‘What do you mean?’ he asked, intrigued.
‘Never mind.’
‘Come on, what’s up? Is Dan Pringle retiring?’
Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Meaning that Mario’d get his job and I wouldn’t?’
‘No,’ Steele protested, suddenly on the defensive. ‘You’re above him in the queue; and Greg Jay’s ahead of you both.’
‘You can forget Jay,’ she said vehemently. ‘But you’re on the wrong track anyway: Dan’s not going yet, not that I know of anyway.’
‘Someone is, though. You’ve let that much slip.’
‘Rumour! It’s rumour, that’s all, and I should have known better than let anything slip to you. Change the subject. How much of what that man Easterson told George and Tarvil was news to you?’
‘You don’t get off that lightly, Superintendent. Let’s go for a Chinese after work and I’ll grill you further.’ Steele grinned at her. ‘Now, to answer your question, most of it was. I’ve been aware of the Scottish Farmers Bank since it was formed out of the demutualisation of the Agricultural and Rural Building Society a few years back. But I’ve always known it as a personal-service set-up, fiercely independent and very targeted in its approach to its clients. Its mortgage book as a building society was heavily weighted towards the top end of the market.’ He pointed at the Whetstone villa. ‘Houses like that one, for example, were very attractive to them; that sort in the towns, and in the country, properties with a bit of land attached. They’ve maintained offices in the four cities, London and key rural population centres in Scotland, servicing clients who are, in the main, minted. That’s what I knew of them.’
‘Comprehensive,’ Rose acknowledged. ‘So what didn’t you know?’
‘I didn’t know that they now only have private banking halls in Edinburgh, Glasgow and London, for top-end clients. I didn’t know about the Internet banking set-up, and I hadn’t a clue that they’d sold their mortgage book to a Dutch bank. And the fact that they’ve done a complete about-turn and were using the cash generated from the mortgage sell-off to attack the corporate banking and lending market came as the biggest surprise of all.’
‘From what I’m told they’ve done it very successfully too,’ the superintendent added, ‘and according to Mr Easterson, a lot of the credit was due to the late Mr Whetstone. I find it hard to think of bank managers as debt salesmen, and yet it seems that’s what they’ve become.’
‘It’s the way of the modern banking world, like he told the boys, and Whetstone was their top salesman. Knocks Manny English’s suicide assumption even harder on the head, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not so sure that’s out of the question.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the inspector. The detective superintendent pointed across the road at a taxi that had just drawn up in front of the Whetstone semi. A woman appeared on the pavement on the far side of the cab; as it drove off they saw that she was struggling with a number of cream-coloured Jenners carrier-bags. Steele watched as the unknowing widow turned into her driveway. ‘There’s still the big “how” question, isn’t there?’ he finished.
‘I’ll tell you how he could have done it,’ Rose replied. ‘The call to the emergency services showed up on screen as coming from a mobile number, a phone that was nicked a couple of days ago. There were cycle tracks on the grass around the body. It could be that our anonymous tipster had also stolen the bike he was riding, that he stole the overcoat that Easterson said Mr Whetstone wore to work yesterday, and that he stole whatever makeshift stand he used to step off with the belt around his neck.’
‘Who’d nick a milk crate?’
‘Or a small step-ladder?’
‘Where would Whetstone get that?’
‘He could have taken it from his office. No one saw him leave.’
‘Well I’ll tell you what; you ask the thief. . only catching him might not be too easy.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Rose argued. ‘I could probably give you a dozen names, and he’d be among them. As it is, the emergency service has a tape of the call. I’ve told George Regan to get hold of it and have a listen. If nobody in our office twigs the voice, he’ll take it around the CID offices to see if anyone else does.’
‘But he won’t have the gear any more, so he won’t say a word. .’
‘Depends how I ask him.’
‘You could get the DCC to ask him, and you still wouldn’t get anywhere.’
‘Time may tell, but for now, Mrs Whetstone’s had time to get her coat off. Let’s go and break the bad news.’
‘Unless she’s been out shopping for a new black suit already,’ Steele muttered.
‘Cynic,’ Rose chided him. ‘Come on.’ She stepped out of the car, into the cold grey afternoon.
They crossed the street and opened the blue-painted iron gate, then walked once again up the paved pathway to the entrance porch. Steele rang the doorbell.
In fact, the woman was still wearing her heavy coat when she opened the door. She was naturally large and formidable, and it made her look all the more imposing. Although she was in her early fifties, she was fresh-faced and she wore no makeup, other than mascara and a very light lipstick. ‘Not again,’ she exclaimed.
‘Excuse me?’ said Rose.
‘I said, not again,’ she repeated. ‘I had two of you people at the door on Monday afternoon. I thought I made my feelings perfectly clear then. If not, let me say it again. I am not sympathetic to fundamentalist religious views, I think that you are vain, silly, obsessive people and I would like you to go away.’
The detective superintendent took out her warrant card and held it up; Steele following suit. She smiled. ‘Mrs Whetstone,’ she explained, ‘we’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re police officers. I’m Detective Superintendent Rose and this is Detective Inspector Steele.’
The woman in the doorway blinked. ‘You are?’ She peered at their identification. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. They’ve been canvassing this area lately, you see, and I find that unless you are very firm with them you have trouble getting rid of them. How can I help you? Has there been a crime in the neighbourhood?’
‘No,’ said Rose, quietly. ‘That’s not what it’s about. May we come in, please? It would be better if we did.’
The first sign of uncertainty showed on Virginia Whetstone’s face. ‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow them to enter, slipping off her coat as they passed her and turning to hang it on a hallstand. ‘Go into the drawing room; first door on the left. Don’t mind the dog; I’ve only just let him back inside, and it would be cruel to put him out again.’
Stevie Steele was a dog lover. . he would have owned one, but for his single lifestyle. . but he had never seen one quite like the animal that looked up at them as they entered the big, well-furnished room. It was lying on a rug in front of the fire, as big as a German shepherd, with a pure white coat. He might have taken it for an albino, but for the fact that it had vivid blue eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘He’s a Siberian husky,’ said his owner. ‘The size of him scares some people, but Blue’s as docile as they come, just a little down because I haven’t been able to walk him in this damn fog. That should be my husband’s job, of course, but he’s never. .’ She faltered, as if she was no longer able to keep her anxiety at bay. ‘This is about Ivor, isn’t it? Has there been an accident?’
Maggie Rose found herself wondering how often she had been asked that question in her police career. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But what we have to tell you is still the worst possible news. The body of a man was found on the Meadows this morning. We believe it to be that of your husband.’
Virginia Whetstone blinked, then looked down at the dog. She reached out a hand and touched the back of a blue, cloth-covered armchair, then seemed to feel her way round it, until she sat down. ‘I see,’ she whispered. ‘You believe that it’s Ivor.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re certain?’
The superintendent glanced across the room at a large framed photograph that stood on a sideboard against the wall, beside the door. It showed Mr and Mrs Whetstone in evening dress; two tall, smiling, confident people. ‘As certain as I can be without a formal identification. There was a driving licence in his wallet.’