by Anne Baker
Chloe cooked Sunday lunch these days, and Rex was always invited. He worried about Helen, as did all her family. He couldn’t understand why it had taken him so long to find that terrible lump. The disease had been well advanced by the time he had.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LEO HAD PLANNED A relaxing weekend in his own bedsit, but as soon as he got home, he could hear peals of childish laughter coming up from the flat below. That was followed by a heavy thump as something was knocked over. It irritated him; he couldn’t stand the racket the damn child living in the bedsit below his was making. He decided he might as well go to the pub straight away.
When he went to use the communal bathroom, he found somebody had been sick there and not cleaned it up. Maisie, the woman downstairs, spent too much time playing with her screaming kid instead of attending to the chores she’d agreed to do.
On the way out, he hammered on her door. When it opened, the sound of scampering feet, together with peals of laughter, resounded round the hall.
‘I can’t stand the noise your kid’s making,’ he said, and saw the smile fade from Maisie’s face.
‘Sorry, Lulu’s four today and she’s got her friend here to tea. They’ve been playing hunt the thimble, but I’ll stop them now.’
‘You shouldn’t have kids running around in here making such a din. Sounds like there’s ten of them,’ he complained. ‘The rest of us want a bit of peace when we come home from work.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll read them a story now.’
‘Also, our bathroom is in a disgusting state.’
‘I cleaned it yesterday.’
‘Well it needs cleaning again.’ Leo went out, slamming the front door behind him.
It didn’t please him to find the Irish pub just opening. With only two customers, the place was dead. He walked on to the burger bar to eat his tea there, then, feeling rather unsociable, continued further along the row and went into the news theatre to see an hour’s show of short topical films.
It didn’t cheer him to watch Concorde, the needle-nosed aircraft, take off for its first flight, or Cunard’s liner Queen Elizabeth 2 receiving the final touches before her maiden voyage. It would be some time, Leo thought, before he could afford to travel on either of them. To see the newly married John Lennon and Yoko Ono hold a press conference in bed depressed him further. He had no chance of that.
Leo stretched his legs and sighed. The show was not holding his attention, because he was upset. He should never have let Chloe see his silver pencil. He’d been very stupid to take it to work and careless to let that happen. He used it to lightly pencil in any figures until he’d double-checked them. He’d watched the girl twirl it between her fingers, and in case she’d noticed the engraved initials he’d been quick to say it had belonged to a friend. All the same, it had given him a shock. He’d use an ordinary pencil in future and leave that one at home.
When he went back to the Irish pub, the music was belting out. This was more like it; he needed cheering up. Once inside, Conor Kennedy’s heavy hand went round his neck.
‘My friend, how are you? We haven’t seen much of you recently. Maisie says you’re spending your week nights away.’
Leo cursed inwardly. That woman again! ‘Got myself a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘She’s very hospitable.’
‘Thinking of leaving us? Moving in with her altogether?’
‘No, I like my own place.’
‘Good for you.’ He called to the barman, ‘Patrick, a pint of Guinness for my friend here.’
‘Thanks, Conor. Good health to you.’ The tape machine was playing ‘Paddy McGinty’s Goat’, and Conor went behind the bar to turn up the volume.
For Leo, Monday morning came all too soon, and he had to think himself back into the persona of Francis Clitheroe. He settled himself at his office desk and pulled his comptometer forward. Should anybody come in, it made him look busy if he had a few columns of figures on the printout.
He’d had to teach himself to use it. Fortunately, it was a recently bought piece of equipment and he’d found the instruction booklet in a drawer in the desk. Not that he was much good at it. Mrs Parks put him to shame; she could make the figures bubble out of it. He wouldn’t dare use it in front of her. She was not all that quick on the uptake, but even she would notice he needed more practice.
Otherwise things were going well. He felt confident about his plans; they were as foolproof as he could make them. One of his duties was to settle the large number of bills that came in. Many were for the ingredients they used to make their pet foods, and the names of the suppliers appeared in their accounts over and over again.
The buyer, Don Tyler, was ordering regular supplies of cereals such as wheatings, bean and pea meal, oats and millet, from companies with names that were not dissimilar: Cheshire Farmers’ Cooperative, Fylde Farmers’ Cooperative, Fylde Grinding Mills and such like.
Leo now put into action his plans to set up a fictitious firm called Cheshire Crushing Mills. He’d spent all the previous Saturday finding a small printing firm and ordering bills and some headed notepaper in that name. He’d designed them to look very much like the genuine articles and he meant to keep them in his bedsit. Today, when he came to the office, he set up a file for this company amongst the others.
To test out his system, he’d typed a letter enclosing a bill from the Cheshire Crushing Mills, charging Bristow’s Pet Foods four hundred and ten pounds for a delivery of flaked maize. He folded both together, creasing them so they’d look as though they’d come out of an envelope. Then he put them in the file he’d created and pushed it into the middle of a whole armful of genuine files containing genuine bills. Next he called in Lydia Tomlin and dictated a short letter to each company saying that he was enclosing a cheque in payment of their bill, and let her get on with it.
