‘Pauline,’ Claire said, ‘I understand that the swabs you took are already with forensics?’
‘Yes, there’s no way you can wait with a dog. All that saliva, and licking! But I did find some fibres, just under the corner of his nose, so maybe we’ll get somewhere with that.’
‘So he bit the attacker?’ Kirsty asked. ‘I did wonder.’
Claire tried to curb her enthusiasm. ‘He could have picked them up from anywhere, it’s unlikely to be conclusive unless some DNA has survived.’
‘We can always hope, can’t we?’ Pauline said with a smile. ‘I mean, you’ve got to hope.’
* * *
James had just finished school for the day. His year six class had struggled with the maths exercises in the last period, they had loads of homework, and now it was pissing it down. Dejectedly, he pushed his bike to the school gates, knowing he would get soaked on the three-mile ride back home. Dozens of other boys ran past him, trying to keep out of the rain. A host of parents were waiting outside in their cars, but one vehicle, a black Porsche Cayenne 4 x 4, was parked illegally on the yellow zigzags. It was well out from the kerb, and facing the wrong way. Whoever it was would get a letter from the headmaster. James knew his cars. The Cayenne was very fast and very expensive. He wished his mother had one of those instead of her usual crappy old Toyota. She was usually too busy to come and collect him anyway. Even in the rain. She had a career, that’s how she explained it to him. A career in curry, running a shitty old factory in Slough.
The window of the Porsche slid down, and a lady with sunglasses beckoned him over. He wheeled his bike across, suddenly conscious that his hair was damp, and the rain already sliding down the back of his neck.
‘Hello James,’ the woman said, looking at him over her shades. ‘Do you remember me?’
He didn’t. She was an Asian lady his mother’s age, and she looked like a film star. Huge brown eyes lined with black, and wavy dark hair. Bollywood maybe. ‘Dunno,’ he replied.
‘I’m Rafiq’s aunt. I saw you at the school open day. I’ll give you a lift home if you like.’
James was confused. Rafiq, an Indian boy in his class, wasn’t a particular friend and had already cycled home. ‘Rafiq’s already gone. I saw him go.’
‘I know, I was a bit late getting here. Still, stopping you getting drenched will save it being a wasted journey.’ She pressed a button on the central console, and the Porsche’s hatchback lifted automatically. ‘Put your bike in carefully.’
Bewildered by the stroke of good fortune, James stowed his cycle gently on the piece of old carpet lain there across the folded-down back seat. The back closed itself. James carefully pulled open the shiny black passenger door and sat down in the front seat. The woman reached across him, to fasten his seatbelt. He could see a bit of her bra. Mauve and lacy. Her hair was almost in his face. It smelt of coconut or something. He had butterflies in his tummy, and he didn’t know why.
‘Can we go fast?’
The lady smiled back, showing perfect white teeth. Her breath smelled of mint. ‘Not on these roads, the police won’t be happy.’ She pulled away gently, heading in the wrong direction for his home. She glanced at him several times.
‘It’s that way,’ he said, pointing behind them.
She smiled at him again. ‘I’m going on the bypass. Then we can go fast. Okay?’
He stared and his throat had gone dry. ‘Brill.’ He couldn’t think that she would know him. He would have remembered seeing her. He would have to ask Rafiq tomorrow. ‘So are you Mrs Muktar?’
‘Something like that,’ she said. She passed him a Swizzels lolly on a stick. ‘Do you like these?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ He unwrapped the blackcurrant Fruity Pop, and took a tentative suck. His face crinkled, and he suppressed a yuck. ‘It tastes like cough medicine.’
‘Sorry, those are my medicated ones. Take this instead.’ She passed him an orange version. ‘Drop the other one in the plastic bag.’ She pointed to a clear Ziploc bag, in the central console. He opened the bag and dropped the vile sweet into it.
‘How often do you see your father?’
The boy looked surprised. ‘I’m in a single-parent family.’ It was his prepared explanation, used many, many times.
