Dead and Gone

by Bill Kitson

  ‘I agree, and we’re still no wiser as to what happened, either to him or Linda Wilson.’

  After giving the matter some thought, Nash phoned Dean Wilson. ‘Tell me something, how good was your sister with a computer?’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I’d say she was very good. I remember her sitting at the table here in the flat and watching her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop, and zooming from one website to another, or switching between different programs with a speed that made me dizzy.’

  ‘What happened to her laptop after she disappeared? Have you still got it?’

  ‘No, I thought she must have taken it with her. I never saw it after she … went away. It certainly wasn’t in the flat. Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. It could be, but until we’ve some hard evidence we’re simply guessing.’ He put the phone down and said to Clara, ‘Somewhere in that file there’s an inventory of Linda Wilson’s possessions that were seized by the team investigating the fraud. Have a look through it and see if there’s any mention of a laptop.’

  She scanned the form. ‘No, there’s nothing listed here. Neither a laptop nor a mobile, but then surely she’d have taken them with her, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It depends on whether she actually went away or if she ended up in that workshop. Either way, I have my doubts as to whether she’d take them with her, particularly the mobile. Don’t they have GPS tracking devices built into them so that people’s location can be pinpointed?’

  ‘Most do now, I believe, but I’m not sure if they did then.’

  ‘Let’s suppose Linda didn’t steal the money, didn’t scarper, but was murdered and hidden away to make her into a convenient scapegoat. We already have one link to Ormondroyd’s murder in the way both victims were killed. Now, there’s another, with the two missing computers.’ Nash shook his head in frustration. ‘I’m off to Netherdale to update Jackie. Until we hear from Mexican Pete, I don’t think there’s much more we can do.’

  Jackie Fleming greeted Nash with a wry smile. ‘I bumped into Professor Ramirez this morning and he was complaining about the workload you’ve given him recently. He suggested I should transfer you to traffic division; then changed his mind because he reckoned there’d be an upsurge in road accident fatalities.’

  ‘That’s ingratitude for you. I keep him in a job.’

  ‘You do seem to be collecting corpses. Tell me how things are going.’

  ‘To say we’ve been busy would be the understatement of the year. First of all, we’re waiting on identification of the remains found in the workshop. They could either be those of Susan Macaulay or Linda Wilson. Alternatively, they could be of someone completely different.’

  ‘Who are these women?’

  Nash explained about the teenager who had gone to America, adding, ‘Susan Macaulay stood to inherit a fortune until the trust was revoked in what Clara and I deem to be suspicious circumstances. However, the body could equally well be that of Linda Wilson.’

  Nash smiled at Jackie’s puzzled expression. ‘Do you remember the scandal over Bishopton Investments? The big financial firm that went belly up? She was their finance director. She supposedly vanished with the loot three years ago, but I’m not so sure. We believe she was having an affair with Ormondroyd, the solicitor who was murdered. Her involvement with him rather discounts the popular belief that she ran off with this shadowy figure, Mark Tankard. That’s not the only connection if the body turns out to be Linda’s.’

  Nash explained about the garrotte, and the missing computers. ‘There’s another possible link as well. We believe Susan Macaulay might also have been involved with Ormondroyd back when they were both teenagers.’

  ‘It all sounds very convoluted and highly theoretical.’

  ‘That’s about all we can do, speculate, because we’ve nothing concrete.’ Nash smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, bad pun. I mean we’ve nothing we can build a case on.’

  ‘What action have you in mind?’

  ‘As soon as I know one way or the other about the victim’s identity, I shall go back to talk to Peter Macaulay and his father. I feel sure they’re hiding something, but whether it’s to do with Susan or Linda, I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll await developments there. Now, what about this online scam that’s cost people a lot of money recently? The one that quoted Clara’s name?’

  ‘I’m desperate to get our technical people involved in the case. That’s why I left that message for you the other day. They’re not answering my calls and Viv Pearce can’t get any help from them.’

