Dirty Secrets

by JANICE FROST

  Before Fin could speak, Darren asked, “You going to ask us in, or what?”

  Hector stood aside.

  “Anyone else at home?” Fin asked.

  Hector shook his head. “What’s up?”

  Darren stood looking around the wide hallway, hood up, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. Fin realised it was up to him to do the talking.

  “You were seen,” he said simply. “Leaving the house in Stepney. Liam wants his property back.”

  Wisely, Hector didn’t prevaricate. There was a moment’s silence. Then he said, “I don’t have it.”

  Fin felt a movement at his side. He twisted round in time to see Darren conjure up a knife out of nowhere.”

  “Whoa, steady on.” Hector took a couple of steps backwards and collided with the sofa. He went down, sprawling across it, and in a beat, Darren was on top of him, pinning him to the sofa, knife at his throat.

  “Where is it?” he said. Blood dribbled over his blade from a nick in Hector’s throat.

  The poker face had disappeared. Hector’s panicked eyes darted to Fin. “Remember Dana?” A nod. “That crazy bitch stole it from me.”

  “Who the fuck is Dana?” Darren snarled.

  “Hector’s ex,” Fin said.

  “Where is she?”

  “She . . . she’s dead,” Hector said.

  Hector’s eyes were wide. He was probably seeing his life flash before him. Fin intervened. “Darren. Mate,” he said, thinking fast. “Killing him’s not going to achieve anything.” To Hector, he said. “Tell me this wasn’t the coke the police found in Dana’s room?” Hector signalled his agreement with his eyes, a nod being too risky with a knife against his throat. Fin linked his fingers behind his neck and paced the room. It was even worse than he’d thought.

  “What’s going on, Fin?” Darren demanded.

  Fin explained.

  “Liam’s not going to like this,” Darren said. His tone suggested he wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his brother. His grip on the knife never slackened while his slow mind processed the information. Fin’s thoughts, on the other hand, were racing.

  “Give him some time?” he said, at last. “If he can get Liam’s property back, then all’s good, isn’t it? Dal? A couple of weeks, mate. That’s not a lot to ask, given what I did for you. Right?”

  Moments passed while Darren considered the deal. He was a slow thinker, but in this situation that was a good thing. If Liam had sent anyone else, odds were Hector would be disfigured, or dead, already.

  “Two weeks,” he said at last, apparently regarding that as fair recompense for seven months of Fin’s life. Darren slid the knife from his right hand to his left and landed Hector a punch in the face. Then the knife disappeared, and he laid into Hector with both fists, while Fin stood by, flinching at every blow, but knowing better than to intervene. Darren needed to walk away from this encounter with his pride intact. To his credit, Hector seemed to grasp that some kind of immediate reparation was due, and he took the blows without any attempt at retaliation.

  By the time Darren had finished, Hector looked like his mother’s worst nightmare, but at least he was alive. And nothing had been cut off.

  “Two weeks,” Darren repeated, finger in Fin’s face. “Liam ain’t gonna like it, but it is what it is.” He turned to Fin. “And no more favours. You and me, we’re quits now.”

  And then he was gone. Out the door, having checked up and down the corridor — out of habit. In Darren’s world, you expected trouble to arrive from any direction.

  Fin closed the door and pulled Hector to his feet. Only the whites of his eyes were visible under the bloodied pulp of his face. “Fucking low-life little shit . . .” Hector sputtered. Fin’s patience snapped.

  “You just don’t get it, do you? You fucking moron. He could just as easily have killed you. What the fuck possessed you to steal from someone like Liam? I told you not to piss him off. How many kinds of stupid are you?” Hector staggered across the floor. “Tell me you can pay Liam back, Hector.” No answer. “Hector?”

  “I need to get cleaned up. Wait here.” Hector said, but Fin followed him into the bathroom, unwilling to let Hector out of his sight until he had an answer to his question.

  “Was that even true, what you said about Dana stealing the stuff?”

  Hector dabbed at his nose delicately with a damp facecloth. “Not exactly. She was looking after it for me.”

