by Mark Raven
Next up was the local parish priest—a female, with very short, peroxided hair—who reminisced about the aptly named ‘Sunny’ first coming to her church on Shoreham beach. It was a good little speech that made religion seem quite a normal thing. She talked about his wife, Annie, and their two fine sons: Prian and Prashanna. She nodded at them. The rows ahead shuffled a bit as if they were getting a glance at the grieving family. She went on about Sunny’s pride in his family’s accomplishments, his business, and his work in the local community. She talked of his great love, sailing, which she herself shared. Next week, there would be a family funeral, but her little church by the sea would be too small to take but the closest family and friends. So this was a chance for all of us to celebrate Sunil Prajapati’s life and remember him.
Good on you, I thought. All the things your bishop should have said.
We rose for ‘Those in Peril on the Sea.’
After this, a short shaven-headed man came to the lectern. He was introduced by the female vicar as Sunil’s friend and business partner, Vincent Carmody. His tanned head glistened under the spotlight over the pulpit. He had the sort of confidence I have observed in junior officers who gain promotion early in their careers. His accent was middle-England with a slight drawl that betrayed a more privileged background. True, he was glad to be back in the old Chapel but he only hoped it had been under better circumstances. In fact there could not be any worse circumstances, he said with the pace and timing of a natural orator. We have all lost someone. He looked around the room: a husband, a father, a friend, a friend of a friend, the father of a friend. We all shared some part of a loss.
It is true, I thought. Even I have lost something.
Carmody spoke of the young Prajapati. He didn’t really know him that well at Lancing, as they were in different years. But at university, Prajapati had taken him under his wing, and shown him around. Oxford, I guessed.
‘Sunny was known for being able to charm his way into any party. Some called it gatecrashing, but Sunny was never ever thrown out. After they met him, people wanted him to stay, you see. Very soon, I realised Sunny just liked being able to get into parties, especially if he were not invited, clubs where he was not meant to be, because that was a challenge to him. That was what drove him in business too. He did not accept the boundaries people placed around him. That was what I loved about him. And I know others did too...’
I noted the obligatory nod to the front row.
‘...and we will all miss him. Whether we are family, friends, colleagues, business rivals, or just people whose parties he crashed, because he was charming, and open, and very, very good at what he did.’
Carmody ended abruptly and stood down from the lectern. Taken by surprise, the peroxided vicar got to her feet and announced ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful.’ After which, the bishop rose again, statesmanlike, grave, the real star of the show...
I decided to scoot out and miss the rush.
After the sepia of the chapel, colours reasserted themselves: blue sky, scudding cloud, the whites, blues, yellows of the cars, reds... someone hopped back into the Range Rover parked behind the Spider. I avoided looking in its direction; not that it would have done any good. Like so many cars these days, it had darkened glass. I went and sat in the Spider and wound down the window. Thoughtfully I rolled a cigarette, keeping an eye on the wing mirror.
Who would be waiting in a blacked out Range Rover outside a church? Bodyguards? Some wealthy people in there. The offspring of sheikhs or oligarchs?
Finally the congregation emerged. First the bishop and Mrs Prajapati, supported either side by her sons. Then, the female vicar. They lined up to greet mourners. Vincent Carmody shook hands with the two priests and went and stood behind the Prajapati family, hands on the boys’ shoulders. I checked my watch. Half-an-hour before my appointment in Chichester. Time to leave.
Down the long drive from the school. A row of cars following me onto the A27. The Range Rover not among them.
Bellwethers LLP was situated on a cobbled mews, close to the council offices and crown court. I had an appointment with a Peter Naismith, who managed the PiTech account. I suspected the solicitor was quite young, although I noted he was already on the short list of partners inscribed in brass plaques just inside the entrance. The receptionist looked at me doubtfully, as if she wondered at my right to be there at all, much less to see a full partner.
I was met by an intern who was twenty-five going on twelve. He said his name was Brian, or Ryan, or perhaps even Diane. No surname was proffered and the badge just said ‘Trainee’ like he was working at a fast food chain that wasn’t too sure if his very own nameplate was worth investing in yet. Brian carried a sorry-looking reporter’s notepad that had been thinned by much tearing-out. Hunt and Carstairs sent such specimens out to deal with people who had wandered in off the street. This was going to be harder than I thought.
We went to a glass cubicle next to reception. I was offered a seat. I remained standing.
‘How can I help you, Mr Becket?’
‘I explained all that on the phone.’
‘Unfortunately,’ the boy said. ‘I did not take that call.’
I nodded at the notepad, ‘Don’t they teach you to take notes here? Or do you start afresh each time?’
The boy looked down at his pad. I almost felt sorry for him.
‘We... Of course we take notes. It is just that I don’t have them.’
‘Clearly.’
‘As I said, I didn’t take your call.’ He was getting shirty now. I smiled.
‘I asked to see Mr Naismith.’
‘Mr Naismith is currently unavailable. You’ll just have to put up with me.’
‘That’s the problem, Brian. I cannot put up with you. That’s the problem. I really need to see a grown-up.’
