‘I was going to,’ she complained. ‘You’re a bloody awful client, you know.’
I grinned. ‘But I pay my bills promptly.’
‘In that case, you’re the perfect client and I treasure you,’ she declared, cheerfully. ‘The trust is a majority shareholder in seventeen companies, in the engineering, light and heavy, property and construction sectors.’
‘Not retail?’ I asked.
‘No, when Eden sold his furniture chain to a Middle East consortium for six hundred and twelve million, he signed a five-year restrictive covenant denying him involvement in that sector. He hasn’t missed it; the value of his investments across the board is estimated at one point two billion; in other words . . .’
‘He’s doubled his money.’
‘Precisely,’ Carrie said. ‘His dividend income is fifty million. God knows what he does with it all, that’s to say with the thirty million he’s left with after tax. That’s one reason he’s a media darling,’ she added. ‘He pays his taxes in the United Kingdom and has never been caught in any form of tax avoidance.’
‘It’s not about money for Eden,’ I told her. ‘It’s about success. Go on.’
‘Okay, the business guests on his hospitality days on the Princess Alison were nearly all directors and senior managers of the trust companies. The exceptions were targets, owners of companies that Higgins Holdings wanted to bring into its network, either by direct acquisition or through takeover by subsidiary companies. Almost invariably, when Eden set his acquisitive eyes on a company, the deal was done. I traced them all through to completion. There was only one failure, but that worked out in the end.’
I thought I detected a touch of disapproval in her tone and said as much.
‘It’s true. It’s his one blemish as far as I can see. A company called Mackail Extrusions was . . .’
I held up a hand. ‘Stop! Repeat that name, please.’
‘Mackail Extrusions. Why?’
‘I heard that surname no more than an hour ago, from my daughter,’ I told her. ‘But there might be no connection. Go on.’
‘Mackail Extrusions,’ she said, for a third time, ‘was a supplier to Destry, the group’s oddly named double-glazing company. It was a perfect fit and Eden wanted to bring it into the group, but its owner, a man named Hector Mackail, wouldn’t sell. Like the sign says in pubs, a refusal often offends, and in this case, somebody was pissed off. Since none of Eden’s managers ever takes a major policy decision without clearance, it was assumed it was him. Mackail’s cash flow was suffering badly in the recession and Destry put the squeeze on by delaying payment. Mackail went bust and Destry bought the assets.’
‘Did you speak to Mackail?’ I asked.
‘I’d have needed a medium,’ she replied. ‘He was killed in a road accident a couple of months ago.’
‘Are you sure about all this?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘I verified it with a friend of mine, a crazy business journo called Macy. Funny, she said I was the second person to have asked about Mackail this week.’
‘Very funny indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Did she say who the other was?’
‘She did. It was one of your old team, an old flame of hers called Haddock. Sounds fishy, if you ask me.’
Fifty-One
‘Before we go any further, Mr Francey,’ Sammy Pye began, ‘I’m sorry for your bereavement.’
‘That’ll be fuckin’ right,’ the lobster fisherman whined. ‘You said he killed that wee lassie, and you put his picture in the paper. Nae wonder he got kilt.’
‘No,’ Haddock contradicted him. ‘We didn’t say that; even though he was driving a car with her body in the boot, we didn’t say that. If you want to be accurate, he caused her death, just after he put her mother in a coma and brought her within sight of the Pearly Gates. And for the record,’ he added, ‘when my boss says he’s sorry for your loss, he’s speaking for himself. Your son was a cowardly, murderous, psychotic scumbag and I couldn’t care less that he’s lying frazzled in the city mortuary. What I do care about is the fact that he dragged a girl he was supposed to have cared about into his crimes, and he got her killed in the process.’
He turned to the DCI. ‘Sorry, gaffer,’ he said, ‘but I can’t sit here and have this guy suggest that his son’s death is in any way our fault.’
‘No,’ Pye agreed. ‘I was only being polite, but my compassion’s used up too, all of a sudden.’
He switched on a tape recorder on the table at which they sat, and pressed a remote that activated a video camera set high on a wall in a corner of the room. He identified the three people present, for the record, then continued.
‘This is an informal interview, Mr Francey, but it is being taped; thank you for attending. We want to talk to you about a pedestrian fatality that occurred in Station Road, North Berwick, on the twenty-seventh of December last year. Do you recall hearing about it?’
Their guest frowned. ‘Was that the bloke that was knocked over on his way home frae the Nethers?’
‘That’s right. Mr Hector Mackail. Did you know him?’
Francey shook his head, then gazed up at the camera. ‘Naw,’ he murmured.
‘Can you speak up, please,’ Haddock said.
‘Naw,’ the man repeated. ‘Ah drink in the Golfer’s Rest, mostly.’
‘Did Dean ever mention the name?’ the DS asked.
‘No’ that I remember.’
‘How about his daughter, Hazel Mackail?’
The dull eyes showed a first faint flicker of interest. ‘There was a Hazel,’ he conceded. ‘She came tae the hoose a couple of times, wi’ the boy Maxwell, Mr Sullivan’s nephew.’
‘Mr Callum Sullivan?’
Francey looked at Pye. ‘Aye. Rich bloke; hasnae been in North Berwick a’ that long. We supply him wi’ lobster, Dean and me; that’s why the kids were at the hoose, ken, tae collect them. They were both new tae the toon, Dean said. He said her faither had been a businessman but that he’d lost the lot.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘And it was him that was kilt like?’
‘It was,’ the DCI confirmed. ‘So Dean knew him?’
‘He must have, Ah suppose.’ He nodded. ‘Aye, probably. One time she and the boy came for the lobster, he gie’d her a crab, a big bugger frae down behind Torness Power Station, for her folks, he said. Free, like.’ A nasty, lascivious grin flickered across his face. ‘He might have been gettin’ something in return, ken. Ah wondered about that.’
‘Where were you on the twenty-seventh of December?’ Haddock asked, suddenly, sharply.
‘Eh?’ Francey exclaimed. ‘How the fuck wid Ah ken? That’s weeks back.’
‘It was a Friday night, if that’s any help.’
‘Friday? Then Ah’d have been in the Golfer’s Rest. Darts night,’ he added.
‘Was Dean there?’
‘Dinnae ken. He might hae been; he sometimes drops in, if he’s got nothin’ else on.’
‘How do you get to the pub?’
Francey looked at the sergeant, warily. ‘Ah walk, son. Ye’ll no’ catch me out like that. Ah need ma licence; Ah’m careful.’
‘And how about Dean?’ Haddock shot back. ‘Is he careful too?’
‘Too fuckin’ right.’
‘He didn’t have a car of his own, did he?’
‘Naw.’
‘He drove your van when he needed to?’
‘Aye.’
‘Did he have his own set of keys?’
‘Naw. We’ve only got the one set.’
‘And on December twenty-seven, did he collect them from you at home or in the pub?’
‘In the pub.’ Francey paused, mouth open. ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ he exclaimed.
‘No,’ Pye said. ‘We’ll settle on that for an answer. Now the really difficult question: did he say why he wanted the keys?’
Staring at the table, the fisherman shook his head.
‘For the tape please.’
‘Naw.’
‘Louder please.’
‘Naw!’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Aye. Ah mind, noo. Ah wis on the oche and he came in. He said, “Ah need the motor.” That wis all. Ah never asked why, I just gie’d him the keys and got on wi’ the game. Ask the lads,’ he suggested. ‘They’ll mind. Thon Grant Rock, he said to me he hoped the lassie didnae mind the smell o’ fish in the back.’