A Quiet Death (3 page)

'Are you indeed?' The station-master stared at him doubtfully. 'You don't look like one, if you'll forgive me saying so,' he added in tones of ill-concealed sarcasm.

Faro drew out his wallet. 'My card, sir.'

The man's eyes bulged as he read. 'Oh, sir, my apologies. Of course I've heard of Detective Inspector Faro. You're quite famous.'

Faro smiled. 'Then perhaps you will trust me to take care of your prisoner.'

'Indeed I will. He won't escape from you.' McGowan was still weeping abjectly as Faro took his arm gently and led him to the only shelter, a somewhat inhospitable waiting-room. Its only furnishings besides a couple of slatted wooden benches were a few faded posters urging travel by railway. But the alluring sylvan scenes they depicted were not to be found, he suspected, anywhere outside the artist's vivid imagination.

Suddenly McGowan gripped Faro's arm. 'How can I ever thank you, sir. The scandal—after losing our lad—my wife's been in a poor way ever since, and I fear it would have finished her.'

Faro consulted his watch. It seemed unlikely that Vince would appear now. He had some time before his train and he was curious. 'Would you care to tell me about it?'

'You won't let them put me inside, will you, Inspector?'

The man before him seemed less like a potential murderer than anyone he had ever met. 'I don't think that will be necessary.'

'Wilfred Deane murdered my laddie.'

'Is he of the Deane Enterprises family?'

'He is that. He runs the show now that his old grandfather Sir Arnold is past it.'

'I see. Begin at the beginning, if you please, Mr McGowan.'

'We are from the Highlands, Inverness way. I was dominie there and Charlie was our only lad. Twelve years married, we had given up all hope of a family when he was born, the bairn of our old age you might call him. From when he was a wee boy he was clever. We scrimped and saved to put him through the University at St Andrews. He graduated with flying colours a couple of years ago and went to Deane's. He was in their finance department.

'This was right at the beginning of their contract for the Tay Bridge and he seemed to be happy at first, enjoying his work. He married Mary, his childhood sweetheart, and they seemed like two turtle doves.

'Then the last time they came to visit us, he was different. Silent, worried-looking, like he had something on his mind and was about to tell us. A week later, Charlie came alone. The manager of his office, an elderly bachelor called Simms who had been with the firm for years and had been very kind to Charlie and Mary, had been dismissed. Deane's said he was dishonest, but Charlie didn't believe that for a moment. Simms had told him that he had been suspicious of the finances for some time and was carrying on a private investigation into the firm's dealings.'

McGowan paused. 'Those were his exact words. Almost the last words he ever spoke to me and I shall remember them to my dying day.'

As he listened. Faro wondered what on earth had led him to befriend this stranger. The scent of a mystery—or was it instinct, combined with an odd compassion for the bereaved father and a spontaneous dislike of Wilfred Deane?

With a painful sigh, McGowan continued, 'Two days later, we read in the papers that Simms had been visiting the bridge and had been hit by a falling girder. He had died instantly.'

He was silent for a moment before continuing, his eyes welling with tears as he spoke. 'We expected Charlie and Mary for supper that night and when they didn't appear, my wife was alarmed and sent me to the office next morning. I was informed that Charlie had failed to show up. I went to their home, but they weren't there. Everything put away neat and tidy, but no papers, nothing personal, not even their wedding photograph.'

He shook his head. 'I didn't want to alarm the wife, she's in poor health as I told you. It was just as if they had gone off on holiday and hadn't told us. I wish to God that had been the way of it. Three days later, the police came and said my laddie's body had been washed up at the Ferry.'

'What about his wife, Mary?'

McGowan looked at him slowly, shook his head. 'She's never been seen again. We've been in touch with her folks, we've notified the police, but it's as if she's vanished from the face of the earth.' He paused. 'I fear the worst. She's been done away with too.'

'Come now, Mr McGowan, let's not be too hasty in jumping to conclusions.'

The policeman in Faro hinted that if murder was involved then it was more likely that young McGowan had done away with his wife and committed suicide, the familiar pattern of the
crime passionel
.

As if he read Faro's thoughts, McGowan leaped to his feet. 'Hasty, is it? My son was a good Catholic, human life was sacred to him. His own and anyone else's. As for Simms, the way I look at it, his accident was arranged too, like my laddie's. They both died because of what Simms had found out. And Wilfred Deane murdered them.'

It was a shocking story. Though exaggerated by McGowan's despair, Faro wondered if there might be some grain of truth in it.

'You can easily find out if I'm speaking the truth, Inspector, the police at Dundee have all the details.'

Faro nodded vigorously. 'I will certainly do that. You have my word, Mr McGowan.' And as a shrill whistle indicated the arrival of the Perth train. 'Not that I don't believe you,' he added hastily, 'rather that I do and I want to help you if I possibly can. Let me have your address.' Watching McGowan scribble it on a piece of paper. Faro said: 'I will do this on one condition only.'

'And what is that, Inspector? I have very little money.'

'I don't want your money. Only your solemn promise that you will refrain from molesting Wilfred Deane any further. For if you are arrested and charged, it will be a serious offence and I cannot guarantee to help you. Do you understand?'

McGowan smiled and held out his hand. 'I give you my word, the solemn oath of a Highland gentleman. I swear to God that I will never again take the law into my own hands regarding Wilfred Deane. I leave it to the Almighty—and you, sir, to deliver him to justice.'

As Faro emerged on to the platform, McGowan saluted him; 'I will take my leave by the side gate,' he whispered. 'I would rather not encounter the station-master alone.' And as the Perth train steamed in: 'I can never thank you enough, Inspector. You have given me new hope.'