Ten minutes later, I was in Peter Naismith’s office. He had small brown eyes, like raisins and a hard thin mouth that had once tried to find things amusing but had given up after a few goes. He had one of those puritanical Scots accents—Aberdeen, Inverness Caledonian Thistle—the sort that goes very nicely with the legal profession.
‘Sorry, about that Mr Becket. I was tied up with a client. I only asked Ryan to get you a coffee. They are so very keen, you see.’
I didn’t believe him for a moment.
‘I’m only sorry I upset him.’
‘He’ll get over it.’
I shrugged and stared at him.
Naismith sighed, ‘So what can I do you for? I understand it is about a returned cheque.’
I repeated the background I had given over the phone. I was sure Naismith knew the detail, but he still made notes. Or else, he was writing a shopping list for the au pair. When I finished, he put the pen down with a well-practised regret.
‘I’m afraid I took the liberty of discussing this again with PiTech earlier today, and they can see no way...’
I wondered whom he had seen. Probably a minion, Carmody would be too busy speechifying. Lawyers always wanted to show they were saving their clients money, so probably the finance director.
‘I didn’t see you at the memorial service,’ I said.
Naismith seemed surprised.
‘You were there?’
‘Nothing if not thorough, Mr Naismith.’
I got a hard stare for my pains.
‘Then you will know it is not exactly the easiest time for the family, Mr Becket.’
There were two moves here. The first was to say it wasn’t a great time for my client either, having lost her father. But that made it too legalistic. Too associated with other legal matters, like death duties, inquests, claims in the chancery division. If I had learned one thing in working with Hunt and Carstairs, it was to avoid the law except where it was strictly necessary. The law only created more work—for lawyers. So I went for option two.
‘The cheque is not made out from the family account. It is drawn on PiTech’s not inconsiderable resources.’
‘Mr Prajapati death has been a deep shock to all concerned.’
‘I could see that. And it hasn’t helped an awful lot with the merger either, has it?’
‘What are you referring to?’
‘As I said, I’m nothing if not thorough. I don’t think your clients really want me digging around in this and that, not for the sake of seventy-five grand. As you say, Mr Naismith, it is not exactly the easiest time.’
I parked the Spider in the multi-storey and wandered into the city centre. In some ways, Chichester reminded me of Canterbury: pedestrianised at its heart, bemused tourists consulting guide-books, groups of foreign students blocking the pavements, and the usual smattering of young mums with prams and matching tattoos. There was no sign of any urban youths with dogs, but I kept a weather eye out nevertheless.
I didn’t like threatening people, but I had rather enjoyed making Peter Naismith feel I knew more than I did about the PiTech merger, take-over, or whatever it was. I showed the photographs of the poor Cassandra and gave the impression I had interviewed very many people—and not just one half-cut Wing Commander (retired). I tried to convey the impression that I was not only ‘thorough’ but also persistent, and although I was powerless, I was an irritant that was not going to go away. I even asked directions to the offices of the local newspaper. Mr Naismith, looking regretful at such news, said that all he could do was talk again to his clients.
Talk to Carmody this time, I had advised him. He seemed a decent chap to me.
Now I could only wait. Mine is a boring job, all things considered, I thought as I ordered a pint and a Ploughman’s. But what else could I do? What else can I do?
On the face of it I was just recovering the money owed to my client, or my client’s father, for a boat someone had purchased, got themselves killed in, and therefore neglected to pay for. There was a moral argument, true, but that was not why I had taken the case. I had the feeling there was much more that that. I just didn’t know what it was. I had learned today that Prajapati was not the inexperienced sailor that people were making him out to be. There seemed to be consensus, at least, that the man was competent. And then there was the PiTech merger that Prajapati did or did not support. Would that be enough to get himself murdered? In a way, if PiTech did pay up, it would suggest that there was something to hide.
But that isn’t very likely, I thought. I have given it my best shot. But it was long shot, and like all long shots was more like to go ricocheting off somewhere else than hit the target.
My phone flashed. It was Jenny Forbes-Marchant. No, point talking to her before PiTech’s lawyers had got back to me. I pressed Ignore. Then I got a text to say there was an answerphone message.
I sighed and took it. I hated pushy clients. Pushy clients were hard work.
But the message was from someone I had never heard of.
Chapter Eleven
The office of Mathew Janovitz BSc., member of the Association of British Investigators, was above a charity shop about ten minutes walk from Chichester city centre. It was a good location, not a great deal of footfall but close enough to the railway station to ensure a regular clientele. It is remarkable how many people come to the conclusion they require the services of an investigator while engaged in the process of train travel. Perhaps it gives them time for reflection. Or is it that travellers tend to be away from home rather a lot? Makes them wonder what is going on behind their backs.
Mr Janovitz—call me Mat—was a portly young man, mid thirties, with prematurely greying hair. He wore the jacket to a dark pinstripe suit and old jeans that were frayed at the cuffs. His t-shirt was black faded to a dirty brown and advertised a band called Franz Ferdinand. It had probably fitted him once. In contrast, the office was very tidy, like he did not have quite enough work on. And yet Mat Janovitz managed to convey the exact opposite.