When she brought his letters back to be signed, he took out the company chequebook.
She wrinkled her nose and said, ‘Mr Cleary made out the cheques first before he dictated the letters.’
That was a heart-stopping moment for Leo, but he managed to keep his voice level and say firmly, ‘I prefer to do it this way.’
When the door closed behind her, he took a deep, steadying breath. He hoped she’d think him pernickety and over-fussy. Better that than find out that the cheque due to the Cheshire Crushing Mills would be made out to Alistair Jackson and slipped in to his own pocket. The bank at which he’d opened an account in that name was round the corner from the office, to make it convenient to pay in. Leo could see no reason why the ruse should not work smoothly. As he was the company accountant, the bank would eventually return the cashed cheques to him; he’d bundle the genuine ones up neatly and destroy the fraudulent ones.
He felt sure that the theft was well hidden and that nobody would notice that he’d removed the money from Bristow’s Pet Foods to an account he could access privately. The only weak spot was that Cheshire Crushing Mills might be noticed as a company from which nobody had ordered supplies.
Leo didn’t mean to let money build up in any of his personal accounts, where it might attract attention from the bank staff. He drew it out in small amounts and soon found himself swimming in cash. His dreams of what he might buy with it were expanding. The cottage he’d once hoped to own had grown into a sizeable country house with a few acres of land. He’d need a car, too; he meant to set himself up in a new life well away from Liverpool.
One of the first things he’d like to do was to buy himself some more silver to replace what he’d had to sell. Bernie Dennison’s wife had been very grateful for his help and told him that Bernie sent his thanks. Leo had missed his fine silver, though he’d never had anywhere to set it out on show. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have trusted his neighbours not to nick it. He used to keep it wrapped in newspaper in an old trunk. One of his pleasures had been to take it out from time to time, polish it up until it sparkled and then gloat that such exquisite silver belonged to him.
He felt he
had to limit his monthly withdrawals via Cheshire Crushing Mills to the average amount of the genuine bills he paid. Bristow’s Pet Foods was providing the richest seam he’d ever been able to access, but at this rate he’d have to stay here a long time. He set up another fictitious company in order to double the amount he could take.
Bristow’s bought in yeasts and brewer’s grains in large amounts, and had dealings with several large brewers with well-known names. A similar company name would be easy to replicate. Northampton Brown Ales, for instance; that sounded genuine enough. They were also buying in meat meal and dried blood, sometimes from abroad . . . But no, he mustn’t go ahead too quickly; he didn’t want the boss to pick up on what he was doing.
But old Bristow was already freewheeling downhill to retirement. He’d been running this profitable business for the last twenty-five years and thought he could do it in his sleep. He was no longer as careful as he should be. And that went for Don Tyler, his buyer, too. A couple of old has-beens. It looked as though this could be a walkover.
The phone on his desk rang, tearing him away from his reverie. He recognised Mr Bristow’s voice. ‘Could you come along to my office? I’d like a word.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, but it caused his heart to race and a jangle of warning bells to ring in his head. If trouble was to come, this would be the way. But he daren’t delay, not even to pull himself together.
He knew the moment he saw Walter Bristow’s smiling face that he hadn’t been found out. He was able to relax as he was waved to a chair. There were a few pleasantries and then Bristow said, ‘Our accounts are usually audited in December for the end of our financial year, but since then our cash flow seems suddenly less and I’m a bit concerned. I’m thinking of asking our auditors to come in and spend a day looking over the figures to see if they can pinpoint any reason.’
Leo felt his head spin. He’d known an annual audit took place in December. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bristow might arrange an earlier snap examination of his accounting. Even more scary was the fact that Bristow had noticed there was less money coming in. Leo felt this as a crisis.
‘Before I arrange a date for this, do you have a preference?’
An auditor would go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. Leo feared that his newly learned accounting skills would not stand up to such scrutiny.
‘No,’ he said, then added hastily, ‘Not the end of the month, of course; the salaries …’
‘Tom Cleary didn’t like them in at the end of the week either, because of having to pay the wages. They take two or three days as a rule. Shall we say Monday and Tuesday the week after next?’
Leo made his escape as quickly as he could, knowing that he must not show how agitated he was. This could finish off his grand plan.
Leo told himself not to panic as he strode back to his own office. He slumped down at his desk and opened up all his account books. For the first few months he’d been here he’d taken nothing, but more recently he’d set up three fictitious files and had written cheques transferring company funds to an account he’d set up in a false name, amounting now to over three thousand pounds.
He thought he’d hidden what he’d done, but would it be noticeable to an auditor that fraud was taking place? He was afraid it might be. It depended on whether they found the fictitious files.
And what about his way of working? Would an auditor know it wasn’t the work of a chartered accountant? Just the words profit and loss and bank reconciliation sent him into a cold sweat.
Leo was very careful what he allowed Mrs Parks to see. To think of a team of auditors examining every entry horrified him. He circled the dates they’d come on his calendar; goodness knows why, it was unlikely to slip his mind. If only he could write a cheque for one massive amount and do a runner, he could disappear and hope not to be found. But no, that wouldn’t work for several reasons.
