'What have you got for me, Jack?' Dan Pringle's heavy moustache bristled as he looked across at his sergeant.
McGurk laid a folder on the Superintendent's desk. 'Mr Luke Heard, sir. Age forty-four, senior partner of the firm of Paris Simons; married, wife's name Gwendoline, nee MacDonald, one daughter aged seventeen and two sons, aged fourteen and twelve. Educated at George Watson's and Edinburgh University; the kids are all at Watson's too. He's a member of the New Club, Drumsheugh Baths Club, Edinburgh Sports Club, and the Merchant Company of Edinburgh.
'His salary at Paris Simons is one hundred and seventy thousand pounds per annum; in addition, as an equity partner he shares in profits. As well as his involvement with the firm, he holds non-executive directorships in a few firms in which he's invested. One's a software development house in Livingston, another's a design consultancy, and a third specialises in the disposal of clinical waste.
'He's also chairman of a company called Linton Heritable Trust; it's an investment vehicle based in Liechtenstein owned by a man called Dominic Jackson.
'Heard's last tax return declared total income of four hundred and ninety-one thousand pounds.'
'Fuckin' hell,' Pringle growled.
'Well put, sir. Yet he's not as wealthy as he should be. His pension's healthy but his house is still mortgaged, and looking at his bank accounts he isn't as cash rich as you'd expect. Our Mr Heard's a bit of a gambler; he goes to the casino out at Maybury quite a bit. He isn't a big loser, but he's consistently in the red.
'He told the manager there that his ambition was to be very rich and retired by the time he was fifty. If the Golden Crescent deal had gone through, that would have realised it for him.'
The Superintendent nodded. 'Aye, he must really have been pissed off with Shearer.' He frowned. 'This man Dominic Jackson; what do we know about him?'
A slow, slightly smug, grin spread over the Sergeant's face. 'That's where it gets really interesting, sir. I asked the police national computer that very same question, and it came up with only one answer. Dominic Jackson is an alias of one Leonard Plenderleith, currently resident in HM Prison, Shotts, serving three consecutive life sentences.
Pringle seemed to sit bolt upright. 'Big Lennie Plenderleith! Tony Manson's minder!'
'Manson's heir, sir. When Terrible Tony was murdered, he left Plenderleith all his offshore cash; it's still there, untouchable, and it's growing. Heard visits him in Shotts every three months with investment reports.'
'For his sake, I hope they're good.'
'They are, sir. Big Lennie directs the investments himself; he's very conservative and he gets a good growth rate.'
'How did you find that out?'
'The Governor of Shotts told me; he and Plenderleith are on friendly terms.'
'What else did he tell you about him?'
'Quite a lot,' said McGurk. 'For a start, he said that he's bought a hell of a lot of equipment for the inmates. Not just pool tables and tellys but PCs with educational programmes. He's also set up a hardship fund, for inmates with family problems. He provides the money and the Governor deals with applications for assistance.
'In the nick, big Lennie is a god. After what he did for Tony Manson, he's held in a sort of awe, and even the hardest guys in there are terrified of him. Yet he rarely speaks to the other inmates, and when he does, it's usually to put a stop to potential trouble. If anyone has a grievance they can go to him and he'll raise it with the Governor, but he will not allow any nonsense. He's working towards the day, in ten years or so, maybe less, when the Parole Board comes to review his sentence, and he wants to be sure that when it does, no-one has a bad word to say about him.
'So he studies… he's on the verge of a PhD in criminology… he writes… his first novel's due out in two months… and he works out in the gym. The only people who ever visit him are Heard, his lawyer and his accountant… oh, and occasionally, DCC Skinner.'
'… who locked him up in the first place,' Pringle muttered. He looked at McGurk. 'Jack, are you trying to tell me that big Lennie could have had Howard Shearer killed as a favour to Heard?'
The tall Sergeant shook his head. 'From what I've been told, that's unlikely; Plenderleith's still a relatively young man, and he's far too clever to jeopardise his future by doing something like that. But maybe, maybe inadvertently, he mentioned a name to Heard during one of their meetings, a name from his past, who might be up to something like that.'
'Maybe,' Pringle conceded. 'Do Heard's bank accounts show any unexplained cash payments to anyone?'
'They show cash withdrawals, sir, but he's a gambler, remember. If he did hire someone, he could have paid him out of winnings and we'd have a hell of a job proving it.'
'That's true. Tell me something Jack. Do you fancy Heard for this?'
'Who else have we got, sir?'
'True, but… If there's one thing I've learned in my thirty-something years in this job it's never to trust it if it's too fucking easy.
'So, son, you're going to have to do this the hard way for a while. Have you got that tail on Heard?'
McGurk nodded. 'Ray Wilding's watching him now' 'Good. You get out there and join him. Follow the bugger to the toilet, even. Meantime I'd better speak to the Boss about his pal, big Lennie.'