He had already apologised for his attire—had an argument with an Innocent Smoothie in the car, shouldn’t drink and drive I suppose—and the fact that he had obtained my mobile number illegally through tracing the number plate on the Spider. (He had seen me parked outside Lancing School Chapel.) When I had asked if Janovitz drove a black Range Rover, he looked perplexed, gazed out the window, and said that he had observed those gentlemen too.
I nearly asked which movie he thought he was in, but I stuck to the script.
‘You said you had some information for me about Sunil Prajapati. Why do you think I’d be interested?’
‘Because you’re trying to get PiTech to pay up for the boat.’
‘So you work for Bellwethers?’
‘Not on this occasion,’ he said. ‘Until last week I was actually working for Mr Prajapati.’
‘For PiTech, then?’
‘No, for Mr Prajapati personally.’
Again the uncertain glance, the half-smile; it was all beginning to get on my nerves.
‘I wanted to warn you, more than anything,’ he said.
‘Warn me?’
‘Well, tell you what I know. You can take it whatever way you want.’
‘Can I now?’
I was beginning to think the man had a screw loose.
‘How about you start from the beginning?’
Janovitz had not been a freelance investigator very long. Previously he had worked for one of the large insurance companies as a claims assessor, some fieldwork but mainly running computer checks on people. That was his specialism. He knew enough about hardware to be interested in surveillance and counter-surveillance work. I’m an amateur really, Mr Becket. Not like you.
He seemed hung up on the fact that he hadn’t been a policeman. It is getting harder for ex-coppers to move straight into private eye work. The government are talking about bringing in a three-month gap to avoid possible conflict of interest, or insider dealing. The thing is unless you have been a copper, you will always feel a bit of an outsider. Or serving officers will make you feel that way. Janovitz knew that. However, unpleasant Richie was to me, however ‘hated’ I was at the Yard, I still had been one of them. Once.
Janovitz was one of a new breed of investigators, more suited to the so-called information age. The one where the information came second-hand and as tarnished as old coins. Most of his work these days was desk-based—find out about this person’s background or that person’s motives, that sort of thing—online, or by ringing people up and pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Sometimes he had to go ‘into the field’ to get people’s car registration plates etc—that apologetic look again—but most of the time, he could obtain the material from right here in his office.
I said I was delighted for him.
Janovitz also knew some of the techies at PiTech and had, on occasion road tested prototypes, surveillance devices mainly. Top end stuff, they were a company with a huge reputation, long-term contracts in the bag, no wonder bigger fish were always trying to gobble them up. Mr Prajapati was the creative genius behind it all—so the techie guys said, anyway—and Mr Carmody was the one with the contacts. He was ex-army, Special Forces some say.
One day, quite out of the blue, Mr Prajapati dropped by the office personally. He had a strange request for Janovitz. Mr Prajapati wanted to be placed under surveillance himself, and his family, so that he would know what others were seeing when they checked him out. Mr Prajapati called it his version of counter-surveillance.
I raised my eyebrows at that.
‘Exactly,’ Janovitz said. ‘Almost as bad as ‘Doctor, my friend has got this problem...’ But, of course I took the job. Paid in advance, very generous, and I got to work.’
‘What did you find?’
‘That the wife probably was having an affair. I had no hard evidence by the time Mr Prajapati went missing. But she was spending quite a lot of time with a gentleman alone.’
‘Good old fashioned fieldwork,’ I observed. ‘And the gentleman?’
‘Vincent Carmody.’
‘I see,’ I thought back to the memorial service. ‘Lashings of guilt all r
ound.’
Janovitz stared at me as if he could not quite follow Becket. I felt the same.
‘So how does this all link to the boat?’ I asked.
‘Because it turned out Mr Prajapati was under surveillance, after all.’
The first time Janovitz set eyes on the Cassandra was when she was towed back into port at Hayling Island Club the day after Mr Prajapati had disappeared. It was strange that his client had not told Janovitz about the purchase of the yacht. Or not so strange if you think the focus of his concerns were purely matrimonial.
Janovitz waited until the police forensics team and the Marine Accidents Investigation Bureau were finished with the yacht, and then he had popped down to take a look himself, and take a few snaps.
Just as I had done earlier that day.
‘And what did you find?’ I asked.
‘That there had been surveillance devices on board, but that someone had removed them. Very carefully, very professionally, like they expected they would have to.’
‘If they were so good, how could you tell?’
Janovitz smiled. ‘Good question. I guess it’s easier to find things you’re looking for.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Perhaps I had a hunch someone was tracking him. Perhaps it was just me on automatic pilot. Anyway I found the residue of a material they use these days. It was on the deck.’
He turned the computer screen round to show some shots of the damaged Cassandra. They must have been similar to the ones I had taken on my phone. The only difference was I hadn’t checked mine. These were I suspect more detailed, and there were close ups, but still they told me nothing. Janovitz kept clicking, the resolution getting better and clearer with each click. Still I saw nothing. He looked very pleased with himself.
‘You see the product didn’t react well with seawater, or oil for that matter. I told PiTech that. It leaves a residue.’
‘It was a PiTech product then?’
