‘Don’t recall the name,’ Kelly was saying. ‘There’s a bunch of high-rises they’re demolishing. He jumped from one of the upper floors.’ Kelly noticed that Fox and Breck were staring fixedly at one another. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection…?’
Now the two men were staring at him.
Jamie Breck’s study.
Darkness had fallen. Food had been fetched from a Chinese takeaway, but half of it sat congealing on the worktop in the kitchen. Breck had opened a bottle of lager for himself, while the takeaway had sold Fox a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Breck had shifted over a little to make room for Fox’s chair in front of the computer screen.
‘And there we were accusing Dundee of being parochial,’ Fox said as Breck found the news item. There was a photograph of the ‘tragic suicide’. He was smiling at somebody’s wedding. There was a big, bold carnation pinned to his jacket lapel. The story put his age at sixty, but the photo showed a man of thirty-five or forty.
His name was Philip Norquay and he’d lived in the city all his life – local high school, local university, local businessman. He’d come to property developing ‘almost by accident’ – his parents had owned a shop, making their home in the flat above. On their death, there had been lots of interest in the property, leading the son to do some detective work. Turned out there were plans for a new housing estate nearby. Norquay hung on to his parents’ place until he could contact a supermarket group, who were glad of the chance to knock it down and rebuild, paying over the odds for the privilege.
That had given Norquay a taste, and by the time he was forty he’d built up a fair-sized portfolio of rental premises, moving on to full-scale development opportunities when his chance came. He’d made a name for himself by spearheading an attempt to buy the stadiums belonging to both the city’s football clubs. A new joint-share stadium would be built outside Dundee as part of the deal, but negotiations collapsed.
‘Charlie Brogan wanted to buy into Celtic at one time,’ Fox told Breck.
‘He had plans to pave Paradise?’
Still, Norquay was vocal in his support for the regeneration of the city, pitching in when the council put forward a proposal to regenerate the waterfront.
‘Just like Brogan,’ Breck commented.
‘They were going to get rid of that roundabout we walked past.’ Fox was tapping his finger against the computer screen.
‘And reroute the roadway – makes sense,’ Breck agreed. ‘Read further down, though.’
The next few paragraphs explained Norquay’s fall from grace. He had overstretched himself financially, buying up one of the ugliest pieces of real estate around, a hotchpotch of 1960s high-rise blocks on the city’s periphery. His plan was to knock the whole thing down and start again, but difficulties had presented themselves almost immediately. The buildings were stuffed with asbestos, which made them expensive to demolish. Then old mine-workings were discovered, meaning half the land was unsuitable for construction without spending a fortune on underpinning. In his enthusiasm for the project, Norquay had paid over the odds as it was. When the market tumbled south, so did confidence. Still, his suicide had come as a shock to all who knew him. He had been at a formal dinner that evening, and had seemed relaxed and jovial. His wife had sensed no change in him that might indicate growing despair. ‘Philip was a fighter,’ she had told one reporter.
‘Remind you of anyone?’ Fox asked Breck.
‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘But Norquay’s dead for certain, not just AWOL.’
‘He didn’t leave a note… didn’t visit his lawyer to make sure his will was up to date…’
Breck scrolled a little further down the page, then clicked on a link to an associated story. It didn’t add anything to their knowledge. According to the search engine, there were more than 13,000 matches still to go, but Fox had risen to his feet. There wasn’t much to see from the window, but he looked anyway.
‘Reckon they’re watching us?’ Breck asked him.
‘No… not really.’ Fox sipped from his can. There was a slight tremor running through him, and he didn’t know whether to blame the sugar, the caffeine, or Breck’s driving on the trip back from Dundee.
‘You don’t think he killed himself?’ Breck asked.
‘Do you?’
Breck considered for a moment. ‘Guy was haemorrhaging money… probably about to lose everything… and here was this white elephant just sitting there mocking him. He climbs to the top and decides to end it.’
‘Except everyone says he wasn’t the type.’
‘Maybe they just didn’t know him.’ Breck leaned back with his hands behind his head. ‘Okay, then – what’s the alternative?’
‘He could have been pushed.’ Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘He was at a dinner… told everyone he was headed straight home… instead, he jumps into his BMW and makes for the asbestos jungle he’s just bought. I can think of better ways to die, Jamie.’
‘Me too.’ Breck paused. ‘Could he have been meeting someone?’
‘Either that or they followed him – can you get your pal on the phone?’
‘Mark?’ Breck picked up his rented mobile. ‘What am I asking him?’
‘Mind if I do the talking?’
‘No.’ Breck punched in the number and handed over the phone. Fox pressed it to his ear.
‘That you, Jamie?’ Mark Kelly answered.
‘Mark, it’s Malcolm Fox. Jamie’s here next to me.’
‘What’s got you so excited, Malcolm?’
‘We were just looking at some of the stuff on the internet about Philip Norquay.’
‘I hope you’re on overtime.’
‘We do this as a hobby, Mark. Listen, one thing you could help us with…’
‘Fire away.’
‘Did anyone think to check Norquay’s phone records?’
Kelly considered for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose it ever came up. The guy killed himself; there wasn’t anything you’d describe as an “investigation”. What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’
‘Just wondering what took him to the block of flats… the straw that broke the camel’s back…’
‘I suppose I could ask the widow.’
‘Or give us her details and we’ll do it,’ Fox suggested. There was silence on the line. ‘Mark? You there?’
‘You don’t think he jumped,’ Kelly stated.
‘Chances are, that’s exactly what he did, but with this thing in Edinburgh…’
‘How are the two connected?’
‘Again, I’m not sure they are…’
‘But they might be.’ It was statement rather than question. Kelly exhaled noisily, causing static on the line. ‘You think we might have missed something?’
‘I’m not trying to score points here…’
‘Okay, look – if I get the info to you, and you do find anything…’
‘We come to you first. That’s not a problem, Mark. How long till you get back to us?’
‘Depends how merry the widow is. Talk to you soon.’
The phone went dead and Fox handed it back to Breck. ‘He thinks we’ll try to throw some custard in Tayside’s face.’
‘It might come to that,’ Breck said.
Fox nodded. ‘But if so, he wants to be the one to break the news.’
‘Wouldn’t do his career any harm. Did he say how long we’d have to wait?’
Fox shook his head.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I think I’m going to go home.’
‘I can run you.’
Fox shook his head again. ‘The walk will do me good. I’m sure you’ll want an hour or two on your game.’ He wafted his hand over the top of the computer.
‘Funny thing is,’ Breck told him, ‘it’s lost some of its appeal, now the real world’s turned more interesting…’
Friday 20 February 2009
24
Next morning at eleven a.m., Fox had a meeting with Linda Dearborn. There was no resemblance to her brother – she was petite and fizzing with energy, and her outfit would have had church ministers walking into lamp posts. The miniskirt was pleated, the bare, tanned legs reaching all the way down to pale-brown cowboy boots. Beneath her suede jacket she wore a blouse with the first four buttons undone, showing ample bronzed cleavage. Just a hint of make-up, and straw-blonde shoulder-length hair.