by Janet Neel
‘When did you ask him?’
‘Ask him what? Oh, about the account. When I saw the report.’
‘Let me get this right.’ He got up and moved towards her. ‘You saw the accountants’ report yesterday, right? It says there’s a bit missing. And you assumed at once that it was me and I’d got it hidden somewhere.’
She shook her head. ‘Luke, I assume that it was exactly how you have told me. I was married with Bill, I too have a little account of my own. So I ask John if this is so, how we should make it right.’
He felt himself going scarlet. ‘If I signed something like that I’d be letting myself in for a right pile of shit, wouldn’t I? I’d be admitting taking money from the company. As your solicitor friend well knows. He must think I’m stupid.’
‘Luke…’
There were tears in the round eyes and he relaxed and reached over to take the uninjured hand. ‘Look, Sylvie, stop worrying about it all, eh? We’ve got the insurance money, the company’s solvent, we’re OK for ready cash for the first time in bloody years. We’ll both go to Majorca and sort things out there, get you away from all this. Yes?’ He peered into her face while she took her hand away to find an immaculate, embroidered handkerchief. ‘That’s better. I’ll get us on to the three thirty flight tomorrow. Come on, you need to get out of here – we’ll have a drink and some dinner.’
‘John?’
‘Catherine. Where are you?’
‘In a call box, opposite the office in Kensington Church Street. Look, I’ve just seen Sylvia Price and Luke Fleming leave. She looked awful and worried, and he had a tight hold on her.’
‘Mm. What were you doing there, by the way?’
‘Having a drink with one of the accountants – you saw the point of the report?’
‘Yes. Thanks for that. It must be Fleming who was on the take. I’m seeing him tomorrow.’
‘John. What I’m asking you is whether that is soon enough. I’m worried about her. She told me in the taxi that she found him – Fleming – frightening.’
‘Did she say it was him attacked her?’
‘No.’ The denial was reluctant, and McLeish sighed inwardly. ‘No, she didn’t. She said she really didn’t know.’
‘Cath, I don’t think he’s going to do anything to her under our very eye. I mean, he must feel he’s under a microscope right now. Did he … did they see you? Where you were, I mean, with your admirer.’
‘She did. She waved. And he’s married, the chap I was having a drink with.’
‘She ought to be safe enough.’ In the silence that greeted this effort, McLeish remembered the last time he had made that judgement about a woman and her lover, and reminded himself doggedly that Luke Fleming had no record of violence with women or anyone else. ‘But Cath, thanks…’ he said, not wanting her to go away, or feel that he was treating her contribution with less than due respect.
‘So you want to see if he banks anything in Spain,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Is he due to go there?’
‘He’s trying to go as soon as possible, he told me. The business needs him there.’
‘So you can’t afford to stop him.’
‘Something like that. Shall I see you tomorrow?’
‘Tonight if you’re still there in half an hour.’
15
Thursday, 28 April
‘Poor sod.’
‘Indeed,’ McLeish said, sedately, gazing at the Sun headlines. ‘But he had made promises he was not in a position to keep.’
‘So she says,’ Davidson agreed. ‘Silly bitch to believe him, mind – married blokes don’t usually leave their wives whatever they say.’
It had been the broken pledge of cash rather than of marriage that had caused Ms James to seek her thirty pieces of silver from the tabloid press. McLeish had talked again to Miles Arnold late the night before, when they had both seen the morning papers, and got the rest of the story. Ms James, Miles Arnold had said, wearily, had, on the basis of a promised cash subvention from him, entered into a contract to buy a bigger and better flat. When he had been unable to deliver the cash – which he said was in Bill Price’s safe – she had refused to believe his explanation, alleging him to be using Price’s death as an excuse for reneging on his offer. He had sought delay, but she was under pressure to produce the ten per cent deposit required on exchange of contracts. So she had found the shortest line between two points and taken her photogenic self and her highly saleable story to the best, or worst – depending on where you stood in the story – agent in London. He had sold the package for a rumoured £30,000, a good price but, as Miles Arnold observed, nothing to what could have been achieved if she had waited till he was a minister. McLeish had confined himself to sympathetic noises, but had found himself reflecting that it would take a long time to save £30,000 out of the pay of even a detective chief superintendent. At all events Miles Arnold had gone out in the betting as a suspect. He had needed money urgently, yes, but the prima facie evidence was that Bill Price had intended to give it to him, and had indeed gone to the bank and drawn out £20,000 for that purpose. And further in Arnold’s favour, it was clear that if it had been he who had robbed the safe he would have given the cash to his mistress; as he said, it would have been well worth £20,000 not to have to have the acutely embarrassing conversation with his constituency chairman which had just taken place. He would be very lucky indeed, he said bitterly, if he kept his place as an MP with that sour-faced old bat in the chair. And, as he did not need to say, his substantial income from various consultancies depended on his still being an MP with access to the seats of power.
