Unnatural Justice

Twenty-Nine.

We didn't have to wait till Monday or Tuesday to find out the reaction of the Three Bears' wives to the compensation offer. That fine organ, the Sunday Herald, told us twenty-four hours later.

It had been a quiet Saturday; Jay and I had obeyed orders and completed our detailed planning of Janet and wee Mac's playground. It was going to look pretty good, I reckoned, and I had no safety worries with the equipment. It was all first class and solidly put together…

Clyde-built as they used to say, when that meant something.

We had done more than that, actually. I had helped him fit a new double gate to the back entrance to the estate, making sure that the lock worked and that the bolts held it secure. It's not that it's used much, indeed hardly ever, but there's some pretty dangerous boggy ground near Loch Lomond, and the track which leads from the gate down to the road runs through some of the worst of it. It's said to be virtually bottomless; when they were building the new golf course, they lost an earth mover… and almost the course architect himself.

So, you see, the entrance had to be secure not to prevent people from getting into the estate, but to prevent small people, like my reckless nephew Colin, Janet, and her wee brother eventually, from getting out.

With that job done, Jay and I hit a few golf balls, then I headed back to the house to take Janet for a swim. At first I couldn't find her, until I wandered towards the office conservatory and heard her chirping away us usual, but being 'shoosh'-ed, by Susie. As I walked in, I saw that my wife was on the phone, and from the look on her face I did not fancy being the person on the other end.

At once, I thought about her blood pressure. "Who's that?" I asked.

She said a quick, "Hold on," then covered the mouthpiece. "Press.

Sunday Herald," she whispered.

I reached out a hand. "Gimme the phone."

"No!"

"Susie, you're red in the face. Please give me the phone and make me happy. Take Janet to the pool and let me deal with this."

She shrugged, then gave me a quick smile. "I like it when you're masterful." She handed me the phone.

"Hello," I said, 'this is Oz Blackstone. My wife's pregnant and she isn't taking business calls today. Now who is this, please?"

"It's Arnott Buchan, Sunday Herald, and she was taking business calls a minute ago."

"Not any more, Mr. Buchan. You can either phone Alison Goodchild, our PR consultant, or you can try it on me. Susie's effectively on maternity leave from now on."

"Do you speak for the Gantry Group, Mr. Blackstone?"

"I speak for my wife, mate, and she is the Gantry Group."

"That's a sweeping statement. I don't know if Sir Graeme Fisher would agree with you."

"I could give a fuck about that." Irony is almost as difficult to convey over the phone as on the printed page, but I think I managed it.

"Do you want to carry on this discussion, or call Alison?"

"No," said the reporter. "I'll speak to you. It's about the New Bearsden situation. I've spoken to the lawyers acting for the Three Bears."

"That's not quite accurate," I pointed out. "Those three gentlemen are not the purchasers. For reasons best known to them, all three of the deals in question were done in their wives' names."

"Yeah," said Buchan, 'but we both know the score, Mr. Blackstone. It's all about asset sheltering, isn't it."

"Call me Oz, everyone else does. And you said that, not me. The fact is, I don't care what it's about. I only know that the publicity surrounding these purchases is harming the Gantry Group."

"Is that why your wife's lawyer tried to bribe them to withdraw?"

"Your lawyer wouldn't even let you hint at that in print. Because of the tabloid furore we've found it necessary to ask these ladies if they'd be prepared to withdraw from their agreements, and we've offered them a small premium. Effectively we've offered to buy those plots back at terms advantageous to them."

"That may be how you put it, but all three of them, and I've spoken to them separately, claim that you've stigmatised them and their families."

I laughed; I didn't mean to, it just came out. "That's bloody rich.

We've never discussed these purchases, other than in private. We've never said anything about these three people to any reporters. The offers that were made were and remain, on our part, confidential, lawyer to lawyer. The only people doing any stigmatising are you guys in the media, in the way you've run the story, and the three families themselves, in feeding you with quotes."

I paused. "Stigmata's a dangerous topic for them anyway; I seem to remember a story a while back about a guy whom your sister newspaper, the Herald, said had fallen out with Mark Ravens. Does it ring any bells with you?"

"I think so."

"I'll bet it does. They found the guy alive, but nailed to a wall in a flat in Paisley. Crucified. A crown of barbed wire jammed on his head. He'll bear the stigmata, the marks of the Cross, for the rest of his life."

"What are you saying to me?"

"Nothing you can ever print. I'm just telling you not to get fucking sanctimonious with me, mate. Now what do you want to say to me? What's the bottom line on this story?"

"Okay," said Buchan, "I take your point. What I was in the middle of telling your wife is that all three families…"

"Are we speaking Sicilian here?"

"Nice one, but no comment… that all three families have rejected your offer. They intend to proceed with their purchases, on the basis that, as respectable business people, they have as much right as anyone else to live on what you yourself claim will be the finest modern housing development in Scotland. Their solicitors have also told me…"

"Wait a minute." I interrupted him. "Are you saying there's been collusion here? Are the three acting in concert?"

"As far as I'm concerned, Oz, they're acting separately. I've asked each of them that same question, and they've all denied it."

"As they would."

"Maybe, but it'll be down to the Gantry Group to prove otherwise. What they've each said… individually… is that they're not prepared to back out at any price. They've also said that if the Gantry Group attempts to withdraw from the agreements unilaterally, or tries to pull any tricks like redesigning the development to take these three plots out…"

"Damn it!" I thought. That had been an option under discussion.

'… they will go straight to court to seek interdicts preventing them.

I should tell you that each of the three lawyers expressed complete confidence that they would be granted."

That was our legal advice too, but I wasn't going to tell the Sunday Herald that.

"Can I ask you a few formal questions, Oz?"

"Sure."

"First, can you confirm that such offers were made to the three buyers?"

"Yes, in the terms I expressed to you earlier. In the light of media coverage, which I'm sure the families found as unfortunate and embarrassing as we did, we've offered to buy the plots back, at a premium."

"What's your reaction to the rejection of that offer?"

"If that's true, and it won't be till our lawyers hear from their lawyers, I'd say that it's unfortunate too."

"Finally, in the light of their threat to go to court, what does the Gantry Group intend to do next?"

"The board will discuss that next week."

"Will New Bearsden go ahead?"

"Too bloody right it will."

"What about Sir Graeme Fisher's investigation?"

"What happened to "finally"?"

"There are always a few more."

"The investigation's over."

"Has it resulted in any disciplinary action?"

"Go and take a look outside the New Bearsden site office, or the Gantry Group HQ building. If you see any heads on poles you can run the photo on page one."

"I'd heard that one of the heads might belong to a guy called Aidan Keane."

"You've been drinking in the wrong pub, then. Aidan's resigned, but he's neither suspected of anything nor accused of anything."

"I hear he's got a new job, though. He won't start for a few weeks, and it's not official, so much as I'd like to I can't run it."

"What's that, then?" Suddenly I was interested.

"Mr. Keane's going to be property manager for a pub chain called Caiystane Inns."

"Never heard of them."

"Wouldn't have expected you to. But if you look it up, you'll find that the chairman and managing director is a Mr. Mark Ravens."

I whistled. "Thank you for that, Arnott," I told the journalist. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and see if I can find a pole."