by Anne Baker
He leapt to his feet and scooped her up into a triumphant bear hug. ‘Well done, Chloe, you’ve cracked it.’
‘No, no. Not entirely.’ She laughed and he laughed with her from sheer joy. ‘You’re missing a lot more money than this.’
‘Yes, but this must be how it’s being done and therefore . . . we know where to look for the rest of it. What a crafty devil Clitheroe is. And I thought him a pleasant fellow.’
‘Come on, Uncle Walter. Let’s look for another company name that’s false.’
They found the Northampton Brown Ale Company, but kept searching. It was midnight before they’d found four more ghost companies and were satisfied that that was all.
Uncle Walter looked incredulous but happy. ‘You’ve solved it for me; you’re wonderful with figures.’ He laughed again. ‘But of course, you worked for the Inland Revenue.’
‘I’m so pleased.’ Chloe had a wide smile. ‘We think we know how it was done and who is responsible, but you want your money back, Uncle Walter. We haven’t achieved that yet.’
‘No, but I’ll do my best to get it.’ Walter was rubbing his hands together. ‘I’ll go to the bank as soon as it opens in the morning. I need to find out who owns the account that is being credited with this money. It must be Francis Clitheroe, mustn’t it?’
‘There’s no other answer,’ Chloe agreed. ‘And if these cheques are being paid into his account, it’s absolute proof of his guilt. You must call in the police. This is fraud.’
‘I will, don’t you worry. I don’t want Clitheroe frightened off too soon, so don’t say anything about this to anyone in the office. Better still, you take tomorrow morning off and stay out of the way. After working so late tonight, that’s only fair. I can handle this now.’
He dropped Chloe off at her front door. When she went in, she found Aunt Goldie in her pyjamas and dressing gown. She was not in a good temper.
‘Where have you been until now? Your mother hasn’t felt well this evening and she can’t get to sleep while you’re still out. She worries about you.’
Chloe crept into her mother’s room. It was in darkness. The thin form on the bed turned over. ‘Is that you, Chloe?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ She went to sit beside her and took her hand in hers.
‘Did you and Walter find what you were looking for?’
‘Yes, he’s so pleased. Cheques are being written in payment for false bills.’
‘It’s fraud, then? Is it that new accountant doing it?’
‘It must be.’
‘Poor Walter. As if running a business isn’t difficult enough in this day and age. He’ll have to go to the police.’
‘He will in the morning.’
Chloe told her all about what they’d been doing and what they’d found out. It was very late indeed when she kissed her mother good night and put out her light.
Leo had grown increasingly uneasy over the last few days. He’d had a gut feeling that all was not well. This morning he’d taken some figures in to Walter Bristow, routine stuff that he asked to see regularly. Over the last weeks, the boss had usually wanted to discuss the drop in company profits or the economies that could be put in force. Today, Bristow had dismissed him briskly and his manner had seemed cold.
Leo went back to his own office, asking himself if his own nerves were getting frayed and making him edgy. He got out his ledgers and journals. Again he had that creepy feeling they’d been handled and perused. Then he saw a crumb caught between the pages of his cash book. Had he dropped it? He didn’t think so. His heart was pounding. He picked it up between his finger and thumb and smelled it. Was it biscuit? He couldn’t remember eating biscuits here, but yesterday he’d brought a sandwich for lunch and eaten it at his desk. Had the cash book been open in front of him then? Could this have come from the crust? He tried it on his tongue; it didn’t taste of anything but it was still crisp. He didn’t know.
One of his fellow lodgers had given him a paperback thriller, which he’d now read most of. The hero had the same suspicions about a spy searching through his belongings; he’d laid a hair from his head across the lock of his deed box and known immediately when it had been tampered with.
