by Janet Neel
‘Sleep on it?’ Luke Fleming had been watching her.
‘I’d like to talk to your accountants,’ she said, stiffly.
‘Fine.’ He named a good small firm. ‘They’re only just started on the books. I’d want to talk to them first – I mean before you did. I don’t want them resigning before they’ve started.’
‘I know them. I’ll wait until they’ve had their heads down a bit longer.’
‘Up to you.’ He waited to see if she had finished with him, and held the door for her when she indicated she had. ‘Can I get you a taxi?’
‘I have a driver.’ This was only partially true; it was the chief superintendent’s driver, but he was there, having a quick sleep, which was how they all managed to work long into the evening. Luke Fleming shook her hand, holding it too long, as they all did, and she walked slowly down the steps, starting to compose her report.
He watched her into the car then went back to the office and checked Margaret Howard’s methodically set out log of callers for the week. It was long and repetitive, as different grades of policemen had checked in and out and rung each other up. He finally found what he was looking for on Monday’s log and went through the pass door to the flat. Sylvia was seated at a small square table, considering the spread-sheet he had organised for her earlier that day.
‘I’ve got one we may have to add,’ he reported. ‘Mr Mastry. Went to the Fraud Squad. I told the policewoman they sent that we’d give him his money back if he wanted.’
‘Can we afford that? What was she like, this woman?’
‘A dazzler.’ He sat down beside her and kissed her ear. ‘Ask anyone. A very, very beautiful blonde.’ He felt her stiffen; she was not one for having other women praised to her face.
‘Natural?’
‘Well, I didn’t investigate that far. But yes. I’d think so. Or mostly natural, she may have helped it a bit.’ He nuzzled her neck.
‘She is how old?’
‘Young. Early thirties, if that.’ He could feel her tense and angry, and decided to stop teasing. ‘If she comes back you’d better see her. But if we can get Mr Mastry off our backs and settle the worst of the claims against us then I don’t think she will be back. We’re small beer for them.’
They both considered the sheet.
‘I’ll put Mr Mastry in on the computer,’ he said, frowning. ‘But I’d guess that if we give him his £30k back, Mr Arnold’ll have to wait.’
‘Or your builder in Spain?’
‘Can’t do that, darling, if we want those apartments. And we do; there’s going to be a few more besides Mastry when they wake up and read the Sundays, and wonder if their holiday’s going to be all right. In fact, I’m surprised more of them haven’t, with what’s in the papers.’
‘They have. I took three calls myself this morning.’
‘Shit.’
‘No, it is all right. They were all embarrassed that I who am widow am talking to them, so they did not ask very much.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they? We’d better have you in the office full-time.’
‘This I think too. For the moment. And Mr Arnold will most definitely have to wait. Our problems are more serious.’
‘He could sue.’
‘And tell his wife where there is money and why he wants it?’
‘No, no. Poor bugger, though – the girlfriend won’t be pleased.’
‘It is foolish of her to be with a married man.’
He blinked, but the absence of emphasis with which she spoke made it clear that she recognised nothing odd in the statement. Women who took up with married men were fools. Married women could do as they pleased, but where did it leave the men who took up with them?
‘I’ll have to tell him. He’s phoned twice. And I must talk to the insurers. They have all that they need and they are raising the cheque. They have tried to tell me that they are waiting because of the murder, but your solicitor gave that one short shrift. He reminded them that it is the company who insure and a company cannot murder people. They had to concede they knew this, it is only a delay.’
‘So the company will have this £2m.’
‘No, not all of it. The bank wanted £1.5m to pay off the whole overdraft, but I think I’ve negotiated them down to £1m. Margaret has written a letter in confirmation for me to sign. I must go down. I’ll need to ring Miles.’ He paused.
Sylvia was looking mulish. ‘Please, Luke, do not yet talk to Miles; I need – we need – to discuss all these things before we pay anything. It is right, is it not, that both of us must sign any cheque?’
