by Paula Daly
My word against his.
If I went to the police and told them he had confessed to killing Wayne, he would simply tell them I had confessed a similar crime to him. Wayne was blackmailing me, he would say.
So that’s where we were. And that’s how I thought things would remain.
Until I got the call, anyway.
George and I gazed through the windscreen of the Jeep at the barrier in front. We were the first on the ferry this morning; out particularly early on account of the appointment which George was trying to get out of. I had the window lowered in an attempt to rouse us. The days had now shortened. The dense, thick air of summer had been replaced by a fresher, rarefied, autumnal band from the north.
High in the sky, and following the line of the lake, a flock of geese headed south. They were noisy, jostling for position, and I pointed them out to George, gesturing for him to take a look.
He sighed out long and hard.
‘I wish I could fly south,’ he said, all melancholy. I ignored his comment. He sighed again. ‘She’s just so mean,’ he added.
‘She has to be mean to do her job,’ I replied.
‘You’re not mean.’
‘I’m not trying to get you to walk correctly.’
George had lost over an inch in leg length. The consultant orthopod was confident the discrepancy could be improved with time but, for now, George had been ordered to wear a raised shoe to avoid problems with his pelvis later. It was not going down well. And he didn’t like his physiotherapist one bit.
She was a severe, humourless woman, with neat, short hair, ugly shoes and a big bottom that dimpled when she walked. She made it quite clear that she had no time for physiotherapists who’d moved over to the private sector. They’d ‘sold out’, as she phrased it, on our first meeting. And I didn’t challenge her because there’s just no winning with a woman like that.
George couldn’t understand why I wasn’t his clinician, since I’d always managed to tidy up his aches and pains in the past. But gait analysis was not my strong point. And the treatment had been ordered by his consultant and had to be undertaken at Kendal Hospital. So that’s where we found ourselves, two mornings a week.
I delivered George to the department and saw his physio’s face turn sour as he swung his bad leg out to the side rather than bending it at the knee, as she had instructed. He was in for a tough session, and it broke my heart to watch. He was still so full of apprehension, frightened to weight-bear through his injured leg, scared to let go of his crutch. But there was no other option. It had to be done, or he’d limp for life. And, as much as I disliked his clinician, there was no doubt she knew what she was doing. And a certain amount of austerity was necessary when endeavouring to mobilize patients. The affable physiotherapist who is everybody’s friend is not particularly useful in this instance.
I told George I needed a coffee and would be back with him in five minutes. Not strictly true: I didn’t need coffee; it was a ploy I used to get the session underway. If I remained in the department, as I had at the beginning, George would sense in me my own suffering at watching him in pain and would lose all confidence. So I would slip away. And so far it had worked. By the time I returned, he would be focused on what was being asked of him, his fear dissipating with each new step taken.
As the door closed behind me, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered, and on hearing the voice at the other end, I stopped in my tracks.
‘Roz Toovey?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘DS Aspinall. Can we meet? There’s something I need to discuss.’
I told the detective where I was, which turned out to be quite fortuitous, since she was based in Kendal, and she said she would meet me in the outpatients’ department in ten minutes’ time.
I grabbed two coffees, found a quiet corner and waited.
She was there in five.
As she entered and spotted me, DS Joanne Aspinall smiled. She was alone and, unlike the previous occasions we’d met, she seemed harried. Her face was tired and drawn. Her skin had the lacklustre appearance of a person needing a holiday. Or a good night’s sleep.
‘Got you a coffee,’ I said as she sat beside me, and she thanked me, saying it was just what she needed. She removed the lid and gulped down half of it in three mouthfuls, not bothering to ask if it contained sugar.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, and she nodded fast, fervently, to indicate, I presumed, she was short of time.
‘I can’t get to him,’ she began.
I must have frowned, because she added, ‘Scott Elias. With regards to the murder of Wayne Geddes,’ she said. ‘It appears he’s untouchable.’
I told her I hadn’t thought she was still working on that case and she gave a small laugh. ‘I work on nothing else,’ she answered.
I looked at DS Aspinall for a sign of where she was going with this, but she appeared to be waiting for me to speak, so I said, ‘I’m not sure what it is you want me to say.’
‘You think he did it,’ she replied bluntly. And then: ‘Let me rephrase that … I know he did it, but I can’t prove it. Not enough to secure a conviction anyway.’
‘I’m curious,’ I said. ‘How do you know he did it?’
‘His story doesn’t add up. Then there was his general self-assurance and confidence when questioned. Along with your statement. And the tracker. Experience, I suppose you could call it. I know he did it, but I have nothing at all to place him at the scene – and no real motive – and so I’ve come to ask for your help. Will you help?’
I hesitated.
‘He visited George when he was in hospital. I think he meant it as some sort of warning. And then he threatened me,’ I said.
‘Threatened you with?’
‘He has evidence that I was there that night with Wayne and that he assaulted me. Remember I told you that Wayne knocked me out? Well, it was with a fire extinguisher, and it has my blood on it. Scott threatened to—’
‘I don’t suppose you know where he keeps this fire extinguisher?’