Searching the platform with one last despairing glance for Vince, Faro nodded briefly and boarded the train. Settling back in his seat, he realised that McGowan's fearful story had put him in the right state of mind to conjure up a whole volume of sinister reasons for his stepson's non-arrival.

Vince was always so reliable. Why then had he failed to meet the train?

The guard had already waved his flag when a young lad came panting along the platform yelling: 'Mr Faro? Mr Faro?' Faro leaned out of the carriage. 'Over here.' The train was gathering steam. 'I have a message for you. From Dundee,' he shouted breathlessly, thrusting a piece of paper into Faro's hand. 'There's been an accident.'

Chapter 3

There was no possibility of leaving the train now.

Faro sank back into his seat and thanked God that the note was scribbled in Vince's familiar hand.

'I am urgently needed at the Infirmary. Will meet you for luncheon tomorrow at the Glamis Hotel (opposite the railway station).'

As the countryside chugged past the windows, Faro felt he had plenty to keep his mind occupied after his conversation with McGowan. He had given his word to the boy's father. Without stirring any troubled waters with the Dundee City Police, he could make a few discreet enquiries into the death of Charlie McGowan, and his young wife's disappearance. He could verify that Simms' death had been accidental.

A strange ugly business, with some decidedly sinister undertones. As the unfinished bridge retreated into the distance, Faro decided that if there was indeed corruption and fraud within Deane Enterprises and they were supplying the building materials, then a lot more lives of innocent unsuspecting people might be at hazard.

The journey to Errol was mercifully short. He was met by Tom Elgin, limping across the platform. A former constable with the Edinburgh City Police, Tom had been injured in a riot in the Grassmarket and no longer fit for active service had returned to Angus to become gamekeeper to the aristocratic family his forebears had served for generations.

To a man whose daily dealings were with violent death, the passing of a ninety-year-old who slips peacefully away in his bed at the end of a long and happy life was an occasion for gladness rather than bleak despair.

The wake included a great deal of food and a considerable number of drams to speed Will Gray on his way. Truth to tell, Faro was in no fit condition to return to Dundee or anywhere else for that matter, even if a late train had existed. He was readily persuaded to stay the night with Tom.

'The funeral? More like a reunion with old friends,' he told Vince when they met next day in the Glamis Hotel.

'So it would appear,' said Vince whose amused glance took in his stepfather's somewhat shattered appearance. 'Well, I take it that you received my letter,' he added shyly.

'I did indeed. My heartiest congratulations, lad. This is great news.'

'I thought you would be pleased.'

'And when am I to have the pleasure of meeting your fiancé?'

'Even at this moment, she is waiting to receive us. Come along, Stepfather. The hall porter will get us a cab.'

As they waited in the foyer, Vince asked: 'How was your journey from Edinburgh?'

'A nightmare, as usual,' said Faro huffily. 'The sooner they get that bridge finished the better.'

'Oh, we're coming on,' said Vince cheerfully as the cab arrived and from its windows they surveyed the skeleton of the bridge with its still wide central gap.

'Any fool can see that the joining of those two piers from Wormit to Dundee is nowhere in sight,' said Faro. 'They're certainly taking their time about it.'

'Oh, I gather there have been plenty of complications—and still are.'

'Such as?' demanded Faro eagerly.

Vince shrugged. 'Too long to go into at the moment.'

'Hmphh,' said Faro and peering out he added: 'Doesn't look very substantial to me.'

Rumours had reached the Central Office and filtered through the popular press of terrible accidents and of the wild war waged between the Caledonian and the North British Railways over monopoly rights.

Tom Elgin had told him that the city of Perth had been far from pleased, jealous that the bridge might diminish their own river trade. And now he had also received, at first hand, hints of sinister goings-on from McGowan.

'Will it ever be strong or safe enough to carry a train, I wonder?'

'Safe as houses or, as they advertise, sound as Deane's,' was Vince's reply. 'The fact that they secured the contract puts a rather different complexion on the matter. Deane's stand for respectability and honest dealings.'

'Sound as Deane's' had been a familiar phrase in Dundee for the past fifty years, ever since Sir Arnold Deane had set a new fashion of combining expertise in finance with compassion for his employees. His boast was: 'We are all brothers here, all one big family.'

'Incidentally, Stepfather, Sir Arnold is a patient of mine,' Vince added casually.

'Congratulations, lad.' And in view of that information, Faro had second thoughts. He would keep McGowan's story to himself meanwhile. Indeed it had become more extraordinary and unbelievable over the last twenty-four hours. Was he wasting his sympathies on a madman?

As if in confirmation of his thoughts Vince said: 'Deane's are into everything these days, Stepfather. Sometimes one would think they had invented the word progress. And the good thing is that in their case, everyone benefits by their prosperity.'

Faro looked out of the window and discovered they were now following the Monifieth Road, alongside the river east of Dundee. On the steep hills rising to the left perched the elegant handsome mansions built by the jute lords.

'Where are we heading, lad?' he demanded curiously.

Vince smiled. 'Deane Hall.'

'
The
Deane Hall?'

'The same,' said Vince with a grin.

Glancing sideways at Vince he noted his air of suppressed excitement. 'Home of the Sir Arnold, Baron of Broughty Ferry, who is a patient of yours?'

'Excellent, Stepfather, excellent,' said Vince.

'Vince, is there something you have forgotten to tell me?'

'Not forgotten, just hadn't time to go into it. Didn't know whether you would approve. Rachel is the Deane heiress—'

'Rachel—the young lady you are to marry?'

'Of course.' Observing his stepfather's expression he added, 'Oh Lord, did I not even tell you her name?'

'You omitted that vital clue. But please proceed...'

'Rachel inherits next month when she comes of age. She is Sir Arnold's only grandchild.'

'Well, well, you have done well for yourself, lad. First the resident doctor and then the heiress's husband,' said Faro with a smile.