Acts & Monuments

by Alan Kane Fraser

  He was roused at 6.45am by the sound of the recycling-collection lorry arriving in his street. He got out of bed and looked through a small gap in the curtains to see it stop a few doors from his house. A team of men in hi-vis tops got out of the lorry and spread across the street, collecting the recycling bins and bringing them back to the lorry. Sure enough, one of the men casually grabbed Barry’s recycling bin and emptied its contents into the back of the truck. He then tossed the bin back in the vague direction of Barry’s lawn.

  That was it. It was all gone. All of the paperwork that could alert someone to the existence of Chris Malford’s bank account was now not only shredded but hopelessly mixed up with the recycling of hundreds – possibly thousands – of households from Walmley and beyond. No one would ever know – and even if they suspected, they could never prove – that Christian Malford’s bank account details had ever been in Barry’s possession.

  Thirteen

  Barry quickly bolted down a bowlful of cereal and headed into work. His lack of sleep meant he was tired, but there was something about what he was intending to do that, conversely, made him feel wide awake. He arrived shortly after 8am, so the office was still largely empty – the ideal time to photocopy the invoice, Barry thought. The photocopier on the ground floor was next to Jean’s desk, but, thankfully, she had not yet arrived at work, so Barry quickly slid his handiwork into the feeder tray and pressed the copy button. He grabbed both the amended original invoice and the copy, and slipped them into a folder, just as he noticed Jean, huddled inside a practical waterproof against the early morning rain outside, coming through the reception area and into the office.

  “Morning, Barry. You’re in early.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve got plenty to do,” he said. “I assume Langley’s explained that he’s asked me to look after the team for a couple of weeks?”

  “Yes, Angela sent an email round yesterday. It’ll be nice to work with you again.” Then she fixed Barry with her piercing stare and asked, “But what about you? How was your weekend?”

  “Fine. My daughter came home from university. It’s always nice to see her. And you?”

  “Oh, just church stuff, y’know,” she said, placing her coat on the back of her chair.

  Actually, Barry didn’t know. He’d known Jean long enough to know that she went to church, but he’d never quite plucked up the courage to ask her about it. To Barry, going to church was rather like being a naturist – it was the kind of hobby that the people who had it were incredibly proud of and wanted to explain to everyone, whereas everyone else just regarded it as embarrassing. He was not minded, therefore, to explore her ecclesial interests any further. He also recognised that he was holding a doctored invoice, which Jean had just seen him photocopy. A small bead of nervous sweat formed on the fringes of Barry’s hairline and ambled down his temple toward his cheek. He decided that, under the circumstances, it would be safest to make his excuses and leave.

  Barry needed to make sure that his amended invoice to The SHYPP was posted out and that it wasn’t duplicated by the legitimate invoice that would no doubt be produced by Saleema at some point, so he headed over to the finance team to see if Saleema had arrived at work yet.

  Saleema had indeed arrived. “I am so sorry Barry, but I couldn’t get your invoice out before Ruth stopped me issuing them.”

  “I understand. It’s not a problem.”

  “But I can issue it now, if you’re happy it’s correct. Did you check the PDF I sent through?”

  “Yes. It’s fine. You just need to change the payment details.”

  “Oh, of course! Thanks for reminding me. Ruth says we have to post out all invoices, but do you want me to send a copy by email too? Just to hurry things up?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Barry quickly. “Sally won’t pay any attention to it anyway – she’s old school. She’ll want it in an envelope before she pays it.”

  Sending out emails was free, so fraudsters could send out thousands knowing that it only took one hard-pressed accounts assistant to rush through a payment for them to be in profit. Conversely, the sheer cost of sending out invoices by post meant that fraudsters would probably be out of pocket even if two or three people paid. So Sally deleted any invoices she received by email and was adamant that if suppliers wanted paying they would have to ensure that she received an invoice through the post.

  Saleema amended the payment details on her system, printed off the invoice and slipped it into an envelope. “I’ll send it out with the post tonight,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll slip it into the post room for you,” said Barry.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ve practically got to walk past it anyway, so it’s no bother.”

  “Oh, thank you, Barry. You are a saint.”

  Barry smiled. But he noticed, perhaps for the first time, that he didn’t feel like one.

  He made his way down to the post room. He removed the legitimate invoice from the envelope that Saleema had given him and inserted his amended invoice in its place. Then he dropped the envelope into the “Post – OUT” tray, where it would be franked with Monument’s logo and sent out as normal with the rest of the post. He then ran the legitimate invoice and the one with Chris Malford’s bank details glued on through the shredder, and returned to his desk.

  Barry felt a strange sense of exhilaration as he walked back through the familiar office. He felt – and it sounded like a cliché even as he said it to himself – more alive. That first rousing from his slumbers that he’d felt as he’d walked out of Chris Malford’s flat with the box file was now amplified. He was awake now, wide awake. And he hadn’t even realised that he’d been asleep.

  Fourteen

  Barry headed back to his desk, where he was greeted by Taneesha. “There’s a woman in reception asking for you. She says it’s important. I didn’t get the name, sorry! But it sounded foreign.”

