Death's Bright Angel

by Janet Neel

  ‘How do people hide a lot of cash?’

  ‘Set up an account anywhere where they believe money is more important than the administration of justice. Switzerland, the Cayman Islands, lots of places. On consideration, I’d plump for Switzerland.’

  McLeish sighed. ‘So we would probably not find anything in any UK bank accounts?’

  ‘You shouldn’t, but people do the stupidest things. One I caught, as an auditor, had all the money in a deposit account. Told the manager it was a legacy. But on the whole, no.’ He thought for a bit. ‘I did my training in the Inland Revenue. If you have a dodgy customer, you make him account for all expenditure and all income, and look at the gap. If I were you, I’d start from there, and look for someone living beyond his income.’

  ‘That I can do, but what about having a look at the suppliers? Take a guess that someone chose that option, and go round them?’

  Henry opined that he would not bother with the really big suppliers, such as the Allied subsidiary which supplied the yarn, but recommended serious attention to the smaller suppliers. ‘Look for someone trying to break in, and concentrate on the last two years,’ he suggested.

  ‘You’ll be missing your dinner,’ McLeish reminded him and they got out of the car and made for the dining-room.

  ‘I’ll tell you another thing, though,’ Henry volunteered as they strolled through the car-park. ‘If there is a fiddle anywhere, it’ll be documented — I mean the method and the amounts will be written down. Think on, lad. There’s no honour among thieves, so there will always be a record of who gets what. In fact, the accounting will probably be of a higher standard than you find in the rest of the business.’

  McLeish considered this with interest. ‘You mean the second set of books will be better than the first?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Henry agreed approvingly. ‘It is a bit easier for me to talk to you now that we, and the company, know we are not recommending assistance.’ He hesitated. ‘However, given that Francesca is not that experienced, I have made it clear to her that she is not to discuss the company with you, and that still goes.’

  ‘She has only answered the most basic questions.’ McLeish spoke hastily. ‘Very professional.’

  ‘Known her long?’ Henry asked innocently.

  ‘No, no, I only met her — what? — last week.’ He paused, amazed at this thought and Henry, vastly amused, waited patiently. ‘It seems longer,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ He smiled at McLeish, enviously. ‘She’s a good girl. I thought Hampton — the Britex MD — was a bit struck too, but I warned her off him.’

  ‘Does the warning-off still apply now that you aren’t going to recommend assistance and he won’t be a customer of the Department’s?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s all sorts of reasons why I don’t want her socializing with Hampton.’

  McLeish was prevented from asking him to elucidate by Francesca’s indicating by gesture that Henry’s dinner had arrived.

  ‘See you later in the bar, lad,’ Henry said comfortingly.

  They met in the bar an hour later, and Peter Hampton joined them. He was looking, McLeish thought sourly, remarkably cheerful for a man whose company had foundered. He stood chatting to Francesca and McLeish looked away from them for a minute, but his attention was recalled by a smart dig in the ribs from Henry.

  ‘Hey up. They’ve gone to the disco. I’m going to chaperone.’

  Suppressing the thought that Francesa was hardly going to welcome this, McLeish followed him, and blinked into the wildly gyrating lights of the hotel disco. Francesca and Hampton were very easy to see. She had taken off the over-severe jacket of her Jaeger suit and was dancing in a white, straight-cut, high-necked blouse which she had untucked from the neat flared skirt, while Hampton had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue shirt. They both looked very tall, elegant and assured, among the variously dressed young.