  ‘No, I realize it must be frustrating, so when I got your message I rang the head of that section. He’s very apologetic, but they’ve a couple of big cases they’re working on with the Serious Fraud Office, ones that run into many millions. Until they’ve finished them they can’t accept any other cases. I asked him how long that might be, and he said three to four months all being well. Apparently it isn’t just us who are short of manpower. That doesn’t help you, I know. You’ll just have to manage without them.’

  ‘I don’t see there’s much more we can do. Viv’s exhausted the limit of his knowledge, which is by far the greatest locally. We could get outside help in, but there would be a cost.’

  Jackie winced. ‘Don’t use nasty four-letter words such as “cost”,’ she complained. ‘You know how tight the budgets are.’

  As Nash was leaving Netherdale headquarters, Tom Pratt stopped him. ‘Mike, you asked me to find out about that company In Confidence that billed Ormondroyd? It turns out they’re a private detective agency. Ormondroyd hired them to trace Susan Macaulay, but apart from an old address in America and her time at Princeton University, they were unable to discover anything. They reported that, and apparently he was very upset at their failure.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  chapter fifteen

  Chance plays a part in the detection of crime, more often than many police officers acknowledge. Chance was certainly involved in DS Mironova spotting Peter Macaulay’s car parked in a quiet cul-de-sac near Helmsdale town centre. Clara had visited the street to interview a teenager suspected of supplying cannabis to pupils at Helmsdale Grammar School. Having delivered her cautionary talk to the boy and his parents, Mironova returned to her car to set off for home, her thoughts on the casserole simmering in her slow cooker.

  Manoeuvring her car around a badly parked van, Clara’s headlights picked out the personalized number plate on the Mercedes parked on the drive of a house on the opposite side of the road. What, Mironova wondered, was Peter Macaulay doing in Helmsdale at 9 p.m. on a weekday evening? Or any other evening for that matter? She knew he lived at Bishop’s Cross, and with the company being based in Bishopton, Macaulay would have no need to drive to Helmsdale following a day’s work. So why was he there?

  Around the time that Mironova was puzzling over this, Nash reached home, having called in for a pint at the pub in Wintersett. His old friend Jonas Turner had recently moved into the village, having swapped his rickety bicycle for an equally ramshackle and similarly ancient Land Rover. Since losing his wife to cancer, Turner lived alone apart from Pip, the Jack Russell that was his constant companion. Nash liked the old man, and what sergeant Jack Binns didn’t know about the inhabitants of the dale, Jonas could certainly tell him.

  After the pleasantries and enquiries as to how Nash’s son Daniel, was faring at boarding school and Nash’s delight at regaling Jonas with his son’s prowess on the cricket field, as was usual, the conversation centred on gardening and allotments. After a while, the old man mentioned the remains found in the workshop. ‘Got any idea who it is yet?’

  Nash shook his head. ‘I’ve a couple of ideas, but I can’t talk about it. You know how it is with our job.’

  ‘Who does t’ cottage belong to? Is it that Macaulay lot?’

  ‘It is,’ Nash admitted cautiously.

  ‘They’ll not be content till they own all t’ dale, I
reckon. Christopher Macaulay in particular.’

  ‘Do you remember his daughter? Susan, I think her name was.’

  ‘Aye, she might have been christened Susan, but she was allus known as Suzi. Went to America, didn’t she? By gum she were a reet cracker, even as a kid. A bit of a wild one, though.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Turner chuckled. ‘She were blonde, sexy, wi’ a cracking figure, legs up to her armpits and liked to let the world know it. I reckon one or two lucky lads around here got their first taste of the pleasures of the flesh along with Suzi Macaulay.’ Turner frowned as he thought for a moment. ‘There were some trouble, as I heard. She and her father never got on, but I reckon it were more than that. She disappeared suddenly. They put it about that she’d gone to t’ States ter study, but it didn’t seem right, she vanished that quick.’

