‘She never had any children, which is a shame. She would have made a good mother. One sister, whom she loves dearly, but rarely bothers with. A niece too. She’s quite the black sheep. Into all sorts. So no. No one else would have authority to look at her accounts.’
‘Okay. Well, I think it’s time we met her.’
‘I will warn you, she can be a little stubborn, even a little insulting at times. She’s a very forthright woman. She doesn’t mean it. She’s just not well.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
‘That’s nothing to worry about. I’m no stranger to stubborn people.’ Sarah looked at Dales as the door closed.
‘Not much of a sense of humour.’ Dales leant over and looked at Sarah’s notebook. ‘Just what have you been writing?’
‘Brief details.’ She’d taken a page and a half of notes under various underlined headings.
‘You know it’s not likely to go anywhere. Chances are it's just an old lady’s mumblings.’
‘Possibly. I’d like to get a look at her accounts just to be sure. Semples has known her for years and seems to think something’s up.’
‘He does seem very protective of his boss. Maybe there’s more to their relationship?’ Dales winked.
‘Maybe he just doesn’t like bitter old police officers suggesting all women’s eyes light up at the thought of divorce?’
‘I’m not old, Gladstone. These greys are wisdom hairs.’
‘And bitter?’
‘Bitterness is a matter of taste.’
Sarah scanned her notes. ‘Trouble is, if she doesn’t want to tell us, we’ve got nothing. If she’s deemed capable of making sound financial decisions, there’s little we can do.’
‘Then we head back, write it up and file it.’
‘As quick as that?’ Sarah had learned a lot from Dales over the month they’d worked together, but sometimes found him a little too eager to close a case and start work on the next one.
‘Just keeping the decks clear for when the good stuff comes in. Figuring out what’s important is a big part of being a detective. It may seem callous, but what good are you to anyone if you’re drowning in dead cases when the real call comes in?’
She was about to explain every call was a real call, when Mr Semples returned. Valerie shuffled in behind him, hunched over with her wrinkled hands folded across her waist, behind him. Her grey-black hair was pulled back in a bun. She was thin, her skin loose around her high cheekbones, giving her a look of healthy fragility. Mr Semples pulled her chair out before sitting down himself.
‘Valerie, this is DC Sarah Gladstone and DS Steve Dales. Officers, this is Valerie Goddard.’
Valerie spoke before Sarah could extend her hand and greet her. ‘I don’t know why he’s brought you here. There’s nothing to say.’ Her deep, direct voice wasn’t what Sarah had expected from someone with such a timid posture. She spoke with the force of someone who was used to being in charge, or at least not being told they weren’t. Valerie stared at Dales before turning back to Sarah. Dales sat up a little straighter in response.
‘I brought them here because it’s important we talk about it.’ Mr Semples looked apologetic.
‘I’m Sarah, a detective with Mavenswood CID, and I just want to ask you a few questions about what’s been happening. Valerie –’
‘Ms Goddard.’
‘Ms Goddard. Mr Semples told me you’ve been giving someone lots of money.’
‘My own money, yes. Is there a crime in that?’
‘No, of course not. I’m not here to say you’ve done anything wrong.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I want to be sure that you know the person you’re giving money to. And that you’re doing it for the right reasons.’
‘I know what I’m doing, thank you very much. I can give anything I want to whomever I want.’
Mental capacity in elderly victims was difficult to address. Sarah had investigated offences involving gardeners attending elderly and vulnerable people’s addresses and charging extortionate rates for work that didn’t need doing. Organised gangs drove around targeting addresses with clear signs of elderly occupants. Safety bars, permanently closed curtains and signs of disrepair often gave the game away. After identifying the address, they’d send letters purporting to be from the council, informing them of a problem with their property, an issue with the pipes under the garden or similar that needed urgent maintenance. The following day they’d knock on the door, brandishing a fake ID, and get to work. When it was done, the victim, none the wiser, would be made to pay inflated costs for unnecessary work. The criminal element of those cases was clear. The fraud was clearly made out and the investigations focused on identifying the suspect and linking them to the letters, the work conducted and the demand for payment. If Valerie Goddard was freely giving money to another person, no fraud was taking place, unless she was deemed mentally unfit to make financial decisions. Suggesting someone no longer had the mental capacity to make financial decisions was a difficult thing to say, and even harder for the victim to hear.
