn it down, so I gave him a wave also, as the wine waiter popped the cork.

  For some reason, I thought back twenty-four hours, to Alison Goodchild and her tale. ‘Have you ever come across a man called James Torrent in business? He’s very big in office equipment, they say.’

  She nodded. ‘Is he ever. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s my friend’s awkward client; the one who’s putting pressure on her to deliver Ewan Capperauld to open his headquarters.’

  ‘I see,’ her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I don’t envy her, in that case.

  ‘Yes, I’ve come across Mr Torrent, or at least the Gantry Group has. Back in the Lord Provost’s time, when Joe was finance director, he leased some photocopiers from him. He never was the sharpest tool in the box, but still, Torrent’s salesman took him for a real ride. The contract had copy charges built in, with a rolling inflation increase which was actually a blank cheque. We wound up paying a quarter of a million over five years for a machine that would have cost us six grand if we’d bought it. . and Joe had leased six machines. One and a half mil., big bucks over five years, but capable of being overlooked when shown simply as annual group operating costs.

  ‘It was Jan who spotted it, when I brought her in to look over my books. I’d have been angrier with Joe, but she told me that he wasn’t the only guy to have been stitched up that way. She knew half-a-dozen law firms and at least two big-firm accountants who had signed similar deals with Torrent and with other companies.’

  ‘Did you take it up with him?’ I asked.

  ‘No point; the leases had just about expired when we found out what had happened. I just didn’t renew them, that was all, and I told Torrent’s sales director that he would be getting no more business from me.’

  ‘Was that the end of it?’

  She grinned at me; Susie loves it when she puts one over on someone, especially a man. ‘Not quite; Torrent phoned me himself, and asked me why I had put the black on him. He got quite heavy about it.’

  After what Alison had told me about the man, I felt rising hackles. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She lowered her voice, until it was little more than a whisper. ‘I told him that I was about to ask our Group chairman, the Lord Provost, to call for a review of the City Council purchasing policy, and second, that I planned to show the original contracts to my boyfriend, a detective inspector, and ask him to have his experts check whether any of the figures had been altered after signature.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He got reasonable. He told me that I was clearly upset, and he asked how he could make it up to me. I thought about asking him for one and a half million, but if that had gone back into the books I’d have had to tell our auditors where it had come from. So instead I told him I wanted six free photocopiers for the next five years.

  ‘He said yes, just like that. I told him that in that case he could tender for my business in the normal way. I’ve bought a few things from him since then; his service is very good, and his prices tend to be sharp too. I’ve let myself believe his story that he had a rogue salesman working for him when the dodgy contracts were signed.’

  ‘But deep down, you still think he’s a Great White Shark?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What you’ve told me could be useful, in that case.’

  ‘Don’t tell your pal, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t do that; but if I have to I might let Torrent know that I’m involved. If he’s that smart he’ll know of the connection between you and me and he might get the message to go easy on Alison.’

  ‘There won’t be a problem, though, if you can deliver Ewan Capperauld.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to, if the guy’s like that.’

  ‘Just do it if you can. Don’t get yourself involved in an argument with Torrent.’

  I grinned. ‘As someone said to me today, I wouldn’t get my own hands dirty. I know the very guy who could carry the message for me.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘No one you’ve ever met, as far as I know; a blast from my past, that’s all.’

  Chapter 18

  Ethel knocked on the bedroom door just after seven-thirty, but she didn’t really have to. Wee Janet had wakened the household by then.

  Susie took the baby from her and plugged her into the mains once more. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use; there was too
much gurgling and slurping going on.

  ‘Do you two want breakfast?’ Ethel called, once the process was complete and I was doing my burping bit. ‘It’s not part of the service, mind, but I’m making my own anyway. It’ll be ready in half-an-hour if you want to get up for it.’

  She makes bloody good scrambled eggs, does our Nanny; plus, she knows how coffee really should be made. I asked her if she’d spent any time in the States. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I did spend some time in Canada, when I was younger. I’m very fond of maple syrup as a result, but it’s hard to find over here.’ The woman was growing on me by the minute.

