The Sunshine Cruise Company

by John Niven

  Susan just looked at them, her jaw beginning to dangle. ‘Since the early … what … what on earth makes you say this?’

  ‘Some of the older videotapes are on Betamax,’ Wesley added helpfully.

  ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t believe you.’

  Boscombe shrugged and reached for his red file. He flipped through, took out a short stack of Polaroid photographs and handed them to her. Wesley looked at him, thinking Steady on, Sarge.

  Susan’s hand went to her mouth. There was Barry – naked, on all fours, with a bridle in his mouth. An obese black woman was sitting on his back riding him. Another one – Barry’s huge flabby backside pointing towards the camera, red raw from some kind of whipping. There were more, lots more. Barry with other women. Different women. Many women. Two women at a time. She started to cry. Wesley reached into his pocket for some tissues and went to hand them to her, but Boscombe leaned forward quickly, cutting him off. ‘Sick, deviant acts going on for decades,’ Boscombe sighed. ‘And you’re trying to say you knew nothing about all this?’ He reached into the manila folder now.

  Susan looked up. ‘I … what?’

  ‘You’re telling me you didn’t know about this place? That you weren’t involved too?’

  ‘ME? Involved how?’

  ‘You tell me, Mrs Frobisher. Swingers, were you, you and Barry? Down there in this bloody … “sex dungeon” of yours?’

  Fucking hell, Sarge, Wesley found he had time to wonder.

  ‘WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU –’

  Boscombe slapped a sheet of A4 down in front of Susan, cutting her off.

  She squinted at it. It was a mortgage deed. Part of it was highlighted in yellow marker.

  Barry’s name.

  Her name.

  Joint owners.

  FLAT 1B WELLINGTON STREET, WROXHAM.

  ‘I … I’ve never seen this before in my life,’ Susan said finally. ‘I’d never set foot in that place until tonight. I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT EXISTED!’ She banged the table.

  A knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Boscombe said. The door opened and a uniformed officer came in holding a sheet of paper. ‘Sorry, thought you might want to see this, Sarge.’

  Boscombe took the sheet and scanned it. He whistled and held it towards Wesley. Oof, Wesley thought.

  ‘What?’ Susan said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cause of Death,’ Boscombe said.

  In a voice not quite her own, a voice that sounded like it had come out of a film or something, Susan heard herself saying: ‘I want to speak to my solicitor.’

  TWELVE

  ‘ARE YOU SURE you don’t want another splash of this in there, love? You’ve had a hell of a shock.’

  Susan shook her head. Never was much of a drinker. Julie tipped a slug from the brandy bottle into her own coffee and sat back down. They were in Susan’s living room, formerly Susan and Barry’s living room. Susan was just staring into the empty fireplace, fingering the rim of her mug. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘A “sex addict”,’ Susan said. ‘No – a “prolific sex addict”, that was the phrase he used.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Julie said. In many ways she felt she was struggling to come to terms with this as much as Susan was. Barry Frobisher? A ‘prolific sex addict’? It was like finding out John Major had played bass in the Sex Pistols for a while. Barry. Barry who she’d always imagined had sex twice a year: once on his birthday and once on Susan’s. You never knew. You just never knew. ‘Mind you,’ Julie said, ‘I had a similar experience. Remember? With Doug from the golf club? It turned out –’

  ‘Doug?’

  ‘Ginger hair. Sweater vests. He –’

  ‘Julie,’ Susan cut in, remembering now, ‘it’s not similar.’

  ‘No, but he was –’

  ‘It’s really not.’

  ‘Remember? It turned out he was seeing me and that girl who worked behind the bar and the one who –’

  ‘JULIE!’ It had been building all night. Finally Susan exploded. ‘YOUR SHORT-TERM BOYFRIEND FUCKING A COUPLE OF BARMAIDS BEHIND YOUR BACK IS NOT – DEFINITELY NOT – THE SAME THING AS YOUR HUSBAND OF OVER THIRTY YEARS DYING FROM A HEART ATTACK CAUSED BY RUPTURING HIS ANUS WITH A TWO-AND-A-HALF-FOOT DILDO DURING A SEX GAME WITH A PROSTITUTE!’

