‘According to the company policy, it not only exceeds the maximum value allowed, but you’ve also registered it in your name rather than the company’s name, even though it was company money used to buy it.’
‘Would you like to check my bus fare too, just in case I fiddled a few pence? I would contend that this is not the business of Surrey Police. My fellow directors can deal with those kind of issues.’
Gillard leaned forward. ‘Sounds good in court though, doesn’t it? Joe Bloggs on the jury doesn’t have a clue about investing in shares. But a bit of fiddling of expenses to get himself a flash car, well, anyone understands that, don’t they?’
Deepak sighed ‘I really can’t believe you hauled me off a plane to ask me this kind of question.’ He checked his watch. ‘Do you intend to charge me with any crime, or may I go?’
He began to stand, but Gillard leaned forward and rested a hand gently on the shoulder. ‘We can hold you for twenty-four hours before we have to charge you. The question I’d like to ask you now is about your mother in law,’ Gillard said.
Deepak rolled his eyes and folded his arms. ‘Here we go.’
‘Were you involved in any way in the murder of Mrs Roy?’
‘No, of course not, I know nothing about it. I thought she was a delightful woman. I think it’s awful for the family that she’s been murdered.’
‘You said that Mrs Roy knew about your investment plans,’ Gillard said. ‘Was it actually the case that she uncovered what you had done and confronted you about it?’
‘No, that’s not true at all. Indeed if it was true, and I was minded to bump her off, I would obviously need to have done it at the time, not waited until some snowy Sunday morning to bash her over the head while she was walking the dog.’
‘Perhaps, but this would make it look like the crime had been committed by an outsider.’
‘I’m sorry, this is nonsense,’ Deepak said. ‘You don’t have a shred of evidence that I was involved.’
‘We’ve only had a sample of your DNA for a few hours, but the lab has already matched it to a trace on the murder weapon.’
‘What?’ This was the first time Deepak had lost his sangfroid.
‘A silver-painted gym weight.’ Gillard had only got the email from the lab as they were parking the car.
‘That can’t be true, I was with Victoria at the time and I’ve never owned any gym weights.’
Gillard smiled. ‘Well, DNA tests don’t lie. I think you’ll agree it looks bad, so I’m eager to hear your explanation.’
Deepak thought for a moment and then said, ‘I did see some hand weights like that in the spare bedroom of Harry’s flat a few weeks ago. I might have picked them up.’
‘A convenient explanation,’ Gillard said. But he guessed there could be something in it.
* * *
Gillard had already decided he needed to take a closer look at the movements of Harry Roy. He was already tracking the location of Harry’s mobile, and that of Morag Fairburn. The mobile service providers had each sent him a couple of snapshots of the cell tower analysis, and it was clear that the erstwhile lovers were travelling together again. They were probably in the same car, and had returned to Mrs Roy’s house in Richmond for the funeral reception. An hour later, they were on the M3 heading back into Surrey. As usual the information was more than an hour out of date, but still handy.
The detective’s thinking had changed somewhat in the hours since the funeral, and it was Harry Roy’s mental state that most preoccupied him. If only he could find out what he was thinking. He was certain that would lead him to the killer. Here was a man, close to losing his fortune, unenthusiastic about the prospect of marriage to a wealthy and beautiful woman. Was it her disability? Harry was already comfortable helping those with disabilities, but marriage required an altogether different level of commitment. Beyond that, Sonali was an independent, assertive and accomplished businesswoman, with her own mind to go with that incredible face. Gillard could understand that Harry was nervous about being married to such a strong woman. But there was something else that was niggling at him too. At the funeral, Harry and Morag had seemed inseparable, she casting her gaze widely as if she was guarding him from something. When Harry showed no signs of going up to converse with his bride-to-be, Gillard had quietly asked Claire why she thought that was. She had replied that it was probably something to do with Hindu ritual, that it would be bad luck.
