Cowboys and Indians (19 page)

Thomson nodded at Tom as he approached with three coffee beakers. ‘Ferguson’s staying in Harrison Proctor’s spare room.’

Cullen stared out of the window at the sandstone mansion peeking over tall walls, the front protected by a thick hedge. He folded one arm, his free hand clamping his phone to his ear. Still ringing. He ended the call. ‘Mobile’s just ringing out.’

Bain smirked as he clunked off his seatbelt. ‘You wanting to lead?’

‘Be my guest.’ Cullen got out and tapped the roof of the purple Mondeo. ‘You’ve not had this car nicked in a while, have you?’

‘Fuck off, Sundance.’ Bain plipped the locks.

Cullen screeched open the gate, mossed flagstones leading up to the house. ‘Nice place.’

‘Tell you, Sundance, we’re in the wrong game.’

‘You’ll be on the market soon enough.’ Cullen looked around at the neighbouring properties, almost all butchered by extensions. Proctor’s house retained the original front entrance, a gloss white door. ‘This guy must be on serious money — the rest are all subdivided into flats.’

‘You reckon?’ Bain looked around and sniffed. ‘Don’t fancy doing that boy’s job?’

Cullen stomped up to the door and rang the bell. ‘Not even for a house like this.’

Bain thumped the door. ‘Mr Ferguson! Can you open up!’

Cullen jogged onto the cricket-crease lawn, perfect tramlines in the grass. He checked the windows — lights burned in the lounge. ‘There’s someone in.’ He trotted back to the door.

Bain hammered again. ‘Open up!’

A voice boomed through the door.
‘You can’t do this to me!’

‘Do what?’

‘Harass me at home. You’ve done enough at work!’

‘It’s the police, Mr Ferguson. We’re not from Alba Bank.’

A long pause.
‘I’m not letting you in without a search warrant!’

‘I wish they’d fuckin’ stop TV programmes educating these arseholes.’ Bain crouched down and poked a finger at the brass letterbox, the metal grinding. ‘We just need a word with you, Mr Ferguson.’

‘What about?’

‘The death of Jonathan van de Merwe.’

‘What?’
Another long pause.
‘You think I’ve killed him?’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do you want me to get a load of six-footers to come batter down your mate’s antique door?’

It clicked open. Martin Ferguson was hefting a cricket bat. Short with a dyed-black goatee, he had Phil Collins hair, a long ridge of dark stubble coming to a widow’s peak. Ruddy cheeks betrayed a love of port or whisky. Maybe both. Adidas tracky bottoms and brown moccasins, the seventies punk band logo on his T-shirt losing a battle with the washing machine. ‘Can I see some credentials?’

Cullen walked up to the door, warrant card out. ‘DS Scott Cullen. This is DS Bain.’

‘You’d better come in.’ Ferguson led them through the house, footsteps echoing off cream walls and stripped-wood floorboards, into a lounge on the right. The overhead light, blazing through a spherical lantern, bounced off framed artworks. Widescreen TV in an antique cabinet. ‘Have a seat.’

Cullen collapsed into one of two Chesterfield sofas positioned at right angles to each other. He got out his notebook and rested it on the scarred surface of a coffee table between them. ‘Nice place he’s got.’

Ferguson perched at the opposite end of the other settee from Bain. ‘Let’s cut the crap. I don’t like being here. My wife kicked me out.’

‘We need to speak to you about Jonathan van de Merwe’s death.’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you. They moved me off the programme in December. I report to Harrison Proctor now.’ Ferguson slumped back in the seat. ‘I’m on sick leave, though.’

‘But you did work for Mr Van de Merwe?’

‘I was the Financial Controller. Ran a team of two. We controlled all expenses, managed the contract negotiations with suppliers and tracked expenditure. Budgets, forecasts, plans.’

‘Slow down, pal.’ Bain waved his hands in the air. ‘What exactly did you do?’

‘I looked after all the money. Tried to make sure the delivery parts of the programme weren’t overspending.’

Cullen wrote the words down. ‘We understand your contract wasn’t renewed?’

‘They sacked me. I had the temerity to tell Mr Van de Merwe his programme was in a mess. I was the third in the role. Same reason each time. We kept telling him it was a disaster.’

‘Why was it a disaster?’

‘Let me explain it to you.’ Ferguson licked his lips, leaving a trail of saliva above his thick goatee. ‘That programme had fixed costs, such as the computer servers and software licences.’

