"Surprise me," he grunted. "I've just checked the electoral roll. The voter listed there is Miss Susan Gantry: no one's ever changed it. I've checked BT and the cable phone company too. No subscriber listed. But that's not so rare these days."
I heard myself sigh into my collar mike. I tell you, among the many changes it has wrought in our society, the mobile phone has made things a bloody sight more difficult for private detectives.
"He's a cunning bastard," I muttered. "I'll let you know if I get anything from my next call."
I arrived knowing three things about Largs; it's the Millport ferry terminal, the Scottish Sports Council has a centre there, and it has a very famous ice-cream shop. The office of Murphy and Woolfson was as easy to find as Greg had predicted. I parked the Lotus with the hood up… it's always windy on the Clyde coast… walked across the street, looked for the blue and white Legal Aid logo and spotted it three doors down. A quick look at the brass plate and I knew I had hit the spot.
I had ten minutes to kill before my appointment with the lawyer, so I strolled along to Nardini's and had an ice-cream. That hit the spot too. I resolved that whenever I could, I would bring my family there.
Maybe we'd cross to Millport as well; no harm in giving wee Janet and her brother a taste for the high life from the start.
The office of Murphy and Woolfson was on the first floor, above a bank, as so many Scots lawyers' premises seem to be. It was in the Maltbie mode rather than McPhillips, but slightly less dusty. I guessed the sea breezes discouraged cobwebs, even in legal chambers.
There were two desks in the reception area, but one was unattended.
There was a girl behind the other; I couldn't describe her as a woman, for she didn't look more than fourteen. "Work experience?" I asked.
She nodded, blushing; the kid couldn't take her eyes off me, so I guessed Mr. More's cover was blown.
"I've got an appointment with Mr. Woolfson," I told her. "Or was it Mr. Murphy?"
"There is no Mr. Murphy," she burst out.
I smiled at her candour, and as I did, the driver of the other desk came into the room. She was a woman, and no mistake; tall, busty, dark-haired, and just about old enough to have been the kid's mother, or aunt, for I thought I saw a likeness about the eyes.
"Mr. More?" she began, but with not a flash of recognition.
I nodded. "I called you a while back."
"Yes, I'm Nancy Macintosh. Mr. Woolfson's free now." She headed back towards the door.
As I made to follow, the youngster let slip an "Eh?" I turned back, and read her question in her eyes, for I had seen it countless times before. Without a word, I picked up a sheet of headed notepaper from a pile in one of her trays, autographed it and handed it to her. As I did so, I glanced at the heading and saw only one name listed. There never had been a Mr. Murphy either, I bet myself.
The whole exchange only took a couple of seconds; Ms Macintosh had been watching, and looked puzzled, but said nothing. I followed her into the hall to a half-glazed door. She opened it and I stepped inside.
Maynard Woolfson was a small man, with a hook nose and black crinkly hair that managed to look younger than the rest of him, which I guessed had to be at least fifty.
"Mr. More," he said, as we shook hands.
"I'm afraid not. He couldn't come. I'm Oz Blackstone."
He blinked and looked at me again. "Of course you are," he exclaimed.
If I had a shekel for every time that's been said to me, I'd be richer than all the lawyers in Ayrshire… but then again, maybe I am anyway.
"How can I help you?"
"I'm on a detective mission, Mr. Woolfson. That used to be my day job, and I just can't get away from it."
He looked at me with a non-committal expression in his eyes. I'd seen that before too; it's the one lawyers, bankers, and those millions these days who hide, rightly or wrongly, behind the Data Protection Act, give you before the shutters come down.
"A little while ago, you acted in the purchase of an apartment in a block in Glasgow. The vendor was the Gantry Group, and your client was the Glentruish Trust. You signed on its behalf. I need to contact the principal of that trust, but I have no idea who he or she is."
"Why not just call on them?"
"I want to know on whom I'm calling."
"Check BT then, or NTL."
"Have done; it didn't help."
Woolfson ran his fingers through his hair: I waited for that shutter to fall, but it didn't. "Then I don't know if I can. The fact is, I have no idea myself who the principal of the Glentruish Trust is."
"Someone must have instructed you, surely."
"That's true, someone did, but it was another firm of solicitors. The Glentruish Trust goes back to them, and through them to another vehicle, the Casamayor Trust, this one registered in Douglas, in the Isle of Man. You'll be aware that that is outside UK jurisdiction, like the Channel Islands. I set up and registered Glentruish with funds it provided, then used it as a vehicle to purchase the property in question from the Gantry Group. As trust administrator I pay the council tax on the property, the electricity, service charge and so on.
And I concede to you that if there is a BT phone in use at that address, I know nothing of it."
"So how do I go about cracking the Casamayor Trust? Catch a plane to the Isle of Man?"
"You may have to eventually, but I can help you on the way." He hesitated, fretting as if he was out of his comfortable depth. "Your visit isn't a complete bolt from the blue. I had a call this morning from the Casamayor Trust administrator. He said that it was possible someone would visit me with questions about Glentruish. Until now, my instructions have always been to cite client confidence and say nothing at all, but I've been advised that in the light of changed circumstances I can refer you up the chain."
"Changed circumstances?"
"That was the phrase that was used. It puzzled me, I admit. I wonder if the ultimate beneficiary of this chain of trusts might be deceased."
That thought had crossed my mind too, but I reckoned that if the Three Bears had offed the mystery man, Natalie Morgan wouldn't have left the place alive either.
"Whatever the circumstances," Woolfson continued, 'if you wish for further information, you should consult the Casamayor representative.
You'll have to go to Edinburgh for that, I'm afraid. His name is Wylie H Smith and he's a partner in the firm of Kendall McGuire." ' Well, well' I thought. "Even suppose I was the sort of gullible sod who believes that all life is governed by a chain of coincidences, I still wouldn 't buy into that one'
Thirty -Eight.
This time I didn't bother to phone ahead to arrange an appointment. I put the pedal down, let the Lotus express itself in the single carriage way road back to the motorway, then creamed it through to Edinburgh. I didn't waste time calling Ricky; anyway, I wanted to do this job myself.
From my days of anonymity as a private enquiry agent, I knew where all the city solicitors were based, including Kendall McGuire, although they were one of the few big players I hadn't worked for.
Edinburgh's a real swine of a place to park, even in something as manoeuvrable as my two-seater, but my destination was in the West End, in one of the big circular places where there were always more private homes than offices, so I found a bay without too much difficulty, even though it was forty minutes after midday.
The Kendall McGuire office had a secure main door, which had to be unlocked by the receptionist pressing a switch beneath her desk. I wasn't sure whether its purpose was to keep the clients in or out, but she didn't ask who I was through the intercom before letting me in, so I guessed that it must be the former.