Leo felt he needed that sort of reassurance. It would provide him with an early-warning system, more reliable than gut feelings, or crumbs caught between pages. In the late afternoon before going home, he laid a single hair from his head across each of the first few files in the top three drawers of his cabinet; the drawers that held the files that could implicate him in fraud. He then closed them very carefully. If the hairs were still there in the morning, he’d know he was safe.
That same morning, Uncle Walter rang Chloe while she was eating a late breakfast.
‘I’ve got the proof I need from the bank,’ he said, and she thought he sounded triumphant. ‘The money shown on the chequebook stubs as going to Cheshire Crushing Mills … well, the actual cheque was made out to a Mr Alistair Jackson.’
‘But who is he?’
‘The bank manager thinks it could be a false account set up specially to receive this money. He’s given me the cheque and the numbers match up, so there’s no doubt about it. The bank collects together all the cheques drawn on my company account and eventually returns them to Mr Clitheroe. All he’d have to do then is destroy it and the evidence is gone.’
‘But this account for Alistair Jackson . . . ?’
‘It’s with a different bank, the Midland. So we can only surmise that Clitheroe is drawing out the money. They won’t tell me anything about an account that on the face of it has nothing to do with me.’
‘You must go—’
‘I did, I went straight from there to the police station.’
‘Good, they can delve into all that.’
‘It’s not so straightforward. It seems that this is a matter for the fraud squad, not the local constabulary, and I haven’t been able to talk to them yet.’
‘Oh dear, that means a delay. Nothing is going to happen to Mr Clitheroe?’
‘Not yet. They’ve made an appointment for both of us to meet officers of the fraud squad in the local nick at half past three this afternoon. I told them it was you who fathomed this out. We’re to tell them of our suspicions and explain our case to them. You’ll be here in time to come with me?’
She laughed. ‘I’ll make sure I am.’
‘Say nothing about this to anybody. I’d hoped to have it all cut and dried by now, but this will hold things up for at least a day.’
‘Mr Clitheroe has no inkling of this, so will it matter?’
‘Probably not. He’s been taking money from my company account for the last few months; I don’t suppose a few days more will make much difference.’
‘Unless he’s taking more today and you don’t manage to recover it.’
‘Chloe! Don’t be a Job’s comforter.’
She smiled. ‘I’m being realistic.’
‘I really can’t believe he’s doing this.’
Chloe had never been in a police station before; it seemed an intimidating place. She thought the surroundings would be enough to make any guilty person feel the force of the law closing round him. As it was, she was glad to have Uncle Walter with her.
They were interviewed by two officers from the fraud squad, an Inspector Halyard, confident, heavily built and middle-aged, and a Constable Benton, beanpole-thin and diffident. They were both friendly and very polite.
Walter set out his case against Francis Clitheroe and Chloe was asked to explain exactly how he’d been able to remove money from Uncle Walter’s company account. Questions and further explanations dragged on and on. Constable Benton was writing it all down. Cups of tea were provided to help relax them.
They wanted all the personal information Walter could give them about Francis Clitheroe. He produced the cheque made out to Alistair Jackson as evidence and confirmed that he thought the handwriting was that of Mr Clitheroe. But the officers were not satisfied with that alone, and
wanted more evidence.
One of the police officers telephoned the bank where Walter had his company account and made an appointment to see the manager first thing in the morning. It seemed Mr Clitheroe had an account there too, but not Mr Jackson.
Then, as it was after five o’clock and Walter’s staff would have gone home, the officers asked to see Clitheroe’s office and files for themselves. Chloe produced the six false files from the cabinets. They wanted to take them away.
‘Please don’t do that,’ Walter said. ‘If Mr Clitheroe finds them gone, it will immediately alert him. He’ll know you’re on to him.’
‘Yes, better if it comes as a surprise and he doesn’t have time to think up false explanations and excuses. We’ll leave it until we’ve made inquiries at the bank.’
That evening when Chloe got home, she found that Joan was on the point of leaving. ‘How’s Mum been this afternoon?’ she asked.