  Susie wanted to get back into a working routine, so she was at her desk by nine-fifteen, sorting through the letters that the postman had delivered, and another bundle that had been couriered from the Gantry Group head office on the south side of the city. She was engrossed in it, and I felt a bit superfluous, so after I’d played with Janet some more, I said my goodbyes and headed back to Edinburgh.

  I had nothing planned for that day, other than maybe another session in the gym, so I killed some time in the monster new shopping centre at the top of Buchanan Street. On a whim, I bought myself a new Rolex to celebrate my impending divorce and who knew what else, then headed for Queen Street Station.

  I was almost there when my cellphone rang. I had put the apartment phone on divert to its number, so it could have been anyone, but part of me hoped it was Susie, saying, ‘Hey, do you want to stay for lunch?’

  It wasn’t, though. It was Ricky Ross.

  ‘Oz, where are you?’ he asked tersely. No banter, no funny lines; he sounded like a copper again.

  ‘Glasgow; I’m just about to get the train back through.’

  ‘Okay; get off at Haymarket. I’ll meet you there.’ He hung up.

  I must be getting too old, or too prosperous, for mysteries. I was more narked than curious; a couple of years before it would have been the other way around. I checked the incoming number on the phone and called it back, but there was no answer. Maybe Ross was heading for the station already.

  I picked up a Scotsman at the station news-stand; it was just the right length of read for the journey. There wasn’t much in it; a row in the Scottish Parliament, a Tory split over Europe, and President Dubya had pissed off his allies again. I didn’t see any of that as news, but I’m not a journalist. . even if I am cynical enough to be one.

  There wasn’t a lot on the back page either; Scottish football clubs were on their way out of Europe and Rangers had signed yet another striker. We were almost in Edinburgh when I saw the small story on page five about the discovery of David Capperauld’s body. Star’s cousin in sudden death tragedy, the headline read.

  I glanced over the story.

  The well-known parliamentary lobbyist and public relations guru David Capperauld (29) was found dead in his Edinburgh flat late on Sunday night.

  The tragic discovery was made by Mr Capperauld’s fiancee and business partner Alison Goodchild, when she called to see why he had failed to turn up for meetings. Police and medical services were called to the scene but Mr Capperauld was found to be dead.

  A police spokesman said that it appeared that the victim had succumbed to a brain haemorrhage. Ms Goodchild (30) was said to be distraught. She was being comforted by relatives and was not available for comment.

  ‘They should have phoned the office,’ I muttered as I read on.

  Goodchild Capperauld has grown into one of the most prestigious lobbying and PR groups in Scotland in the two years since its foundation. It blue-chip clients include banks, insurance companies and leading Scottish businesses, including Torrent, the office equipment giant which is said to be heading for a flotation.

  James Torrent, group chief executive, said yesterday; ‘I was shocked to hear of David’s death. I will have to talk to Alison and see how it will affect our association.’

  ‘Nice man indeed.’ I growled, loud enough for the passenger across the aisle to glance my way.

  Mr Capperauld was the cousin of film star Ewan Capperauld (41), who last night issued a short statement expressing his sorrow at the death. The actor is expected in Edinburgh this week to begin work on the film version of Skinner’s Rules, to be directed by Miles Grayson, and featuring his wife, Auchterarder’s Dawn Phillips.

  Among Mr Capperauld’s other co-stars is up-and-coming Fife actor Oz Blackstone (34), a former boyfriend of Ms Goodchild.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ I barked loudly enough to have attracted the attention of everyone in the carriage, but for the sound of brakes as the train slowed into Haymarket. I didn’t mind them getting my age wrong, but I did take exception to a gratuitous mention in a story like that.

  As I stepped down onto the platform, I ran through the list of people who had known about Alison and me, and who might have spoken to the Scotsman about us. I came up with a few possibilities from the Edinburgh days, and decided that the likeliest was one of my Tuesday football crowd who’d been going out with a radio reporter when I’d seen him last. I took a quick glance at the story, but there was no by-line.

  Ricky Ross was waiting at the top of the stairs that led up to the exit; he saw the paper in my hand, and he saw the page I had been reading.

  ‘All publicity’s good publicity, Blackstone,’ he began. ‘Is that the way it goes?’