He had brought his two textbooks on accounting to the office to help him get his figures right. He got them out now for guidance.
He read that an auditor would check the figures in his ledgers against the monthly bank statements, to make sure they balanced. That terrified him, though it seemed they were seldom in total agreement anyway, because cheques could be sent out but not all would be presented for payment by any given date.
He didn’t calm down until he’d returned to his lodgings and eaten his tea of stew, potatoes and cabbage. He didn’t want to do a runner now. This was the best chance he’d ever had of getting himself a house of his own and financial security. He thought that with a bit of luck, he might still survive. He’d take his textbooks home and pack up all his personal belongings ready to run at a moment’s notice if things went wrong.
Two auditors from a very well-known firm, both confident young men, arrived promptly at nine o’clock on the designated day. To Leo it felt like an invasion; he found it agonising to sit at his desk and watch them check the figures in his ledgers. They asked questions too, and he had to think carefully before he answered. He was worried stiff that he’d show his ignorance.
The two auditors laughed and talked together. Leo ordered frequent cups of tea and coffee for them and took them to the café where the rest of the staff gathered at lunchtime. By the end of each afternoon, he was exhausted and in a lather of sweat. He hoped that what he’d be able to take would make all this worth while.
One of the auditors did point out that some of his records were incomplete, and showed him which figures must be carried through. Leo told them he’d only just started this job and the figures were largely put in by someone else. He was sweating with relief when the accounts were countersigned as correct. He went back to his lodgings that night full of triumph. He’d got away with it, and found it calming to know that no suspicion had been attached to his figures.
Now was the time to take as much as he could as quickly as he could. He must get it out of the account he’d set up in the name of Alistair Jackson too. He had to assume that the money could be traced through the bank’s records as coming from the Bristow’s account.
To muddy the waters and make his access to the money safer, he opened another account, in the name of Arthur Worboys, at yet another bank. Then he started drawing out large sums in cash from Alistair Jackson’s account and paying it into that of Arthur Worboys. He meant to make it as difficult as possible for anybody to find out how it had been done, or to be able to make any connection with the name Leo Hardman.
He knew that if Walter Bristow discovered the money was missing and reported it to the police, the fraud squad would be called in.
Chloe knew that her mother was putting on a brave face and trying hard to appear her normal self. Before she went to work, she took breakfast up to her in bed, but after that, Helen got dressed and ate her other meals with the family. She said she was feeling better. Chloe had seen her laugh and play with the children, and that seemed a good omen.
Yes, Mum’s hair had gone, but she’d been fitted with a wig, chosen to suit the shape of her face, and it didn’t look too obviously false. She’d also been measured for a special bra, to hide the fact that she’d had one breast removed. Her bustling energy had not returned, and Chloe suspected that underneath, these things distressed her as much as ever. Mum used to do the cooking and run the house, but now she couldn’t even garden. That made Chloe’s heart go out to her. All the housework was falling on the rest of the family.
‘I feel guilty,’ Chloe told Rex. ‘I go off to work every morning and leave Aunt Goldie to cope with my children as well as all the extra work Mum’s illness makes.’
Rex’s sympathetic eyes looked into hers. ‘Do you want to stop work and look after your mum?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do, I feel I should.’ Chloe covered her face with her hands. ‘But I talked Uncle Walter into giving me this job, and now that I’ve been there long enough to make myself useful, I don’t want to walk out on him. I think he’s got enough worries about the business at the moment.’
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‘Then your other alternative is to get some household help.’
‘A cleaner, you mean?’
‘Yes, but you need someone to give all-round help.’
‘A mother’s help? Does any girl want that sort of work these days?’
‘You need a capable woman, not a young girl. I might know just the person . . .’
‘Rex! That would be marvellous.’
‘I’ve had a gardener working for me for years, and he told me the other day that his wife is looking for a job. She’s worked as a cook-general for an old man for ages, but he’s just gone into a home. She’s a motherly sort of person, has brought up five children of her own, but they’re all grown up now. She’s a cheery sort.’
‘She sounds ideal. I would feel happier if there was another pair of hands here to help out. Rex, you always know the answer to everything.’
He laughed. ‘I wish that was true. I’ll try and bring Mrs Wilson round to see you and Goldie at the weekend.’
He brought her on Sunday morning while Chloe was trying to get a leg of lamb into the oven for Sunday lunch.
‘I’m Peggy,’ she said. She was stout and in her fifties, with a shock of iron-grey hair. ‘I’ve heard a lot about your garden; my hubby comes to work here sometimes. Here, let me give you a hand with those runner beans. Are they from your garden?’
Chloe took to her, and thought that if she came for five mornings a week, they’d be able to manage. Rex suggested five full days, nine to five.
‘Those are the hours Peggy’s looking for,’ he whispered, and manoeuvred her into agreeing. ‘I think you’ll suit each other.’
He swept Peggy out to the summerhouse to introduce her to Helen, Goldie and the children.
‘As it’s Sunday, why don’t I pour you ladies a glass of sherry to cement the bargain?’ he suggested. ‘Then I’ll run you home, Peggy.’