‘Do you know who your father is?’
He looked down in his lap and muttered, ‘It’s some bloke Mum fell for, years ago.’
‘Yes, apparently,’ she laughed.
They had reached the roundabout that led to the bypass ‘Are you in Bollywood films?’ the boy blurted out.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’re really pretty though.’
‘That’s very kind of you, James.’ They reached the slip road, and the Porsche engine roared. He was sucked back into the seat as the car hurtled down the on-ramp. The speedo flicked from fifty to ninety in almost no time. The car whooshed past two lorries, and into the outside lane. He was transfixed as the needle crept higher.
‘Wow! Ton-up,’ he said, staring at the woman in wonder.
She slowed the car sharply, making rapid gear changes, and came off at the next roundabout, though still fast enough on the left turn to make the tyres squeal. Five minutes later, they were in his home street. She stopped a hundred yards short of his mum’s house.
‘James,’ she said. ‘When is your birthday?’
He told her. ‘Are you going to get me a present then?’
‘If you’re good, maybe. Did your mum ever tell you what time of day you were born, and where?’
The boy looked puzzled. ‘In hospital, in the early morning I think.’
‘But which hospital?’
‘Redhill.’
‘Best to keep all this to yourself, if you want that present. Your mother and teachers might be upset with you if she knew that some strange woman had been giving you a lift. “Stranger danger” and all that. I wouldn’t mention it to Rafiq either as I might get into trouble with his mum.’
‘Okay.’ He blinked at her, and hesitated. ‘What’s your name, miss?’
‘It’s best if you don’t know.’ She leaned across to him, brought her hand up to his chin, and kissed his forehead. ‘Another of our secrets, okay?’
He went as red as a beetroot.
* * *
Prisha watched the boy as he left the car, closing the door carefully and then attempting a nonchalant adolescent departure, slouching with hands back in pockets, a shirt tail still protruding beneath his blazer. She smiled as he still couldn’t avoid staring back a couple of times over his shoulder, for a last glimpse. She had lied about being a relative of Rafiq’s, she had simply found the boy’s name and photo in the local paper for some sporting achievement. Her ruse had worked perfectly. She didn’t know whether it was the car or her which had ensnared James, but she was confident that she could do anything with this boy that she wanted. His bitch of a mother thought she had the monopoly on sly stratagems.
It wasn’t the case.
She leaned across to the central console and picked up the Ziploc bag. From the glove compartment, she brought out a box of cotton buds, removed one and then carefully swabbed the surface of the discarded Swizzel, hoping she had captured enough saliva before it dried, and dropped it in a small plastic vial. This test tube she then put in a pre-labelled brown envelope, sealed it, and placed it on the passenger seat.
The boy had the pale white skin and the skinny physique of his mother. But the dark hair, the heavy dark eyebrows, and above all those bitter chocolate eyes gave a hint of something else. What she had always suspected. As she drove away she knew she would have the answer to her question within a few days.
* * *
Twickenham police station in West London was a traditional English nick, even down to the prominent blue Victorian lamp outside. Inside, though much modernised, it had rather too many separate offices for the twenty-first century’s more collegiate type of policing. Harshil Roy, scion of the Empire of Spice dynasty, was half an hour late fo
r his interview. Gillard passed the time squinting at the company’s annual report on his phone, while DI Claire Mulholland caught up on some of the paperwork for the pub fight case.
When the businessman did turn up, neatly dressed in a dark suit and full of apologies, they took him to the rape interview suite which had the kind of soft seating, pot plants and comforts designed to put witnesses at their ease. He looked exhausted, his face drawn, and as soon as he sat down, he rested his head on the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.
‘Tough day, I expect,’ Gillard said.
He nodded, his eyes still closed. ‘I’ve had to shoulder my mother’s work burden as well as my own, though I can hardly concentrate.’ He only opened his eyes when his phone chirruped, picking it up to look at the message.
