The Dead Call: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 6)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Did Tom know she was there yesterday? No. He would have said so if he had. Unless there were two women in Adrian Gage's life who drove a red Volkswagen and had a child of a similar age in tow. She'd already made the decision to speak with Alice. It was just a matter of deciding how they went about arranging that. They could invite her to the station for an informal chat or knock on her door with a warrant. The latter would be traumatic, not least for Tom, but that was secondary. The decision would come following the conclusion of the autopsy and the processing of the forensic evidence. She would prefer the latter, and she'd be lying if she said otherwise.

  "Where are we with determining what Gage was working on?" Tamara asked, picking up her coffee. It was lukewarm now, but she quite liked cold coffee.

  "Still can't get into his laptop," Cassie said without taking her eyes from the screen in front of her. "It's encrypted. I was hoping for biometrics, a fingerprint scanner or facial recognition because we can get around that easily enough."

  It was true, they could. They had Adrian Gage, even though the requirements would be a little gruesome.

  "Can we bypass it?"

  Cassie shrugged. "Maybe we could send it down to Norwich and let the boffins have a look but I'm hopeful."

  "You think you can crack it?"

  Cassie laughed. "Don't be daft. Of course not, but let's face it, we all make a note of our passwords somewhere just in case, don't we?"

  "We're not supposed to do that."

  "But we do," Cassie said, looking up and smiling at her. "You can't have your niece's birthday as your password all the time. At some point you're going to have to come up with something more complicated. And when you do, you will write it down."

  "Just need to know where it's written down."

  "Exactly," Cassie said.

  "And do you?"

  "Well, no."

  Tamara sighed. "Otherwise, a solid plan. What do we have then?"

  "Contents of the bag," Cassie said, standing up and moving across to a board on the wall. "Looking in his notebook, which seems to cover multiple stories across a varied timescale. I'll say one thing for Mr Gage, he's certainly organised. From his handwriting to his date stamps and note taking – he's a dream to follow. It's just a shame that the bulk of the detail is probably logged on the computer. What we have in his notebook is a memory map of sorts."

  "A to do and don't forget list?" Tamara asked.

  "My thoughts exactly."

  "So, where's he been and who's he looking into?"

  "I've broken it down into names of people, places and businesses," Cassie said, pointing out three lists on the board. "The highlights of interest so far are three local councillors, all of them still sitting. I checked. The CEO of a local building firm. Not a little two or three a year builder, but interests in major sites. Multi-million-pound ventures spanning East Anglia in its entirety."

  "Interesting," Tamara said, coming to stand alongside her. "Didn't Gage scoop an award for uncovering corruption in local government?"

  "Yes, that's right. He uncovered a trail of dirty money passing between developers and local government officials by way of lavish trips abroad. That type of thing. The suggestion was that this was influencing planning decisions to be more favourable towards extending development boundaries of local towns. It caused a bit of a stink at the time, led to a number of resignations and two criminal trials."

  "Do you think he was onto something similar again?"

  "If it was going on, then he was the guy to find it," Cassie said. "Might have to wait until we get into the laptop for confirmation, though. He also had a copy of a local Ordnance Survey map in the bag, with a number of locations circled."

  Cassie returned to her desk and unfolded the map. There were a half dozen locations circled with a red pen. All of them were on or close to the coast. Numbers were scribbled at the edge of the circles, but what they were referring to was unclear. Tamara indicated them.

  "Any ideas?"

  Cassie shook her head. "No, not yet. They could be proposed building sites, or ones they hoped to get permission for."

  "Most of them look well outside of any existing settlement boundary, as far as I can see. Worth looking into. Anything else?"

  "There is another name, or two names to be exact, but he only references one in his notes. Michael Rowe and, by association, his brother Les."

  "And who are they?" Tamara asked, finishing her coffee and heading across the room to put the cup in the bin.

  "A few years back, the Rowe brothers ran a business providing services to the public sector. Anything from waste management to school meals. They were big players in Norfolk's public-sector contracts. If something was up for tender, they were right at the top of the list."

  Tamara perched herself on the edge of the desk and folded her arms across her chest, listening intently.

  "Go on."

  "Well, a few years back, Adrian Gage started looking into these contracts. I don't know how he got wind of it, but there seemed to be something fishy going on with how the contracts were awarded."

  "Corruption again?"

  "Yes, for starters," Cassie said. "To cut a long story short, Gage got inside and the tendering process wasn't the only thing going on. Seemingly they had a number of staff on the books who didn't exist. There were salaries being paid for people who no longer worked for the companies the Rowes operated, pension scheme contributions… it was a drop in the ocean. They were billing for services over and above what they were contracted for, a clause regarding exceeding contractual services."

  "Necessary services over and above what they'd already been paid for?"

  "Correct. Obviously this stuff was charged at a far higher rate and was lucrative. Well, seemingly there was a paper trail for what they did, but it turned out they weren't doing it or not to the degree they claimed."

  "Dress it up any way you like but it's still fraud."

  "Exactly. And a complex one at that. None of it related to huge numbers, but when you put it all together, then it added up to serious money."