‘That’s true. You can. But there are some people who would take advantage of your kindness.’
‘Who they are is none of your business. And none of yours either, Eric.’ Valerie glared at Semples, a look he returned with a kind, if a little awkward, smile. An affection she shunned by turning back to Sarah. ‘I’m not answering any more of these ridiculous questions. I’d like you to leave.’
‘Valerie, please.’ Semples tried to placate her. Sarah appreciated him trying to facilitate the conversation. Discussions like this were made a lot easier with a relative or friend to assist, although knowing when to quit was as much a virtue as patience.
‘It’s okay. Thank you for your time, Ms Goddard.’
Valerie stood up. Sarah, Dales and Semples followed suit. Sarah extended her hand and Valerie shook it. Sarah winced a little; her grip was stronger than she’d expected. ‘I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.’
Dales’ offer of a handshake was greeted with only a stern look.
Semples looked a little embarrassed. ‘I’ll see you both out.’
‘I can only apologise for wasting your time, Officers.’ Semples walked them to the lobby. The reception area, like the rest of the hotel, was in stark contrast to the type of places Sarah was used to staying in. The reception desk was dark oak wood. The receptionist, an attractive brunette who’d caught Dales’s eye, stood in a tight-fitting black and white Oxlaine uniform.
‘It’s really no trouble. You were right to call us. It’s just a shame there’s little more we can do. I’ll put an alert report in to our vulnerable adult team. They work closely with social services and someone will be in contact with you to see if there is any help they can offer. It may well be that over time she wants to say more and we can investigate it further. Here’s your incident number. If anything else comes to light, be sure to call in and quote that.’
Dales leant on the desk and struck up a conversation with the receptionist.
‘I’ll be sure to.’ Semples took the incident number, folded it and placed it in his top pocket. ‘She’s not always like that, you know. She can be pleasant at times.’
‘I’ve no doubt, Mr Semples. Have you got any ideas who this friend could be? Even the slightest idea could be worth mentioning. She’s healthy and mobile for her age. Does she attend any social clubs where she could have met this person?’
‘I’m at a loss. She doesn’t really go out much. She hasn’t spoken to her sister in years and if she does ever mention her family, it’s always by name. She has no real friends to speak of. Aside from me. I’m all she’s got really.’
‘Well, she’s very lucky to have you.’
It was five o’clock and Sarah knew if she hurried back to the nick and wrote up her reports, she may be home at a reasonable hour for a change. Getting home late had become a regular thing since starting the fast-track prog
ramme and she could only hope things would settle down once she qualified.
The Oxlaine’s tall doors opened automatically as she and Dales walked into the car park. They walked past rows of shiny new cars on the way to their pale blue Hyundai Getz.
‘Making friends with the staff?’
‘Just making conversation. Not sure I could handle being knocked back by two women in a row.’ Dales smiled.
‘Valerie didn’t seem to like you.’
‘Clearly has no appreciation for the gold standard. Maybe that’s why she keeps soppy Semples around.’
‘Don’t be mean. He’s a nice guy in a tough position.’
‘The receptionist wanted to report something to us. Nothing urgent and nothing to do with this case. I told her to call it in and it’ll be assigned to someone.’
Sarah stopped. ‘What was it?’
‘Nothing important.’
She looked back at the hotel. It was still an intimidating building even from all the way at the other end of the car park. ‘We should go back.’
‘No, we shouldn’t. Had she spoken to you instead, we’d have been here till the early hours launching a full investigation. Some things can wait.’