‘Auditors.’ He made it sound like a curse, then looked up at Gillard. ‘Our year-end is due soon. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.’
Gillard introduced Claire, and then asked that the interviewee turn off and put away his phone, which had sounded constantly.
‘Have you found the cyclist?’ Harry asked. ‘The papers said—’
Gillard held up his hand. ‘If we try to cover every piece of speculation in the newspapers we’ll never get out of here. And no, we don’t yet know who the cyclist was.’
‘Was it a really a mugging? Or do you think they had an argument? Have you found her purse?’
The triviality of most killing adds cruelty to bereavement: knocking into the wrong person on the commuter train, the drunken friends arguing over a football score, addicts squabbling over the last syringe-full, and here, quite possibly, an argument between strangers in a snowy park. Gillard could see the excruciating bafflement in Harry’s big brown eyes. ‘We simply don’t know. Now, Mr Roy, we will make this as brief as possible,’ Gillard said.
‘Please, call me Harry. Everybody does.’ He managed a wobbly smile.
They quickly went through his movements, which included arrival at Heathrow on a flight from Mumbai only a few minutes before his mother was killed. Everything checked out with the details they had already looked at. There was no doubt he was on the flight.
‘So what were you doing in India?’ Claire asked.
‘I travel quite a bit. At least four times a year to India, but also Bangladesh, Indonesia, Madagascar and so on. Normally, it would include meetings with suppliers, and family, which includes a fair bit of overlap, because we have a network of family affiliates. The quality of our ingredients is carefully monitored. But on this occasion, it was mainly family business. As you may have heard, I’m getting married in two weeks’ time, or was due to. I suppose it will have to be put back now. The wedding planner is having a nervous breakdown. Most of my time in Mumbai was spent at the family home of my betrothed, making arrangements.’
‘Is your bride-to-be in this country at the moment?’
‘No. She lives in Mumbai, which is where she works. She is not a British citizen yet.’
‘That can be quite tricky, can’t it?’ Claire asked.
‘My fiancée’s family is quite well off, so I don’t really anticipate too many problems with her visa. We also have some very good people who work on these type of issues.’ His expression betrayed a little smugness.
‘Tell me a little bit more about your position in the company,’ Gillard asked.
Harry Roy then went into a detailed description of his role as head of finance. He worked mainly at head office in Slough, but had trusted deputies in Redhill and Shadwell. ‘It’s not the most complex business in the world, to be honest. Brexit is an issue, though as most of our supplies are from outside the European Union the disruption should be manageable whatever version of departure we finally settle upon. Likewise our markets are 75 per cent within the UK, and 25 per cent Commonwealth countries. We’re modestly cash generative, investment capital is funded internally, and we have very little borrowed. In fact it’s the traditional Gujarati business model, where family capital sits at the centre of all activities.’ From nowhere, his head suddenly slid into his hands and he said: ‘God, I can’t believe I’m talking about all this now, when my mother is lying dead in some mortuary.’
Gillard apologised and said: ‘Honestly, if we could wait, we would. But every hour we delay makes it possible for the killer to cover his tracks.’
‘I know, I understand,’ Harry said.
‘I’d heard that your company has had takeover approaches,’ Gillard said.
Harry shrugged. ‘We are a very successful family-run business, with good operating margins and established brands. We also have a hard-to-replicate relationship with key suppliers, going back decades. Our intellectual capital is tied up in our recipes, which again are traditional family ones. It’s not surprising that the bigger international food conglomerates want a piece of the action. We have politely declined all such approaches.’
‘We need to know a little bit more about the company structure. I can see from the annual report that you own 20 per cent and your mother owned just five. There is also mention of a family trust with 30 per cent. I’m no financial expert, but who owns the rest?’
‘Most of the rest is publicly traded, on London’s Alternative Investment Market. Nearly 15 per cent is owned by a rival food company, HKIC, that has been interested in buying us.’
Gillard looked down at his papers. ‘Hong Kong & International Cuisine, Mr Lam’s firm?’
