An Ocean Apart (49 page)

There was really nothing to go on. Any pattern that he worked out was based purely on supposition and hypothesis. The only real concrete line of connection was Duncan's recommendation that Deakin's should take over the distribution of Glendurnich in the States, and that Deakin's had been acquired by Kirkpatrick's. Then again, Duncan's insistence in appointing them as the new distributor had come about because of a fall in U.S. sales, and he didn't have any solid information to hand proving whether they had or not.

He closed his eyes and scratched hard at the back of his head with both hands. You're probably reading too much into this, you bloody fool. Lack of brain usage over the past eight months has begun to make you paranoid. Anyway, Kirkpatrick's surely couldn't touch Glendurnich. It was a private company, shares held by his father and himself. And, hang on, yes, there would now be a few in the hands of the workers as part of the stock-purchase plan that his father had set up. But they wouldn't account for much. No, Glendurnich was undoubtedly safe from predatory attack.

But then again, how could he make sure that nothing had been mooted within the company? Whom the hell could he contact? Not Duncan anyway—if there
were
any firm pointers to connect Glendurnich with Kirkpatrick's, then they would most certainly be directed at him. Nor his father. There was no reason to worry him unnecessarily over something that was probably highly speculative.

Margaret was the obvious person, being without doubt someone on whom he could truly rely for her loyalty. But there again, he wasn't sure that her normal ebullient manner would be best suited for such detective work. Nevertheless, through her, he could get a fax safely into the right hands. But whose? He suddenly began clicking his fingers over and over. What about the young man his father had called into the boardroom just after the briefing? He thumped his head with his hand, trying to knock the boy's name back into his mind. What in God's name was it? Come on, his grandfather had worked in the distillery. Mc, Mc-something-or-other, Mc-McLachlan! That was it! Archie McLachlan!

“Dad?”

David turned to find Sophie standing beside him, dressed in her pyjamas.

“Yes, darling?”

“Are you going to be long? I'm feeling a bit zonked. I wouldn't mind turning in.”

He glanced round at her bed, which stood hopelessly marooned in the middle of the room.

“Oh, hell, I'm sorry! Look, I promise you I'll only be five minutes. I just want to send a fax back to the office. Would you mind using my bed until I'm finished, and then I'll get yours sorted out. If Dodie's on the bed, just push her off, okay?”

With a shrug, Sophie turned and pushed through the curtain into his bedroom. There was an immediate growl from the dog, followed by a resounding thump as she was dispatched from the bed onto the floor. David picked up a pen from the desk and began to write.

Fax to: Archie McLachlan (VIA MARGARET)

            
Glendurnich Distilleries Ltd

From: David Corstorphine

Dear Archie,

I wonder if you could do a bit of investigative work for me. I have just heard through a friend of mine in London that a company called Kirkpatrick Holdings Plc. are looking to purchase a malt-whisky business. I know that there is probably nothing to worry about on Glendurnich's part, but could you just have a few discreet words with some of your associates to see if they have heard anything along these lines?

Also, I would be grateful if you could keep this between ourselves, and please do not approach anyone on the board of directors. If you do manage to find out anything, please fax me back immediately at the number on the confirmation slip. If I don't hear from you, I'll take it that all is well!

With best wishes,

David Corstorphine

David inserted the paper into the machine and dialled the Glendurnich fax number. Then, as it began to go through, he turned and picked up the chair, pushing back Sophie's bed into its customary position with his foot.

“Sophie?”

“Yes?” a sleepy voice replied from behind the curtain.

“Your bed awaits you.”

Chapter
  
TWENTY-NINE

Since getting her job at Glendurnich Distilleries, Doreen McWhirter had arrived at the office every morning at eight-thirty sharp, even though she was not expected until nine, along with the other office workers. However, in order to assert the control that she felt befitting her newly appointed position as receptionist, she thought it necessary to be at her station to greet the directors of the company when they walked through the door, and also to show herself as a figure of dedication and responsibility to her fellow workers when they traipsed in at the scheduled arrival time.

Consequently, on that Monday morning she was both surprised and somewhat miffed to find that she was not the first to arrive, the main door having swung gently open when she had placed her key in its lock. She clipped her way across the reception area to her desk and studied the lights on her telephone.

Mr. Caple was in, the red light corresponding to his office telephone being the only one that shone out from the console. Doreen smiled coyly to herself and, picking up her handbag, walked around the desk and with a dainty jaunt to her step made her way over to the ladies' room. Placing the handbag on the shelf in front of the mirror, she took out her compact and lipstick, then, removing her winged spectacles, she began to give her face the gentlest of touch-overs.

She really liked Mr. Caple. She had known that from the moment she had met him at the interview. It was so pleasant to encounter a young man who was so organized, so particular in the way he liked things done, and she was sure that he had given her the job because he had recognized similar attributes in herself.

She snapped shut her compact and placed everything back in her bag. Then, having given the sides of her neatly cropped greying hair a quick flick with her fingers, she walked back out into the reception area and over to her desk. Pulling open one of the larger bottom drawers, she carefully laid her handbag on its side and slid the drawer slowly shut, making sure that no part of the soft leather would catch on its runners. Then, straightening up, she clapped her hands together once to signify that, for her, work was now under way.

She began her routine by walking across to the front door and picking up the newspapers that had been pushed through the letter-box. She placed them in order of size on the coffee-table that was positioned between two of the leather sofas, uncreasing each as she laid it out with two quick wipes of the side of her hand.

Having stepped back from the table to make sure that the newspapers appeared symmetrical also from the front angle, she made her way over to the fax machine to check if anything had been sent through over the weekend. There was only one message. She picked it up and walked back to her desk, reading it through as she went. At first, her face registered incomprehension, then, having read it through again, she looked up in thought, her eyes narrowed and her newly glossed lips pursed tight in disapproval.

