The Body in the Snow

by The Body in the Snow (retail) (epub)

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday

  For an empire, it was an unprepossessing frontage. The Slough factory from which three quarters of the Empire of Spice products came was on an anonymous trading estate under the thundering flight path of jets coming and going from London Heathrow, Britain’s largest and busiest airport. Gillard and Claire were met at reception by the firm’s operations chief Morag Fairburn, this time more formally dressed in a dark waistcoat and trousers with an orange blouse to match her hair, which was today held back in a ponytail.

  ‘It still hasn’t really hit me,’ she said. ‘The staff are all in shock too. She was very popular, you know. A feminist icon in a sense, particularly in Indian culture.’

  Gillard thought he could listen to that soft Scottish voice all day.

  ‘Before I show you the plant can I offer you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘Is that lassi?’ Claire asked, looking at a saffron-coloured glass, standing half empty next to the water cooler. Morag turned to the Asian receptionist, who nodded.

  ‘It’s mango lassi, would you like one? Yoghurt, honey, fruit, ice and water. We can do it with sugar or salt.’

  Gillard went for the salt version and Claire the sweet.

  ‘I’d like to see where Mrs Roy worked,’ Gillard said. ‘Did she have her own office?’

  ‘She moved around a lot,’ Morag said, leading them into another office. ‘So her office pretty much moved with her wherever she was. But when she was here in Slough this is where she sat. Philippa Boswell, her PA, sits opposite, here.’ The desks were identical, untidy, with basic office furniture. It was only the photographs of Mrs Roy’s children which distinguished where she sat in the open-plan set-up. It certainly didn’t look like the office of a multi-millionaire businesswoman.

  ‘So the PA sat in the room with her?’ Claire asked. ‘What about confidential discussions?’

  Morag smiled. ‘We never hired a PA who could speak Gujarati.’

  ‘And where is Mrs Boswell today?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve given her a day’s compassionate leave. She was quite upset.’

  ‘We will need to interview her,’ Gillard said, taking down the woman’s details.

  Morag guided them into a meeting room.

  ‘I understand that you are also the human resources manager?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you aware of any threats, incidents, sackings or confrontations within the company which might have led to someone attacking Mrs Roy?’

  She nodded, and opened a box file in front of her. ‘After your email, I looked through all of the dismissals we have had in the last three years. I have to say there have been scores amongst the temporary staff, principally those who work in the packing hall. The work is fairly casual, and we use an agency. I can’t say there have never been angry scenes, but I think if any of them were upset, it would more likely to be with me. I do the firing.’

  ‘What about more senior staff?’

  ‘Mrs Roy got through a few PAs over the years. But Philippa has been with us for fifteen months. We have had two industrial tribunal cases, both of which were settled. They are of course subject to confidentiality agreements.’ She moved the box file to her left, away from the detectives.

  ‘We’ll need to see those,’ Gillard said, pointing at the box.

  ‘I’ll have to get Harry’s permission,’ she said. ‘He’s on compassionate leave today too, so I’ll not disturb him.’

  ‘You don’t need to get his permission, you can simply say that the police insisted.’

  Morag locked gazes with Gillard, her jaw set. Finally she shrugged and slid the box across in front of her.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the lassi, which was as delicious as they had hoped. Morag left them for a moment to make some phone calls.

  ‘Sounds like she has a point,’ Claire said. ‘Mrs Roy sounds too remote from day-to-day staff management to be the target of a disgruntled employee.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Gillard responded. He started flicking through an Indian celebrity magazine, which had a sticky note referring to page seventy-three. There he saw a photograph of Harry looking very dapper in a white dinner jacket and lime green bow tie. He was grinning like a loon, as well he might, as he was standing with a dark-haired beauty identified in the caption as Bollywood influencer and health campaigner, Sonali Desai. In another picture, Harry emerged from a taxi with another glamorous woman. There was a breathless caption beneath: ‘This dashing fellow is the heir to a 1,000 crore rupee fortune, and quite the most eligible Gujarati businessman in town. His name has been linked to both Zareena Kapoor (above), and Anushka Singh, but has recently been seen in the company of Sonali Desai. The question is, which lucky lady will finally nab him?’