Either way, the detective’s best guess now was that Harry and Morag would go back to either his place or hers, and spend the evening commiserating about the lost fortune. He already had Carl Hoskins in an unmarked car sitting outside Morag’s house, and he himself would make a flying visit to Harry’s flat at Walton-on-Thames.
What about Deepak? Although Gillard was convinced that Deepak’s fraudulent actions were connected to Mrs Roy’s murder, the DNA on the murder weapon might well have an innocent explanation. Certainly his alibi from his girlfriend, Victoria, was stronger and more detailed than the one Jason Waddington had tried to use, and since yesterday had been backed up by the cell-site location and calling record of his phone. If Deepak had murdered Mrs Roy, then someone else was making calls on his phone from Victoria’s house at the same time.
Right from the beginning, there had been lots of bits in the case that did not fit together. Most puzzling of all was a good proper motive. And that’s why Gillard was drawn again to this arranged marriage.
The detective parked his car on the road outside the flats, and made his way towards the entrance. The reception area was unstaffed, and he had no intention of announcing his arrival by pressing Harry’s buzzer. He only had to wait a minute or two to get in to the block while someone else was leaving. Gillard, still famished, helped himself to an apple from a complimentary bowl of fruit as he walked towards the lift. He descended to the basement, and emerged into the private car park. Harry’s car was there and Gillard’s hand on the bonnet detected the warmth that confirmed its recent use. He returned to the lift, finishing the apple as he hit the button for the penthouse floor. He emerged into a corridor carpeted in hues of wheat and lined with dark textured wallpaper that would give a child nightmares.
He remembered Gabby Underwood telling him that there were only two flats on this level, but he couldn’t remember which was Harry’s. However he did recall her saying that Harry’s flat gave a great view across the river. Gillard made his way softly along the carpet to the window at the corridor end. The Thames lay below and to the left, while a full moon slid palely behind a wisp of cloud.
Gillard made his way back to the large, dark door which he presumed led to Harry Roy’s flat. He could hear music, faintly, from within. A woman said the word ‘bridesmaid’, and then laughed. He knew that infectious laugh. Morag. He also heard a faintly familiar pop tune, perhaps uplifting for a man whose mother had recently been murdered, and who had been depressed. He could discern Harry’s voice within, sounding plaintive, and another woman’s answer, not Morag. He could not tell what she said until one phrase: ‘Talk it through, Harry. There’s no point skulking out there.’ Gillard then heard a bang. His finger was poised above the doorbell, but he decided not to press.
Out there? The balcony, that’s where Harry had gone.
Perhaps he could do a little eavesdropping.
He made his way to the fire escape. The main staircase went down, but there was also a short flight of steps up to the left, and a metal door labelled for maintenance access, presumably to the roof. There was a keypad with a four-digit access code.
He tried it, but it was locked. He tapped out four zeros, just in case someone had left it on the factory settings, and it worked. He pulled the door and emerged onto the windswept top of the tower block. Thick, rufous clouds scudded west to east and, far to his right, the glow of London lit up the base of the clouds. There were various rumbling from housings that controlled air conditioning, heating and presumably water, all grouped within a guardrail a good fifteen feet bac
k from the edge.
Reorienting himself for Harry’s flat, he moved over to the northern edge, and ducked under the guardrail. The surface changed here from tiles to gravelled roofing felt, dotted with damp and slippery moss. He crouched over as he made his way towards the edge. The gusty wind plucked at his clothing, snagging his jacket, his tie snapping and streaming like a flag. Within six feet, as far as he felt safe to go, he could hear music again, and the outer edge of Harry’s balcony came into view. Leaning over the flat’s guardrail, brimming glass in hand, was a man in a dressing gown. The wind ruffling his dark hair as he sipped his drink.
Harry Roy.
From a movement in his shoulders and head, occasionally turning to the left, Gillard could tell Harry was speaking to somebody. Not on the phone. Someone close by, possibly even on the balcony itself. Quite possibly Morag. He was conversing in English, the tone plaintive and apologetic, but the wind and the music conspired to prevent the words themselves from reaching the detective.