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “Did I kill her? No, but I bloody well might have if I’d got my hands on her first.”

  “You’re despicable. I need to know how you’re going to sort this, Hector. I know Liam. He won’t stop at making you pay for shitting on him. And, far as he sees it, I vouched for you, which means I’m in the shit too.” He didn’t dare articulate his fear that Liam might go after his family. Fin pulled Hector around to face him. “So I’m asking you again. How are you going to fix this?”

  Hector spat into the sink. Both of them stared at the bloody streaks on the sparkling porcelain.

  “I’ll have to speak with my father,” Hector answered between gritted teeth.

  “See that you do that. ASAP,” Fin said.

  He had seen himself out and walked out into the night. But he was too wired up. He couldn’t go to the hospital to see his family like that. Ruth would know immediately that something was very wrong. He’d walked all night and finally come to rest next to Ruth, at their son’s bedside, calm enough to pass her scrutiny.

  A low moan from Ruth as she repositioned herself on the chair interrupted Fin’s thoughts. He held his breath. Those thoughts mustn’t contaminate their reunion. Ruth’s eyes flickered open and darted straight to Cam, giving Fin a moment to compose himself.

  “He’s okay, I think,” Fin whispered.

  “Fin?” Ruth’s eyes widened. She rose stiffly, rubbing her legs. She must have had an uncomfortable night. Ruth embraced him, and he held her, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her familiar, much-missed scent.

  “I’m sorry about that whole thing with the police. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Shh. It’s alright. I think they believed me.”

  “Do you think Hector killed Dana?” Ruth asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Fin considered how much to tell Ruth about the developments of the past few hours. He calculated they were all safe until the two weeks were up. There was no sense in giving her anything more to worry about. For now, they had to focus on Cam.

  Fin pulled up a chair next to Ruth. Side by side, they sat in watchful vigil over their little son.

  * * *

  Jim Neal kissed his son goodnight. He hadn’t mentioned Myrna’s visit to Archie. A couple of years ago, he’d agreed to let Archie write to her, but the letters had gone unanswered. He suspected that Archie had looked his mother up on the Internet, but not so often now.

  Downstairs, Neal poured himself a Scotch and retreated to his study.

  There, he brooded on the case. Almost two weeks had gone by since Russell Marsh’s murder. Neal was always hypersensitive to the passage of time in a murder investigation. Every day had consequences in terms of resources, evidence gathering and motivation. Not that he needed to worry about his team losing momentum, particularly as they had not one but two concurrent investigations to keep them on their toes. Neal was increasingly interested in the family angle, particularly in the ‘intertanglement,’ as PJ so aptly put it, of their affairs.

  Finally, Neal brooded about Ava Merry, recalling how quiet she’d been on the drive back from Cambridge. He’d sensed that she’d been glad to get out of the car on their return to Stromford. They’d hardly spoken since. Neal sipped his whisky, ruminating for some time before calling it a night and going to bed.

  The following morning, he was at his desk before anyone else arrived. He put his head down for a couple of hours, working steadily. When at last he looked up, he could see the office outside was
no longer empty.

  PJ, he noted, was not at her desk. Was it today her partner, Steve, was having his ultrasound? Tired of staring at his screen, Neal left his office and joined Ava and Tom.

  “Tom, I hear you and PJ were involved in a bit of drama last night,” Neal said.

  Tom looked blank. “What? Oh, yeah, the baby thing.”

  “PJ told me you were slightly sceptical about Ruth appearing with a sick Cam just as you were about to question her about the night of the fire,” Ava said.

  “She called you from the hospital?”

  “Yes. Cam’s okay. But he really was very ill.”

  “Shit.”

  “Okay, Tom,” Neal said, “your detective instinct must have been in overdrive.”

  “I’d probably have thought the same,” Ava said. “Anyway, PJ’s going to speak with Ruth. I think she’s the best person to deal with her at such a sensitive time.” The others nodded.

  “What did you and PJ glean from speaking with Dana Schell’s ex- boyfriend?” Neal asked Tom.

