Thursday legends

'Gilbert McCart,' he introduced himself. 'Come through to my private office.'

Steele followed him into a second smaller room, furnished in the same way as the first. He glanced around at tall glass-fronted bookcases, low door-fronted cabinets and a big inlaid desk, finer, even to his inexpert eye, than the one in Alec Smith's house. 'Does that have a secret drawer?' he asked, intrigued.

Gilbert McCart's eyes twinkled. 'Can't tell you that,' he replied, 'it's a secret.

'You like my furniture? Geoffrey Biggins, my late partner, and I built up the collection over the years. When I snuff it, my practice won't be worth anything, but this lot will.'

'You're a one-partner firm?' Steele asked as he handed over his business card, a Bob Skinner innovation.

'For three years, I have been; since Geoff went to the Great Conveyancer in the sky. It's just me and the slattern Molly outside. Her real name is Gabrielle, but she suits the moniker I gave her better. I can just see her selling cockles and mussels.'

At that moment the girl came in with a tray holding a teapot, china cups and saucers, milk and sugar and a plate with four doughnuts. She laid it on McCart's desk, on top of a copy of the Courier. 'Yes,' said the solicitor. 'Cover that damn rag up.' He frowned at the policeman. 'That publication has never been the same since they put news on the front page rather than advertising.'

They waited as Molly, nee Gabrielle, poured the tea then sashayed out of the room, her third-best feature moving in her tight skirt like two cats wrestling in a bag.

'Now, Sergeant Steele,' her little employer began. 'To business. I apologise for dragging you up here, but one of the main qualities which I offer my principal client is discretion, and I never discuss his business over the telephone.'

'Your principal client?'

'Kinture Estates. Biggins and McCart — Geoffrey and I and our fathers before us — have been factors to the Marquis of Kinture for the last sixty-three years. Geoffrey's old man, Gilbert, and mine, Geoffrey, were both at Strathallan School, and St Andrews University with the father of the present Marquis. He inherited the title when he was still a student and set his two friends up in this practice pretty well as soon as they qualified.

'Hector, the present Marquis, reappointed us when he succeeded a little over ten years ago. We've always done a little general practice conveyancing work, but the bulk of our income flows from Kinture.'

'What do you do for him?'

'I manage his tenanted properties, of which there are a considerable number. My duties include the preparation and execution of tenancy agreements, the collection of rents, supervision, inspection and maintenance, legal actions against rent defaulters and so on.'

'Where are these properties?'

'There are some in Perthshire and some in Clackmannan, but the bulk of the Marquis's estate is in East Lothian. It includes Bracklands, Lord Kinture's main residence, and the land on which the Witches Hill Golf and Country Club is built. I'm not involved in the running of the club, though… God forbid.'

'You collect rents, you said.'

'That's right. Which brings me to the matter of the payment about which you asked the slattern Molly on Friday. Can you explain the background to your request?'

'Certainly, sir,' said Steele. 'About ten days ago a man named Alec Smith was murdered in North Berwick. He was a former police officer and he lived alone. It was a very brutal killing; you probably read about it.'

McCart shook his head. 'No, Sergeant. If it didn't happen in Dundee, it didn't happen.'

The detective smiled, briefly. 'In any event,' he continued, 'in looking into the victim's affairs, we found a standing order payable to your firm: twelve hundred pounds, annually. His bank manager was under the impression that it was a payment intended for Smith's estranged wife.'

'If she is the occupant, then in a way that might be the case.'

'Occupant?'

The little lawyer wrinkled his nose. 'There is a small part of the Kinture Estates holding in East Lothian which lies apart from the rest. It is near the sea and it is woodland, mainly, but within it, there is a small, fairly run-down, one-bedroom cottage. About five years ago, Lord Kinture called me to Bracklands and instructed me to prepare a tenancy agreement in respect of that property, at a rent of one hundred pounds per month, payable annually in advance. The name of the tenant on the agreement was John Green, but I noticed at once that the first rent payment was drawn on the account of an Alexander Smith. There was no clause in the lease specifying personal occupancy, so it is entirely possible that a Mrs Smith does live there.'

'No, sir,' said Steele. 'She doesn't, I assure you. Where is this cottage, exactly?'

'Near the village of Dirleton. It bounds on to a place called Yellowcraigs.'

56

'So Karen won't be in the office again, sir?'

'No, Sam, she's gone: she has four weeks' leave owing; add on a couple of public holidays and effectively, as of now, she's a civvy. You're going to be on your own in here for a while, but as soon as Karen's officially off the strength you'll move into her job and I'll pick someone to replace you. I'll invite applications for the vacancy.'

'Very good, sir. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to wish her luck though. Say it for me, will you. Good luck to you, too, of course.'

The Head of CID smiled; 'As in "You'll need it", you mean? Tell her yourself. Have dinner with us on Friday. I'll book a table somewhere.'

Sammy Pye looked at his boss: there was something different about him, something very different. It wasn't simply his pleasure at the turn of events with Karen, that was self evident, but there was something else. He was quieter, less ebullient than the Detective Constable had ever seen him, and he exuded an air of… relief. He saw the healing lip and the fading bruises and he decided to ask no questions at all.

'Two things, sir,' he said. 'First, Spike Thomson from Radio Forth called. He said that Mr Skinner okayed you for his show and can you be there at half past two.'

'Jesus. No-one told me things had gone that far. I'll do it, though. What's the second thing?'

'Superintendent Pringle, sir. He's outside. He wants a word before the Divisional CID Heads' Monday gathering.' 'Show him in, then.'

Pye nodded and left, to be replaced seconds later by Dan Pringle, looking surprisingly bright-eyed for a Monday morning. 'What's this I hear?' he began. 'You and Karen?'

'Bloody office grapevine,' Martin grunted. But he smiled nonetheless. 'True though.'

'Good for you, Andy. She's a smashing girl.'

'Yeah. And I've come to my senses at last. Was that all you wanted to see me about?'

The Superintendent shook his head. 'No, no. I've been delving into the murky world of investment management, and I wanted to talk to you about it. I've been asking around town about this Paris Simons lot that the Bryant woman mentioned. It seems that they and Daybelge are the Hibs and Hearts of the money business.'

'Or the Montagues and Capulets?'

'What league do they play in? Naw, they're serious rivals; hate each other's guts and always have done. Paris Simons used to be kings of the midden, until Diddler Shearer founded Daybelge. He knocked them off the top of the pile and they hated him for it. Their senior partner's a bloke called Luke Heard. The original Paris and Simons went to the bone yard a hundred years back. Everyone seems to have liked the Diddler, but no-one's had a kind word to say to me about Heard.

'The Bank of Scotland held a piss-up for investment managers last Christmas in the New Club. Apparently the guy got drunk and took a swing at the wee fella. He was chucked out and told never to come back.

'Now, six months later, Shearer's battered to death, and Heard's firm stands to benefit to the tune of fuck alone knows how many millions. So just for a laugh, I asked Jack McGurk to check on all flights to Kuala Lumpur from Sunday and over the next couple of days, for a booking in Heard's name.