  The floor was not crowded and the other half-dozen couples on it were dancing hugged closely together, while Hampton and Francesca were dancing at a little distance from each other, but in perfect unison, watching each other seriously as they each mirrored the other’s movements. The music changed noisily, to the accompaniment of unintelligible bellowed comment from the slight blond youth who was in charge of the entertainment, to a fast rock beat and the two he was watching stopped for a minute to consider, then, moving as one person, slid into the rhythm. Hampton, very concentrated, the long body perfectly balanced, swung Francesca towards him and spun her round, sliding forward to catch her again as she came out of a neat double spin, skirt flying to reveal most of her excellent legs. They both spun again, coming out to face each other, touch hands, spin, come back and catch each other’s hands. They paused for a second, holding hands, Francesca leaning back slightly against Hampton’s balancing weight; his lips moved inaudibly and her serious face lit in a huge grin. She leant back further, and making nothing of it, did a back bend so her hair just touched the ground behind her, Hampton supporting her at the full stretch of both their arms with no apparent effort. She came up neatly in one movement, let go of his hands, then touched them lightly in acknowledgement. They spun away from each other, and spun back, perfectly in time, Hampton again steadying her as they met in the middle. They touched hands, and Hampton without breaking step moved a little back from her and clapped his hands sharply, and the whole room warmed to Francesca’s wide smile as she reached for his waiting hands, and slid through his legs in a flurry of long legs and flying skirt to come up the other side, perfectly in time to the beat.

  Scattered applause broke out, which Hampton acknowledged with a dip of the head, but which Francesca patently did not even hear. Without looking at each other they broke into a series of intricate turns and twists, Hampton controlling the movement and supporting her, making it look easy. She stumbled very slightly on one spin, and he checked her, holding her from behind with his arms crossed round her and said something, his lips very close to her ear, as he pulled her lightly against his chest. Her head turned in surprise, as clear as if she had spoken, then she smiled in acknowledgement of a message and they started again.

  ‘Told her not to lead,’ Henry observed, watching intently. ‘And she listened, by heck.’ He cursed himself for tactlessness the minute the words were out of his mouth, but McLeish had grimly assessed the situation for himself. They were moving together as if they had been doing it all their lives, and, as he knew, that perfect understanding was well-nigh irresistible when you found it, in any physical activity. Watching them he remembered the exact feel of the ball smacking into his hands from a perfect pass from the fly-half, and the wild pleasure of racing down the field knowing exactly where the next forward was if you needed him. It was painful to have had to witness Hampton exerting effortlessly a very masculine authority. It was worse to watch them dance.

  The music finally clashed to a halt, and solid applause broke out from what was by now a substantial watching crowd. McLeish turned hastily away as Hampton came off the floor with his arm lightly but proprietarily round Francesca who was breathless and shining with pleasure.

  ‘I didn’t know you could do that, lass.’ Henry shouldered the conversational burden.

  ‘I didn’t know I still could, either.’ Francesca, bright pink with exertion and joy was tucking her shirt in like a tidy child. ‘Perry and I, as teenagers, used to be very good.’

  ‘I had a misspent youth in dance halls,’ Hampton said smugly.

  Francesca smiled on him and demanded a glass of orange juice which got them all back to the bar. McLeish got her her orange juice, and joined civilly in the general chat, wondering if it would not be more dignified and more realistic to give up and go to bed. Hampton was standing very close to Francesca, and she put a hand on his arm to support herself as she examined the heel of a shoe.

  ‘I’ll miss this part of the world,’ Hampton observed suddenly, and Henry and Francesca exchanged startled looks
. ‘No need to be embarrassed, beautiful — the Inspector here knows all about the company, and we all know I’ll get the push if we are to have new owners.’

  McLeish, resenting bitterly the caress in his voice as he spoke to Francesca, nonetheless admired the man’s style.

  ‘What will you do, Peter?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘I’ve got a mate in North London running a small burglar-alarm business. He’s been wanting me to come in with him for some time. This shambles here is probably what I’ve been needing to get me to do that.’ He smiled at Francesca. ‘Don’t look so worried, lovely.’ She looked back at him, her eyebrows peaking in surprise, then smiled at him ravishingly while McLeish gritted his teeth.

  ‘Well, any sector with a bit of growth in it has to be better than textiles, doesn’t it?’ she offered.

