Abduction in Dalgety Bay

by Ramsay Sinclair

  I had to stop looking at the married couple as a pair and start to regard them as separate individuals and two people with their own lives. The motive for the kidnapping boiled down to money. Cold, hard cash, in their thick wads. But Julie Carling had money leftover, I’d seen as much from their joint account statements. They’d been given handouts from friends, and Mr Carling had earned a small wage from the part-time jobs he’d taken since their own closure.

  Their joint account where half of the money rightfully belonged to Julie alone. They were being thought of as separate identities now, I reminded myself and found the file.

  An easily distinguishable knock came on my office door, and I did my best to ignore it. Distractions weren't going to help me crack these anomalies.

  “Wow,” McCall noticed and came in. “This is what I’d call a mess.” She whistled at the sight.

  “It’s what everyone would call a mess,” I agreed and barely glanced up.

  “I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you earlier,” she admitted, unable to hold it in for much longer. “You know that I can get slightly grumpy when I’ve missed out on sleep.”

  “Understatement of the year.” I chuckled. “What changed your mind? You don’t usually admit you’re wrong unless something’s occurred to change your mind,” I said.

  “The more I think about the case, the more it doesn’t add up,” she admitted and folded her arms. “Then I saw the way Mrs Carling acted around Sarah. For a woman that’s been begging us for days to get her daughter home safely, it was Bob Carling who seemed more relieved to actually have her here at the station.”

  I hummed, sidetracked by the papers.

  “But it’s getting late, Finlay. The Carling’s are going to the canteen to feed themselves and then they’re going home. Maybe we should leave this until tomorrow, when you’re not so exhausted and… fiery?” she winced.

  “No,” I shook my head adamantly.

  “Fine,” she sighed and took the seat opposite mine. “If you insist on working yourself to the bone, then I suppose that it’s my duty to join you,” she grinned at my thankful nod. “Now, what are you doing?”

  “Finding the connection,” I said and pointed towards the whiteboard.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “But what if there isn’t--?”

  “Exactly,” I clicked. “What if? Do me a favour whilst you’re here and find me the transactions sheet in the file that Tony showed us last week. The one relating to the Carling’s joint account.” Muttering as she pulled the sheet out, I smirked at her grumbles. “You still think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “You’ve always been crazy,” she scoffed. “Only now more than ever. But you have this irritating hunch that I hate, and if you insist that a connection can be found, then I'll believe you. You haven’t let us down before, inspector,” she finished. “Here.”

  “Cheers,” I took them gratefully, papercuts littering the pads of my fingers, the sign of sheer desperation for some but pure motivation to me. “Tony mentioned to us during the beginning of the investigation that a couple of random sums of money had spilt out from the joint account almost a month ago. Namely, looking here, by Julie Carling.” I paused.

  McCall peered over my shoulder. “Mm. A sum of nearly seven hundred pounds was transferred over to her private account. Maybe she wanted to hide something from her husband?”

  I scanned the page. “What would you spend seven hundred pounds on?” I wondered and shifted in my seat to face her.

  “Erm,” she trailed off. “Food. Phone bills. Gas and electricity. Bills. Rent. All the usual, boring adult things.”

  “Right,” I agreed and glanced to stare at the board, the word rent running rings around my mind.

  “So what changed a month ago that would require this money to be taken out from the joint account?” McCall asked nobody in particular, musing rather than questioning. “Maybe she tried to pay off some of their debts in private and keep Bob’s pride intact?”

  I stared at the date. What had changed in a month that would directly affect Julie Carling and this operation?

  “What’s the average price for rent around here? For a standard two-bed house,” I clarified and McCall ummed and ahhed for a few minutes.

  “Anywhere between four hundred to eight hundred, I should think. However, two beds would always be towards the higher price point because there are more rooms. It isn’t exactly cheap.” She rolled her eyes.