‘I see you’ve been doing your research. My sisters each have 0.5 per cent.’
‘Half a per cent? So your older sister, Prisha, only has one fortieth of the holding that you do?’ Claire asked incredulously.
Harry nodded. ‘She is not involved in the day-to-day running of the business, but her stake is still worth £600,000. It may seem a little inequitable to you, but it is far better than the traditional Hindu inheritance rules, which trickle down like this: sons, sons’ sons, sons’ grandsons, the widow of the deceased, daughters, daughters’ sons, mother, father, brothers, brothers’ sons. When my father had a stroke in 2008, he said he wanted the entire business to come to me and my sons, should I have any. It was only my mother’s dogged intercession over the years until his death that persuaded him otherwise. The idea to set up a trust with the bulk of my father’s bequests was a compromise, though there was considerable argy-bargy about it, I can tell you. My father’s deathbed in 2017 was not a peaceful place.’
‘So what happens now Mrs Roy has died?’ Gillard asked.
‘It depends what she has written in her will. That is in the hands of Mr Vaj, our family lawyer and the chief trustee.’
‘You don’t have any idea?’ he asked.
Harry smiled. ‘Of course, I have some clue. I assume it will be divided equally between us three children, in the British fashion, rather than the Indian one my father favoured.’
‘So nobody gains control of the company just because she died?’ Claire asked.
‘That’s correct. The trust’s 30 per cent and my own 20 per cent plus the other smaller family holdings form a majority, so no one could buy the firm without our agreement.’
‘Well, that answers one question,’ Gillard said.
‘I really don’t think that you can find the answer to this terrible crime within the company or the family.’
‘So day-to-day, you now have control?’ Gillard asked.
‘Yes, and in many senses I already did. My mother may have been the chief executive, but I look after the finances. We consulted on many things, many times a day.’
‘Did she have any enemies?’ Claire asked.
Harry screwed up his face. ‘No, none whatever. Everybody loved her.’ His voice cracked on the final two words. ‘Do excuse me.’ He teared up a little, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘Well, she was tough. With suppliers, with business rivals, and above all with her family. It’s the sort of thing that you find pretty often in business. She always got things done her way. But she was fair. Always fair.’
‘There are some other things that you can help me with, Mr Roy. I’ve just been to your mother’s flat in Leatherhead. I understand from her PA that she had slept there on the night before her death. Do other members of the family use that flat?’
‘I can’t say never, but it’s just for her. She wanted somewhere close to Redhill while the new production line was being set up. She was very hands-on about that, seem to be working there about eighteen hours a day during that time. I think I have been there but not for at least a year. Why do you ask?’
‘The place was very neat and tidy, and I just took a look around to see how regularly your mother appeared to stay there. Inside the fridge I found six jam jars full of urine. Can you shed any light on that?’
Harry gave a slight laugh. ‘I should have anticipated that that would puzzle you. My mother used to drink a glass of chilled urine every morning. It contains antibodies and is supposed to be good for preventing allergies. It’s not an uncommon practice in Indian culture. My father was a great believer, and would ceremoniously down a big glass of it at breakfast in front of the family.’
‘I take it that it was her own she was taking?’ Claire asked.
He laughed again. ‘Oh yes, I can’t imagine her drinking anybody else’s. She was hoping it would help with her alopecia, and the tiredness and stress she had been feeling in the last few months.’
‘I’ve sent some off for analysis,’ Gillard said. ‘We’ll put it together with her medical records for the forensic pathologist and see exactly what was going on. I’m afraid that we won’t be able to release the body to the family for some time.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, the liaison officer told me. My mother had been following various diets to try to improve her health. In the last six months since she became very worried, she had variously cut out gluten, lactose and tried to do without carbohydrates for a while. So if you are going through the cupboards you may find some strange foodstuffs.’
As Gillard left, he realised there might be an awful lot of forensic toxicology to do.
The Body in the Snow Page 6