  Silence.

  Fair point, Julie thought. ‘Sorry, love. I was only trying to …’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  They sipped their coffees for a moment.

  ‘Look,’ Julie said gently, ‘you need to tell your Tom. Do you want me to call h—’

  ‘No, no. I’ll do it. Christ.’

  Julie patted her shoulder. ‘Susan, for now, I’d just tell Tom the minimum you have to until he gets here. I’d leave out, you know, leave out the stuff about the, you know, about … the rupturing with the two-foot thingy.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Clare Frobisher muttered, squinting through sleep at the red numbers on the digital alarm clock by the bed. 3.48 in the morning – who the hell was … at this time? And on the landline? Only sales companies rang the landline these days. Well, sales companies and … a brief flash of fear. Your parents. She propped herself up and listened to the phone ringing from the living room, down the hall, at the other end of the flat. It stopped and Clare sank gratefully back down into the pillow, already feeling the deep tug of sleep in her bones. Probably a wrong number. A few seconds passed and then a soft chirruping began from a corner of the bedroom, from under a pile of clothes. Not hers. Definitely not hers. Hers was in the kitchen. And she’d turned it off. She elbowed her husband in the ribs. ‘Tom!’

  A groan of protest.

  ‘Tom!’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Your bloody phone’s ringing!’

  ‘Jesus Christ …’

  She heard him stumble out of bed and towards the noise, then the rooting, cursing and muttering as he searched for it, the ringing growing briefly louder for a second between him fishing it out from under a pile of clothes and hitting the ‘answer’ button.

  Clare pulled the duvet over her head and groaned. She could only faintly hear Tom saying, ‘Mum? Mum … slow down.’ Then, ‘WHAT?’

  She sat up. She could hear Tom padding slowly back towards her through the darkness, then she could see the pale outline of his pyjamas in the doorway.

  ‘What is it?’ Clare said, conscious of her heart clenching and unclenching in her chest.

  ‘My dad. He had a heart attack. He’s dead.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘RIGHT, OK,’ ROGER said again, running a hand through his hair. Roger Draper – partner, Draper, Walker & Ferns, Solicitors and Notaries – was sitting across the dining-room table from Susan. There were three box files at his left elbow. In front of him was a sheet of A4 paper, covered in scribbles. He was clicking his pen on and off with his right thumb. Roger was something Susan had never seen him in the eighteen years he’d been their solicitor. He was nervous.

  The last twenty-four hours had been hectic for Roger. He’d been liaising with the police, trying to get access to whatever documents they’d recovered from the sordid flat that might cast any light on the financial picture Barry had left behind. He’d also been to Barry’s office and gone through all his files. It had made for … disquieting reading. ‘Oh, Barry,’ he’d found himself saying over and over again as yet another innocent-looking lever arch file yielded a fair approximation of hell. He was nowhere close to getting to the bottom of it all but, even this far from the bottom, it was not a pretty picture.

  He ran a hand through his hair again, or, rather, what was left of his hair. At fifty-five Roger wasn’t quite into comb-over territory, but his gingerish thatch was getting very thin on top.

  ‘Roger, please,’ Susan said. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Right. The thing is, Susan, I … I’ve not nearly figured this all out yet. Not even close, it’s bloody complicated, but, from what I’ve seen so far –’ he placed his left hand on top of the three box files, the fi
les all containing paperwork retrieved from that terrible basement flat – ‘I have to say, it really doesn’t look good.’

  ‘What doesn’t look good?’

  ‘It looks like Barry was, ah, playing a bit fast and loose with the old finances.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘First off, there’s the flat itself. You bought it back in 1981, for seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘Sorry, we bought it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose Barry bought it. In the last few years it seems like he’s remortgaged it several times.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It looks like he’s been using that money to pay off the credit cards and –’

  ‘What credit cards?’

  ‘Nine different cards, all with balances varying between five and fifteen thousand pounds.’