‘Does all this blow his alibi away?’ Davidson asked.
‘It was never solid, but it hasn’t got any worse. She confirmed that he was with her when he said he was.’
‘But you don’t fancy him for it?’
‘No. Never did.’
‘Well, that way we don’t have to bother about the politics.’
‘The publicity is a nuisance. We’ll get a lot of calls.’ He stared gloomily at a column headed baldly SEX DEATH LINK which described, inaccurately, the death of Bill Price, and Miles Arnold’s relationship with Price Fleming. A photograph of Miles, looking furtive, Ms James, legs showing to knicker-level, and the late Bill Price (taken from the Price Fleming brochure), smiling reassuringly with rather too many teeth, illustrated the page.
The phone interrupted their reading and Bruce Davidson answered it. ‘They’re both booked on the three thirty, John. What made you ask? They doing a runner?’
‘It’s a bit easier than that. Mrs Price rang this morning, when I was just in, and said she needed to go to Majorca, was there any objection? If not she was getting the three thirty plane. I rather thought Fleming would be on it too. I have no good cause to keep either of them back and I want to see what they do.’ He looked to see if Bruce was going to remind him of what happened the last time he released a suspect he had no good reason to hold, but discipline had prevailed. He decided to explain further. ‘They got a writ this morning, or rather the office did. From Miles Arnold’s solicitor, asking for his money back, or alternatively seeking that the company be wound up. Catherine says it’s what you do when you’re really desperate as a creditor. I thought it would put a bit of pressure on, so I encouraged Arnold to get on with it.’
Bruce Davidson’s expression shifted marginally, and McLeish spread his hands. ‘I know what I think, but I can’t get anywhere near proving it.’
‘Who do you fancy?’
The phone rang and McLeish grabbed it. ‘Yes, put him on. Matthew. What? I do not believe it. No, no, I don’t mean it like that. Bring Francis in. Quick as you like. And his jacket. Don’t touch anything else. No, wait, I’ll send a car.’ He put the phone down and looked across at Davidson. ‘I need the original statements made by Fleming, Mrs Price and Antony Price. Quick. You can take the note when Francis gets here.’
Ten minutes later he was clattering downstairs, Bruce Davidson at his h
eels carrying a pile of files, with a young DC barely able to see over the heap of papers bringing up the rear. ‘Give it to me, Matt,’ he said, reverently, eyes on the envelope Matthew was carrying.
‘I’m afraid I did touch it. I didn’t think … I was just so pleased with myself. You’ll need my prints.’ Matthew was trying to maintain his customary cool. Francis Price, pale and anxious, was standing behind his right shoulder, keeping as much of him as possible between him and the policemen.
McLeish slid the plastic-covered packet out of the envelope and peered through the film. ‘Get this printed now. Take prints from Mr Sutherland as well.’
The young DC, infected by the general atmosphere of urgency, rushed from the room, carrying the envelope and falling over his feet. Bruce was working down a list, lips moving.
‘Here.’
‘All right, all right, let’s get this done properly. Get the tape on. Mr Price, you sit in the middle, will you? Yes, all right, Matthew, you can stay. Now, Mr Price. How did these notes come into your possession?’