  Henry Blackshaw started to laugh, and said in explanation that it was entirely typical of Francesca to have grasped, first off, that burglary was a major growth sector; and while they were all laughing, Sir James Blackett, rather red about the cheeks, arrived, and said heavily that he would be glad if he could remove Hampton here for a little conference. McLeish would willingly have embraced him, but Francesca looked disappointed. Hampton hesitated, but said goodnight punctiliously to Henry and McLeish, leaving Francesca till last. He took both her hands and kissed her formally, on the cheek, a little too close to her mouth. ‘We have to dance again when all this is over,’ he said to her, as if the other two were not in the room, and she looked back at him, amused and challenged.

  ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Peter,’ she said demurely, neatly avoiding the issue, and watching him for a minute as he walked off after his Chairman.

  ‘Time I went to bed, too,’ Henry observed into a difficult silence, finishing his drink. ‘I’ve got past these late hours.’ He ignored Francesca’s raised eyebrows, said firmly that ten o’clock was quite late enough for him, and took himself off, leaving McLeish not quite knowing what to do now that he had Francesca to himself. The situation was resolved for him, as the night manager came over and in confidential tones audible all over the bar established that he was indeed Detective Inspector McLeish and explained that Detective Sergeant Davidson had rung and wished him urgently to ring back. Torn between relief and frustration, he excused himself to Francesca, who said that since he was occupied she too would go to bed. She leaned over to him and kissed him lightly, and said she would see him tomorrow evening, if not before, so that he went off to make his phone call a little heartened.

  Francesca caught up with Henry at the reception desk where he was patiently waiting behind an American visitor trying to order the Herald-Tribune for the morning.

  ‘What have you done with young McLeish?’ Henry demanded. ‘I took off to give him a chance with you.’

  ‘Nothing could have been more conspicuous,’ she agreed, with affection. ‘The Edgware Road nick rang up for him, and it was obviously all going to take hours, so I gave up. He’s quite big enough to look after himself, you know. So am I.’

  ‘Bollocks. If ever I saw a girl in need of care and attention, and a decent serious man, it’s you. Not a Jack-the-Lad like Hampton who, as you ought to be able to see for yourself, sits too light to the saddle. He’s left one wife and his children already, and he’s out of a job. What’s wrong with a devoted policeman?’

  ‘I don’t necessarily want a devoted man. What a dull idea.’

  ‘You’re showing off, and you don’t fool me.’ Henry glared at her. ‘Might it not actually be more fun to have a bloke you could rely on a bit, instead of one who is married to someone else or generally footloose? Someone who would look after you a bit?’ He looked into the set face, level with his own. ‘Oh, what’s the use — I’m probably spoiling the poor bloke’s chances with every word, I say.’ He looked at her more carefully. ‘Frannie, don’t cry.’ He fished out a clean handkerchief and thrust it anxiously at her, and she buried her face in it while he patted her shoulder. ‘If I hadn’t been married for twentyfive years come January, I’d offer myself,’ he said seriously, and she smiled at him.

  ‘Oh Henry. I just don’t find men very dependable and I don’t want to get into the habit of depending on one again.’

  ‘Give the poor bloke a chance, eh?’

  ‘Well, I was going to anyway, because I fancy him.’ She bent a hardcase scowl on both the fascinated night porter and Henry, who said equably that if she could manage to fancy a reliable bloke that was a good start, and sent her off to bed.

  13

  The morning of Thursday dawned bright and clear, which McLeish thought, was just as well. He had slept badly, made miserable by not getting any time with Francesca and had finally sunk into a heavy sleep at around 5 a.m. At 7 a.m. the phone shrilled in his ear and he fought his way out of the blankets, and grunted into it by way of answer.

  ‘John, it’s Bruce. I’m sorry to rouse you, but I’ve waited a bit. Sheena Byers is showing real signs of improvement today, and I thought you’d like to know. Not conscious, but they think she will recover consciousness. The wee boy is with her.’

  It took McLeish a minute to work out that Davidson meant that Peregrine Wilson was at her side. ‘Ah,’ he said, his mind starting to function. ‘I’ll tell Francesca. You still have a policeman at the hospital, I hope?’