  ‘But … we don’t have nine credit cards! We’ve got the Visa and the –’

  ‘Susan, I think a lot of this is going to be news to you. Just bear with me. On top of that there’s the fact that he … he doesn’t seem to have paid income tax or VAT for the past two years, the revenue are due over a hundred grand, and there are indications here, in the paperwork, that he’s been making unauthorised payments to himself from the business account. Offshore trusts and things. There are a few loans, secured, unsecured …’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Susan slid her elbows forward across the polished wood and let her head sink into her hands. ‘How …’

  ‘It seems he’s been doing this for some time, funding quite a, um … lavish private life. But it’s definitely got more out of hand in the last few years. With the … the …’ Roger tugged at his collar, looked at the table. ‘The call girls and whatnot.’

  It’s not like we’re newly-weds …

  Susan felt a sob escaping her but she fought it back and took a deep breath. ‘So what does this all mean?’

  ‘Well, as you’re a director of the company –’

  ‘Oh, just in name! For the tax reasons.’ Barry had explained to her that if she was a director of the company and received a nominal salary it was all money that didn’t have to go to the taxman. It seemed to make sense. Back when things used to make sense. ‘I never actually did anything! You know that, Roger!’

  ‘I know, I know, it just means, technically, technically, you’re jointly responsible for the company debts as well as all this other stuff –’

  ‘But I didn’t know about any of this!’

  ‘Exactly. So we’ve got a very good chance of proving here that you’re simply a victim. That Barry was forging your signature on all these remortgages and loan and credit agreements and –’

  ‘Ah,’ Susan said.

  ‘What?’ Roger said.

  ‘When you say “forging” … there’s a chance I did sign some of them. A few of them. Maybe.’

  Roger looked at her. He reached into the top file and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Susan, are you telling me that this really is your signature?’ He pointed at the dotted line at the bottom of a document. ‘That you actually signed all this stuff willingly?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know! Barry dealt with all the money! He was a bloody accountant for Christ’s sake! He was always “restructuring” our finances! He’d put things in front of me to sign now and then and I’d just –’

  ‘Oh shit …’ Roger moaned.

  ‘I didn’t know about any of this stuff!’

  ‘Oh God …’ Roger whispered, beads of perspiration visible on his forehead now.

  ‘“Oh God”? What does “Oh God” mean?’

  He looked at her. ‘It means, Susan, from what I’ve worked out so far, that you’re personally liable for around half a million pounds’ worth of debt.’

  Susan felt her blood turning to antifreeze, sludging up in her veins.

  Just then there was the sound of a key in the lock, the front door opening and bags being dumped down in the hall. A second later Tom stood in the doorway to the dining room, Clare behind him. He took in his mother, Roger, the paperwork on the table. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he said, his lip already quivering, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

  Susan smashed her fists down onto the table as she stood up to face her son and daughter-in-law and screamed, ‘HE’S A LYING, SWINDLING BASTARD SEX PERVERT!’

  Then she ran out of the room crying.

  Tom looked at Roger.

  ‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ Roger said.

  FOURTEEN

  BOSCOMBE KNOCKED ON the door, just below the brass plate bearing the name ‘CHIEF INSPECTOR D. WILSON’. A second passed and he heard the muffled ‘Come!’ from inside.

  He entered. There was CI Wilson, behind his desk, in full uniform, all that scrambled egg on his epaulettes. The desk itself – not so much as a stray paper clip on it. Boscombe thought of his own demented haystack two floors down. ‘Ah, Boscombe, good morning.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Please, take a pew.’ Boscombe lowered himself into the chair feeling, as ever in here, the chill of someone being called to the headmaster’s study. ‘How is everything?’

  ‘Fine, sir, fine. Busy.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Wilson wasn’t looking at him. He had his half-moon specs on and was already leafing through a few stapled pages of paper. What was the old bastard after this time? ‘Now, Boscombe, do you know what I wanted to see you about?’ He’d taken the glasses off now and was chewing thoughtfully on one of the stems.

  ‘Er, can’t say I do, sir, no.’

  ‘Mmm. That rather alarms me.’