‘Quite excited about the progress you and Walter are making about this fraud. I am too. I do hope you’re going to catch this fellow and we get our money back.’
‘So do I, but it doesn’t look straightforward.’
‘By the way, I brought some periodicals, magazines and such, round for Helen. Don’t throw them out when you’ve finished with them, I haven’t had time to read them all properly. A friend gave me some of them and said there’s a piece in one of them about that writer Rosamund Rogerson. D’you remember? She wrote Serenade at Midnight, I gave it to your mother ages ago.’
‘Yes, we all enjoyed it. Even Aunt Goldie did.’
‘I’ve bought another of hers, it’s called Stroll in the Moonlight. It’s good. I’ll bring that round for you when I’ve finished.’
‘Thanks, Mum would be lost without all the reading matter you bring.’
‘So she tells me. I didn’t get round to showing the piece to Helen. We were too busy talking about the fraud, and I’ve forgotten which of the magazines it was in.’
‘I’ll find it,’ Chloe said. ‘It will interest her.’
Recently, her mother had begun to have trouble getting off to sleep. Chloe had made it a routine to warm some milk for her at bedtime and sit and read to her while she drank it. Helen said it helped her to relax. To start with, it had been a chapter a night from a book, but recently she’d said she was finding it difficult to keep a long story in her head and that she preferred short pieces.
Tonight Chloe said, ‘Auntie Joan has brought a lovely lot of periodicals for me to read to you.’
But she saw her mother’s eyes closing as soon as she’d settled her down. She switched off her light and tiptoed away to her own bed.
The next morning at work, Walter called Chloe into his office to take dictation. Before he started he said, ‘Joan tells me Helen isn’t at all well. I was very sorry to hear that.’
‘Poor Mum, I’m afraid she’s becoming disheartened.’
‘Take some time off, Chloe, and try and cheer her up. I owe it to you anyway, you’ve worked nights and weekends for me.’
‘I’d like to, but at the moment . . .’
‘I know, there’s now the problem that I have no accountant.’
‘Better no one,’ Chloe said, ‘than one with his hand in the till.’
‘Yes, but even so, I think you should take some time off to be with your mother. She needs you, and I can manage with the other girls for a few days.’
‘Thank you, I will then. A few days . . .’
‘A week, Chloe. I just wish Tom Cleary was back from his trip to New Zealand.’
‘When will he be?’
‘Another month.’
‘We can keep things going until then.’
‘I know. I’m sure Tom would give me a hand in the present crisis, but he wants to retire. We’ll have to advertise for another accountant as soon as Clitheroe is out of the way. Quite honestly, I’ll be glad to see the back of him.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BECAUSE LEO WAS WORRIED, he hadn’t slept well. It was a wet and windy morning, and he arrived at the office feeling damp and out of sorts. He was shaking the moisture off his mac in the cloakroom when John Walsh, the production manager, came in, also looking battered by the weather.
‘Francis – just the person I need. Would you mind giving me a hand? I’ve got myself in a bit of a mess. My figures for last month don’t balance.’
‘What figures?’ Leo asked.
‘The materials coming in against the amount of food we’ve manufactured. Unless they do, I don’t know what I need to reorder. Tom Cleary used to help me sort things out occasionally.’
Leo was reluctant but felt he had to do everything Tom Cleary had. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, and followed the production manager to his office, a small cabin on the factory floor. This was a minor matter as far as Leo was concerned and had no connection with his fraud, but he couldn’t relax.
The books were opened on the tiny desk in front of him and he could see that John Walsh was not overly efficient in his paperwork. It didn’t surprise Leo. He could hardly hear what the man was saying to him above the grind and rattle of the machines. It made concentration difficult, and though he thought his grasp of accounting had improved beyond belief with the constant practice, it took him some time to sort out the problem.
