Slings & Arrows, page 10
‘There was something in The Scotsman the other week about how much the Queen Mother loved Ann Street,’ said Harris. ‘Apparently, she used to tell her chauffeur to swing down this way any time she was in town.’
‘Hitler had a thing for neoclassical architecture as well. Maybe that rumour about the royal family being closet Nazis is true.’
Gillespie lifted his cigarette in greeting as a woman with a couple of Westies shuffled past. She gave a hurried nod that was unconvincing as either greeting or friendliness and then eyed Gillespie’s car suspiciously.
‘She’s for sale if you’re interested? Three grand and I’ll even empty the ashtray.’
The woman smiled nervously and quickened her pace.
‘She’ll be back.’
‘The way she looked that’ll probably be with a tow truck.’
Gillespie conceded the DS was probably right. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with. I feel like part of a dog and pony show out here, all eyes are on us.’
Harris pointed at one of the houses and led off across the cobbled street. When they reached the polished flagstones and filigreed railings on the other side, it sounded like Harris had been running some calculations in his head.
‘How much do you think that one would go for?’ he said.
‘Well, put it this way, if you save all your wages for the next thirty years, you might be able to scrape together a deposit. And that’s only assuming you kick your fancy coffee habit. Keep that up and you’ll struggle to buy me lunch.’
Harris nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I won’t have to wait thirty years if I make Chief Super.’
Gillespie took a long draw on his cigarette. ‘The day you make Chief Superintendent, Simon, is the day I give up the fags.’
‘You don’t think I’ve got the brains, sir?’
‘I know you’ve got the brains, Simon, but looking at our dear leader, I don’t think brains are a requirement for the top job.’
Harris snorted at Gillespie’s joke, but his boot-licking instincts quickly kicked in and he covered his mouth. Gillespie smiled and looked around for somewhere to stub out his cigarette. He gave up and, bending slightly, flicked it down a drain.
‘Hopefully the neighbourhood watch don’t come after me. What number is El Presidente in?’
Harris pointed down the street. ‘That’s Mr Montrose’s house, sir; the one with the silver Merc in the drive.’
‘Naturally.’
The pink gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked past the outsized vehicle and a row of geometrically clipped shrubs and trees. Gillespie wondered if Henry Montrose called on the Fairview groundsman to cut his own grass into such precise shadow striping. He wouldn’t put it past him.
Harris marvelled at an ageing lump of metal on the doorstep.
‘What a fabulous boot scraper.’
‘Probably necessary, in case Mr Montrose steps on any members of the working class on his way home.’
Gillespie thought about making another joke but decided against it, worried his cynicism was starting to sound too much like jealousy. Who knows? Maybe he did envy Henry Montrose with his New Town mansion and Mercedes Benz, when all he had to show for two decades of dedicated police work was a miserable home life, a mistress who had taken the huff and a battered VW that stank of stale tobacco. But everything was relative. To some of the pond life he’d arrested over the years, he probably sounded like Little Lord Fauntleroy.
He clearly hadn’t picked a good time to call on the president of Fairview Golf Club. Henry Montrose, a thick, hardback book in his hands and half-rimmed spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck, answered the door.
‘Can I help you?’
It had only been a day since they’d interviewed Montrose in the equally plush surroundings of East Lothian, but that was apparently long enough for the president to forget who they were. Gillespie didn’t buy it for a second, but he was happy to play the game. He stood in silence, waiting for the gerbil inside Montrose’s head to start running on its wheel.
Harris blinked first. ‘Mr Montrose? Detective Sergeant Simon Harris and Detective Chief Inspector Kenny Gillespie. We spoke to you out at Fairview yesterday?’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ His tone changed. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I was under the impression that you had everything you needed from me.’
Gillespie answered genially. ‘I’m afraid murder cases are rarely that simple, Mr Montrose. There are a couple more things we’d like to ask you.’
The president flustered. ‘Couldn’t you have asked me yesterday?’
‘It’s not an exact science. It’s a big case. We’re learning new things all the time, and new information invariably leads to more questions. However, if you don’t have time to speak to us now, we could always make an arrangement for you to attend at the station this afternoon.’
Montrose forced his mouth into an insincere smile. ‘Of course I have time, Mr Gillespie. I just thought I’d clarify what you needed. Please come in.’
The detectives were about to follow when Montrose paused in the doorway. ‘Would you mind giving your shoes a quick scrape before you come in?’
Gillespie cast his gaze over the high-ceilinged living room. The glass cabinets and stuffed mammals reminded him more of the National Museum than someone’s home—it seemed a sterile living environment. There was silence but for the loud tick of a grandfather clock, the noise echoing discreetly in the hallway. Gillespie and Harris sat on a sagging and well-creased Chesterfield sofa, while Montrose sat opposite them on an equally well-used armchair. He folded his arms, then crossed his legs to reveal a pair of bright yellow Argyle socks that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the links.
‘Well, here we go again.’
Gillespie didn’t waste time, starting as he meant to go on. ‘Do you think a member of Fairview Golf Club had anything to do with the death of Elena Enescu, Mr Montrose?’