I shook my head. ‘I imagine it’s well hidden. He’s meticulous. I can’t see him leaving it around for the likes of you to stumble upon.’
‘Okay, never mind,’ she said quickly, letting it go. ‘What if I were to ask you to become part of a new inquiry?’
‘An inquiry into what?’
‘His business affairs,’ she said. ‘Something you once said about tax evasion lodged at the back of my brain. For the past couple of months it’s been whittling away at me. The upshot is that we’re now investigating his fraudulent activities, and we’ve reached the stage of interviewing witnesses.’
‘Has he been hiding money?’
She nodded.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘More than I thought possible,’ she said.
‘And how likely is he to serve time for this … deception?’
‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘I can’t go into the list of the tax-avoidance offences with you, naturally, but there are lots.’
‘What sort of prison sentence would he get?’
‘For these types of offences, they’re usually looking at a term of between four and five years. But there is the possibility of a longer sentence in this case, as there’s so much money is involved.’
‘Doesn’t really seem enough,’ I said. ‘Not when you consider what he did to Wayne.’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But he would lose everything. All his assets would be seized. And I don’t know about you, but I think there’s a certain poetic justice to that. I met him only briefly, but from what I saw I’d say he’s not the kind of man who would cope too well with losing his fortune.’
44
SCOTT PARKER ELIAS
PART ONE OF RECORDED INTERVIEW
Date: 14/11/2014
Location: Kendal Police Station, Busher Walk, Kendal, LA9 4RJ
Conducted by officers from Cumbria Police: DS Joanne Aspinall, DS Ronald Quigley. Also present: defence leg
al adviser, Mr Jeremy Inglis, and HM Revenue and Customs Investigator, Ms Jennifer McCauley
DS Joanne Aspinall: The purpose of this interview is to collect information to further the investigation and/or evidence of the alleged fraud. You understand, Mr Elias, why you’ve been detained here today?
Scott Elias: I understand perfectly.
DS JA: Good. Just before we proceed, I’ll read out the caution to you … You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned about something which you later rely on in court. And anything you do say may be given in evidence. What that means, basically, is you do not have to answer my questions, not if you don’t want to.
SE: I know what it means. And I have nothing to hide, so I’m happy to answer your questions, Detective.
DS JA: Excellent. I’d like to start then, if I may, with your relationship with Mrs Rosalind Toovey—
SE: I have nothing to say on that matter. As stated, I have done nothing wrong, so I am prepared to answer questions about my business affairs. But not about my private life.
DS JA: The two are linked, Mr Elias. I’m afraid these questions form part of the investigation into the alleged fraud.
SE: No comment, then.
DS JA: How would you describe your relationship with Mrs Toovey?
SE: No comment.
DS JA: Was there a relationship?
SE: (Inaudible)
DS JA: Mr Elias?
SE: There was a relationship, yes. A short one.
DS JA: A sexual relationship?
SE: We did have sex. That’s correct.
DS JA: And was money exchanged at any time?
SE: No comment.
DS JA: Okay, we can come back to that. Let’s move on to your wife. Nadine Elias.
SE: None of this has anything to do with my wife.
DS JA: A preliminary examination of the accounts for your firm, SPE Electronics, revealed that Mrs Elias is listed as an employee of the company. Can you tell me in what capacity your wife is employed?
SE: She is an adviser.
DS JA: An adviser on what exactly?
SE: A business adviser.
DS JA: And she’s paid handsomely for this job, is she not? How much per year does Mrs Elias receive as an adviser for your company?
SE: That’s a question for the accounts department.
DS JA: I’ll help you out. She receives an annual wage of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds. Quite a lot.
SE: You get what you pay for.
DS JA: How many hours a week would you say Mrs Elias spends at SPE Electronics? Ten? Fifty?
SE: I can’t be sure. You would have to ask her.
DS JA: When questioned, your secretary, Debbie Harris, claims never to have seen Mrs Elias in the offices. Not once.
SE: Nadine does most of her work from home, I suppose.
DS JA: I see. Could it be that you invented this role for Mrs Elias? Could it be that she does not actually do any work for your company? That you are drawing a wage for Mrs Elias rather than pay tax on the company’s profits?
SE: No.
DS JA: How about these employees then? Graham Fisher, listed as an electrical engineer; Robert Wood, listed as a management consultant; Eileen Young, a financial adviser? We have not been able to trace these people, Mr Elias.
SE: (Interviewee does not answer)
DS JA: Could it be that these people don’t exist at all? That they were invented by you, Mr Elias, and you pocketed their wages as extra income for yourself?
SE: That’s out of the question!
DS JA: Is it?
SE: If that were the case, there would be evidence of that money in my bank account.
DS JA: Perhaps. Perhaps not. There are a further eighteen employees without recognizable national insurance numbers. Including a gardener paid to the tune of twenty-one thousand a year, when, as far as I’m aware, the SPE site is surrounded by concrete.
SE: No comment.
DS JA: Why do you suppose your accountant has disappeared, Mr Elias?
SE: I really couldn’t say.
DS JA: Perhaps you’d like to try and offer an explanation. Because, as of 2 November, we’ve been unable to locate him.