‘I was given it, plus about another £400, by Sylvia. My father’s wife.’
‘Why?’
‘I begged them off her, and she’s always been quite nice to me, I mean reasonably human. Soft, I suppose. I spent the rest – gave it to a dealer. I didn’t know this was here, or I’d have spent it too.’
‘When was this? Take your time.’
‘A few days after my father’s death. The Wednesday. The day I collapsed in the pub and Matthew picked me up.’
‘And you are quite sure these notes were given to you by Mrs Price?’
‘I am, yes. And I’m sorry not to have told you before. I told Matt when I remembered but I couldn’t prove it. Then Matt had an idea and we went through all my clothes.’
McLeish glanced across at Matthew to indicate that he might speak.
‘You suggested I try assuming Antony Price was telling the truth. He said he didn’t give Francis cash when he was on drugs, and Francis himself said the same, but I never believe druggies. So I started again and asked Francis who did, and he managed to remember. Then I thought, well … what if, and we searched everything. I mean, I stuff things into pockets and lose them. So we looked. Me, Francis and this mate of mine, so we had a witness.’
McLeish considered the two young men in front of him, wondering if they had grasped all the implications, and saw that Francis Price at least had thought his way through.
‘I knew you might think that I’d stolen the money, or that Antony had, and given me some of it. But that isn’t what happened.’
McLeish, following a train of thought, did not reply and Matthew sat bolt upright, red hair bristling up. ‘I wouldn’t have brought him here if I thought that’s the way your minds worked.’
‘And it wasn’t the first time, you see,’ Francis Price said earnestly, ignoring Matthew. ‘I mean, this is the bit you really aren’t going to believe, but I don’t care, it happened. It came back to me. She gave me some cash the evening my father was murdered, only I spent that straightaway.’
McLeish saw that Matthew was doubtful about this part of the story. ‘What time was this?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve thought, but I’d been sleeping on and off all day. It had got dark but not for long.’
Bruce Davidson had Sylvia Price’s statement out and was flipping through. ‘Mrs Price says she left for the country at 4 p.m.’
‘Couldn’t have been dark,’ McLeish said, doubtfully, watching Francis Price.
The young man looked defeated. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I haven’t got it right. But it was dark, I’m sure. I know it was because she’s blonde, or rather she isn’t but the white bits on top shone in the lights. So the street lights were on.’
Both policemen stared at him, and McLeish found his tongue. ‘Where was this exactly? I mean, where were you both?’
‘Oh, in Kensington Church Street, near the house. I needed cash, you see, and my father … well, he sometimes gave me some. To get rid of me.’
‘Francis, are you sure?’ Matthew Sutherland said.
‘Shut up,’ Davidson and McLeish said as one man.
Matthew Sutherland, blushing scarlet to his hair-line, made himself as small as he could the other side of the table and McLeish returned to Francis Price.
‘I told you I was in the street, I think,’ he protested.
‘Ye did.’ Bruce Davidson had found the relevant bit of the statement. ‘But ye didna tell us ye’d met Mrs Price.’
‘I forgot. Drugs do that, but when Matt and I were talking about it last night, I remembered. She’d given me cash before. It all came back.’
McLeish looked at the young, pale face. ‘And the other day? Just recently, someone gave you cash, didn’t they?’
‘Oh, that was Antony.’ The young man frowned. ‘Yes, I see what you mean, he never used to give me any cash. I suppose he thought I was all right, you know, cured.’ He looked at their expressions. ‘Anyway, it was only £100, you can’t buy enough to kill yourself with that, and Antony wouldn’t want to kill me.’
McLeish, Davidson and Matthew Sutherland, who all thought this confidence misplaced, looked woodenly back, but it was Matthew who spoke.
‘I guess, that time, he just wanted Francis out of the way. He was desperate to catch Annabelle. Didn’t care what Francis did with the cash, provided he buggered off.’
McLeish decided he badly needed to confer, called for coffee, and took Davidson out of the room with him.
‘John, if Francis took the cash out of the safe himself, this is a bloody good cover story.’
