Chapter 73 #2
Captain Sleazy, of the Good Ship LustYacht, stood with his back to the room, one buttock perched on the boardroom table, looking out over the storage yard of the drilling services company opposite.
Dressed in chinos, deck shoes, and a dark-blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
Phone to his ear, head waggling as he talked.
‘Yeah . . . . No, I was thinking of asking you to join me for a weekend’s sailing.
Pick up a couple of lobsters in Cromarty, and head out for champagne and sunbathing.
’ Too wrapped up in his call to notice that Mandy had opened the door and ushered Logan and Steel into the room.
Nick Wilson was either cripplingly insecure or in possession of a towering ego, because the whole boardroom was plastered with photos of him shaking hands with various local and national bigwigs. He’d even managed to cram in a TV star or six, though most of them barely qualified as D-list.
He threw his head back and laughed, as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. ‘Trust me, Jennifer, you haven’t lived till you’ve skinnydipped off a six-berth yacht by moonlight . . . . Uh-huh . . . . Uh-huh . . .’
Mandy rapped her knuckles on the door frame, voice raised and sharp as a scythe. ‘Nick? That’s your wife on line one.’
Nick Wilson froze. Then gave a slightly more strangled version of the same laugh. ‘What? . . . No. No, just someone having a joke. You know what we’re like at NorrelTech,’ turning to glare at the receptionist, ‘one big happy family . . .’
His eyes widened as he took in Logan and Steel’s Police Scotland uniforms. ‘Look, I gotta go, Jennifer. Speak soon, OK? OK . . . . Bye.’
Mandy beamed at him. ‘And these nice officers are here to see you. Again.’ She checked her watch. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got Colin from Flarewell coming at ten.’ Then swept from the room like a glorious malevolent monster.
Nick Wilson glared after her, but as soon as the door clicked shut, he was all smiles and handshakes.
‘Sorry about Mandy, she can be a bit . . . feisty at times. How can I help you guys?’ Waving at the chairs.
‘Sit, sit. Can I get you tea? Coffee? Of course I can, hold on.’ He leaned over and poked at the starfish-shaped conference-phone in the middle of the table – ignoring the flashing red light. Which was probably ‘line one’.
The starfish bleeped.
‘Yeah, Mandy? It’s Nick in the boardroom – pot of Earl Grey, and a plate of the good biscuits, OK?’ Clearly trying to exert his authority after she’d scuppered his chances of getting ‘Jennifer’ to shiver his timbers.
A sigh hissed out of the speaker. ‘Could you not’ve—’
‘Cheers.’ He hung up and rubbed his hands at Logan. ‘So . . .?’
‘You appear to have a very active social life, Mr Wilson.’
‘If this is about those outstanding parking tickets, I’ve had words with the staff. Told them: “The company’s not here to pick up your—”’
‘Natasha Agapova.’
Nick Wilson bit his lip. Took a little breath. ‘Natasha . . . ? Like I told your coughing colleague yesterday: doesn’t ring a bell.’ Smile. Shrug. ‘Sorry.’
So much for Marky MacDonald’s investigative skills.
‘Really? Her name’s been plastered over every newspaper in the country. On the TV. Radio?’
‘Wish I could help you, but—’
‘I know what might jog your memory: you sat next to her at the SME charity-auction ball, on Monday night.’
‘Did I? . . . I meet so many people at these things, it’s hard to—’
‘And then you called her home number using a burner phone – presumably so your wife doesn’t find out – and left a message inviting Ms Agapova to a champagne picnic on your yacht.’ Logan produced his own phone, holding it up. ‘I can play you the call, if you like?’
‘Ah . . .’ Nick Wilson licked his lips. Then fiddled with the top button of his shirt.
Keeping his eyes on the tabletop. ‘You have to understand that Cindy and I have an arrangement. I mean, it’s not an open marriage, but it .
. . What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
’ He cleared his throat, then tried on that smile of his.
‘And what’s the point of having a yacht if you can’t invite pretty women onboard for a bit of fun, right? It doesn’t mean anything.’
Steel stared at him, voice flat. ‘Oh, you think so, aye?’
Logan gave her a warning look, then turned back to Nick The Prick. ‘Where were you, Monday night – after the ball. The truth.’
‘I . . . went home?’ He held up his hands. ‘Ask Dougie! See, I knew there’d be drink involved. You know, you have to entertain clients, and no one likes a sober-sides tosser at these things. So I got Dougie to drive me there, wait, and drive me straight home after.’
Silence.
Nick Wilson fiddled with his shirt buttons again. ‘Ask him! He’s out back, washing the vans.’
Logan let the silence grow.
‘OK, OK: maybe not straight home. We might’ve . . .’ An ingratiating smile. ‘I know this is going to sound a bit creepy-stalkery, but we followed Natasha’s taxi for a bit. Not far! Just . . . I was, you know, thinking maybe she’d change her mind when she got my message. Ask me in for a nightcap.’
More silence.
‘She didn’t, all right? And I was tired. So Dougie dropped me off at home. The end.’
Logan didn’t even blink.
‘Ask him!’
‘Oh, don’t worry. We will.’