SE: He was having marital difficulties. He was seeing another woman. Maybe he’s gone off with her.
DS JA: How long had Mr Bennett been your accountant?
SE: Around twenty years.
DS JA: Odd that he left without telling you, don’t you think?
SE: People do the strangest things for love, Detective.
DS JA: Don’t they just? … I’d like you to take a look at this invoice now, Mr Elias, and tell me if that is your company’s VAT number at the top right of the page. The invoice is for – forgive my ignorance – a large order for some kind of electrical component. It’s made out for the sum of seventeen thousand four hundred pounds. Inclusive of VAT.
SE: I wouldn’t know the VAT number off the top of my head. Who would?
DS JA: Okay, well I can tell you that it’s not SPE’s VAT number. I can tell you that, so far, we have uncovered a substantial number of invoices such as this, all with an alternative VAT number.
SE: Again, that would be something you would need to talk over with the accounts department.
DS JA: Not really. Because the VAT charged never reached the Revenue. In fact, it was redirected to an account we believe to be in Nigeria.
SE: I know nothing of such an account.
DS JA: Even though it’s in your wife’s name, Mr Elias?
SE: (Interviewee does not respond)
DS JA: Let’s move on to your holiday home. The one in Antibes. According to the website, it’s been booked fairly consistently, generating an income of around one hundred and forty thousand. Now, I appreciate these earnings will not be taxable until next year, but I’m curious to take a look at the booking schedule for previous years. HMRC have informed us that no earnings on this property have ever been declared.
SE: No comment.
DS JA: Perhaps you’d like to comment on this, then. It’s a copy of your bank statement from July. There’s an amount here … Three hundred thousand pounds, which was sent to a bank in Sierra Leone.
SE: No comment.
DS JA: That’s okay, Mr Elias, I think we have more than enough to pass on to the Director of Criminal Investigations at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. I’m sure they’ll want to conduct full searches of your home and business premises. And, who knows, they might even stumble upon that fire extinguisher. The one which has Roz Toovey’s blood on it.
SE: They’ll never find that.
DS JA: No, Mr Elias? How odd that you even know what I’m referring to.
45
THE DAYS CAME shorter, colder and brighter as the gloom of November passed, and the end of the year was almost upon us. Sadly, there was no word from Henry, and though I tried to put him from my thoughts I would find myself checking emails each day with a sense of anticipation. This would soon be quashed, however, when, again, there was nothing from him.
Petra had mostly thawed and we were back to being sisters. I can’t say if Scott Elias’s arrest and ultimate fall from grace had any bearing on how she felt about things, but she certainly was a lot friendlier to me than she’d been of late. I heard that after Nadine was questioned by HMRC officers she left the Lake District. Went south, though I didn’t know where. The official version was that she found it unbearable to stay in the area after her husband was detained on remand in Cheshire, awaiting trial. But the word in the village was that she couldn’t afford to stay. With no money of her own, and with all assets seized, she’d had to flee. We didn’t yet know if she was to be charged with her involvement or not.
Wayne’s death still wouldn’t leave me alone but, thanks to the tenacity and thoroughness of DS Aspinall, I did feel we got something close to justice for him in the end. Since Scott had confessed to me I’d felt terribly guilty and struggled with the feelings
of responsibility for Wayne’s death. I aired these feelings to DS Aspinall, who looked at me with a puzzled expression, before replying, ‘Wayne was a big boy, Roz. And he was blackmailing you. There are often unexpected repercussions when you dabble in a world you’re unfamiliar with.’
Which didn’t really make me feel a whole lot better.
So each morning I would say a small prayer to Wayne Geddes. Well, maybe more of a general chit-chat about things, rather than a prayer, which was an odd way to start the day, granted. And I made a few visits to his mother.
Glenda was in sheltered accommodation in Ulverston, and she seemed to enjoy the time I spent with her. Largely, I suppose, because I had nothing but kind words to say about Wayne – he was an excellent boss, generous with his staff, always willing to listen if I had a problem. Lies, I know, but I didn’t see the harm in them. Last week I turned up with a Christmas card, a feeble-looking poinsettia and a box of mince pies, and I thought she might burst into tears.
Which brings me to George and the Christmas problem – as we’d been referring to it. Santa, being unusually strapped for cash this year, was unable to fulfil George’s request for the games console. Even though, yes, George had been a good boy. And yes, Santa had taken into account how hard he’d been trying when learning to walk without his crutches. Sometimes, though, regrettably, even Santa must be careful not to overextend himself and spend money his business just can’t afford.
George was stoic, though disappointed, revising his list to a mere three items, which I assured him Santa would most certainly be able to provide.
And then something happened.
I opened the door one evening to find a very worried-looking Dennis on my step. My immediate thought was: Celia.
‘Dennis,’ I said. ‘Has something happened? Is Celia okay?’
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘Is she injured?’
At this he laughed softly and shook his head.
‘Is George here?’ he asked, and I told him he was. ‘I got him something,’ he said. ‘An early present, so to speak.’
On hearing his name, George rose from the floor, where he’d been writing his Christmas cards, and came to the door. Dennis didn’t say anything, just gestured to his left, and George stuck his head out to take a look.