It was indeed right, he realised; she was joint executor with him. He opened his mouth to argue that this particular debt was overdue and difficult to stall but decided not to bother today, time enough to get Sylvia facing forward tomorrow when she had got used to having him around again.
10
Monday, 18 April
‘John? Guess what we’ve found?’
‘Another body? Make my day.’
‘The trust file.’
John McLeish gazed unseeingly at the telephone then remembered. ‘Ah. The late Mrs Price’s trust. The one for the lads. For Antony and Francis. Well done, Bruce.’
‘Not me. That wee Jenny. She decided the best place to hide a file was in a filing system, in the wrong place.’
‘How right she is,’ McLeish said, interested. ‘So she found it?’
‘Aye. Took her a day or so. We talked about it and decided the file might be labelled something else, so she’d to look in every one. But we have it; I’m on my way with Jenny as soon as it’s been printed and photographed.’
They appeared in his office an hour later, both looking very pleased with themselves and very conscious of each other. Davidson was looking sleek, and the girl, a young DC from the Potteries, was trying a little too hard for a businesslike approach. Useless to feel reproachful, this one would just run its course, ending in tears in about three months’ time like all the others in which Bruce Davidson was involved.
‘Any prints?’
‘Mr Price, Mrs Price, Miss Howard, no one else but a few smudges. As if someone wore gloves.’
‘Mm. Why Mrs Price? She isn’t a trustee.’
‘I asked her, once we’d found it. She said of course she had seen the file before. Antony had asked her about it and, indeed, she had started to look at it but Mr Price – her late husband – had taken it away from her and she’d not seen it again. She thinks it must have been him who hid it, because Miss Howard would not do such a thing. Convinced me.’
‘How did you feel, Jenny?’ McLeish, always mindful of junior staff, asked, and the girl blushed.
‘I don’t particularly like her, sir, but why would she have hidden it?’
A good question, McLeish thought and raised an eyebrow at Bruce.
‘Because it shows that trust assets went into the company.’
‘You’ve read it?’
‘DI Crane has. Well, John, it would be fraud, and that’s their angle.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s all right. Catherine is sure, is she?’
‘You could ask her,’ Davidson suggested.
‘I’ll get her to write something so we all know,’ McLeish said, repressively. ‘So Antony Price was right; his father was taking trust assets. And he did need to find that file. I mean, it makes a bit more sense of his visit last Saturday.’
Davidson nodded. ‘Now, I’ve had a bittie time, while Jenny here went through the files, and I’m wondering about the other lad, Francis. It’s a bit easy to forget he’s a druggie. He’d no cash on him when they picked him up, but he could have spent what was in the safe, couldn’t he?’
‘Twenty thousand quid in less than a week?’ McLeish objected.
‘Could have owed a lot of that.’
‘All right, Bruce, but why would he hide the file?’
Davidson gazed at him. ‘No, no, John. Might he have been looking for it too? We’ve not asked him whether he knew about
it.’
‘Is he still in hospital?’
‘Yes. They’ve got a problem about discharging him. They’re trying to kick him out but he says he wants to get off drugs, and they’re trying to find a place in a drugs unit.’
‘That’s interesting. Why?’
‘Why does he want to get off drugs? Well, he’s had a fright, hasn’t he? Could easily have died.’
‘I wonder if that was it? Or whether he had a fright of another sort.’
‘Walked in on Dad’s dead body, you mean? Possible. Anyway, Notting Dale aren’t going to charge him on the drugs unless you insist – there’s a bit of a problem with the drugs lads on the CID, I understand – but if he gets into a unit we’ll know where to find him.’
‘Until he walks out,’ McLeish, said, from long and difficult experience. ‘Sorry, say it again, Bruce. Something up at Notting Dale CID? Jenny, you didn’t hear this, mind. Who is it? Oh, those two. I thought they’d been very successful.’
‘They had. There’s mebbe a problem about how they’d done it.’