Glancing down at the switchboard, she saw that Mr. Caple's light was now off. She strutted across the reception area and made her way quickly up the stairs and along the corridor to his office. She knocked and cocked an ear to await his reply.

“Yes?” his voice called out.

She opened the door and put her head around the side.

“Ah, Doreen! How are you this morning? Come on in!”

The receptionist smiled at his bright manner and entered. “You're up with the lark this morning, Mr. Caple,” she said playfully, feeling a glow come to her cheeks as she said it.

“Work to do, Doreen! Nothing should stop for work!”

“Absolutely not!” she replied, letting out a merry little laugh. “I couldn't agree with you more!”

“So what can I do for you?”

She walked over to his desk, clutching the fax to her bosom. “I hope you'll agree with me that I'm doing the right thing. It's just that I found this fax on the machine this morning, and, well, in my opinion, I do not think that its contents seem to have the best interests of the company at heart.”

The smile on Duncan's face was replaced with a quizzical frown, and he reached out his hand for the fax. “Then you'd better let me have a look at it, Doreen.”

Doreen handed it over, quickly clasping her hands back to her bosom as she stood waiting in trepidation for his reaction. As Duncan read it through, he felt his stomach begin to tighten into a knot, and he had to make a conscious effort not to swear out loud. Looking up, he forced himself to smile at the receptionist before reading through the fax once more.

“Right!” he said eventually, tossing the page down onto his desk. “You did exactly the right thing in showing me this.” He turned his chair to the side and stared thoughtfully out of the window.

“Well, I think that it's bordering on being a criminal act, Mr. Caple!” Doreen snipped tartly, pleased that he had agreed with her and thinking that this now granted her the right to speak her own mind on the subject. “I mean, fancy trying to go over the heads of the directors! And who, may I ask, does this man”—she leaned forward and spun round the fax on the desk so that she could read it—“this Mr. Corstorphine think he—”

“I'll tell you what we'll do,” Duncan cut in, turning his chair round to face her again. “Until I've been able to make some inquiries into this, I think we should keep it entirely between ourselves. Tell nobody, especially this”—he glanced at the fax—“this Archie McLachlan.” He looked up at her inquiringly. “I don't think I know him, do I?”

“Well, he's presently working in distribution. As far as I can gather, he's on a year's training scheme, so he's not a full-time employee of the distillery.”

“Ah,” Duncan said, slowly nodding his head. “Well, as I said, Doreen, we'll keep this to ourselves; but in the meantime, could you do something for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Could you find out how much longer young McLachlan has to serve before he completes his training scheme?”

“Of course.” Doreen smiled knowingly at Duncan. “A very shrewd move, if you'll allow me to say so.”

“Okay, well, let's leave it at that, and thank you for bringing this to my attention. I have a feeling that it might turn out to be an invaluable piece of information.”

“I sincerely hope so,” she replied smugly and, turning sharply around, she walked smartly over to the door and left the office.

Duncan waited until he heard her footsteps descending the stairs, then he jumped to his feet, making his chair shoot backwards. He turned and caught it before it banged against the back wall.

“Damn!”
he said under his breath.

He picked up the fax and paced up and down the floor as he read it through again. He stopped and slapped the top of his head.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!”

He scrumpled up the paper into a ball in his fist and went to stand by the window, his eyes fixed blankly on the tall pines that stood beyond the car-park.

How the hell had David found out about Kirkpatrick's? Nobody else knew about it! And how long had he been keeping up clandestine contact with this guy Archie? Maybe more faxes had passed through the office without his knowing while old Margaret had still been here. Damn it, he had underestimated David. He thought that he was going to be away from the business for a hell of a lot longer than this! He turned and walked back to his desk, unscrumpling the fax as he went. He pulled in his chair and sat down, reading through the fax once more.

He wasn't definite, though, was he? “Probably nothing to worry about on Glendurnich's part” he wrote. But, on the other hand, he must think
something
was up if he had expressly asked this guy McLachlan not to approach the board of directors.

He shook his head and pressed the automatic dialling code on his telephone, leaving it on speaker mode. He sat back in his chair, still trying to work out the connotations of the fax as the telephone rang.

The nasal tones of a female telephonist sang out from the speaker. “Good morn-ing, Kirkpatrick Hol-dings!”

“Mr. Davenport's office, please.”

“May I say who's call-ing?”

“Duncan Caple, Glendurnich.”

The telephone clicked, giving way to ten seconds of electronic Mozart before John Davenport spoke. “Hullo, Duncan. How are you this morning?”

“Not good, I'm afraid, John. We've got a problem. The receptionist here has just brought me up a fax which came in sometime over the weekend.”

“And?”

“It's from David Corstorphine in the States.”

“Go on.”

Duncan leaned forward to the speaker and went through the fax slowly and concisely. At the end, he sat back in his chair and waited. There was silence on the line, save for John Davenport's heavy breathing.

“Christ, I thought you said that he was out of action!”

“Well, I thought he was! On the other hand, I wouldn't say there's any real evidence here to indicate that he's back
in
action.”

“Hell, I would have thought that that fax was conclusive enough.”

“Not really. For a start, he's based the whole thing on supposition. I honestly think that by coincidence he
has
heard a rumour of your plans to purchase a malt-whisky business, and he's just checking it out—nothing more than that. And besides that, I'm pretty sure the guy's not fit in the brain yet, because I make a point of asking his father about him, and he always replies that he's not ready to come home yet.”

“Right.” There was a short silence. “Then why do you think that he didn't want the directors to be approached? I mean, why did he not just fax you direct?”