Gillard crouched and edged the final few damp and slimy feet to the edge of the building, steadying himself with his hand. He now recognised the music, much louder here. Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. If there was conversation, it was still beyond him. The track ended, and finally Gillard could hear what Harry was saying.
‘I had to, there was no choice. We need the money. It’s not the end, honestly. Look, there will come a time when you can take your rightful position.’ Harry turned from the balcony and, extending his arms as if for an embrace, walked out of Gillard’s line of sight. ‘Awww, come on, we go back so far, so many years. Don’t be like that. Come on.’
It is impossible to describe the sound of a hug, the muffled voice, the intimate conversation. One could never hear the slight touch of lips on skin, but the nuzzling murmurs that preceded and followed were more distinctive. He was sure he had heard the phrase: I love you.
Who was it? He’d initially thought Morag, or possibly Sonali, the bride-to-be who had unexpectedly arrived at the wake. But Harry hadn’t known her long. So perhaps it was Morag after all. She he had known for a decade. She who had been barred from becoming his wife.
Then Gillard heard a voice calling from within – Morag’s distinctive and delicious Scottish burr, asking: ‘Do you both want another drink? I’ve got Kiki a coffee, and she is happy to come and stay at mine, to leave you two in peace.’
You two? His mind reeled as he tried to figure out who it was that Harry had been embracing, if not Morag.
‘I’ll have a Glenfiddich,’ Harry answered, his flattening voice indicating he was making his way back into the flat. ‘We’re coming in, it’s getting a bit chilly.’ The detective could feel as much as hear the slide and thud of the glass door, and the more muffled sound of music. Waterloo by Abba.
The detective risked looking over the edge onto the now empty balcony. He was already out of order. He had, a week or so ago, gained a warrant for the family’s phones, but the terms made it clear that this was confined to looking at messages and contacts two days either side of Mrs Roy’s murder. He had no warrant for entering Harry’s home, and though he could legally track the family’s phones and the phone metadata, he was not entitled to look at their texts or emails outside the narrow time window stipulated in the warrant.
But he just had to know who that person was. It was a five-foot drop onto the edge of the balcony and, if he got his footing wrong – well, over a hundred feet down to the pavement below. He had never been afraid of heights, and was an experienced rock climber, but part of that was knowing when not to do something stupid. His black work shoes had barely any grip, and the top of the stainless steel balcony rail was curved and damp. He could get down there no trouble, but getting back was another story. Perhaps there was another way.
He got out his iPhone, turned the flash off, then crept right to the edge, above the sliding doors into the apartment. He crouched down and stretched his arm down as far as he could without over-balancing. He took a picture. He judged that there would be a view through the window into the flat, so long as they hadn’t drawn the curtains.
When he finally got to his knees and was able to examine the photo, he saw the fourth person in the room. And he was staggered.
Chapter 19
Suddenly it all made sense. Gillard scrambled back over the railing, back into the building and took a lift to the ground floor. He’d been wrong, so utterly and completely wrong. The Roy family had produced a brilliant feint. The implications were staggering.
Standing in the deserted foyer, he rang Claire Mulholland at home. Baz answered the phone begrudgingly. ‘She’s in the shower, hang on.’
Gillard could hear the sound of football in the background. Then finally Claire came on the phone.
‘Don’t you ever go home?’ she asked.
‘When I get the chance. The Roy family was able to reject the bid because the wedding is back on.’
‘Why would that make a difference?’
‘Because the bride’s family is loaded. They’re part of an Indian clan which owns some huge mobile phone company, so of course we’re talking about an enormous dowry.’
‘How big?’
‘I don’t know, but it can be the only reason. I’m sorry Claire, I may not be making much sense here, but here’s the main point. I think we’ve been looking at the wrong guy. I’m sure Deepak is guilty of the fraud, but that’s it. I don’t think he killed Mrs Roy.’
‘I’m dripping water on the carpet here, and I still don’t know what you’re trying to say.’