‘Only one way to find out. Let’s just hope there’s some of that cash left. Put those two lads somewhere quiet, give them a good book each, whatever … I have to see the AC.’
*
Twelve members of the team was probably overkill, McLeish thought, as he looked out over the two long lines of passengers, waiting to get through Passport Control. He was in one of the small first-floor rooms overlooking the area, and they had the door open not just for air but so that the party could get out and down the stairs and into the security area to join the two members of the team already there as soon as Sylvia Price and Luke Fleming came through. He looked to the left; the Home Office had left nothing to chance, or perhaps the senior man had made the same decision he had and was sharing the excitement around his team. A second man in a suit had been posted at the right-hand side of both the usual executive officers on checking-duty, to watch the faces. He saw Luke Fleming’s black hair. He was looking ruffled, encumbered by three small flight bags. Sylvia Price was just behind him, looking tired and pale and anxious, her right arm in a sling, her left holding a large handbag. The buzzer went off at the same time, triggering a stampede, and McLeish and Davidson followed sedately on the heels of the team. They marched towards the group which looked, McLeish thought, like a tableau vivant portraying ‘Misunderstanding at an Airport’. Sylvia Price and Luke Fleming had been moved out of the line and were both protesting; Fleming, red with exasperation, towering over Sylvia Price, who was dabbing at her eyes, complaining in the high clear accented voice. They both saw McLeish at the same time; Fleming started towards him, hands moving, but Sylvia Price stood absolutely still. Then her eyes rolled up and she fell sideways on to the WPC standing beside her, who only just managed to support her before she hit the floor.
Fleming exclaimed and turned to help and remonstrate, and both lines of entering passengers spread untidily sideways as people, jerked out of their trance, stopped to stare, dropping bags and documents as they peered over for a closer look. McLeish went to help the young WPC with Sylvia Price while Davidson, cursing in best Glasgow, got the rest of the group into one of the interview rooms hidden by an unmarked door, barely visible in the smooth yellow-grey walls. Davidson came back to help but McLeish had scooped Sylvia Price bodily from the floor; much smaller than either Francesca or Catherine, she was nonetheless surprisingly heavy; a plumper body than she had appe
ared, and, to his momentary amusement, much more armoured and corseted than the women he was used to. Her eyes were rolling and she was fighting back to consciousness, so he lowered her carefully into the chair produced by several sets of willing hands and stationed the two WPCs to prevent her falling out again, while Davidson shouted crossly at a BAA uniform to produce a glass of water. The room, though containing only two chairs and a trestle table, was markedly overcrowded with eight people.
‘What the hell is this?’ Luke Fleming was scarlet with rage. ‘You told Sylvia yesterday we could go. What the fuck are you playing at? We’ll miss the plane.’
McLeish was looking at the neat line-up on the table. Three flight bags and Sylvia Price’s handbag. ‘Do sit down, Mr Fleming. I have a search warrant and I intend to search these bags. And your hold baggage.’ He nodded to the young man who had put his head doubtfully into the room; he withdrew and appeared with two suitcases.
Luke Fleming gaped at him. ‘You got our bags taken off the plane? Where’ve you been the last ten years? You can’t do a runner to Spain. And we’ve got a business there.’
‘Which are your bags, Mr Fleming?’
‘Oh Christ. The next flight is two hours on and it’s Iberia. Well, I wish you joy of them.’ He indicated one suitcase and two of the flight bags, and turned to talk to Sylvia Price, white-faced but sitting up and sipping at a glass of water.
‘We’d like you to come to the table, please.’ Luke Fleming stared at him, fists clenched, but John McLeish was gazing reflectively at the nearest wall and Davidson contemplating the table while the rest of the team stared at their boots.
Fleming opened his mouth to discharge rage, and McLeish turned to look at him in polite, bored enquiry. Luke Fleming met his eye and thought better of whatever he had been going to do, or say. He stood back on his heels, a big man in the small, crowded room, and visibly thought about where he was and what was happening. He looked sidelong at Sylvia Price, but she was staring stonily ahead, the glass of water clutched in her uninjured left hand.