  ‘How much is 1,000 crore?’ Gillard asked.

  Claire shrugged, but the receptionist said: ‘A crore is ten million.’

  The detective prodded at the calculator on his smartphone. ‘I think the answer is “lots”.’

  ‘Quite the ladies’ man,’ Claire said, as she flicked through another magazine, a couple of years old, and again found a well-thumbed article about Harry. This time it was about his charitable work, which involved sport for disabled people, and a photograph showed him in cricketing whites at the crease, bat ready while a wheelchair-bound youngster bowled a ball at him.

  Once Morag returned, she led them off for a tour of the facility. The two-storey office complex led straight on to a large factory. There were many white-coated staff, some of whom stared at the guests as they were led up a flight of stairs and along a metal walkway which ran at head height above the conveyors and packing machines. She took them to the newest line, one making naan breads. She talked enthusiastically about the 200 breads a minute that they could stamp out, baked in fifty-five seconds under an overhead oven, and the spiral coolers to bring the cooked breads down to a suitable temperature for vacuum packing. It was only here that the detective saw predominantly male staff, wearing ear defenders against the racket of the machines.

  Gillard paid little attention to what she was saying, instead trying to gauge how intensively worked the, primarily Asian, staff were. Was this a happy family or a sweatshop? There was no obvious evidence either way.

  ‘Except for the packing lines, most of our production staff have been with us for years. Grandmothers, mothers and daughters. Our samosa makers in Redhill, very skilled with their hands, are particularly precious to us. No machine can manage to turn and fold so neatly and so quickly as these ladies.’

  ‘How well do you know the family?’ Gillard asked, raising his voice above the machinery.

  ‘Very well. I’ve worked here for over a decade, working my way up from being a temporary production worker. I went to university with Harry, and we have remained good friends ever since. I have to say he’s devastated about this. I suggested he should take the whole week off, but then there are things that only he can do.’

  ‘Is that because of the auditors?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Yes, though I think they won’t be starting now until next week.’ She led them on out of the packing hall and towards her office.

  ‘What about Mrs Roy herself? Did you like her?’ Claire asked.

  ‘She was my boss, and she could be very demanding. I respected her, and I could see what a terrific job she was doing, but we weren’t close. I don’t think she confided in many people.’ Morag showed them into the blessed quiet of her own office, and then asked a question which seem to matter to her. ‘Are you planning to interview Harry’s sisters, Prisha and Kiara?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gillard said.

  Morag nodded. ‘They used to be quite suspicious of me. I dated Harry for a while, and they thought I had ambitions to somehow get control of the company through him.’

  ‘They have much smaller stakes in the shares, don’t they?’ Claire said.

  She nodded. ‘It’s the old Indian custom of everything for the boys, unfortunately. But Mrs Roy would never hav
e let me marry her son anyway. I knew that early—’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ Claire interjected.

  Morag smiled. ‘Well, as Prisha once famously said to her mother, “You cannot allow him to marry that money-grabbing Scottish harlot.”’

  ‘Charming,’ Claire said, eyeing Gillard to see his reaction.

  ‘If the ownership structure had been fairer, there wouldn’t have been so much jealousy, I suppose,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Morag said. ‘I love Harry dearly, and he is wonderful company, but I enjoy my independence. He’s always been a bit, well, helpless. I told him long ago that whoever he married would end up clearing up after him for a lifetime. I don’t think his sisters, particularly Prisha, ever quite understood my outlook. For me it’s not just about the right marriage, whether it’s chosen or arranged. From my perspective, I don’t have to marry anyone to be happy. I’m not particularly interested in being rich either. I’m just not ambitious.’ She laughed. ‘They definitely don’t understand that.’

  You’re not doing badly for someone with no ambition, Gillard thought. ‘So you would say there are tensions within the family?’ he asked.

  Morag snorted. ‘You could say that.’ She ushered them out of the office into the reception area, where a spread of freshly baked breads and chutneys had been put out for them on antique Indian silverware.

  ‘This is very kind,’ Claire said, helping herself to a Peshwari naan and a spoonful of spicy lime pickle. A number of other staff from the office came to join them, and were introduced to the two police officers. They included the head of legal services, the receptionist and the website designer, a young trendy guy with long hair held in a bun.

