Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Trail of 

GREED

John Dysart

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by John Dysart

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The right of John Dysart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN 978-1-909300-19-4

Published by The Choir Press, Gloucester

To my mother, father and Jud – and anyone else  who recognises bits of themselves.

About the author

John Dysart was born in Fife and graduated from St Andrews University with an MA in Economics and Politics. After qualifying as a Chartered Accountant in Glasgow he pursued a career in Europe working for various international companies. He spent the last fifteen years working as an independent consultant before turning to writing. This is his first novel. He currently lives in France.

Chapter 1

A knock on the door at three o’clock in the afternoon of a fresh Thursday in May.

“Now who the hell could that be?” I thought to myself, slightly annoyed at being disturbed from my reading. I put my book down on the table at the side of my armchair, levered myself reluctantly upright, cursing my bad back, and went to open the door.

I wasn’t expecting anybody. I very seldom had callers now – unless it was Mrs. Clark from next door with some delicacy that she had baked that morning.

I could see no one through the smoked glass panel in my front door and wondered, for an instant, if it was some kids playing tricks. The old prank of ringing the doorbells of elderly people living alone and then running off up the street had not yet died out. In a way I was glad. I’d done it myself as a boy and, annoying as it was, I reckoned it was pretty harmless.

I opened the door. If it was somebody trying to sell me something I was ready to send them packing.

“Yes?” I enquired politely as the door swung back. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you by any chance Mr Robert Bruce?” was the response from a well-dressed man, who looked about my age, standing a few yards back on the path. There was a slightly nervous, enquiring smile on his face.

Neatly dressed in an open-necked shirt and jacket, he had a full head of grey hair, cut short, and a small, slightly bronzed, face lit up by bright brown eyes. About five foot ten, I would guess. He was one of the lucky ones, like me, who had stayed slim with age and didn’t have to worry about how to cope with a paunch which prevented him from seeing anything below waist level.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” The man’s face relaxed into a genuine smile and he thrust out his hand to be shaken. I automatically returned the gesture before I realised that such a greeting was not quite habitual in a small Scottish village in the middle of Fife. The unusualness of the encounter was confirmed by his next words.

“Mr Bruce, my name is Pierre Collard. I am French, as you can probably tell from my accent, and I am over here in Scotland for a visit.”

I could think of nothing suitable to say except “Welcome to Scotland”.

“Thank you.” he replied. “Actually I have been here a few times before but, there are a couple of specific reasons for this particular visit.”

Being naturally friendly, and having assessed him as an interesting-looking character who seemed to pose no danger, I responded amiably.

“How can I help you?” “Mr Bruce, this may seem strange to you, but I am staying just down the road at the Fernie Castle Hotel for a few days. I am travelling on my own and would like to invite you to dinner this evening. Perhaps I can explain to you then?”

That rather took me by surprise and I reflected for an instant. A stranger turns up on the doorstep and invites you out to dinner. Not a very usual scenario.

“If you don’t mind me asking – why me? Do you often knock on people’s doors and invite them out to dinner?”

“To your second question – no.” He smiled. “And to your first question, I have a particular reason – two actually – but I would prefer to explain to you over a good meal. The hotel has an excellent wine list and, as I do know a little bit about you, I thought you might appreciate sharing a bottle of Château Maucaillou with me. Would you be so kind as to accept my invitation?”

“Why not?” I said to myself. He looks like a nice guy and I instinctively accepted. It sounded better than the bridie and peas that I had planned.

“Fine.” I told him. “At what time?” “How about seven thirty?”

“It’ll be a pleasure.” He thanked me for accepting and proffered his hand again by way of a goodbye, returned to his car which he had parked ten yards up the road and, with a wave and a “See you tonight”, he drove off down the main village street.

I watched the car disappear and went back inside, closing the door thoughtfully. It would make a change. He had looked pleasant and interesting and I genuinely enjoyed meeting new people. There was always something to be learned from anybody, no matter whom. It was a philosophy I had had all my life and I didn’t see why I should drop it just because I was “getting on a bit”.

My life for the last three years had been a quiet process of adjusting to the solitude of widowhood. That knock on the door was about to change all that and add to it a dimension that I would never have imagined.

After thirty-nine years of a very happy marriage, my wife Liz had passed away suddenly from a totally unexpected stroke. The following six months had been very difficult as I had had to adjust to the immediate loneliness and the prospect of a solitary retirement. Life can deal some pretty nasty blows.

Our son Callum had made his life in Australia and we had had no other children. So I had eventually sold the big house in Stirling and returned to my roots – the Howe of Fife. I now lived in a perfectly comfortable little cottage (minimum upkeep) in the tiny village of Letham and had slid into a calm, but reasonably satisfactory, rhythm of life suitable to a fairly fit sixty-seven year old. I had my books, the garden, my golf course was only five miles away and there were plenty of other great places to play within an hour’s drive. I wasn’t complaining but I have to admit to a little boredom from time to time.

I tried to return to my biography of Talleyrand but couldn’t concentrate. M. Pierre Collard clearly knew who I was and he had announced two reasons for his trip. I had no real connection with France apart from a few camping holidays when Callum had been young and, after he had grown up and gone off to conquer the world, a few golfing weekends in Brittany and Normandy. I spoke a bit of the language but that was all. I pondered over this for a while but soon came to the conclusion that there was no way on earth that I was going to guess what this was all about. I’d have to wait until the evening.