Lethal Intent

Eighty-seven

Rod Greatorix had called in sick. A wicked cold had been brewing over the weekend, and when he had wakened to find every major joint in his body aching, he had realised that it had turned to flu.

His wife had put up a show of reluctance to give him the phone when Martin had called him, but eventually they had spoken and he had agreed that the DCC and another officer could visit.

He was sitting in a high-backed chair when they were shown into his study, with a sweater over his pyjamas, and wrapped in a heavy dressing-gown. His eyes were rheumy and his nose shone like a red traffic-light. 'Don't get too close,' he warned, but the two callers needed no telling.

'Will it be family flowers only?' Martin asked.

'Very funny,' the invalid grunted. 'Have you just come here to take the piss?'

'No, honest we haven't. Rod, this is DI Stevie Steele, from Edinburgh; he's been working on an investigation that's under wraps for now but likely to go public soon. Before that happens, we've got some questions that need answering, and you might just be the man who can.'

'That's a first,' said Greatorix. 'I've never been interviewed before. What's it about?'

'What do you know about Cleopatra Murtagh, sir?' asked Steele.

'Tommy's sister? Could Andy not tell you that?'

'I could have given him gossip, Rod. I'd rather he heard it from you.'

'If you must.' The older man sighed. 'The girl is believed to be the daughter of my brother-in-law, Brindsley Groves; her mother was his mistress for years, until she died, in fact.'

'Believed to be?'

'All right, then, she is his daughter. I had it out with Brindsley at the time and he admitted it to me. He promised that he'd never acknowledge her publicly, but he said that he'd always look after her.'

'Did he make the same promise about Tommy?' Martin's question took his colleague by surprise.

'Why should he?'

'Because Tommy's his son; the official version, the father's death, that's all balls. His mother was single, not a widow, and she lived in York while Brindsley was a student there.'

'Hell's teeth!' Greatorix hissed. 'So it wasn't just a case of looking after him because he was shagging his mother.'

'To come back to the girl, sir,' Steele intervened. 'What happened to her?'

'I don't know. Brindsley sent her to college somewhere, and that was the last I heard of her. Why?'

'Because she's dead: she committed suicide in jail ten years ago, after being convicted of killing a child in her care. The verdict was later overturned.'

'Would Brindsley know that?'

'It's reasonable to suppose that her mother might have told him, she was still alive at the time … or that Tommy might, for that matter. He was on the Groves payroll then. But it doesn't matter who told him; he does know, that's for sure. The Groves Foundation's been paying an income to her husband ever since… and to Tommy Murtagh, incidentally'

'The bastard,' Greatorix swore. 'What if those payments can be traced? If my sister ever finds out…'

'Are you sure she doesn't know already?'

'Brindsley promised she never would. He told me he supported the girl through the mother's wage packet.'

'What about your nephew and niece?'

'Herbie heard some gossip when he came home from school one summer and started knocking around with the local lads; he'd have been sixteen at the time. He came to me and, again, I made him promise to keep it from his mother. He did, although he told his dad he wanted fuck all to do with him or his business. I don't think Rowena ever knew. She's a snooty wee cow and she never mixed with Dundee kids.'

'Your brother-in-law is late fifties, sir, yes?'

'Fifty-eight.'

'What sort of shape's he in for his age? Good, bad, any major health problems?'

Greatorix laughed. 'You must be kidding. He's a bloody monster. He was an international cyclist when he was young and he still rides his bike; he belongs to the local wheelers. They go up to Montrose and back once a month, and sometimes do longer trips than that. He rides horses too, and he leads a company team in the London Marathon every year. They're his big hobbies, them and his clocks: he collects them and rebuilds them; he's always tinkering with the bloody things.'

He paused, blew his nose and then looked at Steele, sharply. 'You know, you've got me wondering what all this is leading up to, son. But before you get round to telling me, let me stop you. I don't want to know. I'd do nothing for Brindsley, but I'd do everything in my power to protect my sister so, please, don't put me in an awkward position.'

'Fair enough, Rod,' said Martin. 'That's us done anyway.' He and Steele stood. 'I think you should speak to your sister, but for now just you sit there and fester, we'll see ourselves out.'

The inspector nodded. 'Yes, thank you, sir. I hope the flu clears up soon. By the way,' he continued, 'that's a really nice path you've got up to the house; very unusual stone. I've been thinking of renewing my place. Did you do that or was it there when you bought this house?'

'No,' the chief superintendent replied. 'That's one of the few advantages in having Brindsley for a brother-in-law. He has a stoneyard, and those were cut there. You'll never be able to find anything like them down in Edinburgh: they're grey granite and they'll never wear out.'