‘You’re going to have to bear with me, what with me being a thick copper and everything.’ Bain smirked. ‘What’s a server?’

‘It’s what the applications are installed on. They do some development and they—’

‘Sounds like you don’t really know yourself.’

Ferguson fiddled with his T-shirt. ‘I’m just a bean counter, really.’

‘You were saying?’

‘Right. After servers and software, there are the staffing costs — permanent, contract and those of our suppliers.’

‘Pretend I’m following you.’

‘What I did was chart the burn-down rate and how long we had left.’

Bain leaned forward on the sofa. ‘This is going to take a hell of a long time if you keep using fifty quid words.’

‘Look, I was tracking how much we were spending every day. Multiply the day rates of staff by their time sheets.’

Bain frowned. ‘Right, I used to do that kind of thing.’

‘Now you’re with me. Next, I got copies of the plans from the PMO—’

‘That’s Michaela Queen, right?’

‘Correct. Well, it was John Fisher before her but yes. That area. I had to make some assumptions, but I projected the costs until completion.’

‘And?’

‘We’d spent the whole budget but hadn’t delivered even a fifth of the project.’

‘And this was why he sacked you?’

‘No. This was in October. The start of it all. Jonathan’s genius idea to save cash was to get rid of the delivery partner and offshore it to IMC.’

‘It didn’t work?’

‘Costs went up and productivity took a severe dip. The end date jumped a year in one go because of the transition. People dropped off the programme with information in their heads, none of it written down.’

‘So why were you sacked?’

‘I gave Jonathan a pack asking the board for more money. He didn’t like the figures. Said the owners wouldn’t be happy.’

‘Isn’t Alba Bank a PLC?’

‘A hedge fund bought us outright when the shares tanked last year. They believe they can quadruple the value. OTP’s part of that journey.’

‘Mr Proctor hired you because you “know where the bodies are buried”, to use his words.’

‘That and we played rugby together at university. I’ve told you all I know. The programme’s finances were in a horrendous state. I suspect they’re worse now.’

‘Michaela Queen implied you had wind of something illegal going on.’

Ferguson smacked a fist off the leather arm. ‘I’m not saying anything without a lawyer.’

‘Come on, sir. This is a murder inquiry.’

‘That’s everything I know.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Cullen lounged back on the settee. ‘Mr Ferguson, we can do this down the station. Holding stuff back from us doesn’t look good for you.’

‘Fine.’ Ferguson licked his lips. ‘There were rumours Mr Van de Merwe received payments from delivery partners.’

‘Bungs?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Where did you hear this?’

‘A friend.’

‘Going to need to back this up with a statement from your friend. Can we get his number?’

‘Okay, there’s no friend. I found some documents on a printer outlining payments Jonathan received from our suppliers.’

‘Which ones?’

‘They’d redacted the detail.’

‘Do you have any copies?’

‘I’d have to dig them out. They were among the possessions my wife scattered around West Linton.’

‘Call me when you find them.’ Cullen handed him a business card.

Ferguson stared at it. ‘I will do.’

Cullen leaned back in the chair. ‘Can I just say you don’t seem particularly stressed.’

‘I’m on very strong medication.’

‘Because of what you were doing with the secretary?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘We heard about your affair.’

Ferguson looked away. ‘They’re terminating my contract because of it.’

‘What happened?’

‘I fell in love. When I informed my wife she…’ Ferguson snorted. ‘She cut up my suits. Threw my possessions onto the street.’

‘So why are you living here and not with this secretary?’

‘When I told her, she said she wasn’t interested.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘She’d just been leading me on.’

‘So you hadn’t been an item?’

‘I thought we were.’ Ferguson rubbed his hair – guy clearly had nits or OCD. ‘I wanted to do the right thing. Get out of my marriage before committing to her.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘The witch took me to HR. She didn’t love me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Lorna Gilmour.’

Cullen barged past Bain into the Alba Bank corridor. ‘What do you think?’

‘Your interview skills are getting better, Sundance. Clearly learned a lot from working for me.’

‘I meant about Ferguson.’

‘What a fuckin’ idiot. Very noble and everything, but what a tool.’

Cullen stopped by Lorna’s desk, an iPad plugged into the computer’s base unit. A notepad filled with detailed columns of text. Three piles of blank Post-its. He grabbed one and scribbled a note.
Please come to the meeting room. DS Cullen.