McLeish nodded; members of the CID concerned with drugs ran more risk of joining the criminals than most. The difficulty of getting a conviction combined with the sheer amount of money involved could result in the steadiest policeman straying over the line. He made a note to check what was happening about Matt Sutherland’s case.
‘We might go and see Francis Price again, Bruce, if he’s able.’
‘He’s doped up – no, painkillers and the like – but coherent.’
‘In better shape than last time?’
‘Oh yes.’
And so it proved. They left Jenny to tidy up the records and to go back and check through the rest of the filing system to see if they could find anything else that shouldn’t be there, and visited Francis Price who was sitting in a chair on a balcony looking pale and hostile, and in no shape to be out of bed.
‘I gather they’re trying to find you a unit,’ McLeish said, having reintroduced themselves.
‘Yes, but I hate those places. I hope I can go tomorrow to … well, to a friend’s place. He’ll look after me, he says.’
‘You might be better in a unit.’
‘It’s never worked before.’
McLeish considered him; he looked terrible, but more solid than when they had last seen him, and as he watched the young man reached for a banana, peeled it and ate it hungrily.
‘I seem to eat all the time,’ he said, catching McLeish’s eye, ‘but it’s better than stomach cramps.’
‘We’ve come’, McLeish said, deciding to get to grips with the subject, ‘to ask about the trust your mother set up for you and your brother.’
‘Antony said the file was missing. He was here last night.’
And Francis was a great deal more gathered than when they had last seen him, McLeish observed. ‘He’d been looking for it, had he?’
‘Yes, because he said that there would be something in it, some letter to someone that told us what had happened.’
‘You weren’t looking for it?’
‘I told you. My father and Sylvia wouldn’t let me near the house. So Antony was the only one who could hunt for the file.’ He looked momentarily puzzled, then shook his head.
‘The file has been found. Just.’
‘Where?’
‘At the house.’
‘And does it help? Us, I mean?’
‘I understand it makes it clear that funds or assets of the trust had been shifted into either your father’s company or his own account. Either as loans or for purchase of shares in the company.’
‘And Cousin Bruce agreed, I expect. Our so-called trustee.’
‘That’s not quite so clear, I understand.’
‘But we could probably sue my father’s company,’ Francis Price said, wincing. ‘Excuse me. I’ll try another banana.’ He peeled it and missed the wastepaper basket with the skin. ‘Or would that not do any good? My father wasn’t safe with money.’
A just verdict, even coming from a drug addict, McLeish thought, and considered Francis Price. He was showing no signs of unease, apart from physical discomfort, and he seemed to set no particular store by the missing trust monies. But ten days ago, desperate for another fix and organised by a stronger personality, he might have done anything. There was no more to be gained today; just possibly if this lad stayed off drugs he might remember something useful about the events of the last week, but they were no nearer a solution.
Francesca was sitting, half asleep, with her son heavy on her knee, watching Susannah clear up the kitchen, whisking round with the undiminished energy of a nineteen-year-old who got seven hours’ sleep every night.
‘Will is asleep, Francesca. Shall I take him?’
‘Please. I have to go out. That is, I may have to, I’m waiting for a phone call.’
I wouldn’t care, she told herself earnestly, if Matt were somehow prevented from ringing me today. I could go back to bed for a couple of hours and not feel so terrible. Will was teething, interminably, seeming to have as many as a crocodile, except she could not believe that any baby crocodile had this much difficulty. She needed to see Matthew Sutherland. She had not managed to stick to his timetable, but had taken William round to the Refuge the day before, ostensibly to see his grandmother who was taking the unpopular Sunday day-shift. (Unpopular with the staff, that was; the customers flooded in, victims of a long Sunday with their men setting about them as a result of a liquid lunch, or a Saturday night hangover.) She had found Matt, as she knew she would, patiently entering data on the computer, pale and cross, but with a smile of pure pleasure when he looked up and saw her and William. She had felt the whole of her face lift in response and they had managed a few minutes together, earnestly discussing the problems of data entry before a desperate Asian mother with three weeping children had needed everyone’s attention.