‘I went round to Harry Roy’s flat, as I mentioned.’ Gillard described his climb onto the rooftop. ‘There was no point in knocking on the door, which would have made them clam up. So I went up to the roof, trying to hear more. And I got a photograph. Then it made perfect sense why Harry has spent years trying to wriggle out of arranged marriages.’
‘You’re keeping me in suspense. And I’m getting cold.’
‘Prisha was dead right when she said that Harry had been carrying on a relationship on the quiet, even while going along with his mother’s wish that he should marry into a prominent Indian family. The affair was for real, it just wasn’t with who she thought it was.’
‘For God’s sake Craig, are you ever going to tell me who she is?’
‘Not she, Claire, he. Harry Roy is in love with Zayan Lal. Probably has been for many years.’
‘The wedding planner? That doesn’t make any sense, he was instrumental in finding the bride and bringing the whole thing together. He was trying to make the wedding happen, that’s the only way he was going to be paid.’
‘So he said,’ Gillard replied. ‘But he must have been lying. This only makes sense if Zayan had no intention of making the wedding work. Harry was happy to have Zayan as the wedding planner, because they could spend weeks together, not only here but in India, pretending to set it up. Harry probably hoped that this wedding would go the way of the others his mother wanted, called off once he had some well-publicised affair.’
‘So Harry is bisexual then?’
‘I’m pretty certain. But I’m sure Zayan, having seen how determined Mrs Roy was to finally get her son settled, needed to stop this endless procession of engagements which prevented him having a normal life with Harry. I sort of get where he was coming from. He was marginalised, invisible, the permanent bit on the side. He would probably be happy to come out, but Harry wouldn’t have it.’
‘So that’s the motive for murder?’
‘I think so, yes. Once Mrs Roy was dead, Zayan expected he could gradually drop the pretence.’
‘But Zayan claimed to adore her.’
‘He had to, but I’m sure he actually detested her. He was thinking ahead, whereas Harry was happy to muddle along, with his great big circle of supportive friends, particularly Morag. Harry would spend his time playing a bit of cricket with the disabled kids, falling asleep over the accounts, pulling in the money, and have Zayan to himself when he got home. It
was probably all he wanted. But Zayan is a dreamer, and ambitious. He wanted more. Remember, he lives just one floor beneath Harry, and they could spend plenty of time together without anyone knowing. That would just never be possible again if a marriage really did go ahead.’
‘Where’s the evidence?’
‘I’m still working on that.’
She laughed. ‘You’re going to need plenty to back up this theory. And before you see Rigby tomorrow morning. So do you think Harry was in on it?’
‘God, no. He really did adore his mother.’
‘But hang on, Craig, I’m confused. Didn’t you just tell me that the wedding is now going ahead?’
‘Yes, because of the one aspect that Zayan never really thought about. Money. The collapse of Nosh2U leaves EoS dangling by a thread. If the rest of the family has vetoed a takeover by the hated Johnny Lam, which is what the bid rejection seems to imply, it leaves the marriage dowry as the only way out.’
‘Wow. Zayan must be pissed off.’
‘That, I’m guessing, is why he stormed out of the funeral. He probably wanted to know why Sonali was there, and put two and two together.’
‘But what about Morag?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think she is the cover story. I was looking at them, and they just seemed so much more like brother and sister.’
‘All right, so Harry is either gay or bisexual, and most of his family never guessed. That’s plausible. But the murderer can’t be Zayan Lal. He voluntarily came in to Epsom police station today to give a DNA swab and photocopies of his flight bookings, which show him arriving in the UK on the Wednesday, three days after Mrs Roy was killed. Carl separately dug up the Heathrow e-gate arrival record, which confirms it. You’ve seen that too, haven’t you?’
Gillard sighed. ‘I did glance at it, yes.’
‘Harry Roy and Zayan Lal sat in adjacent seats in business class on the Air India flight going out from Heathrow to Mumbai more than two weeks before she was killed. Harry sent in that proof more than a week ago, and we confirmed his arrival details. And now we have Lal’s Heathrow arrival proof too.’
The Body in the Snow Page 26
