I stayed with him until he was something like his normal self again, then I went back to the suite. I was still shaken; Liam realised that straight away, so I told him what had happened. ‘I’ll take care of him,’ he promised. ‘I’ll talk him down, clear his mind.’
I called the office; Cathy Black was still there. I told her that I expected the next day to be a busy one and that I’d be in by nine, at the latest. That was a long time away. I was restless; I still had some energy to burn, and an idea came to me, of how to use some of it up. I called Cathy again, and asked her for the suspended managing director’s home address. He didn’t live too far away, in Bearsden, an upmarket suburb on the western outskirts of Glasgow.
‘I’m going out,’ I told Liam. ‘I’m going to see Phil Culshaw.’
‘Want me to come?’
‘Thanks for the offer, but no. I won’t need a minder. Anyway, I’d rather you stayed with Tom.’
He nodded. ‘Sure. How about I take him to the gym, let him show me his stuff, let him kick the crap out of me, if that’s what he needs?’
I kissed him in the middle of the forehead. ‘You’re a doll, you really are. You do that, but listen, don’t let him wear you out too much. You’re forty-something, after all, and you’re going to need some strength later on.’
I put my laptop in my bag and headed down to the lobby. The staff recovered my car from the park and I entered Culshaw’s address into the satnav. It took me out of the city along Maryhill Road. I remembered that as being busy, but the worst of the evening traffic was over, so it was quiet. I hadn’t been driving for much more than twenty minutes before my guide told me that I’d arrived at my destination.
I could have called ahead but I didn’t want to give any advance warning. I realised there was a good chance he’d slam the door in my face, assuming he was in, but I was prepared to risk that.
His house was a big stone villa; there was a Range Rover parked in the driveway, almost hiding the Mini behind it from sight. I rang the bell, and heard an old-fashioned clanging from inside.
Phil was in. His eyebrows rose when he saw me standing there, and I reckon he did consider the slamming option, before deciding against it.
‘Mrs Blackstone,’ he exclaimed, then peered theatrically at my hands. ‘Sorry,’ he chuckled, ‘I thought you might have been carrying an olive branch, but no such luck. I take it you want to talk, though?’
I nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Then you’d better come in.’ He stood aside and ushered me into a dark hallway, then through to the back of the house. The place had a lonely feel to it. I looked around for any clues suggesting the presence of another person, but there were none, no lady’s coat on the stand in the hall, only a well-worn Barbour jacket and a flat cap.
‘You live alone?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Beth passed away four years ago. I know, you’ll be thinking this place is far too big for an old guy on his own, but I can’t be bothered to do anything about it. I haven’t even sold her car.’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I wasn’t thinking that, honestly. My house is as big as this and there’s only my son and me to rattle about in it.’ The guy was lonely, I realised. By unseating him, I’d probably taken the best part of his life away from him.
He led me through to the inevitable conservatory; in Britain every home should have one, it seems. It took up a good chunk of the back garden. We took seats facing each other across a low table. He offered me coffee, ‘or something stronger’, but I declined either. ‘In that case, Mrs Blackstone,’ he continued, ‘what have you come for?’
‘Let’s cut the formalities, please. I want to show you something, Phil. It could go public and it involves a member of your family. That’s one reason why I want to give you advance warning, but it’s not the only one.’
I took my computer from my shoulder bag, and pushed the start button. I’d left it in sleep mode, so when it woke up, the image that had been there sprang instantly to life. It was Liam’s candid camera shot, taken in Barnton through the bedroom window. I put it on the table and turned it around so he could see it.
He looked at it, frowned, then put on a pair of reading specs and looked closer. As he did, I heard a soft gasp.
‘You know who she is?’ I asked.
‘Do I ever. That’s Natalie Morgan.’
‘So I’m told, although she called herself something else when we met in Diego Fabricant’s office this afternoon.’
‘Fabricant’s office,’ he repeated. ‘What the hell was she doing there? Unless …’ A sockful of pennies dropped, with the force of a thump round the ear. He stared at me. ‘She’s Monsoon Holdings? She owns the bloody land?’
‘The way it’s set up, we’ll never prove that she’s the beneficial owner, but that’s the way I’d bet. Monsoon owns her house as well.’
He buried his face in his hands for a second or two then ran his fingers through his grey thatch. ‘God damn it,’ he sighed. ‘And him too! Sleeping with the bloody enemy. Bugger it, bugger it, bugger it! I am sorry, Primavera; I had no idea.’
‘I believe you, Phil. But tell me, please: how was the deal brought to you?’
He stood up, abruptly. ‘Yes, I will tell you,’ he began, walking over to a cabinet that stood against the wall. ‘But first, I need something to help me absorb this.’ He took out a heavy-based glass, a bottle of Isle of Jura malt and poured himself a sizeable slug. He waved it in my direction. ‘Sure you won’t?’
‘No thanks.’
I waited, while he came back to his seat. He swallowed about a third of the whisky, then took another look at the image. ‘I’ll send you a copy,’ I offered.
He shot me a sour grin. ‘Better not. Bad for my blood pressure. The deal,’ he continued. ‘It was Duncan, of course, but you know that. He approached me last year. He said that he had an associate who owned a piece of land that was ripe for development as a posh golf course, aimed at a high-roller international membership. He explained that his colleague had done some research and had the vision, that all he needed was a funding partner to make it fly. I asked him how much, he said the whole thing could probably be built for under ten million, but it should appear that the developer company, which would be a fifty-fifty joint venture, had access to much more than that. This, he said, was because we’d be looking to recruit billionaires as members, Russian oligarchs, American hedge fund managers, German industrialists, et cetera, and that they would be more likely to be attracted by something that could demonstrate substantial resources. The proposition was that Gantry would agree to underwrite development costs of up to fifty million, with a verbal agreement that we’d only ever contribute less than twenty per cent of that.’
‘Did you ever put this to Susie?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but not straight away. She had just gone to America for her first round of chemotherapy. Incidentally, Primavera, she told me at the very start of her illness that she was a long shot to make it, and that while she fought this thing she’d have to delegate much more than usual to me. So I signed up to the formation of Babylon Links PLC, and I only told her about it when the deal was done. She didn’t question it at all.’
‘Did you ever meet Fabricant?’
‘That’s the damnable thing; I didn’t. Duncan was the intermediary all the way through. It was him who came to me and said that the planners had asked Fabricant to show a bank deposit of twenty million as a condition of their consent. I baulked at that, but Duncan told me not to worry, that Fabricant would agree to return most of it as soon as we’d been given the planning green light. Bastard stalled me on it, but I had, still have, hopes that he’d come through soon.’
‘You can forget that, Phil.’ I dropped the bombshell, that our partner was calling in the other thirty million. ‘I’ll resist it, but we’re on a loser in court.’