The phone rang as she was handing William over, gingerly, praying he would not wake, and she watched Susannah out of the room, the child burrowing into her small nineteen-year-old bosom.
‘It’s me, Matt. I’ve finished. The whole thing is on a hard disc, and I’m taking a copy home, so I can run it on the lap-top. You can’t think in that place.’
‘Was it a busy night?’
‘Yes. Your mum stayed till nine, bless her, but I made her go home then. Do you want to see the preliminary runs? I could bring them round, or you could come here, since you’ve got the car.’
‘I’ll come round. I need to get out of the house for a bit.’
She rushed into the shower, then cleaned her teeth again, telling herself that anyone who had been on the go since 4 a.m. needed to make a bit of an effort before rejoining the grown-ups. Her nicest jeans and shirt were ready and ironed, and apart from feeling sick, she was in good shape. She drove the twenty-minute journey, rang the bell and listened to the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Matt opened the door to her, and they looked at each other, silently.
‘Come in, Fran. It’s not quite as tidy as I would wish up there. I’m going to have a house guest tomorrow for a few days.’
‘Who?’
‘Francis Price. The druggie I got to hospital. He wants to stay off and he doesn’t want to go to a unit. Been there, done that, didn’t work at all.’
‘But Matt – how will you manage?’
‘It’s only for a couple of weeks. He’s going to live with me and do some work for a mate of mine at the poly, sorry, university. Keep him occupied, which he needs. So I’m having a bit of a sortout up there, and I’m not quite done.’
She followed him up three flights of stairs and into a huge high-ceilinged room, with a bed at one end, the walls lined with books and elaborate sound machinery. A young man’s room, she thought, trying for some distance, just like any of her brothers. The pictures however were in a different class, violent red and purple landscapes, desolate but beautiful. ‘Australian.’
‘Yeh. There isn’t any New Zealand art worth having
. Or not yet. You want coffee?’ He was nervous too, she saw, watching his hands as he came close to dropping the jug of water. ‘I’m putting Francis in the bedroom on a Z-bed, and I’m moving my bed into the living-room. He’d need to sleep more than I do.’
‘Are you going to switch that percolator on?’ she asked, and he stared at it.
‘I’ve got some wine. Would you like that instead?’ He was carefully not looking at her but rummaging in the fridge, and she took a deep breath and uncurled her fingers from the kitchen counter.
‘Matt.’
‘What?’ He straightened up from the fridge, smudges of colour on the high cheekbones, and looked down at her.
‘A drink would be a very good idea. I’m nervous too.’
He looked at her carefully, put the bottle he was holding down on the counter and wrapped his arms round her. ‘Fran, I suddenly thought I’d got it all wrong.’
‘No, you didn’t. You were putting on clean sheets when I arrived.’
‘Just stay here, and don’t go away while I open the bottle.’
They both fell asleep afterwards, having confessed to each other that they had both had sleepless nights and neither of them had any tolerance for wine at eleven o’clock in the morning. Francesca woke first, with a headache, and found some orange juice which she took back to bed with two glasses. Matt was sitting up, watching her.
‘You OK?’
‘You know I was.’
‘I meant now. You’re looking sad.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ she said, climbing back beside him. ‘I wanted you very much.’
He wrapped himself round her. ‘Now me, I wanted you from the first time I saw you, all gussied up in your executive suit.’
‘And I thought you fancied Annabelle.’
‘Oh I did, but I fancied you more.’ He swallowed his orange juice. ‘Better. How long have we got?’
‘Mr Sutherland. Art not satisfied? I have to go at five.’
‘I were satisfied, lass, I were, but I could manage again. Besides, I’ve got a house guest from tomorrow, and I … I don’t know how you’re placed.’