  Barry suspected that it was Iulia. His fear was that she was going to tell him that she couldn’t keep up her payments, but when he arrived at the reception desk it wasn’t Iulia who was waiting for him.

  “Hallo, Mr Todd,” his visitor said in the same clipped Slavic tones. “My name is Teodora Oprea.” She offered him her hand.

  There was something about her that made Barry nervous. Her cheery tone seemed slightly too forced, and her bleach-blonde hair, white leather jacket and white patent-leather shoes didn’t quite convey the air of professionalism that she clearly intended. Barry eyed her warily as he introduced himself and invited her to explain the purpose of her visit.

  “You will know, of course, that the changes in benefit rules have had a big impact on many EU nationals and I am aware that some are now facing eviction,” Teodora said, her breath whispering softly of cigarettes and spearmint gum.

  Her English was certainly better than Iulia’s, but Barry sensed an anxiety in her eyes.

  “I work for an organisation that is seeking to help Romanian migrants who face – how you say? – destitution because of benefit changes.”

  “I see. And how do you think I can help you?”

  “Well, we are very worried to hear that some of your tenants – Romanian tenants – are being told they will be evicted.”

  “I understand your concern Ms Oprea, but you’ve got to understand—”

  “Oh no, I do understand Mr Todd. I am not criticising you. I understand there is nothing you can do, but we are obviously here to try to help them.”

  “Well, I’m happy for you to offer whatever support you can. We’ve got no objection to that. No one wants to evict these people, certainly not me. I’m just not sure how you think—”

  “We are trying to trace a Iulia Nicolescu. We believe she’s one of your tenants? We want to make contact with her, so we can support her. I was hoping you could let me have her contact details, so we can get in t
ouch.”

  Teodora pulled her mouth into a milky smile that somehow omitted to communicate its joy to the rest of her face.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t divulge anything,” Barry replied. “In fact, I can’t even tell you whether she’s one of our tenants. Data protection and all that. Sorry.”

  “Oh, we know she is one of your tenants. We looked through the records of County Court Judgements and saw that you took her to court – to evict her. Of course, we are very concerned by this. And Iulia Nicolescu is a Romanian name, so we are keen to help her, but we do not have her address. It was blanked out in the court papers for some reason, but if you will let me have it, then we can get over to her right away – to start helping her, of course.”

  “It’s great that you want to help,” said Barry nervously, “but even if she is one of our tenants – and, obviously, I can’t confirm that – I couldn’t give you her details without her consent. As I said, it’s data protection.”

  “But we are very keen to help her, Mr Todd,” Teodora insisted. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you giving us her details so we can help her more quickly.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s the rules, I’m afraid. And I can’t break the rules.” Barry felt himself wince.

  Teodora looked at him with real desperation in her eyes. “Please. I need you to give me her details. We are very concerned for her welfare. It is very urgent – perhaps a matter of life and death.”

  The emphasis she placed on the words meant that Barry did not doubt for a moment that it was indeed a matter of life and death, although not perhaps in quite the way that Teodora was suggesting. She turned around and looked nervously over her shoulder. It was only then that Barry noticed the rather battered white Transit van parked outside the front door of Monument’s offices. It was in a disabled parking bay, but when the driver got out in response to Teodora’s nervous glance he appeared to have no obvious disabilities. He was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with short-cropped hair and a sleeve of tattoos down his muscular left arm. His scruffy T-shirt and jeans didn’t seem to be obvious business attire.

  “De ce nu se ia atat de mult timp? Obțineți numai insingerate detalii!” 1 he spat out as he stormed into Monument’s reception area.

  “Ce crezi ca incerc sa fac? Exista reguli ce stiti – nu doar dă-mi-le!” 2 Teodora replied hysterically, her professional demeanour dropping as she turned to face him.

  Barry’s instinct was just to show the two of them the door, but he was worried about what fate might befall Teodora if she was seen to leave the office with nothing. He had to do something to give the impression that she had at least achieved something, even if he was even less inclined to share Iulia’s details with her now than he had been before.

  “Obviously, Ms Oprea, I’m keen to help if I can,” he said. “And it may be that I can speak to my bosses to see if, on this occasion—”

  “That would be very helpful, Mr Todd. Thank you,” Teodora replied, trying to regain her composure.

  “It’s just that I didn’t quite catch who you worked for. If we had a business name, then perhaps we’d be a bit more comfortable bending the rules on this occasion.”

  “Of course, of course, here is my card.” She reached into her clutch bag and pulled out a dog-eared business card that she handed to Barry. It looked as though it had been produced by a schoolchild on an inkjet printer. There was no postal address, landline number or website details; just a Hotmail address and a mobile phone number. And, of course, the name of the organisation.

  “We are the Romanian Migrants Welfare Association. Our details are on the card. You can contact me or Costel, my colleague here.”

  “Thank you,” Barry said. “I’ll be sure to contact you the moment I get clearance from my bosses.”