Walsh was very grateful and walked back with him to the office stationery cupboard, as he needed to replace one of his account books. They stood talking for a time and Walsh suggested meeting at lunchtime. Leo was wary of forming any relationships here, but of all the staff, he found Walsh the easiest to get along with.
It had gone half past ten when he reached his own office. The morning’s mail had been opened by his secretary and the letters left on his desk. He glanced through them. Nothing of much importance; a few bills to pay, but it was routine to leave them until the end of the month. He needed to work out the weekly wages today, but before starting on that, he’d check on the early-warning system he’d set up. To know definitely that nobody had touched his files would make him feel safer.
Keeping his eyes open for the hair, Leo slid open the top drawer. He couldn’t see it and felt himself go cold. He moved the file pockets apart one by one and peered into them. It wasn’t easy to see a single mouse-brown hair; that was the whole point. No investigator would know it was there, or its importance, and it would just blow away and get lost.
Leo could feel himself panicking. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He told himself the hair might just have fallen inside one of the pockets in the cabinet, but when he checked the other drawers, the hairs had vanished from them too. He was frightened, knowing that without a doubt, his files had been disturbed; that there had been an overnight search in his office. He’d been suspicious that this had happened before, felt it in his gut, but now he was sure it really had taken place.
He could feel himself shaking as he sat down at his desk.
Walter Bristow must be suspicious, but had he worked out what Leo was doing? Had he found the proof? Leo wished he knew. He believed now that Bristow had done this before and found nothing wrong. He couldn’t have done, or he wouldn’t have returned last night. But for Leo, this signalled that the game was up.
What ought he to do now? He used the intercom to the kitchen to ask for a cup of coffee. When it came, he sipped it slowly, hoping it would settle his nerves. He might still be all right, but one thing was certain: he would not be able to work on here until the holiday he’d booked at the end of September.
Keep calm, he told himself. He had his escape route already set up. He felt sure he could disappear and that they’d not be able to find him to charge him with this fraud. He was disappointed, of course he was, that he wouldn’t be able to drag it out for longer. He hadn’t accumulated all the money he’d hoped for, but he had quite a sum and he’d have to be satisfied with that. His best plan would be to make this his last day at work. He’d write four more cheques, as large as he dared, and pay them directly into his accounts at
lunchtime.
Damn! He’d told John Walsh he’d go to the café with him for soup and a sandwich. He used the intercom to contact him, but nobody lifted up the phone. Walsh would probably be out on the factory floor, and with the noise, he’d never hear it ring. Damn again. He mustn’t let frustration wind him up. He was feeling agitated. His nerves always let him down in times of tension like this. He wasn’t able to think straight any more; he needed to calm down.
If he wasn’t waiting for John Walsh at the appointed time, he was afraid he’d come here to his office. He tried again to contact him and this time he answered. Leo cancelled the lunch date. Apologised and told Walsh he had a prior appointment he’d forgotten.
That calmed him somewhat. Perhaps he was panicking for nothing, but he wouldn’t feel safe until he’d left this office and buried Francis Clitheroe for good. Once he was back in his bedsit, he’d be able to relax.
The cheques. No point in leaving without having one more stab at taking as much money with him as he could. He got out the files and the chequebook, then called in Lydia Tomlin to create the paperwork that would hide what he was doing. No point in leaving a trail for the police to follow. Bristow might not have got any further than having suspicions about him. As soon as he’d finished this, he’d take everything he owned from his desk, go to the bank to pay his cheques in and then go straight back to his lodgings and pack up there. He couldn’t take pressure like this; better to clear out now.
Miss Tomlin appeared with her shorthand pad. She was bouncing and talkative, and wanted to collect a contribution from him towards a wedding gift for some girl in the kitchen whose name he didn’t even recognise. He gave it to her to shut her up and started to dictate the short notes that would accompany the cheques. Except that he’d destroy the originals and just file the copies. It helped that he was doing a logical task for his own benefit. He heard footsteps and voices outside his office, but ignored them and went on dictating.