  Tamara drew a deep breath, her brow furrowing. "And Gage exposed this?"

  "Yes. It put a lot of noses out of joint. Reading between the lines it looks like much of the detail was kept quiet and they tried to keep things in house—"

  "Swept under the carpet, you mean."

  Cassie smiled. "Yeah. But Gage hit the nationals with that one. The tabloids love a government scandal after all."

  "What happened to the Rowes?"

  "Michael was the chief financial officer and ultimately the weight of evidence came down on him. He got six years, partly down to his lacklustre efforts in helping track down the money."

  "He moved it on, buried it?"

  "That was the working theory. Once the funds passed through several accounts out of the country it became harder to find."

  "And the brother?"

  "Two years suspended."

  "He got lucky."

  "The CPS couldn't find enough evidence to prove he knew what was going on, as hard as it might seem to believe for the investigating officers and the barrister on behalf of the prosecution. But that's the way it goes sometimes."

  "Presumably this was years ago?" Tamara asked, and Cassie confirmed it. "So why is Michael popping up in his notebook now?"

  "I ran a check. Both of the Rowes are back living in the area. Michael served two thirds of his six before being released. Had he pleaded guilty, then he would have got half the sentence and with good behaviour could well have been out after eighteen months. As it was, he served just over four. The last two years were served in an open prison where he had frequent day-release opportunities, so wasn’t considered a danger."

  "No, financial criminals seldom are."

  "Right. He was paroled a month ago. The Rowes lost everything. The parent company folded after they were stripped of all their contracts. Can't be easy starting again in your early sixties. There would likely be a lot of animosity stored up i
n there. Seemingly at his sentencing hearing, Gage attended and Michael lost the plot. He threatened to find Gage when he got out and that the latter wouldn't see him coming."

  "Four years to stoke the fire of revenge," Tamara said. "It's a theory. Do you think Gage would invite him into his home, though? And if he did, allow him the opportunity to attack him?"

  "Worth asking."

  "Definitely," Tamara said. "Do we have an address for the two of them?"

  "Yes. Michael is living in Heacham whereas Les has a place on the outskirts of Sheringham."

  "Great. Maybe we should swing by Michael's place and see if he still bears a grudge."

  "So, erm…" Cassie said as she picked up her jacket from the back of her chair, looping it over her head and putting it on, "is Tom okay?"

  "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

  Cassie shrugged. "Just the girlfriend being a… person of interest and all that. Could be disconcerting."

  Tamara frowned. It wasn't a conversation she wanted to have but it couldn't be avoided forever.

  "I haven't confirmed that to him yet." Cassie raised her eyebrows, over-emphasising her surprise. "But I'm pretty sure he already knows. I want to wait until forensics come back before we speak to Alice."

  "Understandable."

  "You disagree?"

  "Not necessarily."

  "But?"

  "Well, if she has trace evidence on her clothing, then—"

  "I'm aware of it, okay?"

  Cassie tilted her head to one side. Clearly it wasn't okay, but she chose not to push.

  "I'm not going to treat her any differently. Not for Tom's sake or anyone else's. We'll speak to her when the time's right. Understood?"

  "Absolutely," Cassie said. "Michael Rowe?"

  "Michael Rowe."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tom was happy to allow Eric to drive. His restless night's sleep left him with a dull ache in his head that he thought would only grow if he had to focus on the road. Besides, Eric knew the area better than he did. As a child, he had fond memories of the country park that made up the Sandringham Estate, the queen's Royal country residence. Not that he'd ever seen any of the royals personally. The family would gather there every summer at some point, but the estate was more than two hundred-and forty-hectares encompassing forest trails and open parkland. It was a place locals and tourists alike gravitated to, particularly if the coast was taking a hammering from the North Sea winds or if you needed shelter from the burning sun. The designated forest trails offered shelter from both.

  But he hadn't been this way for many years. Momentarily, his thoughts drifted to his late parents. Sandringham was somewhere they all used to enjoy visiting. His mother's love of nature, his father's love of open space and his childhood self, enjoying the freedom to charge around and generally make as much noise as he liked without being hushed.

  His phone rang. It was the pathologist's office and he answered, a little disappointed to be drawn away from his memories.

  "Tom, I'm sorry I haven't been back to you with my findings. I know you asked for preliminary thoughts yesterday, but the autopsy threw up some rather unexpected details and I'm yet to work through them."

  "I thought the cause of death was already determined with a reasonable degree of certainty?"

  "Oh, yes. That is true, and I won't be altering that."

  "Then what is the complication?"

  "I would prefer to say when I've obtained copies of the deceased's medical records, rather than speculate."

  Tom found that a little odd but maybe there was something that needed clarifying. He was going to press him, but then thought better of it. He wouldn't appreciate a pathologist questioning the process of a murder investigation, so, in turn, he shouldn't assume a better working knowledge of a pathology department.

  "Okay. When do you expect to have the information you need on Mary Beckett?"

  "Later on, today."

  "Will you call me again as soon as you're up to speed?"

  "Certainly."