  It wasn’t intended to be a lie. It was simply a statement designed to give Ms Oprea the opportunity to paint a more hopeful picture to her belligerent ‘colleague’ than was actually the case. The fact was that Barry’s bosses would never give him permission to divulge Iulia’s details without her consent. And Iulia had already been very clear that she did not intend to avail herself of any of the services on offer from the Romanian Migrants Welfare Association. As he returned to his desk, therefore, Barry felt that he had stayed on just the right side of dishonesty.

  But it was a lie – a terrible one. Barry just didn’t know it yet.

  Fifteen

  High on the wall above the administrative bombsite that doubled as Sally Hedges’ desk, a poster demanded that someone, somewhere “Ban the Bedroom Tax!” Sally liked to describe The SHYPP as a “collective community”, but even if that were so (and many disgruntled ex-staff disputed it) it was more akin to Calvin’s Geneva than an Israeli kibbutz. That was why all of The SHYPP’s post had to be brought up to her personally. This, in turn, was why, the following day, it was Sally who opened the invoice from Monument that Barry had so helpfully taken it upon himself to send out on behalf of Saleema.

  She knew before she’d even opened it what it was. It was in a neat, white, windowed envelope with Monument’s logo in the bottom left-hand corner and Monument’s franking mark in the top right. She knew it was about time for the quarterly invoice to come, so it seemed natural to assume that this was it. Sure enough, when she opened the envelope, there was the invoice, as expected, in exactly the same format as it was every quarter.

  A less fastidious chief executive than Sally might have just passed it straight over to Marilyn, the part-time accounts clerk, for processing. But Sally was not that trusting – at least, not of Monument Housing Association. She’d had many run-ins over the years with Monument’s finance team, who seemed to have only the loosest grip on what they should actually be charging her.

  So she went to her filing cabinet and got out the agreed payment schedule, which she then compared with the invoice. Sure enough, in the ‘rent due’ column was the figure £43,836 – exactly the amount she had on her payment schedule – but Sally, being Sally, wasn’t satisfied. Next, she looked at the other figure: “Amount due for repairs carried out 1st June to 30th September 2015 (see attached schedule) – £4,747.”

  Sally immediately turned to the Schedule of Repairs Completed that accompanied the invoice. There she found a list of every single repair that Monument had carried out in the previous quarter, with the exact date on which it had been completed, the number of the room where the repair had been carried out and the precise cost for that repair. Sally insisted that all repairs had to be reported to Monument through The SHYPP, and she kept her very own record of those repairs. So she was able to painstakingly check each of the repairs in her ledger against Monument’s schedule, making sure that no extra jobs had been included.

  Sally also insisted that all works were completed in accordance with the prices set out in the nationally recognised PSA Schedule of Rates. Accordingly, she then took down the schedule of rates from her bookshelf and carefully checked the unit price quoted for each job. They all appeared to have been charged at the correct rate.

  But still it wasn’t enough. So convinced was she that Monument were trying to rob her, that Sally then proceeded to get out her calculator and add up the cost of each job, just to make sure that the total really was £4,747. And, having done that, she then checked that £43,836 plus £4,747 did indeed equal £48,583, as Saleema’s invoice claimed.

  It appeared that it did – so she double-checked it, with the same result. Sally sighed a slightly disappointed sigh. Everything was in order – this time. And so, she reluctantly concluded, there was nothing left to do but to pass the invoice on to Marilyn for payment. But, she consoled herself, at least she could be absolutely sure that she wasn’t being robbed by those crooks at Monument.

  *

  Gemma Rathbone also had a postal delivery that morning. She opened the padded envelope and withdrew a DVD onto which was burnt the CCTV footage from Neville Thom
pson House. She knew she would have to convince Molloy that the footage demonstrated that there was something worth investigating, so she composed herself for a moment before sidling up to her colleague. Molloy was sitting at his desk, with a small castle of case files piled up around his computer, trying to draft an argument that would convince the Crown Prosecution Service to prosecute a rather awkward domestic-violence case they were working on. His fat fingers looked oddly out of place daintily tapping on a computer keyboard.

  “I’ve been thinking…” Gemma said.

  “Oh aye, that’s always a dangerous thing. Hur hur.”

  Gemma decided to ignore Molloy’s comment, and instead merely left a pause.

  “What about?” Molloy asked, eventually.

  “About the Malford case.”

  “I didn’t realise there was a Malford ‘case’. I thought we were just going to pass that one on to the coroner’s office. There’s no evidence of a crime,” he said, continuing to type with the intense concentration of an elephant trying to balance on a beach ball.

  “Yes, that’s what I thought too. But then I got sent through some CCTV footage by the housing association.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it shows Malford entering his flat with… with Adam Furst.”

  Molloy stopped typing and swivelled round on his seat to face Gemma. “Adam Furst?”

  “Yes, and then it shows Furst leaving the flat a few hours later – alone. And it also shows that no one else went into or came out of the flat until we turned up two weeks later – including Chris Malford.”

  “So Furst was the last person to see Malford alive?”