‘Did you even take her name?’
‘Nope. She can call it in and she’ll be taken care of. You can only do what you can do, Gladstone. The truth is, I knew you wouldn’t be able to say no, and that’s why I stepped in to speak to her first. No other reason to it whatsoever.’ Dales opened the passenger door.
Sarah got in, started the car and turned the station to Classic Gold FM. ‘My hero.’ ABBA’s ‘Mamma Mia’ filled the car.
‘Must we?’
‘Driver always picks.’
Sarah’s plan for the evening didn’t go quite as expected. When they came back to the CID office, the late-turn officers were all tucked up with a stabbing. A sixteen-year-old boy had been stabbed outside the Mavenswood train station. The lad was in hospital and, thankfully, likely to survive. Uniform were out looking for the suspects with the brief descriptions they had, whilst CID trawled for witnesses and examined the crime scene. Within moments of walking through the door, Detective Inspector Manford had asked Sarah to attend Dainton Road and conduct enquires at any houses overlooking the path to the station. She’d spent the next couple of hours walking from address to address in the pouring rain. No one had seen anything. She came back to the nick, updated the DI with the results and clocked off.
It was one in the morning by the time she reached home. The twins were already asleep. There were three notes on the fridge door: Heather’s contact details—her sister was great at looking after the girls at short notice; account details and contact numbers for Mark’s company; and, most importantly, a note telling her dinner was on the bottom shelf. It was addressed to ‘Mummy’ and signed by her husband and the twins. She removed the cellophane-wrapped ceramic tray and spooned the cold carbonara into a large white bowl. Half a bottle of Merlot was left on the side counter with a yellow Post-it note stuck to the front: You may need this (Turn Over) - M xx. She removed the stopper and poured a glass. On the other side of the note Mark had written Don’t forget, the investors meeting is tomorrow xx. Her husband was part of a small web design start-up. The company had gotten off to a successful start, and they’d been looking for investors to ‘take it to the next level,’ as he liked to say. Someone had recently expressed an interest in fronting up some capital and the meeting had come around soon. She was on earlies and although she would be due to finish at five, she was quickly learning a finish time was never guaranteed. She needed to put Heather on notice in case the wheel fell off at work.
After the microwave pinged, she sat on the sofa, bowl on her lap and glass in hand for her first bite to eat in around nine hours. She wolfed the carbonara down. Before long her eyes fluttered and she crept upstairs to the bedroom, careful not to disturb her snoring husband. She grabbed a set of clothes for the morning, black suit pants and a blue blouse, before checking on the girls. They’d soon be too big to share a room, but until work settled down a notch the spare room would remain unfinished. Sophie had been more vocal than Ellie on the issue, as was expected, and they’d begun fighting and falling out more often as they grew from children into young women. A small framed photo of One Direction was nestled in between a plush teddy bear prince and a fluffy piglet princess. They were nine years old going on nineteen. Sarah wondered when they’d put that up and where they’d got it from, but those were questions for another time. She carefully stepped over the clothes on the floor, and kissed her sleeping daughters each on the forehead before heading downstairs to sleep on the sofa.
Four
‘So, TDC Gladstone, let’s start with your current case. Report of possible fraud with an elderly complainant?’ DI Manford’s office was too small to hold a meeting for five people. The briefing room would have been a far more comfortable option, but was being used by the chief inspector for a rundown of the Mavenswood police station’s refit. Rumour around the nick was they’d miscalculated the budget and were having to scale back the refurbishments, despite being partway through the project. Joel Johnson wheeled in the last chair and held it out for Sarah to sit down, pulling his own up next to her. DS Matt Hayward and DS Dales sat next to their respective tutees, all four squeezed into an uncomfortable line in front of Manford’s desk.
‘We spoke to Valerie yesterday and she’s not telling us any more than we already know. The original caller, Mr Semples, was there. He told us she isn’t of sound mental health, that she’s mentioned various people before who have all been in her head.’
