Dead And Buried

Fifty

Much of the west of Scotland was uncharted territory to Sir James Proud, and Wishaw was included in the extensive list of places of which he was almost totally ignorant. He knew no more than that it was conjoined to Motherwell, Bob Skinner’s home town, which he had visited once for an ACPOS meeting in the offices of North Lanarkshire council.

He came off the M8 at Newhouse, and headed into the former steel town, past the site that had once been home to the Ravenscraig strip mill, allowing his global positioning system to guide him to Wishaw. There was no obvious boundary between the two towns, so he was slightly taken aback when he was instructed to make a right turn, then a left and found himself stopping outside number seventeen Church Road, where a sign beside the door confirmed that he had arrived at the offices of Woodburn Hill and White.

Having checked that he was parked legally, he stepped into a dull reception area, pulling off his driving gloves and stuffing them into the pockets of his Barbour jacket. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ a young voice asked him. Its owner was seated behind a desk that was bound in a leather-like cream fabric, designer furniture which told him at once that this law firm was determined to present a modern image to its clients. The same could have been said of the receptionist: her hair was three different colours and she wore a top with ‘FCUK’ emblazoned across it. Earlier in his career, Sir James would have regarded it as grounds for arrest. A sign beside her computer keyboard told him that her name was Kylie McGrane.

‘I’d like to see one of your partners,’ he replied, ‘but I’m not sure which one.’

‘Well,’ said the girl, ‘there’s Mr Leckie, there’s Mrs Gillingham and there’s Miss Ward.’

Proud’s eyebrows rose slightly at the third name. ‘Miss Ward, I think, if she’s available. Her name doesn’t appear on the internet. Why is that?’

‘She’s only just been made a partner, sir. Who shall I tell her is calling?’

The chief constable produced a card from the breast pocket of his sports jacket and handed it to the receptionist. As she read it, her eyes widened and her mouth opened a little. ‘If you’ll just excuse me for a moment, sir,’ she stammered. She rushed from the reception area, returning around a minute later with another woman, stocky, dark-haired, square-faced, in her early thirties, with the sort of sharp, perceptive eyes that Proud used to fear in the early days of his career, when he was required on occasion to go into the witness box.

‘Sir James,’ she said, extending a hand, ‘I’m Ethel Ward. Is this an official visit?’

‘Well, yes,’ he replied, carefully, ‘but a very discreet one.’

‘Come through and tell me about it, then.’ She led him, past a staircase, to a small room at the rear of the building; there were bars outside the window. ‘I’m the junior partner,’ she said, with a sudden smile that made her seem not grim at all. ‘In this firm you climb the stairs through seniority.’

‘How long have you been in existence?’

‘As Woodburn Hill and White? Since 1969, but the Woodburn part was founded in 1931. As for Hill and White, that firm goes back to the nineteenth century, 1880, if I can remember my local history. You’ll know what it’s like with the older law firms; the names on the door mean nothing at all. Those three gentlemen are long dead.’ She looked at him as he took the seat she offered, and the sharpness was back in her eyes. ‘So, Sir James, what’s brought you off your patch?’

‘I’m trying to trace someone; a person who’s been missing for a long time.’

‘Someone from Wishaw?’

‘No, but the trail’s led me here. It’s all got to do with a man called Claude Bothwell, a teacher of modern languages. He was once married to a lady from these parts; coincidentally, she has the same name as you.’

The solicitor stared at him, unable to hide her surprise. ‘It’s no coincidence,’ she told him. ‘That’s my aunt Ethel you’re talking about, the heiress, as my grandfather calls her.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘Yes, Herbert Ward, Bert to his friends. He was a partner in the firm till he retired, but he’s still pretty well known around here so we keep his name on our notepaper as a consultant.’

Proud was confused. ‘But Herbert Ward was Ethel Ward’s father.’

‘Different Herbert: the one you’re talking about was my grandfather’s uncle. He and Aunt Ethel. . she’s not really my aunt, but that’s how she’s always been referred to. . were cousins. Sir James, you’d be much better talking to him. He’s got all the family history, and scandals, in his head. Aunt Ethel very definitely falls into the latter category. Hold on a minute.’ She picked up her phone, dialled and waited. ‘Grandpa,’ she said, when an answer came, ‘you’re in, good. I’m sending someone down to see you. His name’s Sir James Proud. . Yes, the same one. He’ll explain when he gets there.’ She hung up. ‘That’s settled; he’s expecting you. He lives in a place called Thorny Grove.’

‘But that’s where. .’

‘Where Aunt Ethel lived? Yes, I know, but it’s different now: it’s been turned into a retirement community. The big house has been converted into flats and there are some cottages in the grounds. Grandpa has one of those; it’s number three. To get there,’ she pointed, ‘turn right at the end of Church Road, go across the Main Street, then down the hill until you come to a cul-de-sac sign. Thorny Grove’s in there.’