For a split second, Montrose looked taken aback, but the shutters quickly came down.
‘No, I don’t. Of course I don’t.’
‘No one?’
‘Absolutely not. We’re a very respectable club, I’ll have you know.’
‘Do bodies turn up at all the respectable clubs, then?’
He bridled. ‘These are exceptional circumstances, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Well, I don’t recall any other incidents of this nature, so I’ll assume you’re right.’
‘Detective, we do not, as a rule, select members from the criminal classes. None of the board are murderers. I hardly think I need to press that point to you.’
Gillespie eased back in the sofa, the leather creaking loudly. ‘Very few advertise the fact, in my experience.’
‘Oh, this is getting tedious. Can we move on, please?’
‘Very well. Can you tell me if you know of any members of the club who might have financial difficulties?’
‘What kind of financial difficulties?’
‘The kind that might, for example, come about through being blackmailed. Perhaps by a prostitute, or someone who knew about an association with a prostitute.’
Montrose stood up and strode over to the fireplace. He picked up a small ornament from the mantelpiece—a china pheasant. Gillespie thought for a moment that he was going to smash it on to the hearth in frustration, but Montrose breathed deeply and put it back down. ‘No, I don’t. To be frank, I find that question utterly absurd.’
‘What is it you find absurd? The bit about the financial difficulties or the bit about the blackmail?’
Montrose snapped. ‘Both.’
He quickly held up his hand in apology, but Gillespie was unfazed.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gillespie, but I can honestly say that I can think of no member of my golf club who is in any kind of financial difficulty.’
He sat back down. ‘I only wish I could say the same about the club itself.’
Harris looked surprised, leaning forward on the creaky sofa. ‘You mean Fairview is struggling for money?’
Montrose nodded. ‘I know I might have appeared bullish about the impact all this negative publicity has had on our club, and that I couldn’t care less what the public has to say.’
‘The thought had occurred to me,’ said Gillespie.
‘Well in some respects, it’s true. I don’t believe members of the public have a right to tell us how we should run our club, but I’m not completely naïve about the way the world works these days. The protests, the court cases—it’s crippling us. What’s more, QCs don’t come cheap—even if we do get, what is it you call it, “mate’s rates”?’
‘So what are you planning to do?’
‘What am I planning to do? I’m going to step down as president. The board is split on how to deal with our cash flow problem and I no longer have the stomach for this kind of squabbling.’
Gillespie almost felt a twinge of sympathy for the old man, but the feeling soon passed. It was hard to feel anything for a man who had clearly been granted access to the greased slide of prosperity his entire life.
‘What do you mean by split?’
‘One of our members has offered to buy the club, but some are more keen on the idea than others.’
‘Who made the offer?’
‘A chap called Henderson. David Henderson.’
The interview over, the two detectives got talking on the way back to the car.
‘I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear that they were having money problems, were you, sir?’ said Harris.
Gillespie shook his head distractedly. ‘No, not at all.’
‘The fact the club’s broke probably isn’t something they wanted to advertise.’
‘I’d say it’s the last thing they’d want out in the open. Those that are used to projecting wealth don’t like it when the cash flow dries up. Does strange things to people.’
Harris looked concerned. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look miles away.’
‘I’m just thinking…I’ve heard the name David Henderson before, bloody sure of it.’
Chapter 16
Detective Constable Billy McNab looked up from his computer and furrowed his brow in confusion.
‘Sorry, sir?’
Gillespie took a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t a trick question, Billy. I just asked you if you’d seen Sergeant Dickson. Gemma Dickson?’
‘Oh, Gemma. Of course. Sorry, sir, I wasn’t with it. No, I haven’t seen her.’
‘Thank you, Billy. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let you get back to work.’
McNab smiled and turned back to his monitor. Gillespie joined Harris at the whiteboard. He nodded subtly in McNab’s direction.
‘I just can’t seem to get the staff these days. Did I do something wrong in a past life, Simon?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Forget it. I wonder what’s keeping Gemma. She was only meant to be doing a couple of interviews, not researching for This Is Your Life.’
‘What’s that, boss?’
‘Eamonn Andrews.’
Harris shrugged. ‘Eamonn who?’
‘Never mind. Obviously a reference to something long before your time. Don’t worry, I’m getting used to being a dinosaur. Perhaps Gemma thinks I bite.’
‘I get the impression she likes to be thorough.’
Gillespie looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’ll be thoroughly pissed off if she takes much longer.’
He was about to pick up the phone when Dickson, her cheeks glowing, burst through the door.
‘Speak of the devil. I was about to send out a search party.’
‘Sorry about that, sir. I’ve been back for a while but I was upstairs. I had to run something through the system but I couldn’t get logged on.’
‘What was the problem?’
Dickson looked embarrassed. ‘Colin in IT explained it. Turns out I’m supposed to spell “St Leonard’s” without an apostrophe, but that’s not the way I was taught.’
The two men exchanged amused glances.