  Tom put his mobile back in his pocket, intrigued as to what was holding back the release of the autopsy report, but that was for later. Eric glanced across at him.

  "Bad news?"

  He shook his head. "Not really. Delay on the Beckett autopsy conclusions."

  "I figured that was a dead cert – if you pardon the pun. Death either resulted from the blow to the head or by drowning once she went into the water."

  "I suspect that will still be the case," Tom said.

  Eric slowed the car as they came upon a junction. It wasn't a major intersection, more of a short track leading to a row of terraced cottages set back from the main road. Eric pulled the car in and came to a stop.

  "It's one of these, but I don't know which," he said, leaning forward and peering over the dashboard at the properties.

  They were intriguing. Each one looked identical to the next and were probably inspired by or built during the Arts and Crafts Victorian period. The exterior of each house demonstrated an impressive example of craftsmanship, using wood and clay to highlight traditional skills and natural building materials. The roof pitches were low with overhanging eaves and many of the windowpanes were patterned or coloured. None of the cottages were numbered, each bearing a name plate etched into slate.

  "What do we know about Rutland?" Tom asked.

  "A well-documented history of poaching. Multiple fines and convictions once the legislation was tightened on endangered species," Eric said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Mary Beckett's photographic evidence and eyewitness testimony had him directly convicted on one occasion and they've had other run-ins along the way too."

  "Anything recent?"

  "Last year. Does that count?" Eric said, looking across at him.

  "Let's see what he has to say for himself."

  Each house was well presented, in keeping with the architectural design. To the front of each property was a small square garden, each one encompassed by a knee-high picket fence. Clearly a great deal of time was spent on cultivating them because the season's foliage was really beginning to come out, transitioning from spring to summer. That is in all but one. The last cottage in the terrace stood out from the others, and it was the one they were heading for.

  Tom recognised the picket fence was made out of cedar, a good choice to withstand the elements. However, the last property appeared to have forgone the maintenance required to keep it in good shape. Many of the staves were rotten, some missing entirely, and the garden was largely overgrown. Several bushes had grown so high and wide they were now covering half of the front-facing window behind them. Where the neighbouring properties showed a level of care and attention to cultivating their gardens this one was allowing nature to take its course. Some of the clay tiles on the roof had slipped and in one corner near the gable eaves a hole had appeared, roughly a foot wide. The timbers in view were greying and blackened. It must have been exposed like that for quite some time.

  The path to the front door had plants, bushes and grass encroaching from either side. So much so that they had to push some aside to enable them to reach the front door unimpeded. There was no doorbell, and Tom hammered on the frame with his fist, hearing the thud resonate. They waited, but no one came to the door. Stepping back, Tom eyed the upstairs windows. Heavy nets hung behind the panes, but the curtains were open. Movement to their left caught his eye. A woman was peering at them from the front window of a neighbouring property.

  Normally, he would have crossed the gap between them to identify himself, but the route was impenetrable. In front of him brambles rose from the undergrowth with both blackberries and raspberries visible. Taking out his ID, he brandished his warrant card. The woman's eyes narrowed as she inspected it, and then she opened the window. It was a narrow casement and the gap wasn't large. She almost had to shout to be heard.

  "He'll not answer the door to you. Never does. You'll have to go around the back."

  There was
nothing amiable about her tone. Her expression remained fixed. Something told him the residents didn't get on.

  "Thank you," he called, nodding his thanks and smiling.

  "He leaves the gate unlocked but mind his dog. Vicious animal."

  With that, she closed the window and disappeared behind her own intricately woven net curtain. Tom and Eric exchanged glances.

  "Vicious dog," Eric said quietly. "Never liked dogs."

  "Why ever not?" Tom asked, passing the younger man and setting off around to the rear.

  "I watched that series of satanic films when I was a kid. You remember, the one with the creepy boy and his pudding basin haircut. He was always flanked by Dobermans."

  "The Omen?" Tom asked over his shoulder.

  Eric hurried to catch up with him. "Yeah. Scared the living daylights out of me. Made me not want to go to church with Mum that weekend either."

  Tom frowned. "I thought in the end it was all about good triumphing over evil?"

  "Yes, well, evil did a pretty good job of having its own way, as I recall. Maybe they got him in the sequel, but I wasn't going to watch it."

  Tom shook his head as they approached the side gate. "It's a good job we joined the police to stop such things then, isn't it? Tell you what, if the dog's possessed, then I'll take the lead, okay?"

  "I don't think you'll be much use against the second coming," Eric grumbled with a half-smile. "I have faith in your abilities, but that might be pushing it."

  Tom laughed, trying the latch on the gate and finding it unlocked as the neighbour had said. The gate and adjoining fence to the rear was at head height. Tom wondered if there was some residential stipulation in the terrace that the front of the properties must be maintained in identical fashion, keeping the same windows, fence heights and so on. At the rear, these rules were waived. The garden was much the same at the back as the front. Overgrown to such an extent that you could barely see the fence panels marking the boundary. The path to the rear door was passable though, probably being the main door used by the occupant to come and go by.