‘Have you considered social services?’ asked the DI.
‘I mentioned it to him and I’ve put a report into AVU this morning. I’m sure they’ll want to speak to her. I asked him if any suspects come to mind, and he couldn’t think of anyone.’
‘Okay. Send the report and file it through DS Dales. We can reopen it if any other information presents itself. Joel, you’re running a suicide out in Amblin Park. How’s that coming along?’
‘Scott Enderson, twenty-two years old, hung himself from a tree in Amblin Woods last Sunday. By all accounts, he was a bit of a loner –’
‘Bit of a loser, you mean.’ Hayward shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, which was far too small for his girth.
Joel ignored his interruption. ‘He was in significant debt. His parents say he didn’t have a penny to his name.’
‘In contrast to the evening news report?’ Manford’s pen strokes became less refined the faster he wrote. ‘You catch it?’
‘Yeah, the family appear wealthy. Nice house, nice area, but something tells me they’re swimming in debt to maintain it. Surprised the story hit the national news.’
‘Suicides are on the rise, especially in men and especially since the recession. I don’t know the stats offhand, but there’s definitely been a significant local increase too. Work, job, friends?’ It was the standard set of questions everyone asks after a suicide. Where were their support networks? Who knew how they were feeling? Who knew something was up and who bothered to listen?
‘None of the above. Used to work for an electrical store, but he lost that and ended up spending most of his time at home on his computer. The person who found the body’s been spoken to, nothing untoward there. Only one friend, a guy called James Golders, who I'm yet to speak to.’ Joel’s paperwork had multicoloured sticky labels along the right-hand side which organised the bundles into statements, medical evidence, forms, intelligence reports and miscellaneous, allowing him quick access to the document he was referencing. Not that he seemed to need to refer to anything. Sarah was impressed at just how much seemed to come from memory.
‘What was he spending on? Gambling or women? It’s normally one of the two,’ asked Manford.
‘Clothes. His wardrobe was full of designer gear, from top-end high-street brands all the way to designer names. His wallet was sparse, but the boys found five credit cards in his b
edroom. His folks signed the bank release forms and I expect they’ll come back all maxed out. We examined the phone.’ Joel held up a ring-bound booklet with two pictures of a Nokia cameraphone front and back, with a list of technical terms and numbers including IMEI and SIM card details on the cover, along with the phone number: 07709 431298. ‘He had a penchant for sex text services. There’s numerous text conversations with women, some are of a graphic sexual nature and most I’d say seem automated, or at least contrived.’
Hayward took the report from Joel’s hand and turned the page to the list of sent messages. ‘I've highlighted the best ones. I want to tie you to the church gate and bugger you. I want to put my fist inside your…’
‘That’s quite enough, Matt. There’s a lady present.’ Sarah took umbrage at Manford’s reason, but was glad he’d stopped Hayward mid-sentence. Hayward wasn’t someone she wanted to associate with anything remotely sexual. Joel’s deep and pleasant Afro-Caribbean accent soon replaced that image in her mind.
‘Sir, they start relatively tame, but get progressively worse. There weren’t any photos on the phone, so it’s possible he just gets off to the thought of it all.’
‘Happy it’s not suspicious?’
‘At this stage. I’m not returning any of his property to the family until we have the PM results and I can finalise the coroner’s report.’
‘Good. Well, you’ve both impressed me so far. Remember, when it comes to the exam, go with the first answer that comes to mind. That’s gotten me through all my promotion exams. One of the options will always stand out as being obviously wrong anyway. You’re under a lot of pressure on this fast-track programme. They expect you to complete in three months what your tutors and I had two years to do. And even then, some took a few attempts, didn’t they Matt?’ He looked at DS Hayward and cut him off before he could return a snide remark. ‘Keep up the good work.’
They left the office and wheeled their chairs all the way back to their pods at the other end of the room. Sarah’s phone rang and she sped up to answer it.
Death's Privilege Page 2