  “It’s all based on prices around here. They get paid more in London and can afford higher accommodation prices, whereas us poor buggers here have lower wages and average house prices,” I complained at the unfairness. “But, I digress. A month ago, Julie Carling paid out enough money to cover rent around here, even though they’re struggling to get by.”

  “To pay that amount of money whilst struggling to stay above water themselves insinuates that the transaction must have been important to her,” McCall deduced. “And now we’re back to the question of the stupid dates. What sparked the payment?”

  “Oh,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “When Tony first showed us these statements, we were distracted by the payment Marvin Clark gave the Carlings. He said that he wanted to help them out in return for believing in his ability to get back on track.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s why we pulled him in for questioning in the first place.”

  “Where he proceeded to explain to us that Jerry Clark had died roughly a month ago,” I trailed off.

  McCall’s wispy eyebrows shot up. “The time when the joint account numbers started getting hazy. Julie Carling was taking out enough money to pay house rent that started last month. Synchronous to Jerry Clark’s faked death and assimilation of his alias, Sid Bonds.”

  We stared at my frantic scribbles on the board and saw the ring I’d drawn around Jerry Carling’s name. More importantly, his fake death. I visually followed the harsh black line that led to my previous note.

  “We found the silver earring at Jerry Clark’s residence. Two beds, average rent. Jerry Clark wasn’t paying his own rent at five Barnhill road,” I continued with the beat of my heart flipping in an excitable manner rather than its steady, dull rhythm. The connection I’d been searching for.

  “But why?” McCall struggled to comprehend the reason. “Jerry faked his death, and then Julie Carling looked after him whilst exploiting her daughter for twenty thousand pounds?”

  “Secret affair with an ex-convict. Things could have gotten too messy, or something went wrong, and they agreed to concoct a scheme that would let him start a new life? Julie Carling could afford a bit of rent, but not enough to relocate Jerry far away from here,” I shrugged. “Perhaps someone had caught them having an affair?”

  It was McCall’s turn to frown. “So why not ask his brother or family instead, or someone closer to him? There’s something we’re missing.”

  “Then we’ll put pressure on her until she cracks,” I decisively stood up and dug my palms into the table.

  McCall joined me. “What are we going to do, arrest her? We still haven’t got concrete evidence, just a theory.”

  “That’s what custody is built for. She’s a suspect now,” I said defiantly. “And we have twenty-four hours to get a hold of her personal bank statements and to build our case against her.”

  Before McCall could convince me to stop there, I’d jogged out into the CID hub, and a trail of files dropped behind me like the breadcrumbs in Hansel and Gretel. The team stared at me in curiosity, acting like I was a caged animal at a circus. I didn’t stop to listen to their jokes or rowdy laughs and pelted straight down the lengthy corridor whilst nearly tripping over a few officers in my way.

  Peering into the station’s canteen, the family of three weren’t in there any longer. They’d already finished their meals.

  Cursing profanities under my breath, I struck another fast-paced run into the reception area and saw that Skipper bustling behind the desk as usual. I w
as in time to see the backs of Mr Carling with Sarah tucked into his arms and Julie Carling trailing along to the car park. Thankfully, the young girl appeared to be fast asleep from the long day and week she’d endured.

  “Mrs Julie Carling,” I called out, much to their surprise. She turned around at the mention of her name and seemed visibly shocked when I moved her arms behind her back. “I am arresting you under section one of the criminal justice act for conspiracy to kidnap your daughter's kidnapping and for being an accomplice to a staged death. The reason for your arrest is that I suspect you have committed an offence, and I believe that keeping you in custody is necessary and proportionate for the purposes of bringing you before a court or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?”

  25

  Armed with a duty solicitor and an impenetrable, emotionless glaze over her face, we’d noticed a brutally obvious change in Mrs Carling’s physiognomy and character, having shifted from the type of woman we’d met and interacted with during the rest of our investigation. No longer was she sobbing and weak-willed, but stony and poker-faced. Strange, for one so eager to turn on the waterworks at her daughter’s disappearance, there was none at the prospect of being slung to prison. Playing a game that we hadn’t yet decoded, a game that required skill and observation. A night in the cells could do that to a woman.