He yawned, his stomach rumbling. ‘Haven’t eaten anything all day.’

‘I never have breakfast.’ Bain patted his stomach. ‘How I keep in shape.’

Lorna pushed through the nearest office door and slumped in her chair, glancing at the Post-It. ‘Are you looking for me?’

Cullen nodded. ‘Need a word with you.’

Lorna crossed her legs, an impish grin on her face. ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’

Not that bad a figure on second inspection. Cullen shook his head. Quit it with that shit. ‘Depends on your definition of trouble. We understand you had an affair with Martin Ferguson.’

She rolled her eyes and let out a laugh. ‘That’s a load of bollocks. I wouldn’t let him near me.’

‘He said he left his wife for you.’

‘Look, we worked closely for a while. He got the wrong idea. That’s it. I took him to HR.’

‘Aren’t you allowed relationships between staff here?’

She folded her arms. ‘I told him to back off, but he was being clingy and weird. It frightened me. The next step was going to the police.’

‘When was this?’

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘You don’t work together anymore, though.’

‘Exactly. He wouldn’t leave me alone. That’s why I took him to HR. Jenny Stanton was progressing the case for me.’

‘He never tried anything sinister?’

‘Martin’s a lovely guy, don’t get me wrong, but I was terrified. I was worried he’d stick me in a dungeon like that guy in Austria.’

Cullen jotted a note —
Get Lorna/Ferguson emails
. ‘Can you pass the emails to me? The address is on my business card. And could you set up an interview with this Jenny Stanton?’

‘Will do.’

Cullen led Bain away from her desk and put his face up to the meeting room door. Harrison Proctor sat with Murray.

‘Is that McLean prick from banjo land your latest chimp, Sundance?’

‘My latest chimp? Jesus. His name is Murray. You’re still getting him confused with Ewan McLaren. Unbelievable.’ Cullen chapped on the window and waved for Murray to come out, waiting in the corridor. ‘How’s that interview going?’

‘Proctor’s backing up your story. The project’s fucked.’

‘Programme.’

‘Why do they call it that?’

‘Sounds better, I suppose.’

‘Aye, well, the
programme’s
fucked.’

Bain glared at Murray. ‘McCrea’s supposed to be in there with you. Where the fuck is he?’

Murray gave a shrug. ‘No idea.’

Inside the room, Proctor nodded at Murray and opened the door wide, eyes dancing between Cullen and Bain. ‘Officers.’

Cullen blocked his passage. ‘Before you go, sir, I’d like to ask a supplementary question.’

Proctor raised an eyebrow. ‘Fire away.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us Mr Ferguson was sleeping at your house?’

Proctor looked away. ‘He swore me to privacy. Martin’s going through a difficult patch. He’s one of my oldest friends. I didn’t want you pushing him over the edge. He’s been suicidal since … what happened.’

Cullen glanced at Bain. ‘Suicidal?’

‘I’ve had to get his stomach pumped twice in the last fortnight.’

‘We’ve just spoken to him.’

Proctor’s eyes bulged. ‘Christ.’ He tapped the keys on his BlackBerry, stuck it to his ear and raced off.

Bain put his hands on his hips. ‘Come back here!’

Proctor turned, hand raised. ‘I need to go!’

Bain started off after him. ‘Wait for me!’

Murray leaned against the rattling glass. ‘What an arsehole?’

‘Can you dig into this story about Van de Merwe taking bungs.’

‘Sure thing.’

‘And do some more digging into Martin Ferguson. And Michaela Queen. Find someone who knows what the hell’s going on.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen bit into the roll. Too much butter, too little cheese. And someone’d had the bright idea of putting cinnamon in the pickle. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He took a slug of coffee and turned to the interview pack in front of him.

‘That looks like fun.’

Cullen looked up.

DI Bill Lamb strummed his thick moustache, tickling the downward-pointing triangle underneath. Ran a hand through salt and pepper hair. Dark suit, navy shirt. ‘Interviews, right?’

‘Aye.’ Cullen slumped back in the seat. ‘Round two.’

‘Rather you than me.’ Lamb dumped his tray, wisps of steam wafting from his soup. The chair squeaked as he sat. ‘Must be a good sign if we’re hiring again.’

‘It’s only because one of the sergeants will jump off the top of the building if we keep going like this.’