  ‘Thanks, Jonas, you never know when anything might come in useful. I’d better get home.’ With that, Nash downed the last of his pint and waved a cheerful goodbye to the landlord.

  When he entered Smelt Mill Cottage, his first act was to scoop the post up from the doormat, hoping for a letter from Daniel. In the kitchen, as he waited for the oven to reach temperature for his pizza, he opened the envelopes. Most of it was junk mail, which would go straight for recycling. The contents of the last envelope caused him to frown with annoyance. Nash was usually meticulous in payment of his credit card balance, but they had been so busy following the events at Gorton that he had missed the deadline by a couple of days. He was about to thrust the credit card statement to one side, muttering about the amount of interest charged for a mere couple of days, when he stopped.

  He stood for a minute, staring at the sheet of paper, their investigation suddenly in the forefront of his mind. Why had Ormondroyd kept some statements in his study at home and others in his office at work? Was there some significance in the fact that they were the ones with an outstanding balance? And what were the figures the solicitor had scrawled on them? He decided to collect the statements next day and inspect them.

  It had been chance that Mironova saw Peter Macaulay’s car that evening; chance that Nash had been charged interest on his credit card and chance that he had connected his oversight with Ormondroyd.

  He was in the middle of his evening meal when the phone rang. He answered it, and was surprised to hear Christopher Macaulay’s voice.

  ‘How did you obtain my number?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I have my ways.’ Nash could almost believe there was a hint of laughter in Macaulay’s tone.

  ‘Would you be able to come to my house tomorrow morning?’ Macaulay continued, ‘I want to explain about my refusal to give you a DNA sample, and assure you there is no sinister reason behind it.’

  Nash was intrigued enough to agree. The following morning, he phoned Mironova and explained that he would be late in, and why.

  ‘That reminds me,’ she said, and explained about seeing Peter Macaulay’s car the previous night.

  ‘Maybe he’s got a bit on the side,’ Nash suggested. Whatever their theories, speculation was thrust aside for the time being, after the news delivered that morning at Christopher Macaulay’s house.

  On the outskirts of Bishopton, Nash parked at the end of the short drive. Macaulay let him in and indicated they should go through to the sitting room. ‘I thought I should explain, to save you the time and trouble of applying for warrants and the expense of conducting futile DNA tests. It has taken a lot of heart-searching before I decided to let you in on a secret we have guarded closely for many years.’

  He indicated Nash should take a seat and continued. ‘My daughter Susan was spoiled; not only by my wife and me, but my father too. The result was she thought she could have anything she wanted. Her behaviour was wild and we couldn’t control her. She would come home at all hours, sometimes drunk, sometimes drugged, occasionally with the unmistakeable signs that she’d been having sex.’ Christopher’s face reflected a father’s anguish as he added, ‘This started when she was only fourteen. We stood it for as long as we could, trying to reason with her and get her to sort her life out, but eventually, things got worse and we sent her to America to live with members of my wife’s family and study at university there. We hoped that a change of scene and being separated from what we saw as the corrupting influences around here would straighten her out. But in fact things became worse. Her addiction to drugs and alcohol wrecked her sanity and we were forced to have her institutionalized. She was committed to a sanatorium in Kentucky after she was sent down from Princeton, and she has been there ever since. My wife and I visit her three times a year.’ There was a world of sadness in Macaulay’s expression as he added, ‘Sometimes she recognizes us, at other times she asks who we are.’

  ‘And does she ever ask about her daughter?’ Nash’s question was blunt, but the time for finesse was over.

  Christopher’s face twisted with pain. ‘They told me you were a good detective.’ He took a moment to compose himself, sighed heavily and continued. ‘Yes, Naomi is Susan’s daughter. Hers and Neil Ormondroyd’s, but Naomi doesn’t know that. Nor do I want her to find out. She doesn’t need to know, does she?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try to keep it from her.’