  Gillard took a plain roti and a small amount of a fiery dip called Rajasthan Rage. While they were eating, a couple of bottles of sparkling wine were opened. ‘Not while we are on duty,’ he said.

  ‘It’s alcohol free,’ said the website designer.

  ‘I appreciate that, but it just looks bad for us to be seen doing this while we are investigating the murder,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, pointing out two bulging carrier bags. ‘I do hope you will take your gifts. It’s just a range of our products, a small appreciation of our faith in you finding out who killed our esteemed leader.’

  Claire, who Gillard knew was an Indian food fanatic, gave him a meaningful look, but he ignored it. ‘I’m sorry, that’s very kind, but we can’t. We do appreciate the gesture.’

  As they said their goodbyes and left for the car park, Claire said, ‘We could have used the excuse to test a range of the products.’

  ‘Can you imagine if a member of staff snapped a picture of us with glasses of what looks like champagne in hand, and then leaving with bulging bags?’

  ‘Okay, you’re right,’ she conceded.

  ‘Look, if we get off at a reasonable time tonight, we can sneak off to the Ashoka Palace. My shout.’

  ‘So, what did you think of Morag?’

  Gillard stroked his chin. ‘Pretty straightforward and honest. I’m not sure we learned anything.’

  ‘Did you notice that huge engagement ring?’

  ‘I saw she had some rings,’ he answered.

  ‘Most of them were costume jewellery. Only one had real gems. Emeralds,’ she said. ‘And on the engagement finger. Every time we mentioned Harry, her fingers strayed to caress the ring. I think she still likes him much more than she admits.’

  ‘So the fact that he is about to marry someone else might be significant.’

  ‘It is an arranged marriage,’ Claire said. ‘Mummy picked her out for him.’

  Gillard looked up at Morag Fairburn’s grimy first-floor office. She was on the phone, but glanced down at the car from time to time. ‘Interesting.’

  * * *

  Gillard sat in the Khazi comparing notes with Research Intelligence Officer Rob Townsend and DC Carl Hoskins. ‘So, Rob, how we doing on chasing down the contents of Mrs Roy’s phone?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘It’s going steadily. She was a busy woman. Out of the 426 separate contacts, we’ve readily identified half of them who sent emails or texts, mainly work colleagues or people across the industry. We had more difficulty identifying who is behind some of the pay-as-you-go phone numbers.’ He turned to Hoskins.

  ‘I rang all sixty-two of those unknown numbers,’ Hoskins said. ‘Ignoring those which the family identified, which we are assuming to be kosher, I’ve spoken to thirty-seven. I left messages on a further nineteen, of which all but four have been returned. The rest had full message boxes, or in one case the number is no longer obtainable. There’s nothing on any of them to suggest anything weird was going on. I mean, the most suspicious was six attempted calls in quick succession on the Friday from one unregistered number, which turned out to be her hairdresser, wanting to change an appointment at short notice.’

  ‘Mrs Roy wore a wig,’ Gillard said.

  ‘I know,’ Hoskins replied. ‘But she did have some hair underneath, which must have needed dealing with from time to time. Don’t you think?’ The three male detectives looked at each other in tacit acknowledgement: they had no clue about middle-aged women’s hair requirements.

  ‘I’ll ask Claire,’ Gillard conceded.

  Rob Townsend said: ‘We’ve had Harry Roy send out a blanket email across the company and family and friends, saying that he’s given permission for us to examine all emails and texts received on her phone or other devices, and asked any who have concerns about commercially confidential information to let him know as soon as possible. We’ve assured him that nothing will go beyond these four walls.’

  ‘Well, not necessarily just these four particular damp plywood walls,’ Gillard said, looking at the shadow of black mould just below the extractor fan. ‘I’ve asked DS Shireen Corey-Williams to cast an eye over the work emails. She’s got the financial background which will allow her to raise any flags that she comes across.’

  ‘I did look at one set of emails, which Harry Roy had drawn to our attention. She had been sent some unwelcome tweets about a year ago at the time of the Cook Off competition. They were of a sexual nature, but she apparently didn’t report them to the police at the time. According to him, they ceased after about six months. I have got a request in with Twitter to trace the origin.’

