I did what he asked. ‘Come on,’ I said to Lowell Payne as soon as I’d hung up. ‘We’re dealing with someone who knows what “urgent” means.’
The headquarters of First Caledonian Bank are located in a modest building in the big business park on the west of the city. Unlike the monster of which I’m still a customer, it doesn’t trumpet its existence, or build bridges across a main road into the city, or run stupid television advertising for no obvious reason. I’d never been there before and I was so impressed by its simplicity that I made a mental note to talk to Cheryl about moving our family banking.
Graham Morton’s office had a whiff of newness about it. He’d only been in post for a few weeks and I guessed that the place had been refurbished for his arrival. His desk was shiny, without a coffee ring in sight, and the carpet was thick and springy.
He was beaming as I introduced myself and my Glasgow sidekick. Morton struck me as a man who’d been re-energised by his new role. The word was that latterly in his career, Andy Martin, as his deputy, had been carrying him on his shoulders, and that his retirement notice had gone in on the same day that Andy was appointed to the Serious Crimes and Drug Enforcement Agency. I made my second mental note within fifteen minutes. Don’t exceed your “best before” date, David.
The table in his room was strewn with papers. ‘Everything’s on computer these days,’ he told us. ‘I thought it would be easier if I printed these out.’
‘How about Welsh, Mr Morton?’ Lowell Payne asked.
‘Not one of ours, I’m afraid.’
‘Pity,’ he grunted. ‘That would have made it even easier for us.’
The former chief smiled. ‘Too easy is bad for the soul,’ he murmured as he offered us seats at the table. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘tell me about Mr Varley. How bent do you think he is?’
I was happy to let Payne answer that. He was the seagull, you know, the guy who flies in, shits all over you and then flies away again, so he could deal with it with no issues of loyalty to the force, if not the man.
‘We don’t know,’ he said, bluntly. He ran through the events that had led us to Morton’s office. ‘It may be there’s no more to it than Varley digging a cousin out of an embarrassing situation,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s the words Welsh used. . “weighed in”. . that led the chief constable to set up our investigation. That and the fact that Varley’s lied to his interviewers about even making the call. We’re in no doubt that it was him, but he’s accused Cowan.’
‘Are you examining her bank transactions?’ That was a bloody good question, and one that I could not leave to the visitor.
‘No,’ I answered. ‘The investigators are satisfied that Varley did call Lafayette’s.’
I was on slightly wobbly ground, and we both knew it. To an extent, Mario and Andy were taking Cowan’s integrity on trust. If he’d still been in uniform, Morton might have pressed me further, but he didn’t. Instead he just nodded, then waved a hand in the direction of the printouts on the table.
‘There you are, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘Current account statements for John and Ella Varley for the last three years. They have two; one seems to be reserved for household costs; mortgage, car loan, insurance, utility bills, council tax, dental plan all come off that, plus there’s a credit card that’s settled on it every month. It’s one of our Mastercard products so I’ve been able to access that too. I can tell you that it’s used for food and petrol, mostly. The household account is funded by monthly transfers from the other one. Both their salaries go into that. . she’s a civil servant, if you didn’t know. Their personal spending is modest, and they manage to save regularly, making irregular transfers into a high-interest deposit account that we offer our customers.’ He paused. ‘As I said, I’ve called up three years. I can and will go back as far as you like, but I can tell you that in what’s there, I don’t see a trace of payments from any Mr Welsh, or anyone resembling him. All their income comes from employment.’
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated. I didn’t want another cop to be crooked, but on the other hand I’d been given a task and I hoped that it was going to be wrapped up very quickly, to my satisfaction and, more important, to the chief’s. From what Morton was saying, that wasn’t going to happen.
There was something else: I had a gut feeling about Varley, and so had Lowell Payne, for we had compared our impressions on the drive to the First Caley office. We were sure he was wrong. If we found nothing there, as it seemed we hadn’t, we were going to dig until there were no more holes left for us to make.
I looked at the Strathclyde seagull on my right and could tell that his thoughts mirrored mine. Then I looked back at Graham Morton, and I realised that he was smiling.
‘That was the bad news,’ he murmured, ‘now the rest. In addition to this absolutely routine account portfolio, the Varleys are clients of another of the bank’s departments. We don’t shout about it, but we have an international division. It’s based in the Isle of Man and it’s home to an offshore account in the name of E. Varley.’
‘E. Varley,’ I repeated. ‘As in Ella Varley? The inspector’s wife?’
He nodded. ‘The account details show the same address. It’s been active for eight years and the current balance is one hundred and thirty-seven thousand pounds. It was set up with a deposit of fifteen grand, and similar amounts have been paid in there every year since.’
‘Who by?’ Payne asked, eagerly if ungrammatically.
‘A corporate entity by the name of Holyhead Enterprises SL. That’s short for Societat Limitada.’
‘Spanish?’
‘Actually the language is Catalan; the company’s registered in Andorra and the transfers are made from a bank there.’
It’s not only great minds that think alike. So do those of opportunistic, cunning investigators presented with the possibility of foreign travel. I looked at Lowell, but he said it first.
‘What’s the handiest airport for Andorra?’
Detective Sergeant Lisa McDermid
When George asked me his question, last thing on a Thursday afternoon, I seized the wrong end of the stick and grasped it hard. He’d asked me to come into his room at Dalkeith, and that was unusual. He’s not the sort of man who keeps secrets within the office. Anything operational is always discussed openly; anything private is usually a telling off, quietly, because he isn’t the sort of man who’s given to raising his voice to junior colleagues.
No, I’d better qualify that: he isn’t now. I have no idea what he was like before his son was murdered. Maybe he was your stereotypical twentieth-century macho male cop before that, like our celebrated chief constable, a man I avoid at all costs, because there’s something ferociously arrogant about him that I just cannot stand. (By the way, I’d avoided him successfully for most of my career, since I’ve always been ‘other ranks’ material and unlikely to drift into his orbit, or even show up in the distance on his radar.)
Actually, I could have understood it if my boss had become a Skinner clone, if George junior’s pathetic death had turned him into a shouting, quick-tempered, rage-filled bully, ready to take out his loss on anyone who crossed him, colleague or client.
But that’s not him. He’s a quiet respectful man, who seems to take pride only in his work and in his immaculate appearance. I cannot imagine George Regan ever slobbing around in a vest and jeans with a Sunday morning hangover, or ever being a month past his due date for a haircut. This may be fantasy on my part, but to me, it’s as if he dresses to impress someone who isn’t here any more.
So when quiet DI George invited me into his room after he came back from some away trip or other, with no hint of what he wanted to talk to me about, my mind sifted through the possibilities. There were only two that I could see, and I dismissed the first one out of hand. We’re an excellent team, he and I, and we have a good record of success. There has been nothing of late that I’ve screwed up, nothing that I’ve done without his knowledge and approval; so I crossed off ‘bollocking’ on my short list.