  “That Nathan Brewer wasn’t really her boyfriend. Basically, she was abandoned by a friend at Glastonbury and hooked up with Nathan and his mates. Came back to Stromford with them and sponged off Nathan for a bit.”

  “Until she got the live-in job at the Cornish household?”

  “Yeah. Oh, and she was into drugs. But not coke, as far as Nathan knew. So what Ruth and Hector claim about her coke habit may or may not be true.”

  “Anything else?” Neal asked.

  “Nathan mentioned the fire that killed Will. They were mates at school, apparently,” Tom said.

  “The Cathedral School?” Neal asked.

  “No. Stromford High. Nathan sort of knew Ruth Marsh because she was Will’s cousin. You could tell he was cut up about losing his friend. Still resentful about it. The fire was started by a discarded cigarette, but Nathan said Will was sporty. He didn’t smoke. Nathan found it hard to accept.”

  “And you and PJ were following up on that last night, just before Cam was taken ill?” Neal asked, still catching up.

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “Ava asked PJ to find out where Ruth was on the night of the fire, and we wondered, could she have gone round to Will’s?”

  “Interesting,” Neal commented.

  “I’m worried that we’re getting sidetracked with all this. I’m still thinking this case is about the drugs.” Tom reiterated his earlier theory. “Maybe Hector Cornish goes round to Russ’s. Demands even more money. Russ refuses . . .” Tom made a gun of his fingers and put them to his temple. “Bang!” He stumbled backwards. Neal gave a disapproving grunt.

  “And Dana? What was Hector’s motive for killing her?” Ava asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Again, something to do with drugs.”

  “Or money,” Ava commented.

  “That reminds me. Lesley Curran left a message for me this morning saying she might have something for us on the money angle. She’s coming in . . .” Neal glanced at his watch. “Any time now, actually.”

  As if conjured up by his words, Lesley walked into the office. “You’re going to love me,” she said. She was addressing all three of them, but her eyes seemed to linger on Tom.

  “What have you got, Lesley?” Neal asked.

  “Did someone say coffee?” Lesley said, and began unpacking her laptop.

  Ava went off to the kitchen, muttering something about bribery.

  “I’ve been looking at all the usual stuff. Bank activity, of course, so withdrawals, deposits, credit and charge card accounts, yada yada yada, but also Russell Marsh’s own accounts held on his laptop.” Lesley was a fast talker and her fingers darted over the keyboard as she spoke. “Don’t worry, I’ve followed all the legal pathways for obtaining information.”

  She didn’t have to say it. Neal knew that Lesley was well-versed in the intricate web of legislation involved in the investigation of financial crimes. Failure to comply could result in evidence being inadmissible in court.

  “Russ Marsh’s business affairs are squeaky clean,” Lesley said, smiling at the sight of the giant coffee mug heading her way, courtesy of Ava. “But before you all become despondent, I have two words for you.” She paused and sipped her coffee, presumably to keep them in suspense. “Paul Cornish.”

  “You’ve got something on Russ’s partner?” Neal frowned.

  Lesley looked annoyingly smug. “As you know, Cornish and Marsh was founded after the two men had had successful individual careers in the City. They became financial advisers and investors. And they had good instincts. Most of the businesses they’ve invested in have gone on to give them decent returns on their money.”

  “So they hold shares in these companies?” Tom asked.

  “That’s usually how it works.” Lesley winked at him. “It would appear that Paul Cornish also had projects of his own on the side.”

  Lesley certainly had their interest. Neal could practically hear the buzz of Tom and Ava’s brains spinning around the possibilities.

  “Anyone got a biscuit? I skipped breakfast and I’m famished.”

  “I’ve got one of those energy bars.” Tom fished around in his drawer and produced a rather squashed-looking specimen.

  “Er . . . thanks. I’ll pass.” Lesley eyed the bar with distaste. It was all a performance, of course. She had something for them and she was enjoying drawing it out as long as possible.

  But Neal didn’t have all day. “Get to the point, Lesley,” he urged.