  Without her own clothing, Mrs Carling was unrecognisable, roughened up from her usual attire of cotton dresses or pencil skirts. Lack of makeup and time to preen meant her bare skin was covered in new patches of discolouration and gaunt shadows. Without the luxury of pencilling on her eyebrows today, Mrs Carling was left with a constantly shocked expression. There lies an unfamiliar sense of ambiguity to the mother since we’d found out her dirty little secret and unleashed a side to her we didn’t know existed.

  With we CID officers rested and at our best this morning, we were confident of our approach and armed with as much attainable evidence that would further our case. The rest of the team were forced to listen to the connection that both McCall and I had contributed towards, shocked that the evidence had been staring us in the face for a while. Diligence was our key and hope that the mother would act in a desultory manner since she’d barely had a full day to patch a story together.

  Cracking my knuckles and doing the same to my neck, today’s game plan was rearing its head upon us. This was my own style of conditioning like a sportsman would do before a televised game where they had to show up in front of their adoring fans. Except we had no spectators here, just the clarifications in our own minds that we were doing right by the public.

  Before we’d initiated the tape, a short burst of knocks came on the door. Feebly entering with caution, Rebecca had a glass in tow that was filled with clear liquid. “There’s the water you asked me to fetch.” Sliding the glass across the table, Rebecca leaned in to exchange some private notes. “The forensics on the jewellery should be back in a week or so. They said it isn’t a priority enough to be done quicker than that.”

  “Thank you, DC Wilson,” I said respectfully.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” she gave a crooked grin and left us.

  Keen to get the show on the road, we dipped into a lull and waited for the solicitor to get herself duly sorted. DCI Harvey, as the highest-ranking officer, called the possession to commence. There was a succinct pattern beginning to emerge here. Prudently gathering our resources, McCall roamed and sorted our evidence into neat piles, coordinating said piles to the timeline we’d planned to tackle the questioning regarding.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” DCI Harvey confirmed, and I was thankful that she’d taken my connections on board and agreed that they certainly made Julie Carling appear secretive. She’d been the woman to obtain the private numbers of the mother’s bank account in less than a day and consequently proved my theory worth pursuing. “My officers deserve a day off, and we don’t want to stay in this room all day long.”

  When satisfied with our setup, the proceedings kicked into gear.

  “South West Fife CID, conducting an interview with Mrs Julie Carling following the arrest of her daughter’s kidnapper. She’s suspected of organising the kidnapping and having prior knowledge of a staged death. Present today are DCI Christine Harvey, DI Finlay Cooper, and DS McCall. Duty Solicitor present. Interview commenced at 1000 hours on the 22nd of April,” DCI Harvey stated before handed the reins over to McCall, who gladly took centre stage.

  “Mrs Julie Carling, I’m going to begin by asking you a few simple questions, nothing major,” she explained. “Did you and your husband purposely employ the Clark brothers for your finance and loan business, knowing that they were ex-convicts?”

  Leaning forward as if a reporter's microphone stood on the table in front of us, Mrs Carling struggled to speak properly at first and stumbled over her sentences. “Uhm, yes. We knew who the brothers were from a few newspapers and reports that were around at the time. My husband wanted our business to have an edge to it, a unique selling point that nobody else had. A rehabilitation sort of thing for the brothers after he took pity on them. You’d have to ask him to explain it properly as he knows all the correct details better than I do.”

  “Unfortunately, your husband can’t do the talking for you here, Mrs Carling. It’s you who’s under suspicion and not him,” I instructed firmly.

  Adhering to my advice, McCall pressed on. “Were you aware that Jerry Clark planned to fake his own death? It’s a rather elaborate idea and one that seems a bit drastic for the sake of some cash.”

  Stalling at the question, Mrs Carling gulped. Then declined. “I believed he was dead, the same as everyone else did.”