‘We’ll open a “missing punctuation” file as soon as we get these pesky murders out the way,’ said Gillespie. ‘What did you find out from your interviews?’
‘The captain, Dean, was exactly what I expected. He seemed to like talking about himself and his golf club, so I just sat there and let him. It didn’t take him long to admit that the female membership block has hit them in the wallet. None of it’s his fault, of course. It’s the protestors, the media for hyping them up, and us for not doing enough to stop them.’
‘Trust me, I’d love to gulag the media, but unfortunately I’m not Uncle Joe.’ Gillespie was rocking, heel to toe, on his feet, while angrily rattling the change in his pockets. ‘Honestly, everyone needs someone to blame these days. Nobody ever holds their hands up.’
‘Look on the bright side, sir. We’d all be out of a job if that were the case,’ said Harris.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I could gleefully command a firing squad or two for the Reds; they’re not that different to my current employers when you think about it. You, on the other hand, Simon, would definitely be breaking rocks.’
Harris simpered, ‘I don’t think I’d last very long.’
‘You’d get to the end of the first week, if you started on a Thursday, that is.’
Dickson giggled, then raised a hand towards her mouth to shield her outburst from Harris. Gillespie seized the opportunity to play favourites—divide and rule kept the team on their toes. ‘I knew there was a reason we hadn’t sent you back to Glasgow, Gemma, that’s good work and ties nicely with what we found. The president told us the Fairview kitty’s empty. He also said the board is split on whether to sell the club to one of the members.’
‘That would be David Henderson,’ she said.
‘That’s him. I was just telling Simon I think I recognise the name.’
Dickson held up a file. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s the name I was running through the system. He’s got multiple convictions.’
‘Really?’
She put the file on the table and added: ‘But I suppose the only thing that matters to the Fairview membership committee is the fact he’s got a penis.’
Harris spluttered on a glass of water. Gillespie shook his head as the DS cleared his throat and opened the file. He began to read, his eyebrows gradually moving higher as he made his way through the list.
‘Definitely not one of your friendly sorts. There’s several counts of affray, and then another for assault and battery. Then he did six months in Saughton in the mid-nineties for GBH. He and a friend set about a man in Dalkeith High Street on a night out, apparently at random.’
Dickson folded her arms and nodded. ‘Probably just looked at them funny.’
‘The poor sod’s lucky to look at anyone full-stop, these days. The attack blinded him in one eye. This is serious stuff, not at all what you’d expect of a Fairview regular.’
Gillespie was growing frustrated; he felt like he’d been messed around by those that had something to hide. ‘Anything else?’
‘Let’s see. Yes, Henderson was re-arrested about three months after he was released. This time for dealing cocaine. That was his most recent conviction. But there’s a note here at the bottom. Apparently he started a tanning business with a partner back in 2003. He now operates five saunas in Edinburgh. That explains how he came into enough money to join Fairview and, if he runs that many saunas, that’ll be how you know his name, sir.’
‘Don’t give Gemma the wrong idea, Simon. You’re right, though, that’s how I know him. Strange that captain Dean didn’t list “knocking shop proprietors” on his list of noble Fairview professions. I think I met Henderson just after I moved to Edinburgh. Big guy—had a thing for sovereign rings then. Didn’t strike me as the golfing type though.’
‘Things might be a bit different in Glasgow, but a sauna’s just a brothel by any other name, isn’t it? He’s hardly legit.’
Harris looked confused. ‘But paying for sex isn’t illegal if it’s in a sauna.’
‘It’s still a bit of grey area. Prostitution is the hardest thing in the world to police because there’ll always be people desperate enough to sell sex and others who are desperate enough to pay for it. We used to be in a position where every council in Scotland was allowed to tackle it in their own way. The Edinburgh way was to let them slap a sauna sticker on the window and let nature take its course. But things changed when all the forces merged a few years ago. A lot of the saunas were shut down. Personally, I didn’t see the point. Like I said, it’s the hardest thing in the world to police. Sometimes it’s just easier to look the other way.’
Gillespie could tell Dickson was unconvinced. Harris chuckled. ‘Prostitution. It’s the oldest profession, isn’t it?’
‘Hardly,’ said Dickson.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if it’s the oldest profession, where did the first customer get the cash to pay for it?’
‘Don’t confuse him, Gemma. I can hear the cogs whirring from here.’
Harris reddened. ‘Whether it’s legal or not, I can see why the Fairview board are swithering. It’s one thing to give Henderson a membership, it’s another to hand him the keys.’
Gillespie nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know, sounds like he could be the perfect candidate to run a golf club. He’s got plenty experience dealing with fannies.’
‘With all due respect, sir, that’s not very PC.’
‘That’s the great thing about being a dinosaur and not a millennial: I don’t have to be PC. I have some cracking views on the myth of equality that I’ve gleaned from my experience of living this long in the real world, if you really want to go there, Gemma.’
Dickson sucked in her lower lip, looking like she wished she hadn’t said anything. She turned to Harris for support and the pair shared nervous smiles, both utterly unwilling to challenge Gillespie’s assessment of their generation.