  “Okay. The short version. Last year, Paul Cornish invested money in a local construction company, Ballgreen Construction.”

  Ava and Neal exchanged glances. Ava said, “That’s the name of the company that built Marton Tower, where Paul Cornish has a penthouse. His son, Hector, is living there at the moment. I saw pictures of Paul in the foyer of the building. You know, on the building site, wearing a hard hat and a business suit, and holding a cement hoe.”

  Lesley nodded. “Paul likes construction. He’s been involved in a series of projects across the East Midlands, everything from office blocks to housing developments. Apparently his father was a builder. Anyway, an electrician — a sub-sub-contractor working on the Marton Tower development — blew the whistle on Ballgreen. According to him, he was asked in the absence of the site manager to sign off on a consignment of cables that arrived a day early.”

  “Let me guess,” Tom said, “there was a mismatch between the invoice and the size of the delivery?”

  “Bang on. Our electrician kept his mouth shut, but he did keep his ears and eyes open and, well, I’m sure you can guess what sort of other activities he observed.”

  “Ghost workers,” Ava said.

  “Fake overtime claims,” Tom chorused.

  “And the rest.” Lesley nodded. “There was an investigation and Ballgreen admitted to corrupt practices. Paul Cornish came out of the investigation untainted. He was only involved in investing in the company.” Lesley’s expression told another story.

  “Have you got anything concrete on him?” Neal asked.

  “I’ve done some digging and delving into the accounts of the various businesses Paul Cornish has been involved with. Many of them have been remarkably profitable.” Lesley reeled off a few examples. “Restaurants dotted across the East Midlands. Dry-cleaning shops.”

  She listed a few other examples.

  “Compared to peer businesses, Paul’s have been banking a lot more money. I ate dinner in a few of the restaurants Paul’s involved with.” She paused and looked at Tom. “Tom joined me on one occasion. I was practically the only customer on some of the busiest evenings of the week. But the profits tell a different story.”

  “Are we talking about money laundering?” Ava asked. The types of businesses Paul Cornish was investing in were the sort typically used for that purpose. Service industries, where cash could be put through the till with no questions asked.

  “Drugs,” Tom said, tapping the side of his nose. He looked smug. To both Neal a
nd Ava’s annoyance, he was probably right.

  “Lesley?” Neal prompted.

  “Paul Cornish has shares in several businesses that would lend themselves well to money laundering.” She sighed. “I’ll be honest. This is potentially a huge investigation. It could take months to gather enough evidence to go to court. If the evidence even exists. And if we can prove it leads back to Cornish. I suspect Paul will have covered his tracks. If you could slap a conviction on him for killing Russ Marsh or Dana Schell, it would probably take less time. Maybe one or both of them got wind of what Paul was up to, and got themselves killed as a result. And not necessarily by Paul in person. If he is money laundering, we need to be asking, who for? He’s likely to be associating with some very nasty people.”

  Neal’s thoughts were racing. There was something agitating his brain. Suddenly he knew what it was. “That electrician. The one who blew the whistle on Ballgreen Construction. Do you have his name?”

  “It was kept confidential at the time, of course. I can divulge the name to you in strictest confidence.” Lesley did the computer equivalent of fumbling around with paper files.

  “Here it is,” she said at last. “His name was Stephen Hamilton.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “No wonder Stephen Hamilton seemed so nervous when we interviewed him. He made out he was worried about having to confront Paul Cornish about his loan, but he must have been wondering whether Cornish had something to do with Russ’s death,” Ava said. She and Neal were in a small industrial estate, approaching the unit where Stephen’s electrical contractor’s business was located.

  Ava drew up and parked outside. Before they set off, Neal had asked her to check that Stephen was available and not out on a job. According to the employee she spoke to, Stephen would be in his office all morning, going over the weekly accounts.

  They entered the unit under a rolled-up shutter door, and stepped into a small, open office space. There were two desks, and a kitchen area, with a table and an assortment of odd chairs. Stephen Hamilton was hunched over a computer. Next to him sat a woman, presumably his accounts and admin assistant. They looked up as Neal and Ava walked in.