  I glared at him. ‘Not this. It’s pure fucking cheek.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mind you, it could have been worse.’

  ‘Aye, I bloody know.’ I looked at the ex-detective, in surprise.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, heading for a red Alfa Romeo parked in the station forecourt, ‘get in my car.’

  I hadn’t time to wonder what it was all about; I simply followed him.

  ‘Young Ron Morrow,’ Ricky grunted. ‘He was a DC in my division when I resigned. He’s a detective sergeant at Gayfield now, and he keeps in touch. He asks me for advice every so often and he tells me things in return.’ I knew what was coming. ‘Like for example he told me that when the Goodchild girl found her boyfriend stiff and cold on Sunday night, you were with her.’

  ‘That’s right; and he said he’d keep my name out of it, too.’ I waved the paper.

  ‘He did. That in there had nothing to do with Ron. The quote in there came from the press office; he didn’t speak to any journalists.’

  ‘If you say so, fair enough.’

  ‘Aye, but he wants to speak to you now. I said I’d take you to see him; otherwise he was going to pay you a visit up at the flat, and that might have been a bit public. I take my job seriously, son. I’ve been hired by Mr Grayson as security consultant as well as technical adviser; that covers a lot of ground.’

  I felt a bit uneasy. I’d been on Cloud Nine for the best part of a day; now when I looked down it looked like a hell of a fall. ‘Should I be worried about anything here?’ I asked.

  ‘You tell me,’ Ross answered. ‘Can you think of a reason why you should be worried?’

  ‘No,’ I said at once. ‘No, I can’t. So what the fuck’s this about?’

  ‘Young Ron asked me not to tell you, so I said I wouldn’t. He wants to tell you himself, and see your face when he does. The boy’s a good copper and he’s going to be even better; I’m training him well.’

  He swung the car out of the station and headed east, through the lights, then left into Palmerston Place; the quickest way to Gayfield, I recognised.

  We sat in silence for a while, till Ross broke it. ‘Is it true, what it says in the Scotsman? You and the Goodchild girl; were you and she. .?’

  ‘We went about for a while; it was four or five years ago though. It’s ancient history; it’s pure fucking mischief to bring it up now.’

  ‘No it’s not, son. It’s news. Get used to it.’ I thought about my pending divorce, and wondered if that would reach the press.

  ‘So what were you and she doing together on Sunday?’ Ricky asked.

  I gave him a version of the story without going into the detail of Alison’s busin
ess problem, but when I got to the part about opening Capperauld’s door he stopped me.

  ‘There was nothing wrong with it,’ I protested. ‘She was his fiancee and she had a key, even if she was bloody slow in bringing it out.’

  ‘Fine. Just leave it at that for now.’

  It took us over fifteen minutes, even taking the short route, to get to the Gayfield Square police office. The traffic’s murder in Edinburgh, and getting worse; every daft management scheme the people on the council introduce just adds to the chaos.

  There was a female constable on duty at the enquiry desk. She was only a probationer. . as I was once, a long time ago. . but she recognised Ross straight away. She even called him sir, when he told her to fetch DS Morrow.

  The sergeant and I had met briefly a few years before when I’d given him a witness statement. He had remembered it straight away when he’d turned up in Union Street.

  He was still friendly enough when he appeared from his office, but there was an air of formality about him that was new; it was as if he was keeping me at a distance. He called me ‘Mr Blackstone’, and asked me to come with him to an interview room. Ricky started to follow, but Morrow shook his head. ‘Better not, sir,’ he said.

  Ross frowned, but stopped. ‘You’re right, Ron. Better do this by the book.’ That got my attention. I won’t say I was nervous, but I had a keen interest in whatever was about to happen.

  Another officer, a woman, was waiting for us in the inevitably grubby room; she deferred to Morrow, so I knew she was a DC before he introduced her. ‘This is Gemma Green; she works with me.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ I nodded to her then turned back to him as I sat in a hard steel-framed chair. ‘Now, sergeant, what’s this about?’

  ‘David Capperauld,’ Morrow replied. ‘When you found him on Sunday, did you touch the body?’