  ‘Peter knows all about what happened to his sister. He and his wife took Naomi from Susan when the baby was only a few days old. We were afraid that Susan might harm her, either by neglect, or in one of her manic episodes. It worked out well for them, as it transpires they were unable to have any children of their own. Peter’s marriage has not been a conspicuous success, I’m afraid, and it has only been having Naomi to raise that has held it together. He knows that if anything happens to me, it will be his task to continue to support Susan and pay for her upkeep.’

  ‘Is that why the trust was set up, and later amended?’

  Macaulay smiled, but with little humour. ‘Very astute. Yes, we had to do that to protect her.’

  ‘Did you blame Neil for what happened? Is that why you moved your legal work away from his company? Or was it to do with the Bishopton Investments fraud?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. I did blame him for what happened to Susan for a long time, but recently I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t his fault. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else; someone far less suitable. What’s the expression, Inspector? “There is none so blind as he who will not see”? I was blind to the flaws in my daughter’s character simply because I didn’t want to believe them, and therefore I put the blame on those around her. If I could have done so, I would have apologized to Ormondroyd for my decision to remove the group’s legal work from him. It was a petty, spiteful action, and I’m not proud of it. However, it’s too late now, sadly. Now I have the extra worry about what Susan might have passed on to Naomi from her wicked, sinful ways. Do you think those things can be genetic, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t see that at all,’ Nash contradicted him. ‘As far as I can tell, the only thing Naomi has inherited from her mother is her looks. She has great determination and very strong principles.’

  Macaulay stared at the detective in surprise. ‘How do you know so much about Naomi?’

  Nash explained, but didn’t mention Dean Wilson by name. ‘I think that demonstrates what I mean,’ he ended.

  ‘I’d like to meet that young man and thank him.’

  ‘You’ll have to talk to her about that,’ Nash said in parting.

  He was in the Helmsdale CID suite before 9.30. He had barely reached his office when the phone rang. Moments later, he emerged and signalled to Clara. ‘That was Mexican Pete. He’s identified the remains from the workshop. Now we have to deliver the news.’

  True to her promise, Naomi phoned Dean.

  All Dean’s time had been spent on a ferry ride between hope and deep depression. Then, when any expectation of her actually calling him had all but evaporated, the phone rang.

  The conversation was polite but stilted to begin with
, but after a while, Naomi said, ‘It’s a short week at uni, and I’ll be coming back from York on Thursday. I wonder if you fancy meeting up for a drink, if you’re free?’

  Dean spent the rest of the time between then and Thursday trying in vain to remember the rest of the conversation. All he was able to recall was the arrangement they had made to meet at 8 p.m. at the Horse and Jockey.

  After four agonizingly slow days, Dean was in the pub twenty-five minutes before the time they’d agreed. Despite being so early, Naomi was there before him. ‘I managed to get an earlier train,’ she explained.

  ‘I didn’t want to risk being late,’ he responded.

  Both stories were factually correct, although the motives behind them were less than one hundred per cent honest. They had a couple of drinks in the pub, then, in response to Dean’s question, Naomi admitted to being hungry and agreed they should go for a meal. Dean suggested a curry, but Naomi vetoed that in favour of an Italian.

  As they dined, Dean told her about army life and his enjoyment of it shone through in every sentence, except the part when he mentioned the colleagues he had lost and the trauma of seeing them die.

  ‘You love being a soldier, don’t you?’ Naomi suggested.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s fantastic. The last few months were a bit dodgy at times, but mostly, well, it’s the closest thing to being part of a family I’ve ever known.’ Dean stopped, aware of the touchy subject he was close to approaching.

  Naomi reached across the table and placed her hand on his. ‘Dean, you can’t be held responsible for what your sister did.’

  In the silence that followed, Naomi squeezed his hand. ‘You have a brilliant career; you’ve already demonstrated your courage and self-sacrifice in helping me. Can’t you see how terrific that is?’