  * * *

  Philippa Boswell lived in large mock-Tudor detached house in Camberley, a little more grandiose than DI Claire Mulholland had expected, even for the PA to the boss of a large company. Mrs Boswell invited the detective into a very luxurious kitchen. She was a tall, handsome woman in her sixties, with long, wavy silver hair that managed to look glamorous. She had very blue eyes and fine cheekbones.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I was just so upset,’ she said. ‘Mrs Roy was always very good to me, and I am just incredibly shocked at what happened.’ It was only when she walked across the kitchen to make the detective a coffee that Claire noticed the difficulty Mrs Boswell had in walking.

  ‘Was it very demanding, working for her?’

  ‘Yes and no. She was always travelling about, and I sort of acted as a fixed point of contact for her. She had been spending a lot of time in Redhill in recent months, and she left me to hold the fort so to speak. She didn’t mind that I couldn’t physically be with her, given my blasted arthritis.’ The woman appraised Claire and answered the unspoken question. ‘I used to be the secretary to the chief executive of British Airways twenty-five years ago, so I know all about pressure and performance. I started out as what they called a trolley dolly on long haul. Two grown-up kids, one husband, still,’ she smiled. ‘Happily married to a retired pilot with a good pension.’ She gestured to the home around her. ‘No mortgage, no debts, no drug or gambling habits. No incentive for murder.’

  Claire couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Thank you for those details.’

  ‘I read a lot of crime fiction, an awful lot. I know how you work. By the way, I’ve not been able to ride a bicycle
for at least a decade.’

  ‘You’re not a suspect, Mrs Boswell. We just need to know a bit more about her movements.’

  ‘Well, I emailed her work diary and contact list to your colleague Craig Gillard first thing this morning. I also have a pretty encyclopaedic knowledge of the family demands upon her, so I’m happy to help in that direction.’

  Claire noticed the flicker in the woman’s eyes, and asked: ‘One of the more challenging parts of the job?’

  ‘I suppose so. Harry wasn’t demanding, though he’s quite forgetful, so needs a fair amount of managing. I take a leaf out of his mother’s book and generally just tell him what to do. He’s often out at nightclubs – carousing until the early hours – and then yawns all day. He’s a sweet man, but I think he’s bored with the job, and would prefer to be playing cricket, or racing on his speedboat. The daughters are a bit more tricky, particularly the elder one, Prisha. The way she ordered us all about, well. We call her the maharani—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Maharani. Royalty, effectively. Female equivalent of a maharajah.’

  ‘What about Morag Fairburn?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, she’s a clever one. Efficient, well-organised, ambitious but nice as pie with it. Boy, she has some kind of hold on Harry.’

  ‘She was his girlfriend, wasn’t she?’

  ‘More than that. Puppet mistress, you could say. She pulls all his strings. But I have to admit, as operations manager she’s made the whole place more shipshape.’

  Claire made some notes and then asked, ‘So, as the amateur sleuth, who wanted Mrs Roy dead?’

  Mrs Boswell smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me. It’s the same answer. Either Prisha or her nasty ex, Deepak.’ She lifted a finger to her lips. ‘Just between us, understand.’

  ‘Tell me about Deepak,’ Claire said, moving her chair a little closer.

  ‘Deepak Tripathi. When he married the daughter, years before I was hired, they made him the director of international sourcing, cementing him into the family. I’ve seen his expense accounts, and he treats the company like his personal piggy bank. Fortunately, he’s travelling most of the time so I rarely run into him. He bursts in here and mouths off in Gujarati at Mrs Roy, and though I don’t understand the actual words, one inevitably does get the gist. When he married Prisha, he basically expected to run the place, and after the death of Dr Roy he never quite adjusted to having a female boss. It’s annoying he’s still here, despite the divorce. He made her cry on a couple of occasions.’ Mrs Boswell leaned in closer. ‘Actually, while I’m spilling the beans, you should know he’s a dreadful womaniser. I think one of the reasons Mrs Roy hired me was because he used to try it on with some of my predecessors. You know the sort: young, pretty, curvy, no common sense. I’m pretty sure he bedded a couple. He is extremely smooth, and darkly handsome in an untrustworthy, pick-your-pocket-while-kissing-you kind of way.’