  Oh fuck. ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘I’ve just been going through your report on that rather unfortunate, what would you call it, auto-erotic death we had the other day?’ Wilson held up the stapled pages.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Including the transcript of your interview with the late man’s widow, a Mrs Susan Frobisher.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The interview that seems to climax with you calling Mrs Frobisher – who, bear in mind, had only been widowed in fairly horrific circumstances hours earlier – a “swinger”. Quote, unquote.’

  ‘Well, it was more of an implication really, sir.’

  Wilson sighed and held up the transcript gingerly, as though it were something sordid and unclean, and turned a couple of pages. He slipped his glasses back on, cleared his throat and read aloud. ‘DS Boscombe: “Swingers, were you, you and Barry?”’ He took his glasses off again and faced Boscombe. ‘Seems a fairly strong “implication” to me, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, I just felt … In an interview situation, sometimes you have to …’

  Wilson leaned forward across the desk. He picked up a letter opener, a vicious-looking blade, and started testing the edge of it against his thumb. ‘Why, Boscombe?’

  ‘Like I say, sir, I just had a … a …’

  ‘Be warned, Boscombe, if the words “a hunch” are thundering towards this conversation I shall force this letter opener through your testicles to form a crude sort of kebab.’

  Boscombe swallowed. ‘Well, sir, with all due respect, her signature was on a lot of documents found at the scene. Documents pointing towards substantial fraud. I felt, feel, that’s it’s unlikely he could have led this kind of double life without her knowing, and I believed that by exerting a little press—’

  Wilson waved a hand, cutting him off. ‘Yes, Boscombe. And do you feel – just feel, mind you – that it’s also entirely possible that she knew nothing about the whole thing?’

  ‘Well,’ Boscombe said, shifting in his seat, ‘I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘Yes. In which case it might have been better to think a little more carefully before accusing the poor, bereaved woman of being some kind of crazed sexual deviant. No?’

  ‘Sir, I was just trying to –’

  ‘Here’s what you are going to do, Boscombe. When forensics are finished with the late Mr Frobisher’s personal effects you’re going to return them to Mrs Frobisher and you’re going to be
very, very nice to her so that when she comes out of mourning she doesn’t immediately set about suing us for harassment. With me?’

  ‘Well, I –’ Wilson stared straight into Boscombe, forcing him to rethink. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you. You may go, Boscombe.’ Chief Inspector Wilson took a fresh document from his in-tray and began reading.

  Boscombe had taken three steps towards the door when a frown crossed his face and he turned back. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘By “personal effects”, do you mean all the videotapes and photos and whatnot too?’

  Wilson spoke without looking up from his reading. ‘Do you think Mrs Frobisher will have much use for a mountain of pornographic material featuring her late husband and a succession of prostitutes, Boscombe?’

  ‘Umm. No. I expect not, sir.’

  A knock at the door.

  ‘There you are then. Run along now, Boscombe. COME!’

  Fucking pompous old wanker, Boscombe thought as the door opened and Sergeant Tarrant entered with a sheaf of paperwork under his arm.

  ‘Hugh,’ Tarrant said.

  ‘Bob,’ Boscombe replied, nodding as he left, closing the door behind him.

  ‘These all need your signature, sir,’ Tarrant said, placing the paperwork in front of Wilson, who began to sign. ‘He’s a piece of work, old Hugh Boscombe, eh, sir?’ Tarrant added, nodding towards the door.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it, Tarrant,’ Wilson said, signing one form then turning to the next. ‘Another way would be to say he’s a crapulent buffoon with the IQ of a tampon.’

  FIFTEEN

  THE SAD NOTES of the organist drifted across the crematorium, masking the soft chatter of the mourners. In the front pew Tom and Clare gazed sadly at the polished pine coffin, at the thick purple drapes behind it, which would soon be parting to swallow it up, to commit the remains of Barry J. Frobisher (CA, BSC Hons) to fiery memory. Tom sat doing an unlikely thing for a man at his father’s funeral – struggling to square the image of his safe, dull, Daily Mail-reading father with the crazed sex monster he’d been learning about for the past week. A two-foot … Jesus. There was an empty space next to Tom, for his mother who was standing off to the side, greeting faces she had not seen in a long time. Susan smiled as she saw Jill coming towards her. ‘Jill, thanks for coming.’