  “For the tape, Mrs Carling shook her head in a clearly disagreeable motion,” I added. “The thing is, Mrs Carling.., we have severe and irrefutable evidence to prove otherwise.” The imaginary bell inside my head rang loud and clear, signifying the first hit, that first brutal punch to wield the fellow boxer staggering. “If you’d look towards your own files we’ve printed out for you, then you’ll notice that we’ve highlighted the important pieces of text that we’d like to focus on today, all for your ease.”

  The two seated directly opposite us did as they were told. They flipped. And read. And scanned.

  In due course, the duty solicitor peered up. “I must say that I’m failing to see the connection between these two accusations, DI Cooper. I don’t see why or how they’re linked to my client?”

  “As previously stated, if you would continue to analyse the highlighted section.” I looked at my own copied paper, unfazed by the hot-on-our-heels lawyer. “We’ve noticed that, as per Mrs Carling’s personal bank statements that were conducted as part of the investigation into your daughter’s kidnapping, a few interesting payments have been deducted from your account. The one I’d like to focus on today is the transaction of seven hundred pounds.” I paused for breath. “The money was taken from their joint account and into Julie Carling’s personal one, where we traced the money to a specific address. Number five, Barnhill Road. The payments started between your accounts exactly one month ago, which match the time of Jerry Clark’s presumed death.”

  “Strictly circumstantial.” The solicitor casually shrugged, urging to move forward with this point or to drop it entirely.

  “So it would seem,” DCI Harvey hummed. “Had we not received a tip-off and positive identification confirming that Jerry Clark’s residential address and the home where we found the kidnapped Sarah Carling was at number five Barhill Road. I’m sure you don’t need reminding that your client just claimed she believed Jerry Clark to be dead a month ago.” Switching her gaze to our subject, DCI Harvey didn’t let up on the gas.

  “Clearly, that explanation doesn’t hold up in light of this evidence, does it, Mrs Carling? Would you like to take this opportunity to be truthful with us and explain why you've had these payments set up to Jerry Clark since his alleged death?”

  Subdued and meek at our robu
st proof, Mrs Carling took the advice of her solicitor. “No comment.”

  Sighing but undeterred, I tried again as my patience already began to dwindle. “We suspect that you were paying for Jerry Clark’s accommodation at number five Barnhill Road. Is this true or not? It’s a simple yes or no answer that would save us all a lot of time.”

  Julie Carling shared a second glance towards her solicitor. Exchanged a whisper. And another.

  “No. I said no comment.”

  McCall remained resolute and shuffled our printouts. She set down a few further statements across the table. “Okay, so can you give us a reasonable and logical explanation for what this money was used for, since you’ve claimed that our suspicions were wrong?”

  Without interruption of legal advice, Mrs Carling was on her own.

  It took a couple of minutes to receive a reply. Her doubtful eyes were full of mistrust. Wondering if this was a trick question. Rhetorical, even.

  “No comment,” Mrs Carling said with gritted teeth.

  The duty solicitor backed the move. “That’s private and personal to my client only. You don’t have to explain everything they ask you, Mrs Carling. The transactions they need for evidence are in front of us, and if that isn’t enough to charge you with, that’s their own problem. Not ours.” Glaring at us without mercy, the solicitor gestured at us to deliver another piece of evidence.

  “No wonder your husband struggled to pay off the mounting debts with you taking half of his money for your personal gain,” I muttered underneath my breath, frustrated at the lack of cooperation.

  The duty solicitor smirked at our ruffled feathers, which only riled us up. “Let's stick to the subject at hand here, please and the evidence that specifically relates to my client, DI Cooper. It’s a joint account, meaning the money belongs as much to the wife as the husband.”

  Hearing the scoffs emitted from my colleagues, I wasn’t the only one that was riled up. “Of course,” I lied. “In light of this evidence, we obviously have valid suspicions that Mrs Carling orchestrated, along with Jerry Clark, the kidnapping of her seven-year-old daughter.”