  Davidson confirmed that the chap was still there, and McLeish got himself groggily out of bed and stood under the shower until he felt better. He shaved and dressed, and he decided he could ring Francesca with the hope of being first with the good news. He woke her up but she received his news with all the enthusiasm he could have wished.

  ‘Have breakfast with me?’ he suggested when he could get a word in.

  ‘Oh yes. Give me ten minutes.’

  McLeish went sedately downstairs and ordered breakfast for two. He was gratefully drinking coffee when Francesca burst into the diningroom.

  ‘How marvellous!’ she said, breathlessly, pulling up a chair and dazzling the solitary waiter with her smile. ‘Yes please, I’m starving, I’ll have one of everything.’ The waiter withdrew, smiling benevolently, having obviously received a totally erroneous message, as McLeish could not resist pointing out.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Francesca said briefly, through a mouthful of his toast. ‘People in the situation you suggest come down at different times for breakfast and pretend not to know each other if they should accidentally find themselves in the same room. I should know.’ She paused and gave him a glinting look. ‘Please pass the marmalade.’

  McLeish passed it obediently, wondering how much of this he would have to put up with if he ever did become her lover.

  ‘So what are you doing today?’ she asked, having finished an enormous meal and looking hungrily at the last piece of toast on his plate.

  ‘Collecting background,’ he said, firmly buttering the toast for himself. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Either escorting strange Americans round the Britex factory, or not, as the case might be. Anyway, duty calls. Good luck, and I’ll see you tonight.’ She smiled at him so warmly that he touched her cheek in farewell as he passed and had the ineffable satisfaction of seeing Peter Hampton come into the dining-room just at that moment. If that delivers a totally erroneous message then let it, he thought with primitive pleasure, greeting Hampton civilly on his way out.

  He decided to go back to his room to apply himself to the telephone, from where, ten minutes later, he had an excellent view of Francesca, Henry and Martin getting into a taxi. Francesca had her coat half on and was carrying her briefcase with the strap undone, chatting to Martin while she tried to do up the strap and instruct a taxi driver simultaneously. Henry and Martin, working as a team, put her into her coat, strapped up her briefcase and thrust her into the car, patiently catching her as she tripped over the kerb. For a girl who could execute a complex dance routine from scratch with a man she had never danced with before, she was surprisingly clumsy in everyday things, but he understood suddenly that the clumsiness ca
me from trying to do too many things at once. He decided he must explain that to her one day, if he got the chance.

  The Department of Industry contingent meanwhile was engaged in internal argument about how to handle the day. Two directors of Connecticut Cottons were flying up for a meeting at 10.30 with the Directors of Britex, and it had been agreed that they would then have a meeting with the Department of Industry team and tour the factory, following which everyone would retire and think, as Francesca put it. The question was how much the Department should do: should they stay discreetly in the background, having offered assurances of support, or should they make their presence felt and the assurances more concrete by touring the factory with the Americans?

  Henry Blackshaw was listening to Martin and Francesca argue it out again.

  ‘Americans are dreadfully polite,’ Francesca was saying earnestly. ‘They’ll feel they have to talk to us if we come with them and they’ll miss all sorts of things about the factory.’

  ‘It’d be all right if it was just Henry and I,’ Martin observed. ‘It’s you they’ll want to be polite to. And they’ll be distracted by wanting to chat you up.’

  ‘I don’t think it has anything to do with sex. It’s just too many people. I vote we sit in an office doing the notes and looking supportive. Meeting, then lunch, then the 3.30 home.’

  ‘It’s like running a cadet corps having you around, Fran; you always have to think where the next meal is coming from.’

  ‘Shut up, Martin, I know you mind quite as much about your meals, it’s just that I’m prepared to organize.’

  Henry broke into their scrap with his considered decision that he would personally accompany the tour since he knew these Americans and they would feel no need to be civil to him. Francesca and Martin could spend some time sorting out with the Britex people lists of suppliers and principal customers, this being almost the first piece of paper a prospective buyer would want. Yes, he knew they had most of it; could they